Oh, Brewfest
He isn't from Lordaeron. That's the first thought crossing her mind when she wakes up in the morning, the unfamiliar weight of a warm body sharing the mattress with her. The second, and more pressing, is I need some water.
Oh, Brewfest.
As Nicene forces herself to sit up and sling her legs over the edge of the bed, a mastiff in the corner raises its immense, wrinkled head to stare at her. She stares back at it, blinks, and rubs her eyes. Where the hell did a dog come from? Has it been here all night? She is careful in skirting along the side of the bed, past the cold hearth, and to the miniature cooling box, where a pitcher of water waits. After pouring herself a glass, she leans back against the wall to drink. The wood is cool on her bare back, the stone floor chilly enough that she only puts her weight on one foot at a time, but it's a subconscious motion; her attention is on the man in the bed.
She's known him for less than a day.
The last time she did this, it turned out badly. Then again, that man had been well over twice her age, and possessive even when she told him he had no right to be. He had spied on her, drawn conclusions that were not his to make, and thrown his judgements in her face like daggers meant to wound her. But the sex had been good. The sex had been very, very good, and nevermind how it all ended, she missed that. It had been eight months of missing that, in fact. And oh, certainly, there had been other men who might have been possibilities, and one of them she thought she might even have been a little bit in love with.
As she skips towards the mattress again, she pauses to pull her journal from her purse, which is hanging from one of the bedposts. The journal is fairly new, bearing the colours of the Accord. Once she's snug in bed again, she works the pretty golden pen free from where it is tucked into the spine.
Her companion, of course, nuzzles close. But he's worn out, and not quite awake; his arm wraps about her legs, his mouth lazily kisses whatever bit of her skin he can reach, and then he's still once again.
She's smiling when she cracks the journal open and begins to write.
***
How things change. Last year's Brewfest was the last time I saw my Papa alive. Patrick and I went to Loch Modan, to the brewery, to help him load up the wagon with wares to bring to the festival grounds. We all drank and sang and laughed together, and I remember how Patrick kept sneaking me kisses and gropes. I hadn't seen him so happy and light-hearted in a long while, even though Papa kept trying to intimidate him; I think they liked each other a great deal. That's when Papa gave me my father's wedding ring.
And Balthasair's wearing that right now, as he should be.
Something happened to Patrick at Brewfest. He was so happy, but then suddenly he wasn't, suddenly things were wrong with him again and it wasn't too long after that when he when things changed for us. Forever.
I didn't know Balthasair then like I do now, either. I wonder how things might have been different, but I guess that back then I would never have given my brother a chance if he actually walked into my life instead of skirting around the edges.
Last year at this time, I thought I'd spend the rest of my life with Patrick.
This year, I'm fucking a stranger.
I met him outside of Stormwind, where he was playing ball with a bunch of other guys. I always walk by and smile and eye them, but I'd never seen him before. There's not really any way I would have missed him, though; he's ... something remarkable. And the way he treated me... Light. I have been waiting for a man to remind me of Patrick, of Lothrias, and stop with the gentleman act. He was hitting on me from the moment he smiled, and he's been telling me all night that I am beautiful. Telling, and showing too.
Eight months without sex, and now thatlittle streak has come to an end. FINALLY.
He says he wants to take me out again. I probably will, but I hope he understands that I don't want this to go anywhere. He's not from Lordaeron, he hasn't met Balthasair, and he ... well.
So far, he's too good to be true.
***
Flipping to the next page, Nicene continues to write. There's someone she owessome sort of explanation of her whereabouts, even if it's going to be a bit of a smudging of the truth:
Baldy,
I don't think I'll be home for the next few days. Work called, and I'm going to be taking care of that, but I'll be back soon. Be safe, alright? I hope you aren't lonely. I'm thinking of you.
Love,
Nicene
Oh, Brewfest.
As Nicene forces herself to sit up and sling her legs over the edge of the bed, a mastiff in the corner raises its immense, wrinkled head to stare at her. She stares back at it, blinks, and rubs her eyes. Where the hell did a dog come from? Has it been here all night? She is careful in skirting along the side of the bed, past the cold hearth, and to the miniature cooling box, where a pitcher of water waits. After pouring herself a glass, she leans back against the wall to drink. The wood is cool on her bare back, the stone floor chilly enough that she only puts her weight on one foot at a time, but it's a subconscious motion; her attention is on the man in the bed.
She's known him for less than a day.
The last time she did this, it turned out badly. Then again, that man had been well over twice her age, and possessive even when she told him he had no right to be. He had spied on her, drawn conclusions that were not his to make, and thrown his judgements in her face like daggers meant to wound her. But the sex had been good. The sex had been very, very good, and nevermind how it all ended, she missed that. It had been eight months of missing that, in fact. And oh, certainly, there had been other men who might have been possibilities, and one of them she thought she might even have been a little bit in love with.
As she skips towards the mattress again, she pauses to pull her journal from her purse, which is hanging from one of the bedposts. The journal is fairly new, bearing the colours of the Accord. Once she's snug in bed again, she works the pretty golden pen free from where it is tucked into the spine.
Her companion, of course, nuzzles close. But he's worn out, and not quite awake; his arm wraps about her legs, his mouth lazily kisses whatever bit of her skin he can reach, and then he's still once again.
She's smiling when she cracks the journal open and begins to write.
***
How things change. Last year's Brewfest was the last time I saw my Papa alive. Patrick and I went to Loch Modan, to the brewery, to help him load up the wagon with wares to bring to the festival grounds. We all drank and sang and laughed together, and I remember how Patrick kept sneaking me kisses and gropes. I hadn't seen him so happy and light-hearted in a long while, even though Papa kept trying to intimidate him; I think they liked each other a great deal. That's when Papa gave me my father's wedding ring.
And Balthasair's wearing that right now, as he should be.
Something happened to Patrick at Brewfest. He was so happy, but then suddenly he wasn't, suddenly things were wrong with him again and it wasn't too long after that when he when things changed for us. Forever.
I didn't know Balthasair then like I do now, either. I wonder how things might have been different, but I guess that back then I would never have given my brother a chance if he actually walked into my life instead of skirting around the edges.
Last year at this time, I thought I'd spend the rest of my life with Patrick.
This year, I'm fucking a stranger.
I met him outside of Stormwind, where he was playing ball with a bunch of other guys. I always walk by and smile and eye them, but I'd never seen him before. There's not really any way I would have missed him, though; he's ... something remarkable. And the way he treated me... Light. I have been waiting for a man to remind me of Patrick, of Lothrias, and stop with the gentleman act. He was hitting on me from the moment he smiled, and he's been telling me all night that I am beautiful. Telling, and showing too.
Eight months without sex, and now thatlittle streak has come to an end. FINALLY.
He says he wants to take me out again. I probably will, but I hope he understands that I don't want this to go anywhere. He's not from Lordaeron, he hasn't met Balthasair, and he ... well.
So far, he's too good to be true.
***
Flipping to the next page, Nicene continues to write. There's someone she owessome sort of explanation of her whereabouts, even if it's going to be a bit of a smudging of the truth:
Baldy,
I don't think I'll be home for the next few days. Work called, and I'm going to be taking care of that, but I'll be back soon. Be safe, alright? I hope you aren't lonely. I'm thinking of you.
Love,
Nicene