Disclaimer: I don't own Fire Emblem.
"Dreamlife"
By Genetix Chiquita
Matthew ran a calloused hand through his dirty blonde hair and exhaled. Entering the quaint wooden house, he shut the door behind him. The discordant clatter echoed off the walls and met him again, assailing his ears and consorting with his headache. Sharp pangs rippled through his back, accompanied by a constant underlying ache. His fingers felt worn from the day's mundane work, and he grimaced at the cracked, dry skin.
But then he looked up and all the pain and frustration seemed to disappear when he saw it. Leila's smile. She stood there at the table, and he could see something dance in her eyes. He supposed it was amusement, and for a moment he felt like yelling at her. But he didn't, and instead stood and watched that mischievously lovely smile play on her lips.
She said something, but he couldn't hear it. Matthew guessed it wasn't important - probably just another one of her quips. He felt bad for missing it. Leila's sarcastic barbs always managed to lift his spirits. Oddly, he found nothing more relaxing after a long day of work than trading sarcasm with his wife. Her lips opened in speech again and she shook her head. Once more he heard nothing, but found nothing strange about it.
Leila walked around the table towards him, and Matthew felt his sharp eyes travel from her lips to her hips. He didn't do it consciously. He loved the way she walked - she'd put her weight on whichever foot was forward, and her hips would swing with the laziness of her gait. It was a sort of sexy, honest walk that he loved, and found it suited her perfectly. She didn't try to walk in a perfect line or have such wonderful posture that it look like she had a stick up her ass. She was Leila and she'd walk how she damn well liked. Matthew found no swagger more erotic than hers.
Her hands reached for him and she asked him a question. He couldn't respond, and instead concentrated on her touch. Her skin wasn't silky like other girls'. She didn't waste time applying ridiculous lotions. Her hands were worn and her nails were short - and ode to her former career as a spy and wayward thief. He loved her hands like he loved her walk and he loved her lips. Her nails weren't trimmed and manicured and painted. They were what they were. Some were broken and some hurt a bit if they accidentally nicked him from time to time. His hand traveled to hers and he intertwined their fingers. Their hands together were a beautiful, calloused mess.
Leila didn't say anymore inaudible words. Her lips melted into his, and he was lost again. They weren't particularly smooth, but somehow he liked that they were chapped. When he ran his tongue over hers, he reveled in her taste. She didn't taste like strawberries and cream, or like lavender or jasmine or some ridiculous combination of flowers. She tasted like cinnamon and ginger, and something else that was tart and bitter and sweet all at the same time. Matthew had tasted much in his lifetime, but nothing tasted better than Leila.
They broke, and she gave him that look. That look in her average amber eyes that said something he'd never been able to understand. That glance or glare that could mean anything coming through those short red eyelashes. Just like everything about her, he loved that look. For the most part, Matthew loved it because he couldn't understand it. There would always be things about Leila he'd never understand, but for the rest of his life he'd have fun trying to figure them out.
He yawned, stretched his arms, and realized just how tired he was. She grinned and took his hand, and they walked up the stairs together and into the bedroom. It wasn't large or fancy, but something about it was ornate in a dressed down, hidden way. Matthew scoffed - of course it was, since Leila had decorated it.
The two lay down on the bed and she leaned into him, his arms around her. They didn't kiss again, they didn't share some deep sexual adventure - and that was fine with them. They were both tired, and they expected nothing from each other. Matthew loved those moments too. Each time, he'd make a vow to stay awake just so he could watch her sleep. He'd always wondered what she looked like when she wasn't smirking or giving him the look. But just like every day, every perfect day he spent with her, his eyes closed and he fell asleep next to Leila.
And that, too, he loved.
Matthew's eyes drifted open and he glanced around in the dark. His mind was groggy, but he could see the form of a woman sleeping next to him. She was curvaceous in all the right places, with carved features and golden hair - nothing like Leila. He realized he didn't know what her lips looked like, or how she spoke, or the way she walked, or the smoothness of her hands, or how she had tasted when he kissed her. He realized he didn't even know her name.
Turning from her, he did not watch her sleep. He did not want to. He glanced at the money he had put on the table for her earlier and remembered his dream. He closed his eyes again and willed himself to return there, to that quaint little home in some unknown town. But just like every night, sleep would not come twice. He felt his eyes dampen and didn't have the heart to stop them. A tear rolled down his cheek, unseen in the darkness.
This, Matthew knew, he would never come to love.