After the celebration.
So I wrote a vignette, and Sefton says I have to post it, so I am posting it. It takes place right after this scene, in which Penny and Sefton celebrate his birthday, and some things are said (and left unsaid) that cannot be taken back again.
He'd made a sound, a very soft one, nothing more than a murmur against her neck, one arm slung over and around her waist, holding her in against him. An unintelligable sound, something between a sigh and speech, and then he was asleep. Part of her was still prickling, tingling with the warmth of him all along her; she had to resist the impulse to shiver, as he breathed shallowly against her skin.
At the time, it had seemed a good idea to stay where they had eaten dinner. The bed was far away, after all, and there was no reason to waste the moments required to move his celebration. But now Penny ached, all over; her hips and her shoulderblades, her back-- she shifted, just a little, drawing her knees up to try and save herself a little of the soreness that would come of lying on the floor, with only their make-believe picnic blanket to cushion her.
He claimed to be old, pretended to be in his actions, groaned when he had to stand up and eased himself down when he needed to sit -- but Sefton, of course, was the one who dozed off immediately on the floor, and Penny was the one left wondering if he'd wake if she slipped away to fetch a pillow. She did not entertain the thought long, because the shifting of her knees caused him to stir, draw his hand up along her side, fingers splayed, as he took a deeper breath. Penny held hers, for just a moment. No, she would not leave for pillows or anything else.
He would not sleep long. He would doze, an hour perhaps; more, now, after such a night. Penny shifted again, but this time there was a bit of a smile that accompanied the movement, a dim echo in the darkness of the grin he sometimes flashed her -- utterly smug, completely satisfied. But no matter how exhausted, he would wake after far too little a time, and prop himself up on his elbow, kiss her awake, and send her back to her own bed. He would do it with more affection than anyone who knew him could believe him capable of, but it was still the same, and she would still creep back across the increasingly cold bowl to the darkened dormitory. She was never quite sure if he was aware that more often than not, she lay awake for some time after he dozed off, and that many times he would roll over to wake her only a few minutes after she'd drifted off herself. Their timing always was a little bit off, always missing by a few inches.
Penny lifted a hand to push some hair back from her face, where some of it had stuck to her forehead, and she rubbed gently at her eyes, small movements to avoid making him move again. More than usual she was wide awake, her mind turning over and over, trying not to replay the evening despite how it screamed to be remembered and pored over; his face, the way it had closed. It wasn't pronounced, it wouldn't even be noticeable, if it were someone else. He'd watched her start to cry, and everything she loved in his face just... turned off.
Penny knew what it was for someone to bind themselves with those words to a person they couldn't have. She had, of course, seen what it had done to a different man. She'd watched as he very slowly and methodically broke himself down, simply because she was not his.
And now, with this man, she would not survive seeing him crumble even a little; but more than that, she would not let herself become that broken thing either, and if she admitted it, even though he had to know how much she needed him, well, that would be the end of her. She herself had said it half a dozen times long ago, thinking that if she said it enough it would make him realize she didn't care about nobility or being a gentleman or what it would do to their futures. But she hadn't known. Not really. Once she understood, she'd never said the word again.
Her fingers moved lightly across his shoulder, trailing along the dips and rises made by muscle and joint, down the arm that still lay across her stomach, back up again to his shoulder. She could just see the lines of his arm, in the dim light of their remaining glow-- at some point, Penny could barely remember it, he'd moved away from her to deal with the lights. She had not thought to dim them, before he got back to his room, but he thought of it for her.
He thought of everything for her. Penny closed her eyes, finally, but when she did, she could only see that expression on his face; not even an expression, a non-expression. She'd wiped him clean of everything and still he blotted the tears off her cheeks and smiled at her, and she'd made him say it again, so that she could do as he wanted her to do and tell him what he had to already know. And then, when he gave her that chance, trusting her, she had done nothing. She had started talking about his drink.
It would have been better if he'd been angry. If he'd shouted at her or shaken her or even just looked hurt, anything. But he didn't even react, as if nothing had changed. He didn't fault her. It only made it worse.
Her hand stilled against his shoulder, and she tried to stifle the shudder that shook her. One tear slipped down sideways across her temple, down into her hair, and then another, and she bit her lip, hard. No hysterical storm, this, just two tears that trickled down to join the musky damp of her hair. Penny inhaled, almost inaudibly, though in the silence it sounded like a gasp, and then she was normal again.
