Hello!
A oneshot from me? Shocking!
Here's an alternative (or companion?) to exile. It takes place in a similar universe, and is based on an excerpt from exile, but you don't have to read it in order to understand this one. The plot is also not as conventional as… most, and I think it's quite evident in the title. But still, proceed with caution!
DISCLAIMER: Sound of Music and folklore aren't mine!
illicit affairs
She could see bits and pieces of it now—midnight rendezvous, numerous clandestine meetings, intoxicated kisses, finished bottles of wine, passion swirling around them, dances in the confines of a single room, his arms finally around her, but gone by morning. She would wake up alone, forced to hide what she felt in broad daylight.
The soft light of the moon streams in through the stained windows—painting the room dark, translucent colours, tinting colours on every inch of their skin. Crimson for passion, orange for fire, gold for rush, emerald for comfort, cerulean for trust, wine for truth.
She brushes away the strands of hair that have fallen over his forehead. They would have to stop, eventually, she knows—he belongs to another, and so did she. It was not fair to them—to be second best when they were supposed to be the only ones they should dedicate their entire lives to. But it turned out—
It turned out that—
When she left Austria years ago in order to start anew, she had left her battered, bruised, and broken heart in the possession of the Captain. Unknowingly, of course. And for years, she had been alright on her own. Healing, singing, laughing.
But coming back to Austria—
Everything she had built meticulously for all those years—walls and buildings and arches and gates—came crashing down at the sight of him. And he had kept her heart all these years—her battered, bruised, and broken heart, only to find that she held his equally battered, bruised, and broken heart, too.
But years had changed them—and he had his wife, and she had her Robert.
But—
"Georg, darling, it's time for us to go," she whispers, and he slightly rouses, lids half-opened, eyes attempting to focus on her.
"Just a few more minutes, my love."
"You know what happened when you said that last time," she gives him a small smile—
"And you should know by now that I find you utterly irresistible."
"Oh, you—don't turn this on me!" She laughs, and he pulls her towards him. They stumble and fall from the bed, and fall in a heap on the floor—limbs tangled with bed sheets, chests pressed against the other, faces breaths away. His arm wraps around her waist, pulling her closer to him. She, on the other hand—
Defenseless.
Giving in.
Lips clashing, the taste of merlot swirling—intoxicated passion, frenzied. Words of adoration murmured silently against skin, eyes twinkling, hearts beating and—
He opens his mouth to speak, but she silently murmurs to him that she doesn't want to lose this moment with him. He nods and smiles against her cheek. Moments pass, silence and breaths, and kisses and touches—seconds, minutes, eternity—yet it isn't enough. Not when she was with him.
It will never be enough.
They stand and search for discarded clothing on the floor—and they try not to steal glances at each other as they attempt to straighten the clothes they wore the night before. But they do anyways, thinking the other won't notice.
And there's always a pang of hurt that surges. When he steals glances at her. And she steals glances at him. Knowing that though he was hers tonight, and she was his, things were different in the morning—he has Elsa, and his seven wonderful children, whom she loves with all her heart, and she has a husband of her own. But these stolen moments… remain stolen. Hidden. Under lock and key.
But—
They meet again tonight under different circumstances. Unexpectedly, really. Neither of them liked these social soirees, anyways. (And to be fair, she didn't like seeing him in them—not like she used to, anyways—because her heart starts beating a little too fast, and she blushes a little too… er… red than she would like). Their eyes meet from across the crowded room, and she immediately looks away.
No, no, no, no, no, no, no.
She takes a glass of champagne from a tray as she tries to grip her husband's arm tighter as she sees her and him nearing them. She downs half the glass in one go, and pretends not to notice them. She tries to pretend that her heart isn't beating fast—
And suddenly, he and she are right in front of them.
And she's rooted on the spot. And all she can think of is him—and what he had been doing to her with his wicked hands last night, and how he had been kissing her, and how his skin felt on hers, and—and—and. And she's enveloped by the scent of him—and she tries not to look so shocked by seeing him here. She tries to mask her disappointment of seeing her here. She tries to speak—but—
But her husband greets her for them, thankfully. Her husband—her Robert. Her charismatic, funny, caring, loving Robert, greets them for her. The Baroness laughs daintily as Robert compliments her gown—her elegant, sparkly, rose-coloured gown—and she laughs along, albeit strained, pretending that she actually cared (she did, actually, but very little). She smiles at the pair of them—the beautiful, perfect, compatible pair of them, and tries to be as pleasant and wholesome and sweet and nice as she can be. The Baroness asks her something, but she doesn't really hear the entire thing, but she catches words like two, family, start, pink, blue. And she stares at the Baroness, and the Baroness stares at her, too. She feels like she's drowning. She glances at Robert, and a slightly-pained expression crosses his face. She opens her mouth to speak and—
She almost melts in relief as the orchestra starts to play a waltz. Saved. Safe. Safe. Her husband asks the Baroness for a dance, to which the Baroness smiles and accepts. She glances at him and he nods, giving his wife his approval.
She takes another glass of champagne from a tray.
