♡Faith♡

pretty endearments 

she whispers

that's all he is

but still she cannot take

her eyes off of him

Faithala Laurette Reylas was odd. She had been odd since her very first moment in this world, when her umbilical cord was wrapped so tightly around her neck, she was violet. Violet. Vhat was almost her name, except her father, a gangly teenager-esque man named Vincent Cyr Reylas (which he hated, so he was more commonly known as just cyr), had objected profusely that his daughter be named after a mere colour. 

"This child," He had bellowed, motioning elaborately towards the tiny baby in it's mothers arms, "Will not be so inadequately named. For fucks sake - if my daughter is a colour, she is the epiphany, the fucking colour of extraordinary. She is faith for us all. She is not, dare I say it, bloody 'violet'." And so it stood. As Michela Marquez Mohala (thank you, African American descendants) lay in her hospital bed, with sweaty dark unruly curls and a crisp white gown, her eyes lit up.

"Faithala." She had whispered, voice full of certainty and awe. "Faithala Laurette. I love it. Don't you? Cyr, don't you love it? perfect."

"Is the ala part necessary?" Cyr had asked dubiously, and Michela's hand had slapped his lightly across the head. 

"Yes. She can go by Faith, but Faithala is so much prettier, and you are not talking me out of this one.” Cyr had just laughed, and he would never admit it, but he loved that name with all of his heart. So it was done. Eighteen uncannily joyful years later, Faith was still odd. 

Jamie met faith on her nineteenth birthday. Faith had actually spent her nineteenth birthday in the most unexciting of ways, or so it seemed to other people. It was 5am, an unnatural hour for any rested soul, but as I keep managing to mention, Faith was odd, and odd people are often not rested souls, and so she was naturally sitting at a mahogany wood table in the very furthest back table right tucked into the corner of a gorgeously cosy coffee shop. She was writing, of course. It was unusual to see Faithala Laurette not writing, in fact, it seems morally incorrect to type, Faithala Laurette Reylas was not writing. See? Weird to read as well. Back to it. She was scribbling, rather relentlessly, into this worn brown leather notebook which seems to have never left her. She wrote a lot, but nobody really knows what. Not even me. A diary, perhaps? Poems, stories, dreams. Plans. They still haven't found that book. Probably for the best, no use to them now. Anyway, she was writing, lost in whatever she was writing, when the waiter, comes to give her the bill on the four cups of coffee she had consumed that morning. She lifts her head to the approaching footsteps, all ready to argue her case that she should be appropriately billed for three point five cups of coffee, considering the second cup was almost completely composed of cream, when suddenly, her mouth falls open. The stars in her eyes paused for a while, her notebook dropped to the ground. Time stopped. People turned to stare. (That's what people do when somebody as notoriously lovely as Faith Laurette stops to notice something. They notice too.) Then, without a second thought, she says, very poised and steady, although with an undertone of sheer admiration;

"You're just the boy people write poems about, you know. Looking at you is looking at the stars." At this, Jamie's world fell apart, because Faith had just told him, albeit in her own way, that she thinks he is rather beautiful. You see, this comes as quite a shock to someone as mundanely adequate, at least in his own mind, as Jamie. To him, his dark hair was just the wrong shade - chocolate bordering on black. It was never styled - more piled with a feathery fringe. He thought he had a strong jawline and high cheekbones, but then again, bone structure isn’t something many people look for. His eyelashes were too long, too dark, too feminine. He had an ugly birth mark underneath his left collarbone. His eyes were too much of a pale blue to be considered appealing. He’d often put off shaving - meaning he had messy facial hair. He didn’t care, though. He had nobody to impress. But for seeing someone as lovely as Faith, he almost wanted to hide in shame. He never did feel quite adequate to talk to her unless he was wearing a full tuxedo, topped with a satin bowtie. After all, he was not a familiar. That's what the towns-folk called the accepted people in this tiny town. The familiars. The people who were born and raised and would probably die in Mulbry, the tiny, tiny told just down from Brighton. He was different. A transfer student from a school up north, to be exact. Jamie. Jamie Carter. He was the son of his widowed mother, and he was a trouble maker. Sent down South for a boarding school near the bleak british seaside town, Brighton. For a fresh start in a fresh city, with fresh surroundings and most importantly, fresh people. Faith was definitely not the girl he should've met. No; Jamie Carter should have met his alter ego, an adorable funny lovely little british rose. Instead, he met the fiery auburn haired attitude wrecked cheeky adorable blue eyed smiling Faithala, who spoke with poetry instead of words and often locked herself away from the rest of the world. Jamie and Faith were never written in the stars. But, somehow, they found their own way.

"Who speaks like that?" Jamie asked, not patronisingly or cruelly, just curious. He was also messing around with his fringe, a definite sign of anxiety, for him.

"Me, of course. and you - if you stick around. If you look so much like a beautiful poem, you'll soon act like one." 

“Y-your voice sounds like windchimes" Jamie blurted out, words tumbling out with no abundance. Faith laughed at this. Her laugh is terribly more beautiful than her voice, and Jamie’s mouth falls open a little.

"Sit." she suggested.

"Work." he sighed, gesturing back towards the counters.

"Play?" She said, bouncing in her seat. Literally. She was so adorably excited to be in his company, Jamie thinks he might die.

"...Some other time? Please?" He almost begged. Faith leant closer and for a second, he swore she was trying to kiss him. Her scent overwhelmed him as her lips brush his ear, and she whispers, just a single word,

"Run."

Jamie is whisked away, her tiny hand clasped around his wrist, pulling him out of the door. She broke into a sprint, laughing adorably and so does he. The owner of the quaint coffee shop leant out and started shouting about no-pay-this and short-of-staff that. They barely hear him over the sounds of their feet colliding with the ground again and again.

That’s were it all began.

+.+.+.+.+

A/N

Hiiii, so I hope you liked it. You can vote and add to your library and comment and stuff, that'd make me really happy...if you got this far, just thanks really. :) It's nice to know somebody cares enough to want to read even a little bit of my work.

+Kat x