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Bundles of blue lay clutched within firm, washed-white knuckles. The stems were held so tight between his nimble fingers that all color had been stripped away from the skin. It left his flesh pale, weak, waning. Nervous and twitching and turning all the more taut the longer that she stood in silence.
An apprehensive tremble struck his bones as her mouth thinned further around the edges. Frustration settled along her bones—and a bit of humour, though it lay dormant. Lingering, eager to arise and yet aware the timing remained improper.
Perhaps later, she’d laugh and allow sweet pleasure to coat her teeth. Once hours had passed, affection could coat her stomach and butterflies could flutter across her sternum. Only once her anger had faded into a forgotten and futile memory would she permit such tender feeling within her own body.
Until then—till morning, perhaps—she seized at the remnants of her swelling temper. It stretched and spread across her chest like scalding tea burning the tongue, leaving her blistered and peeling. Overheated and searching for reprieve.
Rather than sweet release, the tart taste of lemon bit at her gums. Akin to decay eroding her mouth, impatience corroded her teeth and tongue. It made her feel all too rotten from the inside out, as if a thousand bruises were pressed down upon all at once.
Tewkesbury shifted the weight of his body from foot to foot. It forced the bundle of his blue within his strained hands to shift. Petals brushed against the dark fabric of his coat and left a smear of yellow pollen.
Good, she thought with cruelty. Good that he stood stained and wounded. Fabric dirty, body anxious. Nearly—but not quite, never utterly—as wounded as her own spongy brain.
A vindictive sparkle fell across her pupils, because she’d capture any victory no matter how small. Even a minute smudge of pollen across his stiff clothing, even if an easily cleaned and forgotten spoil.
“Enola,” he tried.
A hoarse, withdrawn sound fell from her throat and he quieted just as quickly. The corners of his mouth twisted into something near ashamed—and amused, if she were to peer closer. But she refused, because the sight of such palpable pleasure would surely send her into a violent fuss of frustration.
“You’re late,” she said finally. Each word sounded sharpened to a point: biting like a blade, like a tooth sunken into flesh. Blood spurting, skin severing. Wounds rupturing beneath her cutting tone.
Rigid indignation turned her gaze hard as stone as she squinted his way, awaiting his pathetic excuses. Pale pink coated her cheeks as soft as a sunrise. The very color of a rose, he’d likely remark were she to mention such a trivial thing aloud—the thought made her flush all the brighter. Anger swelled hotter within her chest, forcing her heart to pound so vigorously against her ribs she worried they’d fracture.
“I know,” he said. Honey dripped off of his tongue and turned her all the more furious. Sugar could not solve this mess. Sweet affection and well-aimed devotion would not repair the wounds in her chest.
“No,” she said, closer to a hiss than before. All the angrier. Without consideration, she shoved closer till she could point at his chest with one finger. “No—it is not your turn to speak. Not when I have waited an hour for your useless company.”
Tewkesbury blushed a shameful shade of pink.
Enola pressed harder against his chest, poking at the space where his heart lay beneath his ribcage. It’d surely bruise, she thought with a vicious growl—scrape the skin and indent the flesh. Imprint her anger into his sternum till he stood compelled to remember exactly in what manner he’d wounded her.
Beneath her skin, she could feel his heart throb against his flesh. It pounded a rhythmic pace, steady and human.
For a fleeting breath, affection turned her swollen and warm. The reminder of his mortal body—spongy and pink, tender and alive—left her sweet like sugar melting in tea. The taste settled into the grooves of her teeth and coated the flat of her tongue as though she’d taken a gulp.
But a bundle of petals brushed up against the skin of her hand. It tickled and stung and she blinked, chin ducking toward its source. The assortment of blue and violet flowers stared up at her, innocent and useless. Clenched tight between his fingers, leaving him yellow with pollen and stripped of color in the flesh.
A soft and frustrated sound struck at her throat. Pain pinched at the back of her skull and she lifted two fingers toward the bridge of her nose, rubbing away the forming migraine.
Affection seemed an improper reflex. A poorly timed and unsuitable response to the conditions of the night, despite his spongy heart and pretty cheeks. Regardless of his warm gaze and long, handsome fingers.
Enola tipped back her chin with an outstretched sigh, trying to ward away all thoughts of passion.
Later, she could linger on the beat of his heart, rhythmic and strong. On his hands, elegant and broad. When proper for the occasion, she’d allow herself an ample duration of daydreaming.
