No, she's not meant to be here, standing with her hands to his chest as if urging him closer but, at the same time, challenging him to send her away. The words leave his mouth in the form of a plea, but he has no power to rid himself of this haunting dream. And that's what she has desired all these years, to torment him as he has tormented her with a remiss love. "I won't," she murmurs, a small part of her pitying the look in his eyes because she knows he cannot bear to know that she is not a dream but that she is, undoubtedly real. She lifts her hand to place it on the side of his face, cupping his cheek to direct his attention onto her. No, to maintain that contact, to force it. Despite everything he's said, he has yet to move away. That, right there, is the prize. "And we both know it does not matter if you wish me to leave for I remain, Athos. I will always remain. Here, for the taking." But never yours, she wanted to say. Never yours because you would prefer to hurt me than to love me. And, at that, she lowers her hands, readying to walk away if it means letting go of the ties that bind.
If refusal is in her nature then denial is in his -- and the thought is amusing because of how similar they are, how very closely stitched together they have been as if one would unthread without its knot. In simpler terms that he would vehemently argue, one could not exist without the other. She, in his fury, is his greatest tormentor. And he -- God, he is a constant reminder of everything that she has lost.
"Yet here I am," she says, protesting his claim. Yes, she notices how he's the one who has stepped closer toward her thus solidifying his remark -- but she must hold her ground or else the sway of her heart will be too fierce to subdue.
"Not forgetting and of my own volition." Direct challenges always find their way under his skin, and she hopes that he takes the bait if only to prove once more that she wins at every game they play. "Whatever will we do?”
“My father talked of you last night again.” He leaned forward on his desk so that Olivier, seated in front of him, would be the only one to hear it, grinning as if his friend could see. Class would be out soon, but he didn’t want to wait until the bell rang. Looking over Olivier’s shoulder, he saw the teacher at his own desk in the front of the class reading from a book, quietly like he always did.
Whether he decided to answer or not, Charles sat back in his chair, anxious to leave this room so that he could freely talk and as loudly as he pleased. These minor hindrances were damnably inconvenient. Maybe that’s why his father scolded him for his lack of patience. Another reason why his father spoke often of Olivier. There were marked differences between them -- both he and his father could admire.
The bell rang and class was dismissed, and Charles stood up to gather his things. “Want me to relay a message?”
for @fonapola who wanted more of this and for @maimiemccoys who will go down with this ship if i have to drag her myself
The keys linger in his hand, hover just above the lock before he realises there’s no need for them. The door is already unlocked. He can hear voices. Singing, actually. Muffled music can be heard too, although the door is still closed. He recognises the tune though; it’s been on repeat for months at Annabelle’s behest. It’s loud and obnoxious and much too long, from a film with a princess who has ice powers or something- he must have sat through it a hundred times, never able to deny his daughter anything, and he still can’t remember...
Constance, though...
She knows every word. He can hear her, singing along loudly with his daughter. Annabelle hasn’t quite got her mouth around all the words yet and it slurs in places but Constance leads and Annabelle follows. Constance laughs and so does his daughter, bright and light and he can almost see the two of them...
So that’s when he decides to open the door. To find Annabelle jumping on the sofa, a blanket at her shoulders and a wand in her hand. Constance is in the kitchen, cut off from the lounge by the countertop. She lacks a cape, yes, but the spatula she’s using to cook the spaghetti is doubling as her own wand and she turns with a deliberate graceful spin as the music reaches a crescendo...
Olivier finds the smallest of crooked smiles.
“Daddy!”
Annabelle jumps off the sofa (and Olivier notes the care in Constance’s voice as she calls out for the girl to be careful...) He scoops his daughter into his arms, his smile growing, but only slightly.
He’s certain Annabelle knows she is loved. He does wonder how she’ll remember him though, when she’s grown. Her stoic, silent father. Is that how he wants to be known to her?
“Good evening, Anna. I see we’ve been pretending again...”
“Not pretending is boring” Constance turns to them both and smiles as Annabelle giggles and not for the first time, he realises he’s got used to seeing her there when he comes home...
She does this for free. Taking care of Annabelle when he needs to work late (and that’s too often lately). He’s offered to pay her, tells her there’s really no need to cook dinner, he’s a grown man...
She simply rolls her eyes, waves him off, says she doesn’t mind. Annabelle makes good company.
“Besides,” she tells him one day as he drops Annabelle off at the nursery. “You’re a terrible cook.” She smirks, a hint of mischief in her gaze and turns back to the children under her charge who need help with their painting...
She’s expecting him to argue now, he thinks. That’s why she’s facing him, brow raised, hand on hip, daring him to challenge her.
For once, he doesn’t. For once, he kisses his daughter’s cheek, holds her tight and moves to Constance’s side. “What’s for dinner?”
