Retrouvailles (French): The happiness of meeting again after a long time.
Her fingers fidget with the hem of her summer dress as her mother clucks and hustles back and forth behind her, slamming counter drawers shut and scouring through their pantry. The smell of her sweet perfume lingers in the air, reminding her of sticky caramel dripping off tart red apples, daring fairy tale adventures with her grandmother, and the sparkling grape wine her dad sneaks her every birthday dinner since she was ten.
Amy is eighteen now.
When she was sixteen, a boy sort of broke her heart. Or if one wanted to be technical, she was a coward and ran away before he had the chance to. She still remembers the smooth pads of his fingers, the way they lingered on her skin, caressing her heart with a simple, heated brush and how his eyes seemed to gleam with wildfire when they focused on her.
She's not a celebrity or a rich little heiress or anyone uniquely special. She's rarely the star, but when he turns toward her, she can feel the stage rising underneath her feet and the warmth of the spotlight and the pressure to come alive. To be worthy.
After she comes home from her freshman year at Harvard, her parents sweep her and her brother off to the Hamptons for the summer. Her grandmother, the Cahill matriarch, has been clamoring to see her favorite grandkids and Amy would never deny her anything.
Except she doesn't realize the little flaw in what was supposed to be a pretty normal summer for the Cahills.
He's back.
"Mrs. Cahill, it's a pleasure to see you again," he smiles, teeth white and perfect and dimples stretched with warm sincerity. The brief instinct to flee zooms from her brain down to her feet incased in flats and she's literally halfway to sprinting, when a large hand pushes her out of the kitchen entryway and into the foyer.
"Ian! You remember Amy, don't you?" Her father beams, all fatherly pride and love for his little girl, but he doesn't see the way her spine becomes wooden and her skin a shade paler than usual. If anything, she's starting to feel a little nauseous.
Green flickers to gold and she's surprised to see him still dazzling as if the last time they saw each other, there hadn't been disappointment in his eyes and fear fleeting in her footsteps and two broken hearts left on the sandy shores of the Atlantic. Like any possibility of them hadn't been chased away by the darkness that night.
"I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I can't-" She swirls away, tears flushing down her cheeks as she scrambles in the dark trying to keep herself upright as insecurity drowns her body with shaming familiarity and fear burns the corners of her eyes with an aching sting. A loud mantra of her name trails after her, pleading and desperate, but all she hears is the pounding of her footsteps and how startling there the aching hole in her chest where her heart used to be is.
"Amy," he flashes a heart-stopping smile and familiar heat blooms inside her and maybe, maybe they can – No. She stomps it down, swerving in the other direction. It's a dangerous feeling in her experience because the disappointment, the cost will hurt more than she can take. Regardless, her heart ignores her head and scarlet blazes across her neck and up to her cheeks anyway.
And she definitely spots the way his grin widens when he observes her reaction.
"Ian," she manages a (hopefully) sweet smile. "How—oof!" One day soon, she's going to shove her little brother into the lake, she vows as her body propels into Ian and even though his reflexes catch her easily, they still stumble a few steps backward.
"I've got you," his British husk presses against her really, really warm skin because he's breathing on her and she's so embarrassed, her heart is literally about to pound right out of her chest, anxiety hinges on her frame and the smell of him is making her head spin. Ignoring the urge to bury her face into his chest, she pushes off him and exhales a long sigh; she just wants this whole thing over already. After she pulls away, Amy misses the way he frowns almost indiscernibly.
Long fingers tuck a rogue tendril behind her ear as he leans closer, eyes moonlit and voice a breathy echo just above the whistling wind that surrounds them. "Can I kiss you?"
"Oops," a sheepish look crosses Dan's face and she rolls her eyes, giving him a sharp nudge with her side that knocks him over. "Hey!"
Her parents and grandmother exchange a laugh behind their backs, but she ignores them, her eyes sliding over to the only person that matters at this moment because she must seem like such a loser right now. But he's still smiling at her, gold twinkling with amusement.
"You're staying for dinner, right?" Hope calls as she reaches for a stack of the Cahill family's fine china from the cupboards and her father proceeds to set the table.
The Kabra heir sits the bottle of wine on the counter. "Of course. I can't refuse an opportunity to taste your famous cooking, Mrs. Cahill."
She almost groans aloud, because apparently, his trademark habit of always knowing the right thing to say around the adults is still in full effect because stars are positively dancing in her mother's eyes. She stifles a giggle when she hears Dan snort under his breath.
When they're all settled in their seats, Grace at the head of the table, her parents on either side of the eldest Cahill, with she next to her mother and Dan next to their father, somehow their guest ends up next to Amy and she can barely stop cursing her luck. She might as well paint her cheeks red because they're going to be permanently colored before the night ends. And as the entrees are passed to and fro, small talk begins and she's literally dreading this part with every fiber in her being.
