UNE VIE / D'ÉCRIRE

She settles beside him on the mattress with carefulness and keen eyes, mindful of the space she occupies, of the boundary they cannot afford her to cross, and of his reactions and expression. Were he to insist any further, she would have outright refused, denied him that drop of solace and hard-won familiarity — the stubborn man she has come to know so well by now had to be taught a little more patience, and to understand that her worry yields only partly to his charm and insistence alone — no matter how considerable they both happen to be.

Dreaming though — that comes without a cost. No price to pay, no pain or thought of ambushes and war meant to keep them awake at night. There is no reason to bridle the imagination, and he does not need any more limitations if she can help it.

The mattress is warm beneath her, and by proximity, the bitterly characteristic smell of medical gauzes hits her nostrils with force, mixed with the familiar and underlying scent of him she easily discerns and recognizes. It's not truly unpleasant — that strange mix offers some respite and novelty compared to the stinging odor of sanitizing alcohol that generally permeates the room whenever he is being medicated. Though she has no difficulty keeping the memories of past tragedies associated with such strong smells out of her mind — without even knowing it, Felix offers her a remedy of sorts.

The thought has her visibly relaxing as she quietly sits with that one pleasant realization, turning it over and over with attention and unspoken gratitude. Maybe, she will tell him, one day. Then comes his voice, announcing wild dreams and plans for the future. She finds there is something quite funny — if not outright hilarious — in the notion of Felix lying in bed, unaware of the doctor perhaps checking his pulse or other vitals, while blissfully dreaming of dips in the river.

❛ La Seine may have you next summer, at best— ❜ and at that she raises an eyebrow, a single note of seriousness coloring her warning. ❛ But the image of you dreaming of that is still one of the most reassuring things I have heard all week. Or perhaps your mind races way ahead of your body, ❜ she adds, as though her observation may carry a deeper resonance for his recovery and future decisions. He shall always do whatever he desires, no matter the risks — something she can fully understand and relate to as well.

His hand finds her hair then, wrapping a strand around his finger with tenderness. She observes him play with it — twirling and curling it, coiling it tightly around his knuckle in a small knot, and then letting it go — holding her attention elsewhere, dulled by the familiarity of the small gesture, just when she feels his lips press against her forehead. The kiss undoes something she has been holding carefully together for days — gently, the way he has always been with her: the shadow of the war outside, the very one that had almost taken him — an innocent victim just like her brother once was — is almost forgotten. The rage, the retaliation and recklessness that do characterize her actions disappear at the prospect of a kinder future, and gentle kisses.

❛ Hm, and would you sit still for the entirety of the production ? ❜ she asks at last, a little smirk on her lips, her head tilted slightly to look at his face properly now. ❛ I reckon you fancied yourself one good dancer, so dancing it is. Though I reserve the right to lead regardless—❜ the smirk holds a moment longer, warm, before she tips her head back to look at his hand, and the ceiling. The teasing recedes then, and in its stead, honesty comes in a wave. ❛ We could go somewhere. Away from Paris. Not inside a Canvas, but— by train, I suppose. ❜

They both know it's simply not possible to pack up and leave the city, not with the war escalating to such desperate events. So she dreams that wish, visualizing it the way she would do inside a Canvas — gathering enough force and chroma to shape it into reality; oh, it would be so easy to escape inside a painting for a while, though the lull of that premise is already dangerous enough to indulge. They have had their outings into Canvas-worlds — but even in their magnificence, they would never compare to a true and tangible journey. Train tickets, sand in one's shoes, the actual scent of the sea instead of a painted imitation.

❛ The mountains, perhaps. Or the sea. Whatever we decide. I'd start thinking of leaving right away, given a miraculously fast recovery. Perhaps we could ride together, to see whose horse reaches the end of a field faster. And the loser shall do whatever the winner commands them— ❜ A beat. ❛ More realistically, well— a walk, a show by night. Or even doing nothing in particular, together. That would suffice. ❜ Plans. Dreams. How terribly inconvenient they grow — larger, so terribly inviting and as tempting as sweet sins, with a raging war outside their doors. So she reins them in with discipline and imagination alike, the way one tames a stubborn steed. ❛ That would more than suffice. ❜

He mentally curses his wound. The man who shot him. The bullet that pierced his skin. He curses everything that keeps him away from her. But in fact, he knows he should be grateful for many things. Being alive, for one. And taken care of. The family treats him well. Clea and Alicia regularly check on him, and though he hasn't spoken much to Renoir and Aline, he appreciates they've turned to their own doctor for him. Not to mention the fact that they've given him a room in their manor.

