Title: The Click of the Light & the Start of the Dream
Rating: T, sexual situations.
Summary: Follows the events of "For Lovers Only".
Disclaimer: Characters are the property of the Polish Brothers. Please see first chapter for the rest.
A/N: This is the final chapter of this story so just wanted to offer my thanks to those who've commented, especially those who have followed this story from the beginning. Hope all enjoy this conclusion...
The wedding date creeps up on them.
After all they've overcome, the decision to marry is an easy one, an obvious one. So they do all the relevant paperwork and make a date with City Hall. Sofia's sister promises to fly in for the occasion. And they invite some friends to their finally finished apartment for lunch following the nuptials. They no longer want to live their lives in isolation. They no longer want to hide their love away like it is too fragile to be seen. It isn't. It is more robust than either of them would have predicted. More robust and more resolute. It hasn't waged a bloody war or conquered whatever obstacles lay in its way. It hasn't had to, and that isn't its nature. Their love has simply found a peaceful way to survive, to exist. To honestly claim its rightful and prized place in their lives.
The night before the ceremony, Lola stays at their place. In the room Sofia has decorated with framed pictures of her father and of father and daughter together. After she is asleep, they whisper back and forth in bed for a while. Then they make love as quietly as they can, as slowly as they can. Before falling asleep with their fingers entwined.
In the morning, Sofia makes toast for all three of them while Yves prepares the coffee and froths some milk for Lola. Sofia braids Lola's hair as she sits at the breakfast table, munching away. She wears the dress bought for her in that faraway French boutique. Sofia spent hours picking apart the delicate needlework and re-stitching it to fit her growing body. A photo of her in the dress, running down a dusky slope hangs in her room, above her violin stand. Despite its haunting quality, it's one of Sofia's new favorites of Yves' work. Her hands shake slightly as she braids Lola's hair, as she applies her eyeliner, as she straightens Yves' tie. The shaking stops though when he kisses her, when he whispers reassuring words against her cheek. Slipping into a simple ivory suit, Sofia spritzes some perfume on her décolletage and takes one last sip of coffee. At the mirror by the door, she and Lola both apply some gloss to their lips before Yves ushers them out, camera slung round his neck.
City Hall is already running behind by the time they arrive. So they wait. Sofia's head rests on Yves' shoulder. His fingers fidget with hers. Meanwhile, Lola takes pictures of the overflowing dustbin...the sun-soaked tiles...the sculpted ceiling...Sofia's shoes...Yves' watch...their interlocked fingers. Eventually their names are called. The service is short and to the point. A mere formality. Which is all they require. The words of love and commitment they owe each other they prefer to keep private. They know them. They know exactly what they feel and why they're choosing to exchange vows. It seems almost redundant to state the truth of it aloud. Or like they'd be tempting fate's magnanimity just a little too much.
There's an awkward moment when the Justice of the Peace asks if they have rings.
Yves and Sofia look at each other. "No," they say in unison.
They look at the old man. Yves shrugs. Sofia smiles.
The old man glances between them then stutters on with his speech. A moment later, they are husband and wife. They kiss. Three times. Eyes opened. Lola looks at her shoe, smiling. Before heading back to their apartment to celebrate, they go to a tattoo parlor. Yves and Lola watch as Sofia has her husband's name permanently inked onto her left ring finger.
"Does it hurt?" Lola asks, nose scrunched.
Sofia shakes her head and smiles. "Nope." Then she tips back her head for Yves to lean down and kiss her while his name takes shape on her skin.
The gathering at their apartment is informal. There is finger food and music and plenty of champagne. There are some old friends in attendance, some who knew them during their first tempestuous affair. And there are some newer ones who have little idea how long and how much it has taken for them to finally find their happiness. It's one of the newer friends who asks the newlyweds about their honeymoon plans. Yves and Sofia smile at each other. It's a question they've heard often since revealing their intention to wed. And there's only one answer. There's only one place they wish to go, only one place that holds meaning for them. They need to revisit some of the glorious moments they had there as well as amend some of the more painful ones.
The following day, they are on a twilight flight to France. When the airport controller asks Sofia the reason for her visit – business or pleasure – she can't help a small smile of remembrance. She casts a look at her lover then answers in lilting French:
"Pleasure, of course. Why else visit Paris?"
The door clicks closed. His keys and camera are laid on the table by the door. His footsteps approach. Sofia continues washing up. Waiting for him. They had a fight that morning. Not even a fight. A squabble. About nothing. Small stuff. Stupid stuff. It's rare for them now but not unprecedented.
His footsteps falter. He's standing on the threshold. Looking at her. She can feel his gaze on her back. Sofia cleans his coffee cup silently and places it on the rack to dry. Then he is moving towards her. She hears him. Feels him. Smells him. She smiles as a large bunch of bright yellow flowers appear in front of her. And leans back into his body as Yves burrows his face into her hair, muttering a soft "sorry". She takes the flowers in her sudsy hands and bends her face towards his. His hands immediately move to her body. One to her hip, the other sweeps away her hair so he can kiss the back of her neck. Then all of a sudden he grabs her, lifts her off her feet. Ignoring her surprised squeals and flailing limbs, he hauls her through the apartment towards their bed. She's grinning by the time he throws her onto the mattress. And he is forgiven when he lowers his body to hers and seizes her mouth with his.
"Wanna fuck it out?" he murmurs between breathless kisses.
"Yeah…" She is already unbuttoning his shirt, spreading her legs.
She pushes him onto his back and sits astride his body, ripping off her woollen sweater. Yves lies back and watches her undress, hands smoothing up and down her thighs. He used to have to hold her down when they made love. He used to feel the need to pin her body with his, capture and clamp her wrists. It was as if he feared that without that restraint she would dematerialize and he would be left with nothing but a memory. He no longer does that. He no longer fears that. His passion for her is unchanged. Their passion for each other is as intense and absorbing as it has ever been. But it has been liberated. Their hearts have been liberated to love in a way that hearts can only love when they know that the object of their affection won't be spirited away. Now, Yves' hands roam freely, they explore confidently. They trust her presence now. They know she is his and always will be.
After stripping them both bare, Sofia re-straddles him, leans down for a quick kiss. "So you know I quit the birth control, right?"
Yves nods, running a palm from her neck down her torso to her belly. "I know."
"So…?" She smiles down at him expectantly.
He sits up, capturing her lips in a deep kiss. After they pull apart, he cups her face with one hand, smiles at her. "So bring on our next miracle."