Title: Hotter Than July
Rating: PG-13, but R later on...
Disclaimer: The ER characters do not belong to me, neither do any products, song lyrics or literary quotations mentioned.
Summary: Warm weather, flirtation and a few lessons to be learned. Luby. Sort of AU, sort of not.
Reviews: As always, I appreciate them so much and please keep em coming!!
Author's note: Just wanted to say a quick thankyou to Sarah for all her advice and thank her so much for reading!!
"One must still have chaos in oneself in order to give birth to a dancing star." (Nietzsche, Thus Spake Zarathusa)
Under the blood-red sky, the air calm, the crowd of guests mostly exhausted, the conversation buzzing in light, trickling whispers; Abby assessed her own gaze in the narcissistic mirror of the pool's now silent, unmoving water. The cherry stone still seemingly adhered to her palm, she momentarily laid back, flat out on the grass, the green needles tickling the back of her neck and the bare part of her arms. Glinting scarlet high above her echoed her entrapment between sensory pleasure and a timid, slow anger which stirred in her veins. Even though she was well accustomed to feeling despair at the unfair situations that she witnessed day after day, outside of the bright lights of that place that she called "work", it all seemed a thousand times more important. She sat up again, clenching the fist still clutching the stone into a tight ball, to conserve a thousand secrets tight against her warm skin.
To her surprise, she felt a pair of hands on her back, jolting her forwards with enough force to cause her heart to miss an unimportant beat in a flight of trepidation; but not enough to send her unwittingly crashing into the watery nadir.
"You wouldn't dare," she said to Luka as he slowly, teasingly, almost reluctantly removed his hands from just beneath her shoulders and sat down beside her.
"It's warm, " he replied, casually dipping his fingers in over the edge. She observed him for a few seconds. Gone was the football shirt, the contest over, the moments committed to memory, replaced by the thin cotton of the pale blue shirt he had been wearing earlier.
"What happened to the soccer shirt?" Her mundane question distracted her from the more urgent, pressing matters in her mind.
"You were right, it started to feel entirely traitorous." She smiled a secret victory into the air in front of her. Behind them, close yet distant, general insanity had prevailed again, the party's pendulum swinging towards craziness for the final time that night. Mo, who had swiftly talked himself into a dry pair of shorts, was now dancing. His finely tuned stereo system was blaring Blame It On The Boogie, he was engaged in a brutal dance with Simon, they could hardly continue as they were overtaken by fits of laughter.
"You didn't tell me that Mo is ill." Abby, could not, strangely enough, bring herself to say "dying". Well, of course, he was; but could possibly make it into later life thanks to the ever-growing efficiency of Western medicine. Luka turned to face her, hearing what almost felt like an accusation in her voice. She even considered this herself, hearing her own words echo back. Perhaps he was an easy scapegoat, since his outer shell was so tough, so formulated and devised from so much turmoil; he would be able to withstand infinite torment. The moment was not an uncomfortable one; instead they exchanged a piercing glance, a connection which could render the most difficult task simple, an entity to make all souls unite.
For her, this was an exquisite blend of torture and ecstasy, a step deeper into the unknown, a pace closer to the blood which pumped in his heart, nearer to the unyielding depths of his soul, chasms of speculation. Heaped on top were the superficial scratchings of blatant desire, a heat in the blood, a natural reaction. For him, this too was an important bond, a search for so many meanings lost and found, an answer to the unanswered questions in the air, a fuel to the flame of intrigue, a deep sense of belonging which permeated into his alienation and set him free. In spite of all this altruism, however, he too felt the beginnings of fervour that had not been easily forgotten creeping through his spine. Luka did not dare close his eyes to shut away this burst of emotion, but instead blinked, as if he were turning the page of a book towards the future.
"It's not part of him. It's not who he is, where he comes from or what he does." Searching for the right words was not so difficult this time, not so riddled with complexities. Sometimes, he could find no words, or at least, not even the right ones, to say, in any language, while in the company of the woman who intrigued him the most. Yet now a fluent cascade of simple, true expression rushed through his head.
"The only time he even thinks about it is when he takes the medication. After that, it doesn't matter anymore." His tone was strikingly affirmative, he knew it was all true. Abby did not comment, still somewhat affected by the look in his eyes. Silence passed between them like an ultimate bond, adhering tightly.
"I understand, Abby. You're angry. You think it's unfair. But Mo doesn't waste his time thinking about it. And neither should you." It was almost a command, she thought, not at all aggrieved that he was seemingly instructing her how to behave. Luka was not being callous or unsympathetic, he was simply illustrating Mo's philosophy on life: live it, because time is precious. It was something, after so many years of being overshadowed by doubt, guilt, grief and a sense of timelessness, that he was beginning to appreciate. In the blurry background of this perfect summer evening, commotion had once again begun to arise. Luka knew exactly what was going on.
