One for the Road — Part One (Patreon)

You're talking to him.

Hadrian can see your lips moving — Lord, he can never not see your lips moving — and he can hear your voice bathing his ears, but as much as he likes the sound, he's not making sense of the words. Hadrian stares at you and notices all the little details about your features. Sunlight comes in shredded shadows from between the branches of the willow tree. It makes a patchwork on your skin, the light and shade creating illusions of ridges and valleys in the corners of your nose, your cheekbones, and the flatland of your forehead.

Your eyes are crinkled, widening, and narrowing as you continue speaking, as animated as your hand, making swift, elegant notions through the air. Your other hand plays with the long, sinking leaves of the tree. It's approaching Autumn, so the leaves aren't bright green but are starting to deepen to a golden yellow. They hang around you like a veil, seeming to glow from a light of their own.

You're seated together below the tree, inside the tree, almost. Its radius engulfs you, and not very far, Hadrian can hear the soft song of a running creek mingling with the cadence of your voice. Birds sing somewhere above, insects with broad, heavy wings and large, colorful butts, buzz from sights unseen, and a tiny, bright red ladybug crawls up your bare arm — thin black feet treading along your skin as if it runs up a mountain.

Hadrian wonders if you feel it. You don't seem to. You're too intent on whatever it is you're describing. Your hand makes another great sweep, almost hitting him in the nose, and your voice pitches... before you settle down again. Your legs are intertwined with his, your bare feet warm against his calves, and your shirt is opened in the middle, gifting Hadrian with a peak of your collarbone and the upper part of your chest.

Hadrian stares at the picture in front of him. You bathed in golden sunlight, surrounded by golden leaves. He wishes he could find a word to describe what he's feeling. Not for the first time, Hadrian laments his lack of vocabulary. But however insufficient, he supposes he has to go with happiness. He's happy.

"Of course, it didn't stop there, it—" You snap your mouth shut and give him an odd look. "Why are you smiling like that?"

"Hmm?" Hadrian eloquently asks.

"I didn't get to the punchline," you say. "You're not supposed to laugh yet."

He loves the slight pout of your lips. "I'm not laughing. I'm, uh. I'm just smiling." Your dry look has him chuckling. "Sorry. I like looking at you, is all.”

For a moment, your expression mellows, but then you narrow your eyes and give him a piercing glare. “Don’t think your pretty words will get you out of this,” you say, waggling your finger at him. “If I find you weren’t listening to me again, Hadrian, I swear I’ll– “

You're interrupted by four tiny feet clamoring to get to your shoulder. You look down and notice the ladybug for the first time. Hadrian sees your surprise before it melts into a smile.

And Lord, what a smile it is.

"Hey, little lady. Where are you going?" you whisper, lifting a hand to it. The ladybug hesitates before your fingers, but you wait patiently, and then it crawls to your palm. Your smile softens, as does your voice. "I'm not a great place to be. Here."

You gently put your hand between the grass. The ladybug shakes its wings and leaps down gracefully. "Be safe," you wish it as it crawls away, round butt wiggling from side to side.

You stay looking at the insect for a while longer, but Hadrian is enraptured by you. When you finally look up, you see him staring. "Do I have something on my face?" you ask, fingertips touching your cheek.

"Yes," Hadrian says.

"What is it?"

He leans forward, hand cupping the back of your neck and bringing you to him. "Hadri-" He swallows his name, tasting the shape of it on your lips as he kisses you. You freeze in surprise, but soon enough, you reciprocate. You put your hand in the middle of his chest and tilt your chin, and then your soft lips move alongside his.

Hadrian kisses you until there's no more air, and then he kisses you some more.

Finally, when you part, he drinks in the sight of your widened eyes. "You're beautiful," he tells you, hand pressing on your cheek, feeling it warm. It's inadequate; it doesn't say all that he's feeling, all he wants to say. But Hadrian has never been good with words.

So, he'll let actions speak louder.

You take a moment but then grab his wrist. "All that because of a bug?" you tease, but your smile looks shy, and your voice raw.

No. "Yes," he answers before he leans down again, seeking you once more, and Hadrian decides he'll forsake words for now. For now, he'll try to find another way of showing you what it’s so hard to name.

- - -

Your legs dangle in the air.

Your boots kick back and forth as you swing your legs to the sound of a wordless song. You tilt your chin at the cool wind whooshing atop the banisters and settle your eyes on the brilliant horizon. Sunset is coming, painting the sky in shades of red and making the clouds explode with an orange glow. Tarragona's terraces and ceilings pierce the horizon, the city sprawling before you.

