For Emma, Forever Ago

The moment the door opens is the longest moment in Iver Bell's life. It feels like the brief second before a shell would strike the ground - a stillness, a silence so intense he could feel the reverberations traveling through every fiber of his being. It was a peacefulness strung so tight it hummed. But when the door opened, and the woman stepped through; it was nothing like the explosion of a mortal shell. Nothing alike, and yet the same. Her eyes, once so bright and full of life - were flat and dead. A brown like that of fetid waters. When they saw him, they changed completely. Fire sparked in their depths, and consumed them in gold as they widened. Her cheeks were the horizon, and her eyes two golden suns which lifted away from them as her hand stuck the wooden doorframe to steady herself. He almost stepped forward to catch her. Almost.

"Hey M." he whispered, his voice refusing to come out as anything but choked. "You look like death."

"I-Iv-" she began, but her voice was almost nonexistent, and faded into the air like mist in the morning sunlight. Those wide brown eyes, banded in black and gold, blinked three times, quickly.

And then she struck him. His hand unlatched from the heavy wooden travelling case as he stumbled backward, and it struck the ground in turn with a heavy thud. He could feel his eyes stretch almost as wide as her own, feel the skin of his cheek buzz and burn. For a long moment, they stood a yard apart and simply stared at one another. She seemed to be drinking him in, and his eyes consumed her. They stood face-to-face, hands by their sides; her bony elbows and his quiet breathing, lost in the stillness of the morning.

And then she struck him again, more pleasantly. He stumbled back even further as she threw herself at him, her arms wrapping around his torso and her head colliding with his chest. As he found his feet, soles grinding into the gravely dirt of the street, his own arms encircled her. His skin was dark, compared to hers - sun-worn and ragged. His deep brown eyes blinked slowly, and he tightened his arms around the tiny figure enfolded between them. They were almost the same height, but it didn't seem so; with her clinging to him and crying. He could feel the tremors wracking her body, and her muffled sobs as she collapsed into his. He wrapped himself around her protectively, cradling her, shielding her from the world around them. In that moment, nothing existed but them - standing alone in the middle of the dusty road, the sun shining overhead. There was nothing more important than them.

"Iver." her heard her gasp, the word almost lost in the thick material of his shirt. After the initial blow, she repeated the word like a prayer; softly, over and over again. "Iver. Iver. Iver. Y-You're dead. They told m-me you were dead!" she almost coughed the words into his chest, burrowing against him. "Three years... three years...I t-t-thought you w-were ... d-dead."

"Very not dead." he said, his deep voice almost a chuckle. Despite the lightness of his rich, baritone voice, tears ran down the rugged plains of his cheeks. "I missed you, M."

"F-Fuck you, Iver!" she gasped, her hands tightening in his plaid shirt. "I-" she paused as a shudder wracked her body, "-love you. F-Fuck you. G-God fucking ... I m-missed you too."

Instead of replying, he simply tightened her arms around her and shut his eyes. The sun was warm against his wet cheeks and the flat plain of his brow. He does not need words to tell her anything, and so none are used. Tilting his head down to her dark hair, he presses his lips to the top of her head. He is wearing nothing but a pair of hole-filled jeans, a plaid shirt, and a pair of brown hide shoes; his leather jacket open across the chest and hanging down his arms. The jacket is old, army-issue, and smells of gasoline. The shirt beneath is in little better repair; smoke and sweat, worn from days on the open road, days of traveling by foot and taxi-cart through the rural expanse of Northern Italy. He has burn marks on his right hand, and lightly across his right ear. A vicious scar curves up from the palm of his left hand, running jaggedly up the wrist, wrapping around the underside of his arm, and finally ending halfway to his elbow. The pale flesh, raised and ridges, still itches occasionally.

His eyes were different than in his childhood, and yet the same. Still large, but veiled and roguish. As if he was constantly laughing at his own personal joke. A small grin pulled at the edge of his thin lips, tilting them at the corners and pressing deep dimples into his cheeks. He has flat cheeks, rough with stubble and the beginnings of a thick beard. His hair was sandy-blonde, a gold so dark it seemed brown near the roots. He has a broad nose, and his mischievous eyes are sunken deeply into his handsome face. There was a twinkle in his eyes that couldn't be washed out by the tears that escaped from them and were wiped away quickly by the back of his hand.

"Yeah," he murmured into her hair, "fuck you too, Emma."

She pulled away, then. Stepping back and looking up at him. She grasped at his hand as she moved back, desperately - like a drowning girl clutching at a lifesaver. As if he might vanish if she was not touching him, simply cease to exist past her touch. He gave her his hand, and they held tightly to one another as their eyes kissed. She was crying, but her lips were curved in the arch of a smile. He could smell something on her; roses, her perfume, incense, candle wax, and something sharper. Gas, he thought. Stranger yet, was the tiredness behind the radiant embers of her eyes.

"I can't believe you're home..." she whispered, her voice coming shakily, but controlled. "I can't believe it's really you..."

"When you were fifteen years old you pulled me out cow tipping with you." he spoke suddenly, "The night ended with you trapped under a cow, laughing... and I think I made you pay me to get you out. Dang, I was vindictive as a kid. Haven't thought about that night in years." he paused, seeming lost in thought, "In retribution, you replaced my shampoo with olive oil. The same year, you convinced every girl in our grade that we slept together. I broke Daniel's nose because I thought he started the rumor. When we were fifteen," his eyes glinted fiercely; proud, and mischievous, "I fucked you 'till you screamed."

"O-Oh-kay, big boy." she murmured, wiping her hand across her eyes and pushing her lips together. "That story has s-so become exaggerated in your mind over the years. We were both fumbling virgins ... back then." she paused to draw a shaky breath, and then smiled thinly. It almost bordered on shy. "It really is you. It's you ... I-Iver."

"Yeah." he nodded slightly, "It's me."

"Come in." she stepped back toward the house, pulling him gently with her without letting go of his hand nor his eyes. "Come in - you've been de-gone for ... so long."

Yeah." he whispered, following her. "It's good to be back."