invite me, ignite me, co-write me.
Christmas Eve in snowy Ithaca is beautiful in a way that is fairly different to Hasibe's experiences in Boston, and certainly in damp South Carolina winters, but it's not just special because of the starlit, notably less skyscraper-dotted ambiance, either. They've had dinner in curtain-shrouded private room at John Thomas's Steakhouse (one carefully moderated glass of wine, brie en croute avec Loch Duart salmon for her, prime rib au jus for him, and a rich, raspberry-sprinkled shared sliver of Bûche de Noël between them), a significantly upscale place fitted in a remodeled Victorian home--and to correspond, the place's ambiance is nigh-Victorian, so Hasibe's thin-strapped red Christian Dior dress isn't even as over-the-top as it usually is, although she is definitely still the most overdressed woman in the room. Probably none of her accessories help lessen that vibe--she owns gold and pearls and vintage tortoiseshell hair combs, she figures she ought to wear them, and what better excuse does she have than a holiday night out with her boyfriend?
She really needs a better word for him, she thinks; it's still not fair only women get 'inamorata'.
When they leave the restaurant, she decides she doesn't need to change into her boots, having deduced by his recommendation that she bring some they would be walking at some point; the local plows have consistently shoaled the drifts into manageable formats that rise up in great blue-white tufts around them, giving the impression they've had quite a lot more snowfall than is actually accurate, but it creates a pretty picture, anyway, especially with the moon in its first quarter shining above, accompanied by the December stars. It's a more pristine image than the wild colors she created in Boston when her mind was unleashed, in all ways a true actress, and managed its best impersonation of the auroras or a more vivid electrical storm, but--she likes this. It's dark blue and black and silver and white, and it is in stark contrast to Hasi herself, in a dress deeper crimson than autumn's dying spark (and God, fall really was so very tumultuous for them, she almost can't believe how much her life has changed since she met him in August) or even the fire she creates, which tends to pitch immediately to white, anyway, in all things blazing right on through to maximum intensity.
Although she has on gloves and a long, thick fur coat, black with a satin ribbon sash at the wrists and waist, courtesy of Jean-Louis Scherrer, she still shivers just a little when the night air hits her. This is pointless, because Hasibe doesn't feel the cold as strongly as other people, though she is sensitive to changes in temperature, it's just...reacting for the sake of it, and perhaps as an excuse to tuck herself closer to Henry, smiling at him. They've spent so much time together she hardly needs to verbalize everything, and in a way this is an echo of how things could be come with Hyde (all their words communicated with a glance, a tremble, a lowering of lashes or a widening of eyes), that's not too surprising. He is both, and she is--happy, truly, teetering on the edge of professional risk but secure that the man with her is both thoroughly dangerous and thoroughly safe, that he'll let her dance on the edges of cliffs, because that is what she lives for and loves to do, but he'll always pull her back to him; unlike Hyde, he'd never plummet them both over the edge just so they'd never be apart. Furthermore, there has never been any question in her heart of whether she is suitable, not since the move; she knew she belonged with Hyde, but sometimes, before the blending of his torn psyche, she'd questioned whether she was good for Henry, despite her desire to never leave his side.
And now Henry, she thinks, already knows they'll never be apart. She's told him so. In the stillness of that thought, she briefly turns to look around them, located in a wealthy residential corner of Ithaca. Most people seem to go pretty over the top with their decorations, which Hasibe appreciates on principle. Her tastes for their home and tree ran largely to pure white everywhere, delicate and omnipresent like ice, large silver snowflakes hanging from the ceiling and the door, accompanied by a thick red and green wreath, but she appreciates the brighter, sillier ventures, too, and remembers the days when that was how she did things. Everyone has their own aesthetic, even if it includes a herd of massive fake reindeer on their lawn, lit by blues and reds, one of them toppled over with its hooves comically tilted at an angle. Hasibe muffles a giggle at the sight, imagining the child's play or teenagers roughhousing that presumably led to the decoration being upended, and turns back to Henry, eyes dancing.
"Now," she says, breaking the chilly silence with the echo of a laugh beginning in her voice, because of the scenery, because she knows he knows she was going to bring it up, and because she always laughs easily, "what do you have planned next? I know there's something, and I have been very good about not saying a word."
And oh, she has been tempted, but--for him, she can always be patient.