It was cold, but that wasn't going to keep Henry indoors. There were things that were going to happen today--he didn't know how he knew, and he didn't question it. The knowledge was intrinsic, undeniable, and so he knelt in his rose-garden, carefully pruning the spikey plants
( ... )
Henry had done a great deal of thinking about that very thing. "Yes," he said, with utter conviction. He really did--with everything that had gone before, everything he had felt and wanted, it seemed like it was all foreordained. Henry didn't believe in coincidence; nothing like that happened without a reason.
She could have fooled him, maybe. It was always possible she could have led him to believe that it had not affected her as it had him, but that blush betrayed her. "What I want to know," he added, slowly, "is do you?"
Only Camilla, Henry thought, could make him feel even slightly nervous. "It wasn't an accident," he said. He was still holding his teacup, but he'd utterly forgotten it. "I don't believe in accidents." He'd said that long before now--he'd studied the classics for so long that the idea of Fate was more or less ingrained in him. He couldn't take his eyes off her, however much he thought he ought to.
Gray eyes wide and lambent, Camilla gave a solemn nod. "There was something else too," she said. "I thought he was with us. The god. Not the whole time, though. When I was running, but not -- you know."
Though it could be that she simply hadn't been paying attention then. Probably ancient pagan gods didn't really care about privacy.
"I haven't asked anyone if they thought so," she said. "Not even Charles," and if some of the bacchanal memories that swam to mind were accurate too, Henry probably knew more about her and Charles than she'd ever intended anyone to know. "I mean, I still go to church." Neo-pagan worship as a way of life was for hippies. "Only it seems like ..." She shook her head, sending a wisp of wind-tousled hair flying into her eyes, so that she had to raise a hand to clear it away with an irritable little flick. "I don't know," she said, for what seemed like the millionth time.
I want you to make everything make sense.
I feel safe when I'm with you.
She grasped for an analogy. "It's like Linear
( ... )
Henry had wondered if he was the only one who felt that--he hadn't asked anyone else, because it seemed to personal a thing to say aloud. He supposed he shouldn't be surprised that Camilla, out of all of them, had felt it too
( ... )
No, he hadn't asked them, had he? Francis and Charles had let their impressions spill in a nervous flood, especially Francis though every time he remembered something it seemed to contradict the last thing he'd remembered; Camilla had sat silent, the red scarf wound around her neck standing for her exemption; and Henry had listened, corroborating their accounts with brief assent sometimes, otherwise volunteering nothing. There had been some moment for which Camilla wasn't present, the three men gathered around the Vermonter's corpse; Francis and Charles and Henry had reconstructed that as best they could, but about everything else, Henry offered up no detail whatsoever.
Unlike Camilla's, his hadn't been a conspicuous silence. Mostly, after that first nervous frenzy of oh God what have we done, none of them had wanted to talk about any of it, and half the time Bunny or Richard would be hanging around so no one could bring it up even if they wanted
( ... )
Henry had thought she would say that--had hoped, at least; belief in Fate notwithstanding, the thought of Camilla's potential answers had actually made him uncertain. For Henry, this was little short of a miracle.
He found himself uncertain as how to respond, too. He had absolutely no experience with anything even remotely like this--during the bacchanal they had both been wild, frenzied, completely out of control. It was different, now, in the cold light of rationality, and he hesitated a moment before setting his teacup aside. There was no hestitation in his next action, though--nerves or not, he leaned forward and kissed her. It was not a light kiss, but somehow it contrived to be almost chaste--a test, almost, a test of her reaction. She deserved the chance to back away, if she wished.
Her words had set the two of them apart from everyone else. Oh, the group had already started culling the weaker members: Richard wasn't even to be considered part of the inner group, nice though he might be, and Bunny they'd left out of the bacchanal. Bunny wasn't one of them anymore. Camilla had just gone much farther than that, cutting everyone out. What we aren't going to tell them about, she'd said. The first-person plural only meant Camilla and Henry, now.
She hadn't consciously chosen that resonance. She wasn't thinking about all the things it could mean, or how it excluded her brother.
And as silly and thoughtless as this might seem, she wasn't expecting what Henry did next, either.
This was Henry, after all. How long had she known him? Two years -- no, closer to two and a half, now -- from the first day of her freshman year, the first day of Greek class for her. Always armored in his immaculate wool suits, stiff and pressed even in the earliest morning hours, always put together. Remote. Untouchable because
( ... )
Henry knew what he was doing in one sense; in another, he really more or less didn't. He was going into this with both eyes open, as it were--he knew what they were doing, what they were getting themselves into. He knew how much it changed...well, everything
( ... )
Camilla had no idea what Henry felt, or how long he'd felt it. To her, this was a consequence of the bacchanal. She wouldn't have seen him this way without it -- wouldn't have felt the way she did now, surely. (Or would she?) She'd always respected Henry. She'd always looked up to him. To have the intensity of his full attention focused solely on her was nothing short of thrilling, and almost a little disconcerting. It made her feel shy in a way she didn't usually. Not knowing he felt at all vulnerable, she felt profoundly vulnerable.
Her lips parted for him, and her hands tightened on his shoulders.
His vulnerability was quickly eroding. Henry was very inexperienced, true, but some things could be guided by instinct. One arm slipped around Camilla's waist, pulling her close as he returned her kiss, slow and almost exploratory--feeling out her boundaries, her likes and dislikes. He was very gentle without even realizing it--he didn't want to treat her with anything even close to roughness. She was too perfect for that--she should be worshipped, and he could easily do that. He'd worshipped her from afar long before this.
