"What can the acorn tell a tree but that it was painful being born? The tree talks about the pain of birth and seeing everything else move on." He wasn't meaning to be clever, or full of riddles. Sometimes his English knew limits and a metaphor helped with that. It painted the emotion better than a plea could.

"I must see the world move on and it's a unique pain. I did not think I would feel it alone." The evening air went through his bones and down his arm. She could feel the muscle tense and then relax, "But it is a fool that depends too much on another, that believes in them too implicitly." The dark man believed that even the moon could die. What had been taken to be so profound, so meaningful and permanent, had only been a season.

Wasn't he a season? Drifting, a momentary pause given by a stranger? Penny anchored him in place, in time, and soon, so would Ame. From where they tied him into place he would dangle chains from one arm and turn it into a swing. In short, there was no understanding of what would happen next, only that he believed it would be beautiful.

The Sentry and the Harlot had more in common than either of them could yet appreciate. Each had been uprooted from one life into another, only to find what had felt permanent about that second life ripped away in an instant. Each stood in the in-between space, creeping along the path to a third iteration, seeking a new sense of self. Jezebel listened to him speak, felt the tension in his arm only to have it melt away a moment later, almost on command.

Thoughtful, Jezebel's fingers pressed lightly into his bicep in response, the barest beginning of a squeeze that also melted away a moment later. "The world moves on, yes," she said at last, "but in time a new one replaces it. Feeling it alone is not the same as...feeling it without the person you perhaps expected to be able to believe in so... implicitly." She mirrored his words, not in mockery but because it was the language he'd chosen to express the ache she suspected was tied tangibly to that indented void on his left ring finger.

Her smile was like turning the heat up on a space heater, spreading additional warmth into the cool night air, the lonely space between them. "For instance, I am not the company you once expected on a night like this, but... you are not entirely alone."

The Dark Man had been known for his enigmatic smiles and the way he could appreciate a person for just being who they were. There wasn't judgment or expectation, but something like a joyous laugh about him when the spirit of someone caught him unaware.

He hadn't been allowing himself to feel that lately.

Gently, the closed book inside him opened and he smiled, recognizing just how unexpected she was while at the same time being there, surprisingly squeezing his arm and offering the smallest taste of who she was. Jezebel had set her mind to digging, searching, and he was certain whatever she had found was not arresting.

In this sort of world, he would have only been exceptional if his marriage had lasted instead of failing. Now it was a statistic, like everyone else's, and they were just another broken family that all other broken pieces could relate to. They were the majority, another set of names amid the list of broken homes and he had not expected that. He had not dreamed that, had not known that such a nightmare could happen. Lately, he had been working to remember what the beauty of a broken family could be, because there had to be some. There must be something reassuring that he could tell Penny. That he, unlike her other parents, would not die or leave.

Promising not to die came with a sort of pain that was impossible to describe. In many ways, it felt like a lie. An unavoidable, inescapable lie. No, he said, I won't be going anywhere. Not to help a friend, not to soothe an old wound from another city. And if his body threw a blood clot that sent a stroke to his brain? Somehow he would battle it and death would always come to him on the terms which he and Penny had agreed upon the other night. Never. Forever and always.

Her well-timed smile caught some break in him, but his heart did not spread open. She could have wriggled her way open, past the parts of him riddled with rot and despair. Yet she hadn't. Wasn't that the sign that some selflessness still lived? The give in him showed in the bowing of his eyebrows, his expression patient and pained.

"It isn't."

Jezebel could sense the opening, that sliver of a crack where just a hint of light spilled through. Her smile spread by a few degrees. There was a lot that a woman like Jezebel could do with just that much room, but she didn't. There was the press of her fingers where she held his arm, a simple reminder that even trees occasionally brushed branches in the buffeting of the wind.

It wasn't that he wasn't desirable, that the deep hush of his thoughtfully measured voice didn't stir some carnal impulse. He was strong and yet soft, the steel of a glinting blade draped in a plush black velvet. She could have, would have, but still, she didn't.

While it might have been beautiful, it wasn't the problem that needed solving. And it did a disservice to the real source of the ache, the monumental feeling that welled up inside him, seeping here and there through these infinitesimal cracks. Jezebel just couldn't quite make herself play temporary band-aid. Not this time.

The path diverged again, and again her gentle guidance led them left. Further away from the city with its harsh noises and all its lights, deeper into the wilder spaces where she felt most like she could breathe. "It is nice to walk with you, Tag," she said softly. Not just someone, not seeing through him to an imaginary preference somewhere beyond. She said his name--the one he'd given -- because she wanted him to know that she meant him specifically.

"Thank you." Somewhere in his voice, he was telling her that he enjoyed the walk as well. At one of the paths which diverged he paused, turning to her partly and then looking back down towards the path, "Which way?"

There was only time that he needed. It would take away the sharp impression of his thoughts as new memories built themselves. No pain could be forever unless a person was devoted to martyrdom. He'd survived hurt before, he had known wounds and the slow way a scar formed. Soon it would be like the mark of the coyote on his arm. Old blood and scabs would peel off for pinkish pathways that would grow old and white, like the silk work of a spider.

When she said his name it stood out, mostly because he didn't know too many people so that outside of introductions, he didn't hear his name much. There had been one woman who called him Mamoru, but it had been a long time since he'd seen her. She came and went and he had walked her home a few times, just as he was walking Jezebel home.

The walk home was a good one. He appreciated the sense of closeness that didn't become invasive. The path waited, leaning towards the salt of the docksides as he looked at her.

A tip of her head indicated the left-hand path. Left and left and left again, that's where Jezebel tended to gravitate, towards the water that looked nothing at all like the deep, impossibly blues of her faraway Pacific home, but still carried that comforting, familiar scent of salt and wind and sea.

The tall ships that came and went, too, put her in mind of ocean-weary sailors, their legs unaccustomed to anything but the rolling pitch of the ever moving sea gone brittle and awkward like a newborn baby deer. Watching them relearn how to walk, watching their eyes widen as they began to understand that some of the figures who watched from behind a stand of palm trees were women.

A ways from the docks but still close enough to hear their creaking boards when the tide rolled in, Jezebel eventually led them to the side entrance of a low standing apartment building. It had three floors and hers was the third one, its balconies open to the ocean. This side door made exclusive access, bypassing the lobby and the smaller apartments on the first and second floors altogether. There was a light on up there, spilling out of an open window along with the faint strains of a foreign melody.

"Here we are," she said at last, breaking what had been a comfortable silence. A smile lifted her cheeks as she looked up at him, a certain knowing sparkle in eyes like firelight. "Another time, I'll invite you in, for the view."

His attention swung up to the light at the top of the building, glowing like emergency lights do when they are trying to show you the way out from the dark. The sun would always rise, lights would keep being lit, throwing shadows and new illumination onto a world that had seemed well known and now needed to be relearned. Strips of shadows splayed out from the railways, crisscrossing with other fixtures until they seemed like sporadic yellow leaves scattered on the ground around them.

The gentle wrap of her hand left an impression on his arm, subtle enough that it wasn't like the heat from a fire but from a sunbeam. He looked down to see her long, slender fingers and realized that he didn't recognize all the little marks about them. He didn't know the stories of how they came to be hers and of everything they had touched. They had combed through bodies, hearts and countless briny winds that brushed down the side of her apartment building like the essence of the tide rolling forward and then pulling back.

"Another time." His free hand moved across his body, landing atop of hers before his weight shifted and he receded from her one step, "Take care." That's what people said when they were saying goodbye. Take care (of yourself). Take care (of life). Take care (because I want you to be well). Take care (because I care).

His attention was wrapped in the slip of the ocean front exposed to them during their walk. It was as if it was a visual for him as she described where she had come from. In some ways, he understood it. His country hadn't been large, and much of the food depended upon water. Rice needed it, nearly knee-deep, and fish were raked in for the market.

Somewhere, along the line of their discussion, his other hand had slipped between his ribs to rest over where her fingers crossed his arm. The reciprocal squeeze was gentle, disappearing like a heartbeat away from the moment. Jezebel had the sort of heat any man could be consumed in if he considered it for too long. Even Tag was aware of the draw, of how his gaze took a few seconds longer than normal on her features when they talked. She was presented like a short-sighted answer he wasn't yet ready for.

He was still in the empty cavern of what had happened, hearing the echoes of what had been. A man had to stay there long enough that he didn't forget to contemplate the dark. A man could only be there so long before he lost his sanity.

She was a heartbeat, an opportunity, a promise. She could even be an answer, for an afternoon or an hour, but only for the right set of questions. Those questions had not yet been asked. Jezebel smiled, her fine spun golden lashes fluttering as she washed away the memory of a humid ocean breeze. It was nice, surprisingly, to speak of home. It didn't hurt the way it once had, and the intensely quiet interest he'd shown in something so small made a long jagged edge somewhere inside her go soft.

The gentle press of his hand on hers was an unspoken promise, too, and she answered it with the faintest flare of her fingers.

