A/Z for Mercurial March aka Dysfunctional Relationship Part 3
I seem to be on a crunchy roll of angst? I don't know. A/Z this time around.
Title: Love Story
Ship: A/Z
I pray you, in your letters,
When you shall these unlucky deeds relate,
Speak of me as I am; nothing extenuate,
Nor set down aught in malice. Then must you speak
Of one that loved not wisely but too well... Shakespeare, Othello
Invocation to the Muse
She's just a glimpse, a flash of delicate white hands and sad blue eyes through the spaces between the books. For a moment, it's as though time stands still. Even the normal, quiet sounds of the library are inaudible-- no rustling pages, no creaking shelves, no clacking keyboards. Or maybe the roaring in his ears and the pulse that suddenly jumps from his chest to his throat deafens him.
She's still and perfect, and he wonders for a moment if she's real, human. Perhaps she is a marble muse, Galatea in alabaster right before his eyes. Perhaps she is a dream, a vision.
Emerald eyes meet sapphire through the books and he watches her blink, draw in a breath, then disappear around the corner as though fleeing. He's never considered himself intimidating in any sort of way. Certainly her reaction is overstated, a bit insulting. Or perhaps he could just have imagined her altogether. He'd never seen blue hair on anyone before.
He walks over to the other side of the shelf, to the spot where she'd stood a moment ago. The books are neat, undisturbed, and the only indication that anyone had been there at all is a delicate set of fingerprints feathered with frost, white against the stainless steel shelves. And isn't that strange?
&&&
Canto I
It doesn't take but a fraction of his guile to find out who she is. She stands out amongst her peers for more than just her marble and sapphire loveliness, and they say that she's the youngest person to matriculate to the university's medical school in the last fifty years. She is known to have several female friends, but he has never seen any indication of a significant other. He knows the type-- quiet, introspective, fearsomely intelligent and lonely. With just enough sincerity in the charm, it should be easy.
He catches her at a table surrounded by heavy dark-covered tomes and white papers marked with blue ink, and introduces himself, smiles right into those sad blue eyes. Her hand's cold in his and while she's unfailingly polite, she doesn't smile back.
He watches her from a table away as she hides behind her book fortress and smiles to himself. Relaxed, warmed, her navy hair fanned over white sheets, she'd be stunning.
&&&
Canto II
After a while and about a dozen more not-so-random meetings she starts to talk to him, answer his questions with more than one or two syllables at a time. She's even smarter than reputed, and he finds himself delighting in trying to coax her out of her shell, listening to her views on stem cell research and indie music and favourite books. She shares her mind freely; her genius will ever be used for the greater good. She blushes whenever he compliments her and he hasn't seen a genuine blush in ages and can't believe how sweet and charming it is.
He asks her to dinner one night on impulse and watches with dismay as her face pales and her eyes widen, and knows her answer even before she makes her stammering excuses.
Rejection is one thing, but there's something akin to terror in her eyes and he just can't understand why.
&&&
Canto III
It creeps like frost into subsequent meetings and conversations, and for the first time, he notices the little things. She fiddles with the ends of her hair when she's nervous. She smiles, but her eyes remain sober and filled with nameless sorrows. She eschews soda and coffee in favour of countless glasses of ice water when she takes her meals. She's part of a motley group of girls-- a housewife, a priestess, a supermodel, and a chef-- and they're as close as sisters despite their myriad differences. He's good at gathering information, but every piece makes the puzzle seem bigger and more complicated.
And then there are the dreams. Icy winter nights, jagged cliffs over bitterly cold seas, broken fairy tales.
He wakes up gasping for air, phantom water filling his lungs, and finds himself on her doorstep before he has any idea how he got there. She lets him in, much to his surprise, puts on tea and brings out sandwiches, and listens to his rambles in silence, not judging, not questioning.
The lust and fascination he feels for her slips into love before she even says a word. And she still doesn't seem to want to have anything to do with him. He gulps down tea around the lump in his throat and sets the cup down, stares into her blue eyes. "I feel like I'm drowning. And it's terrifying. What are you afraid of?"
