with love,

[, scarlett bennet .]

, best intentions bring joyless droughts
PACK YOUR HACKSAW COME PUSH ME OUT

It was classic, but serious, with a dash of whimsy and glimmer. Ergo, it was a perfect choice for the mood in which she found herself, and such mood was as follows; that of traipsing elegantly through the library, selecting volume after volume, before continuing to chat to the librarian for a few hours, discussing this and that, but mostly the books that she was going to return this evening. With several books grasped and pressed against her chest, the blonde, her hair waved and golden, set off for the library, the layers of fabric against her figure resisted the chill held so well by the stone walls, but her legs, and the pale expanse held there were touched by the cool nature of the night, but it held no bothersome grasp, for the cold only reminded her of life; it was melancholic in its way. The walk was one she could have made in her sleep, the evident familiarity of it had her turning corners without fully being aware; she could have walked with her eyes closed and found the place perfectly well Although, seeing as her mind was mostly filled with riddled thoughts and wonderments, it was as if she were blind to all that around her; she may have looked, but she did not see. With a gentle smile to the librarian, the blonde placed her books to be returned upon the desk, and gestured her head in such a way that Ms Lune knew she would return with many more volumes to exchange. So, she then left the desk, a flurry of blonde tendrils as she turned and made her way up one of the many winding staircases; if she could walk to the library with closed eyelids, then waling around the library was much the same. It was joked that the prestigious former Headmaster of Hogwarts, Professor Albus Dumbledore ha a perfectly intricate map of the London Underground below one of his knees, whereas, although tattoo less, the blonde may as well have had a map of the many stacks drawn upon the back of her hand, as that was what she knew it as.

Hours or minutes may have passed as she walked between each stack of books, caressing the spines with her fingers, much as a lover would do. There was love, after all, between the student and those quaint volumes of forgotten lore… there was such love, and her admiration and respect for them often caused comments from others, perhaps how she’d be a future librarian, or perhaps that she loved books more than people. They may have both been true, but the adoration felt for all of her friends would surpass what she felt for her books, although they had indeed been friends to her when she had had none. It was then, as she stepped carefully, a soft rustling of shoe against fabled mahogany wood that she saw it, its title brandished in a worn gold. Her fingers moved swiftly to retrieve the book and open it until it fell to the correct page. ‘Chapter 1, Mr. Jones, of the Manor Farm, had locked the hen-houses for the night' she smiled knowingly, but there was that small flicker, an oh so gentle frown that pulled at the corners of her full lips. She had been reading it when she had first met him. Him. It was as if she couldn’t speak his name within her mind; it was almost sacred to her. She could still see him in her minds eye, darkened hair and an intense stare; tall, dark and handsome, some would have categorized him, but she never did. He was merely himself, nothing more, nothing less. She sighed softly, something she did quite often since returning, it was a gentle breath, but it was exhaled from deep within her chest, as if she were trying to calm herself. Sigh no more, no more. She had eyes of forget-me-not blue, but would he have remembered them? Would he have closed his eyes and seen her face? He always looked the same to her. Flickering candlelight casting shadows across his skin, his features alive as the winds prowled outside. Would he remember her? ‘I will feel a glow just thinking of you’ Her tone was sad, and she would not allow herself to sing such a song any longer; although it did conjure some pleasant memories, the more pleasant in recent time, it made her ache in the most simple way, the ache of heartbreak that she had never fully addressed.

Perhaps it was the sheer realisation of the moment as she thought about him, that her gaze flickered from the page, its printed word becoming enveloped by her mind, that she saw someone: someone across the balcony. Now that was usually not such a rare occurrence, but there was a familiarity. I dreamt that you bewitched me into bed and sung me moonstruck, kissed me quite insane. The stature and shock of dark hair stirred something within her, that warmth but there was also that sinking; the shortness of breath, the clawing of something to get out of her. Could she cope if that was him? Was it some delightful phantasm of memory not long passed? Or was it something else. Someone not celestial; something real, with a sense of touch and eyes that glimmered in the evening light, someone who would be warm beneath the touch of her fingertips. It may have been forever that she had been looking at this figure, but when blue clashed against blue, she felt all breath leave her. “Lucien” she was soft in her tone, but on her balcony, and him on his, he may have heard her. It seemed like Romeo and Juliet, but no, that was about love, and she was sure, almost positive, that he most certainly did not love her anymore. Absence did not make the heart grow fonder, forgetful perhaps. ‘I will love you until the end of time, I would wait a million years’

‘I think I might’ve inhaled you. 
I could feel you behind my eyes. 
You’ve gotten into my bloodstream. 
I could feel you floating in me’

---- outfit `` x
---- words ``one oh three three
---- notes `` wanna play guess the quote? xD
---- tags `` lucien

[/blockquote][/blockquote]

[lucien watson]

Well, now,
if little by little you stop loving me
I shall stop loving you little by little.

