aviary | CLOSED | prompt eight

[ It's the kind of set-up that begs a rim shot, like a pass at one of the more cliched classics (kiss me, doll, I'm Irish,, but Peek has learned his lessons the hard way with Grace — and there are some things that you never kid, especially when they cut so close to the bone. (The first time he'd kissed her, it'd been a mistake. The second time, an unmitigated disaster.)

The motion of her legs catches in the periphery of his vision and he glances to catch the tail-end of the gesture, the muscle in her calves tensing, the hem of her dress revealing a spare inch of thigh. He quickly looks away again; to his credit, he doesn't sound distracted at all. ]

T'ere's not goin'ta be any burnin', Gracie. Not for me an' not for you, neit'er. No need, bein' sore.

Edited 2012-08-12 19:14 (UTC)

[ She can't quite bring herself to look at the whole affair through the same perspective. It's easier for her, admittedly, being the younger of the two of them. But love is love — and a kiss is a kiss — and true to her word she tells him once each day I love you, though the timing of the confession varies. (She understands the concept, now — feels it — as well as their arrangement, inconvenient though it is.) ]

Pinky swear? [ The question is more hypothetical than not — for one, she knows it is (she may range hot and cold but he'd never let her crash that way), and for another, she never actually pinky swears, preferring the idiom to the action. But still, her eyes shine bright at the question. ]

[ Love is love, no argument there, but the fact that Peek can count Grace's age on both his fingers and toes makes him wonder (frequently) if it's really love at all on her part or just something like passing infatuation mistaken for love.

When he tries to look back over the course of his own life, back on through his adulthood and into his distant adolescence, there is no single great love that that he can recall with crystal clarity, no woman or girl so monumental and large that she managed to eclipse all the others. There are times when he wonders whether or not this is strictly a girl thing — some phase that Grace is going through that he should try to Google over the internet, or some form of teenage rebellion that happened to somehow twist itself into knots.

He gets the urge every once and a while to ask her step back, to analyze the situation objectively. Ultimately a compliment, an I trust your judgment, but Peek is pretty sure Grace won't ever take it that way. ]

What — wi't you? [ He sniffs his nose at the pinky in question. ] Dunno when y'washed it last.

[ That's a lie. If anyone in the room has an idea when, it'd be him. ]

[ Though the span of her life is considerably shorter, faced with a similar experiment, Grace has to confess to similar results. There's no one person she remembers so strongly as to blot out all of the others (no one save him, though the confession doesn't seem to take as much effect as she'd like). Arguably, it's because she just hasn't had time — because she's been too wrapped up in everything else (everything apart from the heart) to notice or care. Arguably, it's just because she's growing up, and she'll move on to some movie star or pop artist or grocery store clerk in a matter of time. (She doubts it, but it's the frustrating nature of love that it isn't exactly quantifiable.)

Resisting the urge to roll her eyes (too childish, and ultimately unnecessary), she lets her arm drop back to the mattress, limp hand hanging over the edge. ]

Cross your heart, then, if you're so afraid to touch me.

[ That last turn of phrase — if you're so afraid to touch me — isn't meant to bite as much as it ultimately does. It's true and it isn't, that's the worst part of all, and as much as Peek would like to fight Grace on the matter (joke or not) he's fairly certain whatever he'd have to say would just be further insult to injury.

(He's not afraid to touch her; he touches her all the time. When he carries her up to bed from the study, when he helps her out of her clothes; every time he brushes her hair or braids the front; every bath he's ever drawn for her, he offers a hand to let her step into the white basin and then — afterwards — looks away as he curls the ends of a fresh towel over her shoulders. If he could, he would touch her more — would hold her cheek or tap her chin or press his forehead to hers whenever the urge existed to look her square in the eye. But these aren't gestures for him to claim, no matter how often or how urgently she offers them. No matter how much he truly wants them.)

Even so, he looks at Grace and levels her with a crooked mouth that — somehow — doesn't quite manage a smile. Moving to the side of the bed, one hand flicking open buttons at the collar of his shirt; one and then two and then spreading open the lapels to expose a stretch of pale, freckled skin. Peek drops himself down onto the carpet with a soft oof and offers that bit of him to that limp hand. ]

Why don't y's cross it for me, Gracie?

