There’s magic in the mornings. Those first moments in the blue-black dark, when their bodies stir before their minds do—her foot sliding against his, seeking warmth; his fingers twitching against her ribs. She moans softly, a dream’s echo, and he wonders what her mind is chasing, then lets the thought dissolve. It doesn’t matter. All that matters is here, now: this fragile pocket of time when he is hers and she is his, in this sweet love aching like the hum of an eternal hymn.
Outside, the world is still dark, but the edges of the night are softening, shadows retreating just enough to make out the curve of her shoulder, the line of her jaw. There’s a scar on her collarbone, pale and thin, he traces sometimes with his thumb when he thinks she asleep; he doesn’t now. Just watches the slow rise and fall of her chest, the way her mouth parts slightly as she exhales.
He could stay like this forever—suspended in this warmth, perfected over hours of closeness, in their tangle of hearts and bodies. But the day will come, as it always does. The light will shift, the birds will start their chorus, and the world will pull them apart, if only for a little while. So he lingers, just a moment longer, pressing his lips to her shoulder. He commits this to memory: the weight, the softness, the sound of her. The morning light, when it finally arrives, will find them like this—curled together, perfectly content, and already missing the night.
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An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
Self-indulgent Act 1 yearning/letter-writing trope on a Tuesday morning.
Gale sits hunched over his spellbook, Scratch curled at his feet, warm and watchful; now and then, the dog lifts his head and thumps his tail, and Gale obliges with a scruff behind the ears. It soothes them both.
Across the fire, Tav sleeps, brows furrowed as if her dreams, like her days, demand all her strength. The sight makes his heart tremble with the stark and sombre terror of all he would do to keep her safe.
A blank page stares up from the open book, pale and somehow accusing. His stomach knots as he lowers the nib of his pen.
Tavania,
You will never read this, yet I feel compelled to write it anyway. Sleep will not come. The words are too loud in my chest, and I fear I will never know peace until I set them free. Even then. These are truths I’ve kept locked behind my teeth for weeks now, foolishly believing that if I buried them deep enough, unfed and unwatered, they might wither quietly.
They haven’t. They grow like ivy, winding through every part of me.
He exhales, rubbing the side of his temple with two fingers. His eyes flutter closed, just for a moment. The next lines come slower.
I could begin by telling you how deeply I admire you. That your strength and spirit have moved me—your generosity, and your fire. That you are extraordinary, and I have thought so from the very first. You laugh, and something lifts within me. You speak, and I forget to be afraid. You notice things, people.
You noticed me .
He stops again, fingers trembling slightly. Ink blots the page.
I thought I was long past being known. Past deserving it. I’ve made a temple of my regrets and called it penance. But you—you are hope, Tavania. The stubborn, gentle kind that plants itself in ash and grows in tender spite.
He lifts his eyes. Watches her sleeping face. Writes the next line without looking down.
I love you.
Then he does look down. Stares at the words, so small on the page. It doesn’t feel like enough. It feels like too much.
His heart cracks open; shame bleeds out.
I did not intend this. I have tried not to. I know I am not free to love—not in the way you deserve. My heart is full of broken pieces: shards of failure, of misguided faith and trust betrayed, of power grasped and lost again. I have buried so much of myself beneath the weight of my regrets, I hardly know what remains. What right have I to offer these useless fragments to anyone?
And yet—I want to. Because in every hollow place where my divine purpose used to reside, there is now only you.
I want so badly to be worthy of you. It terrifies me.
Because I do not know if I will survive what’s coming, or if I even can. There may come a moment when I choose wrong again. When I falter. When I fall. And then loving you becomes one more wound I've no right to inflict.
A sharp pop from the fire makes him flinch. Scratch shifts and noses at his ankle; Gale reaches down absently to stroke the dog’s head, grateful for the soft huff that answers him.
I know what this is. I know what it cannot become. I don’t know not what else I can do but to endure it in silence.
In all my years of study, no magic I have known has—or will—ever come close to the miracle of you.
Yours,
Gale
He stares at the page a long while. Long enough for the ink to dry, for the words to settle—and with them, a quiet dread that coils tight around his heart.
Across the fire, Tav sleeps on, peaceful and unaware. He inhales once, tears the page from the spine of the book.
No hesitation, no ceremony, he feeds it to the fire.
The paper blackens at the edges. The words vanish, line by line.
Scratch lays his head on Gale’s knee, whines softly, as if sensing the finality of it. Gale rubs the dog’s ears.
Once upon a time I worked in a used bookstore that bought books from the public. We'd get a lot of odd things come through--often things we couldn't sell, like ephemera (old notebooks, letters, etc). We'd offer to return it to the seller but often they wouldn't be interested, and to the trash the items would go. Or taken by employees.
One of the things that came through--which I kept--was a 4"x8" spiral top notebook from a journalist who'd been at the first E3. It's stayed with me for a while because it's more of an emotional record of the experience than anything with a journalistic lens. With E3 announcing its closure, these notes have been on my mind. They're unsigned--because life isn't as well-designed as video games.
"9:30 AM - May 10, 1995
It's all a bit overwhelming. I'm sitting in Room 515 A-B, where, in half an hour, I will take part in the first annual Electronic Entertainment Expo's Press Review Presentation in the Los Angeles Convention Center, LA, California.
I arrived at the LACC at about 7:30 this morning. The center was open but none of the registration booths were. I was about 30 minutes early.
I took advantage of my uncharacteristic early arrival and scoped the convention center out, walking the grounds from the south hall to the west hall several times.
At about 8 o'clock I found my way to Room 152 in the concourse meeting room area of the center.
The receptionist informed me that I was the first person to arrive.
Now that I write that, the significance hits me. I am the first (media) registrant at the first Electronic Entertainment Expo EVER. E3, as it's called, is also the largest gathering of electronic entertainment publishers, retailers, [UNINTELLIGIBLE], and enthusiasts ever.
The Press Preview promises to be exciting--at least for a rookie like me.
The room is nearly the size of a football field, with about 500 seats that face a large screen at the front. Two smaller screens frame the center screen on either side. Mammoth speakers are [UNINTELLIGIBLE] placed at the corners of the auditorium, and lights criss-cross everywhere. There will [UNINTELLIGIBLE] be smoke-effects, if a pre-preview glimpse of wispy fog a few minutes ago is any indication."
The writings continue, though the quality of the handwriting degrades. It was a neat moment in time someone recorded and the moment has found its way to me to share.
You know I had a lot of poems i wrote threw out all this life changing bull shit and guess what? That whole computer is gone.. What do i do know? With all record of this gone.. My writings were so good )':
THESE ARE THE LOST WRITINGS WHERE UNPUBLISHED AND FORGOTTEN POETRY FINALLY COMES TO LIGHT.
WHAT ARE YOU THINKING?
I’m thinking about life and death and how we are all stuck in the middle of it.
We started with this life only to face death in the end. I’m thinking about how we should live this life and say it’s worth it when the end arrives but there are these said rules that needed to be…
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THESE ARE THE LOST WRITINGS WHERE UNPUBLISHED AND FORGOTTEN POETRY FINALLY COMES TO LIGHT.
GRAPEVINES
I’m stuck between these lines
of finding myself and what’s mine
as the fast growing grapevines
crawl and enter my mind,
making me change my vision
like a snake slithering, it entangles.
Now, with a change perception
I see the world in a different angle.