“An hour,” she repeated, dropping her hand to her side and planting a firm hand on her hip. The inside of her stomach felt burnt to a crisp, flipped inside out and twisted into a knot of nerves. “It is past evening, Tewkesbury.”
Blue streaked the sky, so dark it nearly appeared black. The moon left a white shadow behind the fluttering clouds. The sight of the late hour forced her impatience to stretch and swell, returning to its resorted measure of vigor.
“I forgot myself,” he admitted in a cautious manner, because he knew her temper to be capable of revolting at any moment. Both brows crinkled in apology and shame flickered through his flushed cheeks. “Time slipped away from me, my dear.”
A horrified noise crept up her throat. It twisted around each tooth as a frustrated, low and prolonged sound of impatience. As her chin tipped back, she lifted her eyes skyward, attempting to remain steady.
Allowing her poor disposition to sharpen like a knife offered no reasonable solution and she knew it, but. The impulse remained. The longing to stomp her foot and lift her voice scraped at her innards with every passing moment.
“An accident,” he continued, shifting forward in a hurried motion of attempted comfort. Though both hands continued to clutch tight at the flowers, she knew he wished to reach out toward her: to brush a hand through her knotted hair and soothe her worries with the bones of his knuckles. “A poor mistake I wish not to repeat.”
Enola pursed her lips and pinched her brows. “You’ve said that before, haven’t you?”
Time and time again, the very same excuses had flooded her skin like water in a lake. Identical tardiness, justifications, and affections pinched at her brain like an irritating headache resulting from a parched throat. It left her all too impatient.
Tewkesbury faltered but agreed, “Yes. Well, once or twice.”
“Possibly even a dozen more,” she muttered, chin ducking.
The tips of his expensive shoes shuffled further into her vision as he stepped toward her, cautious but brave. Attentive but wanting of her proximity.
As her chin lifted, the towering height of him forced her neck to crane into an uncomfortable position just to meet his warm gaze. It ached and hurt and she scowled, eager to cradle stern irritation rather than a flutter of affection. Displeasure served him far better than her cherry-red cheeks.
Still, all sorts of improper sentiments nipped at her insides like a blade inserted into the skin. As if thread through a needle, sutures through a gaping wound, it pinched at her organs. Desire dug its sharp teeth into her stomach, though she did her best to pretend the rouge in her cheeks was a consequence only of her anger.
If he saw evidence of her pleasure, he’d never allow her a moment’s rest. It’d linger between their taut bodies, used only at the expense of her carefully crafted character.
“You’ve promised me punctuality too many times to count,” she said. Danger lurked in the grooves of her teeth and shadowed her bones. If he exceeded her finite patience—slight as a string, rigid as the spine—she’d surely burst at the seams.
The tips of his handsome fingers shifted higher around the thick stems in his hands. Blue bunched and twisted, leaving pale petals to curl around dark violet. Separate stems and stalks coiled together as his knuckles clenched, wary and ashamed.
“Yes,” he said, gaze dropping, “I have.”
Something shifted inside of her chest at his easy confirmation: a reorganization of her organs. A thinning of the blood, pulsing of the stomach. Rather than grip a shovel and dig himself a larger hole—too big to climb out of—he admitted to his faults. Rather than deny his blame, he confessed to her being corrected.
It forced a flood of warmth to stretch across her lungs, so white-hot that she nearly choked on its fervor. The taste of sugar and love dripped in between her teeth as she stared, awaiting his further declaration.
Color crept up his cheeks the longer he stared at his shoes. It looked as pink as a rose and deep as the ocean, and she furrowed her brows in suspicion. Any moment now, he’d perhaps tell her the horrid truth: he’d forgotten her. Deserted their predetermined plans all because his love had waned in the afternoon hour.
Anxiety notched taut strings around her heart, tangling so tight that her breath caught within her throat. Dread trickled across her skull and left her fuzzy with fear, because within split seconds he’d surely pronounce their relations a wilted flower. Shriveled and grey. Dead beneath the midnight-blue sky.
“I stopped to smell the roses.”
Enola stilled. Blinked. Breathed, and said, “Sorry?”
All fear within her chest halted. As it dissipated, dispersing around the edges like liquid spilled across pale linens, she tilted her chin in scrutiny. Suspicious and confused but quiet. Curious as to what meaning lurked beneath his shame.
