Unadulterated RP sap
Nov. 8th, 2013 01:09 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
someonetowatchoveryou((Reposting and kind of AU continuation of the post made here, on fabula(e)_victoriana))
Had the boarding house ever received so many bouquets and arrangements of flowers? They’re all addressed to the same recipient, as well: ‘The Gentleman Without Hair.’ Maybe someday he’ll tell this person his name and put an end to these awkward address labels. They start out with the typical well-wishing blooms, a few ‘thinking of you’ arrangements, and slowly become filled with delicate purple and pink flowers proclaiming burgeoning feelings of affection or, dare we say it, even love.
Every time these flowers and plants are delivered, he calmly brings them to his room until finally his end of that hallway starts smelling like a florist’s shoppe. He has carefully recorded all of them—what kinds of flowers, how many, when they were sent, et cetera. He’s discovered, somewhere along the line, that this is a form of nonverbal communication. It fascinates him that someone he scarcely knows would be sending protestations of love.
Then again, he barely interacted with the people he observed and yet he’d come to love them. Perhaps he was being observed.
Love fascinates him, after all. It’s such a multifaceted thing that he suspects he could spend the rest of his life studying it and never fully understand it. Its energy is so vast that it can even affect physics—merge universes, bring back people who were supposedly obliterated from existence, change memories. It could influence people to tear holes in time and space, awaken abilities, and even cause one to abandon one’s entire way of life, betray one’s people. It can heal and it can harm, make a person live or kill them.
Occasionally these realizations steal his breath and leave him a trifle dizzy. He assumes it’s just the lingering weariness from an entire month of lycanthropy, not to mention the encounter with that… whatever it was… on Halloween night. Without his peoples’ technology, he will have to recover naturally, which takes time.
It leaves him with a lot of opportunity for introspection.
He usually does his introspecting in a private manner, spending hours on end walking alone or reading everything he can find on social interactions and taking copious notes. He doesn’t quite know how to phrase any questions he might have, let alone who he might ask them of. So he does his solitary research and thinking and no-one is any the wiser.
Until now.
In the latest batch of flowers, he’s received a note asking him in a very roundabout manner to meet this person at the café on her day off. He has no idea what to do. He cannot conceive of what he might say or do if he met with her… but he knows that if he does not do so, it will be taken as an insult.
He paces up and down slowly, his expressionless gaze distant, the note in his hand. But anyone who knows him would swear he was agitated.
The day wears on and eventually he leaves the house, making his way down the street and through the town in his usual quiet, unobtrusive manner. People wouldn’t really suspect anything was wrong just by looking at him, and the person he is meeting certainly doesn’t appear to suspect anything, either.
He steps inside the café, removing his hat, like he always does. When they spot each other, her face lights up. He has no idea how to react to that. However, he does cross the room and slip himself into the chair on the other side of the table from her, placing his hat on the table.
“Hello, Mary.” His head tilts to the side instinctively. “You wished to see me.”
“Yes,” she answers. “I do, and I’m glad you came.” Her gaze drops and he can tell that she’s thinking. Her hands are clasped on the table like his are, but are not as still as his are. She looks up at him again. “I…” she starts, and then stops, looking for the words again.
He cannot say he’s a stranger to this kind of reaction, but he has no idea how to encourage her to speak her mind. Still, he knows that he’ll have to do this, given the society that she’s grown up in. His head tilts again. “What is it you wish to say?” he asks softly.
Her cheeks flush. “I… shouldn’t ask, but I want to know… why you’ve never told me your name.”
He blinks. It’s simply never occurred to him to volunteer the information, and she hasn’t directly asked. Until, that is, now, with her hands fidgeting and her eyes watching him.
“I am called September,” he murmurs, and it occurs to him that he really should come up with a pseudonym… for… his pseudonym. His eyes find hers again and he can tell she’s puzzled by the answer. “It is… a designation that was given to me.”
Her gaze turns warm and somewhat sad. He’s seen this look on peoples’ faces before. She is… saddened by what she’s heard. Poor man. Maybe he was an orphan, he hears. He can’t bring herself to correct that assumption, seeing as the truth would be too outlandish for people of this era to process without thinking he was completely insane and interfering with his observation.
