Though curfews have long since been eradicated, the streets are vacant at night. The occasional car or lone walker drifts through the street like a leaf lost in the wind before finding refuge on a doorstep or the gutter. The night's serenity is present in the deep purple sky, a sky that tries its hardest every day to paint itself the right colors for a new population of people that patiently supports it every day instead of damaging it further. The late-April air that blows through the narrow streets is slightly humid with the rumor of rain. The nights here are quiet and dark, a mysterious aesthetic that makes me crave the outdoors. And so when I suggested it, Warner was more than willing to accept my offer to walk home tonight.
Our hands dangle between us loosely, fingers knotted at the knuckles. I can just feel the cool curve of the jade ring on his pinky against my skin, a gift which today more than others I notice he toys with subconsciously. His only present. His only reminder that April 24th isn't just a punishment.
April 24th. Today's date.
Last year had passed by in such a blur of progress and reorganizing that I hadn't thought to ask of his birthday until it was my own a month later. Ridden by guilt and a desire to compensate for last year's missed birthday, I had ushered him out of the sector base all day. Moving away from Sector 45 to the Capitol certainly muted the memories, but I could tell all day through the stiff set of his shoulders and unnaturally downward cast of his eyes that the date still bore a burden that would perhaps never shake, no matter how reassuringly I squeezed his hand or how often I tilted his chin up to look me in the eyes.
Shamelessly clad in my best dress and his best suit that we wore to dinner, we have seven blocks more until we arrive home. The only noise other than our footsteps is the distant rumble of a tank, which is no doubt following us a few blocks back to ensure our safety-a needless gesture given the elevation of our defensive abilities.
The next time we reach a street corner, we both stop even though there's not a car in sight of the intersection. Warner turns to me just slightly, the pull of a smile at the corner of his mouth. In the absence of streetlights, the only illumination on his face comes from the moon, casting us both in a pale light that makes his expression seem ethereal.
His eyes sparkle and his hair is perfectly styled in that side-parted way he'd worn since the day I'd met him, staring up at him from the ground of the asylum with a boot pressed against my back. I find myself now craving the moment we get back to the room, when I can run my fingers through the stiff locks, to disturb the perfection enough so that the messiness makes him mine. The thought startles me and I smile back briefly before tugging him forward into the street.
"With your eagerness, I might assume that there is another surprise waiting at home," he says, the first time either of us has spoken since leaving the restaurant.
I look over my shoulder at him, then turn around completely and pause in the middle of the street, catching him by surprise. I step so close to him that with the added height of my heels, we're almost eye-to-eye. His breath catches as I slide my other hand around the back of his neck, under the collar of his jacket.
"If I could line up the entire world for you," I whisper, "I would. Every treasure this planet holds, here and elsewhere. I would find it. For you."
"You don't make it hard for me to believe that you would," he says somewhat unsteadily.
"You don't make it hard for me to want to," I immediately counter.
His eyes wander across my face, tracing me with his gaze. I can almost feel the tickle of his lips against my skin as he wets his lower lip. For the second time tonight, my stomach stirs in anticipation.
"Amazing," he whispers at last, dropping my hand to weave his fingers through the hair close to my scalp.
"Hmm?" I breathe, transfixed.
"I don't deserve you," is all he says, but before I can protest, his lips crash down to mine.
Immediately, both of our bodies draw closer, hands grabbing and torsos pressing. Our noses clash briefly as he bends to get closer, and his teeth poke my lip as he smiles timidly against my mouth. I kiss his bottom lip, then his top, and by the time he regains his composure, Warner kisses me back zealously.
We both hear tires squeal before the blaring honk, and Warner jumps to the curb and grabs me to the sidewalk before the car speeds past. For a moment the shock silences me, but then I fall against Warner with a laugh of spent nervousness. His own chest rumbles and he strokes my back, then he gives my hand a gentle tug forward and we continue homeward, hearts racing.
The elevator ride upstairs is the longest I have experienced. If the wall behind us not weren't composed entirely of glass, the knot in my stomach may have begun to unravel. But in plain sight of the soldiers populating and guarding the lobby, we stand a respective foot away from each other, both pretending to ignore the thickness of agitation in the atmosphere. His hands are clasped in front of him and he quietly spins the ring on his pinky, noiseless and absent-minded. When the elevator nears the ninth floor, I jolt forward in anticipation of exiting. The door to our bedroom at the capitol is to the far left on a floor that is otherwise vacant. Warner must sense my anticipation, but he doesn't speak as he follows me to our door, pausing while I deactivate the lock with my thumbprint.
