(no subject)
He fills her life with promises that he will never keep, painting with large strokes an image of a tranquility that seems oddly jarring with his nomadic nature but also right because it is what she dreams of too. She believes them because she wants to, even though she knows that someday she will regret it (but today he is here, and today she will believe him).
Lies spill from his mouth so easily she would almost believe it was a unique vampire ability of his, except she has seen other remarkable liars before. It’s only different with him because she loves him, and so her desire to trust him overrides her instincts telling her not to believe a word of what he says.
I’ll never leave you, never, he promises her, his eyes earnest (and still bright red, although he has been telling her over and over that he has adopted her diet). I’ve never met anyone like you before. I can’t imagine leaving you.
And the earnestness and the sweetness of the words form such a tempting bliss that Irina falls into it. She listens to him lie and loves him for it because at least he’s telling her what she wants to hear.
When he leaves, he promises that he will return to her. I’ll be back before you even miss me, darling, he tells her tenderly. She’s positive that this is a lie, because she will start to miss him the instant that he’s apart from her. His fingers reach out to brush her cheek in a gesture of farewell. They linger there for too long, and yet not long enough.
And for the first time she’s angry, because this lie is too jarring, too blatant. She straightens and glares, whispers into his ear. You’re right. I won’t miss you, she snarls.
He only laughs and kisses her cheek, the shape of his lips almost melting her resolve. Of course you will, he promises (and there’s another one, except this one is true) but Irina turns away for an instant and the second she looks back, he’s gone, leaving her only with memories and promises and the scent of him lingering in the air.
He’ll come back, won’t he, Tanya? Irina asks, and Tanya angles her eyes down and avoids answering the question, because Tanya can’t lie to her as easily as Laurent can.
She changes her mind and decides to believe him, because it is so much easier not to be sad, to still have hope.
She has to believe in his promise because in such a short span of time he has become important to her, against her intentions. Irina had thought it would be a liaison like the ones Tanya and Kate and herself so often indulge in: a form of pleasure, nothing more. Irina had never thought it would turn into this - an obsession, as destructive as it is beautiful.
(But, if she’s honest with herself, which she hasn’t been for some time - he’s rubbed off on her more than she knows - she can tell that it was absolutely a choice, because he makes her promises and she believes them, and because she’s ready to trust someone again, the way she hasn’t since her mother was taken from her).
When she hears the news, she is almost perversely happy, because she can tell herself that he would have returned, if he could have. Then the sorrow cuts in, stripping away all other emotions. But sometimes, when it lifts, she can find the smallest ounce of gratitude in her for the wolves that let her hold on to her illusions.
He made her so many promises in the short time they were together, she can hardly count them all (even though each one is clear in her mind when she thinks about them, for she has repeated them to herself so many times in his absence). But never once did he make the one that would mean the most, she thinks. He never told her that he would wait for her, because they both assumed that she would be the one doing the waiting. Waiting for him to be ready to settle down; waiting for him to love her as much as she loved him.
There is no funeral, because all that remains of him are scattered ashes. There is no service, no mourning, except by her, and even that is done in private.
Mostly, Irina dwells on the one promise he never made her, and pictures his melodic voice forming the words so that she can pretend. I’ll wait for you, she imagines. It’s no different from her other illusions, is it?
And maybe it’s true; Irina doesn’t know because he didn’t actually say it, but she assumes it could be. It has to be. He was coming back for her, before he was stopped by the werewolves.
And Irina realizes, then, that she never made any promises to him, because she never had to. She laid her love out for him to see, and no words were needed when faced with those undeniable emotions. But she thinks that wherever he is now, in whatever afterlife Carlisle convinced her a long time ago exists, he might need a promise, a reassurance.
I’ll be there before you even miss me, darling. I promise.
Lies spill from his mouth so easily she would almost believe it was a unique vampire ability of his, except she has seen other remarkable liars before. It’s only different with him because she loves him, and so her desire to trust him overrides her instincts telling her not to believe a word of what he says.
I’ll never leave you, never, he promises her, his eyes earnest (and still bright red, although he has been telling her over and over that he has adopted her diet). I’ve never met anyone like you before. I can’t imagine leaving you.
And the earnestness and the sweetness of the words form such a tempting bliss that Irina falls into it. She listens to him lie and loves him for it because at least he’s telling her what she wants to hear.
When he leaves, he promises that he will return to her. I’ll be back before you even miss me, darling, he tells her tenderly. She’s positive that this is a lie, because she will start to miss him the instant that he’s apart from her. His fingers reach out to brush her cheek in a gesture of farewell. They linger there for too long, and yet not long enough.
And for the first time she’s angry, because this lie is too jarring, too blatant. She straightens and glares, whispers into his ear. You’re right. I won’t miss you, she snarls.
He only laughs and kisses her cheek, the shape of his lips almost melting her resolve. Of course you will, he promises (and there’s another one, except this one is true) but Irina turns away for an instant and the second she looks back, he’s gone, leaving her only with memories and promises and the scent of him lingering in the air.
He’ll come back, won’t he, Tanya? Irina asks, and Tanya angles her eyes down and avoids answering the question, because Tanya can’t lie to her as easily as Laurent can.
She changes her mind and decides to believe him, because it is so much easier not to be sad, to still have hope.
She has to believe in his promise because in such a short span of time he has become important to her, against her intentions. Irina had thought it would be a liaison like the ones Tanya and Kate and herself so often indulge in: a form of pleasure, nothing more. Irina had never thought it would turn into this - an obsession, as destructive as it is beautiful.
(But, if she’s honest with herself, which she hasn’t been for some time - he’s rubbed off on her more than she knows - she can tell that it was absolutely a choice, because he makes her promises and she believes them, and because she’s ready to trust someone again, the way she hasn’t since her mother was taken from her).
When she hears the news, she is almost perversely happy, because she can tell herself that he would have returned, if he could have. Then the sorrow cuts in, stripping away all other emotions. But sometimes, when it lifts, she can find the smallest ounce of gratitude in her for the wolves that let her hold on to her illusions.
He made her so many promises in the short time they were together, she can hardly count them all (even though each one is clear in her mind when she thinks about them, for she has repeated them to herself so many times in his absence). But never once did he make the one that would mean the most, she thinks. He never told her that he would wait for her, because they both assumed that she would be the one doing the waiting. Waiting for him to be ready to settle down; waiting for him to love her as much as she loved him.
There is no funeral, because all that remains of him are scattered ashes. There is no service, no mourning, except by her, and even that is done in private.
Mostly, Irina dwells on the one promise he never made her, and pictures his melodic voice forming the words so that she can pretend. I’ll wait for you, she imagines. It’s no different from her other illusions, is it?
And maybe it’s true; Irina doesn’t know because he didn’t actually say it, but she assumes it could be. It has to be. He was coming back for her, before he was stopped by the werewolves.
And Irina realizes, then, that she never made any promises to him, because she never had to. She laid her love out for him to see, and no words were needed when faced with those undeniable emotions. But she thinks that wherever he is now, in whatever afterlife Carlisle convinced her a long time ago exists, he might need a promise, a reassurance.
I’ll be there before you even miss me, darling. I promise.