Chapter Five: Need
by thelittletree
Vincent closed his apartment door slowly behind him, not leaning wearily against it until he heard the soft click that had become so familiar. 'What am I doing?' He sighed through his teeth, a frustrated sound, and walked silently to the bathroom. As he undressed, he berated himself further. 'What do I think I'm doing? Smiling at her like some kind of fool.' He frowned slightly as he unwound the red bandana from his forehead. It would have to stop.
She was strong, stronger than he'd thought, to hold up under the abuse of her friend. She was so young, but something told him she'd been hurt by someone before. Deeply hurt. The haunted look he occasionally saw in her eyes as she stared at Terry gave her away. And he couldn't help but feel as if he shared some horrible secret with her, something that only the two of them knew.
She had touched him. Her fingers hadn't been trembling or cold. They had been warm, and strangely soft for someone who made guns for a living. Looking into her face, feeling his skin prickle pleasantly under her fingertips, his walls had come crashing down leaving him vulnerable. When had been the last time he'd been touched like that...affectionately, without fear? Had *she* been the last one? That had been so long ago...
He dropped the bandana into the sink and moved to the bathtub where he drew the shower curtain across and turned on the water. He knew she'd blamed herself for Terry's violence. Though it wasn't her fault. Vincent had been the jealous on-looker once, and he'd never blamed Lu...*her*. Besides, he really wasn't worth worrying about. Terry hadn't hurt him. Nothing that hadn't healed up within hours. He hadn't wanted her to go to any trouble for him. If he'd wanted to, he could have done something to stop Terry.
Seeing her sitting there at her desk every morning, hunched over as if she was being physically weighed down, had made him want to do something. Not to Terry. It was not his fight. Some small gesture to let her know that he was all right, that she didn't have to worry.
A smile.
But it would have to stop. The smiles she returned to him every morning and evening made him feel good. They made him remember her fingertips and the heavenly comfort of her embrace.
But he had to stay apart from her, to keep her from his curse. No matter what he thought he wanted, he couldn't risk her life. Everyone who'd ever tried to get close to him had gotten hurt, or worse. And she didn't deserve that.
Though it would have been nice, after all this time...
He doused that thought in hot water as he stepped into the shower. It was better not to think of it. It was better not to tempt himself into believing that fate might have changed its mind after all of this time. That maybe it was allowing a light in to banish that dark curse. That maybe it had moved on to torment someone else.
But what except fate could have found another one to bring into his life, another young, beautiful one who wasn't afraid? One who had the ability to move beyond his barriers, seemingly without even trying?
Maybe this was his second chance. 'Does fate allow a second chance?' he wondered as he leaned his head back into the spray from the shower nozzle. Not bloody likely. He would stop all of this foolishness. He knew better.
She wasn't his responsibility. No matter how much she needed someone...
Or how she made him need...
Vincent pushed the door to the shop open as Elira unlocked it, stepping onto the floorboards of the shop without a sound. She smiled at him, a warm smile.
"Good morning, Vincent."
He nodded at her, but forced his lips to stay in a firm straight line. He disliked the way her expression fell when she realized he wasn't going to return her smile. Quickly, he brushed passed her and entered the forge.
Later that day, Elira found herself wondering, even as she held back the stinging tears, if Terry had had a bad night.
He'd been the last one in, and Elira hadn't made mention of his tardiness. In fact, she hardly talked to him at all anymore. His hurt, angry expression made him a stranger. Elira wanted to say she was sorry, to tell him that she would love him the way he wanted. But she knew it wasn't right. In her heart, it wasn't right. And Terry would just have to realize that she wasn't in love with him.
She just hoped it wouldn't take too much longer.
Vincent hadn't smiled this morning.
And then Terry had finally spoken. But his words had been barbs aimed straight at her heart. And this time he hadn't thrown them first through Vincent.
"Elira, you're really selfish, you know that? A selfish, heartless bitch!" Then he'd left the shop and hadn't come back. His words continued to hurt as if he were still spitting them at her.
