Author's note: here's the second fic of the evening. Enjoy.
"For never was a story of more woe, than this of Juliet and her Romeo," The voice beside my ear sounds softly before falling silent, the warm tune of their speech soon replaced by the dull thump of a book snapping shut. When the smell of dust and old pages hits my nostrils my eyes flutter open, causing me to wonder when they even closed in the first place. I look around. Staring me in the face is a closed leather bound book the colour of cherry wood, decorated with intricate gold patterns across the front. The leather is worn and scuffed in places and the gold on the front appears to have lost its shine but it still looks beautiful. It sits upright, tall and proud in all of its antique charm, balancing in the lap of the person whose shoulder currently serves as my pillow. Warner's heart beats steadily against my ear as I lay tucked against his side, our legs tangled together under the sheets that rest at my waist.
In a conclusion to how most of our free time had been spent this week, Warner just read the last act of Romeo and Juliet to me. It started earlier this week when he found an old collection of Shakespeare's complete works and insisted that we read it together, bringing back memories of our discussions at Omega Point. This week's lazy evenings have been spent curled up in bed together, me listening to the words of William Shakespeare glide effortlessly off his tongue. Now the story telling is over it takes me a few moments to fall back to reality, bursting the small bubble of contentment I had put around myself when I had only words and warmth to concentrate on.
"Were you sleeping?" Warner asks, his chin nudging my temple. "Did you miss the end?"
"No. I was just relaxed," I explain, noting that in my calmed state and with my eyes closed, I probably did look asleep. "You're too comfortable," I say, deflecting the blame to him. He chuckles.
"So, what did you think, love?" he asks, his excited tone clearly exposing his anticipation of my answer.
"It was…" I stumble over the words to voice my opinion of the play, it had not been how I expected and I was struggling to understand my feelings on it as a whole. "Different to how I imagined." I decide will suffice for now.
"How so?" he wonders, eyebrows knotted together as he studies my face.
"Well I'd always heard of it being portrayed as some great romance, I wasn't expecting them to die," I explain quite truthfully. Warner considers my words, intrigued, before I continue talking.
"And… there were so many things that could have been so easily avoided," I find myself rambling, raising points that had left me less than overwhelmed by the famous play. "don't get me wrong, it was definitely romantic but it all happened so fast, I mean, they knew each other a day before they got married I just…"I pause, stuck once more on how to verbalize my thoughts.
"You what?" he presses me to continue.
"I'm confused as to why it's viewed as one of the greatest romances in history," I explain, blunt in my confusion. Warner is silent for a pensive second.
"I think long after his time a lot of people were," He says.
"All that in the space of three days, and they both killed themselves. That's so unhealthy," I exclaim with a sigh. Warner laughs.
"I know. But often in history the most famous love stories are the most unhealthy, particularly in literature," He begins to explain, moving one hand slightly for emphasis as he embarks on his literary analysis. "There seems to be an overwhelming focus on passion or infatuation. The concept of love at first sight, Romeo and Juliet being a prime example."
"I'll remember that," I mutter, more to myself than to him as he seems so preoccupied with his own words. A smile subtly spreading across my face as I watch him.
"That isn't to say that the story is any lesser. It's a fascinating story, especially given the historical context. I feel that there's something to be appreciated in a tale that's still remembered so many centuries later," Muses Warner, green eyes bright as he turns his head towards me.
"I suppose," I add rather flatly.
"Did you not enjoy the story?" he asks, his breath tickling my forehead.
"I probably would have enjoyed it more if I could understand it better," I explain honestly, which causes him to begin laughing, so much that it sends my head bouncing from where it rests on his shaking shoulder.
"What?" I say, though he just continues laughing.
"My dear Juliette," He sighs, gripping hold of his composure. I give up trying to find out what was so funny when another question springs to mind.
"Do you have a favourite?" I ask softly.
"I'm Sorry. What, love?" Warner's head turns a fraction, like he didn't realise words had quietly fallen from my mouth. His brows raise, two perfectly defined arcs like bridges over a river of green.
"Do you have a favourite story?" I repeat myself, watching the wrinkles form on his forehead as he pulls my question though his thoughts. After a long pause I finally receive an answer.
"I'm not entirely certain, it's not something I've given a great deal of thought," He replies.
"Oh," Falls out of my mouth, and I understand why he gives this answer, his life has revolved for so long around war and death and regulation it would seem an unnecessary detail. I personally believe it impossible to choose just one story to call your favourite, I have so many I wouldn't even know where to start listing, but to not know if you even have one, it seems sad.
"What about you, do you have a favourite?" he hands my question back to me, and I can already feel my heart swelling with the memory of all the stories it has collected.
"I don't think I could choose just one," I begin, sounding more enthusiastic than I have all afternoon, feeling my brain start to reel with imaginary worlds, my heart start beating faster with the lives of fictional characters. I continue on, beaming. "I've read so many great books over the years, and they had such a huge impact on my life…."
"Read one to me," A soft sound falls on my ears, it takes me a second to register another voice in the room.
"What?" I say quietly, blinking at Warner as my brain goes over his words once more.
He tilts his frame sideways, so I'm no longer pillowed against his chest but lying face to face with him, looking him straight in the eye. "I want you to choose one of these stories, or all of them, if you like. The ones that you hold dear to your heart, and I want you to share them with me," He says, so tenderly, words falling like silk on my ears. His eyes bore into mine and show me how much he wants to know, how much he wants to experience for himself every world I hold close, every tale that sucked me away from my miserable existence, every story I loved because they were the only things I had.
"Okay, I will," I breathe, identical smiles cracking on both our faces. "Providing that I can remember what they were called and find a copy."
"Just tell me a name and I will find it for you," He says, touching one finger softly to my cheek.
"I'll have to write a list," I explain.
"That's perfectly fine, love," He murmurs.
He inches in closer, putting only an inch of space between our faces. If our noses tried hard enough, they could touch. The hand resting against my shoulder moves slowly down to my waist, settling against the curve of my side after pulling the covers a little higher over us so they now rest against my ribs. I see the affectionate hints in his eyes, the way they fill with warmth at my happiness. It makes me think of another question.
"Can you find me some new books too?" I ask, remembering how eager I am for some new material. The quietest of laughs escapes from his lips.
"Are the ones in the office not good enough?" Warner teases, raising a well-shaped eyebrow.
"There is only so much political history a person can read," I joke.
"Nonsense," He replies, flashing me a look that's the perfect mixture of amusement and offence. A torrent of giggles burst from my throat at the typicality of his comment, the way his nose wrinkled in disbelief as the words left my mouth. When I finally stop laughing he catches my face with his hand, slowly tilting my chin up towards him until my eyes find his.
"Whatever it is, whether you're retelling an old favourite or discovering a new story for the first time, I want to listen," He explains, his gentle sincerity trapping my heart in my chest and melting it in tiny droplets. He wants to feel me tell a story, hear the passion in my voice and taste the words from off my tongue and dive into that world and share it with me, another thing to become ours and ours alone.
"So I guess I'm doing the reading next time," I say, hoping I can make whatever I read to him sound only half as eloquent as he made listening to Romeo and Juliet.
"Indeed you are," He says, a subtle grin slowly making its way across his face.
"And I've given it some consideration," he states, and I'm temporarily confused until I remember the conversation starter that led us down this path in the first place. I blink at him. "I do know what my favourite story is." He pauses, and I think about what he could possibly say. My eyes widen, prompting him to continue. "But it isn't one written down on paper."