"You." It's the softest killing shot he could ever imagine.
That doesn't make it hurt any less.
&&&
Canto IV
He tries to be gracious. He doesn't interrupt her studies or drop by her home, doesn't pay her any compliments. He misses that blush so much that it almost hurts.
Bits and pieces of information filter through. Divorced parents, a childhood of silent chess games and the written word for company. He'd like to graffiti the word 'Why?' on every single one of the missing father's paintings, he thinks. But that wouldn't make her smile.
There's more to it, he's certain. But he doesn't know how to look, where to turn.
He hasn't ever been in love before outside of dreamlike memories that are probably not his.
Or are they?
&&&
Denouement
His courtesy lasts him all of perhaps a week, and then he stalks into the library five minutes before closing time, blond ringlets wild, green eyes shadowed from a lack of sleep, and makes a bee-line for the table in the back by the classical literature section. She's got her nose buried in a gigantic book and looks as flawlessly lovely as a marble bust.
So sweet was ne'er so fatal.
"I don't remember everything. I can't atone for it, all of it," he blurts out, his voice unnaturally loud amidst the shelves and leather covers. "I don't know what to do with you, what to say to you. All I know is that you're killing me. And I don't think you mean to, this time."
She looks up, and for the hundredth time, blue eyes meet green ones. There's still fear in her gaze, and he curses.
"I'm not him." He's not sure of the identity of the 'him' he's referring to, but it applies, either way. "I won't break your heart. I love you, I love you. Please believe me."
She makes a soft sound in her throat and slowly stands, walks over to him, takes his hands. Her fingers are still cold, but they're steady as a surgeon's this time. He watches breathlessly as she laces her fingers between his own, squeezes. As her cheeks suffuse with that familiar, beloved blush. As her lips, for the first time, curve in a smile that reaches all the way to her ocean-blue eyes.
"I know. I do."
The squeal she emits when he catches her up in his arms and kisses her in sheer relief is the most glorious sound he has ever heard in his life.
Title: Love Story
Ship: A/Z
I pray you, in your letters,
When you shall these unlucky deeds relate,
Speak of me as I am; nothing extenuate,
Nor set down aught in malice. Then must you speak
Of one that loved not wisely but too well... Shakespeare, Othello
Invocation to the Muse
She's just a glimpse, a flash of delicate white hands and sad blue eyes through the spaces between the books. For a moment, it's as though time stands still. Even the normal, quiet sounds of the library are inaudible-- no rustling pages, no creaking shelves, no clacking keyboards. Or maybe the roaring in his ears and the pulse that suddenly jumps from his chest to his throat deafens him.
She's still and perfect, and he wonders for a moment if she's real, human. Perhaps she is a marble muse, Galatea in alabaster right before his eyes. Perhaps she is a dream, a vision.
Emerald eyes meet sapphire through the books and he watches her blink, draw in a breath, then disappear around the corner as though fleeing. He's never considered himself intimidating in any sort of way. Certainly her reaction is overstated, a bit insulting. Or perhaps he could just have imagined her altogether. He'd never seen blue hair on anyone before.
He walks over to the other side of the shelf, to the spot where she'd stood a moment ago. The books are neat, undisturbed, and the only indication that anyone had been there at all is a delicate set of fingerprints feathered with frost, white against the stainless steel shelves. And isn't that strange?
&&&
Canto I
It doesn't take but a fraction of his guile to find out who she is. She stands out amongst her peers for more than just her marble and sapphire loveliness, and they say that she's the youngest person to matriculate to the university's medical school in the last fifty years. She is known to have several female friends, but he has never seen any indication of a significant other. He knows the type-- quiet, introspective, fearsomely intelligent and lonely. With just enough sincerity in the charm, it should be easy.
He catches her at a table surrounded by heavy dark-covered tomes and white papers marked with blue ink, and introduces himself, smiles right into those sad blue eyes. Her hand's cold in his and while she's unfailingly polite, she doesn't smile back.