He gaze drops again and a shy smile crosses her features. “It’s… a lovely month. September. I think it suits you.”
“How so?” he asks curiously.
“Spring months are full of violent weather and summer months are overbearing and uncomfortable. But the early autumn is… quiet and warm and… gentle. And a little bit sad. It knows all things die.” Her hand moves forward and covers his.
He gives the smallest of gasps at the touch, sensing… everything. Her fingers are warm against his and he senses her reaction to his touch, that his fingers feel gentle and warm and somehow right. She wants to leave this place with him and find somewhere quiet that they might talk, but it is unthinkable for her to ask him—such things are not allowed. So she hopes that she communicates this intent nonverbally.
A strange wave of warm dizziness washes over him, creating a small, coiled tightness in his chest that he somehow knows is not from illness. Is it… emotion? He takes a deep breath, attempting to dispel that sensation. He is curious to know what she wants to speak with him about in a quieter place. “I suspect… this conversation may be better conducted somewhere quieter,” he murmurs and the smile that crosses her face is less shy, now.
“I’d be delighted, Mister September,” she answers. “I know just the place, if you’ll come with me.”
Despite this being a very nineteenth-century town, no-one appears to even bat an eye at the concept of the two leaving the café and walking off together. There’s no whispering, no disapproving gazes, no running off to spread the gossip. He’s suspected that Mary is not exactly a paragon of Victorian propriety, and this only cements the idea. She’s headstrong. Independent. She had, at one point, mentioned not having any family after her parents died a few years ago.
The thought that she is alone does not occur to him any time soon, though, not even when she impulsively loops her arm around his. He does notice, however, another moment of quivering warmth in his chest, and picks up that she is realizing that he feels good, whatever that means. He nearly misses one of his objectives, but stops just in time.
She looks at him, puzzled. “Are you all right, Mister September?”
He gently disentangles himself. “Please wait here,” he says quietly, and turns, walking briskly through the door of the florist’s that he’d stopped so abruptly in front of. While inside perusing flowers, he happens to look out the window and sees her standing right where he left her, her hands behind her back, rocking a bit on her heels and biting her lower lip. He wonders vaguely what that means. The shopkeeper, on the other hand, knows exactly what it means and begins suggesting item after item after item. He gets a blank stare from the Observer in question but eventually September does make a purchase and steps back out again.
Silently, he hands her what he bought: a small group of purple and gold pansies, a spray of blue love-in-the-mist, a single salmon-pink kennedia. She takes the small bouquet carefully, her head tilting in a manner very similar to his. A smile crosses her face. “Thank you,” she whispers, and slips her arm around his again.
It seems as though his attempt is a success, but that does not calm the jittery feeling of his insides twitching, nor the sweat on his palms and face, nor the ringing in his ears. She does the navigating, gently steering him down the street and out of the town proper, into a rather pretty wooded area still clinging to a bit of verdure. Moss clings to the trees like whimsical brushstrokes and multicoloured leaves still hang from the branches. Grass pokes up from the crunchy brown carpet on the forest floor. Mary looks up at September and smiles.
“This is my favourite time to go to the forest,” she says, her soft voice still audible over the crunching of the leaves under their feet. “There’s a balance between life and death here that I find poignant. It always reminds me how grateful I am to be alive.” She stops and disentangles herself, opting to take his hands in hers, instead. “And how grateful I am to be alive with someone like you.”
Between the contact of her hands in his and of looking into her eyes, her thoughts hit him in a giddy rush. In that instant he learns more about her personality than anyone could in a lifetime of conversation—her hopes and fears, the warmth of her gentle soul… it causes his chest and throat to tighten up, tingling at the corners of the jaw. He swallows.
Her expression changes. “Are you ill?” she asks.
“I…” He stops, words having fled. She leads him to a large glacial stone that looks as though a great many people have taken advantage of the fact that it is the exact right height and size to serve as a bench and sits, gently pulling him down beside her. Once he is there, she rests a hand on his shoulder.