They were there, their line of sight uninterrupted to the stairs which would lead up to her door. There was still enough ambient light that it did not seem like a beacon in a hopeless storm. Upon seeing it, he spoke to her like someone who was trying to unwrap a present without disturbing the paper that encased it. His fingertips gently peeled back the tape, unfolded the paper, and attempted to slide the object out so that the wrapping would remain as undisturbed as a shell.

"One day I will ask something of you," his steps drew to a stop at the base of the stairs. He turned partly to face her, not scurrying away his posture or gaze from her at the point where he had to ask. His lips stayed, broken open just partly before he continued, "And I do not know if it will bring me happiness or sorrow."

The walk was too short, their destination arriving all too quickly. As the final gentle slope of the road following the coast gave way and the small apartment complex came into view, Jezebel found herself wishing their steps would slow, that time would ease, that what little distance remained would take all night to traverse. Too soon, the street was crossed, the side door opened, the staircase revealed. Too soon, she found herself facing him, no longer tucked in close against his side.

He spoke, and Jezebel watched him, a curious flicker in her eyes like a candle's flame teased by a gentle breath of wind. Her gaze was fastened to that dark strip of space between his lips in the moments between the announcement and its follow up, catching there like silky fabric on a nail, before she deliberately lifted it to meet his eyes.

"Is it my answer to your question, or what the answer means that concerns you?" Her tone could not have been more gentle, her fingers still made a loose and careful bracelet of his arm. With the angle changed between them, it brought the inside of her forearm against the outside of his, skin to skin from elbow to wrist.

"What it will mean," because he did not believe that she had the answer. He believed it would come from himself, that she would be a tool to pry it out from his chest. Jezebel could not give him the answers that he wanted, but he felt she put a mirror up to him, one that brought in realizations if only he would allow them to sink in.

The Dark Man knew, by the give in her voice, that she was telling him to take care (because she cared). His smile broke the way the ground did when the sun had baked it and the surface finally relented, separating in a thin line that was infinitely deep. That was his smile for her, a small honest break in the world. He could feel her eyes, studying his mouth as if he was doing something more extraordinary than smiling.

Because his smile was extraordinary. It felt like a gift, a rare and precious jewel that had spilled almost unbidden into her outstretched hands, and she savored those seconds that it lingered. Little by little, the thick knots of sorrow and loss that held him down were being loosened, the tangled threads unraveled in painstaking degrees by supple, careful fingers.

She wondered, briefly, if she could free him. If he would let her.

"I will look forward to hearing this question, then," she promised him, a gust of wind off the incoming tide setting her hair to rippling around her shoulders. A loose tendril caught in its fiercest teeth lifted, tickling at his forearm where fresh pink scars were still healing. She tilted her head towards the stairs, and though she was certain she knew the answer, Jezebel offered the invitation. "The view from the roof is beautiful."

"Another time," his form bowed towards her as he withdrew a step. Somehow there was a pat to her Summer-echo hold on his arm, a physical reminder that he was slipping away from her. Whether there was freedom or not his gaze never told her. They were dark windows into a story beginning to regain light. Soon there would be candles and soon the details of what was inside would come forward.

Tonight, there had been black flags, momentary smiles, and the promise that one day there would be a question. She looked forward to hearing it. The wind swept that statement away, it brushed her locks of hair and told him that he needed to keep walking. That he needed to let the space between them grow until he stood on his own porch. From there, he would look into the distance and know that there she was standing by a beacon with a voice that was impossibly gentle.

It was the answer she'd expected, and when he withdrew, she let him. Her hold on him, never once demanding or possessive, broke immediately, leaving only the stains of summer heat in their wake. Jezebel caught the errant strands that danced in the wind, tossing them back behind one shoulder, helping him re-establish the distance he sought.

She lifted one sun-kissed shoulder in the moonlight, smiling at him in a way that said she'd known he would refuse and she wasn't angry. "It wasn't a limited time offer, Tag," she said lightly. "The right time will come." Leaning there in the doorway, Jezebel would watch him until he melted into the rest of the shadows. Before he disappeared into the night, though, she offered him a final blessing. "Be safe until we meet again."

The smile that spread over her mouth was pleasant surprise; she'd half expected him to say that he would wait outside. She studied his immobile form in profile, the way the light about the door cast its shadows over his face; a man that was made of two worlds. Light and shadow, East and West.

Jezebel drew a fingertip down the side of the number pad to the left of the door handle and then quickly but gently keyed in the four digit code. There was the sound of the lock releasing, a quiet metallic hiss of contentment, and she pulled it open, gaining access to the stairwell.

Her hand fell away from his arm at last as she ascended the stairs quietly ahead of him. Her steps were soft, barely seeming to make an impression on the pretty tile work. At the top was another door, another set of digits to press lovingly into the keypad, another hiss of climax as another lock gave way beneath her fingers.

She held the door open for him, admitting him into an elegant top floor apartment. The decoration was evocative of a Spanish hacienda; cool terracotta tile flooring, walls that weren't adobe but gave the appearance of it all the same. It opened into the living room, the far wall of which was floor to ceiling glass overlooking the ocean, sliding glass doors leading onto a gorgeous, inviting patio. The kitchen was to the left, all open floor plan and center islands that doubled as prep space and breakfast counter. To the right was a hallway that lead to the bedrooms, and in the center stood a couch of plush, buttery soft leather and a rug that looked soft enough to sleep in. Turning to face him as she slipped off her shoes, Jezebel smiled. "Would you care for something more to drink?"

"Please." He didn't specify, and he was trying not to feel uncomfortable. The place was new, it smelled of spices and a warm undercurrent of somewhere else. His eyes calculated all the items around them and he realized, in a startling way, that he had not come to observe her home or furniture. He swallowed the thought, like lead, sitting at the center of the couch as if he had arrived at an interview. The soldier who had survived wars was dwarfed by well-meaning furniture.

His weight shifted and he slipped his phone out of his jacket pocket. He needed a few minutes to navigate it, but the time was fine. He didn't need to leave, there were no text messages or voices recorded to tell him something was amiss. Somewhere there was a smoldering, eating up the edges of his skin and gnawing into the moment.

"Please, make yourself comfortable," she gestured the living room. There were other chairs available as well, but the couch was unquestionably the most comfortable. She slipped out of her coat, hung it on a rack by the door made of twisted driftwood, and turned for the kitchen in a soft swirl of her skirt.

This place was her private sanctuary. None but her son and his father had ever darkened its threshold, and the place wasn't staged for company accordingly. There were no showy photographs of exotic vacations, only two hung on the wall -- one of her son, and one of he and his father when he was just a baby. The man seemed uncomfortable, and at the same time, completely riveted by the bundle of life held gingerly in his arms.

Along another wall, there were built in shelves that held an impressive array of books of every description. Some old, some new, some dusty academic tomes and some clearly intended for small children. There was no rhyme nor reason to their organization.

On silent feet she padded into the kitchen. She poured him two drinks, one was just water, the second, a glass of pineapple infused rum from the remote regions of her native land. Both were poured over ice. She brought each of these to him - one in either hand - and set both on the adjacent table for him to choose between them. "I'll be right back," she promised, and then, looking back at him over her shoulder as she headed for the hallway, the redhead smiled, gesturing the patio with a jut of her chin. "If you'd be more comfortable out there, the tiles are heated." She offered, given his stiff and solitary posture there in the middle of the couch.

He took up the offer of the patio and the drinks. It was the pineapple one he carried, wandering along the little patio with the glass half hugged to his body. He was studying the books she had-- he was still learning English, but he knew enough to understand the titles. Sometimes he learned the world alongside Penny as a peer. Most of the time, he was her father.

He stepped up to the doorway to bend down, setting his glass down and unlacing his boots. When he stood back up the drink was in hand and he wandered, his socked feet making paths along the heated patio. The dark man felt newer than he had in a long moment. He was not the dad that Penny saw or the stoic sentry that hung over Ame at almost every hour. The dark man was, as unlikely as it may seem, just a man sipping a drink on a patio. He was relieved in the quiet of it, but he drank to dull the uncertainty of her reemerging. He wanted a cigarette but it seemed, somehow, rude against the beautiful backdrop. He couldn't bring himself to light one.

On the balcony there were pillars that were wide enough to sit on, overlooking the sea. The tall ships of the docks were clearly visible just to the left, pirate ships and small Asian sloops berthed cheek by jowl with large military vessels and crafts that had to have come from distant planets, perhaps the future. Jezebel liked the incongruity of it, the strange bustle of all different times and places overlapping one another on Rhydin's shores. On the far left corner was a staircase leading up to the roof.

Jezebel re-emerged just a few minutes later, carrying a gift bag made of canvas. It was the size and approximate shape of a reusable shopping bag, though it had been stuffed with tissue paper in different shades of blue and a wide gray ribbon secured the handles in a looping bow. Her amber gaze surveyed the living room and then found him outside, stepping out onto the balcony with her gift in tow.

She joined him at the railing overlooking the water, the twin moons hung heavy over the water, its ripples breaking the light into a thousand shivering tiny diamonds. "Beautiful out here, isn't it? This is the reason I chose this place." Standing close but not so close as to crowd him, the bag was offered into the space between. "This is for you. I traded with some newcomers because I thought--hoped-- it would make you smile."

