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Laurie dreams of gold.
Gold skies. Gold trees. Golden strands of hair glowing, fluttering over Laurie's eyelids, against his cheeks, soft tresses against his fingers.
He hears a laugh, contagious, rambunctious laughter that makes you snort because the laughter is funnier than the joke itself.
The ground is cold and hard against his back but there's heat pressed in his right arm. He turns his head to the side to find Amy March, his body stills for a moment before it relaxes, he reaches up and gingerly moves the hair off his face and she laughs again, a ringing beautiful sound to his ears.
She rolls over him and he takes notice of the blue silk robe she wears, so thin he can see the slope of her body, he looks around and finds nothing but grass and Amy and the gold sunset of the sky.
Her body is warm against his, the curve of her back against his palm feels right, her fingers trace his face, his lips, up his nose, across his long cheekbones that, according to her, match up with his long eyes.
𝘠𝘰𝘶'𝘳𝘦 𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘭𝘭𝘺 𝘩𝘢𝘯𝘥𝘴𝘰𝘮𝘦.
Her voice is quiet and soft, nothing above a whisper even though there's no one around. It makes him smile.
𝘠𝘰𝘶'𝘳𝘦 𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘭𝘭𝘺 𝘣𝘦𝘢𝘶𝘵𝘪𝘧𝘶𝘭.
She smiles and tells him that she already knows, it makes him laugh and she towers over him, like his personal angel and his fingers are focused on playing with her hair, with rubbing her scalp with his fingertips, the soft long hair she usually has braided atop her head and he somehow understands why, if she wears it down all the time everyone would be hopeless against her, more than they already are anyways.
𝘐 𝘭𝘰𝘷𝘦 𝘺𝘰𝘶.
Her pink lips open in a small ‘o’ of surprise, in a very Amy March way he has grown accustomed to since he was 16, in their younger years he might have teased her for it, his younger self would've been panicking at such answer to such words. However, this particular version of himself feels amused and at peace.
𝘠𝘰𝘶 𝘸𝘩𝘢𝘵?
𝘐 𝘭𝘰𝘷𝘦 𝘺𝘰𝘶.
𝘠𝘰𝘶 𝘭𝘰𝘷𝘦 𝘮𝘦.
It's not a question but he answers anways;
𝘠𝘦𝘴.
Her whole face lights up, she giggles and rolls them over so he's the one towering over her, he accepts the change and snuggles himself between her thighs. 𝘈𝘮𝘺. She catches his cheeks between her palms and he follows suit, his lips easily finding hers, like they were made to fall together. Their lips rock together in a gentle rhythm, he feels like he's being deposited in a romance novel, one he doesn't know how it develops, or how it ends.
The kiss is soft and unhurried, something so peaceful yet exciting about it, an exchange of mutual respect, deep longing and happiness. 𝘐 𝘭𝘰𝘷𝘦 𝘺𝘰𝘶. She says into his mouth, hands warm where they cradle his face, warm where they slip to his back in light and delicate touches.
𝘐 𝘭𝘰𝘷𝘦 𝘺𝘰𝘶. 𝘐 𝘭𝘰𝘷𝘦 𝘺𝘰𝘶. 𝘐 𝘭𝘰𝘷𝘦 𝘺𝘰𝘶.
Laurie's not sure if it's her voice or his own that keeps whispering the three significant words.
He wakes up slowly blinking at the ceiling, trying to process what just happened in his dream.
Amy. He was dreaming of Amy. Dream Amy told him she loved him, it really was a dream then. And dreams mean nothing.
His right hand reaches out and twirls the cheap ring in his left hand, the reminder of his guilt, his fickleness and disloyalty.
Somehow spending time with Amy becomes the highlight of his days, the only thing he has to look forward. Amy naturally falls into the role of his first priority.
He steals as much time as he can, after all, most of her time is taken from Fred. He corners her in her studio, in the place she made him understand she's not some cold, careless social climber, that everything she does never comes without a thought. He envies her this.
