-, sweet and low.

[clara dubois]

<sub>Paris was burning. The flames flickered against her skin, searing heat trailing up her ankle, her waist, her wrist. It surrounded her, shattering any semblance of vision she had. All she could see was smoke curling into the air, thickening black against iridescent blue. It was all she could do to keep breathing. The ground gave way then, cracking desperately in her ears as she looked up and figured everything out. It wasn't fire...it was pain. No smoke, just destruction. The cool white marble pressed against her cheek, and then it was over. An intake of breath, and amber eyes focused on the world around her. It had all been a dream, her subconscious mind projecting what had happened that fateful day where everything had changed. The expansive green flooded out from underneath her now, blades of grass wound around her fingers as she picked her head up. Curls fell in front of her face then, and she eyed the place warily as she pushed them away. A dream...it had been a dream.

But it had been reality at some point. A reality that had been obliterated the second she had been crushed in that earthquake. Physically, she hadn't been too bad. Mentally, she was broken beyond repair. But she was slowly picking up the pieces now, skirting the ones that she couldn't remember. She would never be whole again, and she knew that. But with every jagged edge something else fell into place...and it wasn't long before her makeshift self had come together. The final piece appeared at winter, and it fit itself together in April. She could be happy again and mean it, could actually smile and not feel the lies behind it. And when she looked up, the pair of cerulean eyes she knew so well didn't kill her. It was all a little better now, a little easier. And she would take every bit she could.

Clara rested her head on her arm, her other fingers reaching out to rest between his own as a content sigh sounded from her lips. It had almost been four months now. She remembered the beginning, how they had attempted to figure things out as everyone around them hedged bets on how long it lasted. "Two weeks," someone had whispered in the hallway one afternoon, and she could have sworn someone was about to put money on a month before she walked into English one morning. It was just like them here, to attempt to tear people apart for fun and games. Christophe's previous reputation didn't really help, but they both knew something had happened between them years ago. Well, he did at least...she only knew of it from what he told her.

And they had come back.

She knew it wasn't easy for him being here, that whatever had broke them from the start was staring him in the face right now. She wished she could feel the hurt, the pain, but she couldn't. There was nothing but an empty grasp when she tried to find something from those days, the brief moments she knew fading fast. They didn't make any sense, didn't string together in any order other than the one he told her. Because of this, she couldn't really hold on to them. Clara had already accepted that she wasn't going to remember, so holding on to bits of the past when she could move on was worthless. Christophe on the other hand, was a different story.

She could see it in his eyes. Hidden well, but it was apparent to her. The moments were still painfully there, forever in his memory and his memory alone. It was something they didn't share, their history. She was almost envious of that, until she realized just how broken it had left them. The hospital had showed her how miserable he was, how he had winced seconds after she opened her eyes. It was something she had never seen before, and it was what had scared her so much. If he was that far gone, she had to have been to. She truthfully didn't know what would have happened if things had continued the way they did.

Her eyes fluttered softly closed before opening again, and she looked around as she lifted her head. Somewhere, there had been the beginning. And somewhere, there had been the end. She turned toward him, still not moving from her cozy spot on the grass, and curiosity took over her features.</sub>

"Where were we?"

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[christophe woods]

_{He placed his lips gently on hers,} without hesitation, without remorse. He kissed her over again and again. He felt the warmth of her against his skin and pressed her closer. He put his arms around her and closed his eyes as the sun filtered ochre through his eyelids. They were lying in the grass, lying in the past - in Place des Vosges, where everything had begun and ended.

- - - - -

In early afternoon’s languid hours they had ambled down the labyrinth of streets. A soft hum fell on her lips of a song he did not know. Holding his hand within her own, she leaned her head against his shoulder as they walked. “Tired?” he asked, tilting his head down towards hers. She shook her head, her cheek brushing against his arm as she did so. “You’re just comfy,” she said with a smile that lit up her amber eyes. Tucking the corner of his mouth in a half-smile, he kissed the top of her head.

It had been months since the cold had nipped his skin beneath the strings of lights. And their kiss – for once, he smiled as he thought of it. They had always been tokens of goodbyes, those bittersweet moments. But that one had been the start, at last. There were no more endings left for them.

It had taken him nearly an hour to remember Celeste that day. He hated to admit to that when she had been a constant while he had been astray. But it was the truth. And when he fully realized the extent of his actions, he knew things wouldn’t be easy for awhile. Especially as his recollection relied on the fact that he was taking Celeste to the airport. It was torture as they rode to the airport in silence. Celeste had tried to have conversation, but it seemed she took his silence as a sadness to see her go. And when she had kissed him in a goodbye, he had never felt more like lying scum than this. Well, perhaps there had been other times…

He waited until after the holidays to call her. He expected an outburst, a string of unmentionable names, anger, anything than the soft solemnity that staggered in her voice. And he knew without difficulty, Celeste was not the one for him. He needed tenacious emotion, affect and elation, vehemence and anger. He needed Clara. Still, the phone call had not been easy. He didn’t tell Clara all that had transpired. He hadn’t realized how much Celeste had meant for him, as well as him for her. Celeste refused to abandon her education and continued out the school year alongside him and Clara. Last he heard she was at Cambridge as had been the plan all along.

