aviary | CLOSED | prompt eight

[ He almost leaves outright when she draws back, suddenly afraid that he's been reading things wrong, that this isn't what she wants in the least. Then, slowly, slowly, her lips curve into a smile, and before he can fully process what she's said (I'm happy), she's kissing him again.

There's a fervency to the way that he holds her now that is equal parts passion and relief (and, perhaps, desperation too). When he pulls back, his cheeks are flushed, and he is half breathless. But, most importantly, he's smiling, too. It takes years from his countenance, makes him seem the age he is rather than the age that his features have worn to be. ]

Me, too, [ is what he manages to say, near baffled in too. ] I mean, I'm— I'm happy.

[ And he kisses her again, his embrace tighter than it had been, lips trailing to her jaw, then her neck, his former caution abandoned as that rush — happiness, a stranger to him up until now — strikes him as the waves of the sea strike against the rock shore. ]

[ They embrace and they kiss with a sudden giddiness, as if two children suddenly caught at unexpected play. Just as Mr. Baelish seems bemused by his own happiness, Sansa feels every nerve in her body fizzle with delightful exuberance — not heated per say (not yet at least), but warm and warming, like a sip of Christmas brandy travelling from tongue to gullet. With the twine of his arms, with the press of his mouth, Mr. Baelish' kisses grow no longer chaste; instead they chance her chin and her throat, nipping enthusiastically along her jaw, introducing tongue here and tooth there, as if he isn't wholly certain which part of him will do the job best.

The exchange lacks the kind of headiness that comes with full-fledged desire, but that fact seems to quell neither of them in their explorations of one another — hands and mouths moving and tracing, little whispers of encouragement and bubbling laughter the only sound over kisses and cloth and the occasional sigh. Rather than hot and heavy and burgeoning, their dalliance is tempered by the inexperience of youth, an awkwardness and fumbling that makes Sansa laugh again and then swoon happily in Mr. Baelish's arms, clinging to him.

When her eyes finally flutter shut it feels as if she is falling down down down from a very great height, only Sansa is not frightened, she thinks Mr. Baelish will catch her. ] May we be happy together and kiss more? Oh, please say yes.

Edited 2012-08-28 03:36 (UTC)

[ And he's there to soften her fall, to keep her from hitting the bottom, his embrace warm and reassuring, cheek pressed to her hair as he hugs her close. A daze clouds his senses, not that of desire but of simple surprise — that she would enjoy this, that she would want him at all. But, that said, he won't question it, and he won't be ungrateful. He knows how precious love is. ]

Of course, of course, [ he whispers, some of that giddiness still readily audible in his voice. ] Yes, a million times yes. For as long as you wish. [ The last part is a fallacy, of course, but a wish that he holds true. As if to demonstrate the point, he kisses her again, one of his hands sliding slowly down her back to rest just above the curve of her backside.

They could be happy, he thinks, the thought fueling his passions. A little cottage by the sea, perhaps, or a flat closer to the city. Something normal. No one would think to question them too long, no one would question the matter of whether or not she could love at all. ]

Some day, [ he manages, the words spoken against the corner of her mouth, ] I'll take you away from here. We'll live together somewhere nice, go wherever we like. Would that make you happy?

[ They say that surrogates are not people. They are bodily vessels, receptacles that hold an entire lifetime of second chances. They are ghosts and they are echoes — thin shadows cast upon the wall by their Originals, nothing more. But if that were true, how then was this possible? How would the copy of the girl who had broken Mr. Baelish's heart so many years ago suddenly find it in herself to love him now — so freely and so effortlessly, the way any normal girl would.

Sansa feels something strange happen to her then, as the tumult of emotions she feels inside had suddenly come to a glorious, shimmering head. Without warning, hot tears sting her eyes and stain her face, her gaze wet and singular and wholly adoring. There is nothing, nothing that compares to first love — a heavy truth that Mr. Baelish has held in his heart all of these long years — and it is first love that fills Sansa's gaze and spills down her cheeks, the sentiment far too large for her unexperienced heart to hold. Even though he holds her ardently, his arms are gentle and — for the first since knowing him — seem strong instead of earnestly meek. Still, a breathlessness takes hold of her, brought about by their kissing and her crying. ] Y-yes, oh yes, [ she sobs happily. ] Nothing would make me happier, Mr. Baelish.

[ Kissing him briefly, she presses his cheek to hers and twines about him, her shoulders shaking as she sobs again, the sound heartbreakingly joyous in his ear. ] Are we in love, you and I? Is that what I'm feeling right now? Can you promise it will never end?

[ They say that surrogates are not people and though Mr. Baelish has never believed the principle, it has never been clearer to him how much of a lie it was until now. She loves him with a fervency that only she could muster, loves him in a way that is untarnished and clean, as lovely as birdsong. And he is too caught, too enraptured, to be unhappy.

