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HOME || a mix for the unexpected lovers... no matter how much time had passed, they only thought of each other... @brothercode

Caden could feel his approach. Hayden's arms wound across his waist and his hot breath shivered down Caden's neck as he spoke. Caught in his embrace, Caden stared straight towards the darkened window and in the glass, by the candles at their back, he glowed with a reflective corona that obscured him in his shadow. Hayden clung to Caden in this effacing silhouette, holding him like the lover he could not be, while Caden’s hair and cheeks flushed red in the light.

Bailey was a collector of habits and hobbies. Sampling the activities and sports that people crafted into art forms was fun for her. It was just that nothing ever really stuck. Ballet was fun for a month, rock climbing lost it’s charm after six weeks, knitting had only lasted for three days. Someone she worked with had started talking about going salsa dancing with her husband, that the teacher was amazing. Cue the pique in Bailey’s interest.

And it had been fun, really fun. The first class was free, but Bailey needed to know pricing and commitments. The exhilaration she felt might wear off in a month or a week, she didn’t really know. Waiting for the rest of the class to filter out, she approached the dance teacher with a smile. “Hi…you’re a great teacher, let me just lead with that. But I’m curious…what drew you to salsa? Most girls go for ballet…tap…jazz…salsa isn’t as big as it used to be.”

Dancing was a very important tradition in her family; after her mother finally had the courage to leave her father, filled once again with a calm happiness that sometimes brought her into fits of movement, Clara had often witnessed her mother moving masterfully to the congas. Salsa was an art. It was the closest thing to her heritage that she had to cling on to. As a child, it had become her salvation as well. Once she started learning, there was no stopping her—her thoughts, which were so easily taken over by various worries, responsibilities that a child shouldn’t have felt the need to accomplish at such a young age, often took over her. 

Yet, when she was in a class, swaying her hips skillfully to the beat, she felt as if she were truly free. 

Funny, out of both of her siblings she had been the only one to take up the hobby; enamored. She remembered sitting on the San Juan shore, watching as the beautiful native women moved on the shore, their long flowing skirts adding to the captivating image. The motions, much like the Hispanic language, was suave—romantic. It was no wonder why she had decided to teach it; never had it felt like an actual job to her.

As the people began to walk out of the studio, Clara reached for a towel, drying herself off lightly before she realized that someone was walking over to her. A young woman, definitely a new face. Clara smiled in greeting, listening to the new comer intently. “Thank you, first off, for the compliment. I try my best. Second,” she began, placing the towel on her counter. “in terms of what drew me to salsa, it’s more of a heritage thing. I’m Puerto Rican and Cuban, it was a huge deal in my household but I fell in love with it because of the movements. It is the epitome of romanticism, don’t you think? Alone a woman can be seductive without being... overwhelming and dancing with a partner is as intimate as it can get.”

✒︎ Send me ‘mistle mistle’ for our muses to be caught under a mistletoe: accepting

It was the small things that mattered—or at least, it was a thing that she had constantly argued with herself after her freedom had been taken from her.

If she was stuck here in Miles’ apartment, the least he could do was let her spread some Christmas spirit. Currently, he’d been out the whole day, had things to “take care of.” Clara was glad for his absence as she knew that there was possibly a chance that he wouldn’t have let herwillingly leave to gather the supplies needed to carry out her plan. Though she had no way of knowing what time he would be back, she tried to get everything done as quickly as possible. Luckily she had always planned ahead when it came to most occasions—her time in jail had reinforced that in her.

It took about an hour but she found herself back into his apartment, placing the bags on the floor softly and closing the door as soundly as she could behind her just in case he had arrived sooner than she thought. “Miles?” She called out softly, but there was no response. Just to make sure, she took it upon herself to search each room. Still out. Good. She didn’t need any more incentive to get started.

It was something she had been picturing for the last week, where to assort various Christmas decorations in Miles’ little cove. Clara started with the most important piece, the petite three foot Christmas tree, a fake one, so that he wouldn’t have to grumble about all of the mess it made. It took her no longer than fifteen minutes to fully adorn the tree with lights and ornaments. Next she moved on to the smaller things; placing the lighted poinsettia decoration against the window, cleaned his desk lightly so that she could make room for the petite Gingerbread House statue beside his computer monitor, and just as she was about to place the wreath outside of his door, she heard the door unlocking. Instinctively, she moved to hide it behind her but he had already walked in, brow raised, eying his surroundings.

