The Littlest Things

Hands

She remembered how warm his hands were. Tristan liked to hold her hands a certain way--not quite intertwined but wrapped with his fingers--and she liked the comfort his warm hands brought her. Warm meant blood flowed through his veins. Warm meant she was able to keep him alive. She especially liked bringing his hands to her lips whenever they're alone together so she could kiss his knuckles or the soft skin between his thumb and forefinger, and for a few minutes she'd feel that all was right in the world.

Now the hands on her throat were cold, and the eyes that glare at her were red, and the man she swore to protect wanted her dead. "Patayin mo na 'ko," she gasped. The Tristan in front of her did not even flinch, so intent on killing her with his hands, but her death was taking too long. "Ano pang hinihintay mo, Tristan? Nakatakda mo tong gawin, diba? Ito makakapagpasaya sa'yo diba?" she managed to say even as she struggled for air. In a flash, his cold hands left her throat and he backed away from her.

"Hindi ito ang makakapagpasaya sa'kin," he said through gritted teeth. Malia looked at him, and the face that was usually devoid of emotions since he turned into a vampire became a canvas of different colors, different feelings--red and black and blue, light and shadow, pain and rage, mostly frustration--so despite her best efforts, her heart ached, for him and for her, and then hot, unbidden tears welled from her eyes to her cheeks.

She didn't really know what she was feeling. She was angry but she lost the will to fight. She was broken but the sight of him made her want to fly. He had his hands on her neck and she was willing to die if it meant she'd feel his touch again. It was shameful and wrong and she felt it all. And she didn't know what to make of it. All her life, she knew what to say and what to do. Lead her pack. Fight for her family. Console the grieving. Train with her friend. Be a good daughter. Protect. Actions and words that were all part of her role. She knew when she was wronged and she knew what to do to make things right. But with Tristan, feelings and duties and right and wrong were confusing, so all she did was follow her heart.

Tristan turned his back on her and started to leave, but Malia found her voice again.

"Tristan!"

Taunt him? Insult him? She would do anything just to have him look at her.
"Wag kang duwag." She stared at the back of his head, willing him to turn, but he remained motionless, just standing in the middle of a dark, abandoned place unfamiliar to Malia, with shards of glass and broken chairs and an old bed, and for one second she thought she imagined him again. But she already learned the hard way that he was not just her hallucination.

"Harapin mo 'ko." Still nothing.

"Harapin mo ko, Tristan. Patayin mo ko kung kaya mo." She saw the clench of his jaw but he didn't say a thing.

Tristan started walking away but his steps were slow, like he was hesitant to leave, and Malia grabbed her last chance.

"Pero kung naduduwag ka, kung nagdadalawang-isip ka, kung hindi mo kaya, sabihin mo lang sa 'kin. Ilalayo kita dito. Babaguhin ko tong mundong 'to. Hahanap ako ng sagot para sa'yo. Kahit ano, Tristan. Gagawin ko kahit ano."

She was Malia, Punong Bantay, Bagong Itinakda, the most powerful. Her people turned to her for strength. They trusted her every word. But there she was, reckless, vulnerable, making bad decisions, letting Tristan know her truth. She cried without shame.

Feeling open and bare, she did not realize that her thoughts came tumbling out of her mouth. "Baka lang kasi mahal mo pa 'ko." Softly, she added, "Pero bakit parang ako lang yung nagmahal?"

In the blink of an eye, Tristan crossed the room to stand in front of her. His hands were on her skin again, cold as it cradled both sides of her face. He was too fast. Too close. She could feel his breath on her face, and the calluses on his thumb, and she fought hard to keep herself from reaching for his face and touching him as well. In the soft light, in just five seconds, she watched as his resolve crumble while he debated with himself whether he should or should not. Like her, he was bare. Like her, he was open. Malia took everything his face could offer and she saw softness. Anger. Pain. Indecision. It was too much so she closed her eyes. And that was when he kissed her.

There was no spark. The world didn't end. His cursed ink didn't show and the moon didn't turn red. The kiss only felt natural and long overdue, and though no lightning struck their ill-fated love and the ground didn't open to swallow them whole, there was fire in her gut and it consumed her just the same. When their lips parted, Tristan spoke, all ragged breathing and desperation in his voice. "Alam mong hindi yan totoo, Malia." Fear was in his eyes as if he just exposed a secret. As if the last vestiges of self control slipped from his fingers. She thought of the way he tried to kill her, and how he let the Wayas die, and how despite everything she wanted to be by his side.

She didn't want to think anymore. Malia grabbed his face and crashed her lips into his and she kissed him until his eyes turned from vampire to moonchaser and his grip on her hips turned from Imperator to her beloved jeepney driver. He brought her to the old bed that made a loud creaking noise when he shifted above her, and she vaguely recalled the sounds she heard at camp late at night when her group went into hiding, the howls and the growls, where every lobo and vampire knew who was making love to who. But now they were alone and there was no one to hear and no one to know.

"Malia," he whispered before pressing his lips firmly against her neck, then down to her shoulders, and his fingers curled at the hem of her shirt while her hands pulled at his hair, tugging insistently. She didn't know what to do really--no one taught her anyway--but she was all hunger and need and instinct, so she kissed where her fingers went and licked what she wanted to taste. He did the same.

Soon they were tangled limbs and hurried touch, clothes ripped and thrown on the floor, and when his mouth found its way on the inside of her thighs, she forgot her past and her fate and the war she had to win. There was only Tristan and nothing else.

She wrapped her arms around him when their bodies joined, pulling him closer, still afraid that he'd suddenly stop and disappear. He didn't. He looked deep into her eyes, intense and overwhelming, and she looked back, hoping he saw "don't go, don't go, don't go" with every thrust.

They went on and on until she thought she would burst out of her skin, and then she reached it--that goal, that place--and her head was filled with blinding white as she cried out his name. He let out a moan upon hearing her, then buried his head on the crook of her neck, kissing it again, and suddenly his hands were tight on her waist as he pushed into her harder and harder, and then he followed too, letting out a strangled sob that sounded like pleasure and defeat all at once.

They lay beside each other after, both dazed and trembling, avoiding each other's eyes. Malia feared she'd see regret or, worse, indifference, and she knew even after everything that happened, he'd leave again. They both had their missions, and plans, and sacrifices, and Tristan needed time to think if he wanted to throw them all away.

She felt sadness then. It was not how she imagined her special night. She thought of her parents and felt a pang of jealousy, knowing how their night must have been special, not with decisions to make and deafening silence after the sex.

When at last she found the courage to look at him again, she caught him already staring at her with such tenderness before he quickly looked away. He cleared his throat and sat up, then reached for his leather jacket and covered her naked body with it. Malia sat up, too.

"Tingnan mo ko ulit," she told him. Slowly he turned his face towards her and met her eyes. There were no words. She merely wanted him to see her face, glowing with determination and fierceness and looking still so very in love with him. "If you hate me so much just say it," her eyes said.

He laughed a little, dry and bitter and like a surrender. He reached for her hand and held it that certain way--not quite intertwined but wrapped with his fingers--and then he closed his eyes as he brought it to his lips to gently kiss her knuckles. She realized then how that kind of kiss felt like worship. She felt special. He must have felt special, too. But there were no words. Just a tender gaze and a sad smile that said "Nothing could make me hate you."

And then he was gone.