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here they sit, side by side. here they stay, side by side. noah remembers how his hands used to shake. he remembers how his breath you used to catch. he remembers the slide of her ring on over his finger, and the delicate way she offered it to him, blushing high on her cheeks and ducking her head, freckled star-dust skin begging for him to reach out and touch it. she is earth and roots and anture and she is outer space, and she is cosmic, and she is ethereal, and she is everything he has built up in his head over seven years while burying every raw, real emotion he's ever had in her soil. he hates himself some days. most days, he doesn't feel anything at all. most days, he doesn't look for her in magazines, and he doesn't try to guess her new phone number.

most days he doesn't show up in the first place they ever spoke to each other, ever saw each other, ever touched each other, and most days are not today.

today he is here. today he is her's. today there is nothing that he wants more than to collapse into a space they carve out, as intimate as a park bench ever can be, and not get up again. it seems pivotal when he lowers himself down onto the old wood, planks giving only slightly, and his hands shifting out of long-harboured habit to twist the ring -- her ring -- about the fourth finger on his left hand. fidgeting was never something he did, up until he found a reason to seek comfort in objects. in sentiments that would've been lost on him in the before. now it's the after, and it's cold enough that he's bundled up thick. his hair was cut, and his features have changed with age, and he wonders if she came here now, would she even know him any more? would she even recognise him any more?

          mocha optics will circle upon the other’s attempted dig sounding out, ( is SURPRISED she hasn’t become accustom to such remarks. ) complacent aura will fight against the i n o r d i n a t e urge to retaliate, offer a spew of verbal daggers towards them, — knew such behavior wouldn’t be deemed apt. “ i think ‘m gonna head home, seems this night life ISN’T for me. ” was a lie, blatantly obvious one for anyone that knew the femme well enough to detect such emphasized vexation in her tone.

it's TYPICAL for them. back and forth, up and down, cat and mouse (noah never knows who is who; at least, he never flatters himself into believing he can be one without the other), and it's a GAME. there's no getting around that, set in stone, as factual as the sun rising in the east and setting in the west. he won't call true north anything but what it is. regardless, he finds himself taking pleasure in it despite its redundancy, something that he normally wouldn't do under alternate circumstances. he gets BORED easily, and he moves on as surely as half-five and inevitable daybreak. natalia isn't special -- not really -- she's just different.

she takes well to heat– and it shows. she’s practically glowing under the sun here, and she’s a little darker from all the time spent in it. she wanders the market with the lazy patience of someone who makes their own itenerary– and stops to try things on, thumb through scarves and jewellery with a detailed eye. she haggles in broken hindi– the 20 or so words she knows all have to do with buying– and swearing but no one seems to mind. she has been here for a week and they all seem to accept her presence. the american with the strange accent, who wanders their streets with a heavy heart offering warm smiles to strangers. they have seen worse. 

it’s teeming with people here but everyone is aware of everyone else, in a way that’s rare in cities. she notices him– everyone does. he’s the only white man here– no one says it, but she wonders how it affects the pricing. she gives him a smile the second time she catches him looking and feels a small–but certain pull in his direction. she debates it, because really- little pulls where the reason she’d ended up here. more little pulls meant more trouble.  she doesn’t get to think it through before he’s standing there, in front of her with eyes as captivating as they are hard to read.

“Hullo. Come here often?” 

the half joke leaves her lips without thought, but she doesn’t even bother taking it back, instead she offers him a half smile and tilts her head towards the jewellery behind them.  “I need a second opinion on something. Are you free enough, to give it?” 

there's a slight curve to the corners of noah's lips upon her response, the sweltering heat and the weight of the rucksack over his shoulders suddenlt forgotten in favour of a decidedly more enticing focus. he doesn't know her from the next person, though of course her accent makes her stand out among their present company. he wonders if she knows the language -- sparse words flit through his own mind, few and far between; this isn't a culture he's studied all that much, though the immersive quality of his travels are quickly changing that -- or if she has to find a translator like he does at times. he wonders how long she's been here, and how long she plans to stay. he wonders why she's here, and how she feels about being so far away from home. noah is a curious creature, though it's usually just in an academic sense. somehow, this already feels far too human for his tastes.

                       ‘ i don’t know WHAT you’re talking about,’ she’ll shrug with a facade of blissful ignorance, the masquerade of sincerity immediately cracking the second the glass of his phone screen comes beneath the gaze of cerulean hues. her stare traces the familiar photograph, follows the tan of her curved thighs & slightly angled hip, her body b a r e aside from the unbuttoned shirt adorning her figure, golden tresses a tumbling waterfall across her chest. 

‘ i only wanted to show you how cute my hair looked !! ’ lexi will pout, pink flesh curling downward for a mere second before she BREAKS, giggles falling from her lips in an uncontrollable manner, dimples curling into her cheeks & sapphire optics crinkling with satisfaction. 

