18 – 5
The house had been empty when we arrived. I don't really remember how we got there or what it looked like, and I don't really care. Milo asked us to leave our boots by the door, and we fought with stiff, uncooperative laces while he kept up a stream of conversation that neither Jeremiah, Clarke, nor I had any interest in answering.
Addy's down at the clerk's office, he'd said, his dark, keen eyes moving between our listless selves, writing out deeds, letters, and so. Comes home up to her wrists in ink, sometimes, spittin' mad about whatever her fool of an employer's done now.
Vin's out with friends, he'd said, herding us to his table and sitting us down, or – 'scuse me, Lavinia – tearin' around an' causing all kinds o' havoc. Empty plates and empty mugs set down before us. S'good for her, we think; gettin' to be a kid, y'know? Gettin' to run around, be silly, forget things for a bit? She's sleepin' more, now. All of us are. Sometimes, we even make it to sunrise without wakin' each other up.
He'd set out a half-loaf of bread and a wedge of cheese, filled our mugs with water and Jeremiah's with something from a bottle. We'd picked at the food, tearing off pinches of crust or rind and washing down their traildust-taste with big swallows. Jeremiah'd ignored the food entirely, downed the whole of his drink in one gulp, then taken the bottle. Milo didn't stop him. I'd wondered why, and still do, but all he'd said was, Why don't you girls go ahead and wash up, get some rest? Spare room's at the end of the hall, an' the washroom door's open. It'll be easy to find.
It had been. Clarke and I had bathed in silence, our backs to each other, and with the low, muffled drift of Milo's voice through the walls and the closed door. There was nothing of Jeremiah's. I'd seen him from behind as we left the washroom, his broad shoulders sunken and frame hunched over that bottle. He'd turned to Milo, putting the profile of his face in view. Tears streamed from a dark eye, sunk deep into an expression of utmost loss.
I'd carried that face into Milo's spare room and the bed I now lay in. Clarke and I are on our sides, facing each other, with our hands joined between us. She drags her thumb over my knuckles, climbing their hills, and falling into the valleys between. I trace the stood-out veins in the back of her hand and circle around the knobby bones of her wrist.
I'm here, she says.
I'm with you, I say back.
I don't know how long we spend in that quiet comfort, nor do I really care. Time passes in between slow, trusting blinks of our eyes and the soft, soothing touches we give each other. The bed's softness cradles us, brings us close. Her feet are cold, sending shivers up my legs to between my shoulders. I wiggle the sensation away, pulling her attention away from her idle study of my face. She smiles, just a little, and it's such a fond, affectionate gesture that I have no choice but to kiss it.
She breathes a laugh against my mouth, “What?”, and I kiss that, too, “What's that face?”
I kiss her nose as I pull away, feeling it wrinkle, and tuck her head under my chin. She comes willingly, pressing that little smile to the sharp line of my collarbone. “Your feet are freezing,” I say, and her mouth parts, then, “Ow!”
“What?” she lifts her head, impish, “What's wrong?”
“You bit me!”
She gasps, hand to her chest, “I did not!”
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“You did! And your feet are – ow! You bit me again!”
She looks me in the eye. Hers are shadowed, sunken, but glittering with something other than tears. For that, I'd let her bite me a thousand times. “Zira, I have no idea what you're talking about. Are you sure you're alright?”
“Less so by the second.” Is she ticklish? I'd bet she is, but where? Her ribs, under her arms, behind her knees? It might be all of those, might be none. Only one way to find out. Before I do, though, a warning, “You started this.”
Her eyes widen, delight and apprehension in blue, “Zira, Zira wait – ”
I snake my hand under the blanket, find her ribs, and dig my fingers in. She bites off a shriek and arches her back, kicking her ice-block feet and making a tangled mess of things. I slide my hand down, strum the soft skin behind her knee. She gasps, flushes pink across her cheekbones and the bridge of her nose.
