I Wanna Be There Too — Hadrian, Alessa, Alain & Ysabella

Only you know where you have been to

Candlelight creates a halo of soft, orange glow. Each flame flickers gently and swiftly, a dance mesmerizing to any other eyes but your own. Your gaze is stuck on another sight, on the ivory planes of her face.

Alessa's features are frozen in inertia but are made alive by the glimmering light. Shadows linger in the dips below her eyes and the soft corners of her mouth. Her freckles seem to shine with a light of their own, like small constellations set in a pale sky. Alessa is made alive by candlelight, like fauna flourishing beneath a frozen lake or the bluish veins underneath icy skin.

Her blue eyes dance, too, fixed on the back wall. But they dance like lightning does when reflected in water. She doesn't see, you know, she's lost somewhere inside her mind.

"Where are you?" you ask.

Alessa blinks slowly as if pulling herself from moving sand. "Hmm?" she hums distractedly, still looking at that back wall.

"Where are you?" you wonder. What thoughts keep her so far away from you?

You see it then, the draw in her brows and the focus in her gaze when, at last, she turns her chin towards you. She watches you for a moment, confused. "Have you intoxicated yourself?" Alessa asks. "Or bumped your head?"

"Neither."

"Then have you forgotten where we rest for the night?" Alessa says, one eyebrow properly raised. "'Twould be most concerning if I thought you were serious."

You shake your head and lean closer on the bed. Alessa follows the movement, not pulling away. "Not here," you say, lightly touching her arm. You see the goosebumps rising on her skin where your finger pads make contact.

"Here." You lift the hand and press a finger on the point between her eyebrows.

Alessa's eyes cross as she tries to look at your hand, then she blinks and finally understands. Her full lips part, but she pauses. "I... know not where my thoughts drifted to." She shrugs. "Some place else, I would guess."

But why is she avoiding your gaze?

"Some place?" you repeat, dragging your finger down the bridge of her nose. "Past or future?"

The eyebrow rises higher. "Is this an interrogation?" Alessa asks, her voice sharp, but even still, she doesn't pull away when you gently cup her cheek.

"Just a request," you say, thumb tracing the line of her mouth. "You don't have to answer."

You almost thought she wouldn't. Silence falls in your leased room, her skin slowly heating against your bare palm, soaking in your warmth, stealing it to its own. Alessa remains still under your touch, and you're about to let her go when she lifts a hand and grabs your wrist.

"Past," Alessa admits, bringing your knuckles to her mouth so she can plant a kiss over the first one.

She turns your hand to kiss your palm, the touch feather-light. "I do not wish to linger there," Alessa says, kissing your wrist, then lowering your arm so she can slant her body towards you. "I prefer to be here."

Her lips graze yours, not touching, but close enough that her breath mingles with yours. Her eyes look between your own, soft and bright but uncertain.

You understand the silent request. "Then be here," you say, and close the distance.

Perhaps one day, she'll tell you. Maybe one day, you'll tell her too.

For now... Alessa's lips are soft and pliant and sweet. You drown in the taste of them. In the taste of her.

Only you know what you have been through

The bed jolts underneath you.

You gasp awake as a shadow shoots out from the mattress, looming over your body. You blindly reach for the knife under your pillow but stop when the shadow takes in a sharp, shuddering breath.

And it's broken, that breath. It's broken and familiar.

Hadrian's chest heaves violently, his knees bending under the sheets so he can rest his elbows on his thighs. His hands cradle his head, wild, untamed hair spilling from the fingers to cling to his damp forehead.

"Hadrian?" you ask, your voice raspy with sleep. You're dazed in the way one does when pulled from a deep slumber, but your brows instinctively knit in a frown.

Hadrian jolts again, swirling around to face you. The window behind lets in a slither of moonlight; with it, you can see how his eyes are wide in shock, the whites red. He's forgotten you're here. Or worse, he doesn't believe it.

A beat passes, and Hadrian swallows, dragging a hand over his face. "Have I—" His voice breaks. He sucks in air, stabilizing himself. "Have you woken you? I'm sorry, angel."

"Are you alright?" you ask, sitting up groggily. You blink a few times to clear your vision, your eyelashes sticking together. "What happened?"

A hand tenderly cups your cheek. "I'm fine," Hadrian says, trying to smile. But it's a wrecked thing, that smile. "Please, go back to sleep."

You're now more awake than ever. "What's wrong?" you ask again because his voice isn't right. It's choked, and the fingers shake against your cheek. Drowsiness is quickly replaced by a sickly worry.

You grab his hand, squeezing it tightly in yours. "Hadrian?" you ask again, louder this time.

The man before you looks away. "It's fine," Hadrian says again. You believe him even less. "This is— this is normal."

Still holding his hand, you bring it to your chest. "Doesn't seem normal to me," you say, ducking to peek at his face.

Hadrian turns it away again. "It happens to me, I— should have warned you. Or slept somewhere else."