Benita had tried to console her, but the soothing words, interrupted every once in a while by an insult to Terry or men in general, had passed over her like so much air. At lunch, she wandered up to her apartment to be alone.
In her kitchen, leaning against the counter and stirring her tea, Elira took a breath to settle herself. She was a selfish, heartless bitch, was she? Why? Because she didn't love him? Wasn't he being selfish, trying to force her? She'd thought he was her friend, her closest friend. She'd thought he would understand. But no one understood. Except maybe...
There was a knock at her door. She looked up, startled, and it was a moment before she put her tea down. It wouldn't be Terry, would it? No, Benita wouldn't have let him past the front room. But hadn't she gone for lunch? Elira struggled to remember if Terry still had the key to the shop she'd given him for days she was sick.
At the door, with her hand on the knob, she thought she'd better find out who it was. She didn't want to see Terry right now. She didn't know what she would do if she saw him now. Or what he would do.
"Who is it?" Her voice was quiet. She hoped the person on the other side of the door had been able to hear her.
There was a moment of silence. And then a subdued response. "Vincent."
Vincent? She blinked in surprise. What did he want? He hadn't smiled at her today so she doubted this was a personal call. She opened the door and the emotionless expression on his face gave her heart a pinch. After the last few weeks, he almost looked like a stranger.
"Yes?" she asked him.
"I once loved a woman who didn't love me back. But, I never talked to her the way Terry was talking to you."
Elira stared at him. "What?"
"I said..."
"No, I...I heard you." He hadn't smiled today. Then, out of the blue, he came to her door to tell her...this. An objection to Terry's treatment of her, to let her know that he believed Terry was in the wrong. And, for some reason, it made Elira feel better; she'd been unable to take in Benita's words, but his words went straight to her heart.
Because he'd said it to her. He'd trusted her enough to say it to her. And she could imagine the difficulty he'd overcome in arriving at her door to say it.
Vincent turned away abruptly and started back down the stairs. Caught off guard by his sudden departure, Elira wasn't able to find her voice until he was half-way down.
"Vincent, wait. Come inside."
He stopped, his feet on different steps. And then, after a moment where Elira was almost sure he was going to continue, he turned and walked slowly back up toward her. She smiled and moved out of the doorway to let him enter.
He stood inside the door like a lost coat rack for a second as she stepped back into the kitchen to retrieve her tea. As she walked past him, headed for the livingroom, she noticed his hesitation.
"C'mon Vincent. It's the lunch break. The shop'll be able to survive without you for a few minutes. Take your boots off and stay awhile."
Vincent stood unmoving another moment before he removed his boots and followed her into the living room. She could understand his hesitation, considering what had happened the last time they'd been alone in her apartment.
It was the middle of the day. The curtains of her balcony window were wide open, letting the sun into her small apartment. It glinted off the glass covers on her pictures and created colorful prisms on her wall from a gaudy window ornament Benita had given her one year for her birthday. Elira sat on the couch, curling her legs up under her as she sipped at her tea. Vincent stood by the arm of the couch, looking around the room as if thoroughly fascinated.
"You can sit down, Vincent," she told him, adding a belated, "if you want," when he glanced at her. An uncomfortable pause ensued until Vincent stepped around the arm and sat down. At the other end of the sofa. Elira pretended not to notice and raisied the mug to her lips again.
"Thank you for saying what you did. What Terry said hurt me a lot."
Vincent just looked at her.
