Chapter Text
viii. │ Eremophobia │ - a fear of being isolated, lonely, or alone ;
…
>>> My darling Eve,
The post-summer city is as lank and chilly as at 6 am after the party: nothing moves at all, not even the sycamores’ crowns and not even the fog blanket; only the birds are floating in the sky-high like tea leaves; only the river keeps gliding smoothly towards the sea as if it’s never had our blood blended with its murky waters.
I hope you’re healthy and well, and take care of yourself. I hope that life folds new music tunes into your headphones and hides wondrous words between the lines of your clever books. I hope you’ve gotten so good about not flinching at the sound of my name that people wouldn’t know you’d still throw yourself mouth-open into this same river for the chance to drown somewhere I might see it.
If you keep searching for the enemy don’t, for if you’re searching for the enemy, you find it in everyone. Take me, for example – I am scared of nothing and no one; I am serene and right, and always seem to know what’s ahead of me. With a torch above my forehead, without a rope or net, I walk a steel string extended between the two towers while those who’re beneath my feet can only yell Fall!fall!fall!fall! How would they know how much my choices cost me? How could they see how many times I howled at the moon, collapsing and dying; woke up in the middle of the night, crying your name out into the darkness? Would they step on the wind when feeling its curve, the way I did? Would they risk everything, as I did? They reckon I am just a lucky fool. But if I reply to them, if I cross-fire, I won’t hold the torch above my eyebrows. If I reply to them, I am dead, for the torch is you.
That’s how one holds the scorpion after killing it – aculeus between the thumb and index finger, - sting me, sting me, sting me. That’s how one walks back from a theatre from a one-actor play that left them heart-broken and tear-stained. That’s how November incepts – always with the drums, like Florence and the Machine.
I’ve learnt a lot, tho, you know. Now I know that a human being is nothing but a mug with a starry sky or a contour map of a night city from the plane porthole. I know that freedom is not to do whatever I want, and not even to not know the oppression, constant fleeing and hunger; freedom is waking up at 3 am, rolling over and bumping into you knowing that I’m right where I’m supposed to be. I also know that any wound heals. And that it’s a bless and pure joy to have met and have known you, my Eve. Because you used to teach me things without knowing it yet with a grace of a sorceress – everything that was related to the power of unobvious and unconventional and ridiculous and absurd I know from you. I’d been honoured to have the supreme intercession and rear – I’d had you as a rebellious angel of my youth.
I have not forgotten you, Eve, even in my ‘death’. How could I even – you’re embroidered on my lungs, twined over my heart. I remember an intricate map of veins on your arms, your fervent laughter and a faded scar near your left shoulder blade. I remember the scent of dark wines from the pubs; remember beacons watching us forgivably, like the orphans; remember the river seething and bubbling, splashing as if the oil on the pan. I remember us together. This counts for everything. This is worth everything. Everything. Everything…
Yet, it’s not enough. Remembering is not enough, Eve.
Because I am almost as old now as you were back then when we met. I was so ashamed to seem childish before you, yet you yourself used to be a child frantically looking where to hide. Still, we were holding tight, we were matching impeccably. Forgetting about the transitionness and contagiousness and rottenness of all kinds of pain…
I still don’t feel like an adult, Eve - barely a child that has been tamed. And I keep breathing without you, but the pain is as sharp as if the air I inhale is powdered glass. I just want murderously simple things: to make you smile again, to make you laugh; to fuck you and to love you. And to love Him. Both of you. Every day. For the rest of our lives.
I’m coming home. I swear that in spite of everything I’m gonna make it back – back to where I can pepper the tops of your precious heads with all the kisses they’ve been robbed of…
x
V.
