♦ right where we left off. (DUKE)

[· Rebel La'Beau.]

i am the sun & you are the sea
» you are the one who colors me. «
(-- reserved: DUKE)
≡≡≡

Rebel had wanted to get up early and pick out something different and deadly to wear, perhaps to show him what he had been missing but really and probably just to inspire that devious, double-take smile of his that she loved. However, nothing ever went according to plan these days, and she had developed a vexatious habit of sleeping in late. In the rare moments she took to wonder about the phenomenon, it seemed to be a side-effect of jet-lag, blurred around the edges with the last tastes of a painful withdrawal. The expatriate couldn't possibly risk bringing her wares on the plane back to NY last week, so she had decided to cut herself off instead, intent on getting back to the clarity of the simple and sober road she had wandered so far from over the last few months.

In a feverish, lemon-martini-flavored sorrow two or so nights previous however, Rebel had picked up her phone and unwisely, sent Duke a text, unable to shake the completely hollow feeling of loneliness that had suddenly washed over her. It had been almost a year since the last time they had seen each other; you missed my bday she told him, because she had never been any good with apologies. He replied in kind, and the smile that he evoked made her nervous.

She hadn't quite sorted out her feelings for him yet, but over the last twelve months, she had missed him, that much was clear. He was indescribably charming, she thought, with his swagger of sharp angst and hushed intelligence - the musician's temperament. It hurt not to have anyone around, more so than possibly she could have anticipated. Even back in France she had felt like a black sheep, and for the first time, it had begun to eat at her.

Dressed down in a beanie and skate shoes, she looked adorable, but tired. Today's shade of pink was washed out, watered down and further put to shame by the brilliance of the anticipating smile that she wore. They had a lunch date at some dive in Chinatown, Mott's Corner, because they had the best sandwiches and served friend rice by the pound. Rebel was standing across the street in the tiny park they had agreed to meet at, an ancient Elm tree looming somewhere just over her shoulder. It was almost one o'clock - she had showed up early - and instinctively, her honey eyes whizzed up and down the street, aching for an early sight of something familiar.

Damn him, she thought just then, completely aware of the way he had captured all of her attention before even making his appearance. It was unhealthy, not to mention unwise.

[Duke Bell.]

Before she had gone to France, she told him that while the fame lay with Notre Dame, Sainte-Chapelle Cathedral hosted classical music concerts and that it was more beautiful, if that were even possible. It was right after she'd laughed at some joke only she knew of, involving his name and the deep, bell chimes. He found her hair to be particularly vibrant that day and he swore that in all his recollections, she had been brighter than the sun.

He dropped out of school before she came back. He quit because he didn't think he would be okay with seeing her on campus grounds every day; she caught his attention even if he was trying to focus on something important, like his music. He thought about her all the times that he shouldn't and he couldn't figure out why. It wasn't because he liked her, that was for sure. To say that he did would have been a lie; he'd told her ages ago that he didn't like girls, to which she said he must have been gay, to which he proved that he wasn't. While he didn't like her, she did mean something to him, had to if he always managed to write the best compositions with only her in mind.

He spent the better part of a year traveling the world. At first, it was to get the annoying compulsion out of his system; he didn't want to be restless for the rest of his life, which was a very, very long time. She had made a call from France though, earlier on in the year when neither had the intention of further creating themselves as strangers from each other. She brought him the sound of Cathedral bells over the phone line, and it was how he knew that she knew him better than anyone else; he had told her once that his love for music outshone everything else, because it could never die, and he had said, "I write about you, you know," with a look of unprecedented candor.

Traveling to Paris specifically had mostly been about remembering her in more than just a dream sense. He had made sure to keep a tight schedule during his European leg; the jet-lag he suffered made him think of her more often, and the eccentric people he met with pink hair lessened to a number closer to zero. He ended up spending over a month in Paris though, enduring their too rich pastries and culture in a mixture of self-imposed misery and nostalgia. So he sent her a Polaroid of the Eiffel Tower. At the front, he wrote; . This was at a point in the year where he'd been feeling peculiarly bereft, and he had found it to be the truth when he'd realized that her absence from his life affected him. He crossed it out twenty minutes later and at the back wrote instead,

Her text had been unexpected, if he had to be honest, but not unwelcome. He wondered if she knew he'd been in New York the whole time, and he wondered if avoiding her had been borne from something similar to nervous trepidation; fear. Rebel had that innate quality to always drag the best, and the worst from him; it was too real, which was probably why he left in the first place.