Elira cleared her throat, feeling a little self-conscious. "Terry doesn't understand how it is with me. He never really understood, I guess. He's never been very much of a listener." She chuckled. "But maybe I kind of like it that way. That way I don't feel so bad about keeping secrets from him." She glanced at Vincent and cleared her throat again. "He's been asking me out for a long time, ever since I met him, but I always turn him down. I've never told him why, but it has to do with...with my marriage." She gave a quick smile. "I'm not married now, of course. About five years ago, when I was eighteen, I met my...my husband. Eagan." Her throat tightened suddenly. She coughed and reached for her tea. "He was twenty then, with a lot of plans for his life. His father owned the auto-body shop in Kalm where I worked, and he wanted Eagan to take over the shop when he retired. But Eagan was a free-spirit. He had his own goals. He wanted to become one of the representatives for Neo-Midgar. Once we were married, we moved from Kalm to Penora, sector eight. He was so certain he would get the job, and then we'd have our future made. But, there were some older men who didn't like Eagan's new 'youthful, idealist fantasies', and they had enough sway to change the vote. He didn't make it onto the board."
She dared a glance in Vincent's direction. He hadn't moved an inch, and though his eyes were still focused on her she couldn't guess what he was feeling. He was listening, though. He was listening to her with more attention than she'd ever been listened to with before. She took another sip of her tea.
"I told Eagan that it didn't matter. I loved him and he loved me. We could make it together. We could take over his father's auto-body shop to make a living until the elections came around again. But he wasn't satisfied with that. We got into a big fight about it one night. And then, the next day his..." She stopped talking to compose herself, closing her eyes on the tears that were threatening. "...his body was found mangled beneath a train. Someone said he'd thrown himself onto the track. The only way..." She choked suddenly on her words and put her tea down before she sloshed it all over herself. "The only way I could recognize the body was the ring on his finger, an exact replica of mine." She rubbed her finger absently where she'd worn the ring for two and a half years after he had gone.
"You feel responsible for his death."
It wasn't a question, it was a statement. Elira looked up from her hands to find herself staring into his intense red eyes, his expression as still as if he hadn't spoken.
She lowered her gaze. "Yes, of course I do. If I hadn't fought with him, if I had just tried to understand..." She trailed off and wiped at her eyes.
When Elira returned her gaze to Vincent, she found him leaning against the back of the couch, his eyes looking distantly across the room. His metal prosthetic was stretched out toward her on the cushions. She fought the urge to put out her hands and touch it.
"I was twenty-five when I fell in love," he told her quietly.
Elira chuckled a little. "You know, no offense intended, but it's hard to picture you being in love."
Vincent glanced at her out of the corner of his eye. "Yes, I suppose it might be." He took a breath, his chest visibly rising and falling slowly beneath his coat. "She didn't love me, though. Not the way I wanted her to. She was in love with another man who abused her. I tried to convince her a number of times to leave him and come with me, but she refused."
"Yeah, that happens sometimes."
"I stopped asking her eventually. And, one day, he killed her."
Elira choked suddenly. "He...he killed her?" she asked in a strangled voice.
Vincent nodded and looked toward her. "He was not a good man. I had tried to tell her, but she didn't want to hear it. She loved him. She said she would be all right. And I suppose I wanted to believe her. I didn't want to hurt her or try to force her to leave. But perhaps I should have." This last statement was so quiet Elira almost didn't hear it.
She felt in that moment as if she was staring into a mirror. They were the same. The same grief, the same guilt. She and this man, this beautiful soul seated across from her, with his deep red eyes and his long black hair. She realized as if for the first time how good-looking he was. Maybe not exactly society's definition of handsome, but possessing a kind of startling attractiveness. The urge to touch him flared up suddenly and her fingertips nearly tingled with the desire to caress his face, his ears, his neck, his hair. And his lips.
But Vincent stood suddenly as if he'd been partial to her thoughts. He mumbled something that sounded suspiciously like, "I should get back to the forge," and gave her a nod before walking around the couch and out of sight. A few moments later, Elira heard the door to her apartment open and close.
She drank the rest of her tea slowly. And then, when she was finished, she wandered into the kitchen to put the mug in the sink for washing. She smiled as she stepped back into her living room. When she came to her sofa, she turned her back to it and spread her arms. And then she toppled backward, falling onto the cushions. The springs squealed under her. She laughed as her red curls bounced gaily around her face.
Everything was going to be all right.
