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Perhaps it’s trite to say that he’s never fallen in love before, but it’s true.
There have been bouts of admiration in the past. Moments during revels where his gaze drifts, snagging briefly on a particularly lovely faerie in the crowd. A handsome smile, an iridescent pair of eyes. He can only call it admiration because he does not hope for flourishing feelings, does not even remotely desire it; there is no magnetic pull drawing him into their arms. He considers it a mellow shade of appreciation, the same he would offer for a particularly studded nighttime sky: it’s certainly there , it’s certainly pretty, and there is not much else he can say in its favor.
In White Lily’s presence he feels like something of a bad poet, with the way descriptors come so easily. She’s curious, always poking and prodding, willing to forgo caution to satiate her need for answers. She’s intelligent, quick to absorb new information, and just as quick to bore of the simple and straightforward. She’s an equal in battle, something the term strength doesn’t cover on its own. She’s beautiful, in a way that makes him want to do much more than idly admire.
Attraction, honest-to-goodness attraction, catches him by surprise. He only realizes the extent of it during another one of their long talks. She’s describing the details of a Hollyberrian festival to him beneath the shade of a weeping willow tree, her back against the twisted silver bark, the wind tangling its long, drooping branches. Violet leaves scatter like dancers in the gale, occasionally tugging at his loosely tied hair. The heady scent of mulled grapes from the nearby winery hangs over their shoulders like a weighed blanket.
Her eyes flutter close as she speaks. Soon it will be time for them both to retire to their chambers. Still, they try to stall their drowsiness; prolong their time together, like a seamstress coaxing an endless line of thread from a drop spindle. At one moment he’s thinking about the delicately carved barges of the Hollyberry kingdom. Then, as the tree’s leaves drift into her hair, flittering into the green lap of her dress, he thinks he would like to kiss her, just like this.
The abrupt thought strikes him as rude. He’s always considered her word invaluable – to interrupt it with a kiss? But his hesitation goes up in smoke when, through her sleepy haze, she paws around for his hand. Her palm brushes over the dry grass beneath them until she finds his, then wraps around it loosely, a flower to the vine. She’s still talking, albeit slowly, her thumb brushing over his knuckles as she tells him about the palace, its sloping arches and spindly spires and shimmering crystal tiles.
He remembers when such intimacy was foreign to her, and his heart swells at the ease in which she participates in it now. He had asked back then, if he could hold her hand. It had only taken a question. Why should this be any more complicated?
“White Lily.”
Her eyes open. He’s close to her, but he always is. “Yes?"
He would not have her try to decipher his intent from his gaze alone. With his free hand, he reaches forward, cupping her cheek. She makes a sleepy sound of surprise. “Elder Faerie?”
The wind rushes through their hair, their clothes; an errant river stream of coldness. The willow's leaves whisper as they scratch against each other, each branch swaying like the folds of a curtain, separating them from the outside world. When it dies down, he says into the thick silence: “May I?”
Her olive cheeks burn pink with realization. Lips part to say something, but for once, she can’t conjure a word to her tongue. Her gaze lowers to the hand on her cheek, and with one bandaged hand, she covers it with her own. Still, he waits until she says quietly, breathlessly:
“Yes.”
Elder Faerie has never kissed anyone in his life, and White Lily has never been kissed. The clumsiness is natural. Their lips flit over each other, trying to find the right footing, until she tilts her head, like a key in a door, unlocking the perfect angle at last. From there the kiss flourishes. His hand travels down to her neck, stroking at the cool skin there. Hers are undecided, skimming the fabric of his robes, descending his chest, going up again to wrap around his neck.
She moves with fervor, as though even now, while she’s sitting here with him, she’s searching for something.