---
You’ve been waiting for the call for too long. With a hunger of a famished slave who’s been starved for five weeks; with a thirst of a wanderer in a desert who ran out of water five days ago; with a despair of a drowned man who’s been under the ocean for five minutes and is dying for a breath of air. You’ve been waiting for the call and now you turn the key two times counter clockwise, lock the door behind your back and jump into a cab that takes you to the airport. The hood of your jacket poured with fear and anxiety, you stare through the porthole as your plane begins its decent into London, trying to figure out if you have possibly forgotten or not taken into account any important detail; to predict what is to happen; to guess what the new plot and genre of your favourite movie are now. The city greets you, surrounds you with the crumbling towers of your past, with bridges over your head, with paddle steamers in the windows of bookstores, with the trees of gold and the skies of lead and silver. And yes, it’s as if death does not exist in this new chapter. It’s as if you’re nine years old and you’ve finally arrived at your destination, with a backpack as heavy as you at the ready. And there’s neither ice, nor jealousy, nor lie and anguish. Just the feeling of anticipation – of miracles and hugs, of some sacred secrets ahead of you; of a treasure, of a jump. A photo album with pictures of a rainbowy golden lion cub engraved on the pages of your consciousness. That is your omen. You were. You are. This world is real and not fake. This world is waiting for you and you can have it back: the food, the water, the damp air to fill your lungs. The rivers of tears fall down your cheeks.
---
The roaring of your engine reverberates against the brick walls of a front porch and booms above the countryside. Your second thought of pulling over somewhere farther to possibly make your entrance a little less obvious is a wee bit overdue now, but then again, you know there’s a high chance you’d chickened out if you had to make your path longer then it is. In fact, you don’t think you’d make it out of the car. There’re exactly three and a half metres - just a few steps, - separating you from your destination, you really do your best to keep it quiet, but the gravel crunches under the tractor soles of your tread derby lace-ups like the teeth crunch against each other when a boot lands under the jaw. You cringe at the memory of spitting the shards of your own canines, cross the steps all four at a time, knock at the front door so softly you cannot hear it behind the murmur of your own blood in your ears. You wonder if your knock can be heard inside. You secretly (and cowardly) hope that not. You shove both hands into the pockets of your pants – a failure of an attempt to make them stop pathetic trembling, - and stare at the barely noticeable cracks in the paint of the door. Ten seconds pass. Fifteen. Thirty. Forty-five. Oh well. Too bad, so sad. You blow your bangs off your face to the side, very much about to turn on your heels and jump back into your car when the lock clicks and the front door finally flings open in front of your face, making your stomach bottom up.
A mug she’s holding slips out of her hands, meets the white tiled floor and turns it into a mess of colourful pottery and hot brown slurry. As you inhale sharply and step inside in one quick motion, she starts walking backwards, her face turning all the shades of greyish-green as if she’s just seen a ghost. You can’t really blame her for this not exactly very warm greeting now, can you? You shut the door, lean your back against it and freeze, waiting. That puts her on pause as well. And you feel a relief cos the thought of her bare foot stepping on the piece of broken glass, of it slicing her skin makes you sick. To be precise makes you sicker than you already are, for the mixture of nausea and terror and pain your chest is blooming with right now cannot possibly be considered normal.
Like a hurricane, He emerges from the side of the kitchen and halts himself in the middle of the parlour. Two metres away from Eve’s back. Three and a half metres from you. Motionless, like a beautiful shiny doll in a boutique toy store. Bubbling and buzzing under the surface like a blend of chemicals about to react and explode. So real and alive and bright you cannot make yourself look at Him.
You feel like you’re going to drown or turn into a puddle, or just throw up, and the back of your head thuds heavily against the hard surface of the door. Tears treacherously scratch on the back of your eyes. You swallow and feel your throat bob under your skin. Eve doesn’t move, doesn’t even breathe. At the periphery of your eye, knuckles prominently white around the handle of a huge kitchen knife, L’venok breathes heavily, chest raising and falling, and you notice everything as sharp as if you’re on drugs. Flannel scotch plaid onesies under the bathrobe, short hair neat and even, clean white bare feet, pink healthy cheeks peppered with freckles. No rugs for the cloths, no chunks of honey-blonde mane on an unevenly shaved head, no several-month-old dirt under toenails, no hollow cheeks under the way too prominent cheekbones. A marble, domestic, mollycoddle, well-fed and good-looking English boy and not a wild, angry, biting-scratching little creature He was last time you saw Him. Eve hasn’t been wasting her time these two weeks. Eve, the magician. Eve, the keeper. Eve, the Mother. Your knees wobble. You need to do something or you will die right here right now. A mask that’s always worked for both of you slips on your face on its own - your lips curve into a predatory smug grin.
You thought of this moment thousands of times. You wondered if she’d forget you, for when you bump into someone after almost ten years (nine years eight months and five days, at a rough guess), it’s quite possible that each and every cell in your body has been replaced and you’re someone new entirely. And you don’t even need to say hi, for what is the point? You do it anyways. Say hi, that is.
