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They are in Pearl's penthouse at the moment, her and Ashveil. To officially cement the change, a positive change, in their relationship- Pearl had suggested Ashveil move to her abode, and the man had been more than happy to comply, the obviousness of the emotion a thing that pleased Pearl greatly. For it meant that Ashveil desired to spend time with her, wished to be with her, and that is- that is positive. A thing to appreciate, a thing to be thankful for, a thing to crave.
And Ashveil’s hand, much larger than hers, was wrapped around her wrist ever so gently as if she were made of porcelain, an incorrect but not unfounded simile considering the appearance of her joints and limbs. But it was fascinating, for she knew how brutal his touch truly could be, to the perceived arbiters and heralds of injustice, she knew his hand contained secrets that could destroy, that his touch was one that devoured, she knew his secrets. She knew gentleness was not in his blood- but it was and would always be a part of his nature.
That, she appreciates, prefers, loves.
Love.
It is not something Pearl has understood for a very long time, despite its nebulousness frustrating her, pushing hidden depths of her she hadn't even known to seek an answer. The theoretical definition was of a strong abundance of positive affirmation for one emotionally close to the bearer of love. It could be reciprocated or unreciprocated. It contained infinite variables.
Pearl thinks she can understand it in the quietude they share, in the deliberate slowness of Ashveil’s fingers circling around her wrist, tracing mindless patterns that she wishes to decode anyway despite the lack of thought behind said patterns.
Pearl can understand the theory, the reasoning, the meaning behind the gesture- but it is something of a novelty to experience it for herself. A gesture of affection, a gesture meant to display emotion, passion, a gesture meant specifically for her, and not ‘Pearl of Appraisal'.
She closes her eyes- they do not truly mean anything apart from appearance, in truth, but the sensation of doing so is calming. It helps her focus better on Ashveil’s gesture, of how his fingers curl around her wrist, of how the pads of his fingers either tap at random spots, as if, in what she now understands, as playfully dancing against her skin.
She leans against him, affording him her vulnerability, and he pulls her up against him, affording her a place.
“Everything alright?” He whispers. The volume of his voice is quiet, modulated, in a calmness that soothes her. The tonality is gentle, in a way that affirms to her.
Pearl leans further.
“Perfect.” She whispers, meaning it- and even without focusing her sensors on him, she knows of the smile that's undoubtedly formed on his face, knowing that she treasures her compliments, rare in their biased sincerity, and isn't that a beautiful paradox she's learnt, being with him? To enjoy bias. To enjoy traveling into one direction, more than the other, instead of staying in the middle of it all, and thereby, playing a balancing act.
She envisions the smile that would have formed on his face from her compliment. Small, genuine and beautiful.
With him she has learnt, art is something you enjoy. Something that evokes emotion, regardless of whatever it may be. And she knows now, his smiles are what evoke much of the emotions she's journeying to understand.
She smiles in return, enjoying the vision of his own smile. For everything was perfect, despite the numerous imperfections surrounding them. She cannot quite determine the patterns he's tracing onto the surface of her skin, but that's alright. There's much work to be done, and that is also alright.
Yes. Everything was indeed perfect.