fluxscape | Closed to Allison || i tried going against my own soul's warning

Entry tags:

Closed to Allison || i tried going against my own soul's warning

WHO: Cyrano and Allison
WHERE: Allison's place
WHEN: October 2nd on--basically, the duration of Elora
WHAT: Cyrano just came by to drop off a jacket. Now he's stuck inside with Allison...and it does not suck.
WARNINGS: Discussions of death and violence, possibly something sexy--mild stuff, anything graphic will be taken somewhere private. XD

She'd left her jacket at work--he'd spied it on a bench in the employee locker room, recognized it, and couldn't in good conscience let her go without when the weather was taking such a nasty turn.

So, he did the only gentlemanly thing: he picked up some food (tacos--he had a taste for them, and the mention of them always made her smile since their little 'outing') and stopped by at her place to drop her jacket off, with dinner.

They ate. She offered him a drink--they talked for a little while.

A little while became hours, and by the time he was ready to leave the sky was opening up.

"I swear, I'll be fine--it's just a little rain!"

A peal of thunder rang out, making the glass panes of her windows rattle--and Allison was forcibly dragging him away from her front door.

Thus, Cyrano was in t-shirt and boxer briefs, laid out on her couch to sleep--but it was difficult through the storm. As the night progressed, the rain got worse, but instead of soothing him Cyrano felt electrified. Too many beers, too many laughs, too strange a place...

Flipping back his borrowed blanket, Cyrano rose from the couch and crept around as quietly as he could, searching for paper and pen.

Perhaps he wasn't quiet enough. Perhaps he wasn't the only one haunted by the storm--but if Allison is awake or about, the warm glow of a side table lamp will draw her into the furthest corner of her living room, where Cyrano is using a borrowed book as a writing desk from his place seated on the floor, furiously writing with quiet, impassioned curses under his breath--and several pages of poetry already stacked neatly on the floor beside him.

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Cyrano wasn't the only one that felt electrified by the storm. Standing in front of the east-facing bedroom of her window, Allison felt a little shiver run down her spine as she watched another slash of lightning cut across the night sky. She wasn't sure how she was supposed to sleep with a storm like this going on. Not when her brain was going a mile a minute, trying to formulate different plans and checking to see if anyone needed help.

After another particularly bright flash of lightning split the sky followed by a crack of thunder, Allison decided to check on Cyrano. Pulling on a robe to cover her pajamas, she made her way down to the main floor of her home where she had seen him last.

Except for the fact that he wasn't on her couch where she had left him but tucked away in the furthest corner of her living room instead. Arching a brow with a slightly amused look, she made her way over on quiet footfalls, waiting until she was a couple of feet away before clearing her throat. "What are you doing?"

It took a moment for her voice to reach him through the words, echoing in his head and appearing on the paper as they gushed from his soul like a flood. He couldn’t hear past the roar of inspiration, the waves of passion crashing against the insides of his skull...

So there was about a ten second delay before he finally stopped writing, blinked, and lifted his head. Realizing he was no longer alone, Cyrano smiled sheepishly and set his writing to one side.

“Tryin’ not to wake you with the light—and failing, I see. I’m sorry, I just couldn’t sleep, so I was writin’ a bit. I’ll put out the light, not te fret.”

"You didn't wake me with the light," Allison replied with a little shake of her head as she moved to curl up in a chair nearby. "Honestly, I hadn't even gone to sleep yet. It's kind of impossible with this storm."

Her gaze was drifting to the window as she watched the rain pelt the glass with an almost alarming force. As if it would take little effort to break the glass and pelt them both.

"I keep worrying about if it gets worse and if everyone will be okay."

“Aye—all will be well, mon amie.” he assured her, watching as she tucked herself into a nearby armchair. Folding his arms atop his knees, he found his gaze drawn to the soft slope of her elegant throat, found himself briefly wishing he could draw well enough to capture it.

His only brush was his pen, his words, the meter and the verse... and he wondered if it was enough.

“I confess, the horrors of war are still too close.” He admitted, looking past her to the window with a soft smile. “I nearly died of thirst... I’m a bite in love with this storm.”

His eyes slid shut for a moment, his smile growing. The words were filling him again, wine poured into a cup to overflowing, spilling over the edge and out of his mouth.

”Lightning flashes bright
And my heart’s beating
Thunder, in the night
I’m feasting, drinking...
I taste your skin in
ev’ry drop of rain
that slakes my thirstin’
soul that’s steeped in pain:

I drink, and I fight.”

Even though she had never been in an actual war before, Allison understood all too well what it felt like to be haunted by something. There was a small scar that would forever remind her of what had happened to her back home.

She remained quiet as he started to speak a poem that was on his tongue and perhaps one that he had already written down. Smiling softly to herself, she wondered what it would be like to always find the words you needed or to speak them so eloquently.

