wrinkle of your soul

He should hate her, he knew. He had once. He should hate everything about her: the way her hair flipped as she stalked - she never walked - without letting a strand free, how her eyes crinkle at the edges like she’s a hundred years old when she laughs that sweet chuckle of a child. He should hate her perfect nails that never seemed to chip, carelessly shredding as if flushed skin was a stubborn envelope edge. And he should hate her perfect eyes, the wide blue gaze stuck on his over her perfect lips — above all he should hate those lips, painted the color of ripe strawberries and parted in an “oh” of surprise.

Yet that wasn’t what he said to her now.

Isobela had left him, she had married a man she barely knew and didn’t love instead of him. For all their promises, for all their secrets, in the end she’d chosen the life of duty she claimed to despise: the life she spent years deriding his affection for. He should hate her for that. He should hate her for walking away when he asked her to run with him. He should hate her for the years she had gone without a word. For the letters that she hadn’t sent him, for the holidays he’d spent alone. For the days he’d spent remembering her endlessly unable to focus, for the days he should have been working on other things.

She’d had a child. A beautiful little boy, who at that moment was curled up asleep around a book. Just as he had done so many times growing up, he couldn’t help but think. There was an ache in his chest whenever Brandin looked upon Cameron, mind turning, turning, turning with curiosity. And he should hate her for that too. She had never told him. She had not made one single comment to him the day he discovered Cameron’s middle name was his own. Instead she swept her son up in her arms and walked out the door without looking back at him: she left him standing there in the door way wondering why there was a sudden yearn in his chest, why he would invite them back again and again but not strong enough to ask. Never strong enough to ask.

For all that, Brandin knew she should hate him too. She had every reason: everything he had done to her, his neglect, his inexperience, and the experiments and his involvement in the manor that she shouted at him for. Don’t you dare say that was for me. The ache in his chest cavity was new. The silence on his lips for her tearful questions had not been. She had stalked out before he had a true reply for her.

Above all, she should hate him for the simple fact he had never told her. He had never had the ability, the freedom, the courage to admit to her what she already knew quite well.

He’d said it now.

“I love you.”

“Brandin…” She’d set the wine glass down, gaze wide with shock. The breathless exhale of his name made him tense, but it was as thought a dam had broken. A rush of something was pouring through his veins, lighting him ablaze, snapping his jaw open and flooding the air with words, more words than he’d ever cared to speak.

“I love you, Isobel.” He repeated it, more certain this time. “And I’m sorry. I’m sorry I never told you that day when you needed to hear it, when I knew I did.”

At that her eyes went even wider, hands dropping to the side of her flowery skirt.

“I’m sorry that I let you walk away all those years ago. I’m sorry that I stood in the back of the damn church and never spoke when they asked for objections-“

“You were there?”

“Of course I was there.” It hadn’t occurred to him she hadn’t known that, even if he’d taken care she didn’t spot him. He had to see. He had to know she went through with it. Grand romantic gestures had occurred to him and he ignored each one of them for the foolish, silly things they were.

Her eyes were filled with tears, but her lips were forming a small smile.

“Isobel, I should have told you that day - I should have told you every day. I’m sorry for being angry with you for leaving. I’m sorry for never writing you, and I’m sorry for never sending the letters I did write. I love you, Isobel. I have from the moment we met.”

An incredulous smile was on her lips, and she let out a small, quiet chuckle of disbelief, “You were seven when you met me.”

“And already more unwilling to admit to emotion than any seven year old should ever be.” It was bitter and wry. Her expression puzzled him: he expected she would leave again.

“That’s true.” Isobel spoke softly, reaching for his hands, shocking him. “Brandin, I—I honestly, your divorce isn’t even—”

“It’s finalized.” There was no hesitation in his voice as he gripped her hands, slipping his fingers between hers. “The notice came this morning.”

He didn’t expect her to wince at that. Her fingers tightened in his grasp, gaze scrutinizing his as she spoke harried, “This morning? I understand — I can’t imagine what you’re going through, but you’re emotional, Brandin, you and Catalina may not have been in love but -“

“Emotional?” He couldn’t help it. A bright chuckle left his lips and he looked to the ceiling. “Years you tell me I have no emotion, remark on how cold I am, and now that I tell you - “

“Brandin!” She cut him off with fire in her gaze and voice, heart skipping a beat as she held his gaze. He freed a hand to rub his aching chest. He didn’t mind it, he realized. His chest hurt. But it was kind of a good ache. He kept his gaze locked with hers, laying their still intertwined hands on his knee. She took hold of their collective fist with her freed hand. “You left your wife, you have a child, you just got the divorce papers, this is emotional - I’m not criticizing you, I’m saying, don’t say anything you’ll regret - “

“I have never been more logical in my life.” To him it was suddenly that simple. It cut her off. It stopped her dead. She went still and soft, arms and chest lifting as if she was suddenly filled as a balloon would be. It was true: this was logical. It was simple.

And his first breath following that words felt like a swallow of fresh water as he came up from the sea.

“Humans feel emotions. I’m human. It stands logically to reason that I can therefore feel attraction, passion - “

She giggled. He tightened his grasp in her fisted hands.

“And yes, even love.” He shook his head, an honest smile on his lips. “To deny that is to deny I’m human, and that, is ridiculous. And I love you, Isobel. I love your laugh, your smile, the way you scrunch your nose funny when you’re trying to reach a high note as you sing.”

“Brandin!” The squeak was indignant, high-pitched, incredulous.

