(no subject)
Not sure about the rating for this one. Being in doubt, I'm going to set it as M. It's shippy, but you'll have to read it to find out the pairing. :3
Edit: Fixed the format. **
Of course he knows what love is (A parabola of nervousness)
Of course he knows what love is. You should not doubt that.
In poems, in novels, in plays, in essays, in letters, he has read countless times about love.
Ask him, and, without hesitation, he will shower you in the names of more or less famous couples of lovers from each historical period. Ask him, and he shall tell you all of their stories, from the early beginnings of their passion, to the moment when that passion started to fade away, or the moment when these individuals encountered their downfall in the name of their mutual feelings.
But he, himself! What experience does he have of love? Does he know what love is truly like, outside the volumes of his immense library? Has he ever felt those feelings, thought those thoughts, dreamt those dreams, shivered, writhed, succumbed as those indescribable pulses flowed through him?
Looking at his constantly calm, collected countenance, as your eyes surpass his lilac-tinted lenses only to meet his own eyes of the same, glacial color, you would say he hasn’t.
But he has, he has… Oh, he has, believe it!
At the end of his typical day, seeing no challengers arrive, he closes the book he has had in his hands all day, as he leaned against the opposite wall from the entrance. He now rises to his feet. His perfectionist self compels him to smooth any wrinkle that could have formed on the surface of his clothes. Whatever little vanity he has makes him straighten himself with a few, brief movements, although he knows he is merely a pillar about to crumble in just a few seconds. Opening the portal to the exit corridor, the large book under his arm, he prepares for this, his daily breakdown, as he walks the corridor to the hall where he knows she is going to be.
He steps across the threshold. He already sees her, but his customary, formal bow will let him avoid eye contact for yet one more fraction of a second.
“Good evening, Miss Cynthia.” He greets her, bowing slightly.
“Good evening, Lucian.” She says in response, a smile in her voice.
As he raises his head once again, eyes of amethyst meet eyes of silver.
Who can tell, then, what blazing tremor clutches his ascetic heart, what thoughts seize his usually pure, rational mind? He strives, he attempts to control himself so no sign of his passion is revealed. Yet, as if it were water streaming down an old pipe, his feeling leaks out wherever it can find an unclogged opening. It is the paleness of his cheeks turning to a rosy hue, it is the nervousness stiffening his movements, it is the soft trembling of his hands and lips in response to her smile.
“I believe we’re done for today, aren’t we?” She says, stretching a little.
Feeling unworthy of witnessing the sight of her body softly blooming as if in a dance, he looks down. “Ah, yes… It was yet another rather plain day. For the two of us, at least.”
She nods. “I feel sorry for the boy Aaron… He’s the youngest among us, and he works the hardest, being the first Elite. We owe a lot to him.”
One of the qualities he secretly prides himself with is that he has never felt envy, or jealousy. But if he has not, then what is that slight pang at the mention of his colleague’s name? That odd sting that spreads from his heart to the rest of his body, as if he had just been stabbed full in his chest?
“Yes, I believe… It is thanks to him that I was able to spend all day reading.”
“Oh, definitely.” She answers. “He fended off four challengers all by himself today.”
For a moment, he finds himself addressing a silent prayer to Arceus, until she speaks again.
“What did you read today?”
This is when he brightens up. All of a sudden, his movements become fluid, his smile poised, his speech confident and unbroken as the slight rose color leaves his cheeks.
“Ah, I began reading an Italian work, Manzoni’s The Betrothed. I was able to acquire a most elegant edition of it, with illustrations from the original edition in 1840. It is a historical novel set in the seventeenth century, the story of a couple of young peasants, betrothed as the title says, both of them devout Christians…”
As he proceeds to present the book to her, she appears to listen with a small smile, and he wonders if she is actually interested. He is surprised by the fact that she does not interrupt him until he finishes speaking, and then makes a request.
“You said there were illustrations… May I have a look?”
“Of… Of course you can, Miss Cynthia!” He notices, despite himself, that his nervousness is slowly taking over once again.
She begins looking at the book over his shoulder, and he shivers as some of her soft blonde hair brushes his clothes and mingles with his own lavender hair. Under her gaze, he slowly turns the pages of the book, revealing detailed etchings printed in black ink.
“That’s some lovely art!” She pipes up, delighted. And, excited, she begins to turn the pages of the book herself, her tapered, delicate fingers careful not to ruin the yellowing paper. “You’ve got to show me where you got this.” She comments. The distance between their bodies has now shortened considerably, and he can feel himself starting to sweat, as her flesh meets his, albeit through several layers of clothing. After a while, though, with a soft “May I?” she asks for permission to hold the book herself. And of course he lets her. There is nothing he can deny her.
Once the large book is in the Champion’s arms, she proceeds leafing through it, moving a few steps away from him. Her happy expression, however, gradually turns into one of disappointment. “Where are the love scenes in this book? Don’t they ever kiss, or anything?”
