Through the Rabbit Hole

You’d been in a café with your friend – she’d discovered it recently, swore up and down they had the best pastries she’d ever tasted – when you’d seen them enter and sit down, their legs impossibly long in comparison to the plush seats. 

Immediately, you’d started drooling over him. The blond one. His dark-haired brother was very handsome as well, but you could see the ring glinting on his finger, and besides, he looked much too put together, much too perfect for someone like you. 

Maekar’s scowl, his nervous shifting, the glare he shot at the low table – having to bend so much troubled his back, you’d learn – it was catnip to you. 

You watched them, watched him, from that day forth. They appeared to work nearby, dressed smartly for white collar jobs, though the width of their shoulders belied it. Every week they came. Same day, same time. Like clockwork.

And, like clockwork, you would go. Tanselle would accompany you sometimes, but most often you’d go in alone, sit down in a corner with your laptop and pretend to work while sneaking glances at a man old enough to be your father. 

You would have never approached him, never would have done anything about your silly infatuation with a stranger, had it not been for Tanselle’s encouragement. 

“If nothing else, he’ll be flattered,” she’d said around a smile. “You’re young and pretty.” The way she added the last part had you hear what she meant. And he is neither of those. 

Not young – at least fourty, you thought, probably older. Not pretty. Even you could agree.

He was attractive, arresting, but not pretty. Pockmarks divoting his cheeks – scars that his beard could not hide. A long, severe nose. Frown lines. He was a map of his life and you desperately wanted to learn it.

You took the first step on a warm summer day. You’d arrived precisely five minutes before they would. It was pathetic that you knew their – his – schedule so well. Along with your own order, you asked the barista to make a cold brew, large, with added caramel. “For the blonde man who’ll come in in a few minutes.” 

The young man at the counter shot you a queer look, an eyebrow raised. He knew who you were talking about. Really, him? The scowling old man? You shrugged helplessly. I like what I like.

Heart hammering inside your ribcage, you watched from your seat as he sat down with his colleague.

(His brother.)

When he made to order, the barista gave him his usual. “Already paid for,” he added, and pointed you out, to your horror. Somehow you had not thought about that. 

You were a wreck beneath his gaze. Shaking hands, trembling lips, mouth gone dry as soon as his violet eyes fixed on you. What do you want, they said, so blunt that embarrassed tears almost stung along your lash line. 

Instead of succumbing to them, your face bloomed red with the sudden violence of a wave crashing against the tide. 

You waved awkwardly, not knowing what else to do and secretly wanting to die inside.

Socially inept. One of the nicer things you had been called in your life.

You felt Tanselle’s incredulous eyes on your nape. Your friend had certainly seen you struggle to interact with people, but not this much.

The dark-haired man at his side appeared to understand your clumsy attempt at flirtation better than its recipient did, smiling slightly and clapping his companion on his back with twinkling eyes.

“You have a little admirer, it seems,” you overheard him say. They probably didn’t think you could hear.

But you’d always had keen ears. To your detriment, mostly.

She’s so weird, isn’t she? Such a nerd. Don’t her parents love her enough?

“Fuck off.” It was not the first time you heard him speak, but to hear him now… your knees went weak. You were glad you were already sitting, or you would have stumbled like an idiot. “She looks Aerion’s age.”

“And?” There was a wicked half-smile on the dark-haired man’s – Baelor, you recalled – face. “You’re not eighty, Maekar, and Aerion is a grown man.” 

He exhaled through his nose, huffing like an annoyed bull. You’d seen that look on him several times already. The man you were infatuated with – Maekar – was gruff and sulky.

Just like your fa–

Nope, don’t finish that sentence. 

Tanselle’s dark hair fell into your vision as she leaned towards you. “Go to him.”

Hesitantly, you glanced back at her. Your breath was stuttering already, just thinking about it. Are you sure? She only made a shooing motion.

When you stood, your legs were unsteady, wobbly like your grandmother’s termite-bitten oak table. You counted the strides – seven, it was seven – it took you to walk over to their table, trying to think of what to say. 