She kept with her all his vices, save for one. He chain smoked the entire way to Chinatown, struck with images of them in a laundromat or an equally dashing setting, and small excerpts of her voice in his head; 'Duke,' she'd say, 'you're such an idiot.' He found himself agreeing even before he sighted her, standing underneath a large Elm tree, pink waves still standout even with the dark colors surrounding her. She was possibly his most favorite person on the planet.

[/blockquote]

[· Rebel La'Beau.]

DON'T STOP BELIEVING HOLD ON TO THAT FEELING
{ streetlights people don't stop believing }
»«

There were three people in Rebel's life she could remember, that had ever caused her to be nervous at the prospect of meeting with them. Her mother was one, for the woman inspired all sorts of terror and uncomfortable sensations in her daughter on an almost daily basis, Marc Jacobs, because he was the very first celebrity who had ever wanted to meet her, and Duke Bell. They were three very different ideas of nervous, but the kind that had settled into the bottom of her stomach this afternoon was by far the most unsettling. This was all just to say that very few people in Rebel's life ever caused her to question herself, and she had begun to wonder as of late, why that was so.

She had been expecting a lot of things upon returning to France for the first time, though not a single one did she find. The pink-haired exchange had anticipated that the turbulent churning of her stomach would cease the moment she stepped off the plane. She imagined that her life would fall back into place and no one would ever need to speak about the year she had been sent away into exile, that her friends and her family, her former routines and her dusty old bedroom would fit her as snugly as she once remembered, but none of this was the case. Rebel, unfortunately, found herself to be just as lost and reclusive in her old life, as if it were suddenly a favorite old shoe that no longer fit no matter how hard she tried to squeeze herself into it. The only thing that could really spark her interest were the first few nights that she spent on the phone with the curious boy she had met overseas, listening through the phone for his smile.

Eventually, the girl decided to try it all once more, sick of not understanding her friends jokes and being completely unable to create anything unique or worthwhile. She vowed to finish up her basic schooling through the Academy and to work on the weekends at home in Saint-Ouen, with Friday night pie and Sunday morning phone calls to help her make it through the week alive. It worked for almost a month, but eventually, as all things seemed to do in time, it turned to shit. He quit calling and she forced herself to quit caring, a move which finally allowed her the freedom to let go of the very last desperate rung of the ladder, causing her to fall completely off the edge and land something that tasted painfully like rock bottom and blood.
Her track-marks had faded beneath the surface of her ivory skin now, and the color was returning to her face, but there was still no hiding the quiet panic that swam in the depths of her honey eyes. She felt like she was being carried out to sea by the current, totally alone and far too weak to bother kicking. She felt lost.

Looking up from her chipped black nails, Rebel finally spotted Duke headed her way, smoke trailing behind him as she grinned, unable to quell her mirth at the mere sight of him after all these months. Crossing the grass she came to stop at the curb, her shoes playfully teetering off the edge as she waited for him to meet her, her smile as bright as the afternoon sun.

[Duke Bell.]

He remembered how she used to make fun of him for having an affinity for cardigans, even in the warmer months. While everybody else thought that he was just a prickly bastard, end of story, she had always managed to understand the oddities of him, and her own strange quirks seemed to complement his own. They'd been friends he realized, sometime while he was in Vanuatu. Right after his sudden epiphany, which came after realizing he missed her, he escaped to Sydney, Australia with the sole intention of forgetting he had ever known her. It was hard, and he couldn't tell her this, to be mortal when he was anything but. He wondered if she would ever give up her pink hair, if she would ever have children, but the one thing he avoided thinking of was her death.

Duke flicked his cigarette into the trashcan near the lamppost, eyes a plain brown behind his sunglasses. In the sun they would probably appear hazel, and at the image of her, they could probably go green. A passing scooter obscured her for a quick moment, but he caught a glimpse of her blue sneakers anyway, and her long, thin legs in black tights were just like he remembered them to be. She looked a little frail, but that could have been from the smog or the distance, or just the time that he'd wasted lying between them. Her eyes were still the same, even if he couldn't spot the exhaustion about her yet, and he was suddenly assaulted by the insecurity of their reunion. He didn't have a single idea how to greet a friend, but a stranger was much worse. Despite everything they had shared, which included lines, joints, kisses and beds; he could never shake the feeling that while they could be infinitely close, they would still be unimaginably unfamiliar.

