Agreeing to a date
Apr. 23rd, 2010 12:08 am![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
annwfyn.livejournal.com posting in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png){kind=small}
writing_shadowsSkitter-skalk down the stairs, jumping the last few steps.
Stop.
Check.
What do you see in the mirror?
A mass of hair, maybe the colour of bark, maybe the colour of curling leaves? Maybe it’s the colour of old worn bronze, stained dark with the years. There’s no one to polish your hair here, but the metal strands still shine as bright as brass. Eyes like grass or emeralds if you’re being kind. Emeralds are good.
Smile when you open the door.
He’s there. Quiet and slim, with long thin fingers that can knot a vein or start a heart. Half a smile, and a smile is good. He doesn’t smile often enough. And he’s warm and he’s there and for a moment you just want to jump into his arms because he makes it better when he’s there.
Still, best not.
So stand stiff. Stand still. Be polite, because that’s important. Anything else isn’t right…isn’t fair. If you can’t belong to him, then he doesn’t belong to you. That is right and that is fair and Right and Fair are the fire that burns inside right now.
So you’ll stand, shifting from foot to foot, as his smile slowly vanishes.
*****************************
There’s sunshine outside, and the house is warm. Or maybe that’s just the odd little candleflame feeling inside when you have him near.
He isn’t Love. Love, they said, was the King of Kings, or maybe fireworks exploding in the sky. Love was Dark Knights, who would bleed or die for you, or Love could be the White Knight who offered Happy Ever After on the back of his steed. Drago was Love, when he came back from the dead for a kiss.
He isn’t Love. He is good to have close by, and best to have when everything else seems wrong. And oddly, he is good to kiss; better than Love in his warmth and softness.
So what if he’s not Love? Maybe that isn’t what you want. Maybe you just want him, tasting slightly of toothpaste and smelling of freshly washed cotton. Certainly, you can’t bear the thought of anyone else having him, with a kind of fierce possessiveness that seems to come bubbling out of nowhere.
His hands feel right, somehow, against your skin and for the first time in months, you feel as if your bones are melting, without even the addition of vodka or whiskey.
He isn’t Love.
He is something else, something nameless and unsure.
You try and search for a name, in between the kisses and fumbling fingers, but it slips away, like a button through a buttonhole.
Whatever it is, it will do for now.
*****************************
Feet pounding, heart beating, and why is your heart making that sound? Maybe it is because it isn’t in your chest anymore, it is somewhere up in your mouth, closer to the ears by far.
Running, hiding, crying.
It isn’t fair to cry. You shouldn’t cry. What is there to cry about?
This isn’t Love. You know it isn’t Love. Love is big and dramatic. Love comes with sign posts, and bright lights, not sliding in through the quiet of slow morning and late nights. Love is clear, and knows itself.
This is tangled, this is confused. This is tainted by other women; Zenica, bright and beautiful and supple when she turns; Neve, ice cold and with hands that sometimes bring back memories of another who hurt; Venice, unknown and utterly terrifying in her capacity to take; Mac, making him warm when you were cold and stained with blood. This is tainted by Malachi, almost utterly incomprehensible in that context.
This isn’t Love. This can’t be.
The stables smell warm and safe. Misty’s snow grey mane feels rough against your face.
This isn’t Love.
“Can we talk?” he asks.
What is there to say.
This isn’t Love.
So you say that, and watch as he walks away.
*****************************
Sunshine on your face, and sunshine within.
“So,” he says “We love each other and don’t want for either of us to be with anyone else?”
Is that right?
You nod.
He breathes a sigh of relief.
“Then all we need to do is figure out if we’re dating or not.”
This isn’t Love. It also is not Honourable Restraint, which is what you practiced. It isn’t really Just Good Friends either – the kissing rather gave that away – and you’re not sure what else there is left.
The books are upstairs, cheerful in their paper covers, and absolute in their uselessness.
“Kieran,” you ask at last, because there is nothing else you can possibly think of. “Would you like to go on a date?”
And this time, when he kisses you, there is no worry and no insecurity and only a single glorious feeling, as if you were bathed in a thousand rainbows.
Stop.
Check.
What do you see in the mirror?
A mass of hair, maybe the colour of bark, maybe the colour of curling leaves? Maybe it’s the colour of old worn bronze, stained dark with the years. There’s no one to polish your hair here, but the metal strands still shine as bright as brass. Eyes like grass or emeralds if you’re being kind. Emeralds are good.
