A/N: My Latin is verging on dreadful so please tell me if there are any glaring mistakes. And please review.
-
December arrives in a mist of tinsel and baubles. His lips are still like a morphine brush against her throat and I love you Juliet Shaw has become her soundtrack.
His mouth is warm, wet, and almost cruel because he knows her and then he doesn't and each of her reactions— she twists, mews, and aches when he's inside of her— become his.
His. Oh bugger.
-
She sits next to Ruth in Latin. With Harry diagonally in front of her. So she sends him a letter;-
Amor est vitae essentia et amor tussisque non celantur.
J xxx
P.S. Braccae tuae aperiuntur
He grins back at her and she sees Ruth out of the corner of her eye, "Don't worry, it was written in Latin." She assures the disapproving girl.
"That's not the point!" Ruth's voice is hushed and she's obviously annoyed.
"Audere est facere. I'm presuming you know what that means."
"Of course I do, 'to dare is to do' but to dare doesn't make it right."
Juliet rolls her eyes, "Te audire no possum. Musa sapientum fixa est in aure."
"Oh by the way, Harry's fly has been open all day." Ruth smiles into her book.
A large ink splodge lands in the middle of her page, "You looked! You co—"
"Thought you couldn't hear me due to the banana in your ear."
-
He's like an addiction. A drug. She finds herself going back to him again and again.
She's hardly read a page of her book (Dracula) since they began dating, "Harry, I've read this paragraph 5 times, please can I have just 5 minutes to myself?"
Then he tickles her and she loses her place altogether. "What were you and Ruth arguing about today in Latin?"
She sighs and shakes her head, extracting herself from his grasp, "It was nothing."
-
There's a bit of awkwardness settling in the room (hers) between them, clouding around them as his mouth locks on hers.
Whispers of the television mix with the moans from next door (Ollie's in there). She almost pauses and says that this is dangerous and that Ruth might catch them, but then he growls and causes them to stumble.
The back of her legs hit the bed and she falls, falls, and keeps falling. She doesn't know what she's chasing and why she went to him in the first place, but she'll leave it at that.
She hates him (she loves him really), hates this place (it's still her home), and swears she hears her mother telling her to be careful. But she kisses him and he kisses her and it seems like that's all they do in this life— kiss each until there's nothing left.
She still hates him to the point where she loves him when their tongues entwine, her nail raking against his back. He gasps, moans, and is a little two warm when he presses against her.
-
She doesn't see him for a week after that, schoolwork and her duties taking centre stage. So she goes to ask him if he wanted to go into town on Saturday. But her incentive to do something stumbles forward and sooner than she can step back and apply some sort of rationality, her hands are in his hair and she's kissing him fiercely.
She doesn't think about his response, about the consequences, or about the aftermath— she kisses him because she's missed him and chances are, this'll probably be one of those random opportunities.
But when he starts to respond, his arms sliding around her waist with his tongue slipping into her mouth— she moans, reacts, and loses herself completely the instability of them.
"Where have you been?" he breathes, his hands cupping her face. His thumb brushes again her lower lip and this time, he steals a kiss.
She smiles. Or tries to when he leans back. "Sorry. I've had a lot to do."
Her lips sort of burn and she thinks that maybe this is love.
-
Christmas comes all too soon and she's dreading the prospect of speaking to her Mother for the first time in months.
Then he arrives in a shiny silver Audi and she's not sure if it's legal or not, "Do want a ride?"
In the end she agrees and Bing Crosby and David Bowie serenade the two of then when he drives to the park, at her request— unnecessary, but necessary to her. She hates this song, it puts her to sleep.
Then again, Christmas isn't really her thing.
She's drawn to his hands again, the motion of one and then the other. He has one of the wheel, his fingers curled lightly around it and sliding as each turn is made. His other hand props his head up too close to the glass.
He's tired, that much is clear. But it's the first time that she's allowed herself to acknowledge this—
that she cares for him.
"Christmas sucks," she mutters. "You didn't bring—"
At a red light, he turns and reaches into the back. He drops a box in her lap and she raises an eyebrow.
Love hearts.
Her lips quirk. Barely. But it's there.
-
