Sunset ^beta

Corona sees Ianthe at her best, her worst, her everything. Corona sees Ianthe at the slip and at the shatter, the fray and every unravel. Corona sees Ianthe like this—shambled together and trembling with a wide-toothed, erratic grin, her lanky hair clinging to her face with sweat.

"Oh, baby," Ianthe coos. "What's got you so worked up?"

"Stop talking for once," Corona murmurs, and she scrapes her teeth along the thin jut of Ianthe's clavicle. Ianthe makes a noise, thready and tenuous.

As Corona bites into the taut-pulled flesh at the junction of Ianthe's jaw, Ianthe says, "I do quite like the sound of my own voice," but it breaks into a half-wheeze when Corona clasps her thin wrist in her own hand and squeezes. Ianthe shudders, and Corona hums as she hears the creak-crack of carpals beneath her grip. Skin so thin she can pierce her teeth through it, flaying her sister on her own glut. Ianthe squirms under her as Corona chews for a moment, mouth blooming with iron.

"I do, too," Corona admits, and she flashes a beaming, blood-wrought smile. "But I said: shut up. No talking."

Ianthe automatically opens her mouth, instinctive that she disregard anything Corona has to say, so Corona takes the chance to shove her fingers into Ianthe's mouth.

Ianthe's eyes dart up to meet Corona's, shining grimly in the low light of their room. Corona shivers, an instant where she memorizes the way her index and middle fingers split Ianthe's mouth so the cracks in her lips are wider than ever, the way she smoothes her bitten-healed nails over the texture of Ianthe's tongue. She wonders, for a microsecond, inching forward micrometer by micrometer, how far she can go, and then Ianthe meets her gaze and she bites like a motherfucker.

Ianthe's teeth are a familiar pain, sallow in color and blushed red with speckled blood. Corona yelps quietly as her sister's teeth sink into the meat of her palm as though trying to embed themselves between metacarpals, but Corona steels herself and watches—it's a familiar pain, and it's so easy to wash Ianthe out when she's faced with color, but red is like a flush to her pale cheeks and the splatters of blood plasma decorate the tip of her nose like freckles.

Corona watches, flexing her hand, as Ianthe draws away. Ianthe licks her lips absentmindedly.

"Is that it? Have you had your fill? Can I talk now, dear?"

"You're already doing it," Corona mumbles, but she sighs as Ianthe laps across her bloodied knuckles, her tongue laving over the divots and calluses only Corona has. Ianthe doesn't cling to Corona's hand when it pulls away, but Ianthe does smile wanly as Corona drops it down to Ianthe's hip. It's a possessive hold, and yet Ianthe settles into it like it's her own—which is true, because Corona is hers. But Ianthe belongs to Corona just as well, and she tilts her face up so Corona can bury her face into the curve of her neck again.

Her kisses are instinctive, frenzied, desperate—Corona sucks bruises into Ianthe's neck and pulls dark splotches up to the surface of skin, easy to burst if only she sunk her teeth in a little deeper. Canaan House has become wretched to stay in, and at least flies have the reflexive, buzzing spin of confusion right after they drop—here there is just silence and iron after someone dies, and all Corona can do is grasp onto her sister and press her fingers between the rakes of Ianthe's ribs, force a flush of exertion into her skin, sink her teeth into marrow and never let go, never let go.

Corona knows what she is and she knows what they are—she's restlessly aware of how others look at her and how differently they look at her twin. It's so easy to divide the world into gold and mercury and never take a second glance.

"Hey, sweetheart," Corona murmurs, letting her breath wash over Ianthe's bruised skin. "Indulge me a little?"

Ianthe wheezes out a laugh. "For you, dear sister? When do I not?"

But Ianthe doesn't struggle when Corona pushes her down. She stares up coolly, cobweb lashes fluttering over her cheeks, and she laughs again when Corona presses their foreheads together. "You didn't tell me, what's gotten into you, dear?"

And Corona thinks, it's you, why can't you live in me and me in you, why can't your ribs house me and my marrow bound you home, why can't we be us, Ianthe, why do we do this? but it's a jumbled downrush of agonizing melodrama, so Corona kisses her sister to shut her up.

Ianthe hums against her lips, but she only starts to breathe heavier when Corona nudges her way between her thighs. Ianthe is not meant to be jumpy—Ianthe is meant to sit back and tilt her head knowingly, but now she lets out this spiraling hiccup and Corona chases it, and chases it, and chases it. Ianthe jolts and shoves at Corona's shoulders when Corona grazes her fingers against the fragile insides of Ianthe's thighs, when her fingers dip into slick-sticky underwear.

"Oh, look at that," Corona says, letting her curls fall into her face as her lips split into a grin. "I forgot you get off on being a bitch."

She expects Ianthe's nails digging into her shoulder, expects the drag of keratin down her shoulder blade and the slick-spill of blood drawn to the surface. Corona hums and straddles Ianthe's thigh, grinding down against it as she opens her sister up, as she considers fitting inside of her with the snap-snap of ribs and the wheeze of release.

Later, Corona will rub her knuckles aimlessly, tracing over the deep-settled imprints of teeth. She carries the shape of her sister's jaw in the meat of her palm, and she carries the scratch-marks of her sister's nails in her hips, and she stares at the corpse on the ground and Ianthe's ever-changing eyes, the presence of someone else, as though Corona wasn't made to house her Ianthe at all.