Rough Night ✓

ii. dustsceawung

ii.

d u s t s c e a w u n g

(n.) "contemplation of the dust"; reflection on the knowledge that all things will turn to dust

∞ ∞ ∞

THE FORCE OF the boy against me was considerably heavy, but it hadn't the power to rival the city or my heart after Declan left me ruined. So it was easier to say that was how things started, not with a push onto the wall but a pull, a fist gripping my ankle to pull me under.

The hand that was being twisted and pulled by the intruder dropped the rolling pin, leaving me defenseless while he tried to pin me to the wall. My body struggled against his, knees reaching out for flesh to main, head thrashing about for the rest of my body was trapped for the most part.

I wasn't even focused on his face, just on his body, a dress coat draped over his hard and strong torso, peppered with snowflakes. His bare hands were cold on my skin, a definitive sign that he hadn't worn gloves like robbers usually did.

"Stop," he said in a gravelly voice, the sound of it almost melodic except it was filtered out from an obviously-sick throat, leaving higher notes scratching against each other like sandpaper. "Stop," he barked with a finality in his tone, like he truly meant it this time.

Even when he sounded sick, his voice had a commanding edge to it and I found myself no longer fighting against him, slightly relaxing my body as I allowed myself a look at his face.

And if there wasn't a possibility that he was trying to kill me, I would've thought he was gorgeous. He had rich blue eyes that you could've mistaken for oceans, not to mention a sturdy jaw accentuated by the stubble on his face that forecasted a slight beard to grow in.

It was then very distinguishable who he was and I had to stop myself before gasping, strangling the sound in my throat before it could escape. "You're Aven Holiday," I said whilst catching my breath, "aren't you?"

He let me go, but only to readjust his grip on me, holding my body against the wall, just not with as much force. "I don't know who the hell that is."

But I did, we both did. Aven Holiday was the heir to Holiday Incorporated, a Fortune 500 company whose CEO had just passed away a month. It was in the news for weeks, mainly because Aven was nowhere to be found at the news. His aunt had to be placed in temporary control over affairs while people everywhere seemed to be looking for him.

The prodigal son who was putting thousands of jobs for the middle and lower class in jeopardy by abandoning his company, the one who everyone adored, the one who appeared many times in the tabloids from dating supermodels and attending high profile fashion shows with them -

- The one who broke into my coffee shop.

"You're Mr. Holiday," I said, struggling against his hold against me.

"I'm grieving," he answered, saying that as if that was who he were, as if his emotions made his being. You didn't have to know me well to know how that angered me. He was one of the most attractive of the richest men under twenty-five. He had looks and money, he wasn't chased around corners by money with no one to run to, he had a sea of arms that were only waiting for him to dive in.

I only had memories of Declan at the bottom of the pool, if I jumped, I'd shatter my skull. Dead on arrival.

And I was dead long before then.

∞ ∞ ∞

MY APARTMENT WAS nothing, it wasn't a home, but a grave where I would turn over at the injustices that Declan caused upon me, the ghost of our once-writhing bodies lived in the sheets - and while I had long since cleaned them, over and over, it felt like I could still smell his release, our sweat, the perfume I wore on nights-out seeping into the mattress, the smell of the burgers we ate and maybe a cinnamon altoid on his breath.

My bed smelt like sex with him, even when we haven't slept together in months, even when I had washed my whole house, it was haunted with the idea that I once was never alone here but now I was and I will be.

Aven must've caught me as I wrinkled my nose, because he said, "I don't smell anything."

I had no clue why I brought him here, but he stood in the middle of the war ground of my life and he seemed to act like he couldn't, but I had a feeling he was counting all of the bodies. The broken lamp on the nightstand that I didn't have the heart to throw away because my mother gave it to me, the dimming light of the lamp because I couldn't afford to rack up my electricity bill, the torn cheap carpet from when Declan used to wear soccer cleats around the house and when he had his pesky cat with claws just as sharp.

And there was me, a glaring sign, a living body of a lost battle - like the south, I told myself, maybe I'll rise again. Not in a good way, but in an inevitable way because there was no such thing as a good change for me. I would be going from rotting on the ground to burning in the sun, if anything.

"Just, sit down somewhere," I told him with a sigh, gesturing at all of the chairs, anywhere but the bed. But Aven was oblivious and invincible, like a storm, one that traced its way to the mattress, resting down on the edge of the mattress.

At my questioning look, he raised an eyebrow, "all of the other ones had stuff on them that I didn't want to move." He gestured for me to come sit by him, which I promptly refused. "Please, I have to tell you something."

"Make this quick," I said in exasperation as I dragged my way over there and plopped down beside him. "You only have thirty minutes before I decide to kick you out of here, I hope you know that."

He didn't, by the look of shock in his eyes, but he wasted no time. "You know how the opera is tonight? Don Giovanni, to be precise?"

I nod silently, taking a good and long look at him. And for a second, fleeting as it may be, the commotion of sex is drowned out not by a sound but the glimmer in his eyes.

Something about this screamed now or never. Maybe it was time to listen for once.

"Yes, Aven," I said, "what is it about the opera?"

He fell silent at that, as if words failed him and I could empathize for once. Well, almost, at least ― words weren't the only things that failed me.

In the time it took for him to chart his starry words into a constellation, I began to notice things about him. Like the big dipper of his lips and the supernova remnants that were the flecks of gold in his eyes. It was funny ― he was made of galaxies and yet he looked so small in that moment. I wanted to tell him that the stars never grieved, that he was a system and not a side effect, that the whole world had their telescopes out to find him.

"Maybe," he said tentatively, finally breaking the silence, "you could come and see it with me. I mean, only if you want to, but it was one of my mother's favorite operas. And I feel like I owe it to her since ―" he breathed " ― the incident."

I saw then that he was what it looked like when the stars went out.