For all that Lawrence is good with words, he’d never quite figured out the trick to talking to women. According to his friend and mentor Leo, there is no trick, but Lawrence is sure that Leo’s lying because most of the women in Lawrence’s life don’t like him all that much and tend to look at him with the mild annoyance mixed with pity usually reserved for misbehaving children.

Then again, most of the women in his life are somewhat older and could (and would, should he step on their toes too much) murder him in ten seconds flat. Only one of them might resurrect him afterwards.

There’s also Faye, who likes him well enough, but she’s a tiny tiny child and Leo’s sister and does not count.

So when he sees for the first time the firestorm of passion that is Odri, he’s not sure how to approach her.

In fact, he doesn’t even consider the possibility, too busy gawking at the grace of her every gesture, the alluring darkness of her eyes, the dancing flames casting sharp shadows on the softness of her face. He sees her fight, and words fail him. She leaves, and it takes two days of investigating and buttering up his more sleuthy friends to find out who she is.

He gets lucky when he meets her in a shop, and somehow manages to get himself invited for tea while stumbling over introductions and compliments. She seems amused, and that’s good enough for Lawrence.

Then he arrives at her residence, and the one who opens the door is a young-looking man in colorful slippers who apparently also lives there.

Odri introduces him as her mentor, and Lawrence’s heart feels a little lighter, but they also seem terribly close and he can’t help but wonder if a mentor is all David is to her. David is charismatic, talented, and unlike Lawrence has no problem weaving words together without paper. It’s impossible to resent him, so instead Lawrence doubts himself. Even if he’s just a mentor, how can Lawrence compare?

One day, when they are all sitting around the fire, their friends slowly drifting off to sleep, Odri turns to him and asks, somewhat impatiently, if he is planning on asking her out any time soon.

Lawrence sputters, and casts a look around the fire, noticing David’s half-open eye and mirthful smirk. It probably means something, but he’s never been great at reading people. Thinking around Odri is hard at the best of times, and this time he can’t manage to even try.

He thinks she’s beautiful, he’s certain he’s at least a little in love with her, but he also doesn’t know how to put it into words in a way that would make her truly, genuinely believe him. He doesn’t know what she wants from a courtship, if it’s something she wants at all, if it’s something she could possibly want with him instead of stupidly perfect David. He could probably ask, but that’s an equally mortifying thought. Talking about feelings is for children like Faye and old men like Leo.

He says no, because at the moment, it’s the truth. He can’t tell if her expression is one of disappointment or relief.

A few days later David mentions offhandedly how he’s never seen any appeal in romance or getting married or even sleeping with someone, really, and Lawrence thinks that he might be a little stupid and also that he probably blew his chance.

As time passes, he gets better at talking to women and realizes that maybe Leo was right after all.

He does not, however, get better at talking to Odri.

He turns twenty-one, and now seduction comes easily to him, David’s lessons coming in handy whenever he needs to sweet-talk anyone.

He writes poems and letters to Odri. She accepts them with a graceful nod and little else, Lawrence sulks for a few days but doesn’t explain anything to Odri, Faye makes fun of him, and then no one speaks of it again.

He’s taking it slow, Lawrence tells himself. He wants to do it properly, seriously.

But really, he’s just pining and scared, and Odri isn’t – could never be – just one of his conquests. She’s his friend, for one – and that’s not going to change just because he wants her more and more with each passing day.

Lawrence makes lists, and plans. He observes and inquires, and figures out what she likes. He reads her favorite books, sits through a terribly cheesy opera with her, and he still feels like he’s not prepared enough.

But that’s fine, he tells himself. He has time. He’s barely turned twenty-four and is in no rush to provide his parents with heirs. And Odri – he wants to grow old with her, so what does it matter if they start figuring things out a little late?

He’s almost finished planning a romantic evening of theatre and fine cuisine when a clockwork bird brings news that Faye is dying. He drops everything, of course.

