I admire the fire in you, he thought, watching her silently. It is so blessedly pure. The fire in you burns, uncurbed and untamed.
Call me old fashioned, he'd once said, but I prefer the world burn at my hand, than by forest fires.
The satin sheets around him sighed with his every movement, and his long, thin fingers picked idly at the folds in them as he continued to watch her. Finally she opened her eyes, and rose gracefully from the pillows.
He preferred that she lie by his side awhile longer. He wanted to see her luxurious red hair fan out beneath her, flowing like fire over the sheets, over himself.
"Stay," he said calmly.
She turned to him slowly, and he saw the defiance rise in her eyes, more out of habit than design; she hated taking orders from him, and he loved giving them. He saw the other gleam in her eyes, the one that excited him. He met her defiance apathetically.
"It's late," she began, "and I-"
"Stay."
For a moment she paused, and then she lay back down, turning to him with a slow smile twisting her lips. The sun rose higher in the sky, the flames burnt brighter in her eyes, and he smiled back.
He enjoyed her. He enjoyed her the way he enjoyed the crunch of gravel beneath his feet as he walked, the burn of Firewhiskey in his tongue; he enjoyed her like he enjoyed opera and dance, music and poetry.
Paintings of long-forgotten, lovely days, with lapping waves and yellowed towns, hung on his wall. He loved her, loved her within the confines of the dark frames that held the canvasses of those sepia-tinted times he'd spent Galleons to preserve. She was a fire in his cold marble fireplace, alive under him, dying at his hand.
He turned to her slowly, his eyes fixing on hers. The sun streamed in through the blinds of the window, casting golden shadows on her skin.
"Dans ton coeur sanglotant," he whispered. "Dans ton coeur ruisselant..."
In your heart that sobs. In your heart that bleeds.
He would quell forest fires under his shoe. He would light a cigarette, and simply hold it, to watch it burn.
The line of French is from the poem "A Une Madone" by Charles Baudelaire. I'm quite sure I got the meaning right; if I didn't, forgive me. It sounds beautiful, anyway. u_u
I know that technically the "obvious" drabble comes before this. I have that written out too, but for some reason I want to post this first, because I love it. I hope you like it too. Please don't forget to review!