Elira looked up from some government paperwork as Benita stepped out of the forge for the evening. The other three employees had already left, so she, Benita, and Vincent were the only one's left in the shop. Elira smiled.
Benita gave a grin and pulled Elira into a hug. "There's nothin' to worry about, honey," she whispered. "Everythin'll turn out."
Elira nodded. Benita gave her one more squeeze before releasing her. She then gave a wink and walked out of the door. Elira chuckled slightly and shook her head. There hadn't been a day gone by that she'd not been grateful for hiring Benita instead of another man.
Elira was just putting the papers away in a drawer of her desk when Vincent stepped out of the forge. But instead of nodding, perhaps with a smile, and heading quickly for the door, he stood beside her desk where Benita had been only moments before. Elira glanced up at him.
"Yes, Vincent?"
He stood looking at her for a few seconds in silence. "Would you like me to teach you how to use a gun?"
Elira shut the drawer and stood. "To use a gun? Why?"
Vincent gave a small shrug. "A few weeks ago you said I should teach you to use one so that you would feel safer walking alone at night."
Elira raised an eyebrow and laughed, remembering. "I did say that, didn't I?" She'd forgotten about it completely, meaning it only as a joke. From the expression on Vincent's face, though, it looked as if he'd taken it seriously enough. This time, she was the one to shrug. "Sure. It'll give me a new perspective on guns, even if I never shoot anyone. We'll just have to schedule some time."
Vincent stared at her a moment longer. "Do you have previous engagements tonight?"
It was Elira's turn to stare. Was he asking her out? "No, actually. Well, just my laundry, but that can be done anytime." She felt her heartbeat become stronger, louder. Breathing was suddenly a little difficult.
"There is a small unused park in MiraCletus that I often practice in. If you want, I can take you with me and teach you."
He *was* asking her out! His distance from that morning was gone without a trace. "Yes! I mean, that would be great. I...I'd really like to learn if you don't mind taking the time to teach me."
Vincent nodded and then waited while Elira slipped into her coat, and then again while she locked the door before they left. Stuffing the keys into a pocket, she walked with him up to the train station. As they went along, Elira saw some unwholesome-looking people glance her way, but less than a glimpse of Vincent detered them from trying anything. Vincent didn't seem to notice them, facing straight ahead as he was. Smiling, Elira walked closer to him.
The train was almost empty. Two men, one near the rear of the car and one at the front, were the only other ones occupying this section. As they passed the one at the back, a scruffy, unshaven man who smelled as if he didn't do enough bathing, but too much drinking, a calloused hand reached out and pinched Elira's bottom. She gasped and turned, smacking his hand angrily.
His eyes were glazed over, his mouth open in a sly, drunken grin. "Sorry there, miss. Just testin' the fruit."
Elira wanted to yell at him, to drag him out by going over everything Benita had ever said to her about the baseness of men, but Vincent took her arm and led her past him, giving the man a piercing stare. The man's grin faded and he sat up in his seat, swallowing nervously, not meeting Vincent's eyes. "Didn't mean nothin' by it," he mumbled as if to himself.
Vincent ushered her forward until she slid into a seat beside a window, allowing Vincent the seat beside her. As he lowered himself down, he murmured, "I am sorry, Elira."
Elira felt her lips twitch as he said her name for the first time. And then she gave a chuckle. "You shouldn't apologize for another's mistakes, Vincent. Every man's sin is his own, after all."
Vincent turned to look at her for a moment. And then the corners of his mouth turned up slightly as he shook his head in...amusement? Elira couldn't be sure; she'd never seen him amused before. She hoped she'd get another chance; every little thing he did seemed to reveal something new.
His apartment was dark, but he didn't bother turning on a light as he strode out of sight only to return with a small handgun and a clip. Putting them both into a pocket, he led her out of the building.
