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Maxwell has always hated the silence – at least he can’t remember ever having liked it.
It is the nothingness it carries, the expectations and implications it holds and the noisiness it provides. Loud and heavy, the quietness screams at him and weighs him down. A ghostly hand, silently – oh, so silently – presses him firmly to the ground, dry soil scratching his hands, his cheek, his heart.
Dirt is all he tastes. Hostility is all he feels. Unnatural, is all he thinks.
So, he has always tried to escape. To flee from the companionship of the silence that clings to him much like a shadow.
Always there but never there for him.
No, the quietness doesn’t laugh when one of his jokes falls flat. It doesn’t defend him when others mistreat him. It doesn’t support him. And it never – never – envelops him in a comforting hug when loneliness and sadness crush him so that he turns to dust.
No, the silence only offers the darkness and the cold.
So, when Maxwell catches a glimpse of sunlight peeking through, he cannot help but be surprised.
Did the sound of the mosquito truly disturb him so?
A disbelieving chuckle falls from his lips when he realizes that it did, the motion of his chest rousing a napping Riley.
“Hmm?” She asks sleepily from where she is resting on his stomach, fingers twitching and bare legs hanging over the side of the bed.
“Nothing. Sorry,” he whispers guiltily. “Go back to sleep.”
“Mhmmm.”
Eyelashes flutter in the evening light of the summer day, the sun still awake while Riley’s eyes stay closed. Face bathed in a pale reddish orange hue that pours in through the open balcony doors, she slowly relaxes, crease between her eyebrows smoothing out and shoulders losing its tenseness.
A smile blooms on Maxwell’s lips, tender and joyful – much like a revived flower after having been stepped on.
She looks so peaceful, he thinks.
Affection and love fill his heart as he runs his fingers through her hair, painting the world rosé and scenting the air, the smell weaving itself into a harmonious composition with that of the wild marjoram growing underneath the balcony.
If only he could bottle it up, this scent, this moment, this serenity.
The last few days have been filled with minutes and hours similar to this very one, the heatwave currently sweeping through Cordonia a convenient excuse to do nothing but spend time together.
Who can think clearly and work productively after all, when sleep barely ever comes? When the air is hot and stagnant in even the coldest and liveliest hours of the day? When the most minuscule movement makes one break out into a sweat that could raise the sea level so that it drowns coastal cities?
Even if the answer were not nobody – which he strongly doubts –, it would negate Riley and him being capable of it in this weather. With circles under their eyes as dark as the soil used to arrange new flowerbeds, they have been walking around like zombies. And as much as Maxwell enjoys the image, he doesn’t want to feel like one.
Still, he lingers on the thought, picturing him and his zombie wife dancing, all stiffness and grunts as they perform the moves from Michael Jackson’s Thriller video – which does sound perfect, if he is being honest, especially since the air doesn’t burn so in his imagination –, when his gaze falls onto Riley once more.
Scanning her face, his eyebrows draw together when he notices the tension in her lips and the deepened wrinkles around her eyes. Briefly, he wonders if he made a sound or broke – yet again – into a dance without him noticing, waking her up in the process.
Before he can chastise himself, however, the displeasure visible on her face grows and she lifts her arms. Then, with an annoyed grunt, she starts waving them like she is at a rave.
“Riley? What’s wrong?”
A discontent whine pierces the air after a few seconds, echoing in his ears for a moment.
“Fucking mosquito.”
A chuckle flies from his lips as a response to both her reaction and the way she delivers it – the New Yorker in her especially pronounced and her raspy voice carrying a raw annoyed and angry undertone. Like the insect has ruined not just her rest but also her day.
The sentiment is one he can sympathize with – he too had been irritated by it appearing earlier after all. Still…
“Are you asking it to dance with you?” He asks, amusement lacing his words before it dies out and quickly turns into regret when she glares at him. Or rather, he assumes she is glaring at him. The look she throws him is more adorable than threatening, sleep still lingering heavily in her eyes.
“No.”
Pressing his lips together, Maxwell’s eyes drift towards his hand combing through her hair.
Better to give her some space.
Silence fills the room once more – the occasional chirping of birds sounding muted in the background – as they patiently wait for the insect to reappear.
And it will come back, of that he is certain. Not only because it already slipped through their defenses, the repellent proven useless, but also because his little blossom is magnetizing. Sweet and tantalizing.
If he were a mosquito, he too would fly through the world in search for her. Or maybe stumble upon her, not believing his luck and simply staying close by, enjoying her presence and hoping – and being convinced of the opposite – that she will eventually let him get closer to her. Even if the distance between them would never fully get erased, he would be happy.
Truly, Maxwell cannot blame the mosquito for its desire to leave marks on her. If the weather weren’t so hot, he would want to lean over himself to caress her body with his lips.
For now, however, he settles for the silky feeling of her hair falling over his one hand and the way three of her fingers curl into his other.
“Do we need to teach the mosquito how to use the proper cutlery before it feasts on us?” Riley eventually asks after another failed attempt to capture the insect, dispelling the silence and making him burst out laughing.
Colorful images sprout in his mind. Ones that blossom when he shares fragments of his imagination with her and complements them with her own.
Miniature schools with the smallest desks imaginable. Teaching and observing the progress by using a magnifying glass. Scolding the insects for their poor table manners when they rub their legs together. Revenge mosquito bites.
Bertrand most certainly has already taught them.
“Yeah, he probably has,” she chuckles, joking about how it would drive him up the walls otherwise and throwing in an anecdote or two – ones Maxwell already knows all about but enjoys hearing all the same – of him trying to teach her.
Then, when their laughter has drifted off, she groans.
“Ugh. This mosquito knows what we’re up to, doesn’t it?”
“Maybe. Or maybe you just scared it to death earlier when you tried to look all ter—”
Oh.
Oh, this one is terrifying. If looks could kill he would be a little insect dancing its last dance in the zapping grid of an insect killer lamp right now.
No wonder the mosquito keeps its distance.
“Do you mind giving me a cushion so I can hit you with it?” She asks, eyes narrowed but sparkling like diamonds in the sun nonetheless.
Maxwell doesn’t miss the slight upturn of the corner of her mouth either, but before he can react, she lazily waves him off, muttering about how it’s too hot for such shenanigans.
Later, when they have given up on their hunt and slid into the bed of a guest room – hoping the mosquito will enjoy their time away to throw the ultimate room party instead of following them –, he ponders on zombie and insect etiquette schools and tiny cutlery.
Riley’s hand has found its way into his once more, the pressure weak and her fingers sweaty. An exhale rustles the strand of hair that has fallen onto the pillow in front of her, bending into the shape of a lazy smile as it enjoys the breeze.
Apart from a yawn – or two or three – and the sound of the pillows as they both nestle into their own further, the world lies still.
Carefully, it listens. Hopes? Waits?
And then, as Maxwell’s eyes fall for the umpteenth from the beautiful woman lying next to him and close, it perks up.
In the quietness of the room, he faintly squeezes her hand. The gesture is a whisper and a song.
I’m about to fall asleep.
I love you.
I can’t wait to wake up next to you again tomorrow.
With a smile on his lips – that widens when he feels her responding squeeze of his hand – he finally allows himself to shut his eyes closed.
The silence envelops him in a hug, tender like the petals of a flower and warm like the soil after a day in the sun. Basking in its company, Maxwell’s muscles relax and his mind slowly blurs into a blob of nothingness until he glides into the world of dreams and falls asleep.