“What is… this?” Miles asked, looking all around his apartment in what seemed like profound confusion. He didn’t even put down his backpack, eyes lingering on the plastic bag atop the kitchen counter for a moment and then back to Clara, who gave him an innocent grin. “Clara—”

“I just wanted to do something nice for us.” She interrupted before he could even begin his sentence. “This is the first time that I’ve… ever celebrated Christmas without my family and I thought—maybe—you know, that we could celebrate it together?” Clara was never one to invade someone’s private space but she knew that if she didn’t at least do this much she would’ve fallen deeper into the depression that she was trying her damndest to fight. She bit down on her lower lip, waiting for his response but he sighed lightly, his shoulder’s sagging, relaxing.

When his eyes finally met hers, there was a childish mirth in his eyes and a devilish smirk on his lips. Clara wondered, if for that moment, he was genuine or just playing it out as such because he felt sorry for her. She decided to wipe the thought from her mind. If he was going to go with it, so would she. They hadn’t needed to remember what they were really facing—if just for a little while.

“I was going to say that it looks quite festive than how I last remembered,” He broke the silence, walking over to the counter and checking the bag that she had left with more decorations. “but you didn’t let me finish.”

Clara chuckled; “Why don’t you help me put up the rest?”

Miles stared at the bag blankly, than at her, suddenly chipper once more. She hoped she hadn’t struck some sort of nerve. “What are we waiting for?”

The process had been more enjoyable with him around; he’d been open to about every one of her suggestions, even when she’d placed a small Santa hat on Chips, his adored robot. They shared a laugh at the robot’s expense, and even at each other as he encircled her in lights, holding her captive between the thick wires. As she tried to escape, she managed to trip and fall on the floor, to which he howled with laughter for at least five minutes. “Hello?” She called out in between his fits of laughter. “A little help please?”

Sobering, Miles reached out a hand for her to grasp, and when her petite hand was in his own, he’d pulled her up with ease, faces inches apart. They were quiet if for but a moment, eyes locking intently, the warm air of each other’s breathes hitting their faces, until Clara cleared her throat and turned to move away. However, he moved to hold her in place and when she turned to him confused, he starred upward toward the ceiling, to which her gaze followed to see he was holding up a mistletoe above them with his left hand. She tilted her head, made a face,what was he planning?

“Miles—”

“I found this in the bag, figured you’d unconsciously wanted a kiss if you bothered to buy it,” He moved closer and Clara’s breath hitched. “There’s nobody else here but me and you. So, in the spirit of Christmas, I’m left with the burden of fulfilling this task. A selfless deed, wouldn’t you say?”

She shook her head, “Miles, I just didn’t realize—”

“Shut up and let me kiss you, Clara.” In the syllables of her name on his tongue she found herself. She didn’t move when he placed his hand under her chin, lifted her face upright so that they were, again, eye to eye. Tried not to flinch when his soft lips finally made contact with hers.

Very hesitant at first, then more serious. She nearly felt the friction build up in his body, as well as her own. For a moment, there was a thud on the floor, and she’d realized that both of his hands were cupping her face, the mistletoe abandoned at the floor. He inhaled sharply, quickly, and it fueled fires within Clara that she didn’t know still existed. She thought briefly about speeding the kiss up, so that it would be over and done with. Then she understood that maybe he was right. Maybe she had wanted this. As her mouth pressed against his, it was soft, pliant. He bit down on her bottom lip with enough force to pry out a hitched moan from her lips.

Miles pulled her closer, evening her body against his to the best of his ability, and he let his hands slide down her back, under her Christmas sweater, splaying against her spine. Her body quickened, her heartbeat thundered against her ears, and Clara deepened the kiss, parting his lips with his tongue and sweeping her warmth into him. Tasting and exploring. And as she did, she felt him surrender but she was too lost herself to savor the victory.