Sefton, truly asleep by now, did not move anymore when she did. Penny tilted her chin so that she could look at him, what she could see of his face. They say that people, no matter how old they become, look like the children they used to be when they sleep -- and Penny supposed, in a way, it was true of the man beside her as well. But more than that, he simply looked like himself when he slept. Not like the Headmaster, not like Fort's heir, not like a master of political dance, not even like a teenaged boy trying to win his uncle's regard -- he just looked like Sefton. Penny moved a little, turned into him, tucked herself closer in his arms.
She wanted to wake him, so that he would look at her, open his eyes -- they would look black, in the light, and soft -- but she could not bear to rouse him. And if she woke him, he would kiss her, and gently send her back. But each second she spent watching him sleep, she wanted more and more for him to move, to smile, to squeeze his arms tighter, for the face to come alive again with what no one ever was allowed to see, except her. She stayed that way in an agony of indecision, wanting and not wanting, needing something without knowing what; eventually, tortured, she whispered, "Sef? Are you asleep?"
He did not move. Penny swallowed against a dry throat, and moved her hand to touch his cheek. "Sef. Sef, I ought to go back."
This time he moved, stretched a little, one leg moving where it had been wrapped around one of hers. He made first an unintelligble noise of query, eyebrows furrowing, though his eyes didn't open. Penny leaned her forehead against his, and whispered again, "I ought to go. It's late."
He didn't answer immediately, and Penny for an instant thought perhaps that he'd fallen back asleep. After a few seconds, however, his arm moved around to the small of her back, tightened as it pulled her into him, and he shifted so that he could tuck her under his chin. "It is my birthday," he murmured, softly, in his thickest drawl, which was nonetheless intelligible enough that it left Penny wondering if perhaps he had not been so deeply asleep as she had thought.
She hesitated, but not for long, because he was warm and he'd pulled her in so that her cheek was pillowed against him, and her back no longer hurt, and somehow he'd curled the rest of the picnic blanket around the both of them. She was silent a long time after that, tense with the need to speak, and frozen with the fear of it. Finally, in a tiny voice, she spoke. "Sef... I do lo--" She paused and lifted her head to look at him. "Sef?"
He did not respond, and the rise and fall of his chest was even, and his mouth was ever-so-slightly curved in the smile she knew so well; children, they say, smile while they sleep. Penny bent her head again, burying her face against his skin, and resolved to put it from her mind. And she thought instead of counting pebbles by the beach, of learning to swim in the river with a pair of strong arms ready to pluck her out again if she faltered, and of a voice that, far from demanding obedience, had simply made her his.
He'd made a sound, a very soft one, nothing more than a murmur against her neck, one arm slung over and around her waist, holding her in against him. An unintelligable sound, something between a sigh and speech, and then he was asleep. Part of her was still prickling, tingling with the warmth of him all along her; she had to resist the impulse to shiver, as he breathed shallowly against her skin.
At the time, it had seemed a good idea to stay where they had eaten dinner. The bed was far away, after all, and there was no reason to waste the moments required to move his celebration. But now Penny ached, all over; her hips and her shoulderblades, her back-- she shifted, just a little, drawing her knees up to try and save herself a little of the soreness that would come of lying on the floor, with only their make-believe picnic blanket to cushion her.
He claimed to be old, pretended to be in his actions, groaned when he had to stand up and eased himself down when he needed to sit -- but Sefton, of course, was the one who dozed off immediately on the floor, and Penny was the one left wondering if he'd wake if she slipped away to fetch a pillow. She did not entertain the thought long, because the shifting of her knees caused him to stir, draw his hand up along her side, fingers splayed, as he took a deeper breath. Penny held hers, for just a moment. No, she would not leave for pillows or anything else.
He would not sleep long. He would doze, an hour perhaps; more, now, after such a night. Penny shifted again, but this time there was a bit of a smile that accompanied the movement, a dim echo in the darkness of the grin he sometimes flashed her -- utterly smug, completely satisfied. But no matter how exhausted, he would wake after far too little a time, and prop himself up on his elbow, kiss her awake, and send her back to her own bed. He would do it with more affection than anyone who knew him could believe him capable of, but it was still the same, and she would still creep back across the increasingly cold bowl to the darkened dormitory. She was never quite sure if he was aware that more often than not, she lay awake for some time after he dozed off, and that many times he would roll over to wake her only a few minutes after she'd drifted off herself. Their timing always was a little bit off, always missing by a few inches.
Penny lifted a hand to push some hair back from her face, where some of it had stuck to her forehead, and she rubbed gently at her eyes, small movements to avoid making him move again. More than usual she was wide awake, her mind turning over and over, trying not to replay the evening despite how it screamed to be remembered and pored over; his face, the way it had closed. It wasn't pronounced, it wouldn't even be noticeable, if it were someone else. He'd watched her start to cry, and everything she loved in his face just... turned off.
