sandandwater | Lie awake all night wondering...

Current Mood: contemplative
Current Location: Marcello's Studio

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Lie awake all night wondering...

And then I'm in your arms I'll try to relax
Don't want to lie awake all night wondering where we're at
Oh this tossing and turning won't clear these blues away
When I am longing just to hear you say
'No Turning Back' - Sarah Blasko

Six months ago she walked out of his life, or tried to at any rate. Pippa couldn’t sever all ties with this man no matter how often she told herself it would be better, easier, safer. No, there were phone calls and letters, emails and now he was here with her in Venice. Here because she had asked him to come.

What was she doing?

Lying in his arms and pretending things were fine, acting as though there weren’t problems and issues to be settled and discussed. She was savoring the feel of his skin, hot and still damp with sweat, against hers. She was listening to him breath deep and even as he slept. Studying the lines and curves of his face, the delicate cheekbones and the wide, generous mouth—she could still taste his kisses when she swallowed involuntarily. Shifting, she stifled a groan as sore muscles protested, strained and aching from vigorous lovemaking. She sighed.

Pippa was not sleeping.

It would be morning soon and he would wake, she would have to find some way to either continue this charade (oh, the cowardice that taunted her) or face their relationship (lack thereof) head-on and the consequences of her actions. Would he want to discuss what happened? Could he find a way to forgive her? Should she forgive him? Did he realize that she still loved him? Too many questions and no easy answers no matter how hard she searched.

Keep trying.

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If you disgust her enough to make her vomit, then you have your answer, don't you?

Disgust or no, that answer still couldn't push Rory to pack up and leave entirely. It did, however, push him out the door and down the stairs. He muttered, "Scusi" to a woman he nearly ran into just outside of the building that housed Marcello's studio, then walked off with his hands shoved in his pockets to hide the shaking.

In the end, he didn't go far, not even out of sight of the studio's windows. He walked to the nearest canal and dropped onto a bench, staring at the dark water while darker voices bubbled up from his subconscious.

She made herself retch. She also made herself get up off the floor when she heard him leave the studio. Forced herself to brush her teeth and wash her face, though the latter seemed rather moot. She was still crying and the red blotches on her pale skin had already done their damage.

Stomach not settled but at least emptied, Pippa found herself back in the bedroom. On the bed and staring blankly at the rumpled mess they'd created with their lovemaking, wondering miserably at the way things had gone from being so right to so, so very wrong. He was gone and she felt hollow.

He never did get a look at the Red King.

That brought a new round of vision blurring tears to the fore and Pippa buried her face in the pillow that still smelled of Rory. Maybe they'd never understand each other again, never learn how to listen to one another in any way that mattered ever again.

How could he have thought she'd be happy like this?

Unbeknown to Pippa, Rory sat silent and motionless by the canal for hours, listening to screams and ugly laughter that only he could hear. The sun came up, its first warming rays brushing his face, but it did not draw him from his personal darkness. Her name was Tonia, and Larch took days to flay and disembowel her...

A hand tapping his shoulder made him start and look up. Not very far up, since the signora who'd touched him wasn't much taller than he was sitting. He shook his head in confusion at her Italian questions, but after he finally managed to get across that he was all right (thus pulling off a fairly spectacular lie), she smiled, patted him again and moved on.

Rory sighed, feeling a sudden, intense desire for his guitar. Music, at least, had never deserted him. No matter how distraught he felt, playing his emotions out in song had always given him something to hold onto. And he wasn't of much use in any other capacity, or so he felt right now.

Eventually he trailed back the way he came, reluctant to face Pippa, but even more reluctant to be alone any longer. When he opened the door as quietly as he could, he saw Pippa curled on the bed, her tear-stained face pressed into the pillows. He slipped inside, dropped back into the armchair he'd vacated hours ago, leaned his head back and closed his eyes.

It was a while longer before the sun was high enough for the bright light to fill the studio and rouse Pippa from a sleep that provided little rest. She scrubbed the back of her hand over her face and moaned as she tried to hide her face in the pillows until memory caused her to open her eyes wide and sit straight up. She wasn't home, she was at Marcello's with, no not with Rory any longer. They'd fought and she'd run while he stormed out. He left. He--

Was sitting right there, across the room. He looked as exhausted as she felt. More, he looked old, worn, weary, frayed. Fragile. He looked fragile as he sat there with his eyes closed, so still and so silent.

