"Will not post for at least another year" who?
DISCLAIMER: The Sound of Music isn't mine!
i.
He was fully convinced that he had never had a daydream before.
It wasn't as if he had anything against daydreams—no. He simply just did not have the time for it. As a child, he was always one to live in the moment—reveling in the present, no thoughts of what could be and what may be as long as his eyes were open. But when his eyes closed at night, swirling images of shades of blue, splotches of purple and ink, of stars of gold filled his mind's eye. Lands he had never seen before filled his head, but gone immediately once his eyelids fluttered open.
As a man in the navy, he simply didn't have the time to daydream—drills and commands, alertness and instructions to remember had ruled over him. No, there simply wasn't time to dream unless he drifted off to sleep. But when his eyes closed at night, all he could see were warm brown eyes, and soft, long tresses. A soft, rosy face, and a reassuring smile. And he could only hope he would live—so he could return home to her warm embrace.
When he lost the sea, and then she died, he had felt that there was nothing left to him—his purpose gone. What life was there to live? What was the use of daydreams? None. But when his eyes closed at night, he could still feel the salty breeze on his face, and she—she was right beside him, holding him. But when he woke, the sea was gone, and so was she—so he insisted on living rather than spending his time thinking of what could have been.
So when Liesl asks him about daydreams—
What could he possibly say? He had only ever read about them in books. He had never experienced them at all. He had never dreamed as long as his eyes were open.
"Everyone has daydreams, papa," Liesl reiterates, brows slightly furrowed, another (romance) book in her hand.
"Perhaps not everyone, darling," he flexes his fingers, acutely aware of her judging gaze. He tries to swallow the lump forming in his throat.
"That's silly, papa. Everyone daydreams."
Perhaps his daughter was even more stubborn than he was, he sighs to himself. Diverting the attention from himself, he turns sharply, eyes piercing through the third person in the library, who, he knows, has just glanced away. She pretends to be immersed in the book in her hand, but he knows—
He has yet to hear the rustle of paper since he set foot in the library.
"Hmm, what about you, fraulein?"
Her eyes widen slightly, and she turns to him like a deer caught by headlights. He feels smug. So smug.
"What about me, captain?"
She gulps.
"Do you daydream?"
"Perhaps," she blinks. Once. Twice. Lip caught between her teeth.
"What do you dream of, fraulein?"
She stiffens and hesitates, and he continues to watch her with a keen eye.
"Nothing that will be of interest to you, captain," she says softly as a reddish tint spreads across her cheeks. Immediately, she returns to reading (or should he say—"reading") her book.
As he watches her eyes dart wildly across the page she has been reading for the past fifteen minutes, he sees a reddish tinge creep further down her neck. He watches as she caresses the page with her thin fingers, then swiftly turns the page. As he studies her every move, he finds himself wanting to know what creeps in her mind's eye when her eyes were open.
ii.
He awakes from his slumber like clockwork, and he runs a hand over his face at the memory of the dream his own damn body clock had interrupted. He shakes his head.
Five,
Four,
Three,
Two,
One.
He has already forgotten his dream, unfortunately, but those eyes—those eyes, he will not forget. Swirling blue—ocean deep, periwinkle flowers, and cerulean skies encompassed in it—all the Earth in its beauty, rejoicing. He closes his eyes, and he revels in the memory of it. He takes a deep breath, and tries not to think of the feelings that have begun to stir deep inside him.
He rubs a hand over his face—
It has been a week now.
A week, and though he had forgotten his dream, he was certain that it was the dream that he had the night before, and the night before that, and the night before that. And though his mind could not remember, his fingertips still tingles at the memory of strings being strummed.
A familiar tune floats into his head—one that he could only assume had some relation to his dream. He could still feel the notes dancing around him, embracing him, coursing through him. Warmth fills him as the song plays, and as he remembers how Liesl had sung so beautifully with him, and how—
"Bless my homeland forever."
He buries his face into the pillow.
