4. Spring-kissed Cherry Blossoms

Akraptor still hasn’t figured out why she looks at him the way she does. It’s soft but intent, devouring his every detail, filling him with the warmth to last forty winters. He doesn’t understand why she holds onto his arm as tenderly as she does either, always pulling him close, leaning her head on his shoulders, dreamy sighs slipping through lips full with colour.

What has he ever done to deserve such fortune? Why did she choose him, of all people?

Leaning against the doorway, he watches her read in the living room, engrossed in a book. Her smile is infectious and addicting, telling tales of milk and honey, but he’s yet to work up the courage to tell her. She sits by the window on an upholstered sofa, a pillow on her lap and the subject of her attention propped atop. An honest thought crosses his mind, and he blushes. He wants to do more than just tell her. But he doesn’t want to interrupt, nor does he have the confidence to do so in the first place.

“Don’t just stand there, Aky.” Gwen murmurs without looking up from her book. “Come here. Sit with me.”

A hollow feeling bores its way into that diffident thing churning within his chest. What story is contained within the ink on those pages so as to steal her attention in such fullness? He puffs through the side of his mouth. Is he really jealous of a book?

“Aky,” she drawls, eyes finally turning from her book, shooting him a look that spells both longing and annoyance. “I miss you. Come over here.”

I miss you. He turns the phrase over and over in his head, swallowed by the ecstasy of being wanted by her. A sheepish grin spreads across his lips as he shuffles across the room, bare toes curling into the soft carpet. He drops to a kneel, leaning into the sofa, nestling his head into Gwen’s sweater.

“Look at your wilted face.” she scoffs lightly, stroking his cheeks with delicate affection. “You’re all smug now, aren’t you?”

“I don’t know about smug,” he mumbles into the fabric. “But it sure is snug in here.”

Gwen runs her hands through his dirty grey locks. “Don’t tell me you were jealous of my book?”

The small pause in thought is enough to allow his insecurities to slip through. He starts speaking before he can stop himself.

“Gwen, why me?”

Her hands pull away, and a finger finds his chin.

“Aky, look at me.”

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He obeys, almost flinching at a gaze turned stern. Her face is framed by the golden rays seeping through the window next to them. An angel. She couldn’t be any less. His heart falters. How could he ever hope to match her worth?

“You think too little of yourself.”

Her words shake him from his dejected trance. Behind her stern expression is a look that embraces him, bathing him with a fondness he hasn’t felt from anyone else.

“I don’t know if you ever look in the mirror,” a teasing smirk wriggles its way across her lips. “But you have a pretty face.”

His heart skips a beat, teeth sinking into his lower lip to keep his elation from running free.

“I’ll admit it,” she continues, fingers fastening around his shirt collar. “You do have a resting expression that might scare some people away.”

The way his heart is racing, he could pass out at any moment. She pulls him closer still, the tips of their noses almost brushing. Her voice drops to a whisper.

“But when you smile,” She murmurs, ever-nearer. “All I want to do is—”

Kiss you.

Eyes half-lidded. Bated breath. Lips slightly parted. He doesn’t know who initiates it, but when they meet, he is drawn in as the seas would draw in a sinking ship, a slow descent into furor, surrendered to currents of what may come. She is the heavens, the hells, and all the depths in the world, and he dives headfirst, willingly, unafraid, eager to explore more of the unknown.

The walls become a stage for their tangled waltz, her hands grabbing fistfuls of his untied hair as he swims in her passion, scent of spring-kissed cherry blossoms in his lungs, a fragrance for all four seasons.

There is no room for words, nor is there any need for them, for their demands write themselves on every gesture, every gasp exchanged, every mark made, kisses showering his neck, his collarbone, tearing past the shirt that undresses itself and onto his bared shoulders, his hands caressing the back of her head, leading those supple instruments back up to where he can taste her himself, a taste that has become his nectar and ambrosia, his sustenance, her arms lifted to the ceiling—too warm, she whines through the kiss and though this is his first time, his hands have already snuck beneath the hems of her sweater, tugging it off her slim figure, fingers roaming down to the clasp that keeps her modesty intact, but she pushes him away, sitting him square on the sofa because no I’ll do it myself, and in one smooth motion she reveals herself to him, not just the lace-white straps and cups but all of her, Eve exposed to Eden, and when he’s done the same, she straddles him like he is her throne, lips chasing after his own, biding time for the deed both are anxious about but yearn for.

It is not like the stories told in the folds of hushed adolescent conversation. It is not like a knife into butter, nor a passionate, romantic ordeal. It is a laborious struggle, an ugly dance, a painful, embarrassing trial and error that requires focus and coordination, far from the idyllic scenes that play out in those gratuitous, lecherous, cinematic depictions. But when they are finally joined, when a rhythm is found and motion becomes as perpetual as the ebb and flow at sea, nothing in the Tower, at that moment, is capable of stopping them.