the blood on my teeth
begins to taste like a poem
begins to taste like a poem
H
e could see the rose painted on her door when he closed his eyes, each stroke as vivid as if he had been its painter. He remembered everything - the dark red color of her drink, the softness of her shoulder against his. It had only taken one trip for Toulouse to memorize the way to her door, and only one taste of her for him to become addicted.He was not in love, he told himself.
Was he even capable of love?
He thought not.
But she was the closest he had gotten. He knew he should never have followed her at the bar that night, knew that if it had been his brother in his shoes instead then this would never have happened. But Toulouse was not one for feeling regret, and considering all of the “what if’s” of life was simply too exhausting. It was not much more fun to see where the night would take him, and go from there.
When she had suddenly disappeared, and her door did not open when he came to knock upon it, he had hardly been surprised. Disappointed, but not shocked. The waiter he asked - the same one who had first told him her name, the one who had warned him about the Red Rose - had only laughed at him. Toulouse’s blood had run cold at the sound, and he had had to leave in the middle of the server’s fit of humor, or else he might have left a very bloody, very public mess in the middle of the Scarab’s lounge.
And so when the server had come running out after him, Toulouse had almost missed at first the small white letter that he carried with him.
It hadn’t been much, but it was still something.
A hurriedly written excuse, one that stopped just short of being a true apology or explanation, and a promise that the Scarab staff would get their letters to one another.
If he chose to write, she had said. But did he really have a choice, when it came to her? He had never thought twice before writing back, his letters equally short, equally vague, maddening inadequate. It was all part of their game. And despite how little she had written in that first letter, he had hung on her every word, and became determined to make her do the same.
When the letters had stopped, he’d told himself it was nothing. You’d think a spy would know better than that, but Manon had a way of compromising his thoughts.
It had been long enough that he wasn’t expecting another letter when the next finally came. But ohm the surprise made it taste all the more sweet when he read those two, carefully written words: find me. And then, the realization had sunk in. The Red Rose had returned at last. Toulouse would deny the way his heart skipped a beat for the rest of his life, just one more secret he would carry with him to his deathbed.
And now he was fashionably late, of course, as he slowly and deliberately retraced his path to her door. Each step was carefully planned, so that by the time he reached the top of the stairs his demeanor was perfectly controlled. He couldn’t let her see how excited he was to see her, after all. Because he wasn’t in love.
But he could be.
She was waiting for him outside. He didn’t even have to knock.
“Leaving notes is bad spycraft.”
His voice is smooth and rich, carrying over the carpeted floor. Words meant only for her, and her alone. His eyes are sharp and bright, but Toulouse does not smile, not yet. That would give too much away, and it was a delicate game he was playing. The same game they had started that night when she left a rose for him at the bar, picking up exactly where they had left off as if it had never stopped.
He takes a step closer, his scarves feeling like wine against his sides. And then -
“Aren’t you going to invite me in?”
He has no doubt that she will.
@Manon | "speaks" | notes: clearly he has 0 idea what his brother has done haha