No matter how hard he tries against it, he seems to gravitate towards her. He pays closer attention to her now, the way her lips move when she talks, how her fingers twirl nervously when she thinks she spoke way too much, what makes her smile and laugh. Watches her interactions with people and her efforts to make other people happy, even at her own expense sometimes. She feels like home in this far-away place, it warms him all over, to know that even after everything he'd done, he can still come to Amy, a candle to follow in the dark.
They talk about their younger years, reminiscing past years between laughter and French sweets, and when her grins soften to smiles it reminds him of her younger self, careless and free, of himself tugging Amy's pigtails and braids, stealing scones from Hannah. It's nostalgia, he reasons, why he's spending so much time with her.
But when he closes his eyes—she's always there, and the less he believes his own excuse. She's always there, staring back at him in disappointment, amusement and some sort of hurt he didn't knew he was able of provoking in the youngest March, other times he's tracing her face with his forefinger, other times she's in pleasure under him.
It makes him feel guilty, 𝘐 𝘤𝘢𝘯'𝘵 𝘭𝘰𝘷𝘦 𝘢𝘯𝘺𝘰𝘯𝘦 𝘦𝘭𝘴𝘦, his mind keeps repeating along that day on the hill, his thoughts are muddled, hazy things, in the nights he dreams of Amy, in the days he forces himself to think of Jo.
The orange glow of the drawing room of her hotel makes her glow gold, their chaperone is sitting quietly in the corner reading a book, giving them some privacy, it's concerningly empty. Amy feels small beside him, she's draped against the sofa and she talks and talks and talks and he gladly listens, she talks about letters coming from home, about Aunt March and her disapproval of her spending so much time with him, he sits back and lets the throaty quality of her voice soothe him.
His eyes dance over her side profile, dance over the slope of her nose, her jawline, her thick eyelashes feathering down when he laughs at something she said that she considers was out of line.
He allows his mind to wander when she brings up his grandfather and work and responsibilities, he wants to spend time with her, doesn't she see that? Why does she wants him to leave? He transports back to the dream he had quite some nights ago. The yearning he had felt in the morning and the guilt afterwards.
He thinks he desires her, at most, and only that. It's not unusual for him to want an attractive girl, nothing wrong with that. He wants to unravel her hair from its tight coiffure and see it tumble past her shoulders, to dig his fingers in it to feel its softness, would Amy be soft and compliant like his dream? Or the confident, commanding girl she always is? He hopes it's the latter.
He wants to push the many layers of her dress and bend her over, pull her hair and leave marks in her neck, rip open her split drawers and ram against her to get rid of his shaky compulsion, no, no, that is all wrong and he knows it.
If he ever had the chance to bed Amy he'd be careful, he can be soft when it comes to an important girl, and Amy is a very important girl. He'd unravel her hair, see it tumble, slowly undo the laces of her corset and stroke every inch of her, count the freckles adorning her skin, kiss from her toes upwards, work his fingers between her legs to see the blush spreading throughout her chest to her cheeks, would hold her close as they become one person, he'd be slow with his thrusts at first until Amy is asking for more with a strangled voice.
His cheeks burn from embarrassment when he realizes he's fantasizing about Jo's youngest sister. He pushes a cushion over his lap as subtly as he can. He berates himself because he allows his mind run wild when he's not supposed to, when he's not allowed to.
She's soon to be engaged, she's soon to be Amy Vaughn and he's still hurting over Jo, so why does his thoughts strain so much? Too much daydreaming, John says of him, and he somewhat agrees.
Amy reaches out and grabs his arm and eyes him in concern and he realizes she had been calling out his name.
Her touch is featherlight, there's something so personal and intimate about it that it makes him feel like his heart is expanding in his chest.
Laurie doesn't like seeing them together.
And he does sees them together, far too much.
He had spent the day before planning what to do with Amy that evening, perhaps they could go to the back of her hotel, where there's massive trees and where they like to see the sunset. Maybe they could ride around with the horses, perhaps go boating until it was time for dinner.
