Heeeeere we have another chapter. AU, in which Our Great Lord Solomon and Sheba meet once more! The beginning is sorta crap cause I wrote this in the middle of a block but IT CLEARED so yesssss. Anyway. so ye. He remembers her, but she doesn't~
His Name Is Solomon
Sheba can barely see what she sincerely hopes is the train station through the black translucency that is the rain. It's dark, so close to faded midnight that even the moonless sky shifts lazily. With nothing but a tiny, flickering torch (probably due to short circuiting) and seemingly only marginally better streetlights, she's having a hard time believing just how not lost she is. Something warm that she swears is not salty wells up in her vision and she fumbles to swipe it into the rain. She's not crying now, of course not. Bitterly cold fingers slip, and the already sodden map drops like a stone. A sound of frustration and exhaustion and grief that totally isn't a sob tears itself from her chest. The massive, shimmering puddle, long since having soaked into her pale ballerinas, barely ripples. The youth fights back a curse. That stupid sheet of paper was the only map she had. What now, huh?
A solitary black car flashes by, headlights blazing, music fading as quickly as it came into heavy gloom. And of course, of course that god forsaken vehicle had summoned quite the tidal wave of bone-chilling water taller than Sheba was herself. With a splash and a splutter, her entire body is now trembling from not just the cold. Which black blooded peasant drives like that anyway? She reaches down, drawing the map that was brand new only some unbelievably long hours ago from the freaking ocean of the asphalt like a lump of mouldy bread from curdled milk. Half of the damned paper gives up, fibres tearing and unceremoniously dumping itself back into the water. The rain strengthens. Her torch finally dies. She really does curse this time and the profanity tickles the night.
The information centre shut only sixteen minutes ago. Sixteen out of the 167 endless minutes of trudging through relentless rain and steady darkness. She doesn't know this, and it's probably best because the knowledge would make her mood that much worse. Sheba glares black daggers through the glass, the sharp ends stabbing deep into a desk she knows is sugar maple from its buttery sheen. Flecks of rain somehow defy this tiny awning, but she feels nothing through the cold, long since scourged about her neck. How much better sheltered it would be inside...The youth kicks morosely at the concrete stoop, overshoots, and ends up stubbing her sodden toes upon the door. It hurts more than she'd like to admit, yet the left panel of the two glass panels barely shudders. Her frustration pitches forth in the form of something between a growl and a yelp. How naive, how stupidly hopeful this is.
Sheba slumps down to lean against the glass. No way she'll make it to the interview in time, not without looking like the remains of something the housecat coughed up. And her library-printed train ticket is almost certainly unrecognisable by now, packed and sodden beneath pencil, clothing and a leftover lunch. Hands of deep cold cease to wipe the wetness now truly streaming down her cheeks. There's no longer any point, for the new liquid fails to dampen her cheeks any more than they already are wet. Perhaps she shouldn't have escaped from "The Church" because even back then, she hadn't been cold like this, hungry, exhausted to the bone. This is it then, huh? This is the despair of being directionless, penniless, like glass on the breeze. There is no future in the city over. Even with this partial scholarship, there never had been.
"Miss?" The streetlights shimmer into focus, golden halos like dust against the wet tar and silent buildings. A chill fills the air in place of rain. She must have fallen asleep. "Are you alright?"
The voice again. Deliberate, charismatic and somehow familiar, with a tinge of...is it astonishment? Sheba lifts her weary head to greet the cobalt eyes of the stranger. They're intense, and as she does so, they grow wider.
"Yes sir. Thank you," She's formal. She always has been in the presence of strangers, especially in unfamiliar surroundings. The man nods uncomfortably, rigid body softening with something she instantly places as despair. Which is odd, because she's never really been able to read body language. The door of the information centre hangs ajar from his passing. There's a pause, and in the silence he shifts, breathes deep, blinks for a little longer than necessary. In the dark light, she momentarily perceives his hair to be a deep aquamarine, his casual hoodie and jeans to be something far less modest, far more foreign. He is strong and beautiful. Her heart lurches, and the vision is forgotten.
She breaks the quickly awkward silence, struggling to her feet. It isn't polite to talk in different levels now is it?. "I-I was just looking for the informat-the train station." She curses herself for the useless stutter, blaming the harsh cold in her bones, the bitter sleep. She clenches her jaw hard to keep the teeth from chattering, but it doesn't last long. And it's not like he'll help her anyway. It's not even working hours so why bother? Her backpack is damp and sticking to her equally damp, equally sticky, plain dress and thin coat. She's suddenly aware of what a mess she is, and moves to flatten two raggedy locks of hair that she knows are misbehaving by now. She'll need to look marginally alright for any chance of help from some quite obviously…well shaped stranger, right?
