#tiny writing

Careful to remove her heels before reentering the Winthrope Manor bordering the boundary of Elwynn and Redridge, Saedre crept quietly back to her quarters in the still of the night. Her bare feet made silent contact with the smooth, marble floors, welcoming the cool touch after yet another heated evening she spent with that silver tongued pirate somewhere in the dense shadows of Duskwood. Perhaps it was against her better judgement to have a bit of fun with one of her colleagues even if there was no emotional attachment to it, but the excitement outweighed any potential risks. Sivero was good at making her forget her troubles when the two collided behind closed doors. Putting others first often in the years she had led the Violet Bastion and in the aftermath of the losses incurred, only increased the amount of time that it had been since she engaged in time for her own needs. 

Letting herself into her room, Saedre closed the door as quietly as she could and leaned against it for a moment as her eyes moved to the partially opened window allowing beams of moonlight to slip in; their silvery touch illuminating certain portions of the room. Closing her eyes, she listened to the melody of the night beyond that window; crickets chirping in the grass while an owl or two called somewhere off in the distance. The soft drawing in of the breeze from outside reminded her of the way the trees in the garden seemed to dance on a spring day; the foliage rustling ever so gently as cherry blossoms drifted about. It brought back the memory of laughter and closeness she spent with someone she still held close to her heart; try as she may to avoid returning down that path again.

Being brought back to the old grounds where she headed her former institution had its way of stirring up memories she was not quite prepared to confront and she was especially not prepared to confront them this evening. Perhaps it had everything to do with inviting Mason back into her life in hopes of seeing a sense of purpose restored to the man after she had learned the life she had hoped he would gain without her, he surely did not. She couldn’t shake the memory of a light extinguished behind those warm eyes that were determined to hide it behind a smile. The years between had not been kind to either of them it had appeared, and Saedre had lived oh too long enough to pick up on these things keenly. 

Pushing her fingers back through her tangled silvery strands, Saedre sighed and pushed herself from the door. The more she looked about her surroundings, the more she felt that she no longer really belonged here and perhaps it was time to formally move her dwellings to the Raven’s Nest. Tossing her cloak aside, the garment seemed to take on its own presence and guided itself to settle upon a hook on the wall. Everything had its place and yet many items that now surrounded Saedre were no longer her own. The devastation of Dalaran ensured that. 

Making her way to the washroom, Saedre began her ritual of winding down for the night. Sleep may elude her into the waking hours of a new day, but she would be a fool to not try. 

Oh, the webs we weave and somehow find ourselves becoming the prey.

In response to @schittscreekdrabbleblog word of the week: Award

*****

“What’s this?” Patrick holds up a paper yellowed with age as he unpacks a box of assorted documents.

David glances over and grimaces. “That’s the award I received for getting hit by balls in little league.”

“Why would they give you this?” Patrick asks, incredulous.

“My dad insisted that I be given some recognition for my participation. That was their solution.” David shrugs as if it was not a display of unbelievably insensitive parenting.

“…your dad was kind of an asshole, you know that, right?” Patrick shakes his head in disbelief.

He helps Mike work for delivery duties. Or volunteers with Bev and Bill at a kitchen. The only one he hasn’t worked with is Richie.

Richie doesn’t mind because Eddie clearly feels safe and can calm down with him and Rich is always more than happy to make Eddie smile. One day it’s different, Eddie doesn’t smile or talk 90 miles an hour, Richie goes to ask what’s wrong but gets interrupted.

“I wanna try something but please don’t be weird about it. I just haven’t with anyone because there’s so many germs that spread so fast but if I were okay with doing it with anyone it’d be you, so can I kiss you?”

Richie blinks. At least Eddie’s talking again.

“See I knew it’d be weird, god I didn’t want to make this weird. I’m sorry let’s just pretend it di-“

“Do it.”

“Huh?”

“You just want to try right? Why not?”

It’s Eddie’s turn to blink.

“Are you sure?”

It really only took a slight nod from Richie before he’s carefully leaning forward and leaving a small peck on Richie’s lips. Eddie backs up a little but comes back a little more confidently, Richie feels like he’s dreaming when Eddie doesn’t stop and tests a little bit as he goes.