It wasn’t until April that he finally asked Clara out. Things with Celeste hadn’t settled down until then. He never liked admitting to Clara how important Celeste had been in his life. As well as how hard it was to let go even though he knew he didn’t want to stay. Clara was it for him. And although Clara and he hadn’t be officially termed as so, they certainly showed their affections for one another. He felt a little foolish taking her to an Italian place in the 6th arrondissement, when they seemed so far past that first date. Now, they were holding hands weaving through the 4th, forgetting their ghosts.

Turning a corner, an impressive, ornate brick building loomed above them – a gate to a tranquil courtyard, and devastating memories, if only for Christophe. Clara, in her bound innocence, smiled with honest delight as she whispered in lilting tones, “This is beautiful.” Christophe had shut his eyes at the moment, trying to force back what only he knew. It was raining, the drops pelting on his white skin, sinking into the weave of his clothes. His hair clung wet to his temples as she stared at him with her painfully beautiful eyes. There was an agony that tore him, ripped inside of him. And it was all because of him. His lie.

”Christophe?" Fluidly, his eyes snapped open. With a distant gaze, he smiled reassuringly down at her. ”C’mon, let’s find a spot to sit,” he said, squeezing her close. They passed by a bench that was like all the others, faded green paint, settled beneath box-shaped trees. He turned away with a faint wince but felt Clara’s slender fingers gently squeeze his. He looked down and felt his own lips mimicking her smile. Clara’s was his. And he was hers. There was no uncertainty, or pain. It was a memory to let go – to be forgotten.

”Where were we?” They were lying in the grass, letting the sun sink into their skins. He was lying on his back, one arm beneath his head, the other resting on the flat of his abdomen. ”Hm?” he asked tenuously, with his eyes closed. He felt a soft poke against his ribs and then an airy laugh. Peering open one eye, he gazed over to her lithe body, a smile playing across her lips. He closed his eyes again and waited a moment. Then before she could poke him again, he turned and tickled her. Her soft laughter immediately escalated to high peals as she squirmed and kicked. She called out his name again and again, attempting to push him off and roll away. He laughed with her, and pulled her back when she flipped over and tried to get away. And then, she was beneath, facing him. He had stopped. Their chests swelled and contracted with their hurried breathing. Then, tenderly, he pressed his mouth against hers.

Because this was a beginning. Not an ending.

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[clara dubois]

<sub>Time had been abandoned for the months fading behind them. Gone was the hesitation, the flickering desires and unattainable needs. She needed him, she knew she did, but their relationship had been touch and go, there and not there, ever present in the back of their minds but out of touch on their fingertips. Celeste had been present, a fixture to his life she knew neither he nor she could explain. Rebound was too blunt, but anything deeper than itself was treading that thin line they didn’t want to cross. They’d been together for too long to be something less than close. When she’d ask there was something always more important to talk about, or kisses to her mouth, or the dizzying azure gaze she tried to memorize. It was all so dizzying she’d forget, or tuck it away for next time as his hands wove through her hair and lips crushed against her skin. For there would actually be a next time…

The snow had fallen away now, but the memories still remained. The blinding lights, the satisfying crunch of the powder under his boots, their crushing kiss that meant more than it usually did. Their new beginning had been something she didn’t expect that night, but accepted nonetheless, falling in love again under the moonlight and heated embrace. She was his, had always been his, from their first startling gaze on the Parisian steps to that moment, and in those passing seconds she knew he was hers as well. It was just those matters of time, and place, and decision. And moving on…

Now well into their official relationship, she could honestly say she had never been happier. Amid the avid gossip falling from lips and pointed glances they thrived, the affection one she had never known. It still took her breath away when he looked at her, the shades swelling against his thick lashes, the way his lips parted slightly when he was off in thought. Like at this moment…the Place des Vosges staring them right in the face, memories painfully fighting against his conscious while she stood there without a clue. How far they had come…and how easy it had been to be taken from her. Sighing, any moment about this place evaded her still, a constant nag in the back of her mind that this was where they had fallen apart, where something had happened that should be remembered. But nothing ever came up, so she had slowly learned to accept it. She thought the possibility of being there could help, but what was gone was gone. It was the present now, the future soon to come.

" C’mon, let’s find a spot to sit,”

He had brushed off her worry, her curiousity, the tension easing from his face as he tucked her close. ”He had been there…” she thought uneasily, trying to recollect the moments he explained to her and make a makeshift scene in her head. It was impossible though, her details not detailed enough, the emotions too vague. She wanted to feel the pain and agony and sorrow and elation….but they remained shells of themselves, pieces of what had passed. Giving up, her eyes wandered the lush scenery, breathing in the sultry air and lively population before they settled themselves under the trees, her lips forming the question he hadn’t answered.