Felix keeps his eyes on Clea as he thinks, but everything else fades away the moment he catches her relax. It's a subtle shift in her posture, one he recognises only thanks to the countless nights they spent tangled in each other's arms. It makes him smile. He can almost feel her weight shift, her muscles relaxing. Though he isn't aware of what has made her worry dim — he excludes it was his fake reassurance, she can see through his eloquence like no one else — Felix is still glad she's gotten more comfortable.

A wide smile spreads on his lips when Clea responds to his tale of dips in the river. Of course, even Felix isn't that insane, but without his body healing any faster, he has no other choice than to opt for silly dreams to reassure her. "Doesn't it always?" he teases her, tapping gently on his own forhead with the hand that isn't busy touching her. "Though I must admit I would prefer other types of dreams."

Once again, he speaks of the future he can imagine, and once again, Clea humours him. There's something about the way she supports him, quietly but with an iron firmness, that makes Felix feel incredibly loved. He touches her in ways that are familiar to both of them, and she speaks to him with a tenderness that is reserved for few lucky people in her life. His heart clenches in his chest, and for a change the pain he feels is pleasant. It warms him up like a small sun inside. Its light dispelling every bit of the frustration that haunts his days and nights. And it's all because of her.

He realises after a moment that she's waiting for his response. Felix grins, picturing the scene. "Of course not. I'd slide my hands beneath your skirt the very moment the lights dimmed." He realises he could stretch it a bit longer, make her flush, even, but Clea speaks again, and Felix follows her into the realm of things that are possible. He takes a deep breath, grin turning into a softer smile, and shifts slightly on the bed. "I would like that very much."

He would be lying to himself if he said he hasn't thought of asking Clea to lead him into their Canvas while his body recovered. Of course, he has never dared, because he knows what her answer would be. A firm no. In all honesty, even he knows it would interfere with the healing process, not to mention put him at risk to get addicted to staying inside the Painted world, and quite frankly he doesn't want to hear it from Clea. He knows better, and refuses to put any more weight on her shoulder by having to force her to tell him no.

Not to mention, he'd much prefer to spend their time in the real world, difficult as it may be. He hopes to convince Clea to spend some time outside the city, where it's safe and it can be just the two of them, but with the war getting worse, Felix knows it's wishful thinking.

Still, she humours him some more, talking about trips they won't be going on at least for a while, but still filling his mind with beautiful scenes. Felix sighs. There is truly nothing more powerful than words. He wishes he had his typewriter with him. To make their surrounding beautiful, to bring the mountains and the sea in that room that smells of medicines. But his typewriter is in the attic, safe from his family, but too far to reach. And so they're left with imagination alone. Not a problem. They will do, for now. "A ride would be wonderful, mon cœur," he whispers, pressing another kiss to her brow. "And so would be a walk, or anything else." He pauses for a moment, then offers her a smile. "And we will do all these things, you know? Maybe not tomorrow, or in a month, but soon. I promise you."

She observes the many, tiny creatures appearing from thin air above their heads, the chroma condensing and bubbling at her whim as she shapes it in her mind. It is child's play at this point in her life, and yet, her touch never veers into proud blindness, her hand moves sure but with deliberate care. She follows them with her gaze for a while — that myriad of fish — and then with a last flick of the wrist has Clea watch them scurry away and disperse, just as real ones would; the amount of freedom she gifts to beasts and animals is kept to a minimum — less than she'd ever think of bestowing on human-like beings or creatures born with a specific purpose. These plain ones will do, for now.