Tewkesbury gazed between the bundle of blue in his hands and her drooping expression. As though abashed by his own behavior, he dodged her fluttering lashes and squinting pupils. “I speak the truth. I saw this great patch of bourbon roses and I couldn’t quite help myself.”
Realization struck at her chest as if electricity coursing through her veins: a white-hot bolt of lightning knocking into her sternum and vibrating through her bones.
Awareness washed across her blood in a thin and welcome stream. As her chin lifted, she exhaled a withdrawn and loud sound, disappointed and relieved in equal measure. A strange paradox of emotion that left her lungs cinched tight and her heart thumping up against her ribs, unsure exactly how to operate beneath the conflicting sentiments.
“You stopped to smell the roses,” she repeated quietly, rocking her weight on her heels.
Though she took no appreciation for his tardiness, at least he hadn’t forgotten her. At the very least, no sour rejection had been flung between their bodies: a loss of interest. A denial of feelings, an absence of once-fervent love.
“I thought I might pick some for you.” Tewkesbury studied the blue bouquet within his hands, twisting it sideways as though it might bite. “Though, I know you find them quite… unfavorable.”
Despite herself, the corners of her mouth lifted into a charming and pleased smile. Affection swelled across her stomach till she felt puffed up with love. Every inch of her innards felt tender as though he’d pressed his handsome fingers across dozens of blue-black bruises all at once.
“I do find them rather typical,” she agreed, softening further around the edges. The remnants of her anger slipped further away from her loose fingers, even as she attempted to dig the tips of her nails into her ire.
It seemed unfortunate to allow a useless splotch of blue petals to win over her affections with such ease—for a bit of well-aimed sugar to strike at her chest and soften her hardened exterior. To repair her wounded temper like a salve applied to blistering skin.
But she never had much luck digging her heels into the floor and forcing him away. Not when the alternative seemed far too wonderful for her liking: the taste of his honeyed mouth. The warmth of his gaze. The gentle grip of his noble fingers across her waist. Love spreading through their bodies and desire heating their stomachs.
“I knew you’d toss them back at my head if I brought you a bushel,” he said through a minute smile. It lifted his cheeks and colored him red.
“You’d deserve it,” she teased, though the words fell from her teeth as a gentle taunt. Playful rather than mean. Adoring instead of vicious.
Tewkesbury took a half-step closer and peered down at her with a warm grin.
Abruptly, she realized precisely how near he truly stood. Pain spread throughout the base of her neck as she craned to meet his deep stare, akin to an aching bruise rubbed up against. Through her lashes, she blinked and squinted, searching for taut impatience and discovering little.
Rather, only remnants of fond desire lingered within her body. Hot and fuzzy like the sun, it spread and stretched across her stomach. Like a burn from having spent too much time outdoors in the peak of summer, her cheeks blushed with red: molten and tender. Shy and loving.
A hand left the flowers to brush against her outer arm. Knuckled skimmed her elbow and forearm and then twisted, flipping till the pads of his fingers could kiss the concealed flesh of her wrist. There, they lingered: delaying by the very hem of her sleeve.
Enola dared to watch as the very tips of his fingers twitched, as if aching to dip lower.
Millimeters away lay the bare skin of her hand. Rough with old wounds and faded scars, blemished from her labour and clumsy nature. Pale skin and hard bones.
Want dripped down her throat at the thought of him reaching below the boundary of her sleeve—caressing polite patterns across her knuckles. Grazing her gentle fingers. Taking her hand in his own with bare, exposed skin.
Tewkesbury continued to tickle fabric as he said, “I thought perhaps you’d like these more.”
The hand not brushing her arm—teasing her wrist, flooding her with desire—held up the unknown bundle of blue. The petals twisted around one another in a multitude of shades: as light as the sky and deep as the ocean and some tinged with purple. Lovely and unassuming, even if she could not yet identify its properties.
Enola grasped the thick stems with a careful hand. The length of her fingers encircled green stems while her skin kissed soft, blooming petals. All the while, her opposite arm remained entirely stilled. It allowed her lover cautious exploration of the back of her hand: fingertips circling a slow path against her flesh as she pretended it went unnoticed.
Proximity often seemed easier to touch one another in the confines of the dark. The sunlight left them exposed, as if a bug forced beneath a looking glass: witnessed down to the marrow, limbs trapped, affection dissected.