"Is it the war that causes you pain?" She asked after a moment, looking at him again as a flash of lightning briefly illuminated the room in a wash of white.

"The war? Not directly, no." he replied, shaking his head with a small, rueful smile. "But there were...things I suffered around the war that left their mark. Sure, the violence, that slow dance with an ignoble death, it certainly left an impression. But..."

He trailed off--and for the first time, he felt...wrong. Talking about it--talking about her.

"Before I left to fight, the woman I loved married someone else." he confessed. Speaking the words...he felt strangely lighter for them.

He loved Roxane, he loved her dearly, but at some point between leaving her in Paris and this moment, it had receded. Become past tense. She was less the object of his soul's light, and more the head nurse of that doll hospital treating the imaginary wounds of a fantasy battle.

At some point, when he wasn't paying attention, Cyrano had begun the process of healing.

Allison focused on being a dutiful listener as he confessed that it wasn't the war but the other things that had happened around that time. There was something about the look on his face then that felt familiar, striking a chord deep down as she waited for him to elaborate.

And it seemed that she was right when he confessed that his trouble stemmed from a woman that he had loved who had married someone else. Her features pulled in a briefly sympathetic look as she nodded slowly and thought of Scott. Not that Scott had gotten married but they had both been dating other people after she had been the one to break up with him. She hadn't stopped loving him though.

"I'm sorry, that sucks." It wasn't the most eloquent statement but there it was.

Cyrano watched her as she answered, saw her as he’d seen the day they first met—the echo in her soul, the kindred weight she carried.

His comrade in arms was also his comrade in pain.

He let the silence stretch for a few moments, oddly comfortable, before he asked.

“What was his name?”

"Scott McCall." She answered with a brief but saddened smile, glancing at him again. "He was the first boy I ever loved."

She didn't think much about her wording as she sighed, turning her gaze away from him as she thought back to her relationship. "I broke up with him though. Things got really complicated and I...lost my way for a bit after my mother died."

"Then we dated other people but I still love him. I will probably never see him again but first loves always kind of stick with you somehow."

"Aye." Cyrano agreed, troubled by the way she phrased it--the past tense, the notion she'd never see him again. It felt...like more. Not just being stuck in this place, but something else.

Impulsively, Cyrano rolled to a crouch and edged over to where she sat. A hand drifted to rest high on her stomach, where the bandages had been the day they first met. It was a light, borderline clinical touch, but it was bold and unafraid--a gesture of comfort.

He didn't know what to say about that something more in her phrasing. He didn't want to say, didn't want to think about it. Far too quickly, the idea of a world she wasn't in had become exceedingly distasteful to him.

So he simply rested his hand there--an acknowledgment, an understanding. A condolence.

"Roxane." he offered quietly, looking into her face finally. There was remarkably little pain or ecstasy in saying her name now--only the warmth of blood, the admiration of a fondness that was distant, even chaste. "She was the...only woman I had ever loved, in spite of myself."

With a wry, sad smile, he gestured vaguely to his face after finally withdrawing his hand from Allison's stomach.

She wasn't surprised by the fact that he had moved closer to her, drawn by something in her voice that made him want to draw near but she wasn't prepared for the feel of his hand sliding over her stomach. Right over the scar that marked her death.

The simple touch left her breathless as she looked at him, finding herself suddenly at a loss for words. There were things she wanted to say, a potential confirmation that his fear was true but she couldn't bring herself to say it. It still felt weird to admit even to herself.

So she focused on his solidarity instead as he revealed the name of the woman who had owned his heart. Then she blew out a little breath as he moved his hand, easing the knot inside of her as she tried to think of something to say.

"Why in spite of yourself?"

"Because she could never love me back." Cyrano replied quietly, with the calm reserve of a man who has accepted his fate. "Not with the way I look, not when there are men like her husband in the world: strong and beautiful to look at. I didn't want to love her, I didn't want that pain...yet she inspired me with that love, and she let me write, and so I--I couldn't turn it away. It's like a drug, love like that..."

He trailed off, still crouched before her, looking into Allison's face.

Roxane let him write, and now she was gone...yet he was here, without her. Healing, living...alone.

Alone. With this young woman.

And still the words came.

"She couldn't love you because of how you looked?" Allison asked quizzically. Not that she couldn't see why he might feel that way and she knew some people were horribly shallow about looks but it still pained her to hear him say it.

"Maybe it's a good thing she couldn't love you back." She decided then, watching his face and the reaction he had before she continued on. "It doesn't sound like she would have been worthy of you to be turned away for any reason. And, honestly, you wouldn't want someone that shallow where they only focus on looks."

"I mean, yes, Scott was cute," The confession came with a sheepish look that was softened then by affection. "But he was also sweet and loyal, just the kind of person you could depend on. He always wanted the best for the people he cared about, no matter what. Sometimes to a fault."

"Sometimes that felt...hard to live up to."

