𝒆𝒙𝒊𝒕 𝒘𝒐𝒖𝒏𝒅

you have spent the odd afternoon cataloguing henry's expressions, driven by nothing but boredom, of course. that is what you tell yourself when caught in the spiral of that taxonomic process. a laborious venture, and not a very fruitful one, until he fashions himself with a look you've studied and then, in those sparse, suspended moments, you fancy yourself very clever and wise.

such a moment now presents itself to you, ripe for the taking. henry appears very pleased with himself, though not through his usual detachment. it's in the limbs, the certain ease, the gaze that lingers on your face unhurried, not studying but simply observing with a sort of keenness he usually reserves for things of his interest or literature of moderate complexity that he never admits is actually complex. perhaps he, too, possesses his own itinerary of you – or what he assumes to be you. perhaps he also thinks himself very wise and clever. perhaps you're both equally foolish in that front.

you inhale. the taste is strong and bitter and so painfully familiar. always finds itself on your tongue eventually, and always via the lips: either a cigarette or a kiss. both are acceptable, one, perhaps, requiring more effort to obtain, hence preferable. but to secure something one must first know the route, and despite your allocated hours of contemplation, you're still lost in the terrain.

henry is, by all accounts, wonderfully predicable, from the brand of cigarettes to shoe polish to his taste in coffee to the slight twitch in his jaw whenever bunny manifests to irritate him. but his show of affection, or it's meagre, adjacent, not-quite twin, is dictated by an internal machination that you are not privy to, that doesn't translate in speech, isn't worn on his body, isn't arranged on his features. it simply appears when you least expect it, and disappears before you can appreciate it in full. forever out of reach, but the opportunity is always there, tantalizing. agonizing, when you feel particularly sentimental.

henry has since disposed of his lighter into his back pocket. no impressive heirloom, but still an expensive, intricate thing. he gets prickly if other people touch it, especially bunny's unfortunate fingers, but you and camilla squeeze into a threshold he finds tolerable enough. camilla. you push the thought of her away.

he looks at you again. the sunlight washes him out a little, smooths over the scar, dyes the tips of his dark hair almost white. he's tall and broad-shouldered but somehow not as imposing against the lush green scenery and stone walls.

"what?" you cave in. you never want to give him the satisfaction of your curiosity yet it bests you eventually, a fact as true as a compass pointing north or the sun setting west. "what is it?"

he, at least, has the courtesy to not appear any more pleased than he had been by your submission. does not reward you with an answer, simply brushes past you, too close yet not touching, his version of a call to follow. you click your tongue. strung along like a pup, shall the whole world bow and dance to his tempestuous tune?

you discard your cigarettes before entering the hall. the door shuts behind, cutting off singing birds and wayward conversations. the cold settles against your skin. your footsteps echo the familiar route to the lyceum where professor morrow holds his classes.

he turns, suddenly, in the middle of the stairs, and kisses you. a tense, bitter heat against your mouth, making your hand cling to the railing before you're swept off your feet. you feel his fingers against your neck before they're gone. he has turned away and continued up, leaving you dazed on the fifth step.

you linger there, like the taste of him lingers, invasive, on your lips. you think the greeks have a name for this emotion yet you have yet to find it pouring over the texts. do you even wish to familiarize yourself with it, the way you try to familiarize yourself with henry winter's ever changing humours?

the door opens and you hear francis and charles engaged in some heated debate. their voices swell to laughter and the jubilee knocks you back to reality. it's camilla you see first, smiling. she waves and wishes you a good afternoon passing by, while you remain seemingly fixed to the stairs.

"you alright?" charles asks, all grin. "look a bit pale."

"not your color," francis agrees.

the sigh escapes without warning or intent. you spin on your heel and rush up the steps.

"fine, then!"

he can’t meet yours either, feels too vulnerable when caught. not entirely trapped, not entirely free. he hasn’t yet realised he’s welcomed to look; welcomed to stay within your iris, explore the architecture of color and the sweetness of the interior. welcomed to speak. it takes courage recognizing things like that, and despite all the anger and the fronting and the stance and the booming echo of his voice, carmen’s never been very brave.

it doesn’t matter. he’s making this a big deal and psyching himself out. in reality, the situation is simple: you live next door. sometimes, he runs into you and carries those stupid bags. you always thank him, always somehow surprised (don’t you expect it by now? he expects it every time he leaves his apartment), and share some of your plans for the day, or evening, or morning, or vacation, or whatever. he’s only half listening anyway, and it’s not because he isn’t interested but because his heart is pounding in his throat and he can’t really believe he accidentally touched your fingers. 

he knows your name and some bits about your job and family, what shows you like to watch, what restaurants you visit, the morsels of the drama happening between your friends. he can recognise your perfume if someone walks by wearing it and a song you would like if he happens to hear one but can’t recognise the fact that he doesn’t like the lines etched into your palms from paper bag handles or that he hates how someone, someday, will cradle your hands and kiss the knuckles. that someone already had.

he can't yet acknowledge that the opportunity is there. that you would prefer it, that the shock he would experience could be comforting (lifted. fluttering. safe).

these thoughts take time, and carmen never has enough of it. he moves faster than people, than feelings (he can outrun them, he can try), and how can impulse and caution exist simultaneously inside the livewire of his body? he can only leave an impression (a good neighbor, right, despite fire alarms blaring twice a week? still good, right?) and that should be enough but what a greedy thing he's become because he wants more than he can have. he wants more than he deserves.

