Boston
It's late—the rink closes in an hour—and still, there's no sign of her.
Luis's hands are cold. Rubbing them together briskly, he lifts them, and his breath forms a white, hovering cloud in front of him as he scans his surroundings again for a familiar head of gold.
The aching melody of children's laughter has faded with the advancing hour, even the scraping of more skillful blades across the ice has lessened. The crowds have come and gone, returning to the warmth of their homes and leaving only a few to enjoy the beauty of the crisp night.
He's staring at the stars from a bench, wondering if this is finally it, wondering if the strain of her guilt has finally proven too much for her, when he feels the touch of soft leather upon his face and two small hands cover his eyes.
"Guess who," she breathes, and her arms slip around his neck, her perfume sweet and lingering in the scant space between them. She's light when he pulls her into his lap, and her blue eyes are suspiciously shiny when they travel over his face, but she offers him her best smile, the one she knows renders him powerless to deny her any wish.
He smiles back at her and holds up a pair of skates.
They make slow laps around the rink, holding hands like lovesick teenagers. When the lights are shut off for the night, only they remain.
She hands him the keys to her rented car without meeting his eyes.
Luis's hands are cold again, and now, it seems, a little clumsy. He fumbles with the lock a couple of times before he gets it right, and the door opens.
She's quiet in the passenger seat, and they don't talk in the miles that lead them away from the rink. She only speaks when he turns down an unfamiliar road, and his name escapes her lips a whispered question. "Luis?"
Luis parks the car before answering her, turning to her and clearing his throat uncomfortably, saying, "Home, sweet home." The smile he gives her this time is more like a grimace, like he's waiting for the jury to hand down their decision, and he holds his breath as she opens her door and climbs out. He does the same and watches as she swallows hard before meeting his eyes again, her own eyes glittering in the starlight.
"Well," she finally finds her voice and huffs. "What are you waiting for?" She stomps her boots against the pavement and wraps her arms about her middle. "It's cold out here, Buster."
She's holding the frame in both hands, wearing a sad smile, when he enters the living room, hot chocolate in hand.
A fire crackles in the fireplace, the orange glow of the flames illuminating the tracks of tears he knows she won't admit to. He pulls the folded blanket from the back of his sofa when she settles down across from him and tucks the chenille carefully around her knees and shoulders. Across the room, her boots sit next to his, and the keys to her car rest upon the coffee table.
They limit the conversation to mundane topics like the weather and the movies they've seen recently, and the whispered words have a lulling quality.
When she falls asleep, he gently removes the mug from her lax fingers and pads into the kitchen on bare feet to place it in the sink. Then he returns to the living room and takes up watch in the armchair across from her, his eyelids drooping heavily.
She's kneeling between his knees when he wakes up, and one smooth cheek rests upon his thigh.
Luis's hand is hesitant at first, but soon it strokes through her short blond curls more confidently, and his breath becomes shallow with the intense look in her blue eyes.
Her fingers make a slow, deliberate slide across denim, and she breaches the distance between them.
The first kiss is tentative, innocent almost.
She sighs when his lips leave hers, brushing across her cheek, and shivers when he nuzzles her neck, sweeping his big hands beneath the hemline of her shirt.
Luis can't hold in the words, knows they will hurt her, but he tells her anyway, murmuring them against her brow before he grasps the soft red material in his hands and pulls it over her head. "I miss you."
Her fingers pause in their restless movements, gripping his shoulders tight, and her blue eyes are tortured as she leans in to press a firm kiss to lips. When he lifts his hands to her arms then drops them to the small of her back, gently propelling her closer, she sobs into his mouth and burrows her fingers into his thick black hair.
He holds her, kissing the sad line of her mouth.
She helps him undress her in front of the firelight.
Her body, in the months since they've allowed themselves this intimacy, is both the same and different. Pregnancy had made her existing curves even richer; childbirth had brought about natural, inevitable changes that are still in evidence four years later.
Still, she feels thinner beneath Luis's touch, the fine bones in her hands even more delicate as they acquaint themselves with his body all over again. But the hollow of her throat tastes just as sweet, and muscles of her stomach still flutter the same way when his tongue dips teasingly into her navel. She's warm and real beneath him and above him and her heart beat just as strong.
She moves with a grace that can't be learned; without words, she loves him.
Before the flickering flames, they sleep curled into one another.
She makes love to him again as morning dawns pink through the frosted windows and the fire burns low.
One of Luis's hands rests on the smooth skin of her thigh, the other hooks in the thin gold chain dangling from her neck.
She grasps his hand, threading their fingers together and removing his hand from the ring he gave her so long ago, and places their clasped hands over his heart.
His heart pounds harder in his chest when his thumb brushes the band encircling her finger, and he knows he's failed to hide his feelings when pain flashes in her blue eyes. The hand on her thigh sweeps upward, cupping her shoulder then her neck, and he pulls her down to him, crushing her soft breasts against his chest and taking her mouth with his own. He tastes the salt of her tears, but he won't let her apologize, not again, not anymore. He kisses her until she is breathless and boneless against him.
For too short a time, she forgets.
She cooks him breakfast, one slender shoulder peeking out from beneath his sweater, her long legs bare.
He pushes the scrambled eggs around on his plate but can't manage to swallow more than a few bites down because it's almost that time, and his stomach is a ball of nerves.
"Chicken," she teases and crosses the room to hand him a fresh, steaming cup of coffee. "Mmm," she hums, leans into the kiss he initiates, and if she notices the desperation in the touch, she doesn't let it show, curling her fingers around his shoulders before gently pushing him away. "I need a shower," she sighs, straightening after letting him kiss her again. She pauses in the kitchen doorway, and asks, "Join me?"
But there are shadows in her eyes, and Luis knows already it has started. Already she has started pulling away from him. A chasm is forming and widening as the minutes tick away on the wall clock, and Luis declines her offer with a shake of his head. "You first. Gotta make some phone calls." He forces a grin, knowing she sees right through his made-up excuse and chooses to believe it anyway. "Don't use up all the hot water."
She rolls her eyes at him and turns to go, her bare feet soft and almost noiseless against the hardwood.
Love you, he thinks as she disappears down the hall and he hears the shower turn on. "I mean it," he shouts instead.
He takes his time in the shower when it is his turn, reluctant to wash her scent from his body, reluctant to watch as she dresses and prepares to leave him.
She doesn't say goodbye.
Her keys are gone from the coffee table when he emerges from his bedroom, snow-white towel slung low across his waist, another in his hand as he dries his hair. Where they once lay is a pale blue envelope with his name in her handwriting on the front. He pulls out a sheet of paper and reads it in disbelief.
Miraculously free of any signs of the disease that had struck him comatose for the last several years, Antonio had awakened only yesterday.
Pilar's prayers, she wrote, had done the trick.
He reads further, feeling his throat tighten at the thought of his ever-faithful mother and the joy she must have felt.
He asked about you, Luis, and I swear…he doesn't remember. Not all of it, anyway. He doesn't know. About us. He thinks…
Luis closes his eyes, remembering all too vividly the look on his brother's face, the love shining in his eyes whenever he looked at Sheridan. He knows because it's the same way he looks at her.
You know what he thinks, Luis. And you know why I have to do this, why I have to say goodbye.
No, Luis thinks, though, deep in his heart, he understands. He understands all too well.
I love you too much for there to be any other way.
He wishes he didn't, but he does.
His son smiles up at him with her blue eyes, and a tear falls from Luis's cheek.
I don't own Passions or any characters recognized therein. I'm just borrowing them for a little while and torturing them, lol.