He's growing impatient in Amy's studio, he studies the sketches there, the still life paintings, the portraits and sculptures. He's been waiting for her almost 15 minutes and he's not sure where she's been all day and gets a clue when she arrives in Fred's carriage, he hops down to help her out. He isn't used to fighting for the attentions of a woman, least of all a March.
Fred says something and Amy laughs, dull and not at all like her, nothing like the guffaws she releases when she's with Laurie. He comforts himself with the thought that Fred would never know her the way he does.
He sees it all from inside of the room that now feels claustrophobic, he sees the way Fred looks around to make sure no one is watching and bends over to press his lips against Amy's, it makes something turn in his chest. Amy is still for a second and relaxes.
Fred smiles into the kiss and her small hand wrap around his bicep, he towers over her and her head tips back, it's a good thing he can't see her face. His hand is under her chin and pulling her in for more and Laurie wants to tug his ugly necktie and push him away, just because he's kissing Amy, because Amy is too soft and beautiful and kind to be with someone like him.
Amy outshines everyone. She is fiery and bright and confident and funny, stubborn and strong-willed.
A symbol of strength.
Maybe it's his jealousy hitting him violently now, but Laurie knows, that 𝘯𝘰𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨 about this is right. Their bodies don't fit naturally together like his and hers do, even for just those fleeting cheek kisses and hugs. She's so ridiculously too good for Fred Vaughn.
Except that it's not jealousy. It's concern.
It's not a wonder Fred sees Amy and sees the whole world in a much brighter way, she does seems to have that ability, he himself had lived almost 7 months in dull and gray moods, late nights in operas and bars, drowning in overpriced champagne and necking women. Until Amy and her blue ribbons tied letters, her sharp words and discerning smile.
She gave him a reason to dream and hope.
If he thought he loved Amy before, as a friend, and he still does in that way, it compares to nothing now that he has given himself the pleasure to actually get to know her, her witty quality of hers that make men fall to her dainty feet and with a reason.
Amy has never once presented herself as anything less than stoic—perhaps not content with her luck, but at least accepting of it, and he admires her deeply for it. She carries the weight in her shoulders with poise and grace.
It amazes him sometimes, the belief Amy has in him, her tough love encouraging him to be better for himself, she understands his desires and impulses and insecurities, he feels at 𝘱𝘦𝘢𝘤𝘦 with her.
The last time he revisited his feelings he was in love with Jo. So why does his blood boil at the prospect of Amy marrying Fred?
It was up there. It had grown without meaning to. It was there where his admiration and his innocent devotion had turned into 𝘴𝘰𝘮𝘦𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨 else.
It surprises him how much he's able to feel in such small time, how different it all feels, how he can be so disloyal when he had promised to Jo and to himself to never love or want another. But there's nothing to stop it, or at least he hasn't found anything to stop it.
It was there, in the heat in his cheeks when Amy teases him about girls and how he should find someone else to torment, 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘴𝘢𝘬𝘦 𝘰𝘧 𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘱𝘦𝘢𝘤𝘦, his throat clogging with words he can't say, with words she doesn't allow him to say. It was in every kiss he wishes he has the right to steal, it was there in his urge to climb to her hotel room and crawl under her white delicate linen to hold her, it was where her face seemed to be carved inside his eyelids, in his stomach and the pit it finds itself when he sees her and Fred together, it was there in his refusal to sleep with another woman he's not in love with.
But he's not in love, he reminds himself, 𝘩𝘦'𝘴 𝘯𝘰𝘵. He's really not. But he is falling, he doesn't want to put a label on it just yet, but he doesn't want Amy to slip away from him, not her, not now, not when he's building this fragile thing with her, not when this thing, whatever it is, looks promising. Not when he has hope for them to work.
So he tries to show her, he really does try in a futile effort to make her see the alarming grasp she holds of his heartstrings.
They take turns to tease the other, Amy is a person who is highly aware of the people around her, just like him, so he concludes she's deliberately ignoring what he's feeling.
The weather is nice, he thinks, wind in his hair where he sits close to the lake edge with Amy beside him, her whole focus in the paper in her lap, the purple dress she wears is unusual for her but she looks stunning nevertheless. She had teasingly invited him to a rendezvous with her outside and he had agreed because of the striking neckline of her evening dress, he can see the freckles in the top of her breasts and under her collarbone, his fingers twirl with her hat.