“I am not… ill….” He manages to say. Her head tilts, so like his often does. “I… my… thoughts are… conflicted,” he continues, “and that has created… a physical response that I… do not understand.”
She looks forward for a beat, gazing out into the trees, silence surrounding both of them, and when she looks back at him, her gaze dropping for a moment, she smiles slightly. “You’re unaccustomed to emotion, aren’t you?” she asks tenderly.
“Yes,” he answers.
There’s a beat as she lifts her hand, curled in a loose fist, and then reaches toward him, placing it against his chest, fingers spreading. It’s warm and gentle there. He blinks, looking into her eyes again. The notion that he feels good flits through her mind again before she schools her thoughts.
“It feels strange, doesn’t it?” she asks. “Your heart is pounding, I can feel it. You’re trembling. You feel as though you can’t breathe properly. You feel as though you’re going to faint.”
“Yes,” he whispers.
“So do I.” Her eyes are wide, pupils slightly dilated, and locked with his. “I can’t fathom why I’ve fallen for you, sir, but… I can’t fathom not having done so, now. I feel as though I know you completely, that these few moments have been a lifetime.”
He takes a breath to speak and she places the forefinger of her other hand against his lips.
“It’s terribly improper of me,” she says. “But Papa always told me that propriety is for those without a thought in their head or a dream in their heart.” The hand moves to the side of his face, fingers brushing against his cheek and ear before the palm settles around his jawline. He shivers—he’s never been touched like this before. Her other hand is still on his chest, as though attempting to calm his racing pulse and heavy breaths. A sensation like slow voltage wicks through his skin at her touch and he is so warm as to feel almost fevered.
“I know you weren’t born here,” she murmurs, “though I don’t know where you’re from. I’ve seen a lot of the visitors from other places and you’re… unique.” She draws closer, the hand staying on his chest as though to keep him in place. She removes the other hand from his face and gently takes one of his hands. “I couldn’t take my eyes off of you ever since the first time I saw you. I could just tell… yours is an old and wise and kind soul. It’s in your eyes. And I wanted to tell you this with words, because the only other way to tell you is…” She trails off, trembling as well. “Is….”
He blinks and realizes that they are only a couple inches apart. Her nearness and its energy make his throat dry up and his stomach flutter. He wonders why people subject themselves to such sensations. His system is flooded with adrenaline and yet he has absolutely no intention of fighting or fleeing. His fingers curl around hers.
Impulsively, she leans in the rest of the way and gently, tenderly, presses her lips to his. His eyes go wide for an instant, but only for an instant as something warm uncoils in his chest. They stay there and his gaze goes unfocussed, eyes slipping shut. He has no idea what to do, where to put his hands, and they waver slowly and aimlessly for a moment, her right hand still in his left, before his right hand comes up and covers hers on his chest. Another beat passes.
They pull away slowly. His eyes flick open again and he sees her smiling up at him, her cheeks scarlet. His pulse is no longer racing, and his breathing is still heavy but slow, now.
“You’re a little calmer, at least,” she says softly, her smile tender. “Perhaps I could kiss away your fear.”
His mouth opens but words fail him. Such a thing should not be possible and yet… and yet… the physical evidence is there. He looks down at her hand on his chest and his hand laid over hers. He was afraid, he realizes that, now. And the simple touch of her lips turned that fear into warmth. He blinks a few times, analyzing the sensation. Endorphins. He is awash in adrenaline and endorphins and suddenly he does know why humans do these things despite the fight-or-flight reaction. The rapid changes in brain chemistry are very like Walter’s descriptions of ‘being high.’ He knows these things intellectually, recognizes the cause and effect, cross-references that with the idea of pleasure.
He wonders what would happen if they did that again. Her hand slips upward from his chest to the back of his neck and as she pulls him toward her, he leans in ever so slightly. Her fingers trace along the back of his head as her lips press, soft and heated, against his. Even though he remains very still, she can feel him melting ever so slightly. This much warmth has never been this pleasant before, he notes. These thoughts swirl into each other until they can both feel what the other is feeling, if only for a moment.