He took a swallow of his drink and then set it upon the railing that was closest before he accepted the gift. He didn't know. Perhaps he would have brought something had he. Holding the bag he nodded, aligning his spine with one of the columns. His weight slouched against it as he worked past the tissue paper and towards the gift. The dark man looked like a statue, except his expression was not so severe. There was, somewhere about his lips, the indication of a smile.

"I did not know." He meant that as the reason that he had nothing to give her, in kind. His focus kept on the bag. It was the polite thing to do.

"You weren't supposed to," she said with a gentle laugh like music in the evening wind. "That's what makes it a surprise." Jezebel's gifts were never given in expectation of reciprocation. She didn't adhere to the particular high holy days of any specific religion, she didn't necessarily observe birthdays. She found things that reminded her of other people and she acquired them, giving them away in hopes of bringing smiles of joy or at least some laughter.

There were two items in the bag. The first was an antique silver cigarette case. Smooth and sleek, it was a small rectangle that opened on a hinge along one side of its top. It was pierced on both of the longest, widest sides with a Japanese kanji, and along the bottom was a worn stamp that said Silver 95 and K. Hattori. "It's from about a hundred and ten years ago, according to the appraiser I asked," she said softly.

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The second item was larger, made of a smooth polished wood inlay in at least three contrasting colors. It was about ten inches tall, a small rectangular box on tiny wooden legs. Cut into two sections, the upper part was longer, comprised of light wood with dark inlay, and the shorter, bottom section was its mirror opposite, dark with light. On each face of the top part was a different beautiful nature scene; two flowers and a butterfly, a water way with a sailboat from an earlier time, two small huts etched into the base of a mountain with trees in the distance, another small dwelling on the mouth of a river. Each design opened at an angle, revealing a compartment with slots perfectly sized to hold five cigarettes. The bottom compartment opened like a puzzle box, only when pressure was applied at a certain joint, revealing drawers that were just big enough for a lighter, or matches.

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(Source)

"It's beautiful. It is a lot to give." He examined each item carefully. He knew the weight of metal and the difference between manufactured and hand made. After several minutes he rewrapped them into the bag and set it on the ground, his arms crossing his chest as he leaned against the column, "Thank you."

He was there, for several moments, before his arms opened. It offered a place for her, and embrace of gratitude but, perhaps, it was always more than just gratitude. Jezebel was a sun and everyone, he knew, wished to embrace it.

"One more?" He was uncertain at first but then, as it dawned on him, he smiled and nodded for her. His mouth swooped in gently to her earlobe, catching it carefully with his lips, his tongue giving brush of it before his mouth moved for hers. He paused, the gateway of his being considering what was ahead just long enough before he kissed her.

Last year, he would have never imagined this place, this fire, his tongue moved along volcanic rifts that still hinted towards ash. If it was a warning, he didn't heed it.

Their lips broke, "I have to go," he breathed.

A pleasing shiver snaked its way down her back, putting a subtle sway into her hips. "Mm," she practically purred as his mouth moved against her ear, his breath warm and intoxicating at her temple.

She kissed him as deeply as she dared, as deeply as he let her, his tongue finding no reluctance or reticence in the heated recesses of her velvet mouth. When he broke the second time, she let him, releasing him. "Goodnight then, Shadow," she said affectionately. "I will look forward to the next time we meet."

He wanted to say something, but couldn't. All he had for her was a smile, distant and patient. The dark man watched her smolder, one of his hands sweeping over his mouth in a reflection of what had happened. There hadn't been enough alcohol to excuse it, and though he did not regret drawing her in and kissing her, he could not pinpoint why he had done it. All he knew was that the had wanted to taste smoke, and that her mouth was full of fire.

"Goodnight." His hand squeezed her hip as he stepped away, steering his thoughts to the task of opening the door. To the task of walking. It was one foot, then the other.

"Tag," she called him back, softly. The woman made living flame had stepped back against the railing, giving him what safety of her distance she could afford. It was in the stepping back that her bare foot had brushed it, the bag with its treasures that had been his reason for coming. Jezebel bent now, dropping to a crouch as her fingers found the handles anew, and she offered it out to him on the rising. Her smile was still warm, but had lost a measure of its intensity, turned gentle and comforting once more.

"Don't forget."

"Oh." He agreed, trying not to look embarrassed as his hands slipped over hers and took ownership of the handles. The package was adjusted, both loops caught by his left hand so that it hung off of two fingers, batting against his thigh as he stepped back. Off of the patio and back inside, he started towards her front door. Once he was at the doorway, he didn't know what to say.

His voice stumbled over itself, "Thank you."

"You're most welcome, anytime." If it had the tenor of an invitation more so than a response, it did not entirely specify what it was he was invited to. She ran her fingers over her hair, curbing strands that had been lured into dance by the incoming late night tide as she smoothed them down behind one ear.

Her amber eyes danced, too, a candle flame in the starlight as she watched him retreat, moving away from the balcony railing to follow him only after he'd gotten several paces ahead. Jezebel joined him at the doorway, standing to one side as he put his shoes back on. "Please be safe on your way home."

"Yes." He replied, his right foot being the last to wiggle into his shoes as he stood at her doorway. His left hand caught the doorknob and he felt, at that moment, that he was a boy, wary of being caught by her father. There was no one to catch them, no one to shame him for the moment. It had been too long that he'd been kissed but his lips were still a spark against her flame. He was not outmatched, only unprepared.

The surprise of her lips still tingled. He stepped, halfway out the threshold as he looked at her, "I make breakfast very well." A beat, then the invitation, "Would you be there, this morning? At nine it would only be us."

Humor flared in the depths of her eyes, a flicker of movement like a solar flare. She smiled again, her gaze lowering with a soft flutter of thick golden lashes. She lifted her attention to his face once more, and her expression was a soft mix of surprise, pleasure, and assent. "Yes," she said a moment later. "I ...would love to have breakfast with you. Tomorrow, at nine?"

"Yes," his right hand drew back, resting on his hip as he looked at her. It seemed that there were a hundred things needing to be said, but none of them happened. He nodded to her and then leaned forward, hesitating at her mouth to kiss her goodnight. He was waiting for her to tilt towards him, for the world to lose balance. He did not assume that her flame welcomed the shadow.

Her mouth was there to meet him, closing the rest of the distance as he leaned in. Pressing her lips to his one last time, she took a moment to savor it, the taste of him, the feel of it, the lingering scent of cigarettes and pineapple rum. Her fingers curled around him again as they kissed, enveloping his shadows in her light.

Afterward, he withdrew, stepping out of her yawning doorway. He said, as a reminder for them both, "Tomorrow morning." At the point where the sun no longer burned the skin in sunrise.

It broke too soon, always too soon, but not nearly soon enough for the babysitter that waited for him. Jezebel smiled, and let him go. "See you then."

Day broke clear and crisp, the first golden pinks of sunrise crawling over the deep fiery reds of rich, glossy tangles. Jezebel came awake slowly, the arch of her back a sharp curve as she stretched indulgently. Reaching for her phone to check for messages, she laughed at the latest slew of pictures sent to her from her son’s adventures with his dad, and breathed a small sigh of relief when she found no regretful cancellation from a certain Shadow.

Breakfast. The thought brought a languid smile to her face as she pushed herself gradually upright, soft sheets of the highest thread count pooling silkily about her hips. She tried to remember the last time she’d been invited to breakfast by someone whose bed she hadn’t also slept in, tried to recall a single time she’d been invited to do anything with the same level of earnest innocence. She thought of the way he’d tasted of cigarettes and tropical rum when they kissed, imagining she could still feel the gentle urgency in the way his lips pressed against hers. The way his tongue had seemed to search for solace in the warm recesses of her mouth. As she raked her supple fingers through the excessive lengths of her hair, working through the knots, she remembered the way his fingers had felt against her scalp, the way his arms had held her close even as the babysitter informed them that their night had ended.

He was smoke and shadow, but he was also sinew and bone. He was reserved and seemingly detached, but there was a quiet smoldering heat to him, one that all but demanded a response from her own flame-licked embers.

Mmm, thought Jezebel as she slipped at last from the covers, her bare feet touching the warmth of the radiant tiles, her candle-fire eyes studying the sunrise beyond the water. I’m not sure I’ve ever so looked forward to breakfast..

***

Not quite two hours later, Jezebel stood on his doorstep. She’d walked, and the slowly rising sun caught droplets of water like crystalline beads in her hair and dotted along her eyelashes, where snowflakes from the gently falling snow had melted on contact. She glittered in the fresh morning light, her smile as she greeted him nearly as incandescent as her eyes. “Good morning, Tag,” she said softly as she took a single step towards him and then stopped, waiting. Waiting to be drawn closer, to be invited in.

“Good morning.” There was still a kitchen dish towel, white and blue checkered, tossed over his shoulder. He smiled faintly and stepped backward, a slight bend at his waist suggesting a bow to invite her in further. “I have not begun, but I had an idea.”