You lick your lips. "Nightmares?" you try.

He doesn't speak, but the way he stiffens is answer enough.

Oppressive silence falls. Hadrian curls his fingers with yours, holding you tight. So tight, it almost hurts, but you don't complain. Slowly, you reach over and sweep a hand through his hair, finding it damp with sweat. His shoulders flinch when you touch him, but he leans into you. He's so big and bulky, but right now, Hadrian looks small.

His shoulders hunched, his legs bent, and his face hidden away.

"Hadrian," you whisper, sitting on your knees. You kiss his cheek, draping your free arm over his shoulder. "Please, look at me."

For a moment, he doesn't until, slowly, as if against his will, Hadrian faces you. He's not crying, but his face is pale with sorrow. "Oh," you say, and hug him. Hug him close; hug him like you can pull him past your ribs and safeguard him inside your chest.

He's limp in the hug before two strong arms loop around you and hold you, too. His head falls to the crook of your neck, face pressed against your throat. "I have them too," you whisper, cradling his head. "You don't have to hide from me, Hadrian."

"It was you," he croaks out, drawing you desperately into his lap. His grip is as hard as steel as if he's afraid you'll disappear if he lets go. "Lord in Heaven, it was you."

You hush him, turning your cheek to kiss his forehead. "I'm right here," you say, peppering kisses along every inch of his skin you can reach. "Right here."

I'm not Eda, you think, but the words die on your tongue. How can you promise him that? How can he swear he won't be another Julianna?

So, you just hold him. Hold him as tight as he holds you and keep your secret oaths to yourselves.

There's better things you're gonna get into

You've never known him to be angered.

Alain was smooth, he was carefree, and he'd let things roll off his back. Whenever someone insulted him, the noble would grin. If let down, he'd shrug. If, somehow, things went better than planned, Alain would laugh and move on.

You've never seen him like this. His eyes flash with a violent inner blaze as sudden as thunder. His brows, scowling up a storm. The line of his mouth is so thin that his jaw works with tension.

Alain Theer stands as still as death, but shadows pull around him as if attracted to his dark mood.

You stop in your tracks, surprised. He's facing away from you, looking out the window of an empty hall. You stop walking, hesitance holding your tongue.

This isn't your place to meddle. The last thing you want is to deal with a scorned noble, no matter how many nights you've spent in his bed.

But still...

In the angry planes of his face, you see something else there. A resented hurt, which he tries desperately to cast off. You should turn on your heels and walk away, but you find yourself drifting closer. "Alain," you call softly.  

Your voice carries in the silent walls of the fortress, and Alain snaps his head at the sound. His eyes land on you, narrowed at first, but when he recognizes you, they blink. "Sparrow?" he asks, the frown slightly easing, replaced with vague confusion.

You stop in front of him, an arm's length away. "That's me," you answer, giving him a small smile.

Alain looks around as if the answer is written on a wall somewhere. "Did we have something for today?" he asks; his voice is rougher, sharper, but you can tell he's trying to soften it.

You nod.

He closes his eyes and curses. "Fuck.” That, too, is uncharacteristic. He's never cursed. Not in the daylight. "I could have sworn it was tomorrow."

You lick your lips, lacing your hands behind your back. "That's alright," you say, "I can come back tomorrow if you'd prefer."

You don't want to. You don't know why you said it.

The noble sweeps an irritated hand through his hair, driving it out of his eyes. "Would you mind?" he asks, flickering his eyes away to the window once more. "I'm poor company at the moment."

You do mind. You look him over and see a paper clenched in his fist. Squinting, you can just make out the beginning of a seal with the Theer's house colors. "What's that?" you ask, leaning your shoulder against the window frame.

Alain's face darkens. "Nothing." He glances at you. "Weren't you going?"

"I can see what you meant by poor company," you tell him.

His mouth tightens. Alain draws himself to his full height. Oh, you see it now. The noble countenance, the proud jaw. This is a Theer in front of you, someone used to be obeyed. Someone used to be feared.

But, somehow, you're not afraid. Not even in the slightest.

He says your name. So firm and mighty. "You're overstepping yourself," he warns, voice like venom. But you know it's not you he wants to bite.

"Am I?" you ask, holding his gaze. "Or are you just taking your anger out on me?"

You keep your gazes locked, neither of you backing away. You see the internal storm in his eyes, the deep lines around his brows. You see them darken...

Alain looks away, shame coloring his face. "God's inwards," he curses again. Another frustrated sweep of his hair as he collapses against the wall. "You're impossible, little sparrow."

"Who's that from?" you ask, settling beside him.

Alain looks down at his fist. "My uncle," he says, growling the word. You see his hand shaking, the veins in his arm popping.

You hum.

Alain is silent for a moment, but he quickly breaks it. "Even away, he still manages to—" He crumbles the letter and shoves it in his pocket. "Fucking worm."

"That's twice," you say.

Alain looks up. "What?"