There was the issue of her smile though, that delightfully, French looking smile that he could pick out from nothing at all. Even if he lived to the very end of time, he doubted anyone could look at him the way she did; like she knew him and liked him for it. He needed to be honest with himself. She was doing to him things that he didn't think was possible. He wasn't void of the ability to care for people, because he did care for all his sisters, his older brother and Judas, but that was a familial kind of feeling that had never been able to persuade him to wish that they didn't have to die one day. This girl with the pink hair was the only one so far, who had ever made him think that being alone for the rest of his life wasn't as ideal as he had thought it would be.

Duke crossed the road quickly while it was vacant of any vehicles, and the grin he wore, which in the past had only been about as large as thumbnail, was entirely frank, gratified by the sight of her. He met her at the curb, and thought of a million things to say; 'happy birthday,' 'I missed you,' 'you look so good,' 'hey,' 'I'm sorry.' The grin grew slight and he took off his sunglasses, pocketing them to still his itching hands. It occurred to him that staying in France for an unacceptably amount of time had all been about hoping he would run into her. He went to Sainte-Chapelle every Sunday and most of the days in between, marveling at God, the architecture and the candles in the air, thinking how it would have been completely amazing if she'd been there; remembering the time they had a Harry Potter marathon while smoking some ganja, laughing during every scene mostly because of the all the sexual connotations they'd been making up.

"I like your shoes," he told her, after a pause with his expression light and his eyes a clear gray; he didn't know that of course, but it'd been pointed out to him only a few times in his life. He would have reached for her hand if he'd been that type of guy, but he wasn't and he knew that, no matter how rare the fact got to him, if it did at all. Instead, his fingers were light against her waist. He would have joined her on the sidewalk but he liked their eyes being almost level while he still stood on the asphalt. He tugged on her hair, because he used to do it all the time and he thought that it was more acceptable than hugging her, or even kissing her; which was more a strange compulsion, almost a familiarity more than anything else.

[/blockquote]

[· Rebel La'Beau.]

She had wanted to step off the curb, to walk and meet him in the street, but something kept her glued to the spot and so instead she waited for him to meet her, stuffing her hands into her pockets to keep herself from fidgeting. A scooter blew past, obscuring her view and for an infinite second she felt absolutely frantic, stretching on her tiptoes to try and see past it and then suddenly, he was there. He was really there, standing before her, the year they has spent running in circles suddenly nullified. She thought of all the words over the last year that she had kept to herself, the texts she never sent and the songs she had wanted to write.

She wanted to tell him about Paris and Saint-Ouen, Sunday's in the Sainte-Chappelle, about feeling lost in her own home and a stranger amongst her friends. But she didn't, because it all lead to the question of how she felt at home in this place instead, and why the only friend she still had was really a stranger. It made her wonder why he hadn't called her back, when now she was lucky enough to be standing six inches from him, the familiar way he always smelled washing over her and his fingers lingering somewhere on her hip.

His eyes reminded her of all the things she couldn't say and the promise she had made to herself: to try and keep this friend, to do something possibly healthy and honest and attempt to somehow defeat the nearsighted recklessness that had manipulated more or less all the girl's choices her life. In spite of everything that went before, his gaze on her face felt warm and she easily mirrored his smile. He was all smirk and suggestion, quiet and arrogant as if he was somehow in one life's little joke and that maybe if you were lucky enough, he would share the secret with you. Contemplating on the boy's Gift for a moment, Rebel realized that perhaps Duke really was in on the joke after all, and that in the end, it wasn't particularly funny.

"Thanks," She finally answered, her voice was cool but hardly distant. In a move that gave away none of the hesitation that was thundering so profoundly in her ears, Rebel leaned forward on the curb, her fingertips grazing his shoulder for balance as she dipped her smile and pressed a chaste spring kiss against his cheek. She had honestly missed the closeness that Duke managed to inspire in her once upon a time. Even when they were settled nowhere near each other, that sense of a slightly kindred soul seemed to ease the consistent headache she had been harboring since first moving here.

