the_seafarer | (no subject)

(no subject)

It hasn't been precisely uncomfortable, these last few days, but the space between Caspian and Lucy has certainly been a little, well--

Strained.

Still, he kisses her gently before moving to the wardrobe to undress for bed, and his hand still lingers at the small of her back, and he still tells her the small things of the day.

So perhaps the important things have not changed entirely.

Still--strained. Just slightly.

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"Yes," simply.

Because it is simple. He loves her, and he only ever loves her more, and never less, than when he began loving her so very long ago.

"I love you."

"Then it's the only choice she could make. I could make. And it doesn't matter if it's right or wrong."

"It's the right one." He's certain, here, and it is good to feel once more that he can be certain.

His fingers lace with hers. "It was a good story."

"My very favorite. Thank you for helping me with it," she answers, and then looks over at him out of the corner of her eye.

"You know what would make it even better?"

"What?"

He's sitting back up again, and over the sea the sky is clearing.

Somewhere, a wild bird sings.

His answer is given as she reaches out to put a hand behind his head and tug him towards her.

"Guess."

And then her mouth is being used for something beyond talking.

Because a kiss as the sun comes up may be cliched, but Lucy doesn't think she cares about that so much as how he tastes.

Besides.

Things are cliched for reasons.

Somewhere past them, the sun rises huge and white and spills light over the calm water, and the star sets behind them

(or it catches on the trees and gleams for a moment on the ground)

but Caspian only feels the warmth from the sunrise because he can't pull away from Lucy. He kisses her like he had that first time, on board the Dawn Treader in a dream, and like he had while they were sitting together in the bar and he'd had leaves in his hair. His hand is at her waist and the other behind her head and she tastes like home.

And the day has risen.

Time passes.

It's always now, though. That's what matters, and when she does pull away, finally, it's with a smile she's never worn before where he could see her, though it's close to the one she used to fall asleep with, after he'd kissed her goodnight.

But it's not goodnight, this time, not with this kiss, and when she pulls away Lucy is happy and sad both, a little, but more than that

(grant us peace)

she's peaceful, as she rests her head against his chest again.

Time passes, and it's always now, and soon it will be a now where she stands and offers him a hand and tugs him along with her.

(And when he asks, "Where are we going?" she will only say, "Oh, further up, love, further in," and lead him farther on.)

But for the moment, Lucy listens to the sound of breath that's not needed and a heart pumping useless blood and the sea and the gulls and if his shirt grows damp, it's for pure joy.

Tears are not always bad things.

And she'll have to stand, soon, because even in this moment the urge to walk on is nagging at her brain, but not quite yet.

She'll steal a few more moments of joy.

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