agape

“Working on your set?” She called out amicably. “I would be too if I weren’t sure of Mr. Moore on there. Everyone has a hook; what’s yours?”

And the people -- they were always fascinating.

But how could a girl as beautiful as the one in the hoop be anything but? 

Clara looked up and raised her hand to her eyes as if squinting against the sun, though there was no such light in the sky.

“Hello there,” She called back. Something about the image was reminiscent of a dream Clara had once had of her mother. “I am, I suppose. Though I don’t think I have a hook.” Her laughter flutters to the ceiling, up to Rose. “Aside from perhaps a literal one in my tank.” 

“You,” he beckoned to the first shadowy figure offstage. “Y’wanna play with fire?“

He reminded her of Cassius, in all of the worst ways.

There’s a hand stretched her way and a licked envelope of an invitation in his voice, a burning postcard, and Clara has never been very good at walking away.

She comes forward slowly, the way water does when it first spills into newly-dug territory, having not yet worn down the path to best suit its travel. There’s no verbal answer from her yet, just the shine in her eyes that looks the way sunlight does on an expanse of water; she looks from the fire-tamer to his kin, the hot thing in his hand. Then back again.

“We’re not always on intimate terms, fire and I.”

THEO: If you could change one thing about your past, what would it be?

ORLA: Do you believe in life after death?

FIERA: What does family mean to you?

LILY: If you could be anyone else for a whole week, who would you be and why?

BRETT: Do you think it’s better to be feared or loved?

KRISTOF: If you could instantly learn one skill, without needing any practice, what would it be?

ZARA: What would you like to be most well known for?

ELLA: Are you happy with where you are in life right at this moment?

ARIES: Would you rather stand alone in an immovable spotlight, or share the spotlight with people you could call family?

ADINA: If life were a fairy tale, would you be the damsel or the monster?

GEMMA: How do you feel about your family?

CRYSTAL: If you could start over in a new city, with a new identity, and a completely clean slate, would you?

BELLA: If you could bring any one of your dreams to life, which would it be?

CALEB: How would you, if given the chance, satiate your appetite for adventure?

THOMAS: How easy is it for you to say ‘I love you’? Have you ever said it without meaning it?

LILING: What would you consider to be your worst memory?

SOLEDAD: Do you believe in the idea that behind every great man is an even greater woman?

BROOKLYN: How do you normally deal with confrontation?

THANE: What are your vices?

ROLF: Do you believe that pleasure and pain go hand in hand?

PRIYA: What does ‘beauty’ mean to you?

CLARA: What would you say to your parents, should they appear before you now? Would you speak to them at all?

ROSE: How far would you go to get whatever your heart desires?

PRISCILLA: Do you think that love is worth dying for?

ARIA: What’s the worst lie you’ve ever told?

MILLY: Do you consider yourself an idealist, or a cynic?

LUCIEN: Do you believe in predestination? Or do you believe we create our own fates?

AANYA: What would you consider to be the most pivotal moment in your life?

BRIE: If you could relive any period of your life, forever or only once, which date would you return to?

AMBER: How d you think you are regarded by your peers?

GORDON: What is your proudest memory?

HADES: Do you believe, in theory, that you belong in Heaven or Hell? Why?

ALICE: If you could become a character in any piece of literature, who would you choose, and why?

CASSIUS: If you were made to wear a mask every day, what would it look like? Or, who would it look like?

BRADLEY: What’s the worst, or best, secret you’ve ever kept?

Send me ☺ for a loving/affectionate text[text] You’re the light of my life, amore mio, and I hope you don’t forget that.

Send me ♣ for a drunk text[text] Clara[text] We both know the door alone will not keep me out.[text] I’m outside.[text] Please let me in?[text] I miss you.[text] I know it’s barely been a day but I still miss you

Send me ♥ for a sexual/naughty text[text] I saw your act today, tesoro mio, and how you enchanted every single man passing your way. Blow those poor bastards an extra kiss to tide them through the night, my love. I won’t mind.[text] Actually, I’ll show you exactly how little I mind, if you’ll let me. Can you sneak away?

Send me !! for a threatening text[text] Clara, you know that I love the way you look in my shirts, but you can’t take them all.[text If you don’t want me walking around other women half naked, I suggest you return a couple.[text] Or perhaps I’ll take some of your clothing. We’ll see how you like it, my dear.