Penny knew what it was for someone to bind themselves with those words to a person they couldn't have. She had, of course, seen what it had done to a different man. She'd watched as he very slowly and methodically broke himself down, simply because she was not his.
And now, with this man, she would not survive seeing him crumble even a little; but more than that, she would not let herself become that broken thing either, and if she admitted it, even though he had to know how much she needed him, well, that would be the end of her. She herself had said it half a dozen times long ago, thinking that if she said it enough it would make him realize she didn't care about nobility or being a gentleman or what it would do to their futures. But she hadn't known. Not really. Once she understood, she'd never said the word again.
Her fingers moved lightly across his shoulder, trailing along the dips and rises made by muscle and joint, down the arm that still lay across her stomach, back up again to his shoulder. She could just see the lines of his arm, in the dim light of their remaining glow-- at some point, Penny could barely remember it, he'd moved away from her to deal with the lights. She had not thought to dim them, before he got back to his room, but he thought of it for her.
He thought of everything for her. Penny closed her eyes, finally, but when she did, she could only see that expression on his face; not even an expression, a non-expression. She'd wiped him clean of everything and still he blotted the tears off her cheeks and smiled at her, and she'd made him say it again, so that she could do as he wanted her to do and tell him what he had to already know. And then, when he gave her that chance, trusting her, she had done nothing. She had started talking about his drink.
It would have been better if he'd been angry. If he'd shouted at her or shaken her or even just looked hurt, anything. But he didn't even react, as if nothing had changed. He didn't fault her. It only made it worse.
Her hand stilled against his shoulder, and she tried to stifle the shudder that shook her. One tear slipped down sideways across her temple, down into her hair, and then another, and she bit her lip, hard. No hysterical storm, this, just two tears that trickled down to join the musky damp of her hair. Penny inhaled, almost inaudibly, though in the silence it sounded like a gasp, and then she was normal again.
Sefton, truly asleep by now, did not move anymore when she did. Penny tilted her chin so that she could look at him, what she could see of his face. They say that people, no matter how old they become, look like the children they used to be when they sleep -- and Penny supposed, in a way, it was true of the man beside her as well. But more than that, he simply looked like himself when he slept. Not like the Headmaster, not like Fort's heir, not like a master of political dance, not even like a teenaged boy trying to win his uncle's regard -- he just looked like Sefton. Penny moved a little, turned into him, tucked herself closer in his arms.
She wanted to wake him, so that he would look at her, open his eyes -- they would look black, in the light, and soft -- but she could not bear to rouse him. And if she woke him, he would kiss her, and gently send her back. But each second she spent watching him sleep, she wanted more and more for him to move, to smile, to squeeze his arms tighter, for the face to come alive again with what no one ever was allowed to see, except her. She stayed that way in an agony of indecision, wanting and not wanting, needing something without knowing what; eventually, tortured, she whispered, "Sef? Are you asleep?"
He did not move. Penny swallowed against a dry throat, and moved her hand to touch his cheek. "Sef. Sef, I ought to go back."
This time he moved, stretched a little, one leg moving where it had been wrapped around one of hers. He made first an unintelligble noise of query, eyebrows furrowing, though his eyes didn't open. Penny leaned her forehead against his, and whispered again, "I ought to go. It's late."
He didn't answer immediately, and Penny for an instant thought perhaps that he'd fallen back asleep. After a few seconds, however, his arm moved around to the small of her back, tightened as it pulled her into him, and he shifted so that he could tuck her under his chin. "It is my birthday," he murmured, softly, in his thickest drawl, which was nonetheless intelligible enough that it left Penny wondering if perhaps he had not been so deeply asleep as she had thought.
She hesitated, but not for long, because he was warm and he'd pulled her in so that her cheek was pillowed against him, and her back no longer hurt, and somehow he'd curled the rest of the picnic blanket around the both of them. She was silent a long time after that, tense with the need to speak, and frozen with the fear of it. Finally, in a tiny voice, she spoke. "Sef... I do lo--" She paused and lifted her head to look at him. "Sef?"
He did not respond, and the rise and fall of his chest was even, and his mouth was ever-so-slightly curved in the smile she knew so well; children, they say, smile while they sleep. Penny bent her head again, burying her face against his skin, and resolved to put it from her mind. And she thought instead of counting pebbles by the beach, of learning to swim in the river with a pair of strong arms ready to pluck her out again if she faltered, and of a voice that, far from demanding obedience, had simply made her his.