The single story home had a secret. The room they stood in was the living room, doubling as the entryway. The wall on their left had two doors, and it was one of the two that kept the secret. The house knew what it was, as time passed it became a truth that would disappear into the air. The trim of the door, the layers of paint, it was newer than the rest of the building. The home had grown, adding another chamber to its heart so that Ame would have a room. After a year? It seemed as if it had always, and should have always, been there.

The path from the front door to the kitchen was a straight shot, the entry way a double-door opening without doors. He had made efforts for the home to seem like where he lived, as opposed to being a part-time daycare. Still, eight dinosaurs marched under the couch which included Ame’s favorite stegosaurus with the chewed up tail. Tag had never realized how bug-like hair ties could be until Penny started to buy them. They were glittery, plastic, and prolific. The house, he feared, would always be infested by elastic hair bands.

He asked as he stepped into the kitchen, “Something to drink? There was water, orange juice, and apple.” He didn’t pull her chair out for her all the way, but he did grasp the top of it and tug it out a few inches to make a polite gesture. The kitchen table was meant to seat four, but one side was pressed up against the wall where the windows were. The view looked over the yard, where the garden had been.

He was already stepping up to the cabinets, drawing out two glasses. They felt heavier than he remembered, which made him set them down carefully.

The invitation came and she stepped inside, affording a quick glance around the living room as she stepped out of her shoes and left them by the doorway out of habit before she followed him toward the kitchen. The press of her smile lingered in the corners of her mouth; this was a home where children lived and played and grew together; the evidence she saw here and there actually added to the warmth of the environment, not detracted.

As they moved, she gently, carefully eased the buttons of her coat apart, her fingers coaxing the metal from its fabric catches one at a time. Freeing herself, she slipped the outer garment from her shoulders and folded it over one forearm for safekeeping. Tossing her head lightly to shift the weight of vibrant tresses in every shade of flame and fire, she laid the jacket over the back of the chair he’d indicated for her, but did not immediately move to sit down.

Instead she turned to face him, watching the way he moved about the kitchen. “Apple juice, please,” her voice came softly, carried by the early morning light. “What is your idea?”

“Tamago kake gohan,” he had been in Rhy'Din for twenty years, his accent was diluted enough that the only sense of it came from little pauses in his speech, or after he had been talking with someone else that knew the language. At times there was the awkward word reversal, but the dark man wasn’t known for talking. The words he said were obviously of his home language, the rhythm of his mouth increased, the comfort with the words was warm.

The refrigerator gave a plastic pop as he opened it. With her glass made he turned around to offer it to her. He had expected that she might be sitting, he had heard the chair behind him move. His head angled back towards her face and not where she had been hypothetically sitting. Smiling, quite nearly sheepish that she must have seen the miscalculation, he offered her the glass. The conversation continued, “Do you have allergies?”

Shedding the coat had revealed the simple cotton dress she wore underneath. A warm mustard yellow in shade that complemented the rich vibrant tones of her hair, the dress had long sleeves and a short hemline. Clingy to the rib cage and then opening up into a swingy skirt that ended just above mid-thigh. V-necked, it wasn’t quite low-cut enough to give a dramatic view of cleavage, but the first impressions were there.

Her clothes this morning were pretty--obviously chosen with the care a date required-- but simple and understated. This was breakfast, after all, not a night at the opera.

If she saw the miscalculation, she didn’t comment on it or draw attention, meeting his sheepish smile with a reassuring one of her own. There was appreciation in the subtle flicker of color in her eyes, and she stepped forward to accept the glass.

“Your native tongue is beautiful,” she said softly, inclining her head in thanks. “Do you have occasion to speak it often?” He wasn’t the only person with some of the East on them that she’d seen in town, but they were still few and far between compared to some of the others. “I have no allergies that I know of. Can I help you with the preparations?” The fact that she didn’t know what he intended to make did not deter her in the slightest.

“Thank you,” but it wasn’t until the compliment that he had noticed it was in his native tongue. It was overlooked the way an English speaker would miss how the way they said the name 'Susan' would have an impact. A name always seemed above language, standing alone and needing no translation. The words had been Japanese, he just hadn’t thought of it before.

He might have already asked himself the same question she had. He turned from her to gather up two bowls setting them on the counter. “No, but I speak it with the children. Penny understands, but she is not as comfortable speaking it.” With the offer of help his shook his head, “The dish is simple.” The rice cooker on the counter was drawn closer, the lid popped open in a short puff of steam before he began scooping. The hardened rice had gotten soft and semi-cohesive, threatening to become a glue or wildly separate. As a child he thought that they seemed like unruly clouds, bunching up together and never seeming to forgive the spoon that came in for a dig.

Since he didn’t want help, Jezebel took a lean against the opposite side of the counter, watching him curiously. She lifted the glass he’d given her to her mouth, rolling the cool rounded surface against her lower lip in a partial turn as though to quench it before she took a sip. The thick spun gold silk of her lashes pulsed once, a little flutter, as she tasted it. “Mm, this is delicious,” she commented after a long moment spent savoring it on her tongue, wondering when she’d last had apple juice.

“Will you speak it with me? I understood...pieces of it once, but it’s been a long time.”

She was too far away for him to know that she was warm, but he was certain he felt it. It was more than just the sense that there was heat to her, that she crackled like a promise. Jezebel did what fires did best, she consumed what was around her. He had spent too many years avoiding those sort of flames, the ones that put a light on who you were and exposed you more than being naked ever could. He had felt that way when lightning struck, an event so rare he was certain that he would never see it or feel the thunder.

A fire was not lightning. With lightning there was a sense of wild happenstance, of impermanence and even the brain-wrecked doubt that it happened. There was never any doubt of the damage that could be done, but maybe that hadn’t been the problem. Maybe he had just wanted the storm to go on forever because that’s what love puts inside a practical man’s chest. Had he been a fool? Was he being foolish now?

Lightning was not like fire. A fire extended the evening into dawn, it brought warmth and food at times that there should have only been a soul’s slow starvation. It burned down the houses of careless men, it seasonally claimed entire forests which were reborn because of it. He had thought of fire as a strange friend, one that was kind only to betray someone when their guard was lowered. No, it was not a villain. He had thought of it that way only in times he was bitter, only in times where he wanted the world to serve him instead of the world. Fire had a way of purifying, like the rain did, except it wasn’t so passive. A fire had to consume, not just fall from the sky like a rock.

He swallowed, “If that is what you would like.” He shut the rice maker and nudged it back so that there would be more counter space. “Onaka ga suite imasu.” The words formed slowly and then his attention went to her. I am hungry. The phrase was small and simple, likely intended for the dark man to judge how much the flame had consumed. He paused in his preparations, studying her face for answers.

His head bowed, chin nearly touching his chest to watch the dance of her fingertips push gently at the fabric of his shirt. His head lifted back up and he spoke gently, like his voice caught on the same wave of sound as hers to finish the statement, “So am I.”

She rotated into him, his hand passed along her back to hold her there before she could disappear, flickering into dreams. He leaned into her, bringing the smoke and scent of him. The man that hadn’t gardened in months still smelled like it, still felt like a promise whispered into lockets. The way he kissed her gave homage to her mouth, a wordless prayer for her.

The kiss was like breathing, taking that first sweetly painful breath after too long holding it, breaking through the surface after what felt like hours underwater. Like a flower in the morning sun, Jezebel blossomed, coming to life when their mouths merged. The taste of him was nearly as she’d remembered it from the night before, but the traces of brandy and coconut rum were gone, the natural taste of his lips more apparent.

Breakfast cooled on the table adjacent, forgotten. Her glass sat on the counter behind, its surface beading with condensation as the ice inside it began to melt. Sunlight filtering in the window slanted and seemed to shift, washing the both of them in a sudden halo of illumination. Her fingers crawled up from his shirt around his neck.

Kissing was its own breath, his lungs and hold on her tightening with conflicting needs. He wanted her, he wanted to breathe and catch his breath. A cloud moved over the sun, which made it seem through his shut eyes that a light had been turned out. His eyes opened, lips breaking from her but not wandering far. His other arm moved around her, cradling her figure in closer to him.

“I’m sorry, it’s… been awhile.” And she must have known by the way he tasted that he was still haunted. Tumbleweeds occasionally crossed the yard and he thought, on the wind, was the slippery rasp of a coyote’s laugh. Now was the first time he felt he had a lantern in the dark, that there was more to the story than all the pieces he had been left with. There was a lantern in the dark, paper cranes appearing in coffee shops and bar tops like endings from unfinished stories. There were conclusions in the world that hunted for him, ones that grew more and more impatient for him.

His apology was for the uncertainty, for how he was mapping carefully the details of her mouth and the way she kissed. The dark man was sliding two puzzle pieces together and tentatively pressing until they locked together in a sudden drop. What he knew about breakfast was that his interest had disappeared, that his arms weren’t easing away from her.

The kiss broke but it felt like a pause. Her other hand lifted, tracing a parallel path over the front of his shirt up to join the other behind his neck. His embrace closed around her in kind, and Jezebel shifted her weight forward, leaning away from the counter, closer into him.

A self contained unit, safe and separate from the ghosts that haunted either of them, the woman of fire kept her upturned gaze trained on his face. So freshly kissed lips were still subtly parted, and they lifted in a light smile. “Could have fooled me,” she breathed, filling her lungs with the scent of the morning. “There is nothing to be sorry for.”