Briefly annoyed, Clara pressed her finger into his ribs and waited, a soft laugh lilting from her mouth as his eyes flickered open, then closed. Aimed to repeat the action, she was thrown off guard when he locked his arms around her and touched feather light against her skin, laughter growing at an increasing rate as the tickling continued. She couldn’t breathe, couldn’t move, couldn’t see…but it was alright, she was happy and that was all she needed anymore. Their bodies slowed and suddenly she was caught in that gaze again, his arms pressed on either side of her, their forms whispering against one another. Lips touched slowly, delicately, her heart swelling in her chest as her hand pressed against his cheek. She couldn’t believe she had this right now, his arms locking around her waist to pull her up and against him. Mouths crushed together now, hands twisted in her hair as it grew needy, desperate. His tongue pressed against her bottom lip and she lost it, tearing herself away before anything else could happen. She didn’t know what she felt at that moment, couldn’t discern from the desire and the lust in her hooded eyes, or the fear that she had nothing on his other girls. Not temptation or experience or wild abandon. She was different…and in truth, she had no idea where that left her.

A nervous smile fell against her lips as she looked away, wound her arms around her knees. ”I just want to know where everything happened….so maybe I can remember, or at least be able to picture it.”</sub>

[color=79313b” I just don’t want you to know how scared I am…”

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[christophe woods]

_{"Clara, I can't do this.} I've been alone for so long – it's what I want to be." The heavy smell of rain permeating through the cracks of the courtyard. A thick gray sky. Drops of rain curving down his neck. His clothing sticking to the contours of his dewy skin. "I shouldn't have kissed you. I didn't mean what I said. It's all just been a bet with myself to see if I could get you to sleep with me. I'm sorry if I confused you. I guess I’ll see you."

[/color] Her brow pinched, her stance rigid. A blaze in her ochre eyes. Dark hair dripping down the sides of her porcelain face. Her full mouth tugged tight. ”Oh...so what? I was just part of game, some prize to be won? I'm just one of those girls, aren't I? Where you just pick and choose and use that charm of yours to see who you can get in bed by the end of the day? Well, you're very good at a game then, Christophe.” Her body engulfed in his jacket. His back turned. Her voice piercing in its whisper. "You're not the guy I thought you were..."

Nothing ever was.

“I just want to know where everything happened…so maybe I can remember, or at least be able to picture it.” He ran over her words again in his mind and frowned. They had been enjoying themselves a moment ago, challenging those bitter memories with each touch, each kiss - a firm reminder that they had beat back that past. Then just as Christophe was beginning to forget what Clara would never remember, she had ripped herself away from him. Her touch still burned.

As soon as the question had fled her pert lips, their condemning words encased Christophe in its unyielding force. He thought if there had ever been a day to forget that sinking feeling, it was today. Yet, beneath the warm sun and against her soft lips he was beginning to understand – that there was no such thing as forgetting.

Christophe stared furtively at a bench across the park. It was empty – as if their very actions nearly two years ago had tainted it. Would he ever be able to see this place as it was to everyone else? As it was to Clara? He glanced to her out of the corner of his eye. Her slender arms wrapped around her legs, she stared over to him, waiting. He had once decided to tell her all of it. Everything he had said, everything he had done. He had told her only an idea, a vague summary of what had transpired between them. She never knew. Never knew how much that moment had changed both of them. He had the intent of telling her when he was insistent on leaving her. But now that he knew the latter one was impossible, he couldn’t tell her the first – he couldn’t be the one to break her again in Place des Vosges.

He rolled over and sat up, groaning. ”Why, Clara?” he said, as he broke his stare from the bench and looked into her timid but curious eyes. ”I told you this winter – I hurt you. Isn’t that enough? Can’t we just be a boy and girl, sitting here, enjoying this warm Parisian day?” It took him a moment to realize why those words sounded so familiar. And when he remembered, he closed his eyes tight as another blow landed against his already splintering frame. ”I’m just a boy in Paris. And you’re just a girl in Paris. Sitting here, together, on this bench.” The moments of Place des Vosges were not mere memories anymore – they had settled themselves into the dense marrow of his bone, the flesh of his heart. He reached up and brushed back her soft bangs. He brushed his thumb over a light freckle on the arc of her high cheekbones – he loved that freckle. He looked back into her amber eyes. Their gaze tore into his chest. He had known all too well from his past – he couldn’t help but love Clara duBois. And in this case, it meant giving in. But if he had to tell her something, he would tell her the moments he could bear retelling.

He sighed and edged closer to her folded form. His cheek nearly pressed against hers as he directed her gaze across the park. ”See that bench over there? Second one in? No one’s sitting on it now, but that’s where we first kissed.”

And where everything that could have been - died.[/sub][/color]
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