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Title: Rite of Spring
Author: foreverchanges
Rating: 15 for language and drug references
Disclaimer: Willow and Tara belong to Joss Whedon, Mutant Enemy, Fox etc. The story is mine.
Spoilers: None, AU
Feedback: If you're sufficiently moved, no way I'm standing in the way of that.
Distribution: Doubt it'll be an issue, but this is strictly for Pens only.
Thanks to: Those that tend this board with such care and love, all those who write and inspire, and all those that take the time to read. It is much appreciated.
Blurb 1: Un-beta'd so probably contains all the pitfalls that entails.
Blurb 2: It's a London thing.
Chapter 9 cont'd (though finally finished too)
“So, um, where did you go to uni, was it in the States?”
We had thankfully moved away from our improvised dance floor and sat comfortably on the big, over-stuffed sofa that dominated the living room; it was a haphazard mix of cushions and throws, in rich reds and rustic tints. The different textures of the fabrics brushed pleasingly across exposed skin; suede and lace, velvet and cord; they positively flaunted their lush tactility.
We had just opened our second bottle of red; a fruity little number from Chile, and Yesterday Once More could be heard leisurely thrumming along in all its melancholy splendour.
“Yeah, it was just a small, little college in the South. It doesn’t have any kind of kudos attached with going there, just a good math department and lots of wide open spaces,” Tara said as she stared down into her glass, her long hair hanging lazily over one shoulder. She absently swirled the last few drops of ruby coloured wine; it stuck pleasingly to the sides of the glass as it journeyed through a never-ending spiral. Someone once told me that was the sign of a good red, though whether or not that was true, I couldn’t possibly have said at the time.
Finally looking away from the delicate, long-stemmed glass, I softly asked “So, um, is that what you studied? Maths?”
“Oh.” Tara started slightly at the interruption and the liquid in her glass jumped in solidarity.
My eyes opened wide and I instinctively pressed back further into the sofa while at the same time reaching out a useless limb to catch the glass should it fall. Tara obviously caught the movement and quickly turned to me, an embarrassed smile on her face. I cautiously returned it and self-consciously lowered my hand.
“Sorry, miles away.” I nodded in understanding and sat back a little further into the sofa as I willed her to continue. Instead, she turned from me and seemed to get lost in her own thoughts once more. A minute ticked by and I switched my gaze from her profile to a spot in the distance, the way pirouetting ballet dancers do. As the seconds drew on in silence my brow furrowed and my head began to faintly bob of its own accord. Maybe she doesn’t like talking about it, I thought.
Suddenly, a laugh as soft as summer fruits made its way to me and I ingenuously rushed to meet it. “What?” I breathed. She turned to me then and her face was warm and open and it was focused on me. God, how her smile enchanted me.
“You would think that wouldn’t you? I mean what with the whole ‘great math department’ an’ all. But no, I studied languages with a bit of sports science thrown in for good measure. Though, I did once almost manage to run a four-minute mile,” she said, her eyes crinkling merrily at the memory.
“Wow, that’s um, that’s not a combination you often come across.” I hesitated briefly before shyly asking, “So, er, what led you down that path?”
“Chariots of Fire,” she instantly deadpanned. I looked at her blankly for a second before catching on.
“Ohh, I see. Everyone’s a comedian.” I jokingly lamented, whilst shaking my head in mock-disappointment.
Tara giggled for a second before elaborating. “No, seriously, I had seen Chariots of Fire just days before we visited the campus, and I was filled with notions of reaching for the stars and just trying to be, you know, ‘more?’” Tara looked at me expectantly, a hint of apprehension evident.
I thought I understood perfectly well what she meant. I may never have held the hope of going to university but I was not unaccustomed to the feeling of having something trapped inside that just wanted to get out, something nameless that was lying dormant but was yet unique and profound. I suspect we all fancy ourselves to have a Mill on the Floss in us, a Pollock, or maybe a Bach; tapping into that seemingly unreachable well of talent and commitment though is quite another thing. I was glad that Tara had at least had the opportunity to look for her hidden masterpiece, a masterpiece which I was certain she would someday produce.
