It is still cold outside, snow falling in white flakes from the sky, covering the last piece of earth. We are sitting by the fire, books in our hands, discussing, and your eyes glisten with something foreign, new-found, something that you have longed for for ages, a partner, an intellect - an equal. Your hands grip my hair and shoulders and the next thing I know is the feeling of your perfect lips on my chapped ones.
(you read Les Misérables to me and I knew from the start that you were my Enjolras, my sun and I was Grantaire following you gladly in death)
You’re a mystery and there’s more to fathom than I first thought. You always try to hide your ancestry and speak a language to lull everyone around you, you’re a predator and they’re your prey but no one notices, they adore you, worship you, enshrine you. I think you’re lonely but when I tell you, you throw your head back, dark locks shining in winter’s sun and your laugh is the most beautiful sound I ever heard.
(we lie awake in tangled sheets, my eyes closed and all I can hear is your voice reading The Great Gatsby ; all I can think about is how Jay never had the chance to attain happiness with Daisy and in the end died lonely. I bury my head in your crook of the neck and when my fist curls firm around the hem of your shirt you don’t comment on it, no you don’t)
We danced around each other too long, felt the attraction between us rising until it reached its climax. Your body fits mine and when we start to move, touch, smell, it’s utter perfection. Utopia. I can feel your fingertips digging in my skin, leaving bruises but I couldn’t care less. You’re mine. I’m yours.
(I’m already half asleep when you start reading Les Liaisons dangereuses, your accent non-existent when you pronounce french words as if you’ve spoken the language by birth. You’re my Vicomte de Valmont and I cut out the thought of Madame de Trouvel which ended up alone)
The first fight comes with spring leaves and mild temperatures. We cannot stop fighting, exchange accusations and sarcastic snarky comments fast enough to outsmart the other one - it’s like we’re two gravelling poles always colliding with our minds and persuasion. Sometimes we don’t talk to each other for hours, but we’ll always come back, don’t we?
(you enter my room in the middle of the night through the window but i’m not really surprised, just tug you in and we lie in the shadows as if we’ve always belonged there - I don’t even know how you got your hands on a book but when you start reading Wuthering Heights I feel an awful lot like Catherine who desperately wanted to see the good in Heathcliff)
Sometimes it’s strange how hard you try to pretend to be everybody’s darling. You’re a gentleman at your finest, flashes a daring smile and everybody seems to eat out of your palms. I know there’s a dark temptation around you, a temper that’s hard to control and sometimes, rarely, I love to push you to your own limits.
(we’re sitting in the bathtub, warm water washing around our bodies and my back and head rest on your chest; your words are a deep rumble and I can feel every breath you take while the story of Elizabeth Bennet and Mr. Darcy fills the walls of the room, resonating like an echo - Pride and Prejudice was never on my favourite book list, though i have to admit that yes, you hide your face behind the mask of a Mr. Darcy pretty well)
There’s a movie on tv and we’re tangled on the couch, your nose buried in the crook of my neck, your arms tight around my waist. I try to get up but you won’t let me go, grumbles against my shoulder and holds me firm, solid. I can feel your breath on my skin but i try to push you away cause i really want to get some crisps to eat. There’s a rumble in your chest and something that sounds an awful lot like three certain words; in the end I stay.
(that night you’re reading The Perfume to me; there couldn’t be any other book which would better fit your obsession, half a year was barely enough time to understand how extremely you love me - when your voice fills my ears I know that if i should die before you, you’d try and find a way to conserve my essence - just like Grenouille)
You’re typing and discussing with the brutality of a bloodhound but the face of an aristocrat and there are times when something shakes your point of view, your calculated arguments. Sometimes your cold facade breaks into little shards and the beast underneath comes out, your rage, the devil inside of you. When you start to shred your papers I merely smile and give you the waste basket to clean up the mess once you finish.
(we lie in the backyard of my parents house, night has long fallen and garden candles are giving barely enough of their light for you to read; your voice stays the same but it feels as if I can hear a difference as soon as you read Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde - I run my fingers through your dark locks, kiss your face and cheeks while you’re reading and you don’t stop but there’s a grateful glance, just a small one; we both know that it’s not easy to fight against yourself, don’t we?)
There’s something wrong with you when you return from your father’s place and I know it the minute you step into the room. You grab me hard and kiss me until my lips start to bleed, butcher them raw while your fingers dig into the place behind my ears as if you want to bruise my skin, mark me. I feel the desperation between our lips so I loop my arms around your neck and try to erase the memory.
(we’re sitting on the couch together, empty boxes of takeout Chinese food at our feet and when you finally decide on a book i’m quite surprised it’s Vanity Fair you’re reading; I knot our hands together and I can feel the smile coming up around the corners of my mouth; you’re George Osborne fighting for Amelia - I understand, I do)
We steal kisses and poems between classes, Oxford is like a home and the library our bedroom where we both walk on common ground. We steal books from each other and make a habit out of a game to outsmart the other one. There’s still rivalry through fiery discussions although there’s so much more now.
(it’s the last day of autumn’s hot sun and sunbeams dance over our skins, we’re lying in the grass on Oxford’s grounds under the giant cherry tree and you’re reading Dante’s Divina Comedia in your perfect Italian tongue, speak vowels with a southern flair; I feel like Beatrice, guiding you through heaven while you wandered through hell so long alone)
Days are getting shorter and nights are getting longer and there’s not enough time shared between classes and work and thesis. As soon as we’re both home we are tangled in each other and for minutes no one can tell us apart. We started to need each other like oxygen, compulsive in love. I blend out the small voice in my head trying to warn me from the madness we’re heading into.
(we’re sitting by the windowsill, feet on feet and a blanket to hold us warm while the last days of autumn and first days of winter pay their tributes; the Picture of Dorian Gray is a cruel piece of literature though it couldn’t describe you better - I cannot forbear to see the little smirk creeping in your voice while reading and the smugness on your perfect juvenile face illuminated from the candles)
My friends invite us to a party and they observe what we don’t notice anymore; your hand is in mine, on my shoulder, the small of my back, my hand on your arm or we’re standing side by side as close that not even a leaf could fit in between. Your eyes search mine, mine search yours and I feel angst when I can’t find the cold grey orbs watching me. Your stare gives me a self confidence I never felt before and when they tell me I’ve changed all I can do is laugh, freely. Freedom is all I ever wanted and I found it in your eyes, touch, voice.
(you avoided Shakespeare long enough and when you finally start to quote Romeo and Juliet by heart, we both already know that it’s just a matter of time until people will see the reflection of doomed lovers in our eyes)
Living with you is like dancing a cruel dance with Death himself. There’s always the narrow stage of getting too close to the edge but you keep saying ‘Go on, one more step’, splitting your face in a thousand different shades. I know that I should be afraid of falling.
(we’re sitting in tangled sheets, naked bodies wrapped up in each other and i can feel your lips against my shoulders, my neck; Machiavelli’s Prince is light in my hands and while I’m reading the words out loud I know that yes, being smart, dark and sneaky is an unbeatable combination)
I was never afraid of heights anyway.