"Ro...?" Barely more than a jagged whisper, her throat raw and dry, she tried once more for something less harsh, "Rory?"

He didn't want to move. Didn't want to speak either, truth be told, but Rory wasn't yet feeling churlish enough to stay silent when Pippa had just addressed him directly. His first attempt to answer her taught him just how raw his throat was from crying. He supposed he could heal it, but somehow that didn't seem worth the effort either.

A careful throat-clearing followed a swallow, and finally he was able to get out, "Yes?"

"I didn't know whether or not you were awake." Well. If she was going to be awkward, she was at least going to do a top notch job of it. "Obviously, you are."

Pippa didn't want to have a conversation with him either, the last one hadn't gone so well. Besides, she had no idea what to say at this point. She didn't have it in her to yell any more and even if she did, what more was there to scream about? Plenty. There was plenty that went unsaid earlier but little of it seemed to really matter as she slowly stretched stiff muscles and tried to untangle herself from the bed linen.

Her task managed, she leaned over the side of the bed and picked up her shirt, pulling it on before getting to her feet. It barely covered the tops of her thighs but it would suffice as she carefully skirted Rory's long legs and headed into the bathroom. She needed a shower. She needed to think. She needed to figure out how she was going to put her calm demeanor back in place and carry on as if she were just fine.

One night and six months of pretending were gone.

He stayed quiet as Pippa moved about and then out of the room, listening to the sounds she made with his eyes still closed. Rory knew he should say something, should join in the strained little dance of no-we're-all-right-really, but he was just too damnably tired to pretend. He felt as if all his vitality had been sucked out of him by a straw, leaving him a dry, brittle husk. If he moved, he might crumble or blow away.

So he sat still, considering his options. Of course he'd find out soon enough if Pippa even wanted him there anymore, which might narrow his options considerably. He had no desire to hurry that decision.

After a while he drew his legs back toward his chair, giving Pippa more room to move when she returned.

As it turned out, Pippa had a few tears left in her, frustration mostly, and she cried them in the shower under a cascade of hot water. She could not pretend things are all right. Every time she tried to put a smile on her face, it felt too tight, too forced and stomach lurched. She would just have to go out there and face him.

Rory, with his ability to break her in a single look or glance. Rory, whom she loved so much it hurt. Rory, whom she was so angry at, frightened of, shocked by. Rory, whom hadn't left her after all.

She left the bathroom clad in a robe and using a towel to dry her dark, tangled curls. It took Pippa a few minutes to actually come into the bedroom proper instead of standing just outside of it. Almost timid in the way she approached him, until she approached him and then she dug her heels in, "After I get dressed, there's something I want to show you, back on Murano."

She wasn't exactly asking him to join her.

"Oh?" His eyelids drifted open, letting him look up at her. It hurt to look at her, fresh from the shower he'd wished he could share with her. But at least Pippa didn't want him to leave, not right now. That was something. He wasn't sure what, but something.

Still, it meant having to move. He didn't want to, but if he couldn't hold onto anything else, he'd hold onto manners. Pippa was his hostess; if she wanted him to go see something on Murano, he'd go. He wasn't actually broken, no matter how brittle he felt.

"I should get showered and dressed myself, then." Levering himself out of the armchair, Rory crossed the room to retrieve a change of clothes.

She followed him and when he bent down to retrieve the items from his bag, Pippa placed a hand on his shoulder. Her touch only lasted a moment before she moved off to get her own change of clothing but the gesture was made just the same. I'm here, too.

He paused for as long as his hand was on her shoulder, but he didn't look up.

The shower soothed away some of his tension and the resulting aches, but his gut still felt like a lump of lead. Rory leaned his forehead against the shower wall and let the spray pelt his shoulders and back, wondering what Pippa wanted him to see. Something to do with her work, perhaps? He'd best find some way to be ready with smiles and praise in that case; he didn't want to discourage her.

After turning off the taps, he stepped out to towel himself down, rubbing vigorously in an attempt to further distract himself. Once he was as dry as he could manage, he returned to the bed to don the khakis and blue button-down he'd laid out, naked and not thinking anything of it.

