Fics like we are no phoenixes, darling; all we do is burn

There is a truth whispered through generations: people’s hearts are made of many things. There is the usual, yes — blood and muscle and fragile tissue. But more, too. Some are built from sadness, carrying the weight only Atlas is said to have known. Others beat with the steadiness of stone, or the brittle ache of bone, calcified and splintering. There are hearts of soil, steady and patient. Hearts of ocean — salt-brined, tidal, storm-wracked. Some burn with the loyalty of a hound, or cry out with the voice of a cockatoo, bright-feathered and unquiet. Some are fox-hearted, all sharp teeth and soft fur, cunning stitched into every pulse. But, oh — oh, to have a chameleon heart. A heart that shifts and shimmers, molding to its world with every breath. A heart that matches the color of the room, the tone of a voice, the expectation in another’s eyes. Always beating, always changing — never quite settling on its own, never belonging to itself. This is the heart the L’Manbergeans have. This is the heart Tommy has. This is the heart that wins.

Fics like we are no phoenixes, darling; all we do is burn

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