Was the order right? You knew it was. You’d watched him get this exact coffee for weeks. But you couldn’t say that. 

Does it taste good? He hadn’t even taken a sip yet. And it must, if he returned to it every time. 

Come here often? Even worse. 

You were still undecided when you stopped short of running into the tabletop. You looked at him, at Maekar, at this man. You had never asked anyone out in your life. And now you were starting with someone so intimidating, so attractive that your tongue felt like lead inside your mouth.

“Number?” you blurted out, cringed and started again. Oh gods, fuck. “C-can I have your number?” you asked, wringing your hands. Do I seem weird? Oh gods, I’m a creep.

“You’re really handsome,” you added lamely. 

There was a look of utter confusion on his face. He looked at you, your face, devoid of lines, youthful, sweet. 

Then, your shirt, a graphic tee of the Fellowship of the Ring.

Fuck. You should’ve dressed prettier. Like a woman. Why had you chosen your decade-old comfort shirt? Well, because it’s your comfort shirt.

You loved Lord of the Rings, had been obsessed ever since you’d first seen it with your father. Just one more thing that had set you apart from other girls your age who liked things that girls liked. Always the nerd, you were. Always the odd one out. 

(Later, you’d find out that he’d stared at the shirt not because it was strange, but because he loved those movies as well.)

“Me?” he said, not quite a question, not quite a statement. “You are asking for my number?”

You nodded, feeling like you were close to tears. Someone kill me.

“Because you think I’m handsome?” He sounded incredulous. Like he couldn’t believe it. You shifted on your feet, trying not to think of how Tanselle was watching you.

“Y-yeah.” You tilted your head, peering at him, at his brother who seemed to be trying very hard not to smile. 

“Brother, if you don’t give this sweet girl your number, I will do it for you. This is just what you need.” The last part, the dark-haired man said more quietly. 

Something seemed to occur to him and he stood abruptly. “Why don’t you take my seat? I’ve just remembered something urgent at the office. Have a nice break, Maekar.”

Maekar glared at him, but made no attempt to stop him. You knew that particular brand of defeat that he wore on his face – the look of a man who had been outplayed by someone who knew him far too well.

You hovered, unsure. “What are you waiting for?” he told you in a huff, exhaling roughly. “Baelor won’t let me hear the end of it if I botch this now.”

You stared blankly. “Sit down,” he murmured, softer. You glanced back at Tanselle, saw her wave you off, a silent go on, and sat down. “Would you like anything?” he asked.

“I really like the pastries here. And a hot chocolate would be nice. Coffee’s too bitter.”

You hoped your sweet tooth didn’t make you sound childish. 

(It didn’t. Maekar had often thought the same, though he preferred not to let others know that the harsh Anvil despised coffee for being too bitter – something that was, with considerable frequency, muttered about him. Fucking fools.)

You sat with him and you talked – or rather, you rambled and he listened, occasionally throwing in a brusk comment – and when you looked at your watch, you saw that over an hour had passed.

When you tried to stand, to apologise for keeping him for so long, he– 

Well, it looked like a smile.

“What’s the rush, hmm?” he said. “I haven’t given you my number, yet. That’s what you came here for in the first place, wasn’t it?”

He gave you his number. The first text he sent you was an invitation to lunch the next day.

Despite each and every one of your blunders, your nerdy rants about video games, about science fiction and fantasy, about things that were quite meaningless to him, you continued seeing each other. 

Your fourth date was supposed to be dinner at a fancy restaurant. 

You’d been so nervous you’d cried, and your eyes were still wet when you opened the door to see him standing there, in dark shirtsleeves, so handsome your heart seized.

He took one look at you, your red face, your sweet dress, your attempt at looking presentable. 

He kissed you. Ravished you. As though the sight of you had awakened a beast inside of him.

And, well, you never did make it to that dinner.

Instead, he held you on his lap, tasting your mouth like the sweetest wine. Somehow both the most undone and the most patient you’d ever seen him, taking his time to reassure you, to make you melt into his touch. 

With him, slowly but surely, you lost your fears, your nervousness. You did not change, not precisely. You simply... blossomed.