All thoughts of romance flee his head as he watches life slowly flicker out of Faye while Leo descends into self-destructive madness. Lawrence is absolutely, terrifyingly sure that by the end of the month he’ll lose them both.

In the end, he doesn’t. In the end, he stares at Faye’s half-familiar face etched in porcelain, and is torn between gratitude and disbelieving horror. She pokes fun at him for letting his beard become a mess, and he snaps and squeezes her new, clockwork body in a bear hug and thinks that he’s never been more grateful that his friends are a bunch of freaks.

They live on, peacefully, for a short time, getting used to their new normal. It’s not the time for courtship, Odri tells him gently as she braids Faye’s new hair in her old style. Lawrence backs off, content with spoiling Faye along with her. It’s enough. It’s always been enough, and it wasn’t a no, and they will have all the time in the world later.

The Calamity creeps on them slowly, magic mishaps sporadic and easily forgotten at first until suddenly they’re faced with the terrifying reality that the gods and leylines might disappear soon, taking the whole world with them.

Lawrence actually considers proposing then.

Screw conventions, screw the flowers-and-gifts stage. If the world is ending, he might not get another chance.

Then he wonders what it would say about his desperation, and looks at Odri’s proud, determined profile, and decides it would be unfair to burden her even more in such a time. He still isn’t sure if she would have said yes, and he knows that she cares enough about him that rejecting him would upset her. They have enough things to be upset about as is.

As soon as it’s over, he resolves. He will get tickets to that stupid opera she loves so much, and will listen with closed eyes because the plot is stupid but the music is gorgeous. They’ll cook dinner together, and he will hand-feed her grapes, and it will be the best date anyone’s ever had.

He briefly wonders if she’d let him take her to bed afterwards, because for all that he wants a simple domestic bliss with her, he also wants all of her inner fire and passion directed at him, only at him, in the privacy of the bedroom. It’s nothing but a fantasy, but Lawrence has been pining for years now, and the fantasy is detailed and tender, constructed more carefully than any of the tales he’s tried to publish.

They have little to offer as the ritual is prepared, neither of them being the bookish type. She paces quietly, bringing over whatever others ask for. He sits on a heap of discarded cloaks and sketches her face endlessly, finding comfort in familiar features.

Once they take their places in the circle, her hand is a warm comfort in his, and for a few precious minutes he lets himself hope that this Calamity won’t be the end of them, that the ritual will succeed and his fantasy will finally become real.

The hope doesn’t manage to last very long. The stone floor is cold under his shoulder, made only worse by what he imagines is severe blood loss. The cave is dark, and his vision is blurred enough that he can barely make out vague shapes.

There is something almost unpleasantly hot on his cheek, and a familiar voice calls out to him in alarm. He tries to focus, but all he sees is bright red, all he hears is panic in the voice of the woman he loves, all he feels is… cold.

Maybe they didn’t have that much time after all, he thinks numbly. Maybe he should have asked, the last time he wanted to, or the time before that, or any of the other times. Something presses against one of the numerous cuts, and Odri’s panic turns into begging.

Such a beautiful woman should never have to beg, he wants to say, and to wipe the tears she’s undoubtedly shedding. He feels the press of lips against his brow, his cheeks, and then the solid weight of her forehead against his.

Please, don’t mourn it, he wants to say. Mourn me, but not the things that never happened. It’ll be better if you resent me instead, for it was my fault, my fault alone for never finding the right words or the right time.

His tongue is too heavy to form words, and Odri sounds more and more distant with each passing moment. Their time is almost up.

His last thought is of her – not the pathetic, broken woman crying on his chest while their friends’ bodies are growing colder and the cave is shaking on the brink of collapse. His last thought is of her the way he immortalized her in the countless sketches, and the paintings, and the sonnets, and the songs.

His last thought is of a gentle, teasing smile, of perceptive brown eyes, of an “I love you” unspoken and misunderstood.

—–

This… got away from me. Very very much. I was going to do like 500-word drabbles for each day, but this is over 1.5k long. Oops?