Pulling back so that she could see his face, the French exchange blinked a few times, guarding all of her little thoughts and motions the best she could before her eyebrows furrowed rather comically.

"Did you miss me?" because she had missed him, she realized a second before, and she hoped faintly and foolishly that he felt likewise, and still, she'd never make him say it in the end; she knew him too well. She didn't want to push her luck. Something dangerous and familiar flashed across the gold landscape of her eyes as she spoke, leaving no time to answer as she changed the subject with a familiarly impish smile, the echo of a laugh hidden just behind her lips.

"How's the band?" Her face held genuine curiosity, because she had to ask something, and she has always secretly adored the way his forehead scrunched up whenever he leaned over guitar.

[Duke Bell.]

EVEN THOUGH I KEEP FUMBLING FOR THE RIGHT WORDS
all I really wanted to say was thank you
you are number one on the list of people that I know with honest eyes

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Duke contented himself with the feel of her hip underneath his hand when she leaned forward to kiss him. It would never be a hug or the kind of physical contact that he had been thinking about consistently for the past few months, ever since it became clear that she meant more to him than he had first expected. It was enough though, because she was warm and tangible, more alive outside of his thoughts than secretly within; she reminded him of all the times he knew that no other girl would interest him the way she did. Something distinctly real and human emerged during the small instant he was hidden from her sight. Behind her hair, he closed his eyes briefly, shutting out the pink and just reacquainting himself with the smell of her, mixed with the scent of New York; it was like home.

He had learned the hard way of her significance to him. In the year that passed them, there were exactly 483 messages saved in the drafts folder of his phone. There was an average of 1/3 messages a day that he had never sent to her; things like, 'I met a guy with pink hair but he was gay,' when he was in Brazil or, 'croissants are so fucking greasy,' when he was in France. Rebel had managed to strike up the strangest of friendships with him and no amount of distance he tried to put between them had been able to discourage its existence. Over time, he thought less about losing her, and more about losing her all together.

"I did," he admitted, and there was a peculiar little look on his face, like he couldn't believe he had just revealed the truth. He found himself grinning afterward though, a small one that was all too amazed with not enough humility. If only she knew that he had never stopped thinking about her.

Duke watched the way the look in her eyes changed, and he noted the way the colors lightened then darkened with a kind of awareness that spoke nothing of the way he needed these moments, for all the times that would come after where she would not be around. He glanced slightly at the curves and dips of her face and discovered that all the photo booth snapshots he'd kept had never, ever done her justice, not even all the times he'd become lonely.

At her mention, he tried not to let his grin turn into a grimace, but the topic of his band always inspired the worst kinds of reactions. His hands turned into the pockets of his jacket and he stepped to the side to join her on the footpath. Duke ignored the sudden chill that crept up on him; a nervousness making itself known to him, an acknowledgment that he had never been good at polite small talk.

"We split up," he told her, everything about him unapologetic, "my year long absence put a strain on our working relationship."
Rather than avoid her gaze entirely, he looked up at her, and even though he wouldn't regret the fall out between him and his band mates, he missed the times when he had been able to be near her with ease, touch her with a casualness that suggested years of knowing each other than just a number of months.

He thought about adding how he'd been looking at going back to England in order to perform on his own at small venues, but decided against it almost instantly; he probably wouldn't go anyway. The idea of making her say she missed him too seemed like a good one, if only to indulge himself because without her, hardly anyone made him feel important. In the end, a hesitancy he didn't realize he was capable of won out, and he stuttered once in the face of the gold and pink, before asking rather belatedly;
"So, are you hungry?"[/blockquote]

[· Rebel La'Beau.]

Perhaps the immense freedom she felt in his presence was because she wore no masks with him. Before all her other strangers and friends, enemies and acquaintances, Rebel put on a face in order to ease the time she was forced to spend with them. She pretended to be remorseful about her mistakes and the years behind her when in truth she had never heard of anything quite so ridiculous - to apologize for your past, 'what a horrible thing to ask someone to do' she thought. She feigned creativity even though it really felt as if her inspiration had left her months ago. She acted sad and sober on all the days when getting blasted and the craving for a needle haunted her hallowed mind. Rebel promoted herself to everyone in her life as sorry, orderly, attentive, polite, patient and normal when she was really none of these things, and would probably never be even one of them. But in this niche the two of them had unknowingly created for each other she was just herself; a complete mess, and there was something almost liberating in that.