They eventually opt to stay in a corner, a few feet apart. They know that they can't stay too close—nor can he ask her to dance. Because the second he touches her, they know they cannot stop. And he would have to have her, and she would have to have him. And so an awkward silence overcomes them as they try to remember themselves.
"I forgot to ask," she clears her throat, catching his attention, attempting to cut through the tension. She could feel his gaze on her, burning through her skin. "I forgot to ask," she repeats once more. "Did you forward my gift to Brigitta?"
"I did," he answers. "And she absolutely loved it," he stresses. "The music of Carousel has been filling the house for days now, and she's been trying to play the songs on the piano, by ear of course, but sometimes, it gets a little… overwhelming," he gives her a lopsided smile. He wouldn't dare talk ill of his children in any way, she knows, but it was true. They can be overwhelming at times. She smiles.
"What does she play most, then?" She asks, taking a sip of her champagne.
"Well, you see, Liesl has had quite an influence on Brigitta recently—and, well, she's been playing If I Loved You more often than she should."
"I see," she replies softly, and she tries not to meet his eye. "It's a beautiful song," she nods.
"It is," he agrees. "Melancholic and quite sad, but beautiful—breathtaking, and Brigitta plays it so well. You and Robert really must come to the villa sometime soon," he smiles at her. "Then you can hear her play in person."
She almost misses the way he emphasizes Robert's name. But she hadn't. She takes another sip.
"Well, he's been quite busy the past few months," she looks down. "But we'll try to talk it over… and, you know, try to see when we're both available."
He nods.
Silence. Seconds pass, minutes, eternity, and she starts to feel as if she couldn't breathe.
"Maria," he starts out slowly, and she takes another sip from her glass. "About what Elsa said…"
She only stares at him, and she pretends not to know what he will say next.
It was inevitable.
"What about it?" She asks, her pitch a little higher than usual—a smile plastered onto her face.
"You do love children, don't you?"
"Of course, I do," she replies—poisonous enthusiasm lacing her voice.
"And you once told me of your dreams—"
"Where exactly is this conversation leading?" She asks, her voice peppered with a little spite. The grip on her glass tightens just a little bit, and her lips press themselves into a line.
She takes another sip.
"I care for you deeply," he says softly. "So please, Maria. Please don't put your life on hold for me."
It takes a few minutes for his words to settle in her mind. And it takes all her self control to not slap him across the face and splash the contents of her glass onto his perfectly-combed hair and his pristine, white shirt. It takes all her self control for her to not yell at him and tell him that—
She meets her eye from across the room, and there's an unmistakable glint in her eyes. She knows—
She downs the rest of her champagne and places her empty glass onto a passing tray, and she excuses herself from his company civilly.
Breathe.
Air.
Garden.
Her pace starts to pick up, and tears begin to blur her vision. And all she can think of is that she should—
Run.
It was the only thing she was good at, it seemed. Running, that is. It was all she ever did her entire life—running away from her uncle, running away from the abbey, running away from Aigen, running away from him, running away from memories—
Run.
Her husband catches her just as she almost stumbles onto the rose bushes in the garden. She flings her arms around his neck and he holds her close. Tears prick her eyes, and she murmurs a soft apology. He responds with a small "I know you didn't mean to," and he holds her tighter against him. He kisses her softly, knowing no one can see, and he wipes the tears rolling down her cheek, and he holds her—gently, warmly, tenderly—safely.
Her eyes flit upwards for a second, mostly because she feels someone's stare burn through her. And she catches him swallow and turn around.
Don't leave me.
Don't.
Gone.
She clutches onto Robert a little tighter, and he strokes her hair, and he takes her home.
She stares at herself later on that night, the mirror foggy and the room warm. Hands trembling, she places a hand on her flat stomach, almost mourning the emptiness of it. The Baroness' words echo in her ears, and his words pierce through her heart—
Everything he said was true.
"I care for you deeply."
Care.
"My love."
Lies.
Care.
Don't put your life on hold.
For me?
For you?
I'm not—
She slams her hands on the marble countertop and she begins to sob. She stares at her reflection in the mirror and watches herself breathe—the soft rise and fall of her chest. She feels her pulse, and catches every beat of her heart. She closes her eyes and lets the tears roll down. She mournfully slips on her nightgown, putting on her robe and tying the sash tight around her waist. She curls up on her bed, the blanket heavy on her frame. She trembles.
Don't put your life on hold.
You told me about your dreams.
Pink, blue.
It's been two years, surely you're already ready to start your family?
Two years.
I know you didn't mean to.
She feels like a mess.
How had she gone from—
Reverend Mother.
You have to face your problems.
I can't face him.
Not him.
Him.
Him.
She bites her lip as she climbs out of the car. She's back again tomorrow night—to the place where they meet, despite firmly telling herself she won't. Not again. Not again. Not again.
Never enough. Never enough. Never enough.
She sighs to herself as the faint clack of her heels sound against worn, dusty marble. She revels at the grandeur of the place and imagines it in all its former glory—chandeliers gleaming, gold-gilded walls, lush carpet, polished marble. It was the first time she ever had the time to look around—the past few years—
She spots a large portrait, half covered by a dark purple sheet, though she could see the woman's eyes. And it haunts her.