This was absurdly ridiculous of him.
Yet he could not shake the image in his mind.
Throwing the covers off his body, he rises and stretches.
He showers, he dries himself, he dresses.
He doesn't button his shirt all the way, leaving a few buttons open at the top, and he rolls his sleeves up—it's sweltering hot, and the sun is not up yet. And perhaps—
He rolls his eyes. He sighs and slings his tie and his jacket over his shoulder.
He needs a walk.
He sneaks out through the kitchen exit, and Frau Schmidt catches him, shaking her head and muttering something like "some things just don't change," and he almost laughs at the familiar slightly-disapproving look that passes her face. Perhaps, some things really don't change.
Change.
Change was all around him.
And he didn't know what he was to feel.
The things that have remained the same continue to ground him, and the comforting familiarity of the things unaffected by these changes wash over him, making him feel some semblance of peace despite his ever-changing surroundings. As he steps foot on the terrace, he breathes. For a second, he feels like himself again, and when the soft summer breeze hits his face, he feels at peace. He smiles inwardly.
Truth be told, he has no idea where he was going, but his feet lead him to an all-too-familiar path. Its fragrance wafting to his nose immediately, as if luring him to it. Sighing, he enters her garden first. He stops for a second—perhaps it was his way of being with her, still, he thinks. Or perhaps to remind him of—
As he walks in, the scent of the roses fill every crevice of his mind, dizzying him with its heavy perfume. He furrows his brow as he tries to navigate his way through the garden. There were more roses than he cares to count, he observes—and there would be more thorns than he could imagine. He tries not to get hurt.
Walking deeper into the garden, he tries to remember the feel of her hand in his, or how her hair felt under his fingertips, how her laugh sounded, and he slightly grimaces when he realizes that he has begun to forget. All he could remember—he would rather dismiss from his mind. But still, he stays. He tries to see her moving around the garden, dragging him around, dancing—long tresses bouncing, glinting under the sunlight.
But there was no sun, and there was no Agathe.
He frowns.
He walks away from the garden, from haunting memories that now somehow do not seem like a punch in the gut. More of a small prick from a thorn. It dissipates as quickly as it comes. And it's all thanks to—
He catches her staring at the lake in the dead of the night, her hands shoved in the pockets of her trousers, and he wonders what she's doing this late in the night—or rather, this early in the morning. Moreso, why she was wearing trousers.
"Going somewhere, fraulein?" He says. She looks back to glance at him, eyes wide, glistening like moonstone.
He sees that she can barely breathe.
"No, captain," she answers curtly, and she tries to look away. She sighs deeply and purses her lips. She fidgets with something in her pocket, and he nods slightly.
She probably went up to her mountain, he thinks to himself.
No, not probably. He sees wildflowers threaded in her cropped hair, like a crown or a halo, and a small rock in her hand—turning. Once. Twice. Thrice. There's no doubt she's been there. But in the middle of the night? She could have—
There is something bothering her, he knows. And it must be—
"Captain?"
He snaps out, and he sees that she's watching him intently, stormy grey fills her eyes—which were so usually filled with colour and wonder.
"Yes, fraulein?"
"Are you alright?"
"Are you alright?"
"I asked first."
"I'm fine, fraulein. Now, are you alright?"
"The weather is lovely, isn't it?"
Lies. Sweltering hot.
"Fraulein," he warns, and she casts her eyes down. It takes her seconds of shifting her feet for her to attempt to answer him.
"Well, it's nothing of interest to you, sir."
"I highly doubt it. You clearly seem unwell, though I know you will claim not to be. And the wellbeing of everyone under this roof is of my interest, fraulein. Now, tell me."
She hesitates.
"I'm fine," she says curtly. "It's just that…" she sighs loudly, and he sees her brow knit themselves together. "It's just that… everything's been changing so rapidly, and I cannot help but think of... things. What has been, what will be. Thinking of the future, seeing what it could be like..." she trails off, and she once again turns the rock absentmindedly in her hand. Once. Twice. Thr—
"Daydreaming of the future, are you?" He jokes. Attempted humour to alleviate the tension, he supposes.