"We'd better go. It was Simon's birthday the other day, he's going to get thrown in." He took hold of her hand, compressing the stone between their palms, then with an effortless tug, a ripple of silent power, he pulled her, not ungracefully, not unwillingly, to her feet. The simplest of human contact, his hand in hers was perhaps even more poignant than any words that had been spoken. Their fingers momentarily knitted in a fevered, iron grip; they were holding on.
"Let's go home," he said, speaking with a conviction which seemed to convey that he may have been returning to a place where he felt a little less unfamiliar.
Abby was reluctant to let go, feeling that tiny piece of hard stone bonding them, feeling the positive influence not just of one man, but of both of them. She looked at the sky again, it was crimson with anger and desire, then a soothing rush of slow melodies ran past her ears. Finally finding his eyes, she found her reply with a gentle shake of the head.
"I don't think we should go home just yet."
"Why, exactly?" Luka asked, pulling their joined hands upwards, almost creating a slow rhythm.
"You wouldn't deny a lady the last dance, would you?" She asked this question with an irresistible ease, radiating a smile which she knew would captivate him.
"You know that I'll only step on your toes," he replied, knowing that he was helpless, knowing that he was giving in.
"It might just be worth the pain," she stated, with more than a hint of reflectiveness in her tone.
Nothing else needed to be said. Slowly, they made their way across the grass to where some of the other guests were seemingly drifting along to a mix of soulful ballads and sing-along classics. They slipped as easily into physical intimacy as a hand into a glove, her balled fist gently pinching a tiny piece of his shirt as it rested against his back, one of his palms curved against her shoulder, pulling her almost into an embrace. For a scintillating moment, Luka felt, not simply an uncomplex desire, but a seething bolt of adrenaline, as he knew that these moments with this woman in his arms were some of the few where he felt truly alive again. The tiny whisper of a voice in his head that told him that this was far too dangerous was swiftly silenced. Silenced over his shoulder, as Mo, cautiously selecting the next song, engaged him in a conspiratorial wink.
Inharmoniously, Abby closed her eyes, preserving this intimacy in coloured patterns and distant sounds. The cool cotton of his shirt brushing against her cheek was a beautiful contradiction. In contrast, they were perfect. Her earlier sensory anger was slowly melting away into sensory pleasure. Somebody who was so used to letting go was holding on, and just slightly aware of this, she tightened her closed fist to keep the cherry stone tighter and closer. The past, the present and the future were all dancing in the palm of her hand. Now it was time to let one of them go.
Rating: PG-13, but R later on...
Disclaimer: The ER characters do not belong to me, neither do any products, song lyrics or literary quotations mentioned.
Summary: Warm weather, flirtation and a few lessons to be learned. Luby. Sort of AU, sort of not.
Reviews: As always, I appreciate them so much and please keep em coming!!
Author's note: Just wanted to say a quick thankyou to Sarah for all her advice and thank her so much for reading!!
"One must still have chaos in oneself in order to give birth to a dancing star." (Nietzsche, Thus Spake Zarathusa)
Under the blood-red sky, the air calm, the crowd of guests mostly exhausted, the conversation buzzing in light, trickling whispers; Abby assessed her own gaze in the narcissistic mirror of the pool's now silent, unmoving water. The cherry stone still seemingly adhered to her palm, she momentarily laid back, flat out on the grass, the green needles tickling the back of her neck and the bare part of her arms. Glinting scarlet high above her echoed her entrapment between sensory pleasure and a timid, slow anger which stirred in her veins. Even though she was well accustomed to feeling despair at the unfair situations that she witnessed day after day, outside of the bright lights of that place that she called "work", it all seemed a thousand times more important. She sat up again, clenching the fist still clutching the stone into a tight ball, to conserve a thousand secrets tight against her warm skin.
To her surprise, she felt a pair of hands on her back, jolting her forwards with enough force to cause her heart to miss an unimportant beat in a flight of trepidation; but not enough to send her unwittingly crashing into the watery nadir.
"You wouldn't dare," she said to Luka as he slowly, teasingly, almost reluctantly removed his hands from just beneath her shoulders and sat down beside her.
"It's warm, " he replied, casually dipping his fingers in over the edge. She observed him for a few seconds. Gone was the football shirt, the contest over, the moments committed to memory, replaced by the thin cotton of the pale blue shirt he had been wearing earlier.
"What happened to the soccer shirt?" Her mundane question distracted her from the more urgent, pressing matters in her mind.
"You were right, it started to feel entirely traitorous." She smiled a secret victory into the air in front of her. Behind them, close yet distant, general insanity had prevailed again, the party's pendulum swinging towards craziness for the final time that night. Mo, who had swiftly talked himself into a dry pair of shorts, was now dancing. His finely tuned stereo system was blaring Blame It On The Boogie, he was engaged in a brutal dance with Simon, they could hardly continue as they were overtaken by fits of laughter.