Puzzle pieces clicked together, falling into place. Pressing closer, she kissed the corner of his mouth, a gentle reassurance and an overt sign of her own interest.

A small smile broke over his lips, a sign that he was as reassured as she had hoped he would be. One of his hands reached up, fingers sliding down through the locks of her hair. He had never been this close to a redhead before. The molten tresses poured through his fingertips, dropping back to her shoulder. The little kiss at the corner of his lips drew his hand to a place at the side of her cheek, cupping the flame from any breeze so that it would burn brighter when their lips reconnected.

He didn’t care if she consumed him, he had waited patiently in the silence for anything to happen and even if all that was left of him was ash? The shadow had played life safe, too safe. Being patient and understanding had allowed weeds to kill his garden. It had allowed vast distances to seem okay, but they never had been. They had an ache, a call from the vacuum of space that had been occupied. Space hated voids, it rushed to fill them indiscriminately.

“Is this,” his mouth broke away and he swallowed down the blossom-taste of her mouth as he did so, “Is this something? Are we something? I don’t….” The dark man was too flustered to be able to draw up the phrases he had heard in the inn. Friends with Benefits, to put it politely. Boyfriend and girlfriend? Just dating. Casual. Open dating. There seemed to be four hundred ways to describe relationships, all of which had unnecessary complexity. The dark man was caught by the uncertainty of what was happening, of what he was about to do and the way the edges of him burned.

Her eyelids lowered to half-mast, mostly covering the firelight crackle of colors in her eyes, her face tilting into the gentle press of his hand at her cheek. Fingers in her hair brought the first impressions of a slow shiver, full lips curling in a partial smile. “Mm. That feels nice,” she said softly, her voice a low hum, lilting as the melody of a half forgotten song.

There were no more words for a time as they kissed again, her hands leaving warm little fingerprints across the edge of his jaw, along the slope of his neck just below the ear. Adrift in the simple, exquisite pleasure of being in his space like this, of learning the shape of his mouth and the way it moved against her own, she was both surprised -and not- by the sudden interruption. Another pause, a valid question. Her smile was gentle. “What are you ready for?”

“I don’t know,” he smiled, realizing that the outcome of it had revolved around her. The dark man had not lost his internal compass, he had not lost sight of what it was he wanted. What he had lost was a sense of how to proceed, of not knowing what was putting the cart before the horse. His sense of heart, his sense of commitment, was clean. It stayed with her, loyally circling around thoughts of what could be. How it could be.

“I don’t… date… and I don’t know….how to begin with this.” He was still smiling when he said it, the thinnest hint of embarrassment softening the edges of his voice. Clearly, he was expecting that she had some guidance, some manual on how these events should unfold. He swallowed, kissing her briefly before he continued, “How does this happen?”

Her laughter was warm, no trace of condescension or derision in its plush velvet tones. “Believe it or not, I haven’t ever dated anyone, either.” Jezebel shook her head even as she cupped his cheek delicately with one hand, the satiny pad of one thumb tracing along the point where the corner of his mouth came together. “Even my son’s father is, has only ever been, a very good friend.”

She paused, pressing into his fleeting kiss even as she wrapped her arms around his shoulders once more, a cross between hugging him and hugging herself to him, two similar acts with very different connotations. “But I think I’d like to try it with you.”

“She died,” he said with a frown, though the wind said differently. It was hard to believe that the dead were gone when there wasn’t a body, that some afterworld was not ticking with who they were. He had a sudden recollection of her, Madison straddling him while he was in his grave, her lips turning into teeth as she bit him and became a coyote.

The dark man cleared his throat, “She left me, before she died.” The sentiment of which always left him hollow, always left the echoing feeling of too bad, dark man, too bad. He would have chased her until his feet bled, he would have peeled off every piece of his shadow for her if it would have made any difference. She had gone, so suddenly that it felt sharp and cheap, and nothing after that redeemed what he thought love had been. There wasn’t an excuse meaningful enough, not a reason rich enough, for him to respect her actions.

He gripped her, suddenly. His arms closed around Jezebel tightly, her chin having to prop on the curve of his shoulder. The dark man held her like they were saying goodbye, he was holding her like he needed to know she was still there. He wanted to confess a thousand things, yet nothing happened. A full silence tumbled and fell between them, becoming nothing.

The Shadow clung to her suddenly, fiercely, like a lighthouse in the dark. She let her arms coil about his shoulders once more, holding him close in turn, willing him to feel safe, or safer at least in the warmth of her embrace. She held him close, trying to soothe the grief in him. Eyes like molten lava closed, her breathing slowed, coaxing him out of his darkness.

“Tag,” she said softly, and one hand eventually lifted, her fingers running ever so lightly over his hair. “I won’t ask anything of you that you’re not ready to give. I will not promise you anything you’re not ready to believe. But...you’re not alone anymore.” Her words were a gentle whisper, a lullaby on a warm summer wind, poised just at the shell of his ear. “I am here, and…” she paused, forming words that were unfamiliar, but not unwanted. “...and I am yours. As much, or as little, as you want me to be.”

She pressed a chopstick into the center of the egg, deliberately but gently piercing its center. Coaxing the tear she’d made open, Jezebel eased the bright strings of oozing yellow down over the rice, gently guiding it in carefully painted lines. When her artwork was complete, she smiled up at him, just in time for him to ask what she thought.

“I think it’s beautiful,” she said of the food as she picked up her second chopstick, smearing the pattern she’d made as she began to stir. The rice had hardened some, clinging together as it cooled; she didn’t mind. She drew her thumb lightly over the wider ends of the sticks in her hand as if to soothe them, to inspire them to the task. Working them together in careful rhythm, she lifted a bite to her lips to taste it.

Jezebel moved her chopsticks with ease. He had seen many use them before and had come to realize that it either meant they had known them as a child, or were determined to use them as an adult. He had felt that way about the fork, and now he was of the opinion that they should be kept simultaneously together. The fork was awkward when it came to grasping what was wanted, it either had to stab at a piece of food or use its side, behaving more like a spoon. The problem with stabbing was that foods were round, or their girth was such that they slid in between the prongs. What he did like, though, was how a fork corralled the rice. Penny still used a fork for hers because she grew impatient, but for most other things she would pick up a silver pair of chopsticks and pluck up a bite, chewing it without a second thought.

He leaned back and his chair made a sound as if it was clearing its throat. The fingertips of his left hand rested on the table top, drawing a small nonsense design that they then erased with a final sweep. The Dark Man was searching for something to say, though he didn’t want to interrupt her eating. “Do you think you will come again?”

“Mm, this is quite good,” she told him after a couple of bites. Her smile had a sunny playfulness to it when she added, “...even though it’s a bit cold.” She glanced sidelong at him then, the expression in the heated flicker of her amber eyes suggested she wouldn’t have minded if the food had gotten even colder.

After a couple of bites she paused, her gaze drawn to the little designs he was making on the table. Setting her chopsticks aside, she reached for the glass instead, taking a sip from its rim. When she put it down again, her thumb kissed its lip in a soft but deliberate sweep, but her hand had lost none of its radiant warmth when she placed the same one lightly over his. “I would like that very much.”

He felt the ends of her fingers curl towards the center of his hand, the body of her palm resting easily on top of his own. His eyes were on their hands and then he looked at her, the suggestion of a smile catching the corners of his mouth. Small talk had never been his strength, he had been able to listen to the wind and interpret the way someone breathed as being novels of who they were. Penny and Ame often filled the silence. Ame was learning to speak and enjoyed the sound of his voice, the wild cries of it that ran up and down and hadn’t learned the cadence of regular speech. Penny sometimes went on about school, her projects, her voice charged with the emotion of a world she was still sorting out. She still hadn’t learned that those annoying boys were learning how to flirt.

His day to day personal company didn’t reach his shoulder, and it lacked the smooth silence of what he saw now. He felt that he should have said something, but not that she was asking for it. Her eyes tamed the burning edges of the pauses in conversation. Her hand broached the space between them.

“Maybe Saturday?” Then he altered the fabric of his statement, “Saturday night.”

Jezebel had never much felt need for small talk. She was at her most comfortable in the silent places, private space shared in the warmth of a cocooning intimacy that didn’t call out for words. It wasn’t that she couldn’t carry on a light and genial conversation, couldn’t be a charming companion in any social affair. It was just that it wasn’t her preference, that she craved the soul deep silence that could only span between people who saw each other, exactly as they were, if only for a single magical hour.

She preferred the language of long looks and soft touches. The subtle, soothing power of fingertips pressed lightly into an arm.

Her smile was there for him when he looked up, the latent heat of her gaze fixed on his face as she traced her thumb lightly down the side of his hand. “Yes,” she said it immediately, without reservation, a note of pleasure in the honey lilt of her voice.

His affection was not a well practiced one. He felt a sense of connection, a wave of emotion, in moments that weren’t blatant. He felt the meaning of her hand more deeply than a proclamation. Her thumb slid against his, the usually innocent gesture being one that nearly prompted him to blush. Perhaps it was because of the intent, not stated or even assumed, but known. The pad of her finger transferred a statement that he already knew, that he already agreed with. He swallowed and dropped his eyes to the floor, weighed down by the impulse to be polite.