“Hi, Eve.”
Slowly, she goes into motion. Slowly, she steps closer. The blood in your ears thuds and thunders. You expect that Eve will hit you. You expect Eve’s palm hot against your cheek. You expect Eve’s fist heavy against your shoulder, against your chest, your stomach. You expect Eve’s fingernails against the soft skin of your dry as a desert throat. You expect Eve’s eyes to burn with all malignant steel and darkness, all How could you leave me, how could you die on me? You don’t know, you have no idea how I’d been calling for you, screaming for you, silently moving the lips rusty from red wine, not smiling for months, not sleeping for years…
But Eve’s eyes are still the same maple syrup and dark chocolate and black treacle you remember so-so vividly. Eve makes another step closer. Eve sighs. Eve stumbles. Eve collapses right in front of you like a dying star. And you’ve been drowning, drowning, drowning all these years, yet suddenly you’re water and you wrap your arms around Eve’s frame, catch her in your waves. You hold Eve close. You hold Eve tight and hold her soft. Eve’s face falls against the curve of your neck. Eve sobs.
It shouldn’t feel so much. It shouldn’t feel like your body is being thrown into anaphylactic shock with each of your bones breaking within it. Like when your skins touch there’re whole star systems born and exist and burst and explode and die. It shouldn’t, yet here you are, here you are, here you are. Because she is an anthem that the universe sings to keep you alive. Because it’s as if you’ve always been meant to be. As if you’ve been created and craved specifically for each other – out of star dust and ocean foam and fireflies, - all miraculous and impossible. It’s obvious. It couldn’t be otherwise. Eve falls into you, and you catch her, and everything clicks as it should. Your ultimate purpose, A Higher Order of Things.
When L’venok throws His knife, it plunges into the hard wooden surface behind you after flying just centimetres from your face. When He runs up the stairs, two steps at once, the bang of a slamming door is so loud it vibrates through Eve’s body and your ribcage, making your ears ring.
Rainbowy tiny lion cub with a golden halo glow your ass…
---
Hiding in the shades of a hallway, from behind the closed door you cannot hear Eve. She’s whispering. Her whisper is too quiet. All you can hear is Him.
“You told me She was dead!”
He’s yelling at her.
“You’re soooooo stupid, mama!”
He’s yelling at her!
“She lied! She betrayed us! I don’t want Her here! I don’t want Her in my house!”
And He is loud.
“But you’re mine! You’re mine? You’re mine or you’re not?”
He is yelling at her and He is loud. And of course, your first instinct is to exsanguinate and to skin alive, to fire-breath and to annihilate whoever it is that is hurting her. Even if that’s Him. Especially if that’s Him.
“Then I’m gonna kill you both! I’m gonna come when you sleep and kill you both in the face!”
You grind your teeth and don’t move. You grind your teeth and bite on your lip until it splits and starts bleeding, and clench your fists until the knuckles are white and the nails bruise the skin of your palms into eight thin purple crescents. You feel your blood sizzling under your skin. You feel demons stir lazily into their cages where you keep them. Each of them has been discovered by Eve. Each of them has been named by Eve. Each of them has been tucked into sleep by Eve’s hands. Each of them is ready to wake up to kill for her.
“Shut up! Shut up! Shut up!!!”
Rage burns you. It swallows you and chews on you, and it pokes every healed bruise, every patched-up wound, every recuperated fracture. And you’re heaving, shaking, boiling, ready to burst into the room, ready to gnaw into a throat. And the sound of the doorknob of an opening door is like a bucket of iced water splashed into your face – makes you retreat noiselessly back into the shadows.
She finds you in the kitchen, prompted on a barstool at the kitchen island, hands clenching on the half-melted bucket of ice cream. She hugs you from behind, nuzzles her face in the deep between your shoulder blades, releases a shuddering breath. You don’t need to see her face to know her eyes are red and wet. She doesn’t need to see yours to know you look like you’re about to lose your mind.
“You can’t blame Him for this. Don’t,” comes tiredly from her chest, cracks her voice into pieces.
She kisses your neck where it meets the back of your head, freezes there for a moment and excuses herself to eliminate the mess left in the parlour.