She blushes. And she purses her lips. She looks back to the lake, and without much of a second thought, she throws the rock into the lake—ripples forming a pattern as the rock skips further and further and further away until it disappears. Sunken. Lost.
"Not quite," she mutters softly. She bites her lip and attempts to look at him in the eye. But she doesn't. She keeps her eyes down. "It's more of… well—"
"Well?"
There is a silence that overcomes them, and he searches her face, attempting to grasp whatever she's been thinking. He finds—
"I—I best be going now, captain," she purses her lips, glancing at him briefly, and then she turns to leave.
And as he watches her walk back to the house, he finds himself wanting to know what filled her mind and made her run to her mountain. Of what made her think of what has been and what will be. He feels the need to know, but she was out of grasp.
iii.
Somehow, he feels like he's intruding—or trespassing, actually. He feels like an outsider while he's on her mountain. He's here with his children, which helps, he supposes, but she—she has been avoiding him since their conversation by the lake.
He tries to understand where his lack of indifference is coming from. Surely, he has treated little of the governesses, if any, the same way as he has ever treated her. (And he knows for one that she is the only governess he has ever called captain, even by accident.) But then again—she had saved him—er—his family, rather. Put the broken pieces back together and sealed the cracks. It didn't feel right to treat her so indifferently (is what he firmly told himself).
He attempts to play ball with his two boys—young men, rather. And he finds that they're better than he had expected. And for him to beat them (they insisted on ganging up against him), he had to stay extremely alert.
But he catches a glimpse of her from the corner of his eye, lying down on the picnic blanket, Marta and Gretl on either side, and the other girls lying down around them, all of them with flowers in their hair. They watch as clouds go by—bestowing titles on nameless, previously-meaningless forms. White wisps painted on cerulean skies forming images according to their whim.
He attempts to focus on his two boys and the game but—
"Oh, look over there! It looks like a bright copper kettle!"
"How did you know it was bright copper, Fraulein Maria?" Marta asks meekly.
She laughs, light, melodic, airy—and he finds himself being pulled into the whirlpool of emotions and feelings and—
"Well, you close your eyes and you try to see," he sees her hands cover Marta's eyes. "And you let your imagination soar!"
Marta giggles.
"Now, what do you see?"
"I see—"
He doesn't hear what Marta says—he gets hit in the stomach by a flying ball. He hears a loud "HA!" from Kurt, but his youngest son rushes to his side when he opts to sit on the grass.
He sees her sit up immediately, head turning, concern evident in her cloudy blue eyes. She slowly rises and makes her way to him.
"Are you alright, captain?"
"Not quite," he says, and she insists that he lie down. (He tells her that he really didn't need to, but one stern look from her, which he observed that she only used in front of the children, and he was immediately silenced. It was not as if he had a choice.)
He stares at the skies above, watching as clouds pass by, and he narrows his eyes as he observes it. Blinking once, twice, not believing his eyes, he suddenly sees formless mist turn into objects according to his whim. He sees seas and oceans, and a ship with a man—and the man with—
He closes his eyes for a split second and his world bursts to life beneath his eyelids, and he gulps silently as he sees—
Man, ocean, light blue scarf—blue as—silver glint, warm smiles. Few fine lines. Wrinkled faces, hands fit—perfectly. Chopin plays. Edelweiss—pitch perfect, harmonious. Ballroom. Flowers for you? For me? Oh, you didn't have to! Children—not children. Smiles. Kisses.
He closes his eyes again.
Over.
Deep breath. Deep breath. Deep breath.
"Sir?"