It sees right through her.
And it scares her.
She looks back and she sees a mirror situated just opposite the portrait. Its golden details have long since faded, and it was covered with a thick layer of dust. She examines the fractured mirror, and she tries not to wince as she sees a hundred versions of herself staring back at her—all of them identical, yet seemingly different.
Lies, they all accused her.
Why do you lie?
Robert—
Elsa—
Liesl—
Friedrich—
Louisa—
Kurt—
Brigitta—
Marta—
Gretl—
You lie.
You lie.
You lie.
"You're here," he breathes. His voice echoes around the hall, and he stares at her. She turns to see him, his eyes wide and frazzled. She swallows the lump forming in her throat and smooths the front of her skirt consciously.
"I am," she responds.
"I didn't—er—well, I didn't—I didn't expect you to be here," he manages to say.
"But I'm here," she responds in a small voice.
And she tries to say something more, but suddenly, he's too near, and their breaths mingle, and his mouth is on hers, and the purpose of being here—and everything—the world, their predicament, everything—melts away. And there's him leading her upstairs to an all-too-familiar room. She, on the other hand—
Defenseless.
Giving in.
And they take their time, memorizing each freckle, each mark, each strand of hair as if they had never done that before. She sighs against his lips, and he holds her close as they lay idly on the bed.
The soft light of the moon streams in through the stained windows—painting the room dark, translucent colours, tinting colours on every inch of their skin. Crimson for passion, orange for fire, gold for greed, emerald for envy, cerulean for indifference, wine for truth.
She brushes away the strands of hair that have fallen over his forehead. They would have to stop, eventually, she knows—he belongs to another, and so did she. It was not fair to them—to be second best when they were supposed to be the only ones they should dedicate their entire lives to. But it turned out—
But it turned out—
He opens his eyes slowly, and she smiles at him, leaning slightly to kiss him.
"Maria," he says softly, and she stares at him, heart pounding. "You really should know," he pauses slightly, and her heart almost stops. "I love you."
"I know," she whispers. "And I love you—to the moon and to Saturn."
"About last night—"
"Please don't breathe another word of it," she whispers.
"I don't deserve you," he kisses her softly, and she smiles slightly against his lips. And he whispers "I love you" against her skin over and over until he's sure she really does know. "I'll be in New York next month," he murmurs against her cheek. "Come with me?"
"Robert might—"
"I know it's a little too much—but I may have pulled some strings and you may have a university lecture. I know it's not that common for women to lecture in universities yet, but they absolutely adore your book, and they love your voice, and I may have mentioned that you have an education degree—"
"Georg!"
"Well, is that a yes?"
"I—"
"Well?"
"Yes," she answers softly, and he grins widely. She couldn't help but notice the dimples on his cheeks, and—
"Two weeks to ourselves," he sighs, pulling her to him, and everything around them melts away. "Whatever will we do with so much time, Fraulein?"
"I don't know," she smiles against his lips when he pulls her closer. "You tell me, Captain."
He laughs, eyes twinkling, and then he kisses her deeply, and she tries to stop her tears from rolling down her cheeks—but they roll down anyways, and he pauses and wipes her tears away with his thumb and kisses her cheeks lovingly.
"What's the matter?"
"Oh, nothing. It's just me being absolutely silly," she shakes her head, a half-smile on her face.
"Tell me?"
"It's just… I'm thinking of the future," she says softly as she wraps his arms around her form. He only hums in response, urging her to continue. She hesitates for a moment, and then leans against him. "And the thing is… I can't imagine a life without you in it," she admits, and he holds her closer to him. "But—we—I—it's—"
She buries her face in his chest, and he holds her. And he holds her against him—gently, warmly, tenderly—safely. He doesn't comment on what she had just said, and they move slightly, and sit together on the bed quietly, watching as the sun begins to rise—colours growing more vibrant by the second. He whispers a soft "I love you," and she whispers and gasps his name over and over again.
And they stand and collect their things.
And they leave.
And as their eyes meet in a crowded room again, she knows.
As she packs her bags and kisses her husband goodbye, and tells him that it's a shame that he cannot come with her to her first university lecture, she knows.
As they gaze into each other's eyes, and walk together hand-in-hand in the streets of New York, grinning like two love-sick fools, she knows.
As she kisses him that night, and he silently worships her body, she knows.
She knows she would do anything for this man—even if it meant that, for him, she would ruin herself a million little times.
"I love you," she tells him as they examine a painting in the museum.
"And I assure you, darling," he pulls her closer. "I love you more than Max loves his strudel."
"That's a huge commitment," she rolls her eyes playfully.
"But I do," he whispers in her ear.
And they laugh.
He kisses her forehead, and she leans into him for a little while.
And she nods to herself.
Yes, for him she would ruin herself a million little times.
A/N
I hope you liked this little thing! It was quite challenging to write, but very inspired if you listen to songs like illicit affairs, Dancing With Your Ghost, and Only Love Can Hurt Like This.
What can I say? I have a weird playlist.
Sending love :)