He added, “And I love to hear you call my name.”

She whacked his shoulder hard, but only laughed with him as he rubbed the sore spot. For a moment they were fourteen and sixteen again, laying beneath a tree tangled in her skirts and challenging each other to come up with the most creative innuendo.

She’d always won.

When her laughter died off, she just looked at him with the same wide eyes of astonishment as before, clearly unsure how to respond. A hint of sadness in his gaze at the thought her response wasn’t instant, it left with her words.

“You don’t have to apologize, I hurt you too. Just…I don’t understand. Why…why now? When Cat, and…just, Brandin. Don’t you tell me— do not tell me you left her for me-“

“No.” That was an easy question to answer. “No, I left Catalina for me. And Catalina left me, for her. Our marriage was never about affection, and when we were engaged that was all right. But I’m not the person I was. I never want to be that person again. I spent years in misery, searching for anything to replace the one thing I’d ever truly wanted.”

There was a breathless sort of hush as Isobel answered her own unspoken question.

“Me.”

“Yes.”

“And Ethan?”

“Ethan is my son.” There was a sudden note of pride in his voice. “And while I regret what this does, I think he will benefit more from happy, separated parents who love him, than from a forced marriage filled with rules, and expectation replacing affection.” He quieted for a moment. “I should know.”

Isobel didn’t say another word for a long time. Her tears had cleared, leaving a happy, hopelessly confused expression in its wake. Brandin sat in contentment. He felt freed by every word, as if links in a long chain were breaking off one by one and littering his parlor’s marble floor. He could just look at her. He basked in that: in being able to trace the little flicks of her lips with his eyes, the wrinkles of her nose, in being close enough to count eyelashes, and the happy tears that still lingered on her cheeks, glistening in the candle light.

“It’s just after everything…I never thought you’d actually…say those words. After everything?”

“Everything?” The question made his lips flick up. “We both were married, we both had children, we led separate lives. And I imagine you were as angry with me as I was with you for all of it. “

Her nod was unnecessary. The truth was written in her eyes, the wordless way she questioned his first truly honest words in, he felt, his entire life. A quiet hush had fallen over the room. They sat in his parlor, tucked closely on the sofa called ‘love seat.’ The plush velvet let him sink into it as he watched her, and when he spoke again it was breathless, making Isobela lean in closer to hear his simple words.

“So why now? Because of what I learned, after everything with my family, with Catalina, with Parker… I realized. You can stay in the same place and still find ways to leave people.”

Her mouth formed that tiny, perfect, ‘oh’ again.

“You didn’t just leave me.” The continuation of his words nearly stuck in his throat, choked as he was by regret and belief that when he finished she should walk out that door once more and this time, never come back. “I left you first.”

His apology was cut off by those perfect lips smashing to his, her hands dropping his to lift to his neck. Manicured nails dragged through his morning scruff, and though her soft palms cupped not even half his neck, she somehow yanked him after her. He met his lips eagerly, surprised by the sudden ferocity, by the abrupt awakening of a monster in his chest to replace the aching void. This was why he’d hated her, he thought as his lips crashed to hers again, again, again. For the years she had put him through, for her lies, for her accusations, for the fact she had yet to say it back. His hands should wrap around her throat, not slide against her hips, and his mouth should spit insults, not kiss her as if he doesn’t know how to stop.

He could feel her heartbeat fluttering against his chest. She has been in his mind; she has violated his very thoughts, but she looks at the world with an open-minded curiosity. She isn’t like the others. She had never been like anyone else.

“I love you too.” He pulled it from her lips, each word a breathy exhale as his tongue tasted her. He stilled, retreating to gaze at her in wonder, lifted up by those words in a way he had never expected. Lips swollen, the scarlet paint was scattered across her cheeks and pressed into the indent of her chin as she smiled at him. Honest adoration shone from her eyes as she added in a light tease,

“I suppose.”

Cheeky, the amused thought sprang to mind, but instead of responding aloud he yanked her into him, clutching her chest to his, arm hard around her waist, the other gripping her neck. He stood easily, letting her arms wrap around him, her legs snap into place. Heart rate climbing, he noted with delight the flush to her cheeks. Suppose, he thought it again, determined to make her regret that, determined to draw all the reasons from her that she did if he had to form the words by moving her lips with his own, and teeth and tongue. Her back hit the wall, drawing a gasp. It was a start, he thought, before thought fled, replaced with hot need he had not felt in years. Desire he had never thought he could feel again.

When he enters her she gasps and pulls him closer, proving her words as she clutched his chest, clung to him desperately. The heat engulfs him and he sucks lost air between clenched teeth, his body blissfully beyond his mind’s control. She takes him over, her bare body pressed against his skin, her forehead damp with sweat. They share lazy, hungry kisses, and he glides into her as if it’s nothing, as if it’s not a declaration of love, as if she isn’t whispering things she loves about him into his skin with every nip at his shoulder. He brought her over twice before releasing himself, determined to make her his as he had never done properly, relishing her high-pitched squeal.

She destroyed his mind and now she destroys his body, making him hers, seeping addiction through his skin without even realizing that she is doing it, just as she had done years ago. And that was why. He thought it in a haze as they tumbled down together, collapsed tangled in a mass of limbs squishing red velvet, peppering her mouth in lazy kisses. This was why he loved her, he thought, as his lips met hers again, again, again.

• brandin faye • isobela de luca • isobel x brandin • ASODJFIASJDFIOSADJ SQUEAL!!! • writing • yay middle of the night inspiration