Send me ☼ for a morning text[text] Good morning, luce mia. Hope your day goes well; I will see you tonight for dinner, 8 sharp. I love you. Ti amo, ti amo, ti amo!

Send me ?? for a strange/vague text[text] How do you calm someone down when they’re crying hysterically? He’s throwing a tantrum over a little burn and it’s, quite frankly, getting annoying.[text] He’s a 25 year old man. I’m almost embarrassed for him.

Send me ► for a text not meant for you[text] It’s none of my business anymore, but I couldn’t help and oversee the way she looked at him. And then for her to turn around and tell me she only wanted the best for me like she wasn’t the best thing to happen to me - what’s a nicer way of saying that it tore my heart to shreds?

Her eyes flutter half shut, insistently avoiding his gaze, never meeting his eyes, and it is deliberate, he knows. But her hand upon his arm emboldens him, and he tastes bliss and victory golden and sharp across his tongue, alcohol forgotten by now - they are so close. Her eyes are closed, and her hand hooks at his elbow, and her words wash over him, nostalgic and wanting. He counts the breaths and the heartbeats between them, -one -two -three, and syncs his breathing with hers, only half aware of the war-drum beating of his heart.

“I remember all of them,” he says, soft like he always is around her, his veil of mystery and myth shed at his feet, left at the door. “You wanted to see the first snow. You wanted to foster all of the strays, and feed all of the unfortunate. We can do all of them, dove. It’s New York, amore mio, don’t be afraid to taste the dreams we couldn’t live in Venezia.” He breathes out, moving closer and closer subconsciously - too tired, too drunk, too careless to ignore the magnet pull of her heart and too melancholy, having missed the gravity of her embrace for too long. His hand rises to her chin, intent on facing her - no more hiding - and they are as close as they have always been, as if the past minutes, hours, days, and weeks of separation mean nothing. “We were so beautiful,” he says longingly. “Let’s just start with a dance. A dance to remember all of the beauty we were, and if it does not stir your heart, I’ll leave. I’ll do whatever you wish. Ti sto implorando.” I’m begging you.

This is how it always is: at the moment their battle ebbs, in the split second they decide to shed their armour and wear nothing but a white flag between them, she is at war with herself. Because Clara, like the sea, never forgets. She remembers all the trespasses he breached before this moment, the stepping stones of words and actions that lead to her closing the door in his face this time - and she wants to be strong. Proud. Resolute. 

And, like the sea, all she wants to do is return back to the beach. Coming home like tide.

When he touches her softly and speaks softer like this, she wants him to spread over her like honey - sweetness pouring over every edge of her until she is surrounded by him entirely. Suddenly she feels tired, feverish, and all she wants is the comfort of Cassius’ body enfolding around hers. Maybe it’s the stars of champagne that are reflecting back in her eyes as he lifts her chin to make her look at him, or maybe they’re all the lonely, precious stones found at the bottom of the ocean. It doesn’t matter. They’re sparkling and wet regardless.

“A dance,” She concedes on her breath - or what little she has left, now that her heart has kickstarted hearing him repeat back to her all the things he should have forgotten. “Just a dance. That’s all,”

Send me ☺ for a loving/affectionate text

Send me  ♣ for a drunk text

Send me ♥ for a sexual/naughty text

Send me !! for a threatening text

Send me ☼ for a morning text

Send me ?? for a strange/vague text

Send me ► for a text not meant for you

She slides in between him and his drink with all the otherworldly grace she possesses, like she’s diving headfirst while swimming without causing a single ripple, and it’s just so right, the way she fits by his side. He doesn’t need her to stop him from reaching for the brandy ( or was it rum? or whiskey? ) - that was a battle she’d won the moment she’d laid a hand on his chin and told him to stop. He’s never been able to resist her truly earnest requests, like a domesticated beast waiting for a praise and a treat, and it was a done deal the moment she wound her way over ( back ) to him. In a symbolic shift, she fills his line of sight, temptation divine and sweeter than all sin.

“Clara,” he tries out, smoothing it over his tongue, letting its honeyed curves smooth over the roof of his mouth. “Clara,” he hums again after a brief pause, enjoying the way the drink sharpens his focus on her and drowns out the rest - like a tilt-shift photograph will capture only the single most important subject and ignore the rest. “Clara,” he says once more, curving it over the tip of his tongue, reverent in his intonation, a small prayer to the only deity he will ever recognize - tilt. “Let go. Be a fool with me,” he murmurs, extending a tentative hand, letting it hover close enough for her to feel the heat from his skin - shift. “Let me make good on all of my promises,” he pleads.

