Past
By Simply Shelby
She flips the light on.
And promptly slaps a hand over her mouth as she finds someone sitting at the kitchen table. "Louis!" she breathes and he blinks painfully at the sudden appearance of light. "Louis, what are you doing?"
He rolls a shoulder. "Dunno, really."
She fills the kettle with water from the tap and sets it on the quickly heating stove, her movements slow and thoughtful. "Are you alright?"
"I'm fine," his voice lilts and shakes a bit, but his words ring true, "Better than fine. Indescribable."
Her hand freezes in the motion of taking out two mugs from the cupboard. Mismatched cups. One from his life and one from hers. Their old lives coming together to make new. "I gave music lessons," she tells him suddenly, "I couldn't play music, so I taught it. I taught other mothers' children how to play music and grieved because I would never get to teach mine."
He gazes at her for a long moment, head tilted to the side and his chin resting in his palm. His eyes trace her face--the point of her nose, the high line of her cheekbones, the curve of her lips--and trail down the outline beneath her pale nightdress.
She blushes pleasantly, ducking her head, and pours the boiling water over the teabags. "I--" she hears him murmur and turns back around.
Misery and guilt and defeat are written across his features, plain as day. "I had a career," he confesses, "I had a girlfriend." He pauses to wince at her reaction, but she is silent and unjudging. "I had to forget," he tells her in a pained whisper. "I played and played, but it didn't matter. You couldn't hear me."
"So you stopped." It is something she understands all too well.
He takes a deep breath. In and out. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry." His voice breaks and his face is cradled in his hands. She moves forward, setting a cup of strong, black tea on the table in front of him. He glances at the mug, then looks up at her. Just looks at her with endless eyes and asks in a strong brogue, "Anything stronger?"
And she looks back and him and simply nods.
A tumbler of whisky is set in front of him. He takes a sip--good Irish, too--and downs the rest like a shot. Breathing in deeply, he feels the alcohol burning against his throat, steadying him in the present.
And, suddenly, his lap is full of Lyla and her mouth is sliding against his. The chair is tipping and he plants his feet firmly on the linoleum floor and throws his arms around her to keep them from smashing to the floor. Their mouths move, hands move, hearts move in tandem. They break apart and she lays her forehead against his.
"Come to bed," she requests, softly, almost whining.
"Mmmm," he murmurs and points out, "August is sleeping."
She nods, her nose bumping against his, "We'll just have to be quiet, then." She stands, tugging on his hand like an impatient child and he indulges her, indulges himself. Because the past is the past and they are together now and that's all that matters.
A different sort of music is made that night.