You reach out and gently tuck a coiled strand of hair away from his forehead. "Twice you've cursed," you whisper. At his look, you smile. "If you don't count the Lord's poor inwards."

You see his lips twisting, and then, against his will, Alain smiles back. "You're impossible."

"So, you've said."

He closes his eyes and leans his face into your touch. You cup his cheek, feeling a heat burning into your own cheeks. This is...

"Forgive me," Alain asks, cracking his eyes open.

... intimate. "You're forgiven," you murmur.

Alain watches you. You can only look back, your throat suddenly tight. You've never done this either. Not in the daylight.

He leans down, and lips claim yours, hungry but oh so gentle.

And I wanna be there too

Grateful fingers brush through your hair.

You close your eyes as a tingling spreads from your scalp, where Ysabella's nails carefully drag, to your spine and down each of your limbs. You bite your lip to muffle an embarrassing groan but press your head higher on her lap, a silent request for her not to stop.

Ysabella's soft hums drift through the afternoon air, as light as the breeze blowing past the open windows. Your body is slackened and heavy, sprawled on a bed that could fit five people.

But it's only the two of you, Bella and you, indulging in doing nothing, in simply passing the time.

You don't know how long it passes; you think you might have drifted off, but eventually, you come about and notice a distinct lack of fingers threading through your hair. You crack one eye open and see that the noblewoman above you is looking down at a tiny book in her hands. But she's not reading.

You cock your head in her thighs, your eyes sharpening on hers. They're unfocused, looking into a horizon only she can see. Her lips are drawn into each other, half tense, half parted, and a single crease blooms between her eyebrows.

You reach up and catch a soft brown lock between your thumb and forefinger. "Bella," you whisper, keeping its meaning to yourself.

Ysabella's pupils dilate as they struggle to focus on your face. "Oh?" she says, a smile immediately flowering on her lips. She caresses her hand down your cheek. "Have you woken?"

So perfect, so effortlessly ready. Yet, you see the lingering shadow of something plaguing her eyes. The ghost of whatever land she inhabited.

"Did I really fall asleep?" you ask, twirling her lock of hair in your finger.

Ysabella cups your chin. "You snored."

"I did not."

She laughs. "Terribly so."

You sit up and peer down at her little book. There's a drawing on the corner. It reminds you of Adso. "What're you reading?"

Ysabella looks at her hand as if she's forgotten it was there. "A silly little tale," she says, closing it and tossing it aside. "I can't even tell you the theme."

You slowly look from it to her. "Is that so?" you murmur, gauging whether to press. You and the noble are... close, but it's uncharted territory. It has to be. She's a Theer, and you— you're a fugitive from the Church.

You can shut up, lean over, and kiss her. You so want to kiss her. Yet, cursing yourself, you open your big mouth. "Could it be because you weren't reading it, Bella?"

Ysabella's lips make an 'O', before a knowing look casts over her face. It's swift, the calculated glint you read in those golden, swirling eyes. But it's there. And it's not the first time you've witnessed it.

"You were watching me?" she asks, her lips curling upwards. "And here I thought you slept."

"For a moment," you say.

"One moment only?"

You can't discern her voice or what goes on in her head. "Have I offended you?" you ask, refusing to flicker your gaze away.

Ysabella gazes back. A curl bounces on her forehead, almost touching her eyelashes. "You haven't," she says at last. She's speaking softly again, and her touch is soft when she lays her hand over yours. "I'm simply... uncustomed to being questioned. It's a flaw of mine, my dear."

Uncustomed to being questioned by commoners, she means. You don't say it. "I wasn't questioning you," you say, "I'm only curious. You seemed... far away."

"I was," Ysabella concedes. "I have... more on my mind than I'd like to admit."

You let out a breath of air through your nose; the sound could almost be called a laugh. "I know what that's like." You lace your fingers with hers, feeling the unblemished, unscarred skin. "So, I'll echo what you once told me. If you ever need to talk..."

Ysabella smiles. "Perhaps another time," she says, giving you the exact answer you gave her.

You stare at each other, hands laced, but suddenly, so far away. You wonder if this is all that's meant to be. A lazy afternoon, a stolen moment to keep in your memory of a lady with long curls and beautiful eyes.

The lady brings your hand up and kisses the tips of your fingers. Her own fingers carefully wrapped around your glove. "Let's promise a time," she says.

"What?"

"A time," Ysabella repeats. Another kiss to your fingers. "When we can speak our minds."

You feel yourself stiffen, "no" at the tip of your tongue, but you hold it in. "How can we guess?" you ask instead, your voice barely above a whisper.

Ysabella smiles that radiant, brilliant smile. "By the sea," she says. "When we next see it."

You think for a moment. "The time after the next.”

"Alright." Ysabella holds out her pinky finger. "Promise?"

Despite yourself, despite Julianna's voice telling you to lie, you lace it with your own. "Promise," you say, meaning it.

- - -

Song