Another thing Camilla had no idea about: exactly how inexperienced Henry was. His love life, or lack thereof, wasn't something she'd ever spent any time pondering (until this past week, anyway. Two nights ago she'd made herself miserable imagining he was having some kind of affair with Julian and wouldn't want her).
Charles had been like this with her, a little, in the very very beginning, when they'd been very young and trying out kissing for the first time. She associated Henry's deliberate care with newness, not to kissing in general, but to kissing her. Gladly she let him lead, oblivious that he might actually have appreciated some guidance. (Besides, it was Henry. Logically it was his place to lead.)
While Julian might or might not harbor other-than-fatherly feelings for Henry, Henry himself had absolutely no idea there was even a possibility of such a thing. It would likewise have never occurred to him that anyone could think he'd ever had such a thing as a love-life--he had very little idea that the others saw him as something of an enigmatic figure.
Part of Henry's care was the product of newness, the result of the sobriety he had now, a sobriety he had not possessed during the bacchanal. Even if he'd had prior experience, he would still have been quite gentle with her; it was quite important to him that he find Camilla's boundaries--that he know what was all right and what was not. Secretly he really would have appreciated some guidance, but a lack thereof wasn't about to stop him. His free hand slipped into her honey-golden hair, part of him marveling even as he kissed her at the softness of it against his skin.
Camilla didn't know herself what her boundaries were, if she had them. Bacchanal quite aside, she'd grown up with a brother who felt free to demand anything from her, and the only real boundary she knew was that she wasn't supposed to do anything like this with anyone but Charles, or else he'd be angry
( ... )
Henry experienced just a fraction of an instant's panic when she pulled back--yes, actual panic; he would have been surprised, if he'd been capable of registering surprise. When he realized she just wanted to get rid of his glasses, he smiled.
"Of course," he said, low. His eyes held hers for a moment before his hand slipped down to the back of her neck and he drew her mouth to his once more. She'd tasted of something rich and exotic, before, and he was discovering that that at least had not been a product of the bacchanal; she still did, and he kissed her slowly, savoring her.
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She could have fooled him, maybe. It was always possible she could have led him to believe that it had not affected her as it had him, but that blush betrayed her. "What I want to know," he added, slowly, "is do you?"
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She would believe anything he told her.
"Then I do too," she said, uncertain what she should take from this, uncertain how to gauge the pace of his words, the weight of his gaze.
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Though it could be that she simply hadn't been paying attention then. Probably ancient pagan gods didn't really care about privacy.
"I haven't asked anyone if they thought so," she said. "Not even Charles," and if some of the bacchanal memories that swam to mind were accurate too, Henry probably knew more about her and Charles than she'd ever intended anyone to know. "I mean, I still go to church." Neo-pagan worship as a way of life was for hippies. "Only it seems like ..." She shook her head, sending a wisp of wind-tousled hair flying into her eyes, so that she had to raise a hand to clear it away with an irritable little flick. "I don't know," she said, for what seemed like the millionth time.
I want you to make everything make sense.
I feel safe when I'm with you.
She grasped for an analogy. "It's like Linear ( ... )
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Unlike Camilla's, his hadn't been a conspicuous silence. Mostly, after that first nervous frenzy of oh God what have we done, none of them had wanted to talk about any of it, and half the time Bunny or Richard would be hanging around so no one could bring it up even if they wanted ( ... )
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He found himself uncertain as how to respond, too. He had absolutely no experience with anything even remotely like this--during the bacchanal they had both been wild, frenzied, completely out of control. It was different, now, in the cold light of rationality, and he hesitated a moment before setting his teacup aside. There was no hestitation in his next action, though--nerves or not, he leaned forward and kissed her. It was not a light kiss, but somehow it contrived to be almost chaste--a test, almost, a test of her reaction. She deserved the chance to back away, if she wished.
Reply
She hadn't consciously chosen that resonance. She wasn't thinking about all the things it could mean, or how it excluded her brother.
And as silly and thoughtless as this might seem, she wasn't expecting what Henry did next, either.
This was Henry, after all. How long had she known him? Two years -- no, closer to two and a half, now -- from the first day of her freshman year, the first day of Greek class for her. Always armored in his immaculate wool suits, stiff and pressed even in the earliest morning hours, always put together. Remote. Untouchable because ( ... )
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Her lips parted for him, and her hands tightened on his shoulders.
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Charles had been like this with her, a little, in the very very beginning, when they'd been very young and trying out kissing for the first time. She associated Henry's deliberate care with newness, not to kissing in general, but to kissing her. Gladly she let him lead, oblivious that he might actually have appreciated some guidance. (Besides, it was Henry. Logically it was his place to lead.)
Reply
Part of Henry's care was the product of newness, the result of the sobriety he had now, a sobriety he had not possessed during the bacchanal. Even if he'd had prior experience, he would still have been quite gentle with her; it was quite important to him that he find Camilla's boundaries--that he know what was all right and what was not. Secretly he really would have appreciated some guidance, but a lack thereof wasn't about to stop him. His free hand slipped into her honey-golden hair, part of him marveling even as he kissed her at the softness of it against his skin.
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"Of course," he said, low. His eyes held hers for a moment before his hand slipped down to the back of her neck and he drew her mouth to his once more. She'd tasted of something rich and exotic, before, and he was discovering that that at least had not been a product of the bacchanal; she still did, and he kissed her slowly, savoring her.
Reply
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