When they pull away again, she slips an arm around him. He remains silent, but his own arm curls around her almost of its own accord. They let the silence cover them.
Had the boarding house ever received so many bouquets and arrangements of flowers? They’re all addressed to the same recipient, as well: ‘The Gentleman Without Hair.’ Maybe someday he’ll tell this person his name and put an end to these awkward address labels. They start out with the typical well-wishing blooms, a few ‘thinking of you’ arrangements, and slowly become filled with delicate purple and pink flowers proclaiming burgeoning feelings of affection or, dare we say it, even love.
Every time these flowers and plants are delivered, he calmly brings them to his room until finally his end of that hallway starts smelling like a florist’s shoppe. He has carefully recorded all of them—what kinds of flowers, how many, when they were sent, et cetera. He’s discovered, somewhere along the line, that this is a form of nonverbal communication. It fascinates him that someone he scarcely knows would be sending protestations of love.
Then again, he barely interacted with the people he observed and yet he’d come to love them. Perhaps he was being observed.
Love fascinates him, after all. It’s such a multifaceted thing that he suspects he could spend the rest of his life studying it and never fully understand it. Its energy is so vast that it can even affect physics—merge universes, bring back people who were supposedly obliterated from existence, change memories. It could influence people to tear holes in time and space, awaken abilities, and even cause one to abandon one’s entire way of life, betray one’s people. It can heal and it can harm, make a person live or kill them.
Occasionally these realizations steal his breath and leave him a trifle dizzy. He assumes it’s just the lingering weariness from an entire month of lycanthropy, not to mention the encounter with that… whatever it was… on Halloween night. Without his peoples’ technology, he will have to recover naturally, which takes time.
It leaves him with a lot of opportunity for introspection.
He usually does his introspecting in a private manner, spending hours on end walking alone or reading everything he can find on social interactions and taking copious notes. He doesn’t quite know how to phrase any questions he might have, let alone who he might ask them of. So he does his solitary research and thinking and no-one is any the wiser.
Until now.
In the latest batch of flowers, he’s received a note asking him in a very roundabout manner to meet this person at the café on her day off. He has no idea what to do. He cannot conceive of what he might say or do if he met with her… but he knows that if he does not do so, it will be taken as an insult.
He paces up and down slowly, his expressionless gaze distant, the note in his hand. But anyone who knows him would swear he was agitated.
The day wears on and eventually he leaves the house, making his way down the street and through the town in his usual quiet, unobtrusive manner. People wouldn’t really suspect anything was wrong just by looking at him, and the person he is meeting certainly doesn’t appear to suspect anything, either.
He steps inside the café, removing his hat, like he always does. When they spot each other, her face lights up. He has no idea how to react to that. However, he does cross the room and slip himself into the chair on the other side of the table from her, placing his hat on the table.
“Hello, Mary.” His head tilts to the side instinctively. “You wished to see me.”
“Yes,” she answers. “I do, and I’m glad you came.” Her gaze drops and he can tell that she’s thinking. Her hands are clasped on the table like his are, but are not as still as his are. She looks up at him again. “I…” she starts, and then stops, looking for the words again.
He cannot say he’s a stranger to this kind of reaction, but he has no idea how to encourage her to speak her mind. Still, he knows that he’ll have to do this, given the society that she’s grown up in. His head tilts again. “What is it you wish to say?” he asks softly.
Her cheeks flush. “I… shouldn’t ask, but I want to know… why you’ve never told me your name.”
He blinks. It’s simply never occurred to him to volunteer the information, and she hasn’t directly asked. Until, that is, now, with her hands fidgeting and her eyes watching him.
“I am called September,” he murmurs, and it occurs to him that he really should come up with a pseudonym… for… his pseudonym. His eyes find hers again and he can tell she’s puzzled by the answer. “It is… a designation that was given to me.”
Her gaze turns warm and somewhat sad. He’s seen this look on peoples’ faces before. She is… saddened by what she’s heard. Poor man. Maybe he was an orphan, he hears. He can’t bring herself to correct that assumption, seeing as the truth would be too outlandish for people of this era to process without thinking he was completely insane and interfering with his observation.