It smelled like the first stretch of spring and sunny days, and she liked the sudden feeling that she could smile for no reason whatsoever and in some way or another it would still make sense. Looking over at him, she was instantly overcome with the wish that she had a camera, that there was someway for her to capture his expression just then; she wanted to carry the light in his eyes and the muted smile he wore with her on dark nights and long trips to remind her what home felt like. His admission that followed completely snuck up on her, beginning as a few sideways words to become a confirmation and something more that she would carry close to her chest for the rest of the day. It seemed strange that being apart had in some way strengthened their friendship - or rather, their respective trips abroad had just harshly reflected the fear of being alone that both of them coveted so secretly and yet never bothered to properly acknowledge.

He stepped up onto the curb beside her, and she rested her chin upon her shoulder so she could look over at him. The future between them was uncertain, and she found that this grain of truth almost paralyzed her in a way - which was a rare phenomenon for a girl who was never intimidated by anything, especially the unknown. In point of fact however, their future was almost set in stone; she would grow old and eventually die, while he would instead stay young and carry on with the momentous task of living. It was their present that lay wholly uncertain - how they would spend their time together now when they were young and wild and friends, alone but together with each other in this great big lonely city.

He spoke of his band and she didn't need to know him as well as she did to hear the chagrin that laced his tone. A year was more than enough time for people to become different and grow far enough apart that they couldn't bother to find a reason to try and reach over the gap anymore.
"It's alright," she finally decided with a touch of certainty, as if she somehow just knew. Leaning a bit to the side, she bumped his shoulder with her own, hands still hidden in the depths of her jean pockets as she smiled down at her feet. "You're better than them anyway." There always seemed to be, lingering somewhere just below the surface of her voice, a note of aged, honest wisdom. It matched well with the serenity that was to be found in her smile, the beginnings of a laugh hiding amongst it's curves.

Finally looking back up at him, she pondered the question of eating for a moment before eventually answering. "Yeah, I'm starving." She hadn't eaten anything save for crackers, water, and half a bowl of soup since landing back in the States and finally, after a week of moody and sweaty detoxing, she was ready for some real food. "You wanna dine and ditch at Grand Sichuan with me?" Their previous destination all but forgotten because she was beginning to get attached to the idea of buying some pot and she only had enough cash on her for dinner or drugs, not both, and she knew from experience that Sichuan was easier to run from than Mott's. The waiters at the former were never very attentive and she always managed to get seated just besides the door.

Raising her golden gaze to meet his, she felt a strong urge just then to take his hand, or jump on his back, to be the kind of friends that could speak like that. But they weren't, at least not anymore, and so she settled for something less fulfilling but still fitting by bumping her hip against his once more, leaning into him more than anything.

[Duke Bell.]

THERE ARE SOME FEELINGS THAT FILL YOU UP
that dig their roots into your skin, and never let go
they swell, and blow you over; like wind and waves

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A secret weighed at him, one that he wouldn't have the courage or sense to uncover for at least another fifty years: she was his best friend. His feelings for her were mixed, almost convoluted. With her, there was an affection that he hadn't felt for anyone since the birth of his younger sister; a touch of trepidation that he could only chalk up to not wanting to disappoint her in any way; and one small bit of warmth that not even his strongest, longest nights could compete with. It wouldn't be until he was old, or older without looking the age, in a moment of utter normalcy, perhaps waiting at the crosswalk with her while it was dusk or so with traces of autumn and nostalgia somewhere, and where the wind would pick up, her array of pink catching his attention not for the first time - that he would realize just what she meant to him. It wasn't everyday, or often at all, that he got to meet a friend, let alone a best. He had merely one in the past, but there was something promising about Rebel, like she wouldn't give up on him any sooner than he would forget her.

Her reassurance was alluring, and from looking across the street he glanced toward her as she said it. The peace reflected in her smile made him want to do something stupid, something of the past. His expression flashed, for perhaps a second, and he let a grin grow. The nervousness was no longer there; it was all headiness now. If only they hadn't been such good friends; he could see himself really liking her. It occurred to him, not like a revelation but more a possibility, that maybe he did.