He feels warmth on his shoulder, and he realizes that it's her hand. His eyes move to glance at it, sitting calmly on his shoulder, for a split second. Gone. He tries to hide his disappointment as he tries to look his part—calm, cool, collected, even if he doesn't feel either one. He looks up at her wide eyes, face etched with concern. Reddish hues tinging her cheeks, travelling down her neck. Freckles dotting her skin—forming constellations. Sunlight glinting on golden hair, forming a halo around her, locks falling to frame her face. Lips slightly parted.
"For a second there, I had begun to get scared," she sighs in relief.
"Oh?"
"I thought you were in deep pain, sir," she admits, and a sad smile makes its way to her face.
Beat.
"Well—I—I wouldn't know what I would have told the children should you have been hurt badly," she adds quickly, "Kurt would never forgive himself." She bites her lip, and then leans back, distances herself, farther, farther, farther.
"I'm perfectly fine, if that's what you're worried about."
She nods and she stands.
"Fraulein," he calls out.
She turns slightly to glance at him.
"I do appreciate your concern," he tries to sit up and not wince in pain. "Thank you." She gives him a half-smile, then with another glance at him over her shoulder, concern etched all over her face, she returns to the children.
And as he watches her go, he wonders—he wonders what's on her mind that makes her—
iv.
He should have know that there was something unusual bound to happen when Max shows up at breakfast. Max was never at breakfast (until today, that is), and he was sure that for majority of Max's adult life, the man did not wake until noon. Yet he was here.
Dear old Max (actually, he thinks, drop the "dear") decides it's a good idea to bring the children out for fun and spoil them for the entire day, which makes him slightly uncomfortable. One full day of "being apart from your father dearest, and his rules! How does that sound?" He rolls his eyes as Max tries to convince his children. But one look at them—
He shakes his head and begrudgingly consents. How could he not? His children looks at him with soft, pleading eyes.
"You know we love you, father, but please?" Marta pleads, her chocolate eyes widening ever so slightly.
Marta.
It was Marta who pleads, and he knows he couldn't possibly refuse her. How can he possibly refuse her? No, he couldn't possibly refuse Marta. (He would never admit it, even to himself, but—)
He glares at Max and asks him to promise that they'll all be home for dinner. He stares daggers at the infuriating charming sponge and declares that any later than the given time and they will all miss their meal. He sees Kurt widen his eyes and almost open his mouth to retort, but Max confidently accepts his terms and grins widely. Kurt slumps on his chair and glares at Max, making his uncle promise that they will be home from dinner. Almost everybody laughs. He sees that a small smile graces her face, but it's gone as fast as it comes.
"And as for you, Fraulein Maria, you can have the day off!" Max exclaims loudly.
Her eyes search his immediately. Her eyes are dull—fully greyscale—dark clouds hovering in her eyes. Yet, like Marta's, it pleads.
"But can't we have Fraulein Maria come with us, Uncle Max?"
"But darling Brigitta, don't you think your fraulein needs some rest? Besides, keeping up with all of you for the entire week is exhausting, don't you think?"
"It's quite alright, Herr Detweiler. I'll still be able to handle it," she answers confidently, yet there was something in her voice that he cannot identify. Oh, he knows—
"I think you need to rest, fraulein," he finally speaks, and all eyes are suddenly on him. He's the receiving end of a glare, and he turns his head slightly to meet her eye. A spark is present. He sees flames—he feels burns form on his skin as blue flames consume him.
"Perhaps, I do, sir," she answers stiffly. Then she turns to Gretl and gently wipes the girl's mouth, which was covered in strawberry jam. She smiles at the girl, but he sees it is strained. She sends another glare his way as she catches him gawking at her slightly. Then as her attention shifts to the piece of buttered toast and jam on her plate, expression changes almost immediately. And to an outsider's eye, she appears to look deeply unaffected by this all. Yet she does not utter another word.
There is a certain stiffness to her movements when she tells the children it's time to go. She rises first as she tends to Marta and Gretl.
He stares at the empty chair across him, heart slightly heavy. But he doesn't mind the empty chair beside him—it causes him no distress.