When the door squeaks open and you peak into a room, He’s curled into a ball on the floor, palms pressed over His eyes. He’s so much bigger than He was last time you shared space this close to each other. He’s so much smaller than you imagined He is when watching Him from behind the tinted glass of your SUV, fighting for His life halfway around the world. He’s so small your heart throws itself painfully against ribcage and starts bleeding.
“I told you to kno -…” rattles deep in His chest as He wipes His nose with the edge of His sleeve, but His unfocused eyes squint on the metal toe-cap of your shoes and He stops mid-sentence.
“I like you L’venok, but I don’t like you that much. If you speak to her like that again, I’m gonna cut your long tongue shorter.”
You watch Him swallow hard without looking back at you, watch His bottom lip twitch just so slightly. Your heart makes another attempt to break through your ribs and muscles to get to Him. All the demons inside you are fighting with each other over who’s gonna be the first one to reach Him and pull Him into a hug. You turn on your heels and leave the room, quietly shutting the door behind your back.
Eve sets up the guest room for you, which is cute, all things considered.
And then you talk downstairs until late at night. Things that matter kept unspoken, hidden between the meaningless lines and lies, nested under the layers of tension that could be cut with a knife. Or an axe. Whatever your weapon of choice is. As if you ever had choice.
After the shower, she finds you still glued to the living room window, gazing over the darkened front porch, nurturing a double-walled glass of whisky.
“I’ve always loved this house. Kept dreaming of it all these years: the pines crowding around it, the kitchen with the smell of your lemon meringue pie, the nursery with the stars and moons from His night-lamp, Egyptian cotton sheets on the bed in our bedroom. Your bedroom.”
“It’s still yours, you know. All of it,” she calls back quietly from somewhere behind you and when you turn your face from the window and stare at her, eyes wide with awe and surprise, she shrugs and laughs, short and harsh. “Living here without you was like living in the centre of a rotting wound. Your absence turned into something tangible, something visible. Not having you with us was like a highlighted emptiness of a picture where someone cut out a figure precisely with a scalpel, and now that missing figure is what matters more, much more than all the others that are left.”
“Yeah,” you shudder out and purse your lips, look around at the dark wooden furniture, bring your face back to the window. Your forehead leans against the cold glass surface to help you carry the weight of the head that is all of a sudden too heavy. “Sorry about that.”
You hear her approaching you, coming to stand next to you.
“I’m glad you’re back. Because you are back, right?” you feel her staring expectantly at the side of your head.
“Yeah,” your murmur is barely audible, and you marvel at your own eloquence tonight. Eve’s hand reaches your jaw, cradles it in her palm, making you face her, making you look at her. Look at her.
“I need to know that you are really back, Villanelle. Because I cannot do this again. I cannot do this to Him,” her thumb swipes over your cheekbone and you find yourself nodding vigorously, because yes-yes-yes, and you are – you are – you are, and omg-she-just-called-you-by-your-name.
“I am, Eve. I am really back.”
She takes a deep breath, lets it out slowly. Moves away from the window tugging you by your hand, and you have no other choice but to follow her, to sit down on the couch next to her, your thighs brushing against each other, like the two flints kindling fire.
“I want to talk about us then,” she says firmly and, in her eyes, locked on you, you see that she made a decision – to let you try again, to let you be together again. To let you be His mother together with her. And you have so many questions, like Aren’t you angry or How can you take me back and Don’t you think I betrayed you, but the only thing you can do is nod stupidly and stare at her with a deranged look in your eyes.
“I am angry with you. I am furious,” she starts slowly and quietly. “I couldn’t imagine looking at Him without seeing you.”
Oh. You exhale sharply, try not to fidget with the stem of your whisky glass too much. Eve’s hand reaches out, tangles your fingers together. “It was super hard to keep from Him how unspeakably lonely I was. How sad I was all the time. Because how could I explain to the child why I has all these heavy feelings in my chest even after years, why I was suppressing a panic attack when just passing by Tower Bridge? Do you know how exhausting and draining it was watching Him growing into a carbon copy of you? It’s mourning, mourning, just mourning constantly. Grieving the idea of what could have been, but what will never-ever be, because I couldn’t save it.”
