Chapter Text
i know who i am when i'm alone
You are snowed in over break. It's quite unfortunate, really, and you're all alone. All your housemates have left for Thanksgiving break, all with family in driving distance of your college, but not you. New Haven, Connecticut is far from your island home, so you're alone. Some of your friends offer to take you home for break, but you politely say no, long suppressed social anxiety rearing its head.
(You think if you were around happy families, you'd miss your own even more, and spend the Thanksgiving meal locked in the upstairs bathroom crying your eyes out. You're too old to cry over missing your family, your father has told you, refusing to fly you home for more than one break, and that makes you cry even more.)
So, you're alone, snowed in, the power flickering at times. You light candles, drink wine out of the battle, eat leftover Chinese food and Costco lasagna, decorate for Christmas, read books until your eyes hurt. It's a peaceful existence, all on your own, and you relish in the silence of an empty house, the only sound the winter wind and jangly guitar of the Smiths.
It's the day after Thanksgiving when you hear a knock on the door. You're laying with your head off the side of the couch, reading a book, and you slide off, slightly dizzy. You're not expecting anyone- all your housemates will be home Sunday, and it's too perilous outside even for the Mormons.
You grab the baseball bat you keep in the kitchen, gripping it tightly. "Who is it?" you call out, and you're happy that your voice does not quiver.
"A friend," you hear, and the bat slips out of your hands, and the voice sounds familiar, like a dream, like a ghost, like a snippet of a song you heard years ago that you're not sure is real or not.
Orpheus left you a year and a half prior, disappearing when you awoke. You are not as hung up on him as you once were. You've grown up, now, no longer spinning the stories about the one who got away (instead, you write revenge stories, about women showing up the one who rejected them). But the memory of him is heavy on your tongue and your fingers twitch, your core aching, like your whole body remembers what it's like to be loved touched by him.
And so, you are powerless against him, against the memory of him, and you open the door.
He is unchanged, like always. Same height, same hair, same age, same look in his eye when he sees you, like a man dying of thirst who sees water. He is appropriately dressed for the weather though, a thick jacket, cloak thing over his clothes. "Maeve," he smiles, and you can't help the shiver the runs down your back when you hear your name. He holds up a bag and you see two bottles of wine through the plastic. "I bring wine."
"How'd you know where I live?" you ask, moving away from the door to let him in. He steps inside, cheeks going rosy, and shakes his head free of the snow, like a dog. He really is beautiful, you think, and feel overshadowed in your baggy sweatshirt, pajama pants, Christmas socks, and hair twisted back.
He shrugs, setting the wine down to hang up his jacket/cloak and take off his snow-covered boots. "You are a smart girl, bunny," he says, and he's tall, so tall, and you can see melting snowflakes in his silver hair. His indigo gaze is intense when he looks at you. "Why do you think I know?"
A million different reasons go through your head. You know the stories, you've read them your whole life, studied them. "You're a vampire," you blurt out, cheeks going red when he laughs.
"No, not a vampire," he smiles. He moves past you, moving deeper in to your house, long fingers (fingers that have been inside you) drifting over the folded blanket on the couch, the pictures framed on your wall.
(He was never able to know about this part of Maeve's life when she came to him. She had spoken of it in vague terms, this world she came from, of iron and technology. Modernity, she had said dramatically, speaking of self-moving carriages and pocket sized devices that carried all the world's knowledge in them. But, Maeve had never seemed like she belonged to that world, the world he is now in, the world you inhabit. She had seemed made for Westeros, made for dragon back and corsets. She had been Targaryen, through and through, with her sparkling skin, violet white eyes, tipped ears, and the streaks of gold in her hair. But, you, you are not made for Westeros. You perfectly inhabit this world, with your sprawling raven hair and deep black eyes. And he is grateful for this glimpse of his love, for the chance to love you.)
"An incubus, then?" you try, following him as he settles down on the couch. He looks perfectly at home, there, sinking into the plush cushions, a pink flush appearing on his face from the fire.
His teeth flash white in the fire light. "No," he says. He leans back, cocking his head slightly, legs spread wide. "Why, do you feel particularly consumed with lust when you see me, Maeve?'
You roll your eyes, crossing your arms. "No," you lie through your teeth, lie as if you aren't thinking about his mouth on yours, lie as if you can't already feel the echoes of his hands grabbing your thighs. "A ghost?"
He pats the cushion next to him, welcoming you to sit next to him, as if this is his home, not yours. You sigh, but go to sit next to him. You are powerless when it comes to Orpheus and you think you'd do anything he asked of you. He is warm, practically radiating heat, and his thigh presses against yours. Leaning in, his breath tickles your ear. "Do I feel like a ghost, Maeve?" he whispers and you shiver.
"No," you admit quietly and you can feel him smile as he presses his lips to your neck.
The Smiths are still playing in the background, and you think of the song playing, think: I have dreamt of you for countless nights and I have dreamt that I love you.
You are powerless against him and you kiss him, even though you know you shouldn't, even though you know this will only make the hole in your heart bigger, even though you know you will miss him twice as much when he leaves.
You fuck, on the couch, and you try not to cry. He holds you to his chest afterwards, and you drink wine, watch a movie, and another, and another, until the night drags on and dawn is on the horizon. You think you know what he is.
(He pretends not to notice that you're crying. It must be hard for you, in a way he has never realized. This is his curse, to know you and to never have you again, but he never thought about what this is like for you. For him, time only exists in your presence, but it must move for you. You're older than the first time he saw you, looking more and more like his Maeve.)
You inhale, pushing up against his chest so you can look at him. His fingers cease the circles he draws on your back and he looks sad. "I know what you are," you murmur.
"Do you?" he asks, tucking a piece of hair behind your ear.
"You are not real," you say, and he smiles forlornly.
"I am not real," he agrees. "I am cursed."
And he fades away, evaporating like water on a hot day.
i am something else when i see you