He gaze drops again and a shy smile crosses her features. “It’s… a lovely month. September. I think it suits you.”
“How so?” he asks curiously.
“Spring months are full of violent weather and summer months are overbearing and uncomfortable. But the early autumn is… quiet and warm and… gentle. And a little bit sad. It knows all things die.” Her hand moves forward and covers his.
He gives the smallest of gasps at the touch, sensing… everything. Her fingers are warm against his and he senses her reaction to his touch, that his fingers feel gentle and warm and somehow right. She wants to leave this place with him and find somewhere quiet that they might talk, but it is unthinkable for her to ask him—such things are not allowed. So she hopes that she communicates this intent nonverbally.
A strange wave of warm dizziness washes over him, creating a small, coiled tightness in his chest that he somehow knows is not from illness. Is it… emotion? He takes a deep breath, attempting to dispel that sensation. He is curious to know what she wants to speak with him about in a quieter place. “I suspect… this conversation may be better conducted somewhere quieter,” he murmurs and the smile that crosses her face is less shy, now.
“I’d be delighted, Mister September,” she answers. “I know just the place, if you’ll come with me.”
Despite this being a very nineteenth-century town, no-one appears to even bat an eye at the concept of the two leaving the café and walking off together. There’s no whispering, no disapproving gazes, no running off to spread the gossip. He’s suspected that Mary is not exactly a paragon of Victorian propriety, and this only cements the idea. She’s headstrong. Independent. She had, at one point, mentioned not having any family after her parents died a few years ago.
The thought that she is alone does not occur to him any time soon, though, not even when she impulsively loops her arm around his. He does notice, however, another moment of quivering warmth in his chest, and picks up that she is realizing that he feels good, whatever that means. He nearly misses one of his objectives, but stops just in time.
She looks at him, puzzled. “Are you all right, Mister September?”
He gently disentangles himself. “Please wait here,” he says quietly, and turns, walking briskly through the door of the florist’s that he’d stopped so abruptly in front of. While inside perusing flowers, he happens to look out the window and sees her standing right where he left her, her hands behind her back, rocking a bit on her heels and biting her lower lip. He wonders vaguely what that means. The shopkeeper, on the other hand, knows exactly what it means and begins suggesting item after item after item. He gets a blank stare from the Observer in question but eventually September does make a purchase and steps back out again.
Silently, he hands her what he bought: a small group of purple and gold pansies, a spray of blue love-in-the-mist, a single salmon-pink kennedia. She takes the small bouquet carefully, her head tilting in a manner very similar to his. A smile crosses her face. “Thank you,” she whispers, and slips her arm around his again.
It seems as though his attempt is a success, but that does not calm the jittery feeling of his insides twitching, nor the sweat on his palms and face, nor the ringing in his ears. She does the navigating, gently steering him down the street and out of the town proper, into a rather pretty wooded area still clinging to a bit of verdure. Moss clings to the trees like whimsical brushstrokes and multicoloured leaves still hang from the branches. Grass pokes up from the crunchy brown carpet on the forest floor. Mary looks up at September and smiles.
“This is my favourite time to go to the forest,” she says, her soft voice still audible over the crunching of the leaves under their feet. “There’s a balance between life and death here that I find poignant. It always reminds me how grateful I am to be alive.” She stops and disentangles herself, opting to take his hands in hers, instead. “And how grateful I am to be alive with someone like you.”
Between the contact of her hands in his and of looking into her eyes, her thoughts hit him in a giddy rush. In that instant he learns more about her personality than anyone could in a lifetime of conversation—her hopes and fears, the warmth of her gentle soul… it causes his chest and throat to tighten up, tingling at the corners of the jaw. He swallows.
Her expression changes. “Are you ill?” she asks.
“I…” He stops, words having fled. She leads him to a large glacial stone that looks as though a great many people have taken advantage of the fact that it is the exact right height and size to serve as a bench and sits, gently pulling him down beside her. Once he is there, she rests a hand on his shoulder.
“I am not… ill….” He manages to say. Her head tilts, so like his often does. “I… my… thoughts are… conflicted,” he continues, “and that has created… a physical response that I… do not understand.”