“No, they don’t.” Is his prompt answer. “It was customary, at the time, for betrothed couples to avoid body contact as much as possible before marriage, with the sole exception of the hands. Of course, these were merely the Catholic customs of the time, but the author stands for the sheerest and most literal respect of them.”
As if stricken by a sudden realization, she stops looking at the book, and closes it delicately, handing it back to him. “That’s just wrong, I think.” She comments. “How can you expect two lovers to wait around for their wedding without doing anything? Of course, it’s not healthy for a relationship to be exclusively physical, either, but… I think that if you don’t get some… Urges… It means you’re not actually in love. What do you think?”
At this, he finds himself shivering all over, and he wishes he had something to hold on to, but he only has his book to clutch onto. “I… I don’t really know, Miss Cynthia. I am afraid… My experience of the feeling of love… Has not been very extensive yet.”
“Our instincts are only natural, I believe.” She goes on to say, pacing around the room. “It doesn’t do us any good to suppress them. Religion is something wonderful and essential to man, but it should not deprive him of another part of himself that is just as essential…”
As she talks, he keeps nodding almost automatically, both in agreement and admiration. Yes, he agrees…! Sometimes, when she’s lost in thought like this, it’s as if Truth itself were speaking through her mouth, as if the twinkle in her eyes and the sheen of her blonde hair were the very light of Knowledge…!
“I mean, even I…” She stops suddenly, a few feet from him. She then begins walking in his direction, until she’s facing him, mere inches from his body. With a gentle pull, she takes the book from his arms once again, briefly looks around the empty room for somewhere to place it on, and finally kneels to place the volume on the polished floor. As soon as she moves to stand up, he looks into his eyes intensely and utters his name. “Lucian.”
For once, there is something soothing in those silver eyes. He feels he should be nervous, but he actually isn’t at all. Or maybe he is so nervous that every single nerve in his body has broken down, burst up, and left him numb. He cannot tell the difference. “Miss Cynthia.” He answers.
Her hands move up. One of them starts playing with his lavender curls, while the other one delicately removes his purple-tinted glasses. Having freed the spectacles, she bends again to set them down, on top of the book. She moves up, and faces him once again.
A moment after, unable to hold back any longer, he is enveloped in her kiss and succumbs to the wild embrace of slender fingers moving up and down his body, teasing him, making him lose every last ounce of control he thought he had over himself. He has dreamed of this moment for so long… And at last, he is living it, right here and now. In her arms, in her kiss, to find peace, to find love, to be beyond all contradictions, to live fully, to annul himself in her to find the balance he has been seeking throughout his entire existence.
Well, this wasn’t just a typical day for him, after all.
Edit: Fixed the format. **
Of course he knows what love is (A parabola of nervousness)
Of course he knows what love is. You should not doubt that.
In poems, in novels, in plays, in essays, in letters, he has read countless times about love.
Ask him, and, without hesitation, he will shower you in the names of more or less famous couples of lovers from each historical period. Ask him, and he shall tell you all of their stories, from the early beginnings of their passion, to the moment when that passion started to fade away, or the moment when these individuals encountered their downfall in the name of their mutual feelings.
But he, himself! What experience does he have of love? Does he know what love is truly like, outside the volumes of his immense library? Has he ever felt those feelings, thought those thoughts, dreamt those dreams, shivered, writhed, succumbed as those indescribable pulses flowed through him?
Looking at his constantly calm, collected countenance, as your eyes surpass his lilac-tinted lenses only to meet his own eyes of the same, glacial color, you would say he hasn’t.
But he has, he has… Oh, he has, believe it!
At the end of his typical day, seeing no challengers arrive, he closes the book he has had in his hands all day, as he leaned against the opposite wall from the entrance. He now rises to his feet. His perfectionist self compels him to smooth any wrinkle that could have formed on the surface of his clothes. Whatever little vanity he has makes him straighten himself with a few, brief movements, although he knows he is merely a pillar about to crumble in just a few seconds. Opening the portal to the exit corridor, the large book under his arm, he prepares for this, his daily breakdown, as he walks the corridor to the hall where he knows she is going to be.
He steps across the threshold. He already sees her, but his customary, formal bow will let him avoid eye contact for yet one more fraction of a second.
“Good evening, Miss Cynthia.” He greets her, bowing slightly.
“Good evening, Lucian.” She says in response, a smile in her voice.
As he raises his head once again, eyes of amethyst meet eyes of silver.
Who can tell, then, what blazing tremor clutches his ascetic heart, what thoughts seize his usually pure, rational mind? He strives, he attempts to control himself so no sign of his passion is revealed. Yet, as if it were water streaming down an old pipe, his feeling leaks out wherever it can find an unclogged opening. It is the paleness of his cheeks turning to a rosy hue, it is the nervousness stiffening his movements, it is the soft trembling of his hands and lips in response to her smile.
“I believe we’re done for today, aren’t we?” She says, stretching a little.
Feeling unworthy of witnessing the sight of her body softly blooming as if in a dance, he looks down. “Ah, yes… It was yet another rather plain day. For the two of us, at least.”