                       ‘ did you like it ?? i took it just for y o u. ’

noah is silent for the moment, just staring at her in a manner he's hoping depicts the seriousness of his irritation at her. of course, she doesn't seem to be taking him very seriously at all, and his fingers flex at his sides, some form of offense taking root in him that normally wouldn't have a chance. he doesn't know why she manages to get under his skin this way, or even why he lets her do it, but there's something here that he can't seem to make himself get over when it comes down to it. the fact that it pisses him off only serves to piss him off even more. noah doesn't anger that easily.

please kiss me, please kiss me, please kiss me, she begs silently. she hasn’t breathed since he put his hand on her knee, when her eyes fluttered closed and her lips parted, waiting for the kiss. the wait has felt like an eternity– an eternity she was happy to spend in his presence, but an eternity she wish hadn’t existed. kiss me. kiss me NOW. her stomach twists and turns and tightens with every tick of time. tick, tick, tick. the more time that passes without their lips colliding, the more olivia feels like something must be wrong, the more she feels the tears welling up in her eyes out of overwhelming want for the man across from her, the more she feels like he must not want her back.

he hasn’t taken his hand off of her knee yet and with her eyes shut, she can’t help but wonder what he’s thinking. but that’s nothing new. she’s always wondering what he’s thinking. he is the biggest mystery in her life right now. he speaks, ending the silence, and her eyes open finally. an embarrassed blush rises to her cheeks as she realizes that he must have watched her all that time. 

❛ i don’t know. ❜ she says. ❛ healthy. if i had my way, i’d be happy, too… it’s a cheesy answer, but after everything i’ve been through, i’ve learned not to expect a perfect life or to even ask much of it. ❜

noah doesn't think it's a cheesy answer. it hadn't exactly been what he was ASKING, but it's something for him to think about; to file away into the archives of his ever-expanding mind, in that little cabinet that he's labeled HANDLE WITH CARE. after all, she'll be the only thing he's ever handled without the intent to break it. his hands are not gentle, and he is not beautiful like she is, and there is not hope in him like he can see in her. not the same type, anyway. not hidden in a perfect curve of lips, or the fan of dark eyelashes on cheeks. it's delicate, in a way, but POWERFUL in so many others, and if he were a poet, he thinks he'd write books about it. he only reads poetry, though, and he hardly understands it, and even if the way she looks right now makes his insides explode with metaphors and carefully masked verses, that isn't him. it won't be.

but his hand is still on her knee.

                    she panics. & it’s the WORST kind of panic bliss has ever encountered because she knows she won’t be able find a reasonable way to calm herself down. her stomach is shaking, throat tightens, mouth dries out & her eyes are scanning the room m a d l y for an escape route. she feels dizzy, hearing the loud THUM THUM THUM of her heart, blocking the soft tune the band in the corner is playing. for a moment, bliss actually thinks she is going to faint because it seems she forgot how to breathe the second her icy blue hues spotted an all too familiar slender form in the crowd. & he looks good. god damnit, he looks so fucking good, she doesn’t know what to do with herself. she wants to turn around & sneak out of the bright hall, escaping the nagging voice of her mother, scolding her for whatever pointless reason again. she is being so c h i l d i s h right now, she is more than aware, but it’s not her fault, it really isn’t. this is just the way he gets her to be, he’s always made her nervous. but this… this damn post-break up running into each other is a complete DISASTER ( especially because bliss has been so very proud of herself for being able to keep her composure ).

she is being ridiculous. they are adults, who parted ways because they weren’t meant to be, but it doesn’t mean she has to act as a stupid teenager. bliss is positive she’s never chugged down a glass of champagne so fast before, scraping together her courage to cross the hall. she stops in the way COUNTLESS of times, trying to give herself enough time to ready herself. they would have seen each other tonight & if it’s inevitable, she believes it’s b e t t e r if it happens the way she wants. ––––– she waits until he seems free before stepping behind him, clearing her throat politely. she won’t look him in the eye, she is going to ignore those GODDAMN eyes, as she charms a small smile on her face.   ‘   hey.   ’   her voice is soft & kind as always & she almost HATES herself for it. & then, she kisses him on the cheek, only to feel absolutely stupid for it afterwards. she might greet her friends like that, but noah is n o t her friend. they’ve never been friends. @likereligion

there's no getting around the overwhelming force of her. it's surrounding him on all sides, from the moment he catches her out of his peripheral, and he feels like he's experiencing some sort of slow-set suffocation. it leeches the air from his lungs, from his bloodstream, and he feels it stutter; he feels his veins quake. it's entirely too profound to not leave a bitter taste in his mouth, hidden somewhere behind the new-found thick clumsiness of his tongue, and he talks his way around the aristocrates and the ceo's and the old family friends whilst failing to talk himself around to not stealing glances in her direction every chance he gets. it's a futile effort, and one that leaves him hollow-chested and disappointed every time he remembers he no longer has the privilege of LOOKING at her this way. looking at her like the only way to stop his bones from splitting, his insides from burning to embers, to ashes, is to touch her. that isn't his any more. that never properly was his, but especially now. especially now that she's told him it's not. their last words to each other still ring through his head every fucking night when he struggles to battle his way to sleep. they're still there. bliss has never left, even if she told noah to, and even if he LISTENED.

