-1
There are a hundred, two hundred, five hundred people in the gaping space that is the ballroom, and there she stands, alone in her dress, an invitation in her hand with her name in faded handwriting, and not a soul she knows anywhere in sight.
She gravitates not to the edge, but to the center, to the place where she can disappear, and looks up in time to see light flash behind curved glass. The trail it leaves brings her to someone, someone as alone as she is, the only other someone who even seems to have noticed, and the after-image of starlight moves across his face. He looks at her and she smiles, and even though he does not smile back, they are co-conspirators, for a moment that lasts as long as it took the star to fall. He is as separate from this party as she is, and after she leaves with the cold shadow on her waist that follows the warmth of his hand, she wishes she had thought to ask him why.
.
0
That morning, they fight.
It's too much, she thinks. She has asked for too much, and it's wrong, all wrong. It should be them, and the beach, and the quiet knowledge that they are all that there is, and her desire for beauty, for memory, has overwhelmed the meaning of the day. She takes it out on him, and he is frustrated that she can manage to overcomplicate today.
He parks the car on the way to their new life and they sit in silence, and she thinks that this will be their life, forever, and she will always overcomplicate things, will always worry she is asking for too much, and wonders if that itself is not asking for too much. Their history so far is her impulsiveness, and his unwavering dedication to saving her from herself, and against the hum of the car's engine and a song they both hate playing in the background, the understanding of what they will be doing that afternoon settles in around her.
And she laughs.
He turns to her and raises an eyebrow and she starts to reach for the radio, and he catches her hand.
"I can't be mad at you with this crap on in the background," she says.
"Then leave it on," he says, behind a smile. She tries to pull her hand away again, and he catches it again, and leans over and kisses her, and kisses her.
She protests, first against tradition, and then that she will mess up her hair, and they make awkward love in the lowered passenger seat of a rental car on the way to their wedding.
Later, she watches him from the window of the Winhill hotel, and marvels that someone so out of his element can appear so calm; that someone so composed can still possess the frentic energy of a hummingbird; marvels, above all, that she alone can see the difference.
Later still, she holds his hands and looks into his eyes, and knows the full stretch of time that they have seen is still short compared to how long she wants to spend beside him.
.
1
He gets home late and she sees the apology on his face and tries to keep it in, but the hours have crashed in on themselves, and the worry, and then anger, and then more worry and more anger break over his words when he opens his mouth to speak.
One day, she says, and knows, knows, she is already irrational, but the momentum is too great. One day.
There are times he is patient, and times she only has to look at him to know that he is not in the mood, but the hurt, the absolute unfairness of it all burns within her, brighter, hotter, and only grows in silence so she doesn't even try.
One. Day-
Her voice is shrill, and his willingness to have this conversation is long gone. Was gone that morning when he called to tell her and she was having none of it, was gone, she knows, on the train ride home while he wanted to be happy to see her but knew what he would be walking into, and she knows she has control over it, and he knows she really doesn't.
One day.
The fight goes on, because it is not a fight either of them will ever win. She deserves more. He does. They do. Garden has stolen so much of their time, and now it has stolen today, and in the midst of their fighting the one accurate clock ticks onto midnight, and she dissolves into hysterics unrivaled by the rest of the evening because now she has stolen their time.
It is minutes, before he goes to her, and she clings to him and sobs into his shoulder, and he kisses her hair and whispers apologies, and holds her, and holds her.
"I'm sorry," she says, quiet and choked.
"Me too." His arms are warm around her, and she wonders at how their fights can be so big, when the only place she has ever truly felt safe is wherever he is, and she tells him this, and attempts a laugh.
He only smiles, and tells her that he loves her. They toast their anniversary half an hour after the fact with half-full glasses from a bottle of wine they'd opened the day before, and the next morning when she wakes there is sunlight on her face and a flower on the pillow beside her, and the smell of coffee from the kitchen that is the promise of a day together, without work, without Garden, without anybody but each other.
.
5.
Mornings now are before the alarm, before the sun, and start with desperate cries through tinny speakers, and special occasions are no exception.
She groans. It's so cozy, snuggled under the covers, and his skin is so warm pressed against her, his breath hot against her ear. Go back to sleep, go back to sleep go back- the cries grow louder, shriller, and he stirs, and there is the silent debate that she is prepared to lose because it's her turn, but she'll attempt at any rate.
They lay still and listen, pretending they aren't as awake as they are, until he rolls over, and she reaches for him. "I'll go, I'll go," she says, face pressed into the pillow.
"It's okay," he says, and she doesn't argue. A minute later the crying stops, and she is once again asleep.
Now when she wakes it is to the rising sun, and an empty bed. The house is silent, and she moves softly from the bedroom, to the kitchen, to the living room and a scene that catches her breath, and brings her almost to tears. Asleep on the couch, they are bathed warm with lamplight, still bright in the dimness of morning, and she watches the mismatched rise and fall of the breaths they take; slow and steady, against quick and uneven, with those long pauses she will never quite get used to. His hand rests over the whole of a tiny back covered in lurid pajamas, and they wear twin expressions; deep contemplations of the world of dreams. She wonders: what do babies dream of? And she thinks it is this, this world before her. This trust, that comes from both of these people she loves so much, that comes from a love that cannot be put into words, because she knows there is no better feeling that waking up in the warms of the person you know will never let you down.
She wonders if he knows that, if he truly aware of this role he serves for both of them, and, if he is, if he can possibly know the sheer bigness of that role, or how far it expands, or what his willingness to embrace that trust, that dependence, that unconditional love means to her.
"You can't," she whispers to herself. "I barely do."
A soft cry breaks the air, and tiny hands rub tiny eyes. She kneels at the couch and lifts this person they have created out of nothing except each other, and cradles her to her shoulder. Then she kisses his nose, and takes the short time he opens his eyes to tell him that she loves him, and knows she will never be able to say how much.
.
?
There are fights, and there are tears. There are nights thousands of miles apart, and there are nights sitting inches from each other in comfortable silence. There are hours of passion, and there are moments built on nothing but gentle touch. There are days of work and duty, of laughter, of family, of distraction and of devotion.
There are dinners out, dinners in, dinners alone in cars. There are I love yous whispered in the dark, and over the phone, and only in their hearts.
There is growth and wonder, pride and pain; a team, and a game of war.
There is so often watching him in the moments in between. The smiles that start out mild and are always true. The concentration because he will never settle for anything other than absolute success no matter how many times she tries to tell him it isn't worth the headache. Watching his arm when he lifts a cup of coffee, or lifts their daughter. His hair in early morning sun, and his eyes when they lay in bed at night, talking about nothing.
The wonder that he stays, that her whimsy and her wildness have not become too much, that he will always be the grounding force in their lives no matter how ungrounded she becomes.
There is them, together even when they are apart.
And no matter the year, or whether they are in a rise or a fall, or the changes brought to them they can and cannot control, there is the world they have built, and the time they will not allow to escape, and always,
always,
love.
Fanfic writers who marry each other give each other fic for anniversaries...right? Written for my husband, as today is our 4th anniversary. I love you!
(And anyone who knows me knew I would use this particular song title for a fic at some point...)