"I like you," he told her, very spontaneously and it was one of his more strange moments than a confession of interest. He was prone to do these things; moments more than a year ago when her eyes caught the sun or her hair fluttered particularly attractively and he told her she was pretty came to mind. He liked how she believed in him. He missed watching her trying to think of a new design, or the exact instances where inspiration struck and he'd been lucky enough to be there at the time. He hoped New York would bring them back.

There was a small laugh at her suggestion for Grand Sichuan and he knew almost before she acted, that she was going to touch him in a way. They had always been touch-based, never shy or thoughtful, more impulsive and curious; but Duke was getting tired of memories, because she was here, not in France like he had once thought or anywhere else while he had been attempting to move on without her. They were together, once again rather than at last, and it struck him as being important that he make the most of it. If anything, Rebel was fleeting; they were fleeting, or so he felt. He would have written songs about that exact moment if it weren't for that it made him exceptionally angry, bitter and even sad.

"I'll pay, you loser," he said, feeling friendly and poignant all the same; feeling like he was breathing. If he had to describe what it was all like for him, it would have been like he was breathing; a coolness in him, sustaining him. He put his arm around her shoulders, which was only a force of habit, and he let himself grin down at her because he really had missed her and every moment together only encouraged that truth to fact. Her eyes always made him different.

He wanted to ask about where she was staying but it came across as being too forward, too suggestive. She felt slight in his arms, and while she had always been small, there was a change about her, particularly in her face (because he couldn't tell about her curves, not yet), that he noticed almost straight away. It wasn't really fragility; she was stronger than what he knew and everything she thought. It was like a gnawing despondency and a losing struggle; like for some time, something had been getting the better of her. When he looked at her, properly, his gaze was a light green, the kind of shade that he wore best; it was enlightening and releasing - if only he could lean down and kiss her, on the forehead or nose, it didn't even matter - he thought, the sudden urge at the edge of his mind, because sometimes he just wanted to kiss her but he respected her too much, now and always, to ever do anything that damaging.

"I got you a birthday present," he said, deliberately sudden in an attempt to divert the new way he'd been looking at her; it was too much like the time when they'd been in school together, when he had chased her at the heels.


[/blockquote]

[· Rebel La'Beau.]

& YOU'LL COME ALONG BECAUSE I LOVE YOUR FACE

& I'LL ADMIRE YOUR EXPENSIVE TASTE

▬ And who cares divine intervention; I wanna be praised from a new perspective. ▬

[/center]

She thought about the things she had designed with him in mind, leather coats with argyle lining and stylish mirrored sunglasses, the rosewood guitar she had never gotten around to finishing. She thought abort all the songs that had gone unwritten and the notes she had never sent. It wasn't regret or remorse that overtook her afterward, just a touch of distant anxiety and an earnest vow to do things differently next time. Rebel had friends once upon a time, even a best or two, but whenever she considered Duke, the heavy, sedated desire to somehow better herself, the idea that there was someone she could be who was somehow worthier of his friendship, thumped somewhere in her gut and was easily the healthiest thing anyone had inspired in or asked of her in a long time.

His admittance struck her, and she thought briefly of all the times before when she had wished he'd say nearly those exact words. They seemed to hold a meaning different now than the one she had been searching for then, but still it tugged at her and made her want to do something stupid and impulsive, like confess that maybe he had been the only reason she had come back to this place from Paris. It made her feel strange to possibly confirm this to even herself though, and so she decided to keep the secret close to the vest for a rainy day instead.

She wanted to at least answer in kind, to say the things she had been thinking, which was mainly and firstly, I like you, or perhaps - because she always said exactly what she was thinking, but hardly ever just what she meant - the simple admittance that she hated sleeping alone, but the words caught in her throat and so in lieu she hoped he could tell by the way her eyes brightened and her smile carved those rare half-moons into her cheeks that she had perhaps never been happier in her entire life than she was right now, standing on this curb in Chinatown with him and his brown eyes. It was in those moments that she realized how he meant more to her than anyone who had gone before him had.

He offered to pay and she wrinkled her nose in response. "Yeah, where is the fun in that?" The sarcasm in her tone was uniquely French and almost pompous, but combined with the delicate smile she wore and saved just for her favorite moments with him, it ensured that she was absolutely nothing if not charming. She nestled seamlessly into the spot beneath his arm then, thinking to herself that she fit quite perfectly there, and suddenly once again, it was as if all the miles and months that they had forced into the gap between them were blasted away and it was just them, and this, and for an infinite second, everything was still.

