No Words Needed

Disclaimers: I'm just playing with them, don't own them

She came to him in the evening.

It was gray and sad and almost raining.

He wasn't expecting her. As he opened the door and looked at her, after so many years, she didn't say a word but squeezed past him into the room. It was semi-dark, the only light in the room coming from the bright candle by the shabby couch where a book was lying half open.

The house looked disheveled like no one came there that often. It smelled musty; it hasn't been warm for a long time. She shivered. Then she turned to face him.

He was still staring at her, the door half open like she was a mirage or a dream. His face wore a puzzled, curious expression, one she did not know he could possess. He seemed to gather himself and close the door still looking at her.

She felt uncomfortable under his gaze and uncertain all of a sudden, like she did not know why she was here. Like she didn't know him at all, but then she supposed she no longer did. She glanced around at the familiar house and yet unfamiliar with shelves upon shelves of books that weren't there before.

He still stared at her and did not move from the door. Perhaps he did not want to break the spell by asking her why she was here. Perhaps he wanted to preserve the illusion a bit longer. The silence stretched between them and she felt like she needed to do something, needed to say something or hear his voice. But she couldn't bring herself to do anything but stare at him. He stared back.

Then he moved towards her, past her to the table behind the couch and got a bottle of something muddy and a few glasses. They did not look that clean. Still, he poured a drink, swallowed it in one gulp, refilled it and poured another glass. He put the bottle down, took the second glass and thrust it at her. She took it quickly. He made a motion as if to clink the glasses and swallowed the second glass.

She did the same with hers, still not saying a word; it made her throat burn. She hasn't seen him in more than three years, not really. They haven't had a proper conversation in almost five. And yet he was familiar but older now. His eyes were older now and harder. She was still not sure how to start.

But he was looking at her with uncertainty, now trying to read her and she knew she had to do something. She settled for kissing him. She moved quickly forward, grabbed at his shirt and kissed him like she wanted to stop any words coming out from herself and from him. She thought he would be shocked or protest, she never kissed him before this moment, but he responded only after the slightest hesitation. Perhaps he did think it was a dream.

His lips were soft and he kissed hungrily. That was one word that came to mind. She stopped thinking after that, afraid that other thoughts would creep into her mind, thoughts of her responsibilities and thoughts of who she was, and she would lose her courage. So she decided to just lose herself in that kiss, in this familiar stranger, and not think about anything else at all. He kept on kissing her, not even questioning why she was there. His hands, long, pale, even in half-darkness, but strangely warm enveloped her and she let him set the pace, let him mold her into something else, something other than what she was. If only for a little while.