Caelum
ice has melted back to life
done my time and served my sentence
dress me up and watch me die
She had forgotten about the way he could stop time with his stare.
She had forgotten a lot in the time it had been since they had first met, since she'd seen him so briefly at Isra's coronation - when she'd spent far too much time watching Vikander, as if hoping the brief exchanging of glances would amount to more than a subtle acknowledgment. And yet, she found herself disappointed in her own memories. How had they not done this being justice? So she greeted him with just his name, and she watched as he turned towards her, his gaze so intent, she could almost feel it needling at her skin. She couldn't deny her disappointment in him only just now showing up around these parts . . . how odd it is to have missed the company of someone she hadn't seen but twice?
But then again, not everyone makes me feel . . . alive again.
The fae lived in her own stagnant world, the little faerie who quietly serves teas, and makes medicines, and smiles for Luvena, and promises things are alright with Syn. Facade, after facade, after fucking facade. Until she feels like a porcelain doll who just keeps paper macheting the cracks over her skin and hoping no one notices . . . Where once she would have wanted to gild those cracks in gold, she now looks in the mirror, disappointed at the weakness, the less than perfect presentation. Sit up taller Caelum, smile brighter Caelum, get over it Caelum. and then with him . . . .
His greeting was enough to remind her just why she enjoyed these interactions.
The nickname was given with a teasing greeting, an acknowledgement of the flowers she produced with each flutter of breath from her lips. The woman in question however merely rolls her eyes playfully. "Flower girl?" She repeats, her voice flavored by the laugh she was trying to hold back at the ridiculous title, "I suppose I've been called worse, and it's rather fitting for a summer fae." She agreed. How odd she would accept such nods towards the abilities she despised when he was the one to tease her about it. If he were to call her a breath of summer, would she be so willing to accept the last gift and wear the mantle her birthright demanded?
She chose to ignore these thoughts, burying her own troubles out of sight.
Out of sight, out of mind. Let her be collected, poised, perfect. And then he smirked, and she felt all that poised perfection go out the window. The last time she'd seen a smirk like that, the stare of a hunter on her . . . . had it really been that long, when Trey would stare her down during one of her indignant little hissy fits. She felt her muzzle go dry, even as she forced herself to maintain her composure. Instead she lifts her head, meeting his gaze with her own, not about to back down from what was potentially a challenge of wills. "Oh, I'm rather certain you would just love it if I did, now wouldn't you?" The words came out in a soft, playful purr, fluttering her eyelashes, "Would it please you, dear Boleyn, to imagine that you've caught my attention in such a way, that I'd know your schedule. I'm afraid I'm not the stalking type however. I merely travel to other nations, and you're red tones stick out fairly well in most settings. It's not too hard to spot the fire among the foilage."
Oh, oh yes, this . . . was why she enjoyed their meet ups.
Because in these rare moments, Caelum could meet the challenge in his eyes, and it gave her the confidence to be herself as well. Not the perfect fae queen, not the studious doctor, not the gentle foal helper. Just . . . just Caelum. She didn't deny herself the smile, "Miss you while you were on patrol?" She echoes, but doesn't answer, instead her grin turns positively wicked, "Oh, I know plenty about commitment . . . " She promised, and then he was moving. He crosses the distance so smoothly, it's like she blinks and he is there, his muzzle touching her skin, brushing along the roaned blue of her pelt, and she's startled to feel a trail of fire in his wake. Her head whips around, brown eyes wide, surprised, as he caught her fully off guard with the brazen action.
Was the cloth cute . . . or was she?
He's already turned to trek towards her shop, and she shakes off the unfamiliar fluttering of butterflies in her belly, the heat to her side from where his breath had puffed against her skin. He speaks of being well enough, but she's still silent for a moment, even as she catches up, walking at his side, her wings settling flat so they won't shed their glittering dust upon his pelt. "I'm glad." She replies, her words honest this time, no joke, no play, even if her gaze on him suggests she might be reading into his 'I suppose.' She did quirk an amused smile, unable to deny that he was probably safe from her attempting to end his life, "Well, I suppose I'll have to consider forgiving you, I cannot fault you for doing your duty to Denocte." She responds casually, even as she glances up at him from the corner of her eyes, peering through the soft grey lashes.
And then the jokes were back.
This time she couldn't stop the indignant snort, "Oh, I only dreamt of your promise, hmm?" She glances up at him, her gaze playful, teasing, enjoying the banter they had back and forth, "Well, I can't go answering those kind of questions, could I? I am a lady after all, and it would be rather telling for a lady to even admit to such a thing. Only you're merely . . . . projecting? Is this your way of coyly telling me you've been dreaming of me?" She asked, with the self-satisfied smirk of the cat who got the canary, even if she could feel those god awful butterflies returning at the way his eyes bore into her, his lips quirked . . . god, she felt like a teenager again.
Hormones, clearly. Perhaps there is something about the itch to scratch.
And then he has to say something like that, with that soft gaze, with the pride, the admiration in his eyes, briefly there. So briefly. She's caught off guard for a moment, before her own smile softens, brown eyes warming, like a sea of caramel to trap him in, "Of course." She replies, stepping up the stairs, unlocking the door before opening it and motion for him to enter. Her gaze instantly looked over the interior, tables arranged, random chairs tucked beneath some, others cozied up around soft pillow piles for guest to lounge in. Fireflies buzzing in their safe little habits for lighting, that would keep them safe during the winter, and a color scheme that made her heartache for the Summer Court, the eternal Summer. The warmth of fire that heated the shop did help to slow her shivering, the typical response when she was forced outside - a fair weather mare in such an icy climate.
She glances towards him.
Her gaze is vulnerable, waiting for his reaction, to see what he thinks, to hear his opinions, as she shifts from hoof to hoof. She's seen many reactions to the shop, but after waiting for so long to get him inside, she suddenly found herself a little anxious to see his response. What if it didn't live up to expectations. What if he, a soldier not afraid of long patrols, found it to quaint, to girly; what if he chose to never come back, to frequent bars again. What if . . . Stop it, Caely. So she drops her gaze, even as ears perk towards him, busying herself with straightening the already straight counter. If only to give her something to do rather than worry about what-ifs, for an opinion she didn't realize she cared about.
And those damn butterflies were back again.
"Speech"
Thoughts
@Boleyn
Notes: I forgot how much he gives her butterflies. O.O The entire time I was reading your post I was like DAYUM. and she was like 'yes, hello, stay a while'.
it must be mine
dynasty decapitated
you just might see a ghost tonight
art by bingo