The wind blew past them, an orchestra of late leaves and teasing hints of the approaching summer, and she glanced up at him from the place she stood under his shoulder and smiled, thinking rather spontaneously of all the broom closets and beds that they had shared once upon a time. Something warm and bright nested in her chest at this remembrance, and for some reason it would take her nearly half a century to properly grasp, she stretched up onto her tiptoes and kissed him. It wasn't a complete gesture, or even a lingering one, just a fleeting mark of endearment she pressed against the side of his grin, more a reminder than a promise; sincere, but somehow still devoid of something, which in the end, made it a little poignant. After that brief, endless second Rebel settled back onto her soles and looked out at the street ahead of them now, her heart uncharacteristically light. It was not in her nature to be embarrassed, or apologetic or timid, and so she was none of these things, just quiet and gratified as the wind kicked up around them once more.

The daylight caught his eye and Rebel felt compelled to note his presence just then and the enduring green that he wore; he appeared to be a combination of things, all handsome and conflicted, and she found the mask he carried distinctly intriguing.

She smiled in a new way than before as he mentioned a birthday present. He had always been so full of surprises and she liked that because she could never quite pin him down or figure him out, but it was never for lack of trying. He constantly proved impossible to unravel and it seemed they had that - like many things - in common. She felt like pointing out that he was a little late, as her birthday had passed almost a month ago, but they both already knew it and so her expression melted into gold and she looked up at him with the sun reflected in her eyes. Behind her feline grin, Rebel was trying to guess what he might have gotten her, that childlike curiosity she had always carried suddenly unquenchable.

"Oh really?" A deep, pensive line formed in her brow then, interrupting the perfect plain of her face. "What is it?"[/blockquote]
(lyrics and editing later. wanted to get this up before I left for Easter things. * oh god damn you V. I didn't notice you added (lovely) things at the end, so this post isn't even near done now D:)

[Duke Bell.]

LITTLE THINGS I SHOULD HAVE SAID AND DONE
I just never took the time
you were always on my mind

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It had only been a passing fancy that compelled him to wish she'd say the same to him; that she liked him too and he didn't know the rest or even what came immediately after, except he believed that together they would have been amazing.

He felt it hard pressed to ignore the possibility that at one point or another, everyone fell in love with each of their friends. Having had so few himself, he could only name one other person who had come anywhere close to what Rebel meant to him. His other friend, an old one that he no longer spoke to, Bishop Heart, had been a boy he'd met during an odd and completely pointless trip to New York ten years ago. Not yet a drunk then, at least not on alcohol and other sedatives, he had chased infinity with Bishop. They had been Duke and Bishop, Heart and Bell; an idea so romanticized by Duke that he'd forgotten to steel himself against the threat of disappointment and upset. His past friend hadn't failed to let him down though and it was a testament to Bishop's character, a true and righteous man, that the other boy never bothered to redeem himself.

Rebel, in the moment that passed them, had been light. She was so bright when he looked at her, smiles and amber and glow, that it was difficult to quell the irregular thuds in his chest or the rumor that it was because of his presence that she was the way she was. He couldn't let himself think that, firstly because he had left her in America when the relationship they had been spinning had so firmly dictated that he wasn't meant to be anywhere other than where she was. The thought held itself to him so violently, right when she kissed him, that he wished then that he could only name the feeling she evoked in him. It wasn't love, no, because the second reason he couldn't think of inferences or meaning with her, was because the fear he felt for her, for them and the rest of their lives, which was so dangerously near paramount to whatever else defined them.

So the smile he wore, the first in the year that separated them, except for those late in the night when his head was too far back on the mattress and he could imagine that somewhere in the world she was the same as he was, alone; while undoubtedly real and so subtle but heavy with truth and admonishes, was strained, if just by a touch, and devoid of its previous easiness. How she made him struggle, always, to resist her.

"I was in India," he told her, stepping away from her and balancing on the curb, his back to the restaurant on the other side of the street.