"So how are your parents, Ian?" Arthur asks, mouth hovering over a spoonful of mashed potatoes.
If it weren't for the fact that she was only centimeters from him, she wouldn't have noted the way he stiffened ever so slightly under the table. "They're fine. Traveling actually," he replies dutifully, gaze lowered on the plate in front of him.
"Just you and Natalie this summer?" Her grandmother questions, sharp eyes studying him, as if probing for a specific reaction. Even though she isn't exactly allowed in everything family business-related just yet, she has a vague idea of the elder Kabras' relationship with the rest of the family.
Ian smiles lightly at the mention of his sister and nods, before taking a bite and effectively cutting off further questions about his family. The adults swing their attention to their new target and she swallows a sigh.
Hope's head turns to her. "How's school, Amy?"
"Good," she allows a smile before taking a sip of water. "It's interesting to be around people with so many different ideas and opinions. I really like it."
"And you're sticking with English Lit?" Her father asks.
Amy shares a grin with her mother. "Of course."
"Still pre-law at Oxford, Ian?" Grace questions as she spreads butter on her bread.
"Yes, ma'am," He dabs a napkin at the corner of his lips. "I'm thinking of picking up a minor as well."
This bit of news piques her attention and she peeks to her right with curiosity on her brow. She's fairly tuned to how involved his parents are in his academic life. Since the day he was born, Ian has been groomed to take over the family mantel someday and his parents have always expected nothing less than top-of-the-class perfection. She wonders if they've approved of this decision.
If he notices her sudden interest, he doesn't make any move to address it except to answer the obvious question that follows. "I'm looking into either history or philosophy," he says.
"Law and one of those? Quite a heavy load there, Ian. How will you have time for your girlfriend?" Hope remarks casually, but her daughter is no fool and her fingers tighten around the fork to keep from diving under the table. Really, could her mother be any more obvious?
"Actually, I don't have one." Ian swirls his wine glass, staring into the dark liquid. After taking a sip, he shrugs noncommittally. "Just a few dates here and there."
"Oh, really." Her mother emphasizes the last word, eyeing her daughter in a not-too-inconspicuous way that has Dan snickering on the opposite side and she's praying to every higher being in existence for a giant black hole to swallow her up.
"Mom!" She hisses through gritted teeth, the word half-curse, half-scolding as a frown twists her lips when her mother dons an innocent look and she's stabbing a piece of broccoli with her fork until Ian brushes his hand against the fist clenching the utensil. She doesn't know if it was intentional, but he manages to soothe her ire anyway and the fork is gently eased from her death grip. The brief flash of warmth makes her release a heavy breath and she suddenly feels really tired, though dread still lingers in the back of her mind.
"Besides," the boy beside her begins, "I may study abroad in America next year." And as Ian says those words, his eyes are staring intently into hers the entire time – as if he's trying to spell out something for her, but she can't quite grasp the message. For someone who goes to an Ivy League, she feels pretty stupid. The meaning is literally lost in translation so she breaks the connection and her head ducks down, a universal sign of a white flag.
The next morning, she opts not to go downstairs, to say goodbye. Instead she watches him from her second-floor bedroom window and she knows he knows she's watching because when he turns around to look up, fear steals her heart and her eyes close instead; coward. She can't bear to face him. Guilt trickles down the curve of her spine and she buries her feelings into the tears that smear her bed.
After they trudge through the rest of dinner and finally get past dessert, the adults have all but abandoned the younger generation for bed and Dan is eager to get back to his video games so after overbearing hugs and stern promises to visit again, her mother leaves them to their own devices. Amy gathers up a pile of plates, placing them neatly in the sink. Turning on the water, she's fully aware of his gaze following her as she moves around, her back facing him though she's acutely aware of his overwhelming presence in the kitchen.
"You know, if you're just going to just stand there and watch me, you could at least help," she made up her mind to break the silence. The words sound a little rude if she's honest, but she gave up trying to maintain sanity and decorum somewhere during the salad portion of tonight.
Amy can almost feel him lift an eyebrow and slightly jumps, almost throwing a soap-sodden bowl god-knows-where when his mouth hovers just above the crevice where her neck and shoulder meet. A slight tremble flutters from her swallowed lump in her throat to the tips of her fingers. "Bossy." He sounds amused, as he rolls up the sleeves of his silk button-down and gets to work.
The peace is a nice change of scenery for the numbing chaos that was her mind because she finally feels the relaxation she's longed for all night. Grace, the sweet mediator that she is, did her best to control the conversation, but Amy had been on edge the entire time. At times, she was all too aware of how close Ian was, too close to her skin, to her heart.
"You look well."
When an adorable crinkle forms on her forehead, Ian chuckles at this with a shake of raven, disheveled hair. "Lovely actually," he corrects himself.
