To Get Here We Trod on Glass and Moths
Summary: What are you meant to do when you find yourself kissing him? And what on earth are you supposed to do when you can't stop? A story in many halves.
AN: This story was agonising to write. I think to read, too. But I really enjoyed it. I'm experimenting with writing styles yet again.
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Prologue: Present.
Why am I here?
Why am I here with his head tilted down onto me, into me? His chin against my skin.
Why am I here with his lips against mine?
His hands are here – oh, they're pressing there. It's tight, I can't – not with the press and I can feel the pads of his fingers moulding and making my back move with him, for him. Why? It wasn't meant to be this, not here, not this, not him. He's against me, and… and I think I'm drowning, I really am.
What are you meant to do when you can't breathe? Can't pull back. I can't. I hate it, but I want to kiss him. God, I want him to fold himself against me and become me. I want the heat, I want to feel it burn every second for the rest of my life. I want to blister and erupt. I want to die that small death.
He's moving. Downwards with his lips. I know where he's going and ah…
There, against my neck. In that spot. How did he know? How can he do this? I Loathe him but that doesn't matter now because his lips are there and they're hot and open and its dragging, dragging back up and his breath is on me and if he spoke the rest of his life against the back of my ear so be it.
Now that's sex talking. That's sex digging my fingers into the lapels of his suit, and sex moving me forward into him, and yes, that's still sex slipping a leg between his and releasing up.
What are you meant to do when fire licks at you and wins?
Burn.
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Part One: Past
If I had drawn up a list of Places I Did Not Want To Be Tonight, I think this would have featured pretty high. Then again, I do want to be here to support Charles, I will always want to be there for him. However, do I have to be strong now?
I don't think I know how to be strong since Dad… left us. I know I am standing, and my heart is pumping, but it feels as if I have ripped at the seams and everything has just spilled out onto the carpet. Wouldn't that just conform to party etiquette?
There are women staring. In the nicest possible way I wish they would just fuck off.
I am a person, too. I have thoughts, and worries, and a baby sister, and why should that matter any less just because I have millions to my name. Supposedly. Let me see it then? Let me see my 'fortune', and not written on a computer screen. Let me measure my weight in gold, as it were.
I can't drink too much. Not tonight. I promised I would be home to Georgiana early, when she's still awake. After everything else, I can't break that promise. I can't break anything else even if it is minute. I don't know what we're going to do. What am I going to do? I am the head now, and my situation is still vastly the same but it feels as though some tremendous weight has been lowered onto me and my path lathered with treacle to wade through.
What if I'm not strong enough for this? What if I break under it all? But I can't break. I'm not allowed to.
I talk with Jane, the fiancée. It feels like a rush of fresh air. She seems not to understand, but that doesn't make it any less comforting. She makes me feel weightless, and I think it's the voice that does that, or perhaps the eyes. I'm glad Charles has her. I can't feel jealous of them at all for finding each other, because they're perfect for each other. To feel jealous of them would make me guilty of standing in their path towards each other, I think.
Then a sister is introduced to me. She's sharper. She's shard glass to Jane's silk cloth.
If she's shattered glass, then I guess I'm the bare foot that steps in it. And if I'm a foot, I guess she's also the brilliant moth I've stood on. We hurt each other instantly. She must have heard me talking to Charles. I was harsh, but I do not want to dance with her, just like I do not want to dance with anyone, however, I shouldn't have insulted how she looks. I would have dredged up the courage to apologise and explain had I not heard her pernicious mother spout about my pride, my arrogance, my conceit and my venomous slight of her daughter.
She cut my pride and I flattened her. Glass, foot, moth.
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Part Two: Past but further present.
It happens to be a long time until I see my glass and moth again. Quite honestly, I'd forgotten about her, or so I like to think.
A lot had happened in those months apart. It has been a lifetime if measured by my Father for now he is buried and mourned. It has been a heartbreak if measured by my sister for now she has tasted desire and betrayal.
I feel more in control of myself this time. I didn't expect to spend time with her again, but it's almost as if my body had been licking its wounds shut and buttoning down the emotional hatches in preparation. I no longer feel I should be sharp and unforgiving, but it still happens. We hurt each other again, and maybe that's just who we are to each other.
At least I can say one thing in apology. I was wrong. She is fine-looking.
