What ho! This is my first "House of Anubis" fanfction, as well as my first published story. I have dabbled in the pen for several years, incessantly experimenting with voice and diction, only to, every once in awhile, be obstructed by my vexatious perfectionism.
Anyways, this was written shortly after the season finale, as somewhat of a conduit to channel my zeal for Jerome/Mara. I vehemently OPPOSE Mick/Mara. They're absolutely dreadful together.
Please enjoy!
DISCLAIMER: Must I really?
There's a fire starting to burn in my heart.
And I feel its feverous heat climbing and climbing, until it overwhelms my senses, and I'm left breathless and clammy.
Mick swings me about clumsily, horrendously executing the maneuver Amber had taught him not too long ago. He steps on my foot, and my face crinkles in agony, but I surreptitiously hide it with a flagging smile. Mick offers a contrite grin, a faint but visible line of scarlet flushing his cheeks. I awkwardly shuffle my feet, as I imagine myself in his arms, flying gracefully, our dance forming poetry.
Because, somehow, I imagine him as an excellent dancer.
My foot ruptures in pain and, this time, I fail to stifle a yelp. Somewhere, above the din of the pop music and clicking heels, I hear Mick mumbling a second apology, but I only hear bits and pieces, as I shut everything out, close my eyes, and let my imagination wander.
I feel the wildfire in my heart and, rather than smother it, I feed it.
I replay everything since the day of Mick's departure, reviewing every incidental and premeditated encounter, reciting every conversation and confession, breathing in his scent, reveling in his company, being listless under his scrutiny.
And then I imagine how things could've been different. In my promenade of memories, I'm less naïve, more audacious, more intrepid. I return his smiles, I place an affectionate hand on his cheek, I say yes to that movie, I laugh heartily in his company, I grab him, I kiss him.
When I finally come around to opening my eyes, I don't see the blur of strobe lights or the musicians or their instruments. I catch a glimpse of what could have been; a small but precious gander at golden mornings in the kitchen, yellow laughter, sterling smiles, and scarlet carsons.
Finally, those pictures evanesce, and I realize that I'm immobile, and that someone is shaking me.
"Hey, Mara! You okay?"
I smile weakly at Mick and shake my head in affirmation. Immediately, his knitted brow melts in relief, and he apologizes for a third time. As he talks, the diminishing edges of my lips twitch into a polite smile; my insipid eyes staring listlessly into space. He's offering to escort me to the nurse's office, when I see him.
He's almost invisible in the blur of motion, heat, and bobbing heads. I stop breathing, and my stomach clenches tightly. My hearts beats so rapidly I feel as though I might choke. My eyes well with pain, and I vigorously bite my lip.
Everything's blurry, and I can only see the outline of his face, but I know it's him. A couple sweeps past him, and he vanishes, swiftly and furtively, just like a thief.
When I finally breathe again, I find Mick staring at me curiously, a question already forming on his lips, but before he can say anything, I silence him.
I run to the exit, inhaling the stale odor of alcohol and acrid smoke, blithely apathetic.
With each step I take, my melancholy tapers and, inch by inch, my smile deepens.
With each ragged breath, I taste excitement, hope, and life.
He's a tattered silhouette, when I finally glimpse him.
"JEROME!"
There's a fire starting to burn in my heart.
And I dive into the flames.
Comments? Flaming criticism?