[closed] the place was beautiful no longer
Who: sonvisage & lumenrelegandus
When: Starts Wednesdayish, ends today.
Where: Their place.
Format: Prose
What: is love?
Warnings: Poisoning. And life.
They were a crazy-looking set. In a place like Anatole, that was a real accomplishment. She: a jeweled snake, mesmerising, gothic, radiant, terrifying, vulnerable. He: a wading bird in tweed, bookish, amiable, as menacing as a threadbare quilt. Their combination was ridiculous and discomfiting, the stuff of punchlines, and seemed to work swimmingly. Chores, scheduling and habits were complementary. Sometimes they never even saw each other; that was all right too. He walked the dog in the morning, she again at night. She put away all the books and teacups that tended to wander at all hours; he kept them from filling the room with dust when they did. He made sure they ate, she paid the rent. She furnished the flat with beauty and music, he finished it with comfort and words. When her eyes glazed over with past visions of blood and fire, her skin went cold, she was distant and silent; he would talk, or read aloud, or just sit and stay, and held her until she warmed in a shared humanity. When he started screaming (howling) in his sleep, causing the pictures on the wall and the bedposts to shake, unable to save the people he saw being killed in war; she would wrap him up and hold him down with magical resistance and superhuman strength until it was no longer needed because he quieted in a shared embrace.
Except it was changing, for both of them.
She would go still; he would say something, and she would turn to look and the blank shard in her eyes would be sharper and colder rather than thawed.
He would suddenly move; she would touch him, and he would open his eyes and look at her in shock and turn away.
They could both do the right thing and say the right words.
They couldn’t always be the right person.
* * *
They lay in bed together. He could never fall asleep without physical contact-not in bed, in the dark. (The times she stayed away, more than not he slept at daybreak on the couch in the library. -And without him, she didn’t sleep [in beds] at all. She still made the bed-she would always, always make the bed-for as uncomfortable as beds made her, unmade ones were intolerable. And sleeping in them wasn't solely for his sake: it was, after all, conventionally human.)
For both their sakes, then, they always started the night in each other’s arms. Increasingly, while sleeping, they would shift apart. Sometimes a point of touch remained; a wrist between pillow and crook of neck, ankles pressed, hands resting in a loose pile.
The blanket might have started it. One of the three of them-the two human(oid)s in bed or the dog on the rug beside-shifted in their sleep. The blanket, already precariously draped where the dog had stolen a corner of it, slipped enough to leave one of the two in bed cold.
He slipped his arms around her and brought them together, secure. They knew each other’s shape well enough now to do so without waking. He did wake her, though. Not by bringing her more tightly against him; not by turning his face into her neck… not even with the wrong murmured name. Whether it was a deeper knowledge or just the tickle of her long, thick hair that caused the thought to be rejected, he twitched awake; and after the initial disorientation, started to shake. By the time he actually pulled, rather ungently-convulsively-away from her, she was conscious.
When: Starts Wednesdayish, ends today.
Where: Their place.
Format: Prose
What: is love?
Warnings: Poisoning. And life.
They were a crazy-looking set. In a place like Anatole, that was a real accomplishment. She: a jeweled snake, mesmerising, gothic, radiant, terrifying, vulnerable. He: a wading bird in tweed, bookish, amiable, as menacing as a threadbare quilt. Their combination was ridiculous and discomfiting, the stuff of punchlines, and seemed to work swimmingly. Chores, scheduling and habits were complementary. Sometimes they never even saw each other; that was all right too. He walked the dog in the morning, she again at night. She put away all the books and teacups that tended to wander at all hours; he kept them from filling the room with dust when they did. He made sure they ate, she paid the rent. She furnished the flat with beauty and music, he finished it with comfort and words. When her eyes glazed over with past visions of blood and fire, her skin went cold, she was distant and silent; he would talk, or read aloud, or just sit and stay, and held her until she warmed in a shared humanity. When he started screaming (howling) in his sleep, causing the pictures on the wall and the bedposts to shake, unable to save the people he saw being killed in war; she would wrap him up and hold him down with magical resistance and superhuman strength until it was no longer needed because he quieted in a shared embrace.
Except it was changing, for both of them.
She would go still; he would say something, and she would turn to look and the blank shard in her eyes would be sharper and colder rather than thawed.
He would suddenly move; she would touch him, and he would open his eyes and look at her in shock and turn away.
They could both do the right thing and say the right words.
They couldn’t always be the right person.
* * *
They lay in bed together. He could never fall asleep without physical contact-not in bed, in the dark. (The times she stayed away, more than not he slept at daybreak on the couch in the library. -And without him, she didn’t sleep [in beds] at all. She still made the bed-she would always, always make the bed-for as uncomfortable as beds made her, unmade ones were intolerable. And sleeping in them wasn't solely for his sake: it was, after all, conventionally human.)
For both their sakes, then, they always started the night in each other’s arms. Increasingly, while sleeping, they would shift apart. Sometimes a point of touch remained; a wrist between pillow and crook of neck, ankles pressed, hands resting in a loose pile.
The blanket might have started it. One of the three of them-the two human(oid)s in bed or the dog on the rug beside-shifted in their sleep. The blanket, already precariously draped where the dog had stolen a corner of it, slipped enough to leave one of the two in bed cold.
He slipped his arms around her and brought them together, secure. They knew each other’s shape well enough now to do so without waking. He did wake her, though. Not by bringing her more tightly against him; not by turning his face into her neck… not even with the wrong murmured name. Whether it was a deeper knowledge or just the tickle of her long, thick hair that caused the thought to be rejected, he twitched awake; and after the initial disorientation, started to shake. By the time he actually pulled, rather ungently-convulsively-away from her, she was conscious.