But with their eyes averted, all sorts of exploration came with ease.
“I’m positive these have seen better days,” she teased, staring downward.
The flowers looked, admittedly, a bit crushed around the edges. The stems were bent at the bottoms and around one edge, the petals turned flat as though pressed too hard against a flat surface—perhaps a broad chest.
Though bright and beautiful, they sagged just as equally.
Tewkesbury blushed all the brighter. “I was in quite a hurry.”
Enola hummed, one brow lifting into a pensive and thoughtful provocation. Bewilderment left her faintly foggy, because he did not often take such little care with his plants. It looked as though he’d aimlessly shoved the bunch up against his coat and now its consequences were laid bare in front of them.
“Such a hurry,” he continued, tucking one hand into his pocket and ducking his chin, “that I failed to notice the pile of twigs at my feet till I tripped over them.”
A soft snicker left her throat. Sympathy knotted around her spine and she pouted, playful but fond. The hand free of flowers lifted toward his throat and she pressed the pads of her fingers up against his pulse-point, offering as great of a gesture of comfort as she could manage.
Were she any less sour about his tardiness, she’d tilt up and kiss him firm on the mouth.
“If only you’d mastered punctuality and ripping up plants,” she taunted, tapping the bouquet against his sternum. It left a minute smear of yellow pollen across his pale clothes and she tried not to grin, victorious and pleased.
Regardless, she allowed her hand to shift inches downward till she could settle a broad palm across his heartbeat. It thumped up against her flesh, loud and steady. Such an intimate, familiar gesture sent her nerves fluttering across her stomach.
For a long and stilted breath, they both gazed into each other’s pupils and remained mute. Want snarled around her heart like string within a tangled knot of embroidery, thin and delicate. Pale as a pink rose and elegant as silk.
“If only,” he finally agreed.
With movements slow and sluggish, he placed his open palm over hers, effectively trapping her hand snug against his chest. The gesture left her warm from the inside out, charred like a sunburn. Skin peeling from the bone and muscles weak from lust.
Enola ducked her chin and turned the flowers sideways, analyzing each speck of color. It seemed far easier and far more proper to concentrate on the unknown petals than her thumping, twisting heartbeat. It beat so loud that she could feel it knock up against her ribs: a dangerous sort of thud that threatened to splinter her bones.
“What are they?” she asked softly. Though she had no true liking for plants—thought them useless and boring—her brain was starved for knowledge. Every lump of the organ begged for data of any sort, no matter how trivial.
“Hyacinths.”
“Hyacinths,” she repeated. What a wonderful word. It settled into the grooves of her teeth and molded to the flat of her tongue as she memorized its careful construction. The information fed her brain better than any warm meal ever could—it left her feeling distinctly stuffed-full of wisdom.
“Yes,” he said, growing eager again at the sight of her interest. “Pretty, aren’t they?”
Enola hummed, allowing her gaze to linger on the shifting hues of blue. Each petal appeared darker than its predecessor, with greater measures of violet and brighter highlights of white.
In her distraction, she nearly missed the quiet words which fell from his teeth as a whisper: “I do quite enjoy seeing you in blue.”
The words were coated in honey. As sweet as a cube in sugar plopped into steaming tea and as affectionate as his dark gaze. The confession, though not quite so brazen as others, stilted her heart. Just as quickly, it beat a rapid sort of thud up against her chest, so strong she nearly choked.
Color coated her cheeks and she squinted, tongue lapping at her teeth as she carefully gazed up from beneath her lashes.
Tewkesbury appeared a bit frozen in time: limbs stiff, jaw taut, face flushed. Abashed and caught and charmingly shy. Wonderfully, atypically mute. Despite his stiffened body and skittish nerves, he failed to withdraw his admission and her heart burned all the brighter for it.
“Consider yourself lucky,” she said, lifting the flowers to her nose to inhale a short breath of scent. A sweet and damp aroma tickled her nose and the corners of her mouth twitched. “I happen to quite enjoy the color myself.”
A soft smile spread across his face. It lifted his cheeks and brightened his eyes. A slight, gentle sound of pleasure left his throat as he dipped downward, brushing his mouth against hers once and then twice. Pleasure and heat nipped at her stomach as she kissed him in turn, lids slipping shut, heart pounding a great rhythm against her ribcage.
Beneath their bodies, the bundle of blue lay trapped. Crushed, forgotten, and staining them both yellow.