As the door slides open, I pray that my commands to Delalieu have been executed. And when I see Warner's face light up in surprise as he steps into the room behind me, I grin in relief.
In the center of the bed rests a square box that I quickly wrapped earlier this week, dripping in a silk bow with a cardstock square tucked underneath. A string of twinkle lights wrapped around the posts of our bed illuminates his face in a dim glow.
"What's this?" he murmurs after closing the door behind him and collecting himself. He's already begun to slide out of his jacket and drape it over his arm.
"I know," I begin unsurely, "that you said you didn't get presents. But by opening this, I don't think you're weak or relying on charity." I watch the way his spine straightens by one degree we both recall his exact words from so long ago. "It's just something from me, and you don't have to accept it if you don't want to but—"
Instantaneously he is in front of me, tossing his jacket on the bed in order to claim both of my hands in his.
"It's quite alright, love," he says, weaving his fingers through mine then bringing my knuckles to his lips for a gentle kiss. "I'm only surprised. Today has already been so full of gifts."
He smiles, and dimples appear. His face warms in a rare way. "Thank you."
"Go on," I prompt, retracting my hands from his and propping them nervously against my waist.
He moves to the bed. Reaches for the package. Pauses.
His fingers are resting on the note I've attached, and he looks to me for permission.
I gesture to go on, and he removes the slip of thick paper from the ribbon, turning it over to my ballpoint cursive on the opposite side. I watch the flicker of his eyes consume the words I scrawled, an admittance of my feelings for him that I previously only escape through words, the sleepy crawl of fingertips against flesh, and gasping breath. However, this time, the words of admiration end with Happy Birthday. –Juliette instead of Goodnight.
His gaze stills and I can tell he's stopped reading, but he remains staring at the small slip of paper for several seconds, unmoving. Then, he looks up.
His eyes shimmer.
"I've-" he whispers, then clears his throat in embarrassment when his voice cracks. My heart lurches and I nearly pull him into my arms so he doesn't have to finish his sentence, but he does. "I've never been told happy birthday. By anyone."
"Happy birthday," I repeat aloud. His answering smile is shadowy in the dim light, and he turns so his profile is subjected to my gaze.
He sets the card back on the bed and then slides the present toward himself. One swift movement unravels the ribbon. Another tears back the paper from the plain box underneath.
I resist the urge to explain myself as he lifts the lid and his brow creases at what lies within. Instead, I chew my lip as he reaches inside. Then removes a book.
The spine is cracked leather with chipped, illegible writing, but if you open the front cover, as he does now, the title page underneath reads Shakespeare's Sonnets.
When he looks up at me, I find my voice.
"He didn't just write tragedies," I explain hastily, my fingers clutching anxiously at my ribs beneath my thin dress. "All of his sonnets are about love. I thought you might like them, since they're so different than his sad works. I marked my favorites."
Still silent, he turns his attention back to the book. Runs his thumb over the cover. Flips it open and pages through it until he finds the first dog-eared page.
His eyes fall across the brittle, yellow pages. Then he sighs, but while suppressing a smile.
I step closer. He doesn't look up until I'm at his shoulder.
When he does, his eyes still twinkle with the suggestion of emotion. The book's spine cracks as he closes it and sets it on the bed next to its box. He doesn't take his eyes off me.
"Thank you, love," he says, sliding a finger under my chin and stroking my jaw affectionately. I lean into his touch, tilting my face higher. "Maybe you could read some for me."
"But that's not all that's in the box," I manage to whisper. My face warms as he raises his eyebrows.
When he turns his head to check the bottom of the box, his look of amusement dissolves.
"Oh?" he asks coolly, avoiding my gaze as he reaches into the very bottom of the box for the single, square packet. He is still for a single second as a smirk develops on his lips, and then he mumbles something that sounds like, "Only one?" before grabbing me by the waist and pulling me against him. I exhale sharply as his lips meet my neck and his fingers the zipper of my dress. In one swift motion, my entire back is exposed.