Was it being polite? A far off, residual guilt hung on the moment sometimes, but everyday it grew weaker. It was like a haunted house at Halloween. It had been garishly prominent, its presence invasive and everywhere. Skeletons, bones, the sense he was always being peeled down to his core and there would never be space to breathe. Now Spring was on the verge of becoming. Many of the signs for haunted houses had gone and there was a sense that all things changed, and should change. A person couldn’t carry guilt for how they were after the world digested them. He had simply thought, for so long, that certain elements of his life would outlive him.


“Good.” He said it because he wanted her to know, not because he needed to fill the silence.

The silence, though comfortable, seemed to stretch and grow between them, becoming ever thicker as his eyes remained resolutely downcast. To alleviate the tension and maybe give him some room to breathe, the redhead retreated, her fingers drawing one final pattern over his before she withdrew them to reclaim her chopsticks. I am here, and I am yours. As little or as much as you want me to be. The rice breakfast was surely cold by now, but Jezebel took another bite anyway. “Shall I come here again, or would you like to go out and do something together?”

“Here.” His eyes went to his plate and he continued eating for a few more bites. Once he was done he stood up, moving his plate and resting it by the sink. One hand carefully swiped at his mouth to check it before he cleared his throat, “I have to go to work soon. I only took off… the beginning of morning.”

Perhaps that would be to her amusement, how much the Dark Man had meant it when he’d invited her over for breakfast. It could have been that he didn’t want to assume any outcome between them, or that he had already decided that the morning between them would be a contained experiment. Did she shine as well in the morning, outside of drinks and the low-light of a bar? He already knew the answer, he already knew that the morning light would enhance her instead of dull what she was with daytime realizations.

“Here it is, then,” agreed the redhead who was every bit as brilliant in the soft glow of a spring morning as she was in the dark recesses of a smoke filled bar. She was a glowing ember that never dimmed no matter how much light surrounded it.

Finishing one final bite of the breakfast he’d gone to such pains to prepare, Jezebel stood, gathering her bowl and her cup. She brought them both to the sink, setting them at its edge along with his. “Yes, of course,” she said with a nod. So he really had just wanted breakfast. It was charming in its utter innocence. “Thank you for breakfast. I won’t make you late.” Her words were chosen carefully. She said she wouldn’t, not that she didn’t want to.

2/10/18

There hadn't been anything to say for a time while they walked. His black jacket was new, learning exactly where his elbows bent and how to follow the broad curve of his shoulder. Green canvas cargo pants and suitable boots laced up like business. His attention was fixed on ice skating outside before he looked at her, "Hungry? There is... more inside."

Jezebel had her gloved hand in the crook of his arm, helping that new jacket to learn its curves and creases. Even through the extra layers of fabric and leather, the heat from her fingertips made itself known, a subtle warmth that seemed to turn up a notch whenever the coldest winds blew. She smiled, lifting her shoulders in a gentle shrug. "We should at least see what's on offer, should we not?"

He nodded as if it was the sky that spoke, the toes of his shoes pointing towards the Cardinal Inn before he walked towards it. It wasn't long before they were directed to the backyard, where the sounds of the party grew. The scent of food was not long after the sounds, it rolled over the air smelling like heavy, salty promises. The dark man's eyes quietly took it in, his stride slowing as he tried to make sense of where a guest was supposed to start.

Her eyes like candlefire widened subtly as she took in all the different sights and smells available. There was so ...much, from the food to the skating to the little favors to what appeared to be walking snowmen, the magic of the atmosphere was dazzling and it brought a smile to her face. She hardly knew where to start either, whether she wanted food or to try the skating or what. A brilliant grin on her lips, her gaze turned up to Tag beside her. "Have you ever been skating before?"

His instinct was to look at the faces of people attending, but there were only the ghosts of recognition and never the fulfilling snap of it. Starless eyes jumped down to catch Jezebel's gaze, "...Not like this." Tentatively sliding over a four foot frozen puddle was a far cry from a skating ring with specialty shoes. He had seen people doing it before, looking like figurines turning in circles like it was the work of invisible strings.

Jezebel laughed, a low and musical sound, as she shook her head. "So we'll both be trying it for the first time," she said, and the idea seemed to please her. Drifting closer to one of the tables, she lifted a small cupcake from the plate that was frosted in blue and white, examining its details a little more closely before she slipped her hand from his arm to carefully remove the wrapper. "I love these little things," she went on as the small confection was eased from its paper fortress, a little coaxing at a time. "It's just a little pop of sugar that is so sweet it sort of overwhelms you, but it's so small that the feeling is gone almost before it started."

"You have a sweet tooth?" His steps weren't far from her own, an echo of her path. When he saw the pizza, a small smile appeared on his lips, "Penny will be sad not to be here." The food spread was decadent and dangerous. Jezebel described the cupcake and he looked at her, the corner of his smile changing at the small flecks of icing and the undone skirt of the cupcake in her hand, "Should you eat before skating?"

"Not much of one," she admitted, "but I do like my little indulgences every once in awhile." Her smile had a knowing lilt to it, a playful flash of color in the corner of her eyes. She gently, carefully tore the bottom half of the cupcake away from its body and then pressed it into the frosting on top, making a tiny sandwich of the dessert confection. "Maybe not, but you'll be there to catch me, won't you?" She teased gently as she tore her little sandwich in half, offering one of the pieces to him as though tempting him into peril. She grinned. "...unless we both go down together..."

Sirens offered playful songs and bits of temptation over the water. Her lake was frozen and there was the weight of something earnest in her voice. He wasn't sure how she made the partial offer of cupcakes and skating seem like eating seven seeds of a pomegranate. Yet, he smiled, he moved to take the cupcake, stepping past her but close so he could say to her ear, "We tend to stand or fall." There would be no man left behind. He was chewing the cupcake, smiling over his shoulder at her. Smiling in the way that touched the corners of someone's eyes.

All too pleased to share this little indulgence with him, it felt like a secret, like a conspiracy between them. It left her smiling in a childishly happy way as she fed half of her half into her mouth, her lips closing over cake and frosting carefully so as not to allow any of it to escape or spill. Letting the sugar hit her tongue in an explosion of sweet, Jezebel smiled back at him as he warned her of the unity inherent in their fate.

Swallowing the bite, she caught the edge of his jacket with her free hand to keep him close until she could feed him her answer, her chin lifting to direct soft words in the vicinity of his ear. "So long as I fall with you, I'm fine with it."

The catch of her hand caused him to turn towards her, face still as she replied. Then there was a smile, softer because of some doubt, hot enough to curl the edge of his paper. No burning, no singed pieces quietly blackening without the flame. The doubt was not what was in his smile, but the regret that there was doubt. He reached to catch her hand that had called him back and now he was pulling her along because there was ice skating and ample chance to allow themselves to be foolish.

He took her hand and she let him, wishing suddenly that she wasn't wearing gloves as the cloth-clad digits wrapped around the palm of his hand. She popped the other half of her shared treat in her mouth as he pulled her towards the entrance to the skating rink, where they could put on the special shoes and then stumble wobble-legged out onto the ice like baby fawns, clutching one another for strength and balance as their laughter came in gusts of icy breath.

Her cheeks had taken on a rosy flush from the chill as she swallowed, the soft pink tip of her tongue catching the corner of her lip to wipe away the last evidence of her cupcake half. When they got to their destination, she didn't immediately feel the need to let go of his hand.

His palm didn't squeeze and his fingers did not strangle hers. His touch was light, up until his fingertips gently pinned themselves to the back of her hand's glove. It was enough pressure that their hands never broke, but never so much that he was somehow holding it hostage. At the rink, he had the face of war when trying to understand something, even if it was only where the rental ice skates could be found. "There." He nodded, and waited for Summertime woman to step ahead of him.

Her touch was similarly light, the warmth of her skin translating across the smooth leather of the glove. Never possessive but never disinterested, her fingers engaged their likes in a conversational dance, twining where possible, moving gently alongside where it wasn't. Locating the rental place at approximately the same time or just after, Jezebel led them closer. She unzipped her jacket with her free hand as they approached, revealing the silver grey body-hugging sweater dress she wore beneath it, long threads of wild red spilling over her shoulders in broad, bold strokes of abstract color.

When it was their turn, she greeted the attendant with a warm smile and a soft explanation of what size she thought she needed.

Tag followed her request with his own, and it was only when the skates were set on the counter in front of him that his hold on her broke. They were larger than he expected. He didn't know how to carry them, he needed both arms to manage it with any grace. There was only one look to Jezebel before he sat at the nearest bench, folding in half to push up his pant leg and work the knot of his boots undone at the top. The laces sighed as soon as the knot came loose. He used two fingers to catch them, working in slack before he could work his foot free.

The sleeves of her jacket were overlong, black with silver buttons that lined the bell curve from elbow to fingertips; Jezebel folded them back a quarter turn as she sat on the bench next to him. Reaching down to work the zippers on the small heeled boots she wore, she had had the foresight to wear thick socks in addition to her black cotton tights, which would surely help cushion her feet against the harsh angles of the ice skate. Flexing her toes, she eyed the skate curiously.

