sunday_reveries Wings Unfolding
closestkept used with permission and love.
picture prompt.
"You always get that." She nods to his ice cream cone.
He shrugs. "I like it."
"You don't get tired of it?" In contrast, she orders a different flavor every time they come.
"When you find a favorite, you'll understand."
"What is it?"
"El Diablo." He says it like the master of language he is.
"Yes." She shakes her head. "What does that mean?"
He grins. "The Devil." Shayera stares at him, incomprehension dancing in her eyes. "It's chocolate with chile mixed in."
"What does it taste like?"
"Fire." She raises an eyebrow; St. John's grin grows wider and he offers his cone to her. She takes a taste and smiles up at him.
"Okay." Leaning back she returns to nibbling her own cone.
"Like it?"
She nods. "It's not my favorite."
"Oh?"
Shayera shakes her head once. "But you are."
--
He has more books than clothes. He has more books than dishes. He has more books than records. He has more books than clothes, dishes, and records.
"You have too many books." She's spent hours packing them. Just the ones in the bedroom.
"No such thing."
"Can we have a library? A room for them, in our house."
He looks over at her, laughter in his eyes. "Do you want one?" And voice.
"I want fewer books in the bedroom."
He sits back to take her in fully. "You like me reading to you." It's not a question.
"Yes." She answers anyway. They look at each other across the bed a moment, sitting on either side, surrounded by boxes and books.
"We'll have a bigger bedroom."
"Okay."
"...And a library."
She grins. "Okay."
"Okay."
--
Shayera loves the big window. She sits in the alcove only she can reach and watches the street below. Her street. Their street.
"What do you see?"
"People." She wonders if they'll accept her, him, them. She wonders.
"What are they doing?"
"Living."
St. John loves the high ceiling. He sits in the very middle of the living room, mostly empty, their boxes stacked in hallways, their furniture in the smaller rooms. He likes it this way, it doesn't feel empty, it feels free.
"What do you see?" She looks down at him from her high perch.
"You."
"Me?"
"Living." She grins and jumps, fluttering down to land before him. She holds a hand out, wings unfurled behind her, extended fully. Beautifully. The room is not empty at all.
"Live with me."
He takes her hand. "Always." He pulls her down and into his arms.
Always.
picture prompt.
"You always get that." She nods to his ice cream cone.
He shrugs. "I like it."
"You don't get tired of it?" In contrast, she orders a different flavor every time they come.
"When you find a favorite, you'll understand."
"What is it?"
"El Diablo." He says it like the master of language he is.
"Yes." She shakes her head. "What does that mean?"
He grins. "The Devil." Shayera stares at him, incomprehension dancing in her eyes. "It's chocolate with chile mixed in."
"What does it taste like?"
"Fire." She raises an eyebrow; St. John's grin grows wider and he offers his cone to her. She takes a taste and smiles up at him.
"Okay." Leaning back she returns to nibbling her own cone.
"Like it?"
She nods. "It's not my favorite."
"Oh?"
Shayera shakes her head once. "But you are."
--
He has more books than clothes. He has more books than dishes. He has more books than records. He has more books than clothes, dishes, and records.
"You have too many books." She's spent hours packing them. Just the ones in the bedroom.
"No such thing."
"Can we have a library? A room for them, in our house."
He looks over at her, laughter in his eyes. "Do you want one?" And voice.
"I want fewer books in the bedroom."
He sits back to take her in fully. "You like me reading to you." It's not a question.
"Yes." She answers anyway. They look at each other across the bed a moment, sitting on either side, surrounded by boxes and books.
"We'll have a bigger bedroom."
"Okay."
"...And a library."
She grins. "Okay."
"Okay."
--
Shayera loves the big window. She sits in the alcove only she can reach and watches the street below. Her street. Their street.
"What do you see?"
"People." She wonders if they'll accept her, him, them. She wonders.
"What are they doing?"
"Living."
St. John loves the high ceiling. He sits in the very middle of the living room, mostly empty, their boxes stacked in hallways, their furniture in the smaller rooms. He likes it this way, it doesn't feel empty, it feels free.
"What do you see?" She looks down at him from her high perch.
"You."
"Me?"
"Living." She grins and jumps, fluttering down to land before him. She holds a hand out, wings unfurled behind her, extended fully. Beautifully. The room is not empty at all.
"Live with me."
He takes her hand. "Always." He pulls her down and into his arms.
Always.