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Part Three: Past but further present x2
I'm actively seeking her now.
Why? I don't know but there must be something wrong, off centre. There must be for me to be doing something like this.
It's not romantic – it's more tragic.
I can't even picture myself with her, not really. At least, not anything tangible. I don't want to marry her, I don't want to set our lives ticking in sync. It's not like that. I just want to see her, I want to talk to her and let her tease me and tease her in return. That's all it is, we hurt each other, but it's nothing serious. I don't dislike her for it, it's interesting and it's fresh.
It entices me, but it isn't something I could handle for the rest of my life. I couldn't coddle and try and control the barbs indefinitely – I think it would rip me apart.
She's a challenge that I haven't seen in a woman before, and it's something I want to solve and discard more than anything. That's all it is.
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Part Four: Half way between past and present
She hates me.
It isn't teasing.
I thought it was a non-personal game. I thought she would throw something at me which struck and I would return the volley. But she genuinely hates me.
It hurts, but why does it hurt? I'm attracted to her, I'm so very attracted but that shouldn't have left me in tears that night in the darkness of my own room.
What is she to me? She's nothing to me, she's just a woman who doesn't care at all about me and whilst that should be refreshing it leaves a hollow feeling in my throat.
I can't play this game with her any more. I thought we were both free to come and participate when we chose, but now, knowing that she wants to paint her living room with my entrails, I refuse to play. She isn't free anymore. Not if the game hurts her and twists a dagger with my name on it further into her gut. It feels like, all this time, I've entrapped her, and it makes me feel sick. Makes me want to be sick, and I probably would have if I'd been able to stop the shaking sobs for long enough.
God, I had cried. I had rocked myself so hard and squeezed my jaw and heart so tightly that I thought I might have slipped away. I thought I would erupt and crumble. It hurt. It was all pain and I feared every last second. And I don't think it was just for her. She hates me which is confirmation enough of my follies, but there was so much more than that. There's Georgiana, and Dad, I am so alone and without an anchor that there is no point in even trying to stand strong at all some days.
I'd wanted the fear to chew away at me. I'd wanted time to stand still so I could just rive in that moment.
Then I slept, and I woke the next morning and here I am.
I remember last night and my tears. I remember my whispered 'It's okay' as if talking to a fragile bird. I was being soothed, but I also was the one doing the soothing.
I'm still here and I am still very much alive.
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Part Five: Mostly towards present.
Charles and Jane's wedding was beautiful as we all expected, and I was even able to stand up and speak without too much coldness gripping my heart.
I'm starting to feel like Fitzwilliam Darcy again, and even the name fills me with pride. It seems like it's taken a long time to get here, I felt off kilter for however long. I had always felt composed on the outside, but whilst the town walls were still standing strong the population were being decimated.
I danced with Elizabeth, and whilst her hatred still heats the void between us, it has calmed; like it isn't bothered anymore. I am sure that she doesn't hate me any less, she may even hate me more, but I don't feel as gripped by it. It's not lust anymore, and it feels like I can breathe with or without her permission.
I know that I love her even though she despises me, but that's okay. This dance will be my ration.
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Part Six: Minutes before present.
How dare he? How dare that little snake wiggle his way underneath people's skin and whisper lies to them? How dare she believe them?
I can't even contemplate my feelings for her, how can I love someone who believes those lies. How can I love someone who believes that my sister is anything but Good? She is good, she is, she is good. I want to roar that Georgiana is better than she is, but I can't find those words. I can't find any words beyond anger, and insults.
I rip away at her; I peel the skin away, slash at her family, at her behaviour, at my own feelings which she undeservedly captured. She ensnared me. I love her and to what end? It isn't enough, these words aren't enough. I want to show her how wrong she is, how stupid and unfair she is. I want to rip more, present her with my sister's purity on a platter. Most of all I want to kill him. I want to kill Wickham; I want to burn him like a heretic. I want to hear him scream. I want him to paw at the flames and begfor forgiveness like a dog.
And I can't begin to think of what to do with Elizabeth Bennet. She's defending him, openly, untameably, ignorantly. I should pity her for trusting him. I should pity myself for allowing myself to come within grasping distance of her.
Most of all, I pity myself this: I reach, because I need to, and we kiss.