He watches her from a table away as she hides behind her book fortress and smiles to himself. Relaxed, warmed, her navy hair fanned over white sheets, she'd be stunning.
&&&
Canto II
After a while and about a dozen more not-so-random meetings she starts to talk to him, answer his questions with more than one or two syllables at a time. She's even smarter than reputed, and he finds himself delighting in trying to coax her out of her shell, listening to her views on stem cell research and indie music and favourite books. She shares her mind freely; her genius will ever be used for the greater good. She blushes whenever he compliments her and he hasn't seen a genuine blush in ages and can't believe how sweet and charming it is.
He asks her to dinner one night on impulse and watches with dismay as her face pales and her eyes widen, and knows her answer even before she makes her stammering excuses.
Rejection is one thing, but there's something akin to terror in her eyes and he just can't understand why.
&&&
Canto III
It creeps like frost into subsequent meetings and conversations, and for the first time, he notices the little things. She fiddles with the ends of her hair when she's nervous. She smiles, but her eyes remain sober and filled with nameless sorrows. She eschews soda and coffee in favour of countless glasses of ice water when she takes her meals. She's part of a motley group of girls-- a housewife, a priestess, a supermodel, and a chef-- and they're as close as sisters despite their myriad differences. He's good at gathering information, but every piece makes the puzzle seem bigger and more complicated.
And then there are the dreams. Icy winter nights, jagged cliffs over bitterly cold seas, broken fairy tales.
He wakes up gasping for air, phantom water filling his lungs, and finds himself on her doorstep before he has any idea how he got there. She lets him in, much to his surprise, puts on tea and brings out sandwiches, and listens to his rambles in silence, not judging, not questioning.
The lust and fascination he feels for her slips into love before she even says a word. And she still doesn't seem to want to have anything to do with him. He gulps down tea around the lump in his throat and sets the cup down, stares into her blue eyes. "I feel like I'm drowning. And it's terrifying. What are you afraid of?"
"You." It's the softest killing shot he could ever imagine.
That doesn't make it hurt any less.
&&&
Canto IV
He tries to be gracious. He doesn't interrupt her studies or drop by her home, doesn't pay her any compliments. He misses that blush so much that it almost hurts.
Bits and pieces of information filter through. Divorced parents, a childhood of silent chess games and the written word for company. He'd like to graffiti the word 'Why?' on every single one of the missing father's paintings, he thinks. But that wouldn't make her smile.
There's more to it, he's certain. But he doesn't know how to look, where to turn.
He hasn't ever been in love before outside of dreamlike memories that are probably not his.
Or are they?
&&&
Denouement
His courtesy lasts him all of perhaps a week, and then he stalks into the library five minutes before closing time, blond ringlets wild, green eyes shadowed from a lack of sleep, and makes a bee-line for the table in the back by the classical literature section. She's got her nose buried in a gigantic book and looks as flawlessly lovely as a marble bust.
So sweet was ne'er so fatal.
"I don't remember everything. I can't atone for it, all of it," he blurts out, his voice unnaturally loud amidst the shelves and leather covers. "I don't know what to do with you, what to say to you. All I know is that you're killing me. And I don't think you mean to, this time."
She looks up, and for the hundredth time, blue eyes meet green ones. There's still fear in her gaze, and he curses.
"I'm not him." He's not sure of the identity of the 'him' he's referring to, but it applies, either way. "I won't break your heart. I love you, I love you. Please believe me."
She makes a soft sound in her throat and slowly stands, walks over to him, takes his hands. Her fingers are still cold, but they're steady as a surgeon's this time. He watches breathlessly as she laces her fingers between his own, squeezes. As her cheeks suffuse with that familiar, beloved blush. As her lips, for the first time, curve in a smile that reaches all the way to her ocean-blue eyes.
"I know. I do."
The squeal she emits when he catches her up in his arms and kisses her in sheer relief is the most glorious sound he has ever heard in his life.