That's not laughter. That's something else. The idea of what it might be sits, weighty and heated, in my thoughts; but before I can get any further than that, she changes things. The next thing I know, she's sitting on me, bracketing my hips with her legs. There's still delight and apprehension in her eyes, but they're different now, charged and changed by this new, overwhelming feeling. Something's going to happen. I'm certain of it. I want it to.
I reach up, curl my hand around her nape, and pull her mouth to mine.
- - -
It's later.
After.
Clarke's spine digs into my side, her steady breaths pushing my arm deeper into the bed's soft cradle. She's asleep, her ink-dark hair a messy tangle puffing around her head. I won't be joining her anytime soon. A pair of questions keep me awake; questions that, as always, seem not to have any clear answers.
Where had that come from? Why did I, why did we, want it?
I've been thinking about it for a while, turning them over and over again. That weighted, heavy feeling had been arousal, desire, that much is clear. What isn't is how suddenly and overwhelmingly it had struck me, struck us. The blankets are a tangled mess somewhere on the floor, along with our clothes and at least one of the pillows. Clarke snorts, starts to snore. How had we gone from a place of relative innocence to here, and so quickly? We hadn't before, not in any one of the nights we spent alone beneath the stars. Why not there, why not then? It doesn't make sense.
Nor does the why of it. Isn't it inappropriate, to feel thusly and act on it, in a time and place such as this? We should be mourning, shouldn't we? Grieving? It feels as though we should. Have we not been doing that, though, in every moment we weren't fighting for our lives?
Maybe there is the why I'm looking for. Maybe we wanted to feel something else, something good, for however long a reprieve we could give each other. Could it be that simple? If so, is the unease I feel unwarranted? If not, then what is it?
I wish Mother were here. I wish I could talk to her. She would know, or at least know enough to help settle my thoughts. I could sleep, then, like I did before I left.
Clarke's snores go on unabated, my arm well and truly numb beneath her. I count the beams in the ceiling, from top to bottom and back again. When that doesn't work I close my eyes and try to force myself to sleep. It doesn't work, of course. None of it does.
Fine, then. Fine. I pull my arm free and wince at the rush of needle-pins that flood from fingertip to shoulder. Find my clothes, put them on, and tiptoe to the door. If I'm not going to be sleeping tonight, I'm going to do it somewhere else. I close the door behind me, slow and quiet, and stop in the hallway.
There's a light down at the end, dim and fluttering. Someone else is awake at this hour, it would seem. Who, though, and what hour is it, anyway? More importantly, will they know? Do I look different? If they do, if I do, should I care?
No, I decide, sudden and arbitrary. I shouldn't. I won't.
Milo and Adelaide sit at their table, a candle and a teapot between them. She looks better from when I saw her last. That sickly gray pallor has gone from her skin and the weight of near-death from her body. She holds her mug in steady, ink-stained hands that don't tremble or shake. Vitality has returned to her, life has, and it is so, so good to see.
They trade a look, does Adelaide and her husband, some manner of communication passing between them. He cedes the ground her, and she turns a welcoming if tired smile to me, “Can't sleep?”
I shake my head, “No.”
She hums. Milo pats the table in front of a empty chair, “Have a seat. D'you want some tea? It's supposed to help.”
I do as invited, “Yes, thank you.” Milo fetches a mug, fills it. Steam curls from the dark drink, smelling faintly of apples. I blow ripples across the surface and chance a sip, my face pinching from the bitter taste. “Does it?”
Milo scratches his beard, “So I'm told.”
I can still taste it. It's on my teeth. “By whom?”
Adelaide's smile widens, “Lavinia,” which answers why they're drinking it when it tastes this foul and does nothing else. She lets a quiet moment pass before putting a hand on my arm and catching my eye, “You don't have to, but if you want to tell us, we'll listen.”
It's why I came out here, I should think. I take a deep breath, a sip of useless tea, and do just that.