[ (There's a rational part of her that knows he rebuffs her advances — for the most part — for a reason. She knows what the laws are, knows what the expected social norms are, too. And more than that, she knows what he wants for her. Something normal, something good, something better than the odd on-and-off existence she's lived up until this point. It's ironic, in a way, that it's because he loves her that their misshapen little waltz can't quite seem to come full circle.

But the rest — the part of her that hasn't quite caught up — still aches, like her ribs are threatening to simply close in and collapse or her heart might simply turn into dust. She knows it's more melodramatic a sentiment than not, but that doesn't mean it doesn't hurt.)

She stares at him for a long moment, bottom lip caught between her teeth (his gesture isn't necessary, not asking her to do it nor offering her the bare skin), before she reaches out, fingertip landing just under his collarbone. ]

Cross your heart— [ one diagonal line, down to the center of his chest ] —and hope to die. [ Then, the other, crossing back up. (She doesn't let her hand fall back quite yet.) ] Stick a needle in your eye.

That's how it goes, isn't it?

[ It's not something he should be doing — wearing his heart on his sleeve, leaving it out where she can see, offering it so that she can touch. Peek's not sure if, in the long run, it'll just make her hurt more; what he wants to give her isn't encouragement, but validation — acknowledgment of her feelings and acknowledgment of his own, reciprocated but withheld. Despite his age, he hasn't had a lot of romance to tuck under his belt and with Grace around all of that inexperience shows, a quiet sort of panic settling into his eyes on occasions when she reaches for him. A grown woman's reaction, he thinks he could predict better, but Grace—

In the end, he has no real reassurance beyond his profound belief in her, in the fact that she would understand him one day (and in understanding him, forgive him for not closing that painful gap).

Gently, he takes her hand in his, covering the ridge of her knuckles with one palm, pressing the pad of his other thumb against the delicate skin of her wrist. Her pulse skips in response, that particular arhythm tapping itself out for him to decipher like the dashes and dots of Morse code. This is the moment where he would kiss her if circumstances where different, if this were a few years later and if Peek's bimonthly checks weren't signed by her Grace's parents. For a long silent moment he does nothing but look at her.

(You're t'e prettiest girl I've ever seen. Sometimes he murmurs it to her when she sleeps so that at least her heart knows.)

He's still holding her hand, cradling it, when he asks: ] Want that I should be runnin' that bath for y'now, sweetheart?

Edited 2012-08-16 13:28 (UTC)

[ They walk a delicate balance around happiness. Love is there, like a book left unread on the shelf, its presence acknowledged but never looked at. Some days, it's enough just to look at him and see that reassurance in his gaze. But still, still, it hurts.

It's been a little while since she's given up arguing her case. She doesn't have anything to argue with. Where he doesn't have much experience with romance, she has none at all, and there's no fighting with what's printed on her birth certificate. So she doesn't reach for him as much, doesn't try to push the point (doesn't smile as much as she used to, doesn't talk as much, either). No, you can't lose something you've never had, but the ache persists, like the slow fading of a photo. The image is still discernible (she loves him, and she will even as her legs lengthen and her frame fills in), but the colors and effulgence are fading from that first bright and effulgent moment of realization, from the moment she'd crawled into his bed in the middle of the night with a confession on her lips (I love you, Eamonn).

For a long moment he does nothing but look at her, and she does nothing but look back. ]

Okay, [ she answers, the word nearly just a sigh. (It's tiring; she doesn't know if it's supposed to be. And again, the point is proved. She doesn't know. Too young, too inexperienced, always something just out of reach. She doesn't recall ever having been so simultaneously frustrated by and resigned to a fact.) ]

[ Peek knows that, in the end, whatever happens between them is his responsibility. Not that he begrudges that fact in any way and not that he particularly minds, but it doesn't seem to make the situation any easier for Grace. (And that — that's where Peek begins to take issue.) She smiles less, she talks less too and everything Grace does seems to happen beneath a veil of sullenness — thin, near imperceptible to the unpracticed eye but those tiny details, infinitesimally small and uncountable, they make up the very bread and butter of Eamonn's existence. They are the mortar that holds together a life spent dedicated to the care and protection of a single, blossoming soul.

Ultimately, it's a game of diminishing returns and all Peek can hope for is that — when the time finally comes — it'll be later rather than sooner. He can't argue with an age either, not any better than Grace can, but the fact remains and it makes him uncomfortable. (Y'don't mean t'at, had been his bleary reply. Y'can possibly— Then she'd kissed him while Peek had curled his hands fitfully at his sides, unwilling to reach for her and draw her close because he knew if he did, he'd ruin her forever.)