Many would soon come to swim around them, after all — of that, she is sure. She does remember every one of them; fish and sea creatures of any kind that she's carefully crafted out of nothing but her own chroma, and her own imagination, days before his entrance was even firmly decided. Just as she remembers having instilled life into ink, she can now sense their presence too — as any creator would with their creations. Nothing in that world could ever escape her undivided control and watch; that is why she settles after the slight correction, and focuses on the canvas' guest again.

He looks amazed, and that immediately makes her chest swell with pride, happiness. It is a vision to behold in and of itself. A far more addictive and joyful one, at that. Though she has guided some colleagues or amateurs into some of her or others' paintings before, creating something for him alone has proved to be a much lighter and more welcome task. A pleasant distraction, for the Art without limits, without strict rules to follow, and with a heart to dedicate it to feels different. Simpler, perhaps. While shaping those dunes of sands, the seawater and the life dwelling in it, she had felt like a child again — experimenting, Painting for the sake of it, albeit in the pure yet selfish way only a child can express.

❛ Oh, wouldn't he like to see all this ? ❜ she teases, a bitter though light tone threading in her voice. The inspiration had been chosen with care, obvious as it may appear — it was an easy choice considering the man's tastes and preferences she's come to know and recognize over time — but it must be stated once more through that dry joke, between one toothy smile and a roll of the eyes, that very few Writers have had the privilege of exploring a Painter's world that freely before; while Felix stands as a welcome and quite delightful exception, she doubts Monsieur Verne would ever be granted such an honor and privilege from a Painter of her same caliber. To each their Art, she concludes, abandoning the note of sarcasm.

Though she does not need them, she receives his words of gratitude with grace, and she tilts her head to one side to glance around. All in order. ❛ How ? I Paint whatever crosses my mind. That is all. Would you believe me if I said it's not so different from working on a normal canvas, or a sculpture ? ❜ And it comes as natural as breathing, once she steps inside a blank canvas. ❛ I wanted you to step into a world you'd find fantastical yet familiar. Of course, I can change it— ❜ she pulls her eyes away from him to glance briefly at the nearest, tall rock next to the gigantic reef, so that it can catch his attention too. A tall, wooden door stands where stone would normally be. ❛ And take you anywhere we'd like. But I suggest we— you first explore the laws of this canvas. ❜

But it's Jules Verne, naturally, who becomes the topic of their conversation. Felix turns to look at Clea when she teases him about his favourite author. Looking at the gigantic sea around them, he's quite sure that she's drawn inspiration from his books. He grins; her eyes are shining and he's never seen her smile so wide. "I'm sure he would've," he humours her, then scratches the back of his head. "However, I doubt he knew a Painter as good as you, back in the days." Flattering her is something he does often, because he knows Clea enjoys to hear such truths be spoken about her, but here and now, Felix speaks with a new sureness. Here and now, he can see it for himself that she's a prodigy.

And so he thanks her, because how could he not? He cannot even begin to comprehend just how much effort she's put in all that. Maybe it is as she says, in her way of brushing it off, and it wasn't that hard to create all of it. But building it for him? Felix sees her affection in every brush. Every movement of the world she dedicated to him, and that alone is enough to fill his entire body with a warmth so intense he doubts he'll ever feel cold again. His grin turns into a soft smile, and he nods. "I do believe you. It's just... impressive," he utters, feeling unusually shy. "It is familiar, in a way. Like a land I visited once in a dream."

Before he can add anything else, she looks away, and Felix immediately follows her gaze like a man possessed, all the way to a door he's quite certain wasn't there before. He swallows a gasp. "What the—" he starts, then closes his mouth abruptly. He almost takes a step towards the door, but Clea speaks again, and what she says about the laws makes him frown. He's familiar with the basics, even knows something about the strict moral code the Painters abide to, but inside a Canvas maybe there are rules he's not aware of? Blinking, Felix turns to look at her. "Laws? What do you mean?"

