Her emerald coat hangs a little differently than how he remembered. And he had an excellent memory, particularly of beautiful women. Particularly particularly of the woman he saw so often, so regularly, for so long. Is that the faint outline of her bones? Hips jutting out like stones the river rolled smooth? He frowns, just a little.
The golden paint on her right leg is cracking— it must be old, dried. The cracks reveal slivers of skin he’s never seen before. It is a little thing, but he will remember it for years to come. He smiles, just a little.
She smiles, bright and bold, radiant. Mateo’s never felt so useful in his life as he does now, being able to bring that smile to the world. The weight of it makes him feel fuzzy at the edges, like a poorly remembered dream. He smiles, sweet and charming.
“Language, my Beloved. That’s no way to speak to a Lady, you know.”
He doesn’t hear anything after Beloved. That one word sinks like a barb into his skin. Something awful wonderful, painful beautiful. Poetry unravels in his belly, sudden and sharp as the first snowfall of winter. And like that first snowflake, falling impossibly slow and lonely, the herald of the army to follow, the pieces of his heart fall into place.
And then— time speeds up, and they’re tangled up all sweet and dangerous. He wraps his neck around hers, presses his cheek to her shoulder. Her skin, it smells like something forbidden— no, it is something forbidden. He knows this.
He knows this.
But he can’t help himself. She’s here and now, they’re closer than they’ve ever been and— and— yes she’s forbidden but he lips at her shoulder anyway, a stolen kiss, clumsy and unsure as a colt, because he thinks he might never have the chance again.
The silence that follows then scares him, as it builds with so many possibilities— good and bad— mostly bad— and so he scrambles to fill it with words. “Forgive me, my lady, I forget my gods-damned fucking manners sometimes.” He laughs into her dusty skin. It takes every ounce of self control (which was something he did not possess in spades) not to nip at her skin in playful joy. Not to kiss her again, this time less chaste. “I missed you, Llew. How have you been?” He had gotten so used to how dark and crooked the world had become, the brightness of her presence almost burns.
It is a lovely feeling, this kind of almost-burning. He would not trade it for anything else in the world.
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@Llewelyn