"This seems a Medieval passtime, just a little bit barbaric, no?" She laughed lightly, sounding of summer and tropical heat here in the midst of all this ice and snow storm. She was misplaced in a landscape of white, her colors all the more hothouse flower bright for the contrast. Carefully she slipped one foot into the first skate and began lacing.

(( Days later, Tag and Jez. Adapted from live play. Thanks to Jez's player!))

There were times that the idea of a lunch hour was strange to him, mostly because it was such a strict measurement of time for days that were unpredictable. When he was on site men would complain of traffic keeping them, or that any number of incidents had occurred. They felt to him as legitimate as unexpected thunderstorms, rolling their lives with little regard for what time or schedules were. Reasons or excuses always came like gossip, half believed but always with a strain of truth to them.

His site was not far from the marketplace and with Penny in school and Ame being watched back at home, he had that discrete and strange bit of time to ask for her to join him. He asked her to join him not because there wasn’t time to go home or because he’d rather not be alone. He asked her because shadows improved in the presence of a flame. He asked her because he was still burned from her kiss at breakfast.

The message had been simple. It stated that he would be eating at the same deli they had crossed paths at before, though this time he would be without children. He took some effort to explain in his text message that he would not be appropriately dressed. Text messages took effort. Would she still come?

The answering text message came almost immediately. There was no longer delay, either deliberate or unintended, there was no something better to do or let’s make him wait on purpose. Jezebel was there and her message said that she would be delighted to accept, of course, that she was looking forward to seeing him, that she cared not even a little how he was dressed.

Having never had a job beyond the all encompassing work of motherhood, the redhead was not bound by schedules. When her son was away, she came and went as she pleased, driven by whim and circumstance, fate and invitation. She tucked just such an invitation into her bag as she dressed quickly, preparing to meet him on the square.

A short time later, she was crossing the marketplace at the fountain, making her way to the restaurant he’d invited her to once before. A warm smile decorated golden features as she let herself inside, sliding her sunglasses up on top of her head as she scanned the interior for him.

The dark man was work, soil and grease when he was on sites. If she knew the scent of a building’s bones, she could have known the brush of drywall and how the brown leather gloves rubbed their message into his hands. The black t-shirt had a swipe of something across it. Not paint, but something substantial enough that it hadn’t been brushed off. He was the sort that would have, he was the sort that thought the details mattered.

He tapped the toe of his construction boot outside the deli in a ritual he had learned with the job. It was a construction worker’s prayer, an attempt to set loose the reminders of the site from his shoes. He had been only a few paces behind her, stitched to her soles. His hand dropped, an anchor in his pocket meant to dig out his cellphone and find the line back to her. It took only seconds to see she was already there.

He smiled, eyebrows ticking upward as he did so. Did the smile really transform him, or was it just because he had held them so close to his chest before all of this?

“Glad you could… make it.”

Letting her eyes adjust to the relative gloom of the cool interior, Jezebel gently, carefully loosened the buttons on her coat. Coaxing each one out of its catch, she gave what patrons she saw a friendly smile, but did not immediately see Tag among them. Reaching into her bag for her phone, the soft hiss of the door opening behind her distracted her questing fingers, bringing her about in a half turn that made her hair dance and sway in the gust of cool late winter wind that had accompanied the new arrival.

Ah, there he was. The smile that greeted him had ten times the wattage that she’d offered to the other guests, matching the one she found on his face in kind. Her coat hung open, revealing the oversized sweater she wore underneath it, the neckline stretched wide so that it would likely slip off her shoulder once the jacket had been removed, and she took the two steps back towards him. Lifting her chin to press a light kiss on his cheek in greeting, Jezebel eased back a moment later. “I’m so glad you asked.”

His lips didn’t lose their light, not when the soft warmth of her mouth reignited its reason. His eyes lowered during the moment, lifting only once she leaned away and spoke to him. It felt like she had whispered a secret that everyone was meant to hear, a stroke of sound against the side of his face. His lips parted but the words came short of what he wanted to say, “Do you know what you want?”

The direction of his dark, starless eyes pointed towards the counter where the clerk was punching the heavy keys of the register for a group of five customers that had just placed their order. They were a small swarm at the counter, slipping away seconds later with larger plastic numbers that seemed like voluntary tags. The group claimed a larger booth in the corner of the restaurant, swishing their drinks with crackling ice and idle conversations about work.

Tag saw the opportunity to step towards the empty counter, his expression lifting fractionally, questioning if she was prepared or indecisive.

“Always,” Jezebel answered him in a playful purr, her smile matched her eyes in the soft flicker of catlike contentment. {i]Oh, I know what I want, her eyes seemed to say. It’s right in front of me.

She let him direct her to the counter, where she placed an order for a sandwich that was chock full of fresh spring vegetables and a glass of tea. “Sacrilegious to you, I know,” she looked up at Tag with a grin, “--but I’ve developed a taste for it since I’ve been here.”

Truth be told, she’d developed a taste for rather a lot of things in the time since she’d been in Rhydin. Jezebel lingered close, one hand resting lightly along the small of his back while he placed his order, though her friendly, inviting smile was turned on the person taking their order for the time being.

“Sacrilegious?” It was clear by the way the air caught between them that he was searching to understand what she meant. Her words hadn’t been unclear, just too poetic and yet technical. He had thought at first she meant that she was offended, then… that he should be offended but he could not determine why. It did not occur to him that the tea she ordered was the foundation for what she said. He couldn’t fathom the sin of her sandwich.

Perhaps he was distracted. He swallowed and ordered, looking down and feeling as though they were flirting. Perhaps that was the nature of flirting, that it had to do with only partly understanding and filling the numerous voids with hopes. He broke his lips with the tip of his tongue and smiled again. He was holding both of their cups of tea, his eyes jumping away from the red of her hair to make sense of the commons and where they should sit.

There was a two person booth by the window. The view wasn’t amazing, it was just of the market street, but he wanted it, anyway. “There,” he motioned with one thin cup and then waited for her to take the first step of acceptance towards it.

Jezebel gestured to the two cups in his hand after he’d placed his order. “Sacrilegious. It means... Blasphemous. Sinful. Wrong in a terrible way.” A warm smile caught the corners of her mouth and held, her golden eyes crackling with warmth. “Your homeland has entire rituals devoted to the preparation of tea, does it not?” Her laugh was slow and sweet, “none of which include sugar or ice.”

Her gaze followed his motioning, and she nodded when she understood. “Good choice,” the redhead hummed as she gathered napkins and silverware and then headed that way.

“Oh this is… this is different.” He looked down at their cups and then to her, “To do something as a ritual is… not to do it for the end result. The purpose is to engage in what the act is, to absorb and understand it and not just umm… take satisfaction from the product.” There was another look down to the cups and then back to her, “This is just about being able to drink, not about the act of making a drink. I’m not offended.” There was a smile, the barest hint of humor dawning on his lips. Perhaps he would have chuckled, near-silent, had it been just the two of them.

While she took napkins and silverware he prepared the drinks as people around them had. He shoveled ice into the cups and fed the under a plastic nozzle. Dark, benign amber flowed over the cubes. It was seconds after she settled that he joined her. One disposable cup for her and one for himself. It was a lunchtime menu in a semi-casual place. It was hard to fault it for the corners being cut or the lack of concern for this disposable dinnerware that was served.

“As would I,” his admission was not shy or bashful, but spoken in the slow quiet tones of someone discussing part of a dream they had just come to understand. He thought he felt her move, a ripple of warmth like a mirage rising off the road. She fixed him there with a smile, his body undamaged by it because there was no attempt to wriggle away from her. She held him with her eyes, and at some point he was holding her with his.

The second comment came, a curiosity he had to ask though he expected nothing for it. “An onsen in Mount Yasuo?” The inquiry ran deeper than the small polite suggestion of the details. He was asking about the bones, he was asking who the person was and what it really meant. The question wanted to know why his language had crossed over her tongue.

The space between his statement and his question was pleasantly heavy, and for a time Jezebel simply revelled in the weight of it. This wasn’t a ‘date’ in the sense that it wasn’t just a couple of hours spent in pursuit of a common pass-time, perhaps to be followed up by a kiss. It wasn’t just a date to a wedding, someone to be seen with and share cake with to avoid awkward questions about why you’d come alone. It wasn’t a spontaneous, heat-of-the-moment, passionate impulse, spawned by fate and circumstance, either. This was premeditated. A plan.

It was a weekend away together. And he hadn’t said no.

Her lips pressed together like she could actually taste the subtle change in the air between them, like there was a flavor to the way his gaze held her steadily in place. She smiled a moment later; it wasn’t until he’d prompted her that Jezebel really realized what she was inviting him to. With a soft laugh, she curled supple fingers through fire-blazed tresses, then tried to explain.

“I have a friend, Izumi. She is Japanese, and part of a larger group of Japanese women who essentially run the Kabuki District. It is Izumi’s wedding, and -- if I understand the situation correctly -- her boss owns the Onsen.”