The incident at breakfast plays over and over in his mind, and he finds himself wandering to the gardens once the children (Max included in the term "children") are gone. He thinks of what he's done—and how it has changed things. Things had been going too well, he presumed, and the constant nagging at the back of his mind was enough to make his heart laden with guilt.
He's pulled out of his reverie when he hears a melancholic tune—dark, haunting, melodic, luring. He sees a figure in the distance, sitting under a tree. Thin, dainty hands smoothing the yellowed pages of a worn leather-bound book, eyebrows knitted in concentration.
She looks up from her book, and she slightly pouts—still upset, then. She stands and addresses him, and he paces toward her—one, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten, ele—
He faces her, and tries to look into her eyes—yet each time, she manages to look away.
"I deeply apologize, I had not meant to come off as rude, nor did I mean to make it appear as if you had no choice on the matter," he says.
She nods slightly, and she gives a small smile and—
He blinks, once, twice.
She still stays in a distance, sitting under a tree, the afternoon light softly illuminating her face, her thin fingers guiding her as she read from her book. She lets out a loud huff that was enough to blow her fringe away from her eyes. She had not seen him yet.
He turns away.
And he wonders if she will have it in her heart to forgive him.
That is, should he find the right words to say.
He wants to find the right words to say.
v.
He does eventually find the right words to say, yet as he says them... the words seem only adequate, still imperfect—and it makes it even more awkward while she sits opposite him in his study. He glances across his desk, and his heart thumps wildly as he awaits for her response.
"If there's anyone who should apologize, sir, it's me," she says quietly as she folds her hands gently on her lap. Primly. Properly. And he finds himself almost grimacing at the difference in her demeanor. Then she unclasps her hands immediately and smooths down the skirt of her teal-coloured borrowed dress.
"Fraulein—"
"It wasn't right of me to have not said goodbye. It was rude and unprofessional of me to have run away—and oh, your family and guests have shown me nothing but kindness, Captain, and I do apologize."
He knows that she isn't telling him her truth. She chooses her words carefully, each syllable rehearsed. But no matter how so perfectly-constructed her apology may be, he senses a lie in her words—yet he cannot pinpoint which the lie is, and which the truth surrounding it is. The beating of his heart slightly quickens.
"I believe that I am also to blame, fraulein," he counters, and she opens her mouth to protest, but he continues. "I believe that I have made you feel compromised on multiple occasions, and I ask for your forgiveness—"
And the conversation goes on and on and on—almost turning into another argument, though they're both still holding back—and it was for the best, he thought. Guilt consumes them both. And so they decide on a truce.
They say that everything was settled.
But it wasn't.
Perhaps, he felt like it wasn't.
Because she still acts stiff around him—she avoids him, clearly. Purposely. Saddeningly. And it drives him mad. He feels—
He glances at the source of the blaze burning on his back—the same blue flames that he once felt imprinting his skin. And just as quickly as it comes, it goes. He watches her intently, and he pretends to be staring at his children when she catches his eye.
He longs to—
She eventually clears her throat and sets her eyes down, and invites him to another excursion. Softly, she tells him that the children will enjoy having him there.
Only the children?
He bites his tongue.
He tells her he'll be there. She only nods. She does a good job of not meeting his eye.
The minute they're in the museum, the children go off in groups, leaving him with the fraulein. She nods to him for an awkward second before she tells him that she will need to go follow the children ("Just in case, because you never know," she laughs half-heartedly—attempted humour to cut through the tension, he supposes, and he feels a tug on his chest, willing him to be closer to her). And so she does. And he goes his own way.
But seconds pass, minute after minute after minute, and as he walks into an exhibit, he finds her there—alone. She doesn't notice him, of course. He tries to make himself scarce. Figures surround them—flesh of cool, rich marble, and eyes that bore deep into one's soul. Of life formed from meaningless matter—solid under his fingers, heavy and cold—yet moves with grace.
But not as much grace as she.
