A New Beginning

Closer

As nude as the day you were born, aside from the bandage around your arm that is.

The aftermath of sheer, utter dread unveils. Your little heart is throbbing so hard you fear your ribs might burst. Rapid, shallow gasps of air all but barely pass by your lungs before exhaled again and a throat as hoarse and dry you might as well have tried to swallow a fistful of sand. You tremble and sob short of stop, prompting Arthur to instinctively hug you close whereupon he instantly retracts.

You don't know if amongst your calls of distress, you had screamed out his name but nonetheless, here he is. He came for you. He stood his ground against a mammoth bear five times his body mass, for you. He protected you. He saved your life. He is – not quite sure what to do right now. His vision is trained onto a spot on the ground, akin to that of a scolded child. You clutch a hold of his clothes and scoot up close with a stifled, whimpering plea, whereupon you place a flat hand to his chest. To which, he draws a sharp intake of breath.

Stay close. Please. I need you.

He slowly turns to face you, albeit with a lowered gaze still before surrendering to the comfort he is aching to give. He begins to remove his jacket with one hand whilst embracing you with the other, all while finding new places to train his eye – anywhere but there. A glance up the hillside to make sure the bear is indeed gone somehow ends with a drop of gaze to your bare feet. Before he can even think of what he is doing he has already trailed up your calves where he takes note of your bruised, scraped up knees, ensuing a quick glance higher up before a propriety-induced aversion of gaze has him inspecting the rocky ground and your clothes scattered about, upon which he tenderly and meticulously cocoons his jacket around you. His heart is beating fiercely against your open palm as he scoops you up in his arms, as does yours but even as your fear gradually subsides, your elevated heartrate does not.

Arthur whistles and whistles but to no avail. Buell is nowhere to be seen nor heard. Semi-crude profanities and unflattering epithets apropos the aforementioned mount waft from under his breath.

With one arm under your knees and the other circled around your back he carries you the entire distance back to the hut, all the while doing what he can to lessen your distress by reiterating words of comfort intermixed with lulling interjections and your heart calms – only to rise in rhythm again. Your deeper-than-normal respiration and flushed cheeks are not so much a result of fear anymore as they are a crude, bodily response to Arthur's soothing voice and his body heat penetrating the apparel swathed around you.

Your hand moves. From curled up against your chest, snaking its way to your escort's shoulder, to which he intuitively hugs you closer and steals your breath. Feeling bolder, you move your hand again, this time to embrace the nape of his neck. The verbal assuage comes to an instant halt. In its place you notice a gradual, almost imperceptible yet steady rise of volume to his inhales, followed by drawn-out, contained exhales, alongside his strides growing progressively stiffer and more ungainly.

He kneels to put you down safely onto the ground. You do not let go and his breath hitches in his throat as your fingers glide against his jawbone to cup his face. A three-day stubble tickles your palm. You linger. His lashes sweep to his cheekbones and he moves almost indiscernibly closer. You trace the vermilion border of his bottom lip with your thumb – those dangerous lips, which you know only all too well are so darn utterly, perfectly congruent with yours.

The raging storm within renders you powerless to action and reaction. You feel a raging appetency to close your mouth over his. You are aching to and yet, it feels unwise.

His jacket slides off your shoulders.

Closer.

His hand comes up to your face, to which he captures and twirls a lock around his finger. You return the gesture by interviewing your fingers into his hair, ensuing an impromptu, light push at the back of his head. Your forehead falls to his, tipping off his hat. The apex of your nose glides against his as you weigh to and fro whether or not to steer him onto his back and straddle him. Give in to desire. Live in the moment.