It’s startling, her name suddenly off his tongue; it crashes into the floor and up over knees with each syllable, making her want to take a step back. Her hand falls to his arm and presses there as if to say please, be quiet, say it no more; but she cannot voice the word stop. She keeps her eyes averted because she cannot look at him, not as her lids slip half-shut at the rolling closeness of his body, the grave repetition of her whispered name making her weak and warm inside.

It’s awful, how quickly he does this to her.

Setting his tumbler down on the table with a clink, he lets his hand linger on it for a brief moment more, a minute hesitation, a small spark of defiance against the hold Clara has over him. But he releases his grip on it. She wins. She’ll always win in matters like this. “I don’t care about them,” he says, and it comes out sounding more like I only care about you. He clears his throat.

“They’re all drunk, bella. They won’t mind. I think you’re a little behind schedule,” he smirks, swaying lightly, working to cover his earlier slip-up, in fear that she will flee if things move too quickly - in fear that she will slip through the gaps of his cupped hands. The ocean answers to no man, he thinks to himself.

“So tell me,” he breathes, alcohol kicking up a frenzy in his veins. “What’s the real reason you want me to stop?”

“I don’t care what they are,” And it sounds every inch I only care what you are. It’s a horrible twist to their story, this slant to their tongues, the way they’re always telling each other’s tales no matter what they speak of. Sometimes it makes Clara think it would be easier to be mute. At least then she would dissolve into a true fairytale: the mermaid without a tongue, ready to carve out her heart for the one she loves. She stifles just so at the tack-on remark, flushes even though she can’t quite say why - but the reason for the next, sudden wave-curl, somersault of her blood is crystal and ice cut.

Question of the hour: Who’s that girl? It seems like we’ve all sobered up long enough to notice that we have new blood on our hands, and they’ve come in the form of six beautiful ghosts fresh off the plane from Venezia. Not exactly what we expected when we said we were craving Italian. Don’t get me wrong, I love my Cirque dolls just as much as I’m intrigued by these new faces, but January 1st is on the horizon and the stage owns no name. 

She’s a vision - and it’s an absolute sin that he has to keep his distance, that he is not up close and worshipping her, that he is instead exiled to the corners of the room. Cassius prowls around the edges, eyes never once leaving Clara’s frame as she enchants the whole room. There are many that try to strike up a conversation with him but he is entirely too focused on her to pay even half a mind to anyone else. The room bleeds red around him, and edges blur as he clutches his first- third- tenth- drink like a lifeline.

Don’t, Cassius. Don’t. Don’t. Don’t. She doesn’t want him there. Doesn’t want him near. It tears him to absolute pieces, but he’ll listen, even if it means he cages the approximate area around her like an antsy pet who’s lost their owner.

He drinks to forget this. He drinks because it will drown his sorrow in a haze of inebriation. He drinks because he cannot drink her.

He knows she sees him, pathetically sulking in the shadows, clinging to his brandy or whiskey or rum - whatever it is he’s drinking now - and it leaves a bitter taste in his mouth. 

He looks down at his drink and the glass is half-full, maybe half empty - all he knows is there’s too much in his tumbler and too little in his system. He looks up and he sees Clara wade through the crowds easily, they part before her, too awestruck to ever obstruct her way. It’s time for a new drink. Don’t, Cassius, rings a phantom whisper. She makes her way closer. Make up your mind, he thinks. ( A softer part of him says, please come back. )

She stops his hand as he lifts his drink to his lips, and it’s a scene he’s intimately familiar with - how many times have they been in this position? Both a plea and an order rolled into two words upon her lips, and leaving him to decide for himself. He thinks he will ignore her - but she reaches up and grips his chin so softly it steals the thoughts right from his mind and the breath from his lungs. “Why should I?” He challenges, even as he sets his drink aside and takes a deep breath in, oxygen-starved.

She said don’t because it wasn’t fair. Because he had revoked his right to touch her when the last storm came, taking them both up and sweeping them under, evoking a separation to either side of the tide. Clara knew Cassius’ reach spanned seas, time, reality, and that’s why he had still managed to whisper a hand across the small of her back only hours ago, a direct rejection of the natural laws of their current reality. It’s why she had to say Don’t.

And she said No because that’s what girls with hearts bigger than their bodies say.