"Striking, isn't it?" you say, eyeing the distant wall. Faint music from an unseen minstrel drifts lazily from the market, and you spy at least a dozen smoke columns rising into the air. Street lamps are being lit, and hearths are fed a good amount of timber.

From your side comes a cool, measured voice. "Indeed."

You grin. "I'm always impressed by your enthusiasm, Alessa," you joke, turning your chin to look at her. She sits with one knee tucked beneath the other while her free leg dangles alongside yours. To your surprise, you don't find her inspecting the horizon but looking toward you.

Her blue eyes are like two frozen ponds, her freckles like minuscule exploding stars against the white of her skin. "'Tis... pretty, one could say. But I do not find the sight of roofs and man-made canopies to be spectacular."

You lean your weight on your hand, considering her for a moment. "What sight would you find spectacular, then?"

Alessa seems surprised by the question. "Oh," she lets out but quiets, then, and lowers her eyes to her lap. Her left hand is near yours, filled with rings on the fingers. She's wearing a golden bracelet with no adornments but the gleam it catches from the dying sun. "I suppose I would find the sunset over the ocean to be worth noting. It has been a long time since I have witnessed one."

She admits this in a low voice, almost akin to a whisper. You smile at her profile. "The ocean, uh?"

Alessa lifts her head, facing you again. There's a familiar defiant glint in her eyes. "Yes," she says, adopting the tone she always does when she shares something personal and feels vulnerable. "'Tis more appealing than city walls, is it not?"

"It is," you agree. "I was just thinking that we're not far from the ocean, Alessa. Actually, you can see it clearly from the Harbor." You point in the direction of the Mediterranean Sea, covered now by a hill. "We could go there tomorrow or the day after. Sit on the docks and watch the sunset over the sea."

Alessa follows your pointed finger, and for a moment, her hair hides her face. She stays quiet for a while, staring out at the city. "What do you say?" you prompt.

Slowly, she turns her head to you. Her face is stoic, a wall as impregnable as the one circling Tarragona, and her eyes hold no emotion. Alessa stares at you, and you shift a little uneasily in your seat. Have you... offended her?

"You mean it," she says then, not a question but a statement.

You frown. "Of course, I do. Why else would I suggest it?"

Alessa doesn't answer. She's stiff, her leg immobile, and her hand curls beside yours, closing in a tight fist. You duck your head, trying to read beneath the ice in her gaze. "Alessa?" you ask, using the same tone one would use when approaching a predator. "You're alright?"

Suddenly, like a snake jumping out of the grass, Alessa moves forward, and cold, stiffened lips press against yours. Her hand lightly grabs your forearm, the touch almost shy, as Alessa plucks her lips and kisses you. You barely have time to blink before she leans away, sitting back on her place with a straightened spine and a face so red that it rivals the sunset. "I... I would not be opposed to it," Alessa says in a voice that tries to be controlled but it's far too strangled.

She then snaps her head away, locking her gaze on the horizon.

You sit stunned for a moment. Your lips tingle with her phantom kiss, too quick and too shallow, but sweet, nonetheless. “It's a date, then," you say as a slow, foolish smile takes over your lips.

A timid Alessa is a rare sight, but you find it incredibly endearing. You want to kiss her properly but choose not to. She seems like she'll explode at any second; best not to push her.

So, you turn your head as she did and settle your eyes on the city. The sun is sinking into the great shape of the Cathedral, half of it disappearing behind the hill. Upwards, the clouds are burning brighter than ever in a last, desperate burst before the night.

It's beautiful.

You feel a light touch on your hand. Looking down, you see Alessa's little finger brushing your thumb. Wordlessly, you open your palm, and she intertwines her hand with yours. Her skin is cold, as was her kiss, but you'll warm it soon enough.

From your periphery, you see her looking at you. You see, too, her smile. "Thank you," Alessa murmurs before she leans her shoulder against your side.

You don't answer. You keep watching the coming night, grinning like the fool she accuses you of being.

- - -

It's naught more than a flash of violet.

"There!" Alain exclaims, pointing at the highest branch. The garden is denser here; the trees are cramped so tight that it resembles a forest. Overhead, the green canopy blocks the sun, but its rays slip past the branches like liquid gold.