She was dressed and had her hair pulled back in a loose knot behind her head, Pippa had even taken the time to remake the bed in an effort to distract herself. She didn't know if what she was insisting was the right thing or not, but she did know there was no way she could stand an entire morning of awkward shuffling around this small studio with him.

At least in the workshop, there was room. And if he wanted to leave, she wouldn't be far from home. She didn't want him to leave.

She also gave him some privacy to get dressed, leaving him in the bedroom while she went into the kitchen for a glass of water. She'd find proper coffee on Murano.

Rory told himself that Pippa didn't leave because she couldn't stand to be in the room with him. Told himself several times, in fact, but never made it to more than half-convinced. Once dressed, he brushed out his drying hair and went to find her.

"Ready when you are." He tried on a smile, then let it slip away when he realized it must look as artificial as it felt.

She palmed the keys for the boat, they hand been sitting on the counter, and placed her glass in the sink. "Do you want these?"

She'd rather pilot the craft, of course, but she knew she'd also end up going to fast and too reckless in her current mood. That was fine when she was alone, not when she had someone with her.

He started to open his mouth to decline, but then a few of his own experiences in the passenger seat with Pippa driving replayed in his memory. "Sure," he amended, extending a hand to accept the keys from her. He himself wasn't as interested in speed as he had been on the way over from Murano, which might not be a bad thing.

She followed Rory out, locking the studio behind them and once they reached her boat, Pippa wordlessly went about removing the cover and dealing with the line. She also took a seat out of the way instead of standing by the captain's chair. How different things could be in so short a time frame.

"Thank you." What else was there to say at this point? He was doing what she wanted, humoring her at the very least and she hadn't really been very forthcoming with why and where they are going.

The combination of Pippa's words with her distance made him flinch again. The whole morass had started this morning with her thanking him.

Though Rory didn't slack on the speed on the way back to the glassmakers' island, he was nevertheless scrupulously careful about his piloting. If his focus on what he was doing reduced his conversation to bare necessities, he had the impression Pippa didn't want to talk much to him anyway.

On the contrary, as they headed across the water way, many things came to mind that she wanted to share with him, but Pippa stopped herself. Friendly chatter seemed somehow obscene to her in light of what felt like a tenuous hold on their relationship and anything more meaningful wouldn't be a good idea while Rory was at the wheel. If things devolved again...

No, she wasn't going to think that way. She was going to try and repair a little of the damage done.

"There's someone I want you to meet." Someone, not something. Her glass masterpiece certainly felt real and alive to her, she poured enough of herself into it, enough of his likeness too--it was why her fellow gaffers had known who Rory was, recognized the flesh and blood that inspired the art.

Someone for him to meet. Ruddy hells, the last thing Rory felt like doing was making polite first-meeting conversation with anyone. But he would force himself somehow. Manners.

"Who is it?" he asked softly. God help him if it were Maestro Alessandro, or worse, Marcello. He didn't want to meet either man in his current mood.

"Someone very special to me." Her voice wasn't much stronger than his, but she was looking directly at him as she spoke. "I've spent every waking moment with them for months now. I honestly don't know where I'd be without him. He's what keeps me going."

She knew how those words must sound, she even offered a silent apology for them. "Come with me to to the glassworks studio?"

It was early still, hopefully there would be few people around. Few people she would have to ask if they would leave and give her and Rory some privacy.

He knew how her speech would have sounded coming from anyone else but Pippa ... but this was Pippa. If she'd fallen in love with someone else, she would have told him already, and he therefore wouldn't be here. It was as simple as that.

So he disembarked and even offered a hand to help her step up after him. Then he followed her with both hands shoved into his pockets. It sounded like he was about to meet the maestro after all, and his heart sank at the prospect.

As they walked, Pippa turned her head every now and again to look up at Rory, pressing her lips into a firm line and rubbing her palms together only to find them sweaty. She was nervous. Very nervous. Would he think she mad for this, be offended or feel somehow wronged because she hadn't sought his permission for what she'd done?

Or would he understand?

Maybe it didn't matter what he reaction was, only that he have one. There wasn't time to think about it now, not when she was pushing open the door to the building already sweltering with the heat of lit furnaces.

Pippa shook her head as one of the men turned to greet them with a grin and ready welcome. Words died on his lips at her look. Now is not the time for friendly visits, this is far more important. He did, in fact set his pontil aside, take off his gloves and gesture at another gaffer to join him outside, leaving as Pippa and Rory entered.

