Summary: I don't want to love, I don't want to talk, I don't want to think, I don't want to try… What sort of person goes to art museums? What sort of person goes alone? And why do so many lonely, dazed, and tired people end up so close, only to be too far? Vignette series. Different pairing per chapter.
A/N: Hi! Been gone a while for many reasons, but it's the usual thing. I'm back with this series of little vignettes as a congratulatory and gift-fic for The Goliath Beetle who just completed her exams. These stories are going to have a bit of a melancholy feel, but sometimes that can be nice to read to.
If you have the time, send The Goliath Beetle a message and brighten her day! I'm sure she'd appreciate it.
Also, to those who celebrate it, happy Thanksgiving!
Talk About Something Pretty
Preface: Everything Begins in the Louvre
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Does it happen so often to everyone? Is it my curse? Do I love to fall so much, or is it just that I'm incapable of standing upright altogether?
There's something horribly perfect about a stranger that is so tempting. Perhaps it's because people love secrets so much, and there's nothing more secret than making love with your eyes. Knowing is what hurts. And to not know anything at all about the man sitting at a cafe, reading a newspaper and looking ways away, or the woman walking far too fast, almost tripping over her own feet…it adds the most pleasant and safest of mysteries.
And it's hard to forget that person you met so briefly when the color of their eyes was burned into your skin, and the sound of their voice lingers by your ears like a torturous bee.
However, even the pain of remembering could never compare to the regret of not acting, and not taking those few steps forward and asking for a name, a number, another moment of their time.
Because I do regret it. I regret it everyday I see a dress that looks like yours did, or a laugh that sounded like you, and more often, whenever I happen to be at the Louvre, and I pass by that painting you found me staring at so solemnly that day. It's whenever I'm there I remember your hand gesturing to a painting on the right, and you said:
"Let's talk about something pretty."