"Wait," I tell him, and the step he takes away from me is immediate. The straps of my dress slide down my shoulders, so I cross my arms against my chest.
"What is it?" he asks, all mischief drained from his face as he looks me up and down.
I know the moment a blush creeps to my face because his entire demeanor relaxes.
"I want to show you something first."
"Another surprise?" His shoulders straighten, and I see his eyes dart behind me to inspect the rest of the room.
"Kind of." I roll up onto my toes, the motion difficult in heels, then whisper close to his ear, "Go lie down and wait for me to bring it to you."
When I pull away, he has blanched slightly. As I walk toward the closet, I hear him moving the empty giftbox to the nightstand.
Alone in the closet, I make sure the door has shut tightly behind me before exhaling in a rush.
I kick my heels off and relish at the feeling of the plush rug below my feet. The shoes fit flawlessly, a favor of Warner, but although I don't have any blisters, I prefer not to walk in them all day. Although I'd love to strip out of my clothes and run into Warner's arms as quickly as possible, I take the time to place the shoes back on their shelf and rest my dress in a hamper once I pull the fabric from my frame.
I nearly topple over while removing my tights, and that's when I notice I'm shaking slightly. Just enough for my fingers to titter when I hold them up to my face, but evidence enough that the anticipation that's been building all night is growing to a climax. I slide off the plain undergarments I'm wearing until I'm completely naked and praying Warner doesn't get impatient and come to find me.
Across the closet is an armoire full of miscellaneous articles of mine. I know that in the back of the bottom left drawer, I will find what I stashed there two weeks ago. And when I kneel to retrieve it, it's still hidden among other undergarments and tank tops, still attached to the hanger.
The black lingerie gives me butterflies just looking at it, but I know the nervousness is a remnant of the instinct to want to cover all of my skin. This anxiety has nothing to do with what I'm about to step outside and do. Of course not.
As I slide the straps to the lace bra over my arms and clasp it behind my shoulder blades, my heart rate begins to hammer. The panties come next, and by the time the lace is settled snugly around my hips, I hope Warner can't sense my panicked heartbeat from the bedroom. The set looked good on the mannequin, but alone in a closet with no mirror, I start to worry.
A few miscellaneous strappy pieces still remain on the hanger, but I leave them in the bottom of the drawer. This will all come off, anyway. With no mirror to check if any of this even looks good on me—and no time or bravery to have checked beforehand—I look down at my body.
The lace undergarments cover almost as much as wearing nothing would, but they drape my pale skin in dark lace, patterns that already are beginning to indent into my skin and leave imprints of roses and frills.
I take a single deep breath and then cross over to the door of the closet, pinching the outside of my thigh once to reassure myself. I reach out and tap the control for the door to open.
Warner lies on the bed with his arm curled beneath his head, staring at the ceiling. His jacket drapes over the chair beside the desk. He also removed his belt, shoes, and tie. Otherwise, he is fully clothed. Hearing my approaching footsteps, he slowly draws up onto one elbow to look at me.
Then his jaw drops.
He sits up the rest of the way hastily, his eyes everywhere except my face. I approach the foot of the bed, my skin prickling at the way his gaze consumes me, how his eyes can't seem to rest on one patch of skin longer than a second.
"Juliette," he finally says, his voice choked like this was nothing he anticipated. Finally, his eyes find my face. The look in them is frantic, needy.
"Allow me," I tell him.
His Adam's apple bobs in his throat as he nods, but I can tell he doesn't want to be patient. He doesn't want me to take things slow, and he would gladly steal the control from me if I teased him too much. He stays still as climb over the footboard, making my way on my hands and knees toward him. He's so tense as I crawl over his body, and his eyes flit nervously across my body like he doesn't know whether it would be impolite to look anywhere other than my gaze.
But often, that's where his gaze isn't.
"I thought tonight," I say, crawling over his thighs, "I would let you relax. Since it's your birthday, I'll do all the work."
"That's not—" he begins to protest, but I cut him off by sharply untucking his shirt from his pants. He stifles a moan.
"Back up," I whisper, and he does, leaning against the headboard. The look on his face is still pained, like it's using all of his effort to keep his hands fisted in the sheets instead of grasping me.
When I start crawling toward him again, his chest begins to heave.
