Sex Camp (18+)

Chapter 18- Alexander | Oeuvre

Chapter 18: Oeuvre 

~Brackets are translations~

Quelle est votre histoire mon ciel?  (What's your story my heaven?)

They were both inside, with Alex sitting on the stiff floorboard, his eyes facing the wooden expanse of the side of their cabin, his back to Faye who was currently hopping about trying to get her shorts on as quickly as possible while enduring putting a bra on without having to take off her t-shirt. 

Alex couldn't help but look down to the timber beneath him and smirk to himself. He had his back to a girl that wasn't even naked. Gone were the days when girls took their clothes off to impress him, when he used to pretend to take pride in locker-room talk, when he actually fit in with what people saw in him. Expected in him.

A loud noise made him whip his head around to see if she was okay, but he stopped short when he heard Faye muffle a yell from the floor behind the bed "No No No No Alexander Banks. You promised y-you wouldn't look!" she sounded frustrated.

"I can't even see you Faye" 

"Doesn't mean that you're not looking!" 

He opened his mouth, to shut it again. Once again that lousy smirk marked its return on his lips. He turned back to his original position facing the wood, he wanted to be on the new bed that the staff had transferred to their cabin but both the beds were so close to each other- he knew Faye would have felt uncomfortable. 

Besides it was his fault anyway why she wouldn't use the bathroom that they had in their cabin to change. She had told him "Je ne peux pas aller à l'intérieur sans imaginer..."  ( I can't go inside without imagining....) 

He shook the thoughts from his head and returned to speaking to the floor. "You didn't answer my question" 

He heard a whisper "I don't have a s-story..." 

"Everyone has a story mon ciel... Some more interesting than others, but a story nevertheless" 

Faye popped her head up on the bed from where she was sitting on the floor, finally managing to get the back of her bra clasped. "You can turn around if y- if you'd l-like"

Alex couldn't help but let out a laugh when he saw her with her messy hair and flushed face hiding her body behind the bed frame. Her chin on the bed - she looked like a disarray of beauty and chaos. She reached for the bed side table drawer near to her hand and pulled out her glasses slipping them on, she nudged the middle of the frame to leave them above the bridge of her nose. 

"Is your's interesting?" she asked reverting a question back to him.

"No... Is your's?"

"No." she whispered almost immediately 

"Est-ce que vous dites la vérité?" Alexander asked with a small smile that made Faye instantly remember what his lips felt like on hers when she saw it. She looked down to the floor and pressed her nails as hard as she could into her palms, not caring if she tears flesh. (Are you telling the truth?)

"No" she spoke softly, almost like admitting this small bit of candor made her vulnerable. She grimaced like the memories that she was playing in her mind was painful enough to make her want to run. When she looked up at Alex, her frown left her features and something else took its place. 

He didn't understand it but he understood this: Faye Watson didn't just have a story. She had a whole chronicle of stories, and if you really wanted to cherish what she meant. You would have to read till the end, devouring and saving every thing she offered to give. 

Faye started to lightly chew on the corner of her lips not making any other movements. And all of a sudden Alex felt his heart beat quicken its pace.

Then they stared at each other.

For what seemed like the longest stretch of warm silence and never leaving eye contact. It was another kind of intimacy. The kind you don't even get when two people merge together to become one. It was the kind that made you see the other person as their own individual and admire them for what they truly are. 

To him, she was a mixture of paint strokes on a body giving texture and heat and tenderness and  rest. Each flick of paint a new meaning, each color representing a different hue of life. The lines that made her eyes shone a hidden boldness, one that looked to be snatched away. But her lips yelled silence. Silence that had been practiced at first but fortuitously became nature. 

To her, he was a staccato burst of electricity, zapping with existence and spirit and fire and unfamiliarity. Every atom begging to be discovered, holding another adrenaline rush, another chance at being just on the edge but feeling high all the same. The frown between his brows holding on to something that seems to want to be let out, the creases at the edge of his mouth crying out how many laughs he's faked.

Alexander decided he would push away any thoughts he had of her being fragile. It is never the painting that's fragile. The misconception created by the delicate strokes and precise placements of the colors. It is never the painting thats fragile. It's the artist.  

To Faye, who had nightmares that filled every fibre of her being when she thought of such deep seated, carnal togetherness with anyone. Who hated what happened to her that she couldn't handle the rawness of being close. 

To Alex, who had only ever known closeness. Only ever known the safety of being accepted when he was attached to a woman's body. Attached to the shelter of being liked. Attached to his image.

They were both far from each other, so far that even if they reached out with their whole body, she was too far. She was sitting on the other side of the room but further yet. The word 'close' evaporated in the air between them. Skin away from skin, they were lives apart, universes separated and isolated. 

Yet they stared and in that small moment...

In that small moment...

They were inside each other.  

-----------------------------------

AN: "oeuvre" : "the body of work of a painter, composer, or author."

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Kitkat