Love Conquers Nearly Everything

by State of Soul

A flashback to more complicated times, when Kit loved Olaf, Jacques loved Esme, Olaf loved Kit but was using Esme and Esme was torn between contrasting loves. Teenage passions and broken hearts create drama and deceit. Rated for sexual references.

She loves him. It's as simple as that.

She loves the way lines of concern crease his brow when she cries in front of him, and the feeling of the wiry muscles of his arm circling her tiny shoulders. She loves the feeling of his hair beneath her fingers when they kiss in the shadows of empty classrooms, whispering in soft, sweet secret. She loves the way he brushes her hair aside delicately when they're speaking in low voices, and how he holds her hand so tenderly when she needs comfort. She loves the way he says her name with awe in a half-whisper, as if she was the sweetest secret he's ever heard. She loves it when he calls her his everything, and presses his lips insistently to hers. She loves the reason he never casts her in his plays, because he says he wants her all to himself, and the way he kisses her neck while she paints sets. She loves his darker side, the hint of wine on his breath and the smell of ash on his clothes that she doesn't understand. She loves the way he treats her gently, as if he's scared he might damage her. She loves the way he treats her as though he doesn't deserve her, when the truth is he's earned every fingerprint left on her heart. She loves how she's falling too fast to stop now, even if she wanted to.

He's already told her these kinds of things. He plants 'I love you's' in her hair, peppers them across her neck, breaths them in her ear. She thrives on them, and the sweet kisses he feeds her afterwards. She says it back as her heart flutters with bliss in her chest. He said it after he told her over the phone he'd be late to meet her.

The watch on her wrist reads three minutes to go as poetry floods her thoughts.
Come to me in my dreams, and then
By day I shall be well again.
For then the night will more than pay
The hopeless longing of the day.
Where had she heard it before? She racks her brain, and then it dawns on her. Literature Studies, when that gangly triplet read it aloud. Was it Frank or Ernest? No, Dewey was his name, wasn't it? That was it, Dewey. He had a soft voice, and kind eyes, she recalled. The poem, though, made her think of Olaf. Except he came to her in life, not in dreams.

Two minutes trickle lower. Her brother Lemony always tells her that it's wrong, but of course he never tells anyone else. She remembers when she first told him she was dating her drama teacher. He nearly collapsed from shock as she said Olaf's name in that dreamy tone. She had scoffed, telling Lemony not to wet his pants, as she wasn't sleeping with him. How stupid did he think she was exactly? She crosses her arms in anger, even though she's the only one in the darkened gardens.

A minute left and the bench is cold and hard and stained with rings that don't alarm her as much as they should. She's reminded of that ghostly smell of ash and the wine he sometimes lets her drink that makes her fell warm and heavy. She thinks of the books he's knocked over carelessly that made her heart stop when they hit the floor. She couldn't help it; because it's been drilled into her from the time she was a child that these are sacred things. The way he throws caution to the wind is intoxicating. She barely even flinches now, and he never has. The clock strikes eleven.

There's a hand slipping around her waist now, and the subtle smell of wine close to her ear whispering 'Kit,' She turns as his hands bury themselves in her strawberry-blond hair and their lips meet as he pushes her carefully back onto the bench. She intertwines her legs with his as their breathing grows shallower in the still night air. Her hands drape over his back, and his are beside her head, being careful to keep his body weight supported there. His lips break off and his placing soft kisses in the long strands of hair he's released from the pencils, and he gently removes her glasses and places them in his pocket, teasing her. A soft groan escapes her lips, and his mouth is tracing her jaw line teasingly as love urges her forward. His lips are on her collarbone, gently pressing into hollows of bone and now sweeping downward, but not too far, even if part of her wishes he wouldn't stop. She can't take it anymore so she meets his lips, and the passion with which she kisses is exhilarating, and he sits her up again without breaking away, and her hands reach inside his unzipped jacket, resting on his stomach through the fabric of his shirt. He pulls her closer to him and she breaks off at last, resting her head on his chest as she breathes deeply. Her arms wrap around his waist, and she feels the bulge of a box in his jacket pocket. The ashy smell lingers in the air, but she's too concerned with curiosity to wonder about the scent. He's kissing the top of her head and murmuring 'I love you,' into her hair, and she's unzipping the pocket to find a box of matches and she breaks away gasping for another reason now and he steps toward her and her lungs beg to burst with a scream.

She holds up the matches wordlessly and his face breaks into a soft smile of realization. When he steps towards her now, something about his demeanour comforts her until she's in his arms again.

"It's not what you think," he says, his voice reassuring and soft, "I took them from an enemy. I didn't want to frighten you, but some of the volunteers are converting to the other side. I meant to destroy them, as soon as I was safe again. You don't believe I could be capable of arson, do you Kit?"

She's too relieved to be worried about the faceless enemies, and too happy to remember that Olaf is an actor.

He loves her. It's as simple as that.