She looks forward for a beat, gazing out into the trees, silence surrounding both of them, and when she looks back at him, her gaze dropping for a moment, she smiles slightly. “You’re unaccustomed to emotion, aren’t you?” she asks tenderly.
“Yes,” he answers.
There’s a beat as she lifts her hand, curled in a loose fist, and then reaches toward him, placing it against his chest, fingers spreading. It’s warm and gentle there. He blinks, looking into her eyes again. The notion that he feels good flits through her mind again before she schools her thoughts.
“It feels strange, doesn’t it?” she asks. “Your heart is pounding, I can feel it. You’re trembling. You feel as though you can’t breathe properly. You feel as though you’re going to faint.”
“Yes,” he whispers.
“So do I.” Her eyes are wide, pupils slightly dilated, and locked with his. “I can’t fathom why I’ve fallen for you, sir, but… I can’t fathom not having done so, now. I feel as though I know you completely, that these few moments have been a lifetime.”
He takes a breath to speak and she places the forefinger of her other hand against his lips.
“It’s terribly improper of me,” she says. “But Papa always told me that propriety is for those without a thought in their head or a dream in their heart.” The hand moves to the side of his face, fingers brushing against his cheek and ear before the palm settles around his jawline. He shivers—he’s never been touched like this before. Her other hand is still on his chest, as though attempting to calm his racing pulse and heavy breaths. A sensation like slow voltage wicks through his skin at her touch and he is so warm as to feel almost fevered.
“I know you weren’t born here,” she murmurs, “though I don’t know where you’re from. I’ve seen a lot of the visitors from other places and you’re… unique.” She draws closer, the hand staying on his chest as though to keep him in place. She removes the other hand from his face and gently takes one of his hands. “I couldn’t take my eyes off of you ever since the first time I saw you. I could just tell… yours is an old and wise and kind soul. It’s in your eyes. And I wanted to tell you this with words, because the only other way to tell you is…” She trails off, trembling as well. “Is….”
He blinks and realizes that they are only a couple inches apart. Her nearness and its energy make his throat dry up and his stomach flutter. He wonders why people subject themselves to such sensations. His system is flooded with adrenaline and yet he has absolutely no intention of fighting or fleeing. His fingers curl around hers.
Impulsively, she leans in the rest of the way and gently, tenderly, presses her lips to his. His eyes go wide for an instant, but only for an instant as something warm uncoils in his chest. They stay there and his gaze goes unfocussed, eyes slipping shut. He has no idea what to do, where to put his hands, and they waver slowly and aimlessly for a moment, her right hand still in his left, before his right hand comes up and covers hers on his chest. Another beat passes.
They pull away slowly. His eyes flick open again and he sees her smiling up at him, her cheeks scarlet. His pulse is no longer racing, and his breathing is still heavy but slow, now.
“You’re a little calmer, at least,” she says softly, her smile tender. “Perhaps I could kiss away your fear.”
His mouth opens but words fail him. Such a thing should not be possible and yet… and yet… the physical evidence is there. He looks down at her hand on his chest and his hand laid over hers. He was afraid, he realizes that, now. And the simple touch of her lips turned that fear into warmth. He blinks a few times, analyzing the sensation. Endorphins. He is awash in adrenaline and endorphins and suddenly he does know why humans do these things despite the fight-or-flight reaction. The rapid changes in brain chemistry are very like Walter’s descriptions of ‘being high.’ He knows these things intellectually, recognizes the cause and effect, cross-references that with the idea of pleasure.
He wonders what would happen if they did that again. Her hand slips upward from his chest to the back of his neck and as she pulls him toward her, he leans in ever so slightly. Her fingers trace along the back of his head as her lips press, soft and heated, against his. Even though he remains very still, she can feel him melting ever so slightly. This much warmth has never been this pleasant before, he notes. These thoughts swirl into each other until they can both feel what the other is feeling, if only for a moment.
When they pull away again, she slips an arm around him. He remains silent, but his own arm curls around her almost of its own accord. They let the silence cover them.
