I took a sip of his hot toddy and put it back on the table beside the couch, where we sat facing each other, me on his lap, in his arms, his lips kissing my face all over but mostly just underneath my nose. The hair on the back of my neck is standing up straight. I'm trying and failing to avoid falling into the hole as I lean forward to gauge the depth of the medium-blue of his eyes, pools I drown in, every single time, in spite of the otherworldly efforts to keep me safe, to teach me to swim, to teach me the word no. To teach me to somehow stay away from him.
Some things you can't be taught.
The rum burns the whole way down and I feel sweat break out around my hairline and between my shoulder blades. His arms are so tight. Now that I'm here he's not going to let go.
I let my head fall back to watch the rain on the skylights. It blurs the trees and the darkness, making a river of pine green, silver and navy blue, insulating the night from judgment and history alike.
He kisses down my throat, breathing in the hollow. My skin trembles involuntarily. I'm the queen of excitable reactions. The flush comes more slowly, the fever burn, the wave of warmth and unsteadiness.
Stay, Neamhchiontach.
He's keeping the nickname for his own use, I note. I shake my head and wobble slightly. His arms tighten. It feels nice to be held like this. He leans his head against mine, holding me close.
How do I get you to stay like this forever?
I have to go. I've given him what he wanted. A chance to invoke his brother's memory just for a fleeting moment. I can play with fire. That's something you can be taught and I'm good at it, never noticing until my limbs are blackened, my hair singed and my throat tight from the smoke, burned beyond recognition.