He loves the way her smile always reached the sparkling depths of her hazel eyes, and the way her laughter sounded like the chiming of tiny silver bells. He loves the way the blush creeps up her neck until it reaches her pale cheeks, flushing them with gorgeous pink when he kisses her. He loves the feeling of her body pressed up against the bookshelf, and the way it makes him flush with pleasure every time he's pressing against her. He loves the way her golden hair falls so softly over her shoulders, still glowing under the library's florescent lights. He loves the smoothness of her legs intertwined with his, her alabaster skin making her look like a porcelain doll. He loves how she's anything but fragile and how she constantly reminds him of this and surprises him every time. He loves how she will only wear the finest of fabrics, and scolds him to be careful even as he undoes the buttons of her silk blouses. He loves the smell of her shampoo and how it mixes with her perfume, creating a cocktail that entices him with each whiff. He loves how the taste of her lips lingers on his for minutes after they've pulled away, gulping air. He loves how their hearts beat to the same erratic rhythm after each of their clandestine encounters. He loves how he starves for her every minute of every day, staring at the clock each time she crosses his mind, just to count the hours until they meet again.

He wants to tell her all of this, and it bubbles under his skin like a shaken can of cola, just waiting to explode. He keeps it all inside; simply because it's the most delicious secret he's ever held.

He peers over the top of the book he hasn't been reading, and glances to her table, exactly thirteen away from his. She tucks the ringlets falling out of her ponytail behind her ear, and sighs, giving a soft shooing motion with her hand when she catches him staring, as if to say, "Just wait Jacques. Don't you have any self-control?" Her eyes are smiling, he notices, before looking at the clock. Three minutes left. The wait is excruciating. He tries to think of anything else; the book in front of him, his Codes Class homework, root beer floats. It's fruitless work. They're the only two in the library, save for the librarian herself, and he yearns to knot his hand in that golden hair and whisper sweet nothings in her ear. Two minutes now, and the second hand is creeping as slowly as it can.

Her name is like butterscotch candy on his tongue, delicious, sticky, and sweet. Esmé, Esmé, Esmé. It sounds best when he's whispering it in her ear, but he'd give anything to shout it now. Esmé, Esmé, Esmé. Who needs a pet name when the real one is so beautiful? Esmé, Esmé, Esmé. Like a song he can't get out of his head, it plays on constant loop and the only way to lower the volume is to say it. Not quite yet, he reminds himself. Esmé, Esmé, Esmé. It leaves such a soft aftertaste in his mouth, like a hint of future kisses. Esmé, Esmé, Esmé. One minute to go, and he's afraid he might not make it.

It's hard not to be jealous when the others look at her. Not so much that they look, but that they're allowed to. His best friend Jerome does, and even Olaf, even though she's really too young to be noticed by him. He smiles in secret anyway, because he knows her heart has been his since that first night he caught her studying here near midnight. The secrets make him sick and giddy at the same time.

The clock strikes eleven o'clock, and the librarian rises, on cue, to get his cup of coffee. It's all he can do not to run across the library and smash his lips to hers. The door closes behind the librarian with a welcome crash that mirrors the crashing of his heart in his chest, beating violently against his ribs.

She rises from her seat and strides towards him, shortening the distance by one, table, two tables, three tables. He rises to, closing the gap. Now they're only five tables apart, four tables, three, two, one, and now he crushes her lips with his and their sharing a heartbeat. Her warm hand closes around his wrist and she's dragging him behind the books in the W, X, Y, Z section where he's pressing her up against a bookcase, feeling the curve of her body. They're panting now with the exhilaration as they explore the sweet taste of romance and their hormones fuel the fire. Her mouth moves to his neck, tracing a moist arc down to his collarbone. Their breathing is slowing down again, quieting as he whispers her butterscotch-sweet name gently into that spot just behind her earlobe. His hand twists in her blond hair and he releases it from its ponytail, lets the elastic drop to the dark green carpet. His mind is taking him somewhere forbidden, where he desperately wants to go, but knows he shouldn't, even when she's loosening his tie and undoing the buttons of his shirt as her mouth moves back to his.

It's his lips that break away now, and the secret thoughts bubbling beneath the surface are threatening to rise as he scrambles with the buttons of her cardigan, exposing a flimsy camisole that cannot be keeping her tiny frame warm. He tosses the cashmere aside as if it was cheap polyester, and moves the tiny straps off her shoulders, kissing the spots where they used to be. The secret thoughts are on his tongue now, sweet and heavy. He drapes kisses along her jaw, and his mouth is so close to her ear that she can feel the heat coming off it, and the words are rolling off his tongue now as he presses her harder against the books, and he feels that his heart must surely be bruised from the force with which it beats, and finally the words come out in a dreamy whisper.

"I love you Esmé." he says, and he looks into eyes that were once glowing with passion but are now frosted over on the surface and turbulent underneath, completely unreadable. She looks as if she's about to speak, but before she can, the librarian comes back into the room, and suddenly they're hurrying with clothing and smoothing their hair. He fixes his tie and squeezes her hand once, and when he meets her eyes, they are glistening with tears of joy or something else. Then she's gone, sneaking around into S, T, U, V section so they can emerge from different places, so it'll seem as though they weren't together. And in the library's silence, he wishes for an 'I love you too.'

She loves him. But it's not as simple as that.