"You look good too," she replies softly and they stand there for a few minutes as quiet reigns again, she cleaning the fine dinnerware of their ancestors and he wiping them dry.
"How are you really?" He looks over at her, before rolling his shoulders.
"I'm alright. School keeps me busy enough." Then he pauses his chore for a second. "And you? Got a boyfriend?"
She doesn't stop, but stares at him, surprise coloring her features. "What happened to tact?" When he doesn't answer except to offer a tiny crease of a smirk, she shakes her head. "No one. Haven't really found anyone I'm that interested in."
"Ah," then he bares his teeth with unabashed smugness. "Perhaps the Harvard boys aren't good enough." And she shoots him a mixture of exasperation and amusement because even after all this time, they'll forever be classic across-the-pond rivals.
"Veritas, Kabra," Amy fires back, before clicking her tongue. "U.S. News ranked us two positions higher."
"And Forbes ranked Oxford above Harvard, my darling Cahill." He flicks a foamy bubble at her and enjoys the way her nose wrinkles cutely. "Besides, I can't take any university with a pilgrim for a mascot seriously."
A fine eyebrow arches. "Says the one with almost forty different ones."
Ian opens his mouth, but as if thinking better of it, snaps it closed and shrugs. "Touché. But I stand by my previous statement, at least we don't have a pilgrim." He pauses. "I think." And he savors her bubbly laughter, the way such a simple sound makes his skin tingle so effortlessly and overwhelming warmth sneaks into the far reaches of his heart.
"Why are you being so nice after we—" she struggles to squash the hitch in her voice and the tears that lie waiting in the wings, her fingers tightening on milky white porcelain. "After last time."
She's laughing with Sinead and talking about their latest project when darkness falls over her eyes and there's a short instinct to defend. "I smelled your cologne a mile away." She says matter-of-factly and grins when her vision comes back not a second later.
"Really?" He frowns, sniffing at himself and she bites back a giggle at the closest thing she'll get to a pout on Ian Kabra's face.
She brushes past him, linking arms with the Ekat, but not before throwing over her shoulder. "Losing your touch, Lucian."
"I tried to forget. Seeing other people, but—" And the boyish smile Ian bears for her makes the fortress around her heart start to unravel. Her mind is trying to drag her drifting heart back to the ground, to reality, as if joy isn't gradually animating every cell in her body, filling up the shattered cracks with light and she's trying not to cry because it would definitely ruin whatever this is.
Then the memory briefly flickers in her mind like an old black and white and everything halts to a stop as sorrow and humiliation and remorse flood her senses for the thousandth time, as fresh as they were two years ago. Shaking her head, she bites her lower lip, salty liquid looming. "I'm so sorry. So, so sorry."
"For what?" He stares at her incredulously. "God, you were only sixteen and I was leaving for university." A hand drags down his face as he scans everywhere else, before returning to her. "I didn't even think—" Then he falls silent, but she senses his eyes are still on her.
She examines him out of the corner of her eyes, but quickly looks away when their eyes lock. "I was scared," she admits quietly, continuing to rinse. "And probably a little shy."
"I figured," he replies after a moment. "At first, I thought it was me. That you didn't want to kiss me, which seemed really odd." He throws her a playful wink and she flicks some suds at him with a good-natured eye roll.
"They were just distractions. I kept seeing your face and I knew I just couldn't – wouldn't forget."
She glances at him over her shoulder. "I'm still waiting, you know." Then he swears his heart stopped beating right then and there.
Putting the dishrag and the spoon down, he then takes the plate she's holding, before reaching for the hand closest to him. His fingers entwine in hers and she inhales so sharply, it almost makes her choke, but she overcomes it and her head is gently tilted upward. "You were always different, special, and really far, far too good for me," a grin burrows into the corners of his lips when she's about to protest, he's sure of it. "A Lucian and a Madrigal? My mother would go into cardiac arrest." He suddenly laughs, unable to wipe away the happiness seemingly etched into his cheeks.
"I always knew what I could have with you would be what I loved most. What I wanted most."
He tugs her forward a little so she can smell the addicting musk of his cologne and the citrus soap that hangs off his fingers. Amy instinctively leans closer into him until their foreheads are touching and she can't run away because after two years, she knows what she wants. "Ian, I—"
"Are you kids still up?" The sound of a voice shatters their cocoon and tumbles awkwardly between them, making Amy instantly spring backwards and accidentally into the opposite counter. Her teeth clamp down on the swear word dangling on the edge of her mouth at the throbbing on her hipbone and she rolls her eyes at his silent laughter.
"I think that's my cue, as you Americans say," he winks after she sticks out her tongue. "Good night, love." Then he tips her an imaginary hat and smoothly disappears out the back door and into the crisp New York night with nary a look back, as if he didn't just basically confess. As if they didn't just almost kiss and he didn't just almost give her a heart attack.