"Juliette, I can't take it," he says as I finally straddle his lap. He's shaking. "Please just let me—"
"It's my turn," I cut him off, my lips against his ear.
I slowly bend my knees so that I'm sitting on his lap. He groans like there aren't three layers of clothing between us, and leans the back of his skull against the headboard. With his throat newly exposed, I can't help but press a kiss to the vein pulsing in his neck. His skin is hot underneath my tongue, bitter from the taste of cologne.
He remains as motionless as a statue, so I slowly kiss my way around the sharp curve of his jaw, back to his ear. I have to strain forward to reach it, and my chest pressing against his.
"Touch me," I whisper, so quietly.
And he does.
His hands release the sheet below us and clamp onto my waist at the same time his chin swings in my direction. Before his eyes even focus on me, I lean into him. Our heads tilt simultaneously and my lips crash against his, tongue against tongue as his hands cover my skin. They are never still, running up my sides to stroke my chest, to dip down my stomach and wrap fingers around my thighs. My own delve into his hair as my mouth parts against his, again and again, and we are both hands and tongues and hot breath. When his previously styled hair finally hangs across his forehead messily, I move my hands down the sides of his face, down his neck, past the collar of his shirt to the buttons. His mouth stills against mine when he realizes my intentions, and he tries to pull away to help, but my teeth catch his lip. He groans, fingers digging into my back.
I knead his lip between my teeth, biting and sucking on it until the last button on his shirt is undone. He can't shrug it off fast enough. I can't run my hands down his stomach fast enough.
"You're so perfect," I breathe, pulling away from him to stare down at the lines of his muscles.
"Come here," he begs, his golden brows pressed together in concentration as he wraps one of his hands around the back of my neck and pulls my face to his again. When our lips connect, he wraps his other arm around my back, pulling me completely flush against him.
Both of our mouths drift apart as we gasp our next breaths, and involuntarily, my fingernails dig into his shoulders.
His hands roam over the backs of my thighs, across my backside and up my spine. His fingertips pause beneath my shoulder-blades and unclasp my bra in one movement. Before I can protest, the fabric falls from me and the straps catch at my elbows.
"You didn't like it?" I tease, sounding out of breath as I remove my hands from his shoulders to let the garment fall to the floor.
"I love it," he tells me breathlessly, "but it took a lot of effort not to rip it off instead."
His hands travel my newly exposed flesh, holding and grabbing and stroking until a moan emits from deep in my throat. I arch my back and swivel my hips atop his, gripping his shoulders again so I can incline my head back. I roll my hips against his again, and his groan echoes mine.
"God, love," he moans, and then his mouth is against my chest. I cry out as his tongue explores the sensitive flesh, making me dizzy. My fingers grasp at the back of his neck, cradling his head against me as I moan his name.
When he finally breaks away from me, my chest heaves with each breath. My skin glistens with his saliva and I want to roll on my back and let him take me, but the newness of being in control excites me.
"Lie back," I command, throwing my leg over the side of him so that he has the space to do so.
He hastily pushes his form to lie flat against the bed, watching me with his lip clasped between his teeth.
As soon as he realizes that I'm making my way to his zipper, he groans anew and throws an arm over his face. "You will be the death of me," he moans into his folded elbow, flinching when my fingers trace the bulging seam of his trousers. When I release the button and guide the zipper down, he practically spills from his pants.
"Do you know," I murmur, guiding his pants down his thighs, "that I have been waiting all day to do this?" His chests rises and falls hastily. He doesn't remove his arm from over his face, nor does he respond.
He only kicks off his pants as soon as they reach his ankles.
"Look at me," I say, edging down the hem of his underwear.
It takes him a full five seconds before he drops his arm from his face and props himself up on his elbow.
Level with his hips as I kneel on my elbows and knees, I meet his gaze.
"All throughout dinner, all the way home, all the way up the elevator," I murmur, dragging his underwear down his legs while he shifts to assist their descent, "I couldn't get the taste of you off my mind."
"Juliette," he gasps a second later when I take him into my hand.
"Relax," I whisper, leaning down.
His breath hitches, and he doesn't seem to be able to recover breathing with any semblance of regularity. A hand crawls over the crown of my head and he groans nonsensically as he runs fingers through my hair.
Our bodies together are rhythmic; his hands in my hair, down my arms; his stomach and thighs quaking beneath me.
