Two Loves

Chapter 7

ISAAC

It is obvious why Cym did not wake me in the morning. She did not want me to have time to check the studio and remove her preparations.

She opened one of the windows so the curtains are billowing and breathing like nervous, gasping chests. There are half-burnt candles on the desk, on one of the easels, fresh flowers on every surface. She even cleaned the sofa of all messy sketches and the old blanket and has put soft pillows on it, this calculating witch.

But the cherry on top of this mess is that, on the table in front of the sofa, in a neat little vase, she arranged a bouquet.

The goddamn hyacinths.

They bloom with a decadent, overflowing, lavish pleasure, as if they would devour themselves in the pleasure of life in excess. It's a monstrous confession, a wicked, overly direct statement that seems to absorb all air and attention. The narcotic and gooey-sweet odour fills the room. I sneeze.

Atticus elevated brows seem surprised at the sight of this - this cave of temptation - my sister made out of my studio.

And, judging from his giggle, he does know secret filthy flower language.

I hate Cym. I hate her so much in this moment.

He gives me a questioning look, seemingly holding back a laugh and I try to imagine the situation through his eyes.

Oh God, no.

"Well", he says slowly, "I must say, your sense for decoration really is... meaningful. And where did you get those wonderful flowers?"

My cheeks down to my shoulders flush.
"I am so sorry" I stammer, pulling my hair and trying to find a way to explain this idiotic situation, "Let me explain - I did not- It- Cym, she set those flowers here- She bought them. I mean, I told her to do so, I wanted to give them to y- No, screw that, I-"

He takes a step forward and lays both hands on my shoulders. The gush of words that left my mouth uncontrollably immediately ends. I can't stop my glance from wandering from his eyes down his face to his lips. There's almost a sense of pity in those gray blue eyes, behind the layer of amusement.

"You really should stop talking" he whispers with a chuckle, and once again, puts a thumb on my underlip. He takes one step closer and looks down to me, into my eyes.
"You bought that flowers for me?" he says in a low voice, his other hand stroking the hair in the back of my neck. His tone is almost incredulous, hopeful.

"Yes" I breathe.

"Then you don't need to explain anything."

And then, with a sudden vehemence, he draws my face to his and lays his lips on mine.

For the first second, I am so surprised that I can't move. My thoughts just spiral and twirl and collapse again - he is kissing me. Atticus is kissing me.

I really don't know which word of that sentence I should emphasize most.

I melt into his arms and suddenly, it is not him kissing me anymore, but us kissing each other. There is no defence anymore, no false shyness - just his hands on my back and mine in his hair, those locks that feel like silk and feathers.

This is a whole new level. There is no wrong or right anymore. He is a revelation.

Though I could notice and think a lot of smart things - that this is the first real kiss I had in years, that Atticus is a very good kisser and that I am jealous at all the people with which he learned that and that his hands move slowly downwards to my hips - but everything my brain, this excellent masterwork of the human evolution, designed for world-changing revelations, can produce is a simple Oh and Mmh and More.