Richie smiles against Eddie when he goes to back off but is followed.

“I could do that all day but don’t forget to breathe.”

And then he’s laughing loudly, like the sound of thunderclaps exploding in the sky. It takes her by surprise how genuine it sounds, all traces of sadness and harshness gone. Clarke can’t help herself; she looks at him, wide eyes and mouth agape because Bellamy Blake full time angry sad drummer is laughing and it feels like contemplating a singularity unravel: White teeth exposed, dimples making a debut entrance on his freckled face.  

God, she has the stupid aching impulse of drawing him: she wants to capture the way his eyes light up, she wants to map the lovely wrinkles and freckles and beauty marks that embellish his face. She wants to paint all his hard edges and dark skin; a contrast of shadows and light.

There are verses forming in her head, chord progressions, and melodies that match the rhythm of her heart every time he looks at her. She’s thinking of finger picking, harmonies and arrangements. Clarke’s thinking about his deep voice and how it would match perfectly a dropping D tuning.    

She wants to preserve this Bellamy Blake that burns bright and warm, like a steady flame.

She has study music theory and has memorized scales, but still feels no music could convulse what she feels for him in that moment.  

In that moment, this is all they are allowed to touch.

And it’s not enough. It will never be enough to satiated the ache and hunger running deep and ancient under their skins. 

But….

They are a curse scaring the fabric of everything. They are destruction. 

Every touch a burnt world.

The universe is nestled between them and it fights to stay alive.  

And it has to.

So this all they have: a brush of their hands, lingering fingers reaching for more.

It’s not enough.

THANK YOU miss you dude!!!

It had been a brutal week. Two days in a row staying up til 4 AM writing papers, then having a breakdown over homework the next night and accepting your neighbors’ invitation to sip a few brews with them instead of working, and then making up for it the next morning by waking up at six o’clock after a mere four hours of sleep and getting back to work. Now it was Friday, 10 o’clock PM, and while many of your friends had managed to put aside enough time to get together, you still had to finish studying for your math midterm, which was how you ended up searching the packed library for an open place to study.

You finally spotted an empty armchair with a small desk that you could swing over your lap once you sat down, and made a beeline for it, just for a thin form to cut in in front of you, heading for the exact same chair. You were mere feet behind him and you sped up, tapping him on the shoulder just before he reached the chair. He looked back at you. His dirty blonde hair was messily coiffed up; the kind of weak beard-and-mustache combination that you usually hated somehow looked rather good beneath his high cheekbones.  “Can I help you?” he asked.

“There’s only one comfortable chair left in the library and we both reach it at the same time,” you said.

His lips turned up into an apologetic smile. “I’m sorry,” he said. “But I’ve been looking for fifteen minutes and-”

“So have I,” you said. You knew you could be more polite, but it had been too long a few days for you to have any patience left.

“Oh,” he said. “Well in that case, er…”

Like you, he clearly wanted the chair, but unlike you he was acting like a decent person about it. You sighed. “I’m sorry,” you said. “It’s been a really long couple of days and I… It’s fine. You take it.”

“No,” he said. “I don’t want it.”

“Oh,” you said. You slid your backpack off your back and were about to sit down in the chair when the young man said,

“Well, you can’t have it either.”

“What?”

“Well that wouldn’t be fair, would it?” His blue eyes, which had seemed guileless, now had a mischievous glint to them.

“I guess not, but what, now neither of us get it?” you asked.

“Exactly,” he said. “I have another idea.”

“And what’s that?” you asked.

“Well, there’s a coffee shop downstairs,” he said. “And I’m thinking, if we burn some time there, we could each find an empty seat up here later.”

“Smooth,” you said. “I’ll admit it. And sure, why not? What’s your name anyway?”

“You can call me Goodnight,” he said. “Goodnight Robicheaux.”

“Goodnight?” you confirmed.

He nodded. “And you are?”

You introduced yourself and he shook your hand. “You’re buying though, because you stole my chair,” you teased, only half-joking.