His heart pounds against his ribcage. Part of him knows that he should calm down, that a Theer shouldn't be shouting at birds and jumping at the sight of feathers, but the other part is too excited to care. He cranes his neck, squinting to try and see the distance. "They have a spot underneath their wings," he whispers, slowly, carefully, stepping around the big trunk.

Leaves crumble underneath his heels, and Alain grimaces but keeps going. Where is it? "Supposedly, it should be white. All the other specimens observed have white spots under the wings, but the one that comes to our garden has a violet spot." Alain stops and glances over his shoulder at you.

Oh, good. You're still listening. "I've never seen any other like it before."

When he beckons you closer, you come to him. Alain steps over a thick root jutting like a twisted limb from the ground, holds your hand as you follow, and then stops. He looks left and right, inspecting the branches, but he doesn't see it anywhere.

He can feel the disappointment settling on his shoulders. Damned it.

"This is the only nighthawk that lives here?" you ask him, voice equally low.

Alain sighs. "It doesn't live here," he tells you, speaking normally now. There's no point. It's gone. "It comes here occasionally to feed on the grasshoppers and other larger bugs. It's a skittish little fellow, unfortunately. I can never look at it properly."

You're observing the branches as well, your lips plucked in thought. "Couldn't you set a trap?" you ask.

"I could," Alain says, but it doesn't sit right with him. He turns around, hands on his waist, to give the minuscule forest a last survey. There's a beetle and, of course, a band of sparrows but no sight of the nighthawk.

He allows himself one last sigh. "Well, that's over," he says and spins to give you a lopsided grin. "Forgive the interruption; we ought to go back to the bench. Where were we? I believe you had a leg on my lap, but I was working hard on getting the other to join. How about—"

"Alain!" you shout, slamming your hand over his mouth. Your eyes are wide with excitement, and your breath bathes his lashes. "Shut up! Look, it's there."

You point right above your head. Alain looks up...

And sees it.

A grey and brown bird with stripped feathers and two round, completely dark eyes perches on a branch not two meters above. Alain grabs your wrist and slowly moves it away from his mouth, his lips opening in awe. "Wait for it," he whispers, tucking you close so you can get a better angle.

You wait in complete silence, side by side, your hand still in his. Alain doesn't even notice he's intertwining his fingers with yours; all his attention is on the little animal. Despite his name, the nighthawk barely comes out at night, and this one hunts in broad daylight. Alain sees its eyes blinking, moving left, right, and down...

Its wings flicker.

And shoots out directly toward the poor beetle. "Do you see it?" he shouts, but he knows you do because Alain sees it clearly. The two violet strips beneath its wings.

"Yes!" You laugh, your hand tugging at his arm. "My God, Alain, I see it. You're not mad after all."

The nighthawk carries the beetle in its beak as it disappears from view. "Was that ever in question?" Alain asks.

You smile. The excitement must be really getting to him because Alain suddenly can't look away from your smile. "A little bit," you say coyly. "I was half sure you were pulling my leg, but I—"

He shuts you up with a kiss. Alain grabs both sides of your face, closes his eyes tightly, and kisses you in tandem with the mad rhythm of his beating heart. You part your lips in surprise, and he takes advantage to deepen the kiss, moved by... he doesn't know what. He doesn't want to know.

When Alain feels you kissing back, your hands palming blindly at his arms, he snaps out of it. He lets go of you, taking a step back and wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

You're breathing heavily, looking at him with wide eyes. "What..." You gulp down air and try again. "What was that for?"

Alain's ears are ringing. I don't know. "A bribe," he lies and manages a grin. Alain hopes it looks convincing. "Now you'll have to accompany me as I tell every birdwatcher what we saw. They'll call me a liar otherwise."

You put a hand on your chest. "God's nails, Alain, you could have warned me," you say, but then you smile. That damned smile. "And sure, I’ll go with you, but I need a better bribe, nobleman."

Alain laughs. It sounds dry even to his ears. "Come on, then," he says, beckoning you after him. "Let's take a little trip to the coffers, then."

Your answering laugh is gleeful and loud. Alain's heart is still beating like a war drum against his ribs, but it's not hawks or violet wings that has it rushing now.

- - -

Ysabella lies with her chin in her hands and her feet kicking in the air.

You sit on the mattress beside her, your back supported by a mountain of fluffy pillows with silken covers and long, golden strings etched in the corners. "It's quite frequent in Navarra, especially in the Company’s headquarters. They're located way up to the north, right beside a large mountain range."