“Lucien”. The sweet cadences of her voice trailed the summer air and hung above his crown, all at once, luminous and vulgar. His head immediately jolted upwards, his eyes clinging on to a colour of panic evoked only by a ghost. He had piercingly and yearningly recalled this particular voice, and as time passed it had become obvious that the days of listening to the livid, heart juddering tone had come to an end. Lucien Marcello Watson after coming to the realisation swore to forget her, to delve into an uncompromising, unwavering stance on love. Naturally his heart would not concede so easily to his chaotic whim. Lucien had spent a year clawing away parts of himself that still so feverishly and longingly clung on to her. Many times he lay awake, when the night had lost her grip, and wondered miserably if she was happier without him. He had emerged from those dreaded nights with the image of his Venus tinged with a certain opaqueness closely resembling one of forgetfulness. But how could he forget her? Even after she had so coldly detached herself from him, he still felt the pain, so sharp, almost like a phantom limb. He strangled a gasp, as he glanced at the familiar blue (they were a brighter and a more dazzling reflection of his own). He ran his eyes down the sinuous curvature of her body, his fingertips, his lips recalled that fateful night between hushed whispers where they had so hungrily caressed her fragile flesh. He had sent her his love, within the arch and skip of his pen. When she had disappeared, when all he had was the devastating memory of her, he spent hours hunched over a dimly lit desk writing and writing. She had never responded. By the time the ensuing chaos in his mind abated, his body was already taut; he was staring at the figure across from him. The silence was like a vacuum, stifling his surroundings.

Between the dark and the void*, he stood, his thirst for her as maddening as ever. How could months of conditioning his heart to forget her crumble so easily? Ms Bennet, she was symbolic of his lack of self-control. And in that world where self-control was lacking, the blow of her presence was felt most acutely, for all he wanted to do was rush across and have her in his arms. But alas he knew that was almost impossible. He reminded himself that he did not love her the same way. “Scarlett” he let out suddenly, impulsively. He regretted it almost instantly; perhaps his senses were still dulled with sleep. He had slept all day; face down on his pillow, woken abruptly, rolled out of bed by the thud, thud, thud of his brother’s impatient feet. His hair was uncharacteristically combed sleepily to one side; he had, had an early dinner with Teddy and Quorra, wearing an old white shirt and a pair of black pants, too sloppy for his first meeting with her after nearly a year apart. Lucien was relishing in Neruda with one hand clenching his volume and the other hanging loosely off the balcony railing clinging on to a cigarette before he locked eyes with her (he fingers had fumbled at the site of her and let the cigarette slip out of his grasp). He pushed his volume in the back of his pant pocket and stood staring. Did he dare move towards her? Merge their nightmares together? Was their gaze too far into each other’s souls for him to ignore and walk back to his room?

Lucien’s feet however had already made the decision for him; they moved towards her in his usual charming style and stood a few meters away from her. He felt his heart shrivel and his blood turn cold. He felt bruised and raw at the very sight of her. After an initial awkward silence he let out a throaty “hello”, and retreated slightly backwards with his hands pushed firmly into his pockets. “So…” he paused “you’re back?” He was abruptly aware of his own breathing, deep and slow. He needed to think clearly. To be able to look at her and not be completely helpless, his face had remained vacant, unconcerned. This was a world away from what he knew. He had spent his time indulging in the pleasures of life, floating in rapture, with Dionysus on his mind and now as she stood there in her blinding light he felt the guilt slither down his spine. He had reverted back to what he knew. He made an indistinct sound in the back of his throat; he was visibly uncomfortable with the situation. Lucien had tried to be nonchalant about her sudden re-emergence into his life but he couldn’t as the minutes crept tortuously slow.