Grace looks unhappy and so Peek frowns. ] Hey, [ he says, quietly. Then again, more gently: ] Hey.

[ He considers kissing the hand still held in his, considers kissing her forehead or cheek or mouth. Peek leans forward, bracing a hand against the bed, but in the end doesn't, just holds her gaze like sorry like I do love you. ] Y're the only one f'r me, Gracie. Y'know t'at don'tcha? Y're my girl. Only one I'd ever t'ink of havin'.

[ You don't mean that. That's the worst thing about her age, in the end. It gives people license (rightly so in some cases, though always to her neverending frustration) to say things like that. Of course I mean it, of course I do, have I ever lied to you? You can't tell me what I do and don't feel. But there's always someone who knows better, and beyond a teenage petulance, she knows that in this particular instance, she can't keep her head above the water.

Though she knows this is a juncture in which she's expected to say something in return (like I know or I'll be okay), she doesn't manage to say anything at all, lips pressing together and a pinch in her brow as if she might weep. (You get to say so and I don't?)

Finally, she sighs, the breath let out through a corner of her mouth as if she'd been holding it in for a long time. ]

Yeah.

[ (There's no good in thought without action.)

The temptation flares, just for an instant, not to check her tongue. I don't know. Maybe. It's another one of those things only time can prove, isn't it? But it's an unappealing kind of childishness, and doubt is an ugly thing, too. ]

'M sorry.

[ There's an instant when Grace looks like she's about to cry and in that moment, Peek panics silently — his chest suddenly too small for his heart, his heart suddenly shouting a litany of no no no. He's never liked seeing girls cry, even when he was a little boy. The sounds they make, both the loud and the soft, the way their breath catches in their tiny throats. The tears falling fat or running thin, salt staining cheeks flushed pink and red — still pretty but desperate and alarmingly heartbreaking. All of it triggers an internal panic in Eamonn, one that makes him feel momentarily childish (and in that childishness, overwhelmingly helpless).

He knows, if Grace cries, it's all over. If she cries, he'll have no choice but to give her the things that she wants — however well-intended and poorly-received. (In this interaction, he is the adult and she is the child, but every man has a weakness. And Eamonn's is a girl's tears.) ]

Grace— [ He reaches for her face now, cradling it between his hands. Every attempt to comfort, every reassurance that he loves her, is as good as an insult on top of his perpetual hesitation, but he doesn't know how else to help her without cutting himself out of her life completely. ] —sweetheart.

[ Gracie. It's always Gracie. Except when it's sweetheart and except when it's Grace — the former speaking of fondess (a softness), the later speaking of love (an ardency). ] If t'ere's someone who's needin' t'be sorry, it's me. No' you. I'm sorry. Y'understand? [ Shutting his eyes he exhales heavily. He feels old; he looks old. Still his thumb brushes her cheek. ] M'so very sorry.

Edited 2012-08-17 19:58 (UTC)

[ She shakes her head as best she can given her circumstances, belly to the mattress and her face cradled in his hands. ]

It's not your fault.

[ (Not your fault I'm the age I am, not your fault I love you, not your fault I know how to do everything but this.)

He's doing what's best, isn't he? In this interaction, he is the adult and she is the child and even though it is her parents who keep him in employ, he ultimately has the last say. (Right? Sometimes she sees the panic in his expression and it's because she's parsed together that that's all it would take that she tries to keep herself from crying. It's not fair. Or at least, that's how she rationalizes it to herself, despite the ache that grows heavier within her chest by the day. It isn't fair for her to wield that kind of power, never mind the shadow that he casts over her life as a whole.)

This argument, at best, is a circular one — both of them eager to take the blame as if it would somehow make things easier — but she doesn't know how else to steer it. As if in turn, she reaches out, too, tracing over the lines of his face. ]

Don't look so sad. Can't take care of you as well as you take care of me.

[ He laughs at that, the sound thin and a little desperate. It comes from the right part of him, though, the part of him that would do more for her than simply the bare minimum of wash her clothes and see her feed. It's the same part that draws her baths, that helps choose her clothes when she can't be bothered; the part that brushes her hair and braids it on occasion. (Whenever she asks; whenever she doesn't ask. That's how the heart works.) It's the same piece of Eamonn that would quit his job if it meant freeing up that yoke across this shoulders and being with her in a way her parents would never allow; the piece that would take a bullet for Grace easy, that wouldn't even think about it, just do it.

