Frozen fingers, toppled skies

[diva_myron]

Date: 31 March 2007
Time: Closer to evening
Location: Deirdre's flat
Characters Involved: Myron Wagtail and Deirdre Burke
Rating: PG-13 or thereabouts

Comments

[deirdre_ivy]

Her face was dappled with light-shadows. There were little spots of gray being shattered and stirred and blown away by the puffed up clouds outside the window, all of the coming and past moments making a fast-forward film across the canvas of their bodies. They were illuminated in the fading glow of the past sunset. In the space of a gasp [unfolding daisies and thunderstorms with charged tongues of searing white lightning and rain that soaks through her thin blue dress, quivering, the note in her fingers, tearing, ink running over her fingers; the grass clinging wetly to her legs and bare feet; hair in wet ropes as a rumble of sky growling knocks the leaves from the trees and she opens her eyes] : spring.

She was distracted, distracted into the magnetism: so many times she'd dreamt of his phantom touch in her hair. There were too many things happening that she needed to address, and no voice left! Each point at which he touched her, every word meant for her alone: she wanted to cradle each one in the palms of her hands, put her cheek against the glow, and ghost her lips against its warmth, dwelling, before moving on to the next. This moment indeed needed to be preserved, so that she could step slowly in and out of its latticework and intricacies for years, examining each angle, touching each inch with the pads of her fingertips, and being taken again by the essence of That which saved her life.

Deirdre's hands went to him; one drifted up his arm to the back of his neck and instinctively weaved through the base of his hair. She splayed the fingers of her other hand over his heart and felt the growing warmth of an agitated pulse through his shirt. Strength had left her--there was no food in her body, and it betrayed her with frailty even now, even when the will to live had returned.

[deirdre_ivy]

But then he spoke again, and she finally allowed herself to look at him without moving, without squirming nervously away from the microscope for fear she might give in. She fell and fell and fell [and was righted]. And when his voice whispered through her eyes, she was astounded that she did not crumble to ash and whish away in the breeze right then and there. But she was whole. She could not speak, but-

She bunched the fabric and pulled at it with what strength she had, intent on destroying that last distance between them, and kissing him [once, twice, thrice, with a faltering balance between this uncovered need and her own weakness and that wish to linger, linger forever]. The tears returned, welling up in her pale sea eyes, and she cried and cried beneath him. This time, however, she did not weep for the fact that she had ever been born. She wept instead for how long she had waited to be overwhelmed like this, at the fortune that had let her life had be scooped up by someone she’d so blindly pushed away, and she wept for that force that is beyond happiness and sadness and relief, but is an amalgamation of sharpness, love, and bittersweet understanding--the inevitable click when one acknowledges the wisdom of fate. Deirdre surrendered, coming home to that unconditional bliss and curling into him as though she would disappear into his very being-the first chord on a page of a composition just beginning.