She nods. “I feel sorry for the boy Aaron… He’s the youngest among us, and he works the hardest, being the first Elite. We owe a lot to him.”
One of the qualities he secretly prides himself with is that he has never felt envy, or jealousy. But if he has not, then what is that slight pang at the mention of his colleague’s name? That odd sting that spreads from his heart to the rest of his body, as if he had just been stabbed full in his chest?
“Yes, I believe… It is thanks to him that I was able to spend all day reading.”
“Oh, definitely.” She answers. “He fended off four challengers all by himself today.”
For a moment, he finds himself addressing a silent prayer to Arceus, until she speaks again.
“What did you read today?”
This is when he brightens up. All of a sudden, his movements become fluid, his smile poised, his speech confident and unbroken as the slight rose color leaves his cheeks.
“Ah, I began reading an Italian work, Manzoni’s The Betrothed. I was able to acquire a most elegant edition of it, with illustrations from the original edition in 1840. It is a historical novel set in the seventeenth century, the story of a couple of young peasants, betrothed as the title says, both of them devout Christians…”
As he proceeds to present the book to her, she appears to listen with a small smile, and he wonders if she is actually interested. He is surprised by the fact that she does not interrupt him until he finishes speaking, and then makes a request.
“You said there were illustrations… May I have a look?”
“Of… Of course you can, Miss Cynthia!” He notices, despite himself, that his nervousness is slowly taking over once again.
She begins looking at the book over his shoulder, and he shivers as some of her soft blonde hair brushes his clothes and mingles with his own lavender hair. Under her gaze, he slowly turns the pages of the book, revealing detailed etchings printed in black ink.
“That’s some lovely art!” She pipes up, delighted. And, excited, she begins to turn the pages of the book herself, her tapered, delicate fingers careful not to ruin the yellowing paper. “You’ve got to show me where you got this.” She comments. The distance between their bodies has now shortened considerably, and he can feel himself starting to sweat, as her flesh meets his, albeit through several layers of clothing. After a while, though, with a soft “May I?” she asks for permission to hold the book herself. And of course he lets her. There is nothing he can deny her.
Once the large book is in the Champion’s arms, she proceeds leafing through it, moving a few steps away from him. Her happy expression, however, gradually turns into one of disappointment. “Where are the love scenes in this book? Don’t they ever kiss, or anything?”
“No, they don’t.” Is his prompt answer. “It was customary, at the time, for betrothed couples to avoid body contact as much as possible before marriage, with the sole exception of the hands. Of course, these were merely the Catholic customs of the time, but the author stands for the sheerest and most literal respect of them.”
As if stricken by a sudden realization, she stops looking at the book, and closes it delicately, handing it back to him. “That’s just wrong, I think.” She comments. “How can you expect two lovers to wait around for their wedding without doing anything? Of course, it’s not healthy for a relationship to be exclusively physical, either, but… I think that if you don’t get some… Urges… It means you’re not actually in love. What do you think?”
At this, he finds himself shivering all over, and he wishes he had something to hold on to, but he only has his book to clutch onto. “I… I don’t really know, Miss Cynthia. I am afraid… My experience of the feeling of love… Has not been very extensive yet.”
“Our instincts are only natural, I believe.” She goes on to say, pacing around the room. “It doesn’t do us any good to suppress them. Religion is something wonderful and essential to man, but it should not deprive him of another part of himself that is just as essential…”
As she talks, he keeps nodding almost automatically, both in agreement and admiration. Yes, he agrees…! Sometimes, when she’s lost in thought like this, it’s as if Truth itself were speaking through her mouth, as if the twinkle in her eyes and the sheen of her blonde hair were the very light of Knowledge…!
“I mean, even I…” She stops suddenly, a few feet from him. She then begins walking in his direction, until she’s facing him, mere inches from his body. With a gentle pull, she takes the book from his arms once again, briefly looks around the empty room for somewhere to place it on, and finally kneels to place the volume on the polished floor. As soon as she moves to stand up, he looks into his eyes intensely and utters his name. “Lucian.”
For once, there is something soothing in those silver eyes. He feels he should be nervous, but he actually isn’t at all. Or maybe he is so nervous that every single nerve in his body has broken down, burst up, and left him numb. He cannot tell the difference. “Miss Cynthia.” He answers.
Her hands move up. One of them starts playing with his lavender curls, while the other one delicately removes his purple-tinted glasses. Having freed the spectacles, she bends again to set them down, on top of the book. She moves up, and faces him once again.
A moment after, unable to hold back any longer, he is enveloped in her kiss and succumbs to the wild embrace of slender fingers moving up and down his body, teasing him, making him lose every last ounce of control he thought he had over himself. He has dreamed of this moment for so long… And at last, he is living it, right here and now. In her arms, in her kiss, to find peace, to find love, to be beyond all contradictions, to live fully, to annul himself in her to find the balance he has been seeking throughout his entire existence.
Well, this wasn’t just a typical day for him, after all.