The part of her that not just loves her but likes her, too — as a companion, as a colleague. As a girl.

Despite the thinness of his laugh, his smile is broader, more generous and true. The very edges of it are still rueful though. ] Y'take care of me just fine, Grace.

[ Even though he aims for levity her name — Grace not Gracie — reveals how close to the bone her words cut. With time, his smile fades, returning Peek's expression to quiet thoughtfulness. Only after a moment does he lean forward and press his mouth to the curve of her forehead and again, lower, upon her check nearing the corner of her mouth. ]

S'alright, Grace, [ he murmurs and it's not quite clear what exactly he means to defend — his actions, her words, the feelings strung so hopelessly between them. How he feels, how they both feel. Eamonn's words are another kiss upon Grace's skin; his lashes move as his gaze takes a path across her face. ] S'alright.

[ Again, reaction upon reaction pops up at the same time, a mess of words instead of the usual neat mental list she manages. (Don't bullshit me; kiss me again; it isn't alright, it's never going to be; no, I owe you, I owe you, I've never given you anything but you've still given me so much; I'm sorry.) Her hand finally stops upon his cheek, though her touch is more tentative than not, as if she weren't sure that this was the way things were supposed to go or she didn't know if the gesture would meet with his approval (because despite her bravado whenever they're out in public, she still looks to him).

Again, a fist seems to close around her chest, but she manages to pare the reaction down to the barest dig of her teeth into her lower lip.

(He'd take a bullet for her and the equation still holds true in reverse. It's not the sort of thing she's ever truly contemplated but the sort of thing that sits deep in her gut, as unquantifiable as the ache in her chest and the tears that threaten to sting at her eyes. Frustrating, yes, but she's never been more certain of anything in her life. Funny how things work out like that.)

Then, faintly, the words almost a dare despite how quiet they are: ]

Tell me again and I'll believe you

[ He sees those tears beginning to fog her eyes and in his chest Eamonn's heart starts to beat out of rhythm, that syncopation slowly twisting him into knots of please, Grace; please, don't; I'll do anything; just don't cry.

To Grace's credit it isn't crying — not yet, anyway — but she's getting there fast (and with him help). Poised on the very cusp of weeping, every inhale threatening a sob or a catch of breath from which she'll never recover, it's either a case of fall forward or fall back and no room for error inbetween. The line Grace is walking is narrow enough as it is, barely enough room for the both of them side-by-side, but Eamonn doesn't intend to abandon her. Come hell or high water, he'll follow her. Even if that means diving headfirst into the salt sea of her tears.

Leaning his forward, his forehead comes to rest against the gentle slope of hers, the curve of his skull rocks once as he nods in silent agreement. (Please believe me; it's all I want.) Eamonn shifts and lifts a free hand to retrace the path that Grace had drawn over his heart only moments ago — one line intersecting a second. A tell-tale cross. X marks the spot. ]

Cross my heart'n hope t'die. Stick a needl' in m'eye. [ Peek pulls back far enough to offer his eyes, to show her with his gaze and his expression. D dozen dozen microexpressions all point to the same thing and that direction is love. ] T'ere isn't anyone else in the wide world f'r me, but you. I promise, Grace — s'alright. An' if it isn't right now — will be soon.

[ He makes promise after promise (and she doesn't doubt a single one) but never do the words I love you pass his lips. (She, by contrast, still tells him day by day, though the task only grows more difficult — not because it becomes any less true but because she gets the feeling that each time the words go unreturned there is less for her to give. (She figures she can't ask him if it's true. Again, unquantifiable.)

Soon, too, is an unquantifiable term, one that means different amounts of time to different people, but she doesn't much have the heart to ask him to specify. Where he sees the beginnings of tears in her eyes, she sees panic in his, and (and she wonders if love really is as terrible as all that) she bites back the sentiment that threatens to bubble over, walking a tightrope for a series of instants before the line of her lips straightens out again and the flush to her cheeks begins to die back down.

Soon, he says, and she's reaching for the sun again despite knowing it'll burn. ]

I love you.

[ At this point — worn out and worn down — she doesn't particularly care what he has to say in return. It's an affirmation, more than not (cross my heart and hope to die, there isn't anyone else for me, either, not in a million years; a stupid sentiment, in a way — nobody lives that long — but the chiding voice that says so dies away in a matter of instants). ]

CLOSED | prompt eight | RUIN

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