The night was cool, though not uncomfortable. Elira nestled her chin into her collar and pushed her hands further into her pockets, letting her eyes roam the deserted streets of MiraCletus. It was so quiet here. The only thing she could hear were their footsteps; even the almost unnoticable clop of Vincent's boots was audible in the silence. Eventually as they walked, a cluster of barren trees, prickled here and there with small green buds, came into view. Between two of the trees stood a very old and rusty looking gate left partly opened, its bottom rungs draped in ivy and weeds. The park, Elira presumed.
Inside, it was filled with the twisted, reaching shadows of the trees in the moonlight, its grassy floor littered with cigarrette butts and abandoned beer bottles. Elira felt a little uneasy as she glanced around at all of the places a mugger or a rapist could be hiding, but Vincent didn't seem uncomfortable in these surroundings. In fact, he seemed to walk a little more leisurely now as if the company of shadows relaxed him.
There was a rotting stump in the middle of the small grove, roughened by the passing of the years, but still level on top. Vincent walked up to it and set a beer bottle he had plucked from the grass upon it. He then walked back to Elira, pulling the gun out of his pocket and inserting the clip.
"Firing a gun takes almost no skill whatsoever," he began, stretching out his arm and looking at the bottle down the nose of the handgun. "It's the aiming and the timing that take so much practice." Elira jumped as the sound of the shot rang through the emptiness of the park, followed closely by the dischord of shattering glass. She looked to the stump. The bottle was gone, its only remains a few lone shards. She raised her eyebrows, duly impressed.
Vincent lowered the gun and surveyed his handiwork for a moment before heading out to set up another bottle. Upon returning to Elira's side, he held out the gun for her to take. She looked at it blankly for a moment before picking it up in her hands.
The weight was so familiar. She'd forged many of these guns before. Glancing at it quickly as she turned it over in her hands, she could see that it was old and unadorned by designs, as if they had been worn off by use. The surface was cool and smooth. She slipped her fingers into the positions she'd seen Vincent's occupy. It felt good in her hand. And then she raised her arm, imitating what she had seen Vincent do. And she began to tighten her finger.
"Wait!" she heard Vincent say urgently from beside her, but it was too late. His voice startled her and her finger clenched spasmodically. The sound of the shot was deafening, but she had little to no time to reflect on that as she was unexpectedly thrown backward. Without time for a gasp, she found herself falling.
Only to land on something warm that grunted underneath her. She opened her eyes and sat up, glancing down at Vincent whose abdomen had broken her fall. With a cry, she swiveled off of him and helped him to sit up.
"Oh, I'm so sorry! Are you all right?"
He nodded, his expression a little smug as if he was laughing at some inside joke. "I'm sorry. I forgot to warn you about the kick."
Elira frowned as she got to her feet. "The...kick?"
"Yes," Vincent answered as he stood, brushing himself off. "The tendency for the gun to throw a person backward as the bullet leaves the barrel. You have to shift your stance to allow for it. Like this." He moved his feet until one was slightly ahead of him and the other placed behind him, ready to catch his weight when the 'kick' occured. Elira copied his pose. She then raised the gun up again to the bottle she'd missed last time and let her finger tighten on the trigger. The shot was very loud in her ears and she started, feeling the jolt backward. This time she kept her feet, but there was no shattering glass. This would take some getting used to.
Vincent looked at her a moment before holding out his right hand. Elira placed the gun in his palm. Turning to the bottle, he affected his stance until he was satisfied with it, and then glanced at her out of the corner of his eye. "You have to be able to keep your hand and arm steady as you shoot so that the bullet goes where you want it to go. Don't expect too much tonight, though. This is, after all, only your first attempt."
Elira nodded, watching Vincent train his eye on the bottle over the barrel of the gun. She wondered how willing he would be to talk right now, now that he seemed in a comfortable state of mind. "Where did you learn to use guns like this, Vincent? From Barret?"
Vincent continued to peer down the barrel for a moment before lowering his arm. "No." He didn't look at her, staring at the bottle as if expecting it to come to life.
Elira waited a few moments longer than necessary for the rest of his answer. And then she sighed. "Well, where did you learn then?"