When he finally pulled away, her breath was coming out in ragged stretches and her eyes were hazy with passion she hadn’t known existed. For a moment, she swore she caught the same look in his own eyes, but in a flash, it was gone. Replaced by the usual impish expression that marred his expression.

“So,” he began. “did your head spin?”

“Possibly.” Clara replied, trying to keep the tone light. She turned to look away from him, unsure of what exactly happened while trying to simultaneously understand what had been awakened within her. Shimming out of the trap that was the lights, she playfully shoved him.“You’ll never know.”

                                                    three weeks ago.

Blood. There was so much blood.

The crimson fluid was all that lined the walls—a crude painting mirroring a macabre butterfly. Despite her delirious state, she was still conscious enough to realize what she was looking at. Her chest seized at the sight that greeted her and she let out a shrieking cry as the bloodied butcher knife clattered to the floor, her trembling hands stained.

There was a fire in her chest; an undeniable blockage that made her feel as if she was choking on air.

Had she forgotten how to breathe?

Sunlight streamed in through a broken window, the rays reflecting off the glass that were sprinkled on the floor like glitter. It almost gave the gruesome scenery of the room a somewhat peaceful feel, but the body laid out before her—mutilated with her kneeling before it as if she were some sort of morbid worshipper—caused her to shudder with vigorous dread. It was then that she attempted to stand on her feet but, almost immediately, they gave out on her; causing her to fall so suddenly that she nearly toppled over the corpse, yelping in shock in the process.

How did she get here? Had she been drugged? Clara was too terrified to form any sort of coherent thought. She opened her mouth, tried to scream for help then but her throat was too dry, her heart was beating too hard, her vision was filled with dark spots. The panic mixed with the initial light headed feeling she had upon awakening was causing her body to shut down. Not something she had ever been familiar with, but a feeling that she was beginning to recognize all the same. Everything only continued to blur, the world was spinning around her until it was completely silent.

Dear God...

                                                             now.

Clara awoke suddenly, instantly alert. Her dreams were quickly banished from her consciousness as she snapped back to reality. She assessed her surroundings straightaway, she was not in her cramped bedroom overlooking the city nor was she no longer in a hospital bed, cuffed and hysterical, begging for answers. Her co-worker was nowhere to be seen… because he was dead… and they swore that she had been the one who’d done it. The feeling that came with recognition of her dire situation almost made her want to cry uncontrollably but she didn’t think she had any tears left in her. 

This was the cold cell she spent the last two weeks in, preparing for her sentencing. Her family had abandoned her. There were no lawyers who were willing to defend her. Never before in her life had it hit her how completely and utterly alone she was; defenseless. Without a shoulder to lean on. Her mother and sister cried the first time they came to see her, her brother couldn’t bring himself to even look at her—she’d begged them. Pleaded. No fui yo. It wasn’t me. But all she was rewarded with were their retreating backs. 

Since then she hadn’t spoken a word—couldn’t bring herself to. Even throughout the beatings she suffered from at the hands of the other cell mates, the name calling, the disgusted looks the officers constantly threw her way. She was exhausted. Some of the other’s whispered that she might’ve gone catatonic, staring at her wall for hours, never making eye contact with anyone else; in fact, it almost seemed as if she looked passed them. 

After today, she wouldn’t be given that luxury any longer: “Sufrón, looks like you’ve finally got a visitor.”

Clara stared at the correction officer, momentarily confused, but didn’t argue. Instead she followed behind the other woman as if in a trance, hands cuffed before her, dragging her feet lazily. Not even as they took an abrupt right into the wrong direction did she utter a word. The woman turned to give Clara a firm glance, followed by a nod of understanding before she quickly shuffled Clara into a dark room. For the first time in the last fourteen days she began to panic once more; was this how she would go?

But then, the lights flicked on, and she was greeted by the sight of a very unfamiliar figure. Young. His style... uncoordinated. His eyes, however, were fierce. Different. There was something in them that told her she might be able to trust him. Whoever he was, he held purpose.

“You have five minutes.” The Officer warned before walking out, leaving the two of them alone. 

Clara stared at the figure, unsure of what to say. Slowly she backed away from him, wanting as much separation as possible, until she hit a cold wall.