Summary: A Turk reflects on love over coffee one morning. Oneshot. More musings of the author.
As she sat there at her small metallic table on the balcony, feeling the crisp morning air caress her skin and kiss her cheeks, she realized she just couldn't explain why she was so in love with him. The rain fell lightly, a soft and soothing pattern of taps reaching her ears. She crossed her legs the way her mother taught her to when she was a little girl, no older than eight, and didn't touch the tea she had wanted so badly. She had a nasty habit of getting what she wanted but never actually getting around to it.
Sighing, she fiddled with the tea bag and stared out at the graying clouds that drifted over the lake. The undeniable smell of rust and rain filled her nose as she waved a hand in her face, hating it.
She asked herself to explain her own infatuation, but she only shook her head and sipped her tea. Procrastination at its best.
Love was something she wasn't exactly on good terms with. Little by little, she had grown to hate it, not at all be fond of something that never lasted, that caused only pain, and not enough happiness. At least not enough to satisfy her.
So as she sat there at her small, metallic table on the balcony, rain and all, she thought of him and what he had done to her. She closed her eyes and his face came to her mind, filling her head and her heart. It must've been love. She had convinced herself that it was. The feeling she got when she was with him had to be it.
He wasn't at all attractive in some ways. His hair was a scraggly mess, two shades lighter than the blood that coursed through her veins. It was always tied at the nape of his neck, a long, red rat tail the trailed to his lower back, split ends and all. And his lips, thin and pale, were somehow desirable. He was thin, lanky, and always seemed to lean off to one side. And his attitude was nothing to brag about. A slacker through and through, but he fit the bill for some reason. He got the job done all the time, but the way he carried himself about it–almost reluctantly and arrogantly. It wasn't at all seductive, mysterious like everyone liked to say he was. All the other girls admired him, lusted him. They loved his appearance. Shirt always untucked, a few buttons undone at the top. His tie was always absent and his shoes were never shined. And his attitude, for some reason, was just irresistible to them. The arrogance, the short temper, lazy smirk and loud rebel in him just made their job a little harder but enjoyable.
Maybe it was his mouth.
Normally, what came out of it was a spew of curses and grunts, but sometimes...
Sometimes, he would smirk. That lazy grin, the faint smirk, that look he would get when he knew he had won. It was the brief moment where you thought you could just fall in love with someone as terrible and wrong as him. His mouth, everything about it. Just thinking about it, his breath, his voice. It made her shiver. She cupped her tea in her hands, blew the heat softly away from her and set it down. Ugly and beautiful.
He was predictable, his actions, his words, his behavior. It was all predictable. But amazing, nonetheless.
Maybe it was his eyes.
She realized it must've been the eyes. Yes, it had to be the eyes. The dull, graying eyes. She once looked through old company articles–ones with him featured on the front page for either breaking the law or being awarded for doing it. His eyes then had been a bright baby blue. Big and blue, that's what they were. Big and blue. And beautiful. She could look at his picture, stare into his eyes, look past the tightened lips and the uneasy stance and see his soul in his eyes. The innocence in the man that seemed to defy God without even trying.
And now, they were gray. And that was why. That must have been why. Over the years, his baby blue eyes had hardened into a dulling gray, a criminal gray. A darker gray, a darker shade. You could see his past by staring into his eyes, touch his cheek and feel his pain, kiss his lips and know nothing was sweeter than this.
He had a history. A terrible one, and his eyes carried it with him wherever he went. Into the rain, into the bed, into the field.
Screw the smirk, you could see past everything once you studied his eyes. He never cried, but as she sat there, sipping her tea, she knew he did. He cried at night. He regretted his work as a Turk, his didn't like what came out of his mouth, what his hands did, his fingers did. The triggers he had pulled and the people he had killed. You could see–in his eyes–he didn't like himself.
And that regret, that pain, that horrible sickness in him was what made her love him. She could hold him, breathe him, kiss him and love him and know that he was just a fallen angel.
She sighed and traced the handle of her teacup with her index finger. Busying herself with nothing at all but her thoughts and her love.
"Reno." said Elena very faintly, hesitating with her words. "...I love you."
The red head sitting opposite of her only smirked and leaned his cheek into his hand, studying the thoughts that danced on her features, listening to the sincerity that flooded her mouth. He said nothing.
But she knew. She looked up and she saw his eyes, dull and graying as they were, and she knew. She knew what they said, she knew what he wanted to say. Right there, she could see him smile, not smirk, and say those three words back at her.
He blinked and she lost herself in him. He sat up and moved closer, his hands over hers, and smiled. Smiled like she imagined he would. And her heart soared, flew over the balcony, over the trees, into the sky and through the clouds.
No need for words when you had eyes like his.