He'd spent six weeks in Jaipur, to be painfully exact, immersing himself with the culture and the people and constantly telling stories of a pink-haired girl. He stayed at the Hotel Pearl Palace, which seemed less ostentatious to him than The Raj Palace, and the people in the area had taken to the idea of a girl with pink hair. He mentioned golden eyes and crescent indents, and that inexplicable yet miraculous way of her. They drew her with affection and a kind of candor that could only be found in myth and history and divinity, and he employed an Indian scribe to write fanciful Indian tales and blessings. At the back of the small, nondescript visual journal, and in his own handwriting, he had only managed to write a few words;

The Pink City loves you.
Happy Birthday, Duke.

[/i]
"I got some Mughal paintings for you," he said, and as to why he left out the matter of them being of her, he could only presume it was out of an unusual type of shyness and perhaps that perpetual hesitance to admit she was of every value to him.

Duke unzipped his jacket an inch, and reached in to pull out a black book that wasn't much bigger than both of his hands combined. He held it aloft and that familiar look of slight amusement, that made his expressions softer and his eyes muted, returned along with the barest of grins. He stepped onto the gravel, only half mindful of leftover puddles and even less of traffic, wanting to pull her with him. It seemed to him like a homecoming to some brilliant and cherished place; to want to feel her hair on his face, the hushed breath of her smile. But they were neither here nor there, and it was only another item on the list of things he couldn't say.

"Come on," he urged, and he just wanted to touch her after having not done so for so long, to tap her nose or smooth away those lines of contemplation (consternation; he wondered how long she'd been frowning for).

"I'm so hungry," he admitted, which wasn't much or maybe it was more than it was, as he had never had a large appetite.
"I'll let you look at your book if you promise not to ditch me after."

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(ugh, I really need to start and finish my journalism shit, so I can't work on this anymore D: I'll finish it Friday night hopefully! Ily♥)
I'm pretending this is the same Friday I said I would finish it.[/color]

[· Rebel La'Beau.]

She would never have the courage to admit how much of her he defined. He had a significant stake however, one she could feel every time she moved or shifted or dared to lose footing. It twisted when he looked at her like that - over dimly lit diner tables and pie or under streetlamps on their midnight walks through the deserted city. His presence galvanized the wistful regions of her mind, the lonely, romantic delusions of her childhood that had previously been carefully sedated and hidden. He was dangerous, she knew that much.

"India...Mughal paintings....for you,"

Duke began to speak and something swelled and brightened and rose up in Rebel's chest like an exploding red sunrise. Her hands reached out instinctively and grasped the sides of the notebook as he produced it from his jacket; though she didn't quite pull it away from him. It was just a childish gesture of curiosity, an impatient wonder about this beautiful, foreign object before her. The gold in her eyes warmed as she glanced back between their hands and his reliable hazel stare.
She had wanted to hate him for leaving all those months ago - and for a while she had succeeded. Faultlessly selfish and classically dramatic, she had seen it as him abandoning her, and not just perhaps what might have been a sort of sabbatical for his own intents and purposes. Whatever the motivation, the pang of being left alone without anyone familiar to her again had become greater than any vengeful feelings and now the expatriate couldn't imagine ever feeling anything for Duke Bell except relief and gratefulness and this absolutely dizzying affection for the idea that he was really and truly here, seeing her. Her hand grazed his and she swallowed back the lump in her throat.

"Thank you." There was no expression on her face, just a combination of completely bare and honest feelings that overwhelmed her eyes and caused her lip to quiver. Finally dropping her hands away from the notebook she instinctively shoved them into her pockets and tried to check her vulnerable countenance. Part of this process involved just faking it, and so she opted for a joke; anxious to clear the heavy air she thought she might have created in between them.

"I can't believe you went to India without me!" She tapped him in the arm halfheartedly, though she still desperately wanted him to know, somehow, just how much the black book in his hands really meant. It was a symbol of something profound; tangible proof of something serious and consuming that she was still too afraid to explore. It proved, among so many other heart-wrenching things, that he had thought of her in the months they were apart, that he had never forgotten her. She could forgive him for not taking her along to Jaipur, as long as she had been present in his mind.

She stepped off the curb and took his hand, or rather, his wrist, and grinned wryly from beneath her pink curls.
"I wouldn't ditch you," and the way she said it, it was an admission of something that meant so much more. It was something eternal.

(so so so sososo sorry it's so short!)