Strychnine

She knelt down before him. Black shoes, black laces. Her fingers danced over them, uncontrolled and ungraceful. Her brown eyes, wide in worship, dropped to the crimson carpet.

She was--

Was she--

No, she was hardly worthy. But she accepted it all the same. Deep, irregular breaths shook her. In front of her -- right there, in front her were his fingers. She took his right hand between the palms of her own, squeezing her eyes shut.

When she released them, the statue had sprung to life. Knees on the floor, face to face with her. There he was. Astonishment coursed through her like electric blue and escaped her mouth in a single, whispered sigh.

Oh.

He blinked and she took in his eyes. The purest green she could ever know. He breathed in, drawing her awe to the point of his nose. Perfect, just like the rest of him. He exhaled and she admired his lips. Shapely and small. She had seen those lips move in apathy and passion, in rage and in love.

A powerful wave of Lord-only-knows possessed her and she wrapped herself around him in embrace. It was real-- he was real.

Warm.
Alive.

Sandpaper stubble scraped againste her cheek and much too soon, his heartbeat drew away from her breast.

No, fairy, don't go

But he was still there. Quiet as he'd ever been, but there. The hands that she'd clasped not moments ago took hers. The lips that breathed forth all that was sacred pressed themselves to her mouth.

Her fingers ran down his arms. His skin was soft. And her eyes were closed in bliss of answered prayers, but she felt a tear slide down past her chin.

She opened her eyes and looked down at her notebook. The ink of her daydream was smudged.