This time, he hauls her away from the party with success and they're darting over bits of gravel and rocks that surprise her bare feet in the dark and lots and lots of prickly sand and even though he's complaining about the dry cleaning bill he'll have to deal with for her, she recognizes the thrill in his voice anyway.
Grasping his hands, she lets out a tiny squeal when he swings her over a cluster of boulders and they run towards the dark shoreline, waves diving toward the earth, wetting the ground around them. When she scoops up some water, she can barely see anything except what the moon graces. Liquid silver drips through ivory fingers and he's staring at her as she splashes in the water, knees deep and shivering in the stark cold, but she's smiling and happy. For now.
"Ian!" She beckons at his leaning form with a wiggle of her fingers.
When he shakes his head and she really had to squint to see the motion, she jogs over and grabs his arm, dragging him over to the shore. "Amy!" The usually graceful Kabra finds himself stumbling along after her and try as he does, can't help, but succumb to her musical giggles.
The next morning, she's bounding down the stairs, ready to play dumb and forget all of last night, excusing it as a dream from inhaling too many soap bubbles, when her grandmother stops her from the living room. "Amy, would you do me a favor and get the newspaper? It's a little too chilly outside for old folks like me."
She laughs and grabs a blanket from the hallway closet, before swinging it over her favorite relative's shoulders. "You're not that old, Grace."
"Says the new adult," the woman retorts with a teasing air.
Donning a cardigan over her t-shirt and shorts, she wrestles her boots on and then shuts the door behind her. Navigating through the manicured gardens, Amy glances up at the effervescent blue sky and glowing sun, smiling to herself as she hops from one tiled square to another. So focused in her steps, she doesn't notice until it's too late when she bounces right into the unintentional object of her thoughts and almost falls back, but naturally, his arms find her again.
"Oh," she exhales with bated breath. "Hi."
Honeyed eyes and a handsome smirk greet her when she chances a look northward and he steadies her. "I don't remember you being this clumsy when we were kids."
"Apparently, it's only around you," she mutters to herself as her hands sweep off any invisible dust on her clothes. "What are you doing here?"
"Getting the newspaper for Grace and bringing her favorite tea from England." He holds up a small basket and she can see a litter of colorful, paper bags. "She asked me to last night."
"But she just-" Amy's head alternates between staring at the basket, the newspaper on the floor, and his still smiling face. Her confusion must have been obvious because a deep chuckle escapes him (and she's making a hard effort to ignore the swarm of butterflies) and he lets the basket drop to their feet.
"We didn't finish our conversation last night."
She blows a sigh and jade eyes swivel to the street because even after last night, she's still afraid. It seems too good to be true and she just can't seem to let go, the uncertainty feels too much like a cliff and she doesn't know if she has the courage to make the leap. "What else is there?"
"Can I have that kiss?"
One arm slides around her slender waist, making her fall into him as the other hand grazes her soft cheek, face lowering until he's only a breath's distance from her. Her eyes close on contact of his heat touching her skin and her hands crawl up to grasp strong shoulder blades. Yes. He squeezes her gently and the feel of him embracing her draws a sweet rush from her heart as she peers at his darkening gaze and her fingers skim across the threads of his sweater.
And when he kisses her, her world explodes.
It feels like he's trying to soak her in as his mouth molds against hers, tongue licking the surface of her lips, and she grants his silent wish, his fingers angling her face to deepen the kiss. She's really trying to remember how to breathe, except he's distracting, devouring her and her heart feels so vibrantly alive, her head is starting to spin from lack of air and the kiss and him and how good it feels. Then he has to be a mind reader, because his attention slowly drops to the side and she's clutching the back of his head so firmly, shuddering all the while as he trails a flurry of scorching kisses along her jaw line and the side of her neck.
When they sink back together, the kiss is less urgent, less passionate, but she's still just as enthralled by the sweetness of it, how tender and wonderful it feels like melted chocolate and cozy nights by the fireplace. After what seems like forever, they separate, though his arms are still around her waist and hers around his neck, her feet fall back to earth and his nose is nuzzling into the space between her ear and jaw.
"I should apologize, but I'm not going to," Ian whispers to her, once again sending shivers down her back with his warm breath, "because I'm not sorry."
"I would hit you if you did," When his laughter, her favorite kind, rumbles throughout her body, it's infectious because suddenly summer's looking a lot better than it did twenty-four hours ago, like haphazard picnics on the front lawn and secret kisses behind the stairs and midnight arguments over dead poets. They smile a little stupidly at each other, before Amy tugs him back down.
Bonus:
"Dad, get the shotgun!"
A/N: Possibly somewhat OOC, but regardless of the mess that was DoD, I needed some Iamy happy times.