You shake your head, not capable of finding any words: to describe all the shades of pain you feel about it, to tell her that you know you know you know everything about this cold and blank state of mind and soul, this feeling of melting into your own personal breakdown. That you know what it is when you keep questioning yourself about what you further are supposed to do and how you further are supposed to exist; what parts of you, exactly, are still performing their functions at all, and performing them properly, without any malfunctioning. And what it’s like to not be able to find the answers. Like at all.
You stare at your own glass of whisky instead of at Eve, swirling the liquid slowly.
“I think - ,” she says quietly and you catch notes of despair in her voice. “I think, one of the reasons I sent Him away was because He got to become so much like you and it was like the world just kept falling on my shoulders and I had no idea what to do about it...”
Her breath hitches on the confession and you cannot stand it anymore. You bring your finger under her chin, tilt her head upwards until your eyes meet. “I’m sorry you felt like this. I’m sorry. But I had to, Eve. You might not understand, but I had to. I couldn’t not to - ”
“I know,” Eve mutters in a rush. “I don’t know the reasons but I know you had them. That’s why I want this. That’s why the moment I saw you in the doorway, after all these years, it felt like I’d always known this would happen, like I’d always been waiting for you to come back. And it makes sense, cos I couldn’t be possible alive if you were really dead. I want our life back. Not this nuclear winter without you. I want our life back!”
You manage an awkward, abashed smile. “I want it too. I want it too. I left cos I wanted it safe and I am back cos I want it back. Because it’s mine. Because it’s ours…” She smiles back understandingly and you see tears glimmering in her eyes like constellations and galaxies.
Eve takes the glass from your hands, places it on the table, shifts closer to you on the couch. Both of her hands frame your face, thumbs brushing over your lips, over your cheekbones. Your eyes urge to close, to melt into perfection and softness of the touch, but you manage to keep them open, to keep looking looking looking at her. Eve bridges the space between you, brings your lips together. Starts kissing you, slowly and tenderly. Then stares at you again. Like only she can - as if you’re the sun and the moon and the stars and the world itself. You shorten the distance and kiss her back. Again. And again. And again. And again. You take her face into your hands. And again. And again. And again. She pulls you close, closer, the closest. And again.
You break apart gasping for air, almost suffocating, foreheads leaning into each other.
“Wow,” Eve whispers breathlessly and you chuckle under your breath, your fingertips running up and down Eve’s arms, feeling the goosebumps run through her at your touch.
“It’s been a while, right?” you grin at her because nine years eight months and five days (at a rough guess) is a very long time for someone. Nine years eight months and five days is a lifetime for L’venok. Nine years eight months and five days is nothing for your and Eve’s love. Nothing. You would have waited a century for this. An aeon.
“Yeah,” Eve says, her eyes scanning your face frantically, fingers already playing with the lapels of your blazer. “Fuck, I missed you so much.” Her head dips and she places kisses along your jaw, back to where it meets your neck. And you gasp, because you haven’t felt this electricity blooming from the places where Eve’s lips touch your skin forever. And it’s too much, it’s too much. You feel like you’re gonna burn. You force your hands to pause, squeeze Eve’s knees.
“Is that… Is that all you wanted to talk about?”
Eve pulls away, looks at you with sparkling eyes. Covers your hands with her palms. “No, of course, it’s not,” she takes your hands, raises them to her lips and kisses your wrists and palms, and smiles at you. “But we can do it later. In the morning. Or in the afternoon. Because we have time now. We finally have time again. But right now…” her fingers crawl to the buttons of your shirt, excruciatingly slowly. “Now I cannot think about anything cos all I know is that I want you, and I want you to want me back.”
Your breath hitches. Your heart stops under the palm pressed to your chest, under the fingers hovering over your button. “I want you,” your mouth is dry and you can barely hear yourself. “But are you… Are you sure?”
The top button of your shirt pops open and wet kisses pepper the newly exposed skin. And if that itself is not enough of a confirmation for you, Eve whispers tenderly “Then take me to bed, Villanelle.” And you’re burning burning burning, but you’d sell your soul for this any time, you’d die for this again. “Take me to bed.”
You kiss her then. Feverishly. Hungrily. Making her fingers pause on your buttons. Making her moan into your open mouth. You get on your feet pulling her with you, tug her behind you upstairs, to the guest bedroom, because you’re not ready to go to your own. Not yet. And when you’re there, you make sure you take your time – you don’t think you trust your memory of her.