Vincent stood perfectly still for almost a full ten seconds before heaving a silent sigh. And then he turned his head, meeting her questioning eyes with his red, unresponsive ones. "It's a long and complicated story."
Elira raised her eyebrows before giving a shrug. "So? What, do you have some 'previous engagements' I don't know about?"
Vincent looked away, glancing down at the ground in front of him. And then he looked back to the bottle, almost forgotton on the stump, shaking his head slowly. "I don't want to talk about it right now." His voice was strained, as if he was inexplicably tired.
Elira pursed her lips. "All right. I'm sorry if I'm prying. I feel like I know so little of you." That was an understatement. But there had to be something he was willing to talk about. As he raised his arm, aiming again at the bottle, she asked him, "Who was the woman you loved and lost?"
Vincent didn't answer. He pulled the trigger quickly, without warning, making Elira jump at the sound. The bottle didn't break.
"Damn."
"Vincent?"
He lowered his arm and looked over at her, his eyes filled with a strange weariness she had never before seen in him. With a helpless gesture that might've been a shrug, he shook his head, saying, "I'm sorry, Elira. My past is...something I haven't thought about in a long time." He turned his eyes away quickly, as if this admission had already given away too much.
Elira nodded, wanting to apologize again. She, of all people, should have realized that he might be reluctant to talk, no matter what he'd said that afternoon. After all, she'd had a hard time telling Barret about her past, and it hadn't all come in a rush. It had been revealed in spurts, like the hiccuping of a volcano. She would have to be patient and leave him to his own pace. She didn't want him to withdraw again.
Elira held out her hand and Vincent passed her the gun. She idly looked it over again, her mind turning even as she turned the weapon around in her grip. "I used to be like you, Vincent, holed up inside myself. I'm still pretty unwilling to talk about my past. I already judge myself; I would hate for other people to judge me." She gave a sad little smirk and raised the gun up the way Vincent had, aiming for the bottle once more. "It's a lonely way to live. You probably already know that. But if you ever want to talk..." She gave a shrug and then pulled the trigger. The jolt of the shot ran angrily through her body. No breaking glass. Just silence. She swore, feeling inexplicably frustrated.
As she stared moodily at the ground, Elira didn't notice that Vincent had moved until long, black-clad arms reached hesitantly around her shoulders. She gave a start, but then stood, fidgeting, as he took her right wrist in his hand and lifted her arm up until the gun was level again with the bottle. He then curled his right fingers around her hand on the gun and clutched the other side of the butt with his prosthetic. Stooping a little, he put his mouth next to her ear and cleared his throat quietly.
"Don't become agitated," he told her softly. "I told you not to expect anything tonight."
Elira nodded distractedly and sniffed, her nose running a little in the chill of the air. And she noticed his scent, mixed with that of the forge. It was kind of musky, almost like the smell on the pages of an old book, or of the dying leaves that fall from the trees before the first snowfall. It was an intoxicating smell and Elira noticed how it made her breathing quicken and her heart pound. She wondered if he could hear it.
She swallowed and frowned; she didn't want to be attracted to him. It made things complicated. After all, she wasn't ready for anything beyond friendship. His fingers twitched as they touched hers, thin and strong beneath his glove. She wasn't ready, was she? She took a breath to calm herself, but it was unsteady and she cursed inwardly. She was beginning to wonder what she was ready for.
However, he had invited her out as a friend. She very much doubted that he was looking for anything beyond friendship. So she would just have to put these thoughts out of her head. 'For now,' her mind added involuntarily and she clenched her teeth; she and Vincent were different, she told herself. Different from other people. So things would obviously be different between them. She nodded once to herself before raising her chin, waiting for instruction.
"Can you see the bottle at the end of the barrel?" Vincent asked her. Elira could feel his breath on her cheek and it made her shiver. Blinking, she focused her eyes on the bottle before shifting her aim until she could see the brown neck just above the end of the gun. "Yes," she murmured. Vincent gave a small nod and cleared his throat again.