*Ars Poetica - Neruda

[/blockquote][/blockquote]

[, scarlett bennet .]

, best intentions bring joyless droughts
PACK YOUR HACKSAW COME PUSH ME OUT

Oh. She crumbled at the sight of him. He was a vision. Darkened hair and pale skin, eyes like moonlight; everything about him called to her. He was her siren, and after all this time, he could lead her ashore, to her rocky end, and she would follow. He was everything and nothing that she remembered. Statuesque and divine, lips that she desired to press her own against. He was perfection to her, and on those cold English nights, the thought of him would flush her skin, making her glow in the aftermath of his phantom touch. He was a vision, her vision. He had been in the face of everyone that she had met in those first few months apart; ever butcher, baker, candlestick maker, but she only saw him, and it tormented her so. He had been her everything in the time they were together. They had been so entwined, so enraptured, so besotted, that when she left, the dream in which they were floating dissipated, and they both fell with a hearty crash to solitary coldness. Scarlett picked at the sleeve of her jacket, shoes scuffing against the aged floor, a reaction, a noise, something to make sure that this moment they found themselves in was, in fact, real. She wanted, no needed it to be real; she needed to see that he still existed in her world, whether he was by her side or not, she still needed him, and across the balcony from her, he stood, and her heart almost stood still at the thought of him being so close, but yet, so far.

He walked with such life, such swagger, that if she hadn’t been so enraptured, so smitten with sheer adoration; that she would have melted. Whether into a puddle on the floor, or into his arms, she couldn’t say. It was awkward; one of those situations that you read about in various novellas’ and feel such a rush of compassion for the protagonist. Was she the protagonist? No, she was the villain. “Hello” her voice was soft, hesitant, emotional while his was nonchalant, seemingly care free. Oh how she missed his cool composure, his suave being. So… You’re back? She nodded, almost not trusting her voice to convey what she wanted it to. She wanted to be composed, cool, perhaps even aloof, but with him, nothing was for certain. It was uncomfortable, and the very feeling of it, as it seeped inside her, caused her being to shake. They had never been so apart from each other, whilst in the same room; even when they met, they had entangled passionately in the flickering candlelight, whilst a storm had raged outside. Comfort was something she had grown to associate with him, but now, now, it all seemed so foreign. A dream, almost. Her trembling fingers pressed against the wood behind her, offering her some semblance of balance, making her strong, keeping her up while her knees wished to crumble. With Animal Farm in one hand, and the other clasping the fabled mahogany wood of the shelf, it suddenly struck her; in one hand held her past, and in the other, her very present future. The novel was a rainy night in a cold winter, candlelight and breathy kisses, fumbling fingers and ardent declarations; the fingers that were holding her up, were just that; holding her together, keeping her standing while her past threatened to have her careening to the worn wooden floors. His breath was slow and deep, almost sensual, but hers was light and hurried, almost as if she couldn’t gain control, and that was mildly panicking. They had teased each other about the idea of love at first sight, how vain and arrogant it had seemed, but as she looked at him, backed up against the bookshelf, she wondered if it had happened again. How love could emerge and entrance once again, rewriting his name upon her heart, which had never been erased, only it had marginally faded with the passing of time. Her breathing was still short and shallow, and she chided herself for being so weak in his presence.

If it had been a Jane Austen novel, she certainly would have fainted, but she merely lowered her head and pressed her hand against her chest. She didn’t want to draw too much attention to herself, but gathered that it was a rather woeful effort, as he after all, would be looking at her, just as she was looking at him. Even with her head lowered, her gaze still flickered towards him. Gentle heart – “Please forgive me, I had not expected to … see you… so soon. I hope I find you well?” it was all niceties and politeness, the things she should say. But what she wanted to say, what her heart screamed at her to utter; I miss you. I have missed you for so long that noting else seems right anymore. You were everything and I… acted like a classic fool. Was it selfless of me to hope that you would forget about me? Or was it selfish in the hope that you never would? Oh, how she wanted to go to him. To cross the land of desolation and things left unsaid, and go to him, her fingertips caressing the pale alabaster of his cheekbones, before ghosting over the reddened flesh of his lips. She wanted to touch him as if he were hers to touch. Hers alone. But she didn’t, and she wouldn’t. Not if he kept looking at her with that nonchalance, those looks of indifference – perhaps that was even more painful than anger or sadness; the fact that he did indeed, no longer care. “I…uh, I’m sorry, for everything that happened. I’m truly sorry” she could feel her breath catch in her throat, and the prickling of tears in those cerulean eyes of hers, but she didn’t want to cry. She didn’t want to make herself look more vulnerable, not when he stood there, so handsome and dignified. It would not do.