Eve settles herself on the edge of the bed and you step between her legs, threading your fingers through her hair. Her amazing, beautiful hair, which still drives you insane, after all these years. Your hands pass down her back to the hem of her t-shirt and she lifts her arms above her head. You don’t break your eye contact as you remove her shirt, as she removes her bra underneath it. And you watch your hands as they slide over Eve’s abdomen, over the well-defined muscles. Has she always been like this? Has she worked out harder without you? Your palms cup her breasts, thumbs brush over her nipples and even her biting on her lip doesn’t stifle a moan. You slide your knees onto the bed, straddle her hips, sink onto her lap. Feel the way her thighs flex beneath your own, jerk towards you in anticipation.
“It’s been a long time,” she exhales as her hands return to your buttons again, working hastily, releasing you from your blazer and shirt that slips from your shoulders. She takes her time taking off your bra. Freezes for several long moments, her gaze on your breasts. Naked and exposed in front of her, your skin tingles with sparks of electricity.
“Gosh, I missed your tits,” Eve licks her lips, eyes flicking from your chest up to your face, and leans forward, takes your right nipple in her mouth. You groan and moan and ground your hips against Eve at the sight of her lips closed tight, at the feeling of her tongue moving over you. She hums appreciatively against your skin, sucks harder.
You don’t think your brain is capable of any coherent thought as Eve releases your nipple, switches attention to the other one. Her hands move down your sides to the waistband of your pants and it takes a moment for your brain to un-fog, to register that she’s stopped, that her lips have left your skin and her gaze is now focused there. All the heat you share between you lessens for a moment. You bring your hands back to her hair, press your lips to her forehead.
She traces the faint ivory marks on your lower abdomen with her fingertips, voice cracking as she whispers “That’s L’venok.”
“Yeah,” you hum against her skin.
One of her fingers moves up then, repeats the line of the scar on your stomach. “And that’s me.”
“Yeah, that’s you.”
“I almost forgot about this,” Eve looks up at you with her dark chocolate eyes glimmering with tears again. “You’ve been carrying us with you all this time.” She lays her warm palm flat against your skin, fingers spread, trying to cover all the marks. You take her other hand and put it over your heart, cover her hands with both of yours and press. So hard that the pressure actually hurts, and you’re probably crushing Eve’s fingers.
“Yes, I’ve been carrying you with me all this time.”
She pulls you into embrace, bare skin pressing to bare skin, and it’s the first time since before you got pregnant with L’venok that there’s no one between you.
You take a deep breath, pull away from Eve - you need to see her, need to see her eyes again. You raise her face, trace the line of her jaw, her cheekbone, her lips. “You’re so-so beautiful, Eve,” and your voice is low and rough, but she smiles at you, kisses the digits of your fingers as they swipe over her mouth again.
“You too,” she sighs. “You’re still the most beautiful person in the whole world. Mine.”
You feel your heartbeat start racing and your cheeks burning. “Say it again.”
“Mine.”
“Yours,” you moan against her lips as your fingers unfasten your pants before reaching the waistband of Eve’s. “Off,” you groan and tug at the fabric. All of a sudden, it’s unbearable for you to have any clothes between you. You know you’re gonna explode if you don’t feel Eve’s naked body against your own. You know you’re gonna die.
When all of your clothes are finally removed, you lay on your side and pull Eve next to you – as close as you can. You want to feel her. You want your bodies to melt into one another the way they always used to.
“I never thought I’d be with you again. I’d have died to have you with me one more time,” she murmurs into your collarbone. Her palm strokes firmly down your side to your hip, tugs as she rolls on her back. You don’t need to be said twice – you shift to lie between her legs, your hand keeping your weight above Eve. Your other hand starts drawing invisible patterns over her chest and she arches her back into the touch, tilts her head back onto the pillow. You bend your head to her right breast, curl your tongue around her nipple.
“I missed you,” you whisper, pausing between the kisses you leave down her abdomen. “I missed you so much, Eve.” You shift down Eve’s body centimetre by centimetre, and Eve’s body trembles every time your lips brush her skin. “Impatient,” you say teasingly, looking up from Eve’s hip to capture her gaze and she huffs a quiet laugh.
“It’s been too long,” her fingers tangle into your hair and you shiver.
