the keeper of the city keys put shutters on the dreams

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Their clothes and assorted keepsakes had already been moved in before the wedding; all they bring is their own selves. They're quiet, nervy, clutching intertwined fingers and stepping cautiously even though they've both seen the place at least a couple of times each already.

It's late, owing to the fact that they hadn't been able to travel on Azurda's back the way Addam would have liked - swifter, sweeter, and simpler, all round. On the transport Titan that took them from the dock at Auresco to the harbor at Aletta, he and Flora had talked childishly of the minister's cadence and the guests' absence and how they'd been afraid the papers signifying their union would have been lost, tritely enough, since they hadn't had rings to lose that they'd bothered putting on during the ceremony (basic silver bands, not even gold, hardly counted).

They putter about the bedroom in full light, taking several times too many trips to and from the bathroom and dresser to locate hair ties, glasses of water, the proper shade for the lamp which had been inexplicably misplaced, things adults keep about and things that children, young adults, probably also keep, but never even think about because they never have to arrange for the keeping themselves.

It's a whole lot of new thinking they've got to be doing, where before everyday philosophy and a little bit of starling dreams would have served perfectly fine. Yes, quite a bit.

Eventually, once the shade has been affixed, Addam makes the sensible decision to actually dim the glow hidden beneath, and then it is really dark.

"Do you usually go to sleep at this time?" Flora wonders aloud, squinting forward for the clock before realizing it's not there, it's in the study, and she has to go fetch it out for continued later use - so there, you see.

"I try to keep a healthy schedule, yes," Addam answers once she's returned. He doesn't say "Why?" like might easily be expected of him, because it's really a very key question. The circumstances are entirely straightforward and natural into which she's asked it.

Instead, he continues, "What time do you like?"

Flora wriggles her feet underneath the top quarter of the duvet, knees tucked up to her chest and chin. "I never really mind it. I've never overslept anything, I just go to bed when I go, and get up when I get up." Turning to face him, almost, she gives a gentle, if shamefaced, smile. "Not very much like me, is it? I'm not...proud of it, I don't think."

Silly man. What could he be thinking, eyes bright but mouth demure as he searches for a retort? This is the sort of very normal conversation they'd always have had - that everyday philosophy, you see, but now twisted - before, but it's...different, when she's his wife and he's her husband and they're sat in bed together quietly conversing.

So what is he thinking? Anything of substance? "I think it's brilliant. Very much like you, in fact - so effortlessly perfect." No.

"I am NOT perfect, Addam Origo," Flora intones with a swat at his arm and a forward inclination of her head. If she wore spectacles, she'd be sliding them down and peering over them, librarian equally as likely a prospective career as teacher in her book.

Addam laughs, plays at starting back before leaning reciprocation and wrapping his arms around her shoulders, chin ducked down to the crown of her head. "Maybe not, but to me you are." Flora Hentisane? Flora Origo. Either sounds aright, I think.

It's one of their oldest jokes, dating back to the very first purchase of perfume and the fact that he'd always plainly stated that she smelled perfectly nice without it, but if it made her happy, of course he'd oblige, and be the only one who knew what she really smelled like up close, and get used to the scent of Winterwind on her wrists and jaw and ears and hair all the same.

Silly man. Silly places.

"Shall I kiss you?"

Not can I, or even should I, but shall I?

"I suppose you shall," comes mumbled into the join of inviting fleshy tissue between his chest and his shoulder, apparent even through a stiff, thick new flannel pajama shirt. "It's not as if we're going to do that other thing couples tend to do on their wedding nights."

"The stuff of legends," Addam agrees quietly, letting go with no dearth of reluctance. Legends, indeed, because to and for them sex is very nearly apocryphal. But enough about that. A simple kiss is nothing so intimidating. Right?

They settle back, shifty-seated, and cross their legs in order to sit knees to knees. Flora very nearly falls back off the side of the bed and spears her back on the corner of the end table; Addam catches her with a hand laid about her waist, and she so easily comes in closer.

"So."

"So."

"So I've never kissed anyone before." He's drumming his fingers uselessly yet rhythmically in his lap.

"Oh."

"Oh?" The drumming stops; the prince's eyes flicker soft doubtfulness as they rove up.

Flora, for her part, is doing what appear to be strength training exercises, fingertips cupped around each other but laid in opposite directions like dutiful participants in a one-woman handshake. Her well-studied response: "Well, I...I kissed a girl once, at boarding school, but it was only the once. So I don't know what I'm doing either."

"A-ah." It starts, stops, stutters again. "Maybe it's not worth the doing, then. If we don't see the point."

"I didn't say I don't see the point, I just..."

"I'd like it to be nice, for you," Addam says hastily, as if anyone would ever think he'd do something as straightforward and giving, given, as a kiss with ulterior motives, with concern only for himself. Of course not.

"And what about for you?"

"Oh, well, that doesn't...don't worry about it." Of course not.

She takes his hands, gazes adoration up into his eyes. "I'm worried, lovie."

"Don't be," he says, soft and low as anything to accompany the reassuring squeeze he offers in return. Then he leans in, eyes closed even though he'd likely have preferred not to stop looking, not even for a second, so she waits, lips ever-so-slightly puckered...

It's...flat. Not even wet, or anything gross and cootie-inducing as either might have expected. Just lips...meeting lips, and not doing anything else in particular. It doesn't feel like anything at all. The thought counts, doesn't it? But only the thought.

"Was that right, do you think?"

"Probably not. Maybe you should hold my face, instead of my hands."

"Ah. That's, er...good idea."

Don't be worried, he'd said. And why not? What makes you such an aficionado, my silly little prince?

Maybe just the fact that I'm with you. I'd believe it, and I'm not a very gullible woman.

So they try again. It's slightly better, but only slightly, because the whole thing feels rather mechanical and defeatingly two-sided. Odd, isn't it?

"Maybe we're just not in love enough," murmurs Flora, playing idly with the lock of tied-aside hair on Addam's right side, because the detachment is quite appealing; she doesn't meet his gaze. Suddenly she doesn't believe it, because that's quite a big bridge to be crossing, and perhaps burning, all at once. Or isn't it too late to be looking back, to be hesitating and quaking in her fancy walking boots?

But anyway. Addam doesn't answer to that. His hands return to their place over alternated calves, limp and lacking of Flora's available to hold. Then, as if gentle, magical inspiration has struck, he leans around and kisses her cheek instead.

Her focus shifts immediately, synchronized with the flush bubbling up. He goes again, and again, and again, and again, from the apple to the hollow to the crest of her jaw, and then meanders his way up over her chin to the corner of her mouth. It's softer, closer, fuller, sweeter--

This time she feels it. This time it is entirely too perfect, for an imperfect woman and an imperfect man.

"Just give me a little time, won't you? Have faith in me, Flora."

The tips of their noses are squashed together, sacrificed in favor of joined-up flats of foreheads.

"Oh, Addam...take all that you need. I think you're worth waiting for."