Ysabella’s eyes widen to two balls. "Really?" she asks with a gasp. "How frequent?"

"Usually, in the winter, but it can snow early in the year if it's particularly cold. I remember one freezing spring that had the fields painted white."

Ysabella kicks her feet back and forth. "In the spring?" she repeats in awe.

You can't help but smile. "Yes. There were no flowers that year."

The noblewoman extends her elbows and flops down on the bed. "You're so lucky!" she says wistfully, pivoting to lay with her belly up. Her dress gathers near her thighs. Ysabella looks at you upside down. "I've never seen snow even once in my life. It's never cold enough here to snow. The most I ever saw was hail in a particularly nasty storm."

From this angle, her cleavage is bare to you. Her dress hugs her breasts tightly, but you can see the extent of her golden skin perfectly. You clear your throat and look away. "You're not missing much," you tell her, suddenly very interested in the curtains. "Snow is mostly bothersome. And dangerous. I've seen people break their necks trying to walk over it. Plus, it's, you know. Cold."

Ysabella spins excitedly again, back to leaning on her elbows. But she no longer tucks her face between her palms — those are grabbing your forearm. "Describe it to me," she says, lips pouting in a flawless plea. "I've never once experienced it, but I can live vicariously through you."

Ysabella smiles then, one of her dazzling, perfect smiles. "Please."

Her curls frame her face, her eyes shine with eagerness, and her fingers squeeze your arm. You sigh. How can you say no? "Sure."

"Ah!" Ysabella squeals, and suddenly, she leans forward and plush, painted lips smooch yours. "Thank you."

You blink.

Ysabella is smiling, face back on her hands, feet kicking the air.

You stare at her.

"Well?" she prompts. "Go on, dear."

There's a knot on your throat. You clear it. "Well, uh. It's cold."

Ysabella smiles. "You’ve said that."

"And painful," you continue. "Snow is so cold that it burns. But the burn is unlike flame; it... it's like it comes from within you and not outside."

Ysabella stares at you in awe. "That's fascinating. A cold that burns." She thinks for a moment, her eyes cast down. Your thoughts are still oddly buzzing. Did you imagine it? Did she kiss you?

"Is it fluffy?" You're snapped out of your thoughts to see Ysabella looking at you again. She's closer than she was before.

It takes you a moment to remember what you were talking about. "Not much," you say. "When it's soft, it dissolves in your hands."

"And is it completely white like they say?"

You open your mouth—

But Ysabella leans again, and there's no mistaking it. She kisses you.

You blink again. She smiles innocently. "Yes?"

"Bella..."

The noble giggles. "I just felt like it," she tells you as if that explains everything. Heat climbs up your neck, and there's a pressure on your stomach. You don't know if you want to pull her into you or run out of the door. "Please, go on."

You lick your lips, suddenly wondering what she tastes like, and do your best to move on. "It's white, yes. But it can be dirty if there's mud or ash or something else." You grimace. "Dirty snow is disgusting."

Ysabella ponders for a moment. "Have you ever had a snowball fight?"

The question surprises you enough to make you laugh. "A snowball fight?"

"Yes. Have you?"

"I—"

Ysabella kisses you again. This time, she lingers for a bit, her lips making themselves felt in a gentle pressure. You close your eyes and go to kiss back...

But she leans away. "Have you?" she repeats, her voice huskier now. Ysabella bats her eyelashes when stare at her. Her smile is too bright. Too beautiful.

"I've thrown a snowball, yes," you say.

"But was it a fight? I was told there's quite a big distinction."

"It was—"

She leans over, but you're ready for it now. You let Ysabella kiss you, but when she goes to move away, your hand snatches up and cups the back of her head. "Ah," she gasps as you plunge your fingers into her mane of brown hair and press her close. Your lips overtake hers, taking charge of the kiss, fully exploring every inch of her.

When you finally let her part, Ysabella's chest heaves up and down, and her eyes look dazed. "Are you going to keep interrupting me?" you ask beside her ear. Her hands have found their way to your arm again, clutching it tightly.

Ysabella breathes in, and then she smiles brightly. "Oh, dear," she says, lifting herself on her elbows to lean over your body. Her scent surrounds you, as does her dress and her curls. You spread your legs so she can hover over you. "You have no idea what you began."

And you'd answer back, but Ysabella lowers herself toward you, and you're too busy welcoming her tongue with yours to think about winning pointless arguments.