Smile when you open the door.
He’s there. Quiet and slim, with long thin fingers that can knot a vein or start a heart. Half a smile, and a smile is good. He doesn’t smile often enough. And he’s warm and he’s there and for a moment you just want to jump into his arms because he makes it better when he’s there.
Still, best not.
So stand stiff. Stand still. Be polite, because that’s important. Anything else isn’t right…isn’t fair. If you can’t belong to him, then he doesn’t belong to you. That is right and that is fair and Right and Fair are the fire that burns inside right now.
So you’ll stand, shifting from foot to foot, as his smile slowly vanishes.
There’s sunshine outside, and the house is warm. Or maybe that’s just the odd little candleflame feeling inside when you have him near.
He isn’t Love. Love, they said, was the King of Kings, or maybe fireworks exploding in the sky. Love was Dark Knights, who would bleed or die for you, or Love could be the White Knight who offered Happy Ever After on the back of his steed. Drago was Love, when he came back from the dead for a kiss.
He isn’t Love. He is good to have close by, and best to have when everything else seems wrong. And oddly, he is good to kiss; better than Love in his warmth and softness.
So what if he’s not Love? Maybe that isn’t what you want. Maybe you just want him, tasting slightly of toothpaste and smelling of freshly washed cotton. Certainly, you can’t bear the thought of anyone else having him, with a kind of fierce possessiveness that seems to come bubbling out of nowhere.
His hands feel right, somehow, against your skin and for the first time in months, you feel as if your bones are melting, without even the addition of vodka or whiskey.
He isn’t Love.
He is something else, something nameless and unsure.
You try and search for a name, in between the kisses and fumbling fingers, but it slips away, like a button through a buttonhole.
Whatever it is, it will do for now.
Feet pounding, heart beating, and why is your heart making that sound? Maybe it is because it isn’t in your chest anymore, it is somewhere up in your mouth, closer to the ears by far.
Running, hiding, crying.
It isn’t fair to cry. You shouldn’t cry. What is there to cry about?
This isn’t Love. You know it isn’t Love. Love is big and dramatic. Love comes with sign posts, and bright lights, not sliding in through the quiet of slow morning and late nights. Love is clear, and knows itself.
This is tangled, this is confused. This is tainted by other women; Zenica, bright and beautiful and supple when she turns; Neve, ice cold and with hands that sometimes bring back memories of another who hurt; Venice, unknown and utterly terrifying in her capacity to take; Mac, making him warm when you were cold and stained with blood. This is tainted by Malachi, almost utterly incomprehensible in that context.
This isn’t Love. This can’t be.
The stables smell warm and safe. Misty’s snow grey mane feels rough against your face.
This isn’t Love.
“Can we talk?” he asks.
What is there to say.
This isn’t Love.
So you say that, and watch as he walks away.
Sunshine on your face, and sunshine within.
“So,” he says “We love each other and don’t want for either of us to be with anyone else?”
Is that right?
You nod.
He breathes a sigh of relief.
“Then all we need to do is figure out if we’re dating or not.”
This isn’t Love. It also is not Honourable Restraint, which is what you practiced. It isn’t really Just Good Friends either – the kissing rather gave that away – and you’re not sure what else there is left.
The books are upstairs, cheerful in their paper covers, and absolute in their uselessness.
“Kieran,” you ask at last, because there is nothing else you can possibly think of. “Would you like to go on a date?”
And this time, when he kisses you, there is no worry and no insecurity and only a single glorious feeling, as if you were bathed in a thousand rainbows.
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Date: 2010-04-22 11:11 pm (UTC)I'm pretty certain it can become a complete disaster by the end of the Essex game.
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Date: 2010-04-23 12:12 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-04-23 12:33 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-04-23 06:25 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-04-23 07:10 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-04-23 07:11 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-04-23 07:13 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-04-23 07:16 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-04-23 04:41 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-04-23 09:55 pm (UTC);)
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Date: 2010-04-23 11:16 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-04-23 11:26 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-04-23 07:27 am (UTC)If Rosie needs to borrow Trouble, she has only to ask. Whether the wombat comes with her depends entirely on how Rosie phrases the request.
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Date: 2010-04-23 07:30 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-04-23 09:20 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-04-23 08:18 am (UTC)(and yes, I am wilfully misunderstanding you *grin*)
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Date: 2010-04-23 09:21 am (UTC)