She'd been in a strange sour mood since they arrived and he had helped her spread out the blanket, silent and contemplative.
“You're terribly silent,” he muses out loud, she turns to him with an expression that borders in exasperation “Did I do something?” He asks cautiously, careful, like stepping over scattered eggs.
“Why do you always assume it's about you?”
“That's the thing with me, isn't it? I'm always doing something,” she chuckles at his remark and now her expression doesn't border on exasperation, she is exasperated and somewhat amused. She returns to her papers and he reaches for her chin, makes her look towards him and her eyes are wide, have they always been this big?
“What is it you want, Amy, tell me and I'll get it for you in this instant,” He says, a tilt of challenge in his voice, Amy bats his hand away playfully and thinks.
𝘞𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘥𝘰 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘥𝘦𝘴𝘪𝘳𝘦?
𝘕𝘦𝘸 𝘣𝘰𝘰𝘵𝘴.
She raises her chin until her bearing is almost regal. Everything about Amy is polished, she has become what she always wanted to be, a lady, as well in beauty as well in manners.
“Right now?”
“Yes, right now,” Laurie whispers and scoots closer as if hoping she'd say him, perhaps, maybe even a kiss, is he that delusional? Yes, apparently he is.
He is quiet and studies her face as she thinks, she looks down at him, her eyes finding his easily, understands the challenge in his voice and politely rejects him.
“I think a cup of tea would suit me just fine,” Amy answers at last and decidedly, just like her sister had done quite some time ago, his chest sags a little as he blows the air he didn't knew he was holding.
“A cup of tea?” He hates the twinge of disappointment in his voice, she eyes him knowingly and if he had doubts that she's deliberately ignoring it, he has no doubts anymore.
“Yes, Fred has recommended this new tea shop not too far,” Laurie plops back in the blanket and suppresses the urge to snap at her.
Fred. She talks about Fred when they should be talking about themselves. It had taken quite some time to come to terms that he is, indeed, falling for her, but now that he knows, he has to let her know, he can't just let her go and marry Fred, she didn't even loved him.
Laurie'd be a far greater husband that Fred Vaughn would. Or in his mind that's how it goes.
“Ah, Fred,” he says instead and nods solemnly.
“Why do you say it like that? I thought Fred was your friend,” Amy says and he can feel her eyes on him but he refuses to give her that, if she wants to play mind tricks then he will give them to her.
“He is,” he lies shortly, truth is he never really liked Fred, he had been someone fun to have around in college but had become dull in adulthood. Always quick to invite beers and share illicit photos of naked women and play billiards, but that had changed, in Fred and himself, too. So the similarities in the pair end there in spite of coming from a wealthy family and having a huge weight on their shoulders.
“Then?” She prompts with a tilt of his voice he quite doesn't recognize and he looks up to find an eyebrow perfectly arched.
“You're always talking my ear off about him,” he says, which is partially a lie, she barely mentions him but when she does it bothers him to no end, hence why he feels like she talks about him all the time.
“It's all thanks to you, Laurie,” she says and returns her attention to the paper.
“Don't blame me, I blame you,” Laurie deflects.
“You introduced him to my family,” Amy is quick to answer and he's not sure whose turn is it to bother the other.
“You made him fall in love with you,” Laurie answers quietly, almost as if testing the waters. Her smile is quiet and a little secretive, which as of late he's been wanting to understand, and remembers Fred's lips parting Amy's, the soft drawn moan from her and her little shove to move him away playfully. He takes a sharp breath wishing he hadn't remembered such thing.
“I did nothing of the sort, I didn't even flirt with him,” Amy murmurs and her eyebrows pull together in concentration and he decides right there and then that she's the prettiest at work, it was a shame that she was giving up on it so easily.