But the hand is stopped by his freakishly perfect fingers, which quickly draw away. What, who even does that? Sheba flares up just as the man apologises, averting his eyes. Who does this guy think he is? Ladies man, probably, and she frowns, aggravated. He sighs into the night as she simmers, not seeing the smile tugging at his lips, nor the heartbroken distance behind his eyes. And. And If not for these drastic circumstances, she would've given him a telling off by now, but she's got to be diplomatic. Anything for the interview, anything for the train station. She placates herself with rekindled hope; his silence is getting unnerving. She's got to do this. Like hell she knows how to read a map (proved a couple of hours before), so this man is her last hope, right? Sheba clears her throat resolutely, and his attention is back.
His coat is warm and dry against her shoulders, and though it must fit perfectly for him, the lowest edge grazes low against her relievedly warmer thighs. It smells of new carpet, only nicer. She chases away the thoughts. She's only just met him, so of course it isn't appropriate. And plus, he insisted, and she, in turn, quickly found how difficult it was to say no to his strangely kind self. It is long past midnight by now, gentle fingertips of grey creeping up the horizon, heralders of dawn. The shadows have shrunk, and she can't think whether it's the oncoming morning or something else. Truth be told, it's getting a little difficult to think at all, what when every half-smile somehow reduces her bones to liquid jelly. In the fallow early, stars very slowly begin to fade. She doesn't notice, not when his stride is are like the night-lights themselves, smooth and alluring. They'll make it to the station by dawn, he assures, and his voice is cooler than the velvet sky. She can't hold back a silent whisper of disappointment, knowing that he won't escort her further.
"I forgot to ask! What's your name?" She leans forward to catch his shiny name tag with curious eyes. It reads Simon Jonah Abraham, yet his near instant answer is not the same.
"Solomon. Different, huh?" Odd. Perhaps that's just his nickname? They round a corner and the train station, after what seems like piteously few seconds of more talking than walking, comes into view in all its flat, rectangular shabbiness.
"Yeah...never heard of a name like that before," she responds. There's sudden melancholy in his so often elated poise, and she realises suddenly that the stars are all but faded, leaving the sky with a predawn grey even shabbier than the station. By morning, she'll have reached her interview, books from Simon's friend Hugo's bookstore in hand. Sheba feels a rush of hope, of happiness and such convincing confidence that she beams at her newfound friend. He smiles back with his mouth only. The final nocturnal star winks out.
He payed for her ticket in place of the creased, fibrous pulp of her own one and even insisted she take some more, just in case her saved up fees for the all-inclusive boarding weren't enough. Had she said? Solomon was very difficult to refuse. Aria, the lady at the booth, chuckled at their senseless bickering. She found herself with a little more change than expected and Sheba's mathematics were certainly up to scratch. That lady had none of it though, and quickly took a call. The two slowed upon approaching the terminal, neither saying a word about the intended stall towards her departure. Concrete ceilings and the few, morose, other passengers were the only things keeping them. At last, her train screamed to a halt, brakes quite profusely smoking. "You'd better take this back," She said, already removing his large coat, strangely stylish on her petite frame. It was simultaneously heavy and light, and she felt substantially sorry to see it hanging off her forearms, those fingers of his curling around the leather. "I don't think so." And Solomon stepped close, pushing both her hands and the coat back. His intense pupils like twin coals in the heart of a dry ocean smouldered, urging. For what, she could not place. Her mouth fell open in wordless protest and something else, something yearning. What it was, she did not know. She tried again, and this time the something was gone and the commonplace of refusal was voiced.
"But it-it's yours!" She tried, already knowing her own futility. He shook his head, coals faltering and then drowning out as the blue of his ocean broke upon a deep, pink-mahogany shore. A ghost digit fingered a brown lock of her hair as he turned away. When he spoke again, it was strained, and he couldn't hide it.
"Keep it, and maybe…" He broke off, only to rephrase. "Goodbye Sheba, you follow your dreams," Simon Jonah Abraham never looked back, and as the train drew out into the lip of dawn, she hugged his coat tight. An unnoticed moisture seeped into the fluffy inside. Why was she staring into the darkness of the railway behind her? What was this placeless pain? The dawn was pale grey and uninspiring. Storm arose from brief reprieve. The raindrops came heavy and cold. She realised, then, that she'd never told him her name.
I made them a teesy bit OOC, bu then again that could make sense since they've never met so their characters are of course, a little different. What do you all think?
It's kind of sequel worthy, so if you want another AU related sequel, review! :D It will make my week, not just a day.