Tea

Third short about Winter. Tea time with dear Lorien.

The overturned teacup, resting amid collections of spatial voids, is watching him again. The sunset violet streams across its sides told him it was an unpleasantly settled little cup- unloving of his hands- so he doesn't drink from it anymore. Sometimes a girl's face roved about within the porcelain- just a reflection of a shadow it seemed, and he sometimes found himself wondering what it was she wanted. Click and swing of a door elsewhere in the house and he lifts his eyes, asking bare shelves who's entered. The honey-dipped wordings of Ms. Falcon weave through walls, “Win- you better not have eaten yet.” He blinks, glances towards the kitchen, and drums his fingers on bony knees- currently smothered up against his chest. Smokey blue eyes shift and he super-focuses on the kitchen entryway, smiles twitching in the corners of his lips. Glancing around the door frame two purple eyes narrow, hay-tinted waterfalls of hair framing them, “Winter.”

Hesitant lip-bite, and then a muttered, “Yes?” from the the pale young man.

A roll of her eyes, and a toss of hay-tinted hair as she pads back into the kitchen, “Get in here.”

He unfolds the angles and limbs of himself, stretching his lankiness- palms flat against the ceiling at the top of the stretch. As he turns to walk away he spies a black, inky liquid oozing around the outer edge of the teacup. Snatching the cup up into his hand the purple hues slither away into blackness- warmth emanating around the teacup. Misted, icen breath drifting from his mouth he releases a growl, “Your protest is sickening-” snow crystals form across the areas where his skin meets the glazed porcelain. Ms. Falcon strides into the room, holding up a bottle, lips parted to ask something- she halts, watching the whites of Winter's eyes slide away into ragged darkness, like the teacup.

“I'm not buying you another one if you break it,” her expression remains clear, but her knuckles grow white around the neck of the bottle. The moment the wolf-eyes took him, he would become uncontrollable, the room's furniture beginning to hover as testament to that.

He glances at her, then quickly to the floor- eyes easing back into normalcy, “Tea...right.” The lengths of his hair, blacker than midnight tide-pools, ceases swirling in its unnatural wind and he replaces the cup to it's place on the coffee table. “I'm sorry, Ms. Falcon,” his gaze graces her crimson lips and he shivers. After a moment of silence between them he stares at his hands, watching them quiver. “The cup's possessed- I didn't mean-”

Ms. Falcon shakes her head, “ No. We're not doing this again, Win. Not now.” Young, sad, and lovely- the set of her shoulders, the swing of her hips, the pale blue watery-dress, the parting of ruby-red lips, and the heavy sighs of acceptance. He ends the conversation, shuffling past her into the kitchen, obedient to her steady gaze.

“...I'm sorry, Lori,” he tags the words on only after he's out of her sight, transporting her plate of little bear-shaped cookies to the dining room. They had little icing bows and everything. It told him where she had been; her apologies were always silent like this, the offenses never mentioned. Carefully arranging the plate on the small, rounded bar-table he wanders to the china cabinet to pick out dishes, ignoring the sting of his heart with every look he dared at the sugar cookies.

Lori- miss Falcon- leans through the dining room entryway, cherry lips drawn, watching Winter's willowy form dance from cabinet to table, setting it with decorative precision, never once bothering to notice her. Taking in the room she notes shattered porcelain about every window- he told her only a matter of days ago that the shadows were becoming more frequent in their 'visits'. He seemed more estranged than ever, the way he held himself showed pain; she knew he knew what had conspired, but a lady can't change what's already been done. Sulking to his side she grasps at his white cotton sleeve, “Winter-” sentence structure erases itself and she plays with his thin-black, suspender straps instead.

Jerking his arm away from her he sets down the plate he's holding, watching his reflection therein, “I think he would rather you save that for him.” He becomes suddenly enthralled in toying with a sugar-cube. Leaning on a chair-back she tilts her face to regard him- even without standing proper he still towered head and shoulders over her, this angle making him even loftier. Disputing a statement both parties knew to be true would lead to nothing, and so nothing more is said of it, Lori rising to assist in bringing out the shrieking tea-kettle.

