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And Perhaps There Is A Limit To The Grieving That The Human Heart Can Do (But It Is Simple And Good And Maybe You Meant To Suffer In This World

Summary:

And perhaps there is a limit to the grieving that the human hrart can do. As when one adds salt to a tumbler of water, there comes a point where simply no more will be absorbed.

Or: ten things you should have known about Marianne by the way she holds her paintbrush (but came as a total and utter surprise)
+
one thing you couldn't have guessed.

Notes:

Some types of love aren't meant to last forever.
They are a raging fire, a storm in the sea.
When they come, they are a full blown blaze and they change you,
but they cannot stay.
You cannot hold into this kind of feeling.
You must love so fiercely, so unconditionally that the only option is to set it free.

(See the end of the work for more notes.)

Work Text:

i.

When she first kisses you, her mouth is cold and beautiful and captivating and she tastes like sea-salt and fire like she's some kind of a mythical creature that came to torture you with kind words and hard eyes and soft lips.

She is completely fascinating to you, breathtakingly beautiful and so much more than that. She kisses you long and wanting and sloppy, all chaos and desire and ruin, all desperation and wildness and seduction.

(Her kiss doesn't last long. Her lips are trembling and soon she's out of breath and even though you would kiss her forever if she'd let you, you'd kiss her for all eternity if possible, you pull back first and you run all the way home).

(You do not turn back to see if she follows you. Instead you lock yourself in your room and try your best not to think of her).

ii.

She's looking at you like you're something important, like your face is something to remember. Her eyes are dark and hot and searching and she holds your gaze for long long minutes, refusing to turn her eyes first.

(It is evident to you, in the way she holds your gaze, that she is used to winning hearts of men and women alike).

(She is staring and you stare back and it is a game you much enjoy playing).

(Because she is used to blushes and faux innocence and delicate girls, you do your best at being blunt and brave. When she stares you stare back and won't turn your eyes).

(More often than not, her gaze will waver and she will swallow hard and still hold your eyes, all unshifting pupils and irises the coulour of stars and oh. You have to turn your head before you burn).

iii.

She is all long strides and serious stares and steady hands and knowing words, but she isn't half as calm as she would like herself to present.

(You notice way too often how her head bubbles when she speaks, standing close to you, hands clasped in front of her body. The corner of her sure smile will waver, her eyebrows will jump, ever so slightly, and she will lose some personal battle within herself).

(You can't help but notice that those battles often end with her green, brown, starry eyes shifting to your mouth).

(You like to think about how uneasy your own eyes make her. You also like to think she is struggling with herself not to pull you closer and put her mouth to a better use than her blunt, cheeky questions).

iv.

She doesn't make you laugh and it worries you. Her wits shine through her eyes, come through in every word she says and you know she can be funny (you heard her once, late at night, in the kitchen. She was sitting with Sophie and the girl's laugh went on and on and on and your heart has swollen and your anger rose, wild and red and all like raging fire).

You feel sad and hurt and angry that she doesn't make the effort, but soon you learn how nervous you make her feel and you start noticing the way she would double-check your face, some feature, (for no reason at all), before applying paint to her painting (heart pounding through the visible vein in her long neck, fingers trembling and (she is perfect).

(Eventually she makes you laugh and it's a wonderful joke, intelligent and kind like herself, and you are so in love).

v.

She is very serious about her work, and she possesses a sense of righteousness you cannot understand. You can see that every stroke of her paintbrush on the canvas brings her pain. She is hurt and helpless and she keeps painting. When she raises her eyes and observes you, she wants and she wants and she wants (your own desires mirroring hers) but she doesn't leave her post. She keeps painting and painting and painting and you want to keep her as your own, to grant her freedom, to pour yourself into her.

(You never do and she stays at a distance, all straight back, and hard mouth and shining eyes and it's enough to kill you both).

vi.

The first time she asks you about your future, you are filled with terrifying feelings. You miss your sister and you hate her (for being selfish, for leaving you her fate, for not being brave enough and being too brave for her own good), you are scared of unknown lands and foreign languages and a man who is nothing but a dark figure in your childish imagination.

You think her rude and cunning and you tell her she will never understand you but oh, how she does.

(You learn something important about her that day – she doesn't want her future any more than you want yours, and just like you, she has no way of escaping what is waiting for her back home).

vii.

She finds small victories in acts of defiance that means less in the grand scheme of things than a small grain of sand.

(She does them anyway).

viii.

For a woman who lives off lying to her client, she's a terrible liar, (though she is a good actress). Her eyes are too open, too sinister, to hold even the smallest of lies but her face is blank and serious and pale and she looks and looks and looks and you have to admit, she could have fooled you.