stay. for one LAST time she asks him -- tells him. stay. stay. stay. he'd wanted to. he'd wanted to so fucking badly, but for the first time in his life, perhaps, he put her needs above his own desires in saying NO. he often times finds himself wondering how things would be now if he had chosen to tread familiar paths, carving his way through flesh and blood and sinew and burying himself in her until there was no way to part them any more. he wonders what it would be like if he'd been selfish. he's so good at that when it comes to bliss, after all. he's always been good at ruining her.

he's lost somewhere in idle chatter and meaningless conversation, when suddenly he's ALONE. there hadn't been a transition, or so it'd seemed to him, and indigo eyes blink him back into the present, long fingers gripping too tight about his champagne glass. he's dressed up a bit tonight, shirking his usual neutral tans and browns and whites for a more upscale dark blue suit, tailored to perfection, and nearly matching the shade of his eyes. dark brown framed glasses along with his rings are the only staple of his normal attire, and when he hears her voice, it's like he's naked. perhaps it's silly to feel that way, when they're both cloaked to the nines and surrounded by so many FUCKING vultures ready to pick their bones clean, but he can't help it. he never has been able to. lips part slightly, though no sound comes out at the moment, and instead he just looks at her, silent and feeling like there must be a mark burned into his skin where her lips had touched. is it possible to feel the ghost of someone pass through when they're stood right next to him? is it possible to feel her aura like he remembers feeling her skin, dragging against his own, warm and pliant beneath his body? you saw the fault lines and started panicking.

❝ actually i love foreplay. i was merely critiquing your attempts at it – or lack thereof, ❞ she’s moving her hand up to inspect her nails, perfectly manicured as they are, yet it’s easier to look for flaws in the paint than hold his gaze. her words are insulting, and for the most part untrue. their foreplay doesn’t tend to be the most conventional, when it involves raised voices and venom before he’s pinning her down and fucking into her. it never fails to do the job though, and it’s perfect for her. she’ll never admit it. ❝ pleasant doesn’t get you hard, baby. we both know that. it’s why i’m here and not a sweet girl-next-door type. ❞

       They’ve called a number of times since she took off, all of which        she ignored, and the reason Farah did decide to pick up that particular        one was up in the air. “I’m alright.” She said quickly, without giving the        other person any time to talk. “Everything’s alright,        I just moved out. It’s not a big deal.”

no, she isn’t. but her son has been, and even with the doctor’s reassurance that he’s fine now, that it’d been nothing more than a case of the sniffles, and with the way he’d been tucked up sleeping soundly in his bed when she’d left, she still can’t shake her worry. that, however, does not give him the right to comment upon it, or to even ask, let alone make rude comments about her. she’s on edge as it is, and it’s like he’s trying to start a war. she’s already bitter enough about being in another one of these fucking hotel suites. ❝ and you’ve not tried to stick your cock in any of my holes yet, so which of us is actually out of character here? ❞

the sun is baring down on him as he steps outside, the air still for the most part, save for the occasional and sparse gust of wind that sporadically lifts frizzy curls with its swell. he’s got a scarf holding the majority of it back from his face, and his skin is coated in a sheen of sweat that has been there pretty much since he woke up. it’s been a month already since he arrived here, some of it business, and most of it pleasure; he’s not looking to leave any time soon, either. there’s something he loves about this country, and he’s always loved since the first time he had the pleasure of visiting it, and he doesn’t see a reason to leave prematurely when the summer’s not over yet. 

noah is wandering an outdoor market the first time he sees her. it’s just the barest glimpse out of his peripheral, but it’s enough to draw indigo eyes around to where she stands, and his interest is piqued near instantaneously. it’s not often that he feels himself drawn to somebody, and especially lately he hasn’t been in the mood to put the effort into a pursuit. which is why it’s so fucking odd that he’s even looking twice at this person, let alone altering his path so he’s going to end up directly in her’s. he doesn’t even have a plan of action, but he does know how easy it is for someone to disappear in a crowded place like this, and he doesn’t want that. of course he doesn’t.

“hello.”

there’s something here that feels wrong. or perhaps wrong isn’t the right word for it -- perhaps the word noah’s really wracking his brain for is different. this is different. this has been different since the very beginning, and he doesn’t know what he’s doing with it, but he does know that he can’t put it down. if he puts it down, then that would mean an ending, and he isn’t ready for it to end. he isn’t ready to kiss them, either. not like he wants to, and not like they clearly want him to, and not like every broken, rattled piece inside of him is begging him for. it wouldn’t be right, and he is no good, and he is going to leave, and he knows it too. it’s just that he hasn’t told them that.

they’re sitting too close for it to be anything but charged, and he’s got his hand on their knee, his very slightly uncertain expression the only thing that gives him away. there’s a slight inclination to his chin that wouldn’t be there if it weren’t for the outrageous pounding of his heart, and he can taste words on the tip of his tongue that are so sweet they’re cloying. for some reason, noah doesn’t want them to form. instead, he tries for something else. 

“what do you think of when you think a about tomorrow? as a concept, not as an inevitability. where do you see yourself? where do you want to be?”