Of course, she steps away after his question. Typical Clea. He almost smirks at the familiarity of her teasing ways, but the yellow chroma around her begins to move, and Felix takes a step back instinctively. His heart beats faster. She's the one controlling it, naturally, so he's not scared per se, but when Clea begins to float, he can't stop himself from lettimg out a yelp. "Whoa, what are you..." his voice fades, and all he can do is watch her gracefully land on a stretched out coral, legs dangling and expression amused and serene. Felix runs his hands down his face, head tilted back a little to look up at her. Her challenge makes him laugh, despite the strange situation, and puff his chest with a confidence he isn't quite sure he should possess. "Oh, yeah? What a shame, madame. I was hoping to ask a dolphin for a ride!"

Truth be told, without the help of the animals, the challenge becomes... interesting. Taking a deep breath, Felix glances at the coral. The material looks steady. He looks around to check if there is anything he can use to dig holes inside for his feet, but, of course, there's nothing of the sorts. Climbing it is. Worth it, for a secret of Clea's. So he steps closer to the monolith, then unbuttons his petticoat and rolls up his sleeves. "Alright, let's do this." He's no first time climber, but he can feel the looks of the creatures — and of Clea — on him. Nevermind, never mind. He can do that. He's climbed monoliths before. Walls, obelisks and lampposts too, for God's sake. So he begins to move up. And climbs higher, then higher, then higher... then his foot misses the coral and he falls with a scream.

Her hand is still over his, pinning it gently down against the bare skin of her hip as if she wishes to anchor it there for a little longer, while his words slowly settle into her head. That pleasant weight he provides is but a ghost of the way he's felt against her moments ago; as he held her up effortlessly, for example, or how he had her secured on his lap with a firmness she's now almost come to miss. Odd— how she misses something that would have normally made her recoil and back away at the mere thought. Indeed, now she offers him a levity that's born out of the looming shadow of pleasure he's granted her, as well as tiredness.

Now she lets him touch her that delicately. He narrows the gap between them slightly in bed. The contact, so deep and passionate, that washed over their senses, has now turned deliberately delicate; the instinctiveness has become something quieter, even a tad attractive in its measured gentleness. The realization has Clea finally catching up on every single thing that has happened with lucid mind, and relief. There is less hunger, and more presence for her to focus on him, and to discover the beautiful remains of that past urgency.

When he whispers that there's no trace of regret on his part either, she exhales with relief. And amusement. That had appeared quite obvious from his vehemence — even though, in hindsight, she should have sensed it the moment he asked for a kiss the way he did. She should have seen it reflected in those blue, pleading eyes of his fixed on hers; if she had seen it, right there pressed against the wall, perhaps she had chosen not to name it. There was no space for any shadow of a doubt, as there is none now. How it deeply and warmly the realization settles in her thoughts—

As his thumb traces slow arcs against her skin and he speaks of how long he's wished to have her there, she feels the words land deeper than she'd have ever anticipated. There had been enough signs, each and every one of them filed away with that usual precision that belongs to Clea. She is no blind fool, despite her little accumulated experience. Still, hearing him mention it so plainly, without performance or deflection, in the dark and quiet room with his hand against her hip, casts a different light on the matter. It's a more colorful certainty, the abstract turning tangible. She too has known her heart's own desires, in some quiet and unhurried way, for some time.

A long time — Felix has said. Not since the kiss, then — not since their frequent outings through the streets of La Butte, her identity carefully hidden, or the few letters he has written and sent her. There will come a time, maybe, to map the precise beginning of it and trace it back to its start. Tonight is not the time. She has neither the clarity nor the will to pin anything down right now.

The bath, the curtains, the cook, and himself, are all offered her in a single breath, and a wide smile. As if that hospitality does cost him nothing, as if her presence is something not to make space for, but that has to blend in with him, and the room itself. ❛ It is very generous of your, ❜ she says in a quiet tone, and she means it despite the little inflection in her voice that does resemble amusement, a weak tease. She understands he is trying his best to have her feel at home, and for the night to proceed the best it possibly can. Indeed, Clea thinks he worries without true reason why, but the thought is kept to herself. She's content to look at him curl that loose strand of hair around his finger for an instant— ❛ Thank you. ❜