“Never again,” you shift a few centimetres lower, inhale the smell of Eve’s arousal and it makes you drunk and high, and it makes your mouth water. “I will never leave you again.”
You do not let her reply – press your tongue flat against her. And she cries out, fists the hair on the back of your head almost painfully. You see her other hand fisting the sheets and move your own up to grasp at the clutching fingers. As if she’s your life. Because she’s your life.
You still crave Eve’s body, crave its warmth and proximity, so even though you would have gladly spent your life between Eve’s legs, you wait until she starts whimpering and moaning under the soft movements of your tongue, and let your hand take over from your mouth, rubbing slow circles over her and waiting patiently for Eve’s eyes to find yours. You want to ask something, but when they do, you totally forget what it is, captivated by her depth and beauty. Eve’s lips are parted slightly, cheekbones dusted with a hint of pink. Eve’s eyes are hooded and she is so fucking beautiful you feel yourself flying.
“Baby?” Eve murmurs before you can find your voice again. She brings her hand up to brush your bangs from your eyes, rolls herself against your hand.
You clear your throat, Eve’s movement reminding you of your question. “Do you… Do you want me inside?”
“Do you really need to ask?” Eve laughs out immediately. “Yes, Vil. Please,” and she rolls herself against your palm once more, and it’s like an earthquake for you, like a hurricane raging under your skin. You slip two fingers into her, a groan rumbling in your own chest as a soft cry leaves Eve’s lips. She cants her hips into your hand and you find a spot at the base of her neck, the one you know is sensitive, and nuzzle your face into it. Your teeth graze over Eve’s skin and her hips twitch. You pull away, look into her face once more with a smug as fuck grin on your own.
“Is that what you missed?”
“Don’t you dare stop!” she orders and who you are not to obey when it is Eve who orders you? She groans when you bury your face into her neck again. You move slowly, keep the rhythm of her thrusting hips. You can feel her muscles tighten around your fingers, can taste the sweat on the pulse point below Eve’s jaw.
“I’ve got you,” you whisper in Eve’s ear as she starts shaking beneath you. “I love you, Eve. I love you so much. I’ve got you.”
You pull back enough to see her face. Her eyes fluttering open and closed, her cheeks flushed. Her parted lips enchant you and you kiss her as her body pulses to stillness. You remove your fingers slowly, brush them over Eve’s skin, and each touch elicits ripples and twitches in Eve’s body.
She breaks the kiss with a sigh that makes you laugh softly. You shift onto your side to lie next to her, head propped on your right hand, your left moving up and down Eve’s abdomen and chest. She turns on her side to face you, brings her thumb to your face to brush off the tears you didn’t realise were rolling down your cheeks. You don’t understand how you managed to find the strength to leave her. You wonder if there was another option, another way of saving them. You know you couldn’t stay. You know, you couldn’t save them by staying, and yet. All these lost years…
“Stop. Stop doing it,” she runs her fingers through your hair. “You’re here now. And that’s the only thing that matters.”
Your lips twitch but you smile at her. And she smiles back.
“And besides. You know what?” she reaches over with her hand and strokes her nails down your side. You shiver as goosebumps rise under her touch.
“What?”
Eve’s hand moves around your hip, grazes the sensitive skin of your inner thigh. You feel your pulse increase. “It’s my turn.”
She pushes you on your back and you melt under her touch. And you lose yourself in the soft caresses of Eve’s arms, Eve’s fingers, Eve’s tongue. And you think it’s enough. You think there’s nothing more in this world you need. Nothing.
When the sound of a closing door from the hallways wakes you up, the sun isn’t even near to raising in the sky. You look at your phone: 5 am. You hear the carpet rustle under His feet somewhere near Eve’s bedroom. You hear Him take several steps and freeze. You almost feel His presence behind the closed door into the room where you are, with Eve sleeping peacefully, nestled into your side, her head resting on your shoulder. You also feel Him retreating, increasing the distance between you. As if the abyss, the void you have there now is not already too much. You think you’re a liar and a hypocrite, for Eve is not enough. Eve is not the only thing you need in this world. There’s something else. Someone else. Someone who used to be sealed under your vertex, amalgamated into your retina. Someone who used to be exclusively yours – with His roots in your temporal lobe, your central nervous system, - but not anymore. And you think you have no idea where to start getting this someone back. No fucking idea.
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