In the middle of the night...
After midnight, one in the morning, two-- finally, this fool's errand would wait no more.
Nothing. No words. He slid into that bed, felt in the darkness for skin he knew by heart in countless fantasies, drew his arms around the slightness of her body. No idea when she'd wakened-- had she ever been asleep?-- only the silent knowledge that she responded to him. Whatever clothes had started out between them were pushed away, too dark for them to confront each others' eyes. He knew her expressions without seeing them, knew the soft surprise, the pride that wanted at first to push him away, the shift from smug acceptance of his intentions to the eagerness they never shared in the cold, clear light of day. And she would know his, the war between asking her permission and taking what he wanted, the moment when selfishness gave way to hunger for her pleasure as much as his own.
They'd had each other before. Teonath and Wyaeth-- angry and desperate, blood and bruises, her nails tearing his skin, his fingers pulling her hair, screaming thrusts, then accusing eyes afterward while he left her naked and furious. Her list-- even then, there had been pain mixed with the pleasure, so much wanting her without having her that he'd been reckless with her body, she'd wanted him crushing her and encouraged the little hurts that threw lust into sharp relief, then regret when he left her on the couch with his eyes full of things he ought to say and couldn't.
Tonight...
He was never going to be a gentle lover with her, never going to touch her without knowing how long it could be between one caress and the next. But he wanted her in the long, slow, silent parts of the night. To feel her against him, soft and spent. His lips found the smudges his fingers left on her skin, kisses that apologized for the carelessness that came from holding her down, holding her against him. There was no malice tonight, no will to remind each other how badly they could hurt, but the wordless cries held occasional glimpses of pain where he held too tightly, where she clung with fingernails, where teeth raked skin.
They began to see more clearly, the darkness pearling grayer and grayer, their eyes burning sleeplessly. To lay here, to draw her into his arms, to sleep with her-- but could they wake together like that? The only thing between them, he had said, was hurting each other. They would remember, when morning came and the Weyr needed them again, all the cold, hard things they'd said and done to each other.
He would remember "not tonight," and she would remember every time she offered and he said no. Her eyes would touch a scar resolved in the brightness of day and he would hate her for leaving him there, hate himself for wanting her there, and she would know his loathing and despise him for needing her. She would, for an instant, recall the other-women, the ones that took the edge off, and begrudge him even while she tried to tell herself they didn't matter-- and he would blame her for keeping her envy to herself, for being too cowardly to admit her pride was battered. Back to old wounds they would never stop picking at: he took A'son's victory, she made I'daur take the fall, they kissed too hard in Crom's cell, he fell in love with the curve of her lips, she cried in front of him.
There was just enough light for colors to begin to resolve, for sheets to define themselves in pale yellow-and-rose, for skin to pinken against the colorless undertones of pre-dawn, for the silk of her curls to color darkly across his chest. They could close their eyes... he felt her breath... her fingers stirred on his shoulder... She lifted herself on an arm, her eyes heavy and blue and true for only a moment; he touched her chin, his eyes quiet and gray and lost for her in that same moment. It had to be over. She wanted to cry, he wanted her tears.
She pulled the sheet away from him, tucked it against herself. He slipped out at the side of the bed, stepped into his pants. Her bed was warm where his back had laid. His skin was warm where her arms had rested. They left each other; though he was the one who walked out of her weyr, squinting against the first yellow of morning, though she was the one who curled into the empty space of her bed, breathing softly in the unbroken silence-- had either of them lost this time? When they saw each other, who would count tonight as their victory?
Nothing. No words. He slid into that bed, felt in the darkness for skin he knew by heart in countless fantasies, drew his arms around the slightness of her body. No idea when she'd wakened-- had she ever been asleep?-- only the silent knowledge that she responded to him. Whatever clothes had started out between them were pushed away, too dark for them to confront each others' eyes. He knew her expressions without seeing them, knew the soft surprise, the pride that wanted at first to push him away, the shift from smug acceptance of his intentions to the eagerness they never shared in the cold, clear light of day. And she would know his, the war between asking her permission and taking what he wanted, the moment when selfishness gave way to hunger for her pleasure as much as his own.
They'd had each other before. Teonath and Wyaeth-- angry and desperate, blood and bruises, her nails tearing his skin, his fingers pulling her hair, screaming thrusts, then accusing eyes afterward while he left her naked and furious. Her list-- even then, there had been pain mixed with the pleasure, so much wanting her without having her that he'd been reckless with her body, she'd wanted him crushing her and encouraged the little hurts that threw lust into sharp relief, then regret when he left her on the couch with his eyes full of things he ought to say and couldn't.
Tonight...
He was never going to be a gentle lover with her, never going to touch her without knowing how long it could be between one caress and the next. But he wanted her in the long, slow, silent parts of the night. To feel her against him, soft and spent. His lips found the smudges his fingers left on her skin, kisses that apologized for the carelessness that came from holding her down, holding her against him. There was no malice tonight, no will to remind each other how badly they could hurt, but the wordless cries held occasional glimpses of pain where he held too tightly, where she clung with fingernails, where teeth raked skin.
They began to see more clearly, the darkness pearling grayer and grayer, their eyes burning sleeplessly. To lay here, to draw her into his arms, to sleep with her-- but could they wake together like that? The only thing between them, he had said, was hurting each other. They would remember, when morning came and the Weyr needed them again, all the cold, hard things they'd said and done to each other.
He would remember "not tonight," and she would remember every time she offered and he said no. Her eyes would touch a scar resolved in the brightness of day and he would hate her for leaving him there, hate himself for wanting her there, and she would know his loathing and despise him for needing her. She would, for an instant, recall the other-women, the ones that took the edge off, and begrudge him even while she tried to tell herself they didn't matter-- and he would blame her for keeping her envy to herself, for being too cowardly to admit her pride was battered. Back to old wounds they would never stop picking at: he took A'son's victory, she made I'daur take the fall, they kissed too hard in Crom's cell, he fell in love with the curve of her lips, she cried in front of him.
There was just enough light for colors to begin to resolve, for sheets to define themselves in pale yellow-and-rose, for skin to pinken against the colorless undertones of pre-dawn, for the silk of her curls to color darkly across his chest. They could close their eyes... he felt her breath... her fingers stirred on his shoulder... She lifted herself on an arm, her eyes heavy and blue and true for only a moment; he touched her chin, his eyes quiet and gray and lost for her in that same moment. It had to be over. She wanted to cry, he wanted her tears.
She pulled the sheet away from him, tucked it against herself. He slipped out at the side of the bed, stepped into his pants. Her bed was warm where his back had laid. His skin was warm where her arms had rested. They left each other; though he was the one who walked out of her weyr, squinting against the first yellow of morning, though she was the one who curled into the empty space of her bed, breathing softly in the unbroken silence-- had either of them lost this time? When they saw each other, who would count tonight as their victory?