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A sound coming from behind (a not so unexpected one). It is the sound of knuckles hitting the wood. It’s not a loud sound— most would call it soft knocking; a sound so barely heard it simply might’ve never existed in the end. Still, despite that it was loud and clear enough in the peaceful night. Or the quiet of the room. Or rather the whole building. At night it’s tranquil and serene. Always. A place of solace, of peace, of familiarity most importantly. A routine, a habit, a comfort in the dark of midnight life.
No sound had to prompt the hand to push the door open. For it is just a simple formality; for the movement of connecting with the sturdy wood of the door is a habit such as taking off an eyepatch before sleep whenever the stars come out (though only when it’s late enough).
The door creaks in a futile attempt to warn of a visitor. Its noises have been useless and pointless for many-a-day by now. Inanimate things never learn, do they?
Steps. Soles of shoes clicking cautiously against the linoleum floor. The sounds they make are rhythmic and could be one with the calming murmur of waves nearing the shore, hitting it kindly before retreating peacefully yet swiftly.
A rustle of papers. It joins soon, making the shoes less alone in creating a midnight melody. It’s much louder, but still tries to appear smaller, hide itself in a corner. So self-conscious about its volume. Too different, too unique, unbefitting and incapable of creating a symphony like drums in an orchestra. It may be ashamed, yet it could not fit any better there.
And then the eyes meet of two different shades and share a soft exchange of silent words that meet in-between; not in compromise, but in unison and understanding. An agreement of endearment. A conversation of nothing. The nothing that is needed. Nothing that is everything. Nothing that is a break from everything. Nothing that lacks boredom and is full of special sentiments.
Both eyes are blue, yet not of the same hue. One pair is a diamond, refreshing like mint, lovely like the summer sky. The other one is much colder; perhaps snow, maybe glass (shattered— half is gone, lost, broken off, and then covered), or perhaps a cloudier sky, water on Dragonspine. To those eyes of diamond shade, it’s nice either way because, to them, it’s home nonetheless. It’s familiar and it’d always seem so even when foreign at its core.
The diamond, almost emerald (crystal!), eyes look over the silhouette oh so familiar to them and, at last, settle on its face. Not perfect by any chance, but nonetheless very dear to the mind and to the heart - feelings, memories, and thoughts alike. The expression (the eyes, the twitch in the lips’ corner) point towards content and yet the exhaustion lingers somewhere there. Behind and hidden; a shadow (overshadowed by light).
A gloved hand reached out to comb hair (that shouldn’t feel like its own— as somewhere where it belongs in opposition to the hard wooden door or even a sword) which is short, blond, unbraided and uncombed. Somehow though it doesn’t look unkempt at all, the ‘cloudy sky’ irises still light up and a chest rises and falls, letting out an amused huff through a nose.
Those vivid crystals almost disappear behind a wall of skin. It’s as pale as chalk, but that’s only fair; natural. It is, after all, where it belongs. It belongs to this one frame (person) in particular.
A candle lights up the room dimly (so many things could go unnoticed). Their shadows dance and intertwine— be that on a wall, a table, or just the floor as their lips move to speak and they open and close and soon their legs add pace to the dance; they carry them off, somewhere else.
The ‘somewhere else’ is not so far, in fact. It’s just a few steps away by a window, allowing the stars and moon to watch in solitude. They’re a part of this exchange, despite spectating from another sphere. May they never speak even to the gods of two soulmates spending their time together alone by the starlit sky where they feel as though home.
The couch is soft. It always is. It’s their own and special place of solace. It’s not special; to them it’s unique. It quickly becomes warm with their body heat and they stay like this - lying down in each other’s arms, some cheesy people would say: ‘with their limbs entwined so where one begins - where ends the other - people may never know’ .
A hand still in hair, another on a waist, leg on leg, heart on heart, and their minds open wide. They may wish to pull each other closer, but wouldn’t want to disturb one another. A smoothing motion, so calming— like a slow ferry ride in the middle of the night is putting seemingly cotton rocks on mint irises. ‘Having one’s hair caressed is a really pleasant experience,’ goes unsaid.
Instead, thin lips to move closer and adorn one cheek, and the other (and perhaps the nose, the jaw, the neck—) with a small peck, a loving kiss. And the skin is soft but not smooth; not perfect, yet not less than more than great (it’s fine if it doesn’t make sense - love is convoluted; or so one tells his science loving brain).
One might not notice how cold they may feel until they get so close they kiss - skin is so warm against lonely lips and breath is the warmest against cool cheeks. It feels like honey, a warm tea or coffee, but whatever it is————