Hearing her speak of this boy...it confused him. Knowing what he did of her, hearing what little she'd shared of her life with him in the short time they had associated with each other--their one outing, laughing and talking at work...

He couldn't see this person she was talking about--the woman who had to live up to this example she was painting of virtue and loyalty.

"I am the unworthy one." he clarified, still crouched in front of her as her sheepish smile triggered a small smile on his face--one he didn't even know was there as he watched her. "And I am...more than just a poorly made face."

His hand drifted up to touch his far too prominent nose, his gaze flicking away in momentary shame. As it did, there was another bolt of lightning--and for a second, he caught sight of his silhouette.

"You, however..." He shook himself out of his misery and refocused on her. "You speak of this boy, and all I hear is all I see in you. Perhaps you couldn't live up to him, because he was living up to you."

It was her turn for her gaze to dart away as she wanted to believe his words but she just...couldn't. "No, I did some bad things and it just didn't feel right to be with him after that. I tried to be better, to believe that my family could be better but now all I can do is hope that my Dad will be okay."

Then she focused on him again, smiling a bit as she reached out to touch his shoulder. "It's not so bad, you know. The nose? I know that you're self-conscious about it but it doesn't really change who you are. It doesn't actually define who you are as a man."

"Quand on a pas ce que l’on aime, il faut aimer ce que l’on a." She murmured, giving his shoulder a squeeze before letting go. "I know that's easier said than done sometimes though."

She said with such casual ease—that it wasn’t bad. She looked into his face, so quiet and so sincere that he could not summon an ounce of rage or indignant offense. She spoke it as truth...

And for one brief moment, he believed her.

He believed...and as she continued, wondered that she should tell him to love what he had when she sat there before him...

Reaching for her hand before she could withdraw it completely, he caught her fingers with a wisp of a smile and just held on for a moment before he drew them to his lips to press a warm kiss against her knuckles.

“A soldier cannot question their orders—but questioning your actions just makes you human. And a better one than you give yourself credit for, mon amie.”

Perhaps that was the difference. She didn't comment about his nose with the intent to ridicule him in some way or to point out his shortcomings. She didn't even notice them though she knew everyone had some. She definitely had a few of her own.

She started to retreat but then he caught her hand, causing her to still again as she watched him lift her hand so he could press a kiss against her knuckles. It was such a tender action that she felt a small wash of warmth spread up her arm as she returned the wisp of a smile.

"Maybe," She shrugged a little, looking almost sheepish. "Either way, all I can do is try, right? To be better?"

"I'd say you've passed tryin' and straight into success." he mused, his smile growing. Without much thought, he kept hold of her hand, lifting it to press his cheek to the backs of her fingers, rubbing back and forth just a little to feel the softness of her skin against his. It calmed something deep within him...it felt right.

He had so little in the way of human contact out of violence or obnoxious jostling of his comrades, or the paid attentions of a whore...

"Beyond Roxane, you may be the best woman I have ever known, Allison Argent." he replied quietly, honestly, before kissing her fingers one more time and releasing her hand with heavy reluctance in favor of resting a hand on her knee as he prepared to stand.

"Mon Dieu--I'm keepin' you awake. You need sleep, mon amie."

Maybe he wasn't aware of it but she most certainly was aware of every move he made and everything she felt when he pressed his cheek against her fingers to rub against them. Almost nuzzling like a cat seeking a bit of affection.

For just a second, she wanted...something. Just something that felt good to ease the ache in the middle of her chest and the cold knot of loneliness that was eating away at her soul. It was easier with him around as a friend, as someone who understood her, but for just a moment she wanted something more.

It made her cheeks feel hot as she smiled up at him, watching as he moved his hand to her knee and started to stand. "It's okay, I...can't sleep a lot of the time."

Oh.

That stung--bled a little for how very well he understood that admission. Bludgeoned into sleep by drink on the bad nights, seeking out strong coffee on the worse ones. What secrets, he wondered, kept her awake at night? Surely not the longings and the yearnings of a broken and hopeless heart like his...

What could possibly darken the soul of one so noble?

Once back on his feet, Cyrano straightened--then hesitated, and bent to catch her hand again, gently tugging her to her feet.

"Well, if we're not meant to sleep--perhaps we can do more than let our own demons swallow us up." he offered. "Over coffee?"

Allison didn't want to tell him that it was the howl of monsters or the shadows of death that kept her awake. Or memories of what she had seen or had even done when her own darkness had overtaken her, nudged along by a man who should have cared more about her well being than anything.

She started to rise to her feet on her own but paused as he caught her hand to aid her. Then she smiled again, nodding somewhat in relief when he suggested coffee rather than urging her to go to bed and try to sleep as others might have.

"I'm up for that. I'll make us a pot." She tugged at his hand, moving to head into her kitchen.

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Closed to Allison || i tried going against my own soul's warning

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