Winter twirls his fingers through the raven colored ponytail now draped around his shoulder, simply watching as Lori places a butter knife in a teapot, pouring the contents of the kettle gently over the little knife into the pot. Removing the knife she glances up at him, “Raspberry tea, yes?” He says nothing, regarding her through sleep-depraved eyes. She sways her hip slightly to the left, sighing, “If this is about Seth,” she waves the butter knife in his general direction, “stop it. Stop it now.”

Sheepishly, “Do you have anymore of that mango-chamomile tea?” Unusual, he always wanted raspberry tea.

“I'll get it,” she wanders back off into the kitchen, and then rifles through the large canvas bag she brought with her. Lori always brought extra tea selections with her, but Winter never drank them willingly, so this was new. Upon her return Winter is glued to the window, dazed into oblivion- the shadows gripping his full concern. She finishes setting up the teapot to steep without addressing him; he wouldn't hear her anyway.

“I'm sorry- I'll move it,” at first his muttered words seemed for her, but when he paces past her into another room she realizes he was speaking with a shadow. Following him into his den she watches him reorganize a shelf of books, peering over at 'something' beside him that she just couldn't see. Whatever the shadow was, it must have been appeased by his new alignment of books and left for Winter finally saw her standing by the door. Disorientation filled him, he even seemed dizzy, feeling for the bookshelf to support himself, “Sorry, I'm coming.”

Shaking her head she links arms with him when he comes within her reach and leads him back to the dining room, “You've got to stop, they're not real, Win. That's why they keep you here.”

“They want help, Ms. Falcon.”

“Nothing's there.” She stops at the table, staring out the massive window at the throngs of flowers. He loved his garden, but was it really the love of the garden, or was it the dreaming of what was beyond the walls of his unsaid 'prison' that made him love it? Orchids bloomed for him like little girls' first love; they grew by the thousands in every color known to man- botanists back home would have hated him. Winter asked her once if he could name one of the hybrid flowers after her, she never bothered to see if he did. “If that damn teacup bothers you so much just break it.”

Black streams of hair drape around Lori's face, the tips nearly white as snow, Winter's chin resting carefully atop her head, “You told me not to.” His arms snake around her, linking at her waist, “Did they really need the bows?” he was looking at the cookies.

“Ari helped before bed, I wouldn't make cookies like that,” she yanks his ponytail for good measure. He releases her, casting a sidelong glance at the garden. She follows his gaze and whispers her question, “Are they there?”

Silence.

“How many are there?”

“Just a girl.”

Moving her attention back to the table Lori begins pouring their tea, “Is she the one from the teacup?” He reaches for her now, pulling her into a hug from behind, leaning his head down to breathe in the wildflower misted scent of her hair. The teapot is returned to the table and her ruby lips sketched into a line.

“Please don't see him tonight...” one kiss where shoulder meets ivory neck, one moment of silence and the hesitancy for either to move- the tears start falling. Uncontrollable and silent- she fights to remove them from her face- they be-speckle her chicory blue dress within seconds. Winter hurriedly moves toward the other side of the table, fidgeting with another sugar-cube, “I-I'm sorry- this is-” tripping over a chair, “s-sorry. Tea. We're having tea. Just tea, I'm sorry.” He holds his hand out to touch her arm, decides better, and then stumbles back over to her remembering he's to pull out her chair.

Honey-hair waving about, she shakes her head and continues on biting at her knuckles. With her eyes jammed shut a moment longer the droplets stop falling and she shudders through another breath. Arranging her skirts she sits, intent on the cup of tea. Winter pushes the chair closer to the table for her, then returns to his seat and shivers. He knew he had been in too deep for a while now, but he went right on hoping.

Author's Note

Comments anyone? I'll ruminate on them.