Her pale gaze holds his in the dark with steadiness, and the smile that follows is a small thing, though warmer than most she allows herself in company. ❛ I do not mind the dark, ❜ she gives a curt tilt of her head towards the drawn curtains. Oh, somehow the thought of the still distant, coming morning excites her — how it will look like, and how it will feel... if she finds enough tranquility to allow any sleep. ❛ But I am very, very particular about clafoutis. ❜ A beat passes, to add unnecessary gravity to her words. ❛ I will try it, and find out if our family chef is found lacking or not. ❜

She shifts then, propping herself upright slowly with the sheet pulling loose down her side as her hand finds the lukewarm mattress for leverage. Inevitably, her long hair follows the movement like a thick veil down her bare back and shoulders, with some front longer strands falling across her chest; she would need something to tie it back for the night, lest he wakes with her auburn hair spread and scattered everywhere across his bed. A ribbon, a simple string — she'd ask for one later, after she's cleaned herself. Moreover, she thinks she can feel a feeble pang of lingering soreness at her inner thighs, though she doesn't pay it much mind right now. ❛ Yes, a bath is in order. Now— ❜ Though, of course, she deliberately lets the reasons linger unvoiced. ❛ Before we draw it— ❜

She asks for nothing, he notices. Doesn't regret things, doesn't make a move to leave. In fact, Clea simply relaxes under his touch, her gaze soft, her neck bruised with the marks he left, and no tension left in her body. It's more than he could have imagined. More than he deserves, probably, but Felix doesn't care. He's not in his fantasies, now. He's with Clea, present, in a moment that is real. And she wants him to touch her as much as he wants to touch her. He's not used to wishes coming true; not the ones that matter, anyway. But here she is. And it's a good place to start.

That moment, he realises, is a beginning, after all. And maybe that's why he cares so much about making things clear, baring his heart and speaking with honesty. He wants her to stay. For God's sake, Felix has never wanted anything more. And sure, he feels a bit ridiculous confessing that he's wanted her for longer than she can imagine, but what can he do? He will not lose her to shame. He's lost too much to that. Surprisingly enough — or not, knowing Clea — there's not a trace of judgement in her pale gaze. Only a lazy softness that feels encouraging. He smiles, despite feeling naked in more ways than one, and caresses her body.

He speaks again, to offer everything, and almost feels awkward about it. But again, Clea only responds with a gentle teasing that makes Felix feel safe. He smiles widely and tilts his head a bit. "Well, I am a gentleman, after all," he responds cheekily, smile turning into a small smirk, but it lacks any real malice. Now that the passion has subdued, it's important for Felix to make her feel welcome. The situation is new for the both of them, and if he can help in any way, he will. "You don't need to thank me," he reassures her, thumb brushing against her hipbone. "It's my pleasure, believe me."

He absorbs every single thing she says with a hunger he'd never known. For the first time in his life, Felix feeds on the informations about another person, and the worst part is that it feels like it won't ever be enough. He wants, craves, like never before. And so every little thing is met with his full attention, which comes effortlessly, to his surprise. One laugh escapes him, though, as Clea mentions the clafoutis. "I'd be happy to share her with you, should you like hers better," he assures her solemnly, more laughter bubbling in his chest. There's a lightness to his bones that feels unfamiliar, but that he welcomes happily.

As much as he'd like to bask into that serenity for hours, there's still much that hasn't been done, and the promises he's made to her must be respected. When Clea sits up, however, Felix's mind goes utterly blank. For a moment, all he can think about, all that matters, is the way her hair caresses her chest, and how desperately and hopelessly jealous he is of it. His instinct tells him to move forwards and bury his face into her chest, taste the pulse of her heart with his tongue and take her again. But he's not listening to instincts. Not tonight. Not when he knows it's only a beginning.

She asks for a bath, and Felix nods slowly. Sitting up, he feels his body ache slightly. His muscles protest that he should get some rest, and that's what he intends to do. Now and in the morning. Of course, if Clea wants the same. How will she look like, he wonders, comfortably asleep under soft sheets? Her creamy skin peppered with his marks, her auburn hair scattered on his mattress, and her icy blue hues opening to a new day... a smile curves his lips. He can't wait to find out. Later, of course, after they've both cleaned and are dressed for the night.