"Juliette," he says again, this time barely a whimper. His hand knotted in my hair coaxes my head up, and I'm gasping air as my eyes meet his. "Please," he begs.
I gentle a series of kisses up his stomach, his muscles tensing beneath my parted lips. His breath continues to quake thunderously through his chest until I'm propped up on my elbows above him, face-to-face. A muscle in his jaw works as he tries to maintain his composure. He unclenches his fist to place the condom packet down on his chest between us, his eyes bewildered.
When I sit up and slide against him in my thin underwear, he exhales loudly. His muscles give, and he sinks his head onto a pillow.
"You are positively going to steal the life from me, someday," he breathes, chest heaving. "This is too much."
I only giggle.
As soon as the crinkle of foil interrupts the noise of our erratic breathing, Warner sits up abruptly.
Even once it's in place, Warner still doesn't lay back down. Including when I try to push his shoulders. My power bleeds through his skin uselessly, nullified.
His eyes fall down my frame until his gaze rests on the only piece of clothing remaining on my body, his thumbs hooking into the waistline. I roll to my knees and hold onto his shoulders while he coaxes my underwear down my thighs, then I kick them off my knees until we're both naked against each other.
"Lie back," I instruct again, straddling him.
He bites his lip and looks down between us before shaking his head.
"Why not?" I ask, but loop my arms around his neck anyway.
"I want to hold you," he admits. Since I planted myself in his lap, his hands haven't moved from the back of my thighs.
"Okay," I finally agree, and he looks up at me thankfully before sliding his arms around my bare back.
I slide my hands down his stomach, but his voice interrupts me.
"Wait."
When I look up, his lips are pursed. Then without warning, he lifts his chin and presses his lips to mine. The touch is delicate yet intense, and his biceps tighten around me. My hands still rest against his lower stomach where I know his tattoo is, so in a single movement, I guide him up toward me and then slowly settle onto his lap. His lips chase mine as I lower onto him, and both of our lips part in a silent groan. Only his isn't silent.
"Juliette—" he moans, but I cut him off with my lips and another roll of my hips. His arms untangle from around me and his fingers clutch at my hips, guiding me.
Already, the friction between us two is building, and my pace increases. I feel the piercing sharpness of his teeth grazing my shoulder, quickly replaced by the brush of his lips. I hadn't felt his hands move away from my sides, but suddenly he's pulling my knees forward so that my calves wrap around his back. I fall downward and he rests completely inside me, eliciting an unsolicited noise from between my lips. He begins rocking from underneath me, whispering my name in a forbidden, midnight rasp as he continues to kiss my neck.
I close my eyes and grip the thick muscles of his shoulders, my knees squeezing his sides each time he eases against me. I often forget the power of the man I often lock fingers with when no one is looking, how although he gentles me in his arms each night, his limbs possess the power to snap limbs. To me, these arms that hold me, these muscles that press me against his chest, mean home.
The next time he rises to meet my flexing hips I gasp and unlock my legs from around him. Bursting with need, I push his shoulders until Warner falls onto a mound of pillows. His eyes blink open wildly, surprised.
That shocking, emerald gaze follows me as I marvel at the feel of him beneath me, contours of my spine unlocking as my back arches. His hands squeeze my thighs, my hips, my waist.
Warner's breath is increasingly laborious, and he throws the side of his face against a pillow. Poised above him, I watch his jaw work, his forehead crease, his lips part. Were it not for the pink flush in his face, he may have appeared utterly miserable. I lower my frame his, locking my hands on either side of his face. His eyes flicker open at the new touch, and he acquiesces when I angle his face back toward mine.
"Juliette," he whispers, his perfectly crafted lips softening into the barest grin at the change of pace.
My knees dig into the mattress almost painfully, the limited space between us growing slick with heat.
I roll forward and pause, feeling him exhale before I press my lips to his. Surprised, his eyes blink open and our gazes meet while my tongue delves between his lips. I collapse against his chest, nuzzling my cheek against the heat of his bare chest.
He wastes no time hitching a leg over me and flipping us over, still in each other's arms. My head falls onto a pillow and I arch my neck into the softness, the side of my face now pressing into soft fabric that smells of him. I feel him moving my legs as I extend my arms above my head atop the pillows. Warner kneels between my parted legs, but he doesn't advance.
