Three Forbidden Words
by: gabrielle howell
Disclaim to Jo. Serious. Rated.. Something or other. Give me love.
There were some days when all he did was roll in his bed and see her hair, and his mind was at ease. Some nights, her skin was all it took to make his mind reel, a gentle twist and shake in his thoughts that he'd yet to prove irrational.
It wasn't that he was soulless, because she proved that he wasn't. It was that, perhaps, he wasn't ready to let his emotions reign so much, as they already had. He'd become attached, he'd grant himself that much. But the only part that baffled him was that he was so silent about the entire affair, as if just speaking of it would shatter it. He didn't want her to go, of course not. Not when she was so close to perfection; she was sweet. Gentle. Intelligent, provocative, talkative, and beautiful. She bantered playfully and she knew when to be fiery and when to be calm, relaxed.
She was his, truly, and she made his mind shiver. Maybe it was that they were so silent, their relationship based on their more physical actions and the way they read each other, rather than words. He never asked her to come over, she came over when she needed him. He never spoke of what he felt, she could see it in his eyes. He never had to ask what she was thinking, for it was evident in the way she moved, and the way she said his name.
In any case, he was twisted, forcing in his mind to forgo anything his family had come to stand for over the past; he was breaking down the wall helplessly. He had a feeling of emptiness when she was gone, and whether he liked it or not he was plagued with her. Part of him was sickened. The other part cried surrender. He knew, as he came closer to it, that just by saying three simple words connected much more than he was entirely sure of.
They could've been 'stay with me.' He'd never asked before, for fear of rejection… she just seemed like that type of girl to be scared away by something so unbalanced of him, something so raw and awkward and … out there. But his heart pulled at him more, each night when the clock spun its hours coyly, and she rolled away from him near morning, he watching her through blonde lashes. He'd fall asleep, back into a deep dream where she was present, mostly, only to wake in the morning to a cold bed and a cold heart. He considered it, of course. And his voice came closer to it every night, although his brain crowed fear.
They also could've been 'don't leave today.' When the weekends rolled around and the sun cracked through the curtains, she would get up and put on her robes, and disappear down the halls for the day. He would lie in bed, some days, and just wonder why she never stayed; he enjoyed her company so many times, but he'd never tell her. He never wanted to put her in that position, that lock of 'think-now-hurry'. He was always so quick about his approaches, and this was so hesitant. For once, he just wanted to take her out, to lunch or shopping or to meet his mother, something much more solid. But he never said a word, and always watched as she pulled on her shoes, sliding out the door without her left behind essence, like smoke from a quick-burning brushfire.
At last... There were the words he shook to think about. He never let them in his thoughts as a whole phrase, but he'd kept the connotation in his mind. But just the overall size of the issue struck him; such a big step for such an unsure person. Eight letters. Three words. One meaning he wasn't sure she'd entirely understand; hell, he didn't even understand it all himself. But it was true; he was pretty sure he did love her. It wasn't like the stories he'd scarcely heard as a child, or the dreams he'd abandoned upon entering what his father called 'real life'. No. It was much more electric, more real, a relationship he never tired of. He found new things about her every day; a new touching spot, a new place to kiss, a new sound that made her laugh. She intrigued him and as much as he swallowed at night he still thirsted, perhaps for a wine so red it made him bleed inside. Just like his heart was.
It was wine that brought him to it, he supposed. One late night in January, and she was leaving again. It hadn't been any later than 4 a.m., but the alcohol took hold and as she was pulling on her boots, clutching his bathrobe to her milky skin, he had leaned in the doorway of his bathroom. His back was to her, for he didn't want her to see his face, but they all tumbled out at once, a massacre of his mind as he fell limp all around, his phrases hanging in the silence.
"I need to tell you something," he had said, standing in the bathroom with his wineglass still in hand. She sat on his bed, tying the sash to the loose silk robe. She looked up at him, lacing her boots up her thigh. She tied them tightly, her hair falling around her shoulders. She stood up, and minutes passed, until her fingers were on the doorknob.
"What is that you need to tell me?" she asked, her face still red and flushed, her eyes holding curiosity. But she didn't face him, and he didn't face her.
The silence was deafening and thick, seeping into his ears and the creases of his worried face, suffocating his pores where anxious sweat formed. At last, the words spilt forth, a gentle stream of softness.
"Ginny," he breathed. "I love you. Don't leave today - just stay with me."
There was a moment where he heard her breath leave her, and he heard the door creak and shut; he bowed his head in the thought that he had lost her, squeezing the glass in his hand in rage that he had made such a foolish mistake.
But at the moment he was going to turn, perhaps, to throw the glass or down it, he felt warm hands on his back, sliding around his waist to hold him close, a hot cheek on his shoulder.
"I love you too," she whispered against his skin, pressing a kiss there.
And she stayed.
Okay. Uhm. I got the idea from http/dg. from their manipulations. I'll have the next chapter to SLF up as soon as possible, and several other one shots are in creation.
Review. All things belong to Jk Rowling and Faith.