(Were she anyone else, you would have erased her from your world, but you learned so much about her, and now – now you cannot. You have poured yourself into her and you bled together and you indulge yourself in the weakness she evokes in you. You give yourself to her and you know it won't last, but you cannot help it).

(She thinks herself immune to criticism and observations and you wonder if anyone has ever taken the time to look at her, really look at her, the same she looks at her subjects).

(The way she flinches and blushes and flares up, angry and lost and scared, when you fire back at her observations anyone could have made, have they took the time, you think she never has anyone treating her as an equal and for all her talk and big words and wonderful mind – she is but a child).

ix.

She lacks any sense of self-shame and you make a small noise when she flips you in her bed, eyes aglow and mouth smiling, and makes you laugh and cry and gasp all at the same time.

(Her hands are gentle and soft when she caresses you. Her fingers are warm and firm when she enters you and you hold tight into her shoulders when she starts rocking you back and forth, whispering sweet nothings in your ear).

(The last time you touch her, you are begging, pleading, and you allow yourself to run your fingers through her thick, wonderful hair. Touch her skin one more time and you wonder if a day will come when you cannot remember her face any longer).

(You want to say "I love you" but neither of you does. You kiss her, slowly, allow your longing to linger on her lips).

x.

She is too feral, too wild in this state and you dare not leave your mother's side, dare not make a move towards her.

Her cheeks are hollow and ashen, so pale, and your heart aches from the thought this is all your doing.

When she launches herself onto you she is all destruction and chaos and desperation and you love her you love her you love her. If you weren't so scared, so loyal, you would have made her yours.

She hugs you, arching closer into you and for a split second, for all eternity. She is yours and the contact makes you want to sob and scream and pull her closer.

You don't move.

(It is later, when she is no longer in your presence, that you tear yourself from your mother's hands and run and run and run, hoping she is somewhere near, that she hasn't yet left the castle).

(When you see her you call her. (You don't say her name), tell her to turn around, and you stand and do nothing as you watch the woman you love break her own heart on your last demand. You watch and you cannot move, cannot go back but also cannot run after her and her face is raw and shattered and lost and she is no longer yours).

+i.

Milan isn't boring as you feared it to be. It isn't endless darkness, surrounding you as you drown. You are part of a greater life, existing in an endless loop of visits and parties and smiling faces and foreign accents.

You don't pretend to care how the world moves. There is little to interest you. Time passes. Days, weeks, years come and go back.

Even after seven long years, you can still remember her scent, her warmth, her voice.

You remember her face, alive and smiling, pushing hair from her eyes.

You can remember her voice, the way she used french like poetry, the way she moved and kissed you and bent her head when she couldn't resist touching you, in your old home on the shores of Brittany.

You know that you should feel some sort of lost, but you just feel empty. You are devoid of emotions as you make your way through beautiful Milan. You are mourning, not yourself but what could have been, were you anyone else (were Marianne anyone but herself).

(Your husband is a good man with gentle hands and soft fingertips and he has secrets of his own. Sometimes you wish he was cruel and different, a hard man. If he were, you could have hated him with passion and find comfort in that hate).

(Your husband is a good man and you find it's easy to love him. Every time you smell paint, or go to the theater or listen to the orchestra, your chest tightens and you hate yourself for loving him).

(You hate yourself for loving her).

Tonight the orchestra plays her piece, the one she couldn't remember in her huge white bedroom and you cry and cry and cry (for lost memories and past days and for being a woman who doesn't deserve the gentle man waiting for her back home).

Sometimes you hate her for being out there, for moments you want to break her, destroy her, make sure her life is just as hard as yours.

You want her perfect. You want her yours. You make sure to watch her as she blooms into a great artist. You collect some pieces (those that don't show people in them) and you can't quite bring yourself to seek her out.

She avoids Italy and you wait for her to come to you on her own time, of her own free will, whole and loving and forevermore. You have never guessed Marianne will not make the first move, and so you have to move forward, unhesitant and happy.

She falls into your arms one warm night in Milan, at your booth in the Orchestra house. Soft hands circle your stomach and you don't cry and don't scream and don't move.

Your senses are filling with the scent of wood and fire and sharp oil-paint.

Warm breath lands on your ear.

Your name, your old name, whispered in your ear.

You close your eyes and welcome her back, silent and shaking. She is yours and you will surrender to her once more, keep her warm and safe and it feels so right you want to hold her for as long as you can.

She presses your body against hers until you share the same air.

You do not turn around just yet.

Notes:

English in not my first langauge. Any misspellings are my own fault.
I'll do better next time.

visit my tumblr @ love-jesus-but-i-drink-a-little.tumblr.com