"Open your eyes, love," he says, and after a deep breath, I roll my head forward and obey.
One of his hands is braced against the bed; the other caresses the inside of my thigh. When he leans into me, my throat is arrested by an unstoppable cry. Warner pauses momentarily, startled, but my hands grapple for his hips.
I'm gasping, pulling him toward me. He complies easily, gentling my legs further apart to make room for him to crouch on his elbows over me. When he's eye-to-eye with me, I moan and bring a hand around to the back of his neck.
His face is inches from mine, swaying with the sharp movements of his body over and into mine. Our eyes lock and my lips part speechlessly.
Our gazes stay locked as our bodies flex and entwine together. I want him to stay above me forever, locking me in his secure gaze, whispering to me. I want to run my fingers down his back, trailing down the raised lashes that this day brought him years ago, that this day will never bring him again.
I don't realize that one of his hands has left my face until I feel it trailing down my stomach, and I begin to writhe under him.
"Aaron—" I breathe as my eyes fall closed, not sure what I'm begging for.
"Look at me," he says with ferocity in his voice that snaps my eyes open. It takes me a moment for his face to come into focus.
"I love you," he whispers.
Before I can respond, his fingers dip below my navel, and I choke on a sob of pleasure, my knees clamping against his sides uselessly.
His lips lower to my neck, and I feel his knees hastily trying to find purchase on the sheets, trying to keep him anchored as our languid love making transforms with our rising fervor.
"Aaron," I call, and he sighs in frustration against my neck before his weight leaves me and my arms fall back to the mattress. Weak from the tremors that I can feel beginning to build, I watch as he pulls my legs around his body, then on his knees, rocks into me again. Hard.
"Oh," I gasp, the force of his movements pressing me down against the mattress.
"Juliette," I hear Warner gasp in response, his movements knocking bedframe against the wall. I reach behind me and brace one of my palms against the headboard, rocking with the movement of the entire bed.
And then I'm twisting, reaching for him, reaching for something to hold as climax bursts through me and the tickle in my core turns to a buzz that clears my head. As I whimper and clutch the sheets so hard I fear they'll rip, I realize Warner is watching me. His lip caught in his teeth, eyes glazed. Completely devouring my body, the way that I arch and clasp and moan. Something in him finally collapses as well.
When my pulse stops beating in my earbuds, I blink to clear my gaze. Atop me, Warner breathes heavily but inaudibly, unlike my wild gasps. My hips feel loose and my entire back aches, I discover, as individual muscles begin to relax and I flatten against the mattress.
Warner still hasn't moved except to breathe, each breath causing his gleaming chest to rise and fall evenly. Finally, he leans down and presses a kiss to my stomach.
"You are magnificent," he whispers, rolling aside. He props himself up on his elbow underneath the covers and traces his fingertips down my naked side. The fingers on his other hand catch my chin and I roll onto my back so that he can reach my lips with his own. He does.
By the time I turn my face away for air, I'm somehow in his arms again, pressed up tightly to him.
He leans forward again, pursuing my mouth, but I tilt my head up so his lips glance off of my chin instead.
"Aaron," I murmur to catch his attention. His hands run down my back, over my bottom and to the backs of my thighs. I have to repeat his name before he stops and looks at me.
"Are you alright?" I ask.
He blinks a couple of times, startled by the question. Unsure, he answers, "Well, yes. Why?"
"Because this is what birthdays are all about."
He raises an eyebrow.
"Not this literally," I sigh, giving his shoulder a playful shove which he chuckles at then leans forward to kiss mine.
With his ear at my lips, I lower my voice to a whisper.
"Celebrations are not evil. He was a cruel man who deprived you of everything good."
Warner grunts an agreement as he nibbles my collar bone, clearly uninterested in the subject.
I nudge his face back up to mine in exasperation. He finally leans away from me and meets my gaze solemnly.
"You never have to go back to the past," I whisper, capturing his face between my hands. "If you want me here for every April twenty-fourth, that's where I'll be. Until the memories pass, until you leave behind the fear."
His lips purse suddenly, and his eyes cast downward so sharply I can see the golden hue of his lashes. "You'd promise that?" he whispers, still looking at the closed space between us.
I wait for him to look back up before I answer.
Then, solemnly holding his gaze, I nod.