"Grazie." She murmured her thanks before turning her full attention to Rory. "I know it's almost unbearably hot in here, I'm sorry, but can you just...just wait here a moment? Please?"

She wanted to clean up the area around re Rosso, remove the drop cloth and make certain that he was lit properly. Rory would have to forgive the unfinished base, his visit had interrupted her work.

Rory stopped at Pippa's request and leaned up against a nearby table, checking first to make sure it held nothing potentially dangerous. "Of course," he replied, his tone almost docile. Whatever Pippa's purpose was in bringing him here, he'd go along with it.

In fact he was just as glad to have a minute or two to himself. He could try to get his thoughts, if not in order, at least more settled than they currently were. He could try to dig up a smile from somewhere inside and get it pasted on his face in time to greet this person who kept his love going.

He was a stage performer. He'd met audiences with a smile at time he was feeling exhausted, depressed or angry. He could handle this, he kept telling himself.

In the back of the large building, Pippa pulled open heavy wooden window covers, letting in the early morning sunlight behind the sculpture. The effect was something just short of amazing even to her, what had been dulled ambers and reds, muted yellows and rusty oranges seemed to come alive, full of vibrant hues and shades, the various thicknesses and densities of the structure affecting the way light was dispersed. Re Rosso nearly glowed.

Fey fire, she thought to herself as she moved her tools to the side and then stood appraising her work one last time. Because of the unfinished base the massive glass was anchored to, the statue stood nearly seven feet tall, his face just out of her reach.

Head and shoulders, nearly a complete bust, held the most painstaking detail before seeming to melt and morph into a vaguely humanesque pillar of multicolored glass; the result was a figure that was both whimsical and intimidating. Pippa actually smiled, it was Rory.

She went to retrieve her lover feeling a bit more sure of herself, a little more calm. Until she saw him leaning against the work table and the nerves came rushing back. Would he be offended at what she'd done to his likeness without his permission? Would he think she out of her mind to devote so much energy to one obsessive project? Would he say anything at all?

"Ro? This way..." She spoke softly, holding her hand out to him. "I hope you'll understand."

He had by and large ignored the furnace heat and the slight prickle of sweat it produced along his hairline. When Pippa returned, he took her proffered hand and followed obediently, looking for a human figure in the direction she led him. There was no one there, but there was ... there was ...

Rory's steps faltered as the details of the sculpture before him came clear in the back-lit glow. A tall column in brilliant shades of flame, like a male body shaped and stretched by heat. And emerging from the top as though claiming form and definition from the liquid fire the glass had once been ... himself.

His own features, from upper chest to the top of his head, rendered with exquisite precision. His were the lips that curved up slightly at the corners, his the glassy hair that seemed to drift upward as if lifted by a hot breeze. The forward-facing eyes held no defined iris or pupil, combining with the enigmatic smile to lend an air of mystery to the figure's expression.

Himself. Rory. Ruadh Rí, the Red King.

Pippa stood beside him, still clasping his hand while she anxiously watched his expression. He could feel the waves of hope and anxiety rolling off her. See? he could nearly hear her saying. Look, see how special and important you are to me, how much I love you, how much you've been on my mind!

And he did see, how could he not see what was so transparently self-evident? She was crafting a masterpiece, not only in his honor, but wearing his face. It was glorious, a privilege to any man to be muse to such a creation.

And yet...

This luminous being before him had never been party to the murder of a sadist and serial killer. He clearly wasn't carrying around the horrific memories of said killer in his subconscious. He neither slept nor dreamed, and so could never feel the unexpected assault of those memories in the depths of the night. The Red King was pristine, unmarred, while Rory--

was broken.

What could he do, what could he say? He couldn't possibly tell the woman beside him that looking at her magnificent accomplishment made him feel ugly, degraded, unworthy. His own chest felt wounded, cracked and scored with deep, irreparable flaws. The ache in his gut spread to his entire torso, and still he stood frozen in place, feeling shamed in a way he hadn't felt since his own mother called him an abomination in the eyes of God.

But he had to say something.

Slowing his breathing-- when had his heart started pumping so fast? --he swallowed and summoned his voice. "It's beautiful," he husked.

But I'm not.

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