She loves the way they share forbidden kisses backstage after Theatrics, and the scratch of his whiskers against her smooth cheeks. She loves the way he pins her arms as they kiss on the stage after dark, and the feel of his strong arms brushing hers. She loves how he calls her 'angel' instead of Esmé, before he kisses her roughly. She loves the way he directs her in class, the secretive touches only she understands that would bring a flush to her face if she weren't such a brilliant actress. She loves the way he treats her like a princess, giving in to her demands and going along with whatever game she decides to play that day. She loves it when he says she's driving him crazy in the best way, and the way he rewards her with beautiful costumes and starring roles. She loves the aftertaste of wine on his lips, and the musky smell of his cologne that makes him seem dangerous and forbidden. She loves the way he shares his darkest parts with her, the secret missions and ruined libraries because he knows they're involved too deeply to let go now.

She's told him this once. He laughed a short, sharp laugh perfect for inflicting pain. "What does a seventeen year-old know about love?" he asked with that malevolent gleam in his eye. It kills her, to know that Olaf thinks her ridiculous.

It kills her when he looks at Kit with a softness she's never seen before, and when he tells her she's imagining things. It kills her when he tells her not to worry her pretty little head, because she worries that's the only thing he sees. It kills her when he tells her that she's frustrating, but at least she hasn't yet become boring. It kills her that she knows exactly what he wants her for, even if they haven't gotten there yet. It kills her that in the back of her mind she knows that he'll use her and leave her. It kills her that every kiss with Jacques has been a lie to both him and Olaf, because she truly loves them both. It kills her that she knows only one of them loves her back.

So she waits, counting the minutes until Olaf returns. Three minutes to go before he arrives here, as he does every night. She sits in his office chair, the one with the high back, and puts up her feet on the antique desk as the seconds trickle down. She visualizes him walking in the green-wooden door, his tawny hair windblown and threaded through with hints of silver and his steel blue eyes twinkling in anticipation of her deep kiss. He's always complaining that the doorways are too low, and if he forgets to stoop, he often hits his head on the door frame. Every time this happens, she can't keep herself from laughing.

There were two minutes left now. She knew exactly how it would unfold, She would get out of the chair, sit on his lap as he kissed her, and fumble with her blouse's buttons until through panting breath she told him to stop, later and later every time. He would obediently re-button the blouse and then kiss her intensely for a few more moments before she was dismissed by a thin excuse. Ever time, she felt as though she had disappointed him.

One minute and counting. Maybe tonight, she thinks, I'll give him what he wants. She mentally replayed the flash of anger she had seen pass through his eyes the last time she had told him no. It wouldn't be so hard to do. All she would have to do was shed her inhibitions, and let him go where they were headed anyway. And then he wouldn't need to look at Kit. Maybe then, she would finally be enough for him. What better way to prove she was serious? Except that Jacques' 'I love you,' was still ringing in her ears like a delectable piece of gossip. Would he ever have to know?

The door opens just as the clock strikes eleven-thirty. She moves out of the chair so she's sitting sideways on the desk, baring her alabaster legs. He steps into the room, remembering to duck his head, with a triumphant gleam in his eyes she hasn't seen before. He leans over the desk, his lips meeting hers as his tongue parts her lips. He climbs onto the desk, straddling her as her heart thumps wildly in her chest, threatening to burst with adrenaline. She leans backward, his body weight on top of her, pressing her into the hard surface of the desk. She remembers other feelings; the spines of books against her back and love instead of this twisted, tangled, lustful web of deceit. He kisses her hungrily, and without manners, his whiskers scratching her cheeks. She loves him, even as he treats her carelessly. She's not made of porcelain, as he knows all too well. She sinks into the smell of wine and cologne and wraps a smooth leg around his waist, pulling him closer even as her thoughts push him back. His hands twist in her golden hair as it spills over the edge of the hard desk and several piles of papers fall to the ground, but unlike her heart they do not break on contact. He moves to her neck, leaving marks on her skin that will have to be covered later by makeup and clothing, and then back up to her mouth, which by now feels warm with pleasure and hurt, and her other leg wraps around him too, and her back arches towards him in a masquerade of eagerness as she sees where they are going, and as his hands fumble with the buttons, in the silence she refuses to break she hears only the absence of 'I love you.'

As the clock strikes twelve, the new issue of The Daily Punctilio is printed. The front-page article reads.

ORPHAN LEFT BEHIND AFTER SUDDEN FIRE

In a massive fire that killed two, a magnificent mansion was completely destroyed. The fire occurred at approximately 9:30 pm. The deceased are Melinda and Hugo Anwhistle, and they leave behind a daughter, Esmé Anwhistle. Esmé currently attends Prufock Preparatory School, a boarding academy where she will continue to live, paid for by her inheritance.

The fire has been deemed arson, and police are seeking Jacques Snicket for questioning. If anyone has any information, they are to contact the police immediately.

When Kit reads the article, she will realize that Olaf's excuse is as thin as his explanation for the matches. When Jacques reads the article, he will realize he's been framed. When Esmé reads the article, she will assume the worst of the boy she loves. When Olaf reads the article, he will laugh, knowing he's in the clear.

Love conquers nearly everything. Fire conquers all.