“I’ve seen it,” and yet Tag was not integrated, he had not found them and formed the connections one might have expected. Rhy’Din was not uncommon in that there were many subcultures which popped up. There were people who had come from the same planet, were the same race or had the same belief structure. Between them was a thread of similarity which held them all together. Tag listened to what she said, though there was the smallest chill of reservation in his smile, a hesitation one might not expect from someone isolated in the land of the round-eye.

“Then it will be interesting.” His words smoothed over the disruption, ensuring with the slight phrase that he understood, that he was ready. That there was a time to show up without making excuses for why you hadn’t a date, and to appear in the eyes of those that might know you for what you were. The quiet shame of it was gone, the softly spoken promises of an old world no longer took his integrity. He would be seen with her.

Jezebel missed precious little, but even less did she draw direct attention to. Her smile never dimmed as she watched him, listening to what few words he had to say, waiting patiently for each of them. She couldn’t know his predicament, his struggle, but there was an air of acceptance to her all the same.

Leaning just slightly forward in her seat, she smiled at him, warm and not a little conspiratorial. “It will certainly be more interesting now.” The curve of her lips carried secret promise.

An untrained observer would have thought him naive, wandering into a weekend trap with an experienced and confident woman, as if he simply would not realize the implication of events, and what they would add to. On longer inspection came the weight of his soul, that there was no newness there but a long heavy quiet. It held patience and understanding. His lips drew in together slowly and pressed, rolling the meaning of the trip across his brain once and then relaxing.

“It will.” His left hand slipped under the table, circling the swell of her thigh to give it a gentle squeeze before disappearing. His attention forced itself back on the sandwich.

Jezebel knew him for the man he was, or at least, the man he’d revealed to her so far. He had children, he’d been married; his circumspect silence could not be conflated with innocent oblivion. It was the very gravity of his quiet soul that told her he’d considered it with measured care, that he knew the precise weight and feel of the decision he was making.

And still, he’d said yes.

The enthusiasm in her commentary was not lascivious. She was not making crude double entendres in the way she’d said that things would be more interesting with him, though the flame-kissed redhead was the furthest thing from vestal. Her excitement was a genuine interest in being around him, spending time in his presence that was not hindered by late nights or tired babysitters. Her smile had a sunny quality to it that was completely benign despite the magnetic pull of her superheated energy.

But there was that hand on her thigh. Deliberate in its placement, in the exact pressure of its squeeze. There and gone again, she could distinctly feel its outline even after he’d moved away, and that phantom impression of lingering contact drew every bit of her attention. Swallowing once, Jezebel took a breath to ensure her own composure. She said nothing, not quite trusting herself to speak words that weren’t charged with specific intent, but she slipped her fingers lightly into the crook of his arm.

His attention was ripped from the moment when he felt something knock against the side of his shoe. Immediately his eyes dropped to the ground. He hadn’t expected what he saw, he hadn’t known what he might expect. A small girl was on her hands and knees, reclaiming whatever had hit his foot. She didn’t seem to realize that she had come to the foot of a great oak tree. Her eyes were too busy looking down to see that he was above.

“Oh, I’m so sorry! Nevaeh, get off the ground.” Her mother cut the distance to get to her daughter who waved her off impatiently.

“But I had to get my bird,” she said, standing up without her parent’s help and then balancing herself by gripping the end of the table. A half squashed paper crane was pinned between her small fingers, the brightly colored paper making it look like a butterfly had landed on her. The young girl’s ponytail was lopsided with strands of her light brown hair escaping the glittery, purple elastic.

The Dark Man saw the child and smiled as if they shared a secret, putting the tip of his finger on the edge of the table near the girl’s crane. “Did you make that?”

Her mother was embarrassed, but seeing that neither of them was irritated at the girl’s intrusion, she paused long enough to allow the exchange. The little girl smiled at him and shook her head no, lifting it off the table to fix its distorted figure. The paper moved with a tremble between her young and slightly reckless tugging. The dark man knew the little bird well, he watched it flare back into a healthy existence. She showed it off to him, the crane sitting in the palm of her hand. “A lady in the tea room gave it to me.” She beamed before her mother swept in, taking her by her empty hand to pull her away. The mother mouthed an apology to them though he could tell the embarrassment she felt dampened the way she was smiling at them.

The Dark Man renewed his smile for Jezebel despite the interruption of a paper crane.

The subtle heat of her fingers was still buried in the crook of his arm as the child scampered closer, in pursuit of the paper bird that had so recently become a flight risk. Jezebel could feel the fine grit of construction dust, both where it coated his shirt in a fine powder of silt and where the tiny grains had been embedded in his skin. It gave him the feel of a sculpture not quite finished, put her in mind of the artist standing just out of sight with his sandpaper, surveying his own masterpiece in quiet awe.

With this image in mind, Jezebel’s smile drifted gently on her features, the radiant warmth of amber eyes shifting to watch the young girl with her paper crane. Her smile spread to see the way Tag interacted with her, his quiet patience as she corrected the crumpled wings for herself where some men, impatient, would have snatched it from her. She thought of his daughter, imagining them together, what the young woman might be like, and she, too, offered the mortified mother an easy smile of gentle comfort.

“Do you make birds like that one?” She asked as the pair moved away.

“Yes,” there was a nod following the word before he continued, “eh, there is a strange one-mindedness here about military that is not as it is back home.” The hand resting on the table from where he had pointed out the crane turned up, exposing its belly to the ceiling as he continued, “Soldiers were thought to be stronger when they had other hobbies. We were not permitted to write, so some would take up bonsai or origami,” there was a helpless shrug of his shoulders. He was not embarrassed like the mother, but knew that it skinned some personality away from his choice. Prior to speaking it was a novelty, a unique asset and not one that other soldiers diligently poured themselves over.

“It is strange,” he looked at the direction of the girl and then back to Jezebel, “it looks as though I folded it but I could not have. That wasn’t my paper but it has… eh… my signature?” That word, signature, he felt that it was incorrect though it said exactly what he was intending. There were those that had adapted small changes to the formula of folding, ones which distinguished their paper creations from others. At times it had been accidental or some feat of improvement. While it was not as drastic or as personal as a written signature, it was one he had not seen in the versions folded by the coffee shop girl.

Perhaps ideas, small folds in paper, had populated and spread like curly hair or an unusual birthmark. Was the signature he thought of, those minor folds, now merely the standard?

Jezebel found the skill no less charming for being commonplace. Her smile lingered as he spoke, her attention never wavering from his face. It could have been overbearing, the weight of her presence, like standing too close for too long to a raging bonfire, perhaps. Tag seemed to be doing just fine, at worst heedless or even actively interested in the proximity of the flames. Her gaze ticked from his face to the young girl and back thoughtfully, the middle finger of her free hand idly tracing the rim of her paper tea cup. The plastic lid made a soft noise, encouraged by her contact.

“Is it possible that there is someone else here who does it as you do? Someone who learned it from you, perhaps?”

“No,” there was a certainty in how he shook his head. He didn’t frown, but the feeling of it was present like a cold, shady undertow grabbing at the ankles of their conversation, “those that knew me died in the war. It was a miracle that I am here and was not with the Dutch or…” there was a shake of his head, dismissing the hundreds of areas in his past where it seemed that there was a fork in the road. The top of her hand was greeted with the coarse stroke of his other hand gently eclipsing the back of hers.

His eyes on her had softened, enveloping her gently before his weight leaned forward, allowing him the space to kiss her on the cheek. Attention swiveled to the invitation, “When is it?” That wasn’t the question. Is it soon?

Jezebel nodded, accepting him at his word. She smiled up at him, tilting the sunlight of her expression up towards him. “It’s a miracle I’m grateful for, then,” she replied, her fingers pressing lightly into his arm.

The weight of his hand over hers was soothing, a reassuring pressure that reminded her all the more sharply of his physical presence. The outline of his chest, visible through the thin material of his work shirt; the broad slope of his shoulders, squared at attention even as they were twisted towards her. Carefully, she slipped supple fingers into the spaces between his, twining them together like a creeping vine. Her cheek tilted up into his kiss, her head turning to catch the corner of his mouth in an answer.

“Next weekend.” Soon, but not so soon that arrangements couldn’t be made.

“I will let you know as soon as I can,” he looked at the little girl with the paper crane and then back to the invitation, “but I feel there is hope.”

The dark man’s eyes went to her. He had hoped lunch could be longer, that it would feel longer, by being with her. Instead she had burned up the minutes quickly, the flame of her so bright that there weren’t even ashes to indicate that she had consumed the hour. Sitting by the warmth of her was relaxing, he kept thinking of the way she had toyed with the invitation before asking him. He had liked the way she wondered, how her fingertips had gone down the hard edge of the folded invitation before she had asked him.

He was studying her mouth as he thought of all the details. The way their food smelled and how he could still feel that the corner of his mouth was warm because she’d been there. Next weekend. He didn’t want to hold his breath because he might drown, waiting. She never pushed, but he did not imagine that a fire stayed on the outskirts long.

Next weekend. How had a lunch hour gone so quickly and then next weekend exist in a place years away?