‘I think I might’ve inhaled you. 
I could feel you behind my eyes. 
You’ve gotten into my bloodstream. 
I could feel you floating in me’

---- outfit `` x
---- words ``one oh oh nine
---- notes `` i like them (:
---- tags `` lucien

[/blockquote][/blockquote]

[lucien watson]

Well, now,
if little by little you stop loving me
I shall stop loving you little by little.

She hadn't expected to see him; she was sorry, and sorry again.

Lucien wrote prolifically about their short lived love affair, not only to vent his own frustrations, but also to vividly remind himself of its unfortunate outcome. He had found her absence to be his natural state, for more than a year he was left under the influence of her abrupt and silent departure. And now when his longing soul had found its place in the darkness, his sweetheart returned to torment him once more. He stood mute, speak, but with what words? He could hardly recall what had happened, she had left, and he remained. “You should have written,” he eventually murmured in her direction “or called, or anything…”. He did not speak with the voice of a scorned lover, but with a personal malaise that had gradually taken grip of his body. He had no desire to linger there, and immediately, privately, he wished he had remained subdued and exited the situation. Lucien did not wish to lose himself in her again, he feared suddenly and acutely as the seconds passed, forgiveness on the tip of his tongue. A growing restiveness was tearing at the pits of his stomach now; he loved her still, but in a fleeting, fading manner, in the tale of lost love. Did he really need this chance meeting to provide closure? Was the gap in time too long, too stretched to try and restore perhaps even a friendship? “Why’d you come back” As he spoke he looked at her unsteadily, towards dizzying cerulean spheres, he instantaneously felt the lights turn on, and the circles of darkness inside of him lunge backwards into the acquainted boundaries of her heart. He realised then that she had perhaps come back for him, could he have dared to think such a thing?

He had been red, churning and stirring. The last time her saw her; he had felt the same- the red churn, and the stir. Lucien walked quietly a few steps away from her. At first, his downward spiral had gained momentum, but as the months progressed he had tried, in pieces to re-enter his old life. He had gone back to the human world, placing his second life through the looking glass. He had woken everyday with her face lingering from a dream like a hazy ache. With the departure of Scarlett began the part of his life that could be called on the road*. Lucien persuaded Thaddeus to take a trip with him around Italy in their father’s Jaguar E-type. They had originally intended to go for a week, but weeks turned to months. Three months with the company of a brother and a classic beast. They tried to navigate through the Italian countryside, and down south to the Costiera Amalfitana, through the endless stretch of the coastline Lucien buried his ache amongst the pastel hues and the hillsides and the gardens. They were travelling, intent on liberation. Thaddeus had freed Calliope, and enjoyed his travels with poetry, dizzily scribbling under a fog. They stopped at the famous towns and hit the bars. Two rich kids with an endless supply of paper, they stumbled in foolish and young, woke up at times with no recollection of the night prior, in the open blue air. Their travels clawed at the restrains of their father’s repression and the constraints of their own hearts. Where Thaddeus’s heart lunged and surged forward, Lucien’s had retreated. After a while Thaddeus returned home to his love. Lucien remained in Rome for the remaining months until he decided to walk back through the looking glass. He had become sick of the drinking, and sick of the depraved lifestyle. Even through reckless abandon he remembered her, missed her, yearned for her.

Lucien was marred with conflict. He loved her, but she had left him. This fact could not be overlooked. The air had turned soft, he took a breath and with little effort turned and walked towards her. Closer and closer he moved, until he could almost feel her, his lips only moments away from her lips. There was an obnoxiously large lump in his throat, all he wanted was to rest his lips on hers, feel the soft pink skin and brush his fingers down the hollow of her throat and slip onto her waist. But he couldn’t, he showed great restraint. And with the restraint he realised that he had reached for the wrong question, he paused before speaking “why did you leave me?” his voice was low, bouncing softly off the walls, landing ever so gentle upon her ears.

*On the Road by Jack Kerouac