"You didn't tell me that Mo is ill." Abby, could not, strangely enough, bring herself to say "dying". Well, of course, he was; but could possibly make it into later life thanks to the ever-growing efficiency of Western medicine. Luka turned to face her, hearing what almost felt like an accusation in her voice. She even considered this herself, hearing her own words echo back. Perhaps he was an easy scapegoat, since his outer shell was so tough, so formulated and devised from so much turmoil; he would be able to withstand infinite torment. The moment was not an uncomfortable one; instead they exchanged a piercing glance, a connection which could render the most difficult task simple, an entity to make all souls unite.
For her, this was an exquisite blend of torture and ecstasy, a step deeper into the unknown, a pace closer to the blood which pumped in his heart, nearer to the unyielding depths of his soul, chasms of speculation. Heaped on top were the superficial scratchings of blatant desire, a heat in the blood, a natural reaction. For him, this too was an important bond, a search for so many meanings lost and found, an answer to the unanswered questions in the air, a fuel to the flame of intrigue, a deep sense of belonging which permeated into his alienation and set him free. In spite of all this altruism, however, he too felt the beginnings of fervour that had not been easily forgotten creeping through his spine. Luka did not dare close his eyes to shut away this burst of emotion, but instead blinked, as if he were turning the page of a book towards the future.
"It's not part of him. It's not who he is, where he comes from or what he does." Searching for the right words was not so difficult this time, not so riddled with complexities. Sometimes, he could find no words, or at least, not even the right ones, to say, in any language, while in the company of the woman who intrigued him the most. Yet now a fluent cascade of simple, true expression rushed through his head.
"The only time he even thinks about it is when he takes the medication. After that, it doesn't matter anymore." His tone was strikingly affirmative, he knew it was all true. Abby did not comment, still somewhat affected by the look in his eyes. Silence passed between them like an ultimate bond, adhering tightly.
"I understand, Abby. You're angry. You think it's unfair. But Mo doesn't waste his time thinking about it. And neither should you." It was almost a command, she thought, not at all aggrieved that he was seemingly instructing her how to behave. Luka was not being callous or unsympathetic, he was simply illustrating Mo's philosophy on life: live it, because time is precious. It was something, after so many years of being overshadowed by doubt, guilt, grief and a sense of timelessness, that he was beginning to appreciate. In the blurry background of this perfect summer evening, commotion had once again begun to arise. Luka knew exactly what was going on.
"We'd better go. It was Simon's birthday the other day, he's going to get thrown in." He took hold of her hand, compressing the stone between their palms, then with an effortless tug, a ripple of silent power, he pulled her, not ungracefully, not unwillingly, to her feet. The simplest of human contact, his hand in hers was perhaps even more poignant than any words that had been spoken. Their fingers momentarily knitted in a fevered, iron grip; they were holding on.
"Let's go home," he said, speaking with a conviction which seemed to convey that he may have been returning to a place where he felt a little less unfamiliar.
Abby was reluctant to let go, feeling that tiny piece of hard stone bonding them, feeling the positive influence not just of one man, but of both of them. She looked at the sky again, it was crimson with anger and desire, then a soothing rush of slow melodies ran past her ears. Finally finding his eyes, she found her reply with a gentle shake of the head.
"I don't think we should go home just yet."
"Why, exactly?" Luka asked, pulling their joined hands upwards, almost creating a slow rhythm.
"You wouldn't deny a lady the last dance, would you?" She asked this question with an irresistible ease, radiating a smile which she knew would captivate him.
"You know that I'll only step on your toes," he replied, knowing that he was helpless, knowing that he was giving in.
"It might just be worth the pain," she stated, with more than a hint of reflectiveness in her tone.
Nothing else needed to be said. Slowly, they made their way across the grass to where some of the other guests were seemingly drifting along to a mix of soulful ballads and sing-along classics. They slipped as easily into physical intimacy as a hand into a glove, her balled fist gently pinching a tiny piece of his shirt as it rested against his back, one of his palms curved against her shoulder, pulling her almost into an embrace. For a scintillating moment, Luka felt, not simply an uncomplex desire, but a seething bolt of adrenaline, as he knew that these moments with this woman in his arms were some of the few where he felt truly alive again. The tiny whisper of a voice in his head that told him that this was far too dangerous was swiftly silenced. Silenced over his shoulder, as Mo, cautiously selecting the next song, engaged him in a conspiratorial wink.
Inharmoniously, Abby closed her eyes, preserving this intimacy in coloured patterns and distant sounds. The cool cotton of his shirt brushing against her cheek was a beautiful contradiction. In contrast, they were perfect. Her earlier sensory anger was slowly melting away into sensory pleasure. Somebody who was so used to letting go was holding on, and just slightly aware of this, she tightened her closed fist to keep the cherry stone tighter and closer. The past, the present and the future were all dancing in the palm of her hand. Now it was time to let one of them go.