He watches her move amongst sculptures, eyes darting up and down, and sideways, flitting heavenward, mouth moving slightly—mumbling, perhaps. She lets out a breath, straightens herself and moves forward.
He gulps, and moves to another exhibit and another, and another.
And he finds himself alone with her yet again. He attempts to examine the painting before him and ignore her presence. He sees soft colours, dark—contrasting and blending—forming beautiful patterns and swirls that hypnotize and mesmerize.
But do not hypnotize and mesmerize as she.
He turns to glance at her. And he finds himself pulled to the image before him—hypnotizing him, mesmerizing him. It was as if he was being drawn to her with a string, or... perhaps with a magnet—a battle he found so difficult to win that he could not help but give in.
As she stands with her back facing against him, he could not help but wonder—wonder if she herself was from the exhibit. Because it seemed that she—
She herself was a work of art—lips curled upwards, eyes laughing—heart golden, kindness overflowing—
Fields of lavender, and smiling eyes. White chiffon and rose-coloured cheeks. Air fresh and perfumed, and hands fit together, and lips—
And—
Palms pressed together, fingers intertwined, eyes boring into each other's—frozen perfectly in time, as a sculpture, as a painting—burns into his eyelids, forever ingrained in his memory.
He catches himself, shuts his mouth and blinks his eyes—the images still there, burning bright—like blue flames. He breathes for a moment and he watches her leave—and he makes sure not to follow. He turns away.
It was only hours after, when he was alone, that he would decide on what this feeling is—and as he sits close to her, and he gazes into her eyes, he sees the same look mirrored in her troubled orbs. As he kisses her for the first time, he closes his eyes, and images and memories, forgotten dreams and ingrained daydreams play in his mind's eye. He smiles, and so does she.
vi.
He finds himself in his study, hand clasped tightly around a small box, a smile playing on his lips. He opens the box and closes it—he will ask her to marry him, properly, this time.
He thinks of her, and he thinks of lush mountains and wildflowers. Running in fields, hand in hand. Perfect fit. Warm embrace, wide smiles. Gold and sapphire—getting slightly worn, yet still gleaming with every image that passes his mind's eye.
She laughs at him as he gets down on one knee, and then struggles to stand back up. Seriously, he was not that old. And when he slips the gold-and-sapphire ring on her finger, she smiles and asks him, "I know it's silly, but when did you realize that you loved me? We know when you started, but I'm curious when you realized."
"When did you?"
"I asked first, captain," she juts her chin out defiantly.
He blinks.
Oh, he knows.
Of course, he does. He smiles.
"Do you really want to know?"
"Of course, I do!"
"It was the day we were up on your mountain, and you were watching the clouds with the girls—"
"The day that Kurt hit you on the stomach with a ball?" She smiles at him, a certain glint in her eyes. He rolls his eyes in annoyance.
"Yes, that," he answers dryly. "Anyways, as I laid down on the grass and watched as clouds passed by," he sighs. "And I was attempting to identify what they looked like. Instead, I started seeing a life with you in it—growing old with you—hand in mine, lips on mine, and I realized that I never wanted to let you go."
"You, daydreaming, captain? I'm shocked!" She laughs, and he resists the urge to roll his eyes.
"You know, Liesl is right," he admits.
"So, she is," she burrows herself tighter in his embrace.
"As it turns out, everyone daydreams. It's only a matter of finding the right things that will make dreaming worthwhile," he grins and taps her nose. "And you, my darling, make dreaming worthwhile."
A/N
Hello!
Gosh, I hope you enjoyed this little thing as much as I enjoyed writing it :)
This was quite a challenge, admittedly, and so, so, so different from my usual works (it's canon compliant for once, ya, and NOT a songfic!). So, big thanks to juliemadlydeeply [theresnoplacelikeyou changed her username, you guys!] and persaphones for reading this over for me and constantly motivating me :)
Anyways, thanks for making it this far :) I shall go rest now (for real, this time!)
'Til next time,
H :)