The words slip effortlessly “You don't need to, your face and smile do all the work,” Laurie says a little unkindly, she winces and rolls her eyes, he didn't meant to be so mean but he's talking from what he's seen, and he's seen a lot, has seen it with Fred and his old schoolmates claiming Amy was the prettiest March and that she was the girl they intended to marry despite Amy never showing any kind of genuine interest in them.
“Are you implying that the only thing I had to do was to smile for him to fall in love with me?” Her voice is incredulous but she hasn't looked up from her sketch, her smile and good manners are, he thinks, her dancing and laughing, her talent as well and her uncanny ability to see right through him, but he just knows that Fred only fell in love with her because of her appearance.
His response is immediate.
“Isn't that the only thing you always need?” She looks up and eyes him curiously and he eyes her back, her lips are parted softly and he momentarily blanks out imagining the soft pressure of her lips against his, the warmth, her eyes move from side to side, slip to his lips and back up again.
She shakes her head and looks down again, sighs very softly “Now, about that tea...”
𝘐 𝘸𝘰𝘯'𝘵, 𝘯𝘰𝘵 𝘸𝘩𝘦𝘯 𝘐'𝘷𝘦 𝘴𝘱𝘦𝘯𝘵 𝘮𝘺 𝘦𝘯𝘵𝘪𝘳𝘦 𝘭𝘪𝘧𝘦 𝘭𝘰𝘷𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘺𝘰𝘶.
He doesn't know how to feel, his face and hands and the back of his neck burn, his legs ache when he bends down to take the sketches she had thrown to the side.
The first emotion that floods through him is anger, anger at Amy, anger at himself, the anger chants; 𝘵𝘰 𝘩𝘦𝘭𝘭 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘔𝘢𝘳𝘤𝘩𝘦𝘴! The anger in him wants to run away and never look back, to hell with Jo and to hell with Amy.
He wants to put blame on Amy, too, for dumping all of that on him in a single afternoon but fights against it because he knows she must be in more pain than he is, the red of her eyes, the sketches thrown aside, the panic in her voice, she wanted to hit something, he had realized when she pushed his hand aside when he reached for her, she wanted to hit him. He almost wanted to let her.
But in the midst of anger there's also guilt, heartache and a terrible sense of repent, he wants to hang his head in shame and sink to his knees and beg Amy to have him. Truth is, he can't never not feel anything for Jo. She is the first girl he ever loved, the first friend he ever made and he'd always be eternally grateful with her but that's exactly why he had confused all those things, mixed them up. But, according to himself and he trusts himself way too much, those feelings are more subdued, less intense, he would always want to protect her, and be close to her, she's his best friend, his sister.
He had thought his first love would be his only, and now he knows how naive he was, he understand just how late he is. He understands, really, he does.
Now that he looks back and thinks about the times Amy left him to be with Fred—was that how she felt all her life? He feels awful.
It hurts. It’s a strange sort of pain, the kind that aches deep and unrelenting but it hasn’t consumed him just yet. He isn't sure why, he should be having a breakdown over his second refused proposal, his rented room is quiet and the quiet puts him in a contemplative mood, completely different than the first time, it's gloomy and gray, just like his mood and thinks about his options.
He could stay until Fred Vaughn comes back and try to talk to her, to explain all he had felt in this short time was as significant as any other thing he had felt, as deep and as true, but he also knows this is unfair to Amy and that she would refuse his attempts to see her.
He ignores the urge to go to the closest pub and stay there all day, talking about his problems to strangers and laugh bitterly at his own luck.
Instead he warms milk, tosses his clothes aside and buries himself under white linen, emotionally exhausted. He resists the hot tears in his eyes just because he knows he has no right to cry, he did it all himself.
His fingers fumble under the sheets and tugs the cheap ring away and feels even more guilty. For the pain he has caused Amy, Jo and himself. He sits up and locks the ring away with all of Jo's letters, letters he never cared enough to correspond, all his concerns had been preoccupied with Amy. With a fuzzy mouth he wipes the tears at the corner of his eyes.
But in his chest, apart from the sharp pain, there's also a tiny bit of hope. Like a candle flame.
But also like a candle flame, it can be too easily extinguished.