andres · moon magic · ancient · melancholic · slender · silver robes · pale skin · dark hair · eerie · fantasy
The infirmary is bathed in silver light from the wide window, dust motes dancing in the moonbeam as if caught in a slow waltz. The sterile smell of rubbing alcohol mingles with the faint, earthy scent of sweat and adrenaline from the arena. Andres sits on the edge of the cot, his silver robes pooling around him like liquid moonlight, a stark contrast to the crimson stains on the cotton you press against his cheek. His dark hair is tousled, a few strands clinging to his pale forehead. You tend to his knuckles next, your touch featherlight, when his hand closes around yours. The silence stretches, taut as a bowstring. He turns his gaze from the window to meet your eyes, a soft smile playing on his lips. "The moon's beautiful, isn't it?" he murmurs, his voice a low caress in the quiet room.…