I suspect now though that what Tara actually meant was much broader in scope, something akin to experiencing life in all its colour and grime, and growing and learning from each new experience, be they friend or foe. She still says that her life is a work in progress, “One that I pray never to complete.” Unsurprisingly enough, it is a sentiment to which I wholeheartedly concur.
“Plus, I really liked the score.” Once more I was plucked from my reverie. I grinned and made as if to launch a cushion missile in her direction. She was equal to the challenge though and threatened me with her remaining vino. I chose to bow out gracefully.
“Okay, okay, you win, but only because I’ll view it as a waste of perfectly good wine if we have to open a bottle of white to remove a stain caused by your unnecessary hostility.”
“Says the woman holding a weapon of mass destruction in her pitching paw.” Said weapon was instantly defused as I bent double and laughed long and hard. I couldn’t remember the last, or maybe the first, time I had ever laughed so unselfconsciously. Tara was quick to join me and pretty soon it was clear that we were no longer laughing at Tara’s comment, but were simply laughing for the sheer joy of it. Or maybe it was just the wine. Either way, I never wanted the moment to end.
Eventually though, our laughter ebbed away and we simply sat companionably for a while. Incredibly, I neither felt awkward or tense, my perennial foot-tapping was stilled and my mind was unusually quiet.
“So did you go to college? Or did you choose to come to London ‘cos the ‘streets are paved with gold?’” And quick as a flick-blade I was launched back to reality. As every single brick immediately reassembled itself in the wall that usually protected me, Tara’s smile faltered and a look of confusion washed over her.
I cringed internally and staggered out, “I, I, er, no… no. I um, I had responsibilities and well, I worked.” Oh Jesus, why not just tell her the whole fucking story while you’re at it, I bellowed at myself.
“Oh, well that’s good, I mean…’ She, like me, appeared to be finding it very difficult to find the ‘good’ in it. I barely registered what she said next, my internal dialogue drowning out all else, but when she oh-so-gently lay her hand on top of mine, and when her piercing blue eyes came to rest honestly on mine, I may as well have been a slave to her words. “So many kids have no concept of responsibility, Willow. It says a lot about a person’s strength when they do.”
Her words forced their way through my defences and my tension drained away, to be replaced with something I now recognise as being closer to acceptance. I knew in that moment that at least one of those bricks had fallen and would never be replaced.
Tara gave my hand, which had become numb in my effort not to move it so much as an inch, a ‘so long, hand’ squeeze, and shifted in her seat, putting a little distance once again between us.
We both seemed to need a minute to compose ourselves and I imagine that Tara knew her words had affected me. The atmosphere in the room was quiet, thoughtful, punctuated only by Karen Carpenter wistfully opining, 'We’ve Only Just Begun.’
As the maelstrom in my mind swirled around looking for anchor, it finally settled on one image. God only knows what possessed me to give voice to my feelings, but give voice to them I did, “It sounds nice where you went though, I like wide open spaces, and it must have been nice, so nice to feel so free.” And there it was again, her gaze, resting steadily on me; assessing rather than judging, patient as opposed to fractious. It confused me and scared me and overwhelmingly excited me.
Thanks for reading
foreverchanges
Last edited by foreverchanges on Mon Aug 08, 2011 12:29 pm, edited 2 times in total.
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, that last chapter was quite an important one, particuarly the end bit so er, at least you'll remember it, right? This next one has a lighter tone so I'm hoping to make you happy this time.
). The way you write, your "accent", is so refreshing. It's not forced (since I'm assuming here you're British), but it's not overwhelming, either. I'm Canadian with strong ties to the British Isles, so I've always been a fan of the speech patterns (writting patterns?).
kay? Yay I’m glad that’s settled!
another great English story!)
