#degrees of

M!Eden x F!PC

The first time you read Wuthering Heights, it was a boring mess. It was hard keeping up with the characters and who they were. When Doren called it "The second greatest love story" your eyes involuntarily rolled. Wuthering Heights was so ungodly boring, how could anyone call this a great love story?

But that was back before you really started noticing how the descriptions between him and Heathcliff were strikingly similar. Tall, dark, and brooding men. Men of little words. Men with a strong deep sense of internal turmoil. A chip on their shoulder the weight of a boulder.

It was back when you were younger, just shy of 15. He still lived in the orphanage with you. You two weren't dating (even if the whole school thought you were) but he'd hold your hand if you two were alone. He'd walk you home, hand in hand, before leaving for his job. When you reached home, he'd pull you into a tight hug. You two would just stand there, clasped together. One time he even kissed your cheek, which you thought about for weeks afterwards. (And you didn't wash your face, for weeks afterwards.)

Every night, after work, he'd sneak into your room, so you two could hang out for a little bit. In private. Hushed whispers, clammy hands, and long stretches of silent tension when he'd move a bit closer.

But after you turned 17, things changed.

For the past few months he had been distant. Only sneaking to your room every few days. He no longer held your hand while walking home, which broke you. What was wrong? Did he not like how you looked? Was there someone else? I mean, sure you two weren't dating. But you two only sat with each other. Only hung around each other. Only really spoke to each other.

You two had taken a detour on the typical walk home out to the lake. The whole time, his hands fumbled with the zipper on his jacket. Instead of having his thumb running over your knuckles, your hands were balled up in your pockets.

So there you two sat. In silence. Alone, spaced out on a long damp log. His eyes were downcast, as he continued to fidget. The lake was almost frozen, too cold for anyone to swim in. The woods were almost silent, only a slight twinkling of frozen pines could be heard.

And, of course, the sound of him breathing. A slow, slightly shaky breath.

You just watched him, watched a deep scarlet blush spread over his cheeks as he turned to you, mouth ready to say something. But it didn’t come. Not at first. Not before his hands started to shake. His eyes, can't even hold your gaze. They flick from you, to his hands. From you, to the lake. From you, to anything but you.

But you get it when his hands finally clasp over yours. The sound of your own heart, leaping into your throat in anticipation fills your ears. His eyes meet yours. A simple three words are uttered from his lips, and while he almost stumbles over every single one, you understand. You go to parrot it back, but before you can even finish your sentence his lips are suffocating you.

It's rough. His teeth clashed into yours. You'd expect his lips to be soft, but they're rough as well. Probably chapped. His hands are gripping your head, pushing you two together. Your stomach is swirling, warmth is spreading throughout you. You're left blissfully grinning when he pulls back.

That was your favorite memory between the two of you. Ignoring the dates, ignoring the late nights locked up together in your room.

But then, he was gone. As soon as he turned 18. As soon as the payments were due, he abandoned you. Left to live off somewhere else. Without a single word to you, just a note under your door saying goodbye.

For a good month after he left, the world was dead to you. All you knew was the confines of your bedroom. The feeling of his old sheets on your bed. The clothes he left behind were all you would wear. For years, you'd been together, by his side. The eerie silence that was your days now made you feel deaf.

the first time you went back to school, your hands felt cold without his.

Your heart broke a second time when you turned 18.

Not even a warning about the payments. He was a few months older than you, and he could have said something, turned 18 so much sooner. Anything. If there was time to prepare, you wouldn't have had to suffer. Missing only one payment was enough of a warning.

So when Winter gave a copy of Wuthering Heights to you, after finding a 1887 reproduction of Pride and Prejudice, it broke your heart all over again.

Fucking Heathcliff, fucking Catherine, and all the fucking things that kept them apart.