(don't even think of telling him you do too.)

no, dragonstone, with its sharp teetering cliffs and smoke-heavy air, could not attest to driftmark’s beauty. nor could the keep of house targaryen offer any semblance of the peace you had had on your visits to high tide. here was not much but gloom and an odd, almost imperceptible shaking of the earth, as though it was breathing.

jace presented you with a clam shell, plain creme and spotted. “for your thoughts,” he added when you made no move to reach for it, nor explain your lengthy silence. it was you who had invited him to walk the rocky coastline, and you who grew unexpectedly quiet as the winds picked up closer to dusk.

gently, you turned the shell and wiped wet sand from its ridged surface. “this makes it our fourth?” you asked.

“fifth,” he corrected with a small smile, and what a clever smile it was. he walked and the seashells rattled in his back pocket. “if we keep hunting till midnight we might find ten in total.”

though the prospect of spending more time in his lovely company enticed you, the coolness that condensed upon your skin beckoned an early end to the day. jace never encountered this problem, as he always ran hot. it was the dragon blood, no doubt, or his unbreakable spirit.

“i question the chances of our success,” you said kindly. the sky was beginning to crimson, gliding along his fine features to eclipse the deep brown of his eyes. from this angle, the sun framed him prettily. you longed to tell him, yet his gaze was already sweeping along the horizon, called to where vermax and syrax danced. perhaps such words would overstep a boundary neither of you yet acknowledged existed.

“then,” he placed his hands behind his back, leather gloves creaking from how hard he must have gripped, though his amicable expression did not change, “i… suppose i must leave our further course of action for you to decide. i shall walk you back, if you… if you wish to return, that is. or, we may watch the sunset. like we used to.”

the breeze whistled as the seconds ticked on. alas, there was not much to consider, was there? you wrapped your arm around his and did not miss the quick inhale he breathed through his nose, nor the way his back straightened slightly, nor the smile he attempted to fight off though in the end did not fully manage.

“let us stay,” you conceded softly, “but only for the sunset.”

“as you command,” his eyes shined in a manner that indicated he wanted little else, “my lady.”

my lady, the words were muted but the emphasis clear. your heart allowed itself a hopeful skip, yet you did not manage to hold his gaze for long. it was too much, this blood sunset, this sweet boy, this tender feeling that assailed all your senses.

he drew you closer to his side, placing an arm carefully around your waist. it felt safe, near him – there was no place safer than by his side, or so it seemed. when you rested your head against his shoulder, he welcomed the gesture gladly. this silence was more forgiving. the dragons kept dancing.

"i grow restless," he whispered into the top of your head, "my mother keeps me here, chained. as though she doesn't trust me. as though i must be... protected. she's been impossible to reason with since..."

his voice lulled, caught by some emotion. pain, for his brother and for being sidelined whilst others risked their lives for the one true queen.

"she needs you by her side," you said earnestly. i need you by my side. "you are her right hand, her blood, her heir, and her closest ally."

"but i could help," he maintained stubbornly, chin pressing to the crown of your head. "i'm not...weak, nor inexperienced. i could..."

indeed he could, though this truth did not ease his agitation. no, you thought he was a fearsome sight, a mind filled with ambitions enough to feed a hundred men and a heart too noble for any battlefield.

emboldened, you cupped his face, meeting his eyes once more. with sudden clarity, you saw the ghosts of every look he had ever given you, fond and eager. "and yet your place is here," you insisted, gentler now. with her. with me.

he pressed a gloved hand over yours, leaning into the touch. did he feel the same warmth coiling between each point of contact? did his throat tighten at the closeness? did he remember all those evening spent on balconies and beaches alike, talking of adventures and faraway lands?

"your company, my lady," he began, voice low and steady as the tide, "lessens the burden."

how unfair of him to say.

"i am glad to hear i can make your stay... tolerable," you replied. "we all pray for victory. a quick end to this miserable, unjust war. and we shall help where we can, from where we are needed."

he brought the back of your palm to his lips, letting out a shaky sigh. "...your patience cannot be measured," he murmured, "in words or deeds."

you shook your head. "you would do the same for me. so often, you already have, my prince."

jace's gaze lingered on your features until it finally settled, softly, on your mouth.

the whole world braced.

"we should return before nightfall," he said at last, stepping back. the heat abated, and the cold spot left behind offered no mercy. your cheeks were aflame, you were certain, and scarcely could you find it in yourself to speak. thus, you only followed after, unable to shake his affections from your heart.

to you, he appeared conflicted. frustrated, perhaps, though he spoke no more but wish you a good night's rest beside your chamber. as you watched his retreating back, you wondered where he rushed to in such haste. if it was worth it, to speak before your courage abandoned you and his figure was lost behind a shadowy corner.

his footsteps faded, and you bowed your head in shame. no, not tonight, perhaps a different time you would find the words, or he would find them for you. or, best yet, it would remain nebulous and unvoiced, for there was duty and sacrifice and both were your cherished friend baela.

"oh, jace..." you uttered to yourself and to the night.

yes, best yet for no other outcome to transpire, save friendship.