"I'll hold your hands steady as you shoot to keep your aim from wavering. Fire when you feel you're ready."
'When I'm ready...' Taking a breath as silently as she could, she closed her eyes and pulled the trigger. The kick thrust her back into Vincent and she jerked automatically at the retort from the gun. The sound of shattering glass was omnipresent.
Elira opened her eyes and lowered the gun in time to see the last few spinning shards of the bottle fall to the ground. She gasped, grinning with pleasure. She'd done it. The bullet she'd fired had broken the bottle. With a whoop, she turned around and embraced Vincent fiercely, barely conscious of anything save the sudden rush of victory.
"I did it! I broke the bottle!" She withdrew and smiled broadly at her instructor of about fifteen minutes. But he wasn't smiling. His mouth was open, his face frozen in overwhelmed shock. Elira's expression fell as she realized that she had trespassed again with her sudden burst of physical affection. And she wasn't sure if it was going to be okay this time. She could feel him trembling in her arms, his eyes darting around her face as if he expected her to attack.
She lowered her eyes and took a shallow breath; maybe there was still time. Maybe an apology would still have some effect. "I-I'm sorry, Vincent." She cautiously slid her hands out from around his waist and looked up at him for his reaction to her attempt at reparation.
He said nothing. He just lowered his face and let his lips brush hers. Elira inhaled, surprised, as a jolt like a stroke of lightning charged through her body. The bigger surprise came, though, when she was unable to keep herself from returning the kiss with more passion than she'd thought possible after all of this time. She dropped the gun. It thumped dully to the ground.
Vincent drew breath sharply through his nose as his body stiffened, his muscles tightening as she embraced him again. Then, in one swift motion, he wrapped his arms around her waist and pulled her tightly against him.
He was thin, thinner than he looked. Elira slipped her hands inside his coat and caressed him, feeling his ribs under her fingers, feeling muscles constrict in his chest. Slowly, he pulled his mouth from hers, lifting his chin and gasping as if breaking the surface of a pool. Elira began to trace a line of kisses down his neck, feeling his pulse jump beneath her lips. 'This is the wrong thing to be doing...this is the wrong thing to be doing...' her mind repeated a continuous warning, but she ignored it, wholly caught up in the feel of him, the scent of him.
"No, please," Vincent whispered hoarsely, releasing his hold on her. "Please, Elira. Stop."
It was the hardest thing she'd ever done to let go of him, but she had promised to be patient, to go slowly. Her breathing and heart rate still faster than usual, she dropped her arms to her sides and backed away from him. Her body tingled in the chill of the air.
"I'm sorry," Vincent started, his breathing also somewhat staggered. "I'm very sorry. I thought I might've been able to stay apart...but I couldn't...and it's dangerous, Elira, you don't know how..."
Her heart swelled with pity. His fears were the same as hers. The danger. The danger of falling in love. It could kill her. It could kill him. The curse was unmerciful. She raised a hand and placed two fingers on his lips. He stopped talking.
"I'm willing to take the risk if you are."
Vincent seemed to take a moment digesting her words. And then, suddenly, he took her in his arms and held her to him in a powerful embrace. Elira slipped her hands around his waist again, holding onto him with all of the strength she had. All of the strength they would need. After a moment, she raised her head from his shoulder and his lips found hers, his kiss filled with a starving intensity she had never known. And then the intensity became her own, muffling her senses, muffling all but him.
Somehow, they made it back to his apartment, running through the deserted streets as if being pursued by death. The rooms were dark, but Vincent led her to the bedroom without a hitch. The sheets of his bed were cold against her nakedness, but Vincent was warm. And soon, she was burning like a coal in the forge's furnace. Burning and burning...
Until all of the fear was reduced to ashes, and all of the cares of the world melted into nothing. Until fate and curses became nothing but a weary lover's dream, and anxiety gave way to peace...
And peace gave way to sleep.