She sobs, and for an instant, he's worried that he's done something wrong. But it's joy that colors her voice, not sorrow, and though he does not cry with her, he laughs in relief, the sound bright in comparison to the fog and dark in which he always seems to live. ]

We're in love, [ he tells her, amazement in his words. ] Yes, Sansa, this- this is love. And I swear to you, until my very last breath, I will love you.

[ Pressing a kiss to her temple, he draws her ever closer in his arms, allowing the silence to envelop them for a moment before offering, with a sweet sort of hesitancy: ] You may call me Petyr, if you would like.

[ A gentle pressure, wet and round, pushes against the point of Mr. Baelish's pulse and it's not until it sniffles softly a moment later that it reveals itself to be the very tip of Sansa's nose, nuzzling him. Curled against him now, she tries to make herself small even though adolescence has been kind to her and given her the same long-legged leanness that had made her Original so very beautiful in Petyr's eyes. Her shoulders bow and her neck cranes as she tucks herself in that warm nest of his embrace, that initial sob of happiness still thrumming (electricity through a wire, blood through a vein). ]

Petyr, [ she murmurs, as if it the sweetest word known to man. ] Petyr, Petyr, Petyr. [ Each is a prayer and an exultation; each is love's golden sigh. ] I can't think of a more wonderful name. I will call you it morning, noon and night.

[ At length Sansa draws back, just far enough to meet his eyes, the damp end of her nose brushing his before she ducks in to peck him once on the mouth. ] All the stories were wrong, [ she then says, sounding but amazed and enlightened. ] All their words, they couldn't touch this, they'd never be able to explain—

I feel— I feel alive. It's wonderful.

You are alive, Sansa, [ he whispers, and he means more than just in love — he means the beat of her heart and soul, of everything that had, for so long, been thought impossible for the likes of the surrogates. (He suspects that the blood through her veins possesses more life and more vitality than his ever did.) And so he holds her, as if his frame might be enough to shield her from the worst of the world, from the world they intend to explore together, made great by the virtue of their love but that he knows is wide and vast and, more often than not, cruel.

As though to delay the fact, he kisses her once more, nothing if not ardent, the taste of mint cold on his lips.

He thinks of nothing but her. No thought of Catelyn, no thought of the riverbanks upon which he had spent his boyhood. Just her, the girl in his arms — Sansa. Not a ghost, not a copy. His heart belongs to her. There is no one moment that he can pinpoint in which it had happened, the feeling both a terrible ache and a dizzying kind of high. How long had he dreamt of something like this? And how long, in turn, had he shunned the notion entirely?

I love you, he tells her, over and over again, and though there is desperation in his voice it is colored by a deep happiness. ]

[ It is said that living is more than a series of biological processes. All organisms exist but not every organism lives — at least not in a meaningful way, in the way that originals do. Sansa had grown up reading stories of real life, of the experiences that (when taken together) formed the weave and the weft of living. And though her teachers and counselors all endeavored to quell any desire or hope for a deeper sort of existence, she had secretly longed to reach out and to touch it — to taste something grander and more profound. (She had wanted so desperately to live and to love and now here was Mr. Baelish — here was Petyr — offering her both with the sweet ply and soft whisper of his mouth.)

I love you, he tells her, over and over again, the words running into one another to form a single, tuneful song. For all that he says it, Sansa says it again only once — pulling back far enough to meet him eye to eye and then announce with the same enthusiastic wonder: ] I love you, Mr. Petyr Baelish. I love you and I'm loved by you.

[ Her eyes crinkle. ]

Thank you for making me the happiest girl on the Estate— no. In the whole wide world.

[ Her words sound as if they've been plucked from some storybook, and it is with some wonderment that he tells himself (that he knows) that she means each word from the bottom of her heart. Love on its own is a miracle. That she should love him is another wonder altogether. The smile that he wears — broad and unfettered — says as much. (I owe you, he thinks. I owe you so much.) ]

And my thanks to you—

[ A pause. (He fears his voice might break.) ]

—for giving me my life back.

[ It's a simple song, by most means. A few words strung together. But they mean the world to a man like him, to someone who, for a very long time, had thrown himself body and soul into what he believed to be a greater endeavor in order to forget his own hurt. In her embrace, he breathes for the first time. ]

[ It seems almost too perfect that they should find one another, the match between them made too well. Neither had lived before the other and, for a very long time, they knew only sadness and an aching sort of longing — things that nothing seemed capable of fulfilling (leaving them broken and hollow and alone). If Sansa is Petyr's miracle then she is certainly his in return.

Instead of answer she kisses him again, her mouth growing bold upon his, the touch of her hands as they come to cup his face gentle but urgent with a smoldering enthusiasm. Some children bloom early and others bloom late, while others still bloom not at all. If the way Sansa kisses Petyr now is any indication, she had simply been waiting for him to waken her, his nearness rousing her womanhood through earnest touch and fervent kiss. ]

We saved one another, [ she tells him at length. ]

CLOSED | prompt eight | RUIN

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