𝐅𝐄𝐑𝐀𝐋 𝐂𝐄𝐀𝐓𝐔𝐑𝐄, divinity is a wretched fate.
Dreary Forks is a cramped town beneath a near constant overcast sky, enshrouded in evergreen.
Like every small town, Forks is rife with gossip. Most children's grandparents grandparents had b...
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GRADUATION CAPS FOLD IN an unspoken jive, an ode to their immortality in a bittersweet sort of humor that Zachary can appreciate. In between his nimble fingers is the cap of a half empty water bottle that he clutches to his still unsteady chest as a small smile quirks at the edge of Zachary's uneasy mouth. He admires the piece, with his lower back leaned against the intricate railing that climbs to the next level of the grand home and Zachary's knee bounces his shifting foot in its rest at the foot of the stairs where he waits, stiffly. There's the familiar click of faultless steps, heeled shoes luring Zachary's stare to the mouth of the stairs with Rosalie's breathtaking figure at the top, her lips pursed and manicured fingers curled around the bulb of the stair- rail as Rosalie descends swiftly, stood tensely in front of him.
"I'm sorry." Zachary apologizes instantly, his abrupt departure from his meeting her family worthy of such pleasantries but Rosalie shakes her head, ringlets of gold curve her jaw as her rosy lips tick in a soft, rare smile and Zachary is electrified by the press of her marble hand to his sternum, soothing his pounding heart.
"What did you see?"
The question has Zachary biting at the inside of his cheek, thoughts ricochet around his skull until he releases a tiny breath and Zachary murmurs, "It isn't my place to say," His words seem to soften Rosalie's expression, fluttering something in her belly with the way that he respects such a thing. Gifted a sight and yet, Zachary wouldn't use it to exploit, even if given the permission. Rosalie's thumb brushes Zachary's chin and he hadn't expected the touch, but his lips fall apart in delicate awe with the way she seems as enamored, surprised by the way in which she'd been drawn to the touch until Rosalie clears her throat softly, and as quickly as the affectionate touch came, she snatches it away, as if she'd tainted him. "Bella?" He asks in a short change of the subject with the manner in which Rosalie darts vibrantly rich eyes to the floor.
"With Edward," Rosalie murmurs, and she seems to exhale, veering her shoulders as her fingers lace tentatively around his wrist and her heeled foot rises a step to lead him at her heel. Zachary's hand slips slowly, tangling his warm fingers with hers and the way in which her icy skin bleaches the heat from his is addictive, a rush of cold that could snatch the air from Zachary's lungs pleasantly. Their hands intertwine as Rosalie lures him through the home, rising another level past the communal space where Zachary had fled until her fingers nudge open the artfully paneled door at the top of the stairs and as they pass the threshold and Rosalie's fingers fall from his, she says in an almost vulnerable manner, "My room."
It's expectedly elegant, unlike the unruly state of Zachary's own. With ivory glossed furniture, painted thinly enough to expose the natural knots of the wood underneath, uniform with the vanity and dresser, even the nightstands, and every drawer has rose gold handles, dainty and shiny. The four post bed is clearly untouched, the linen is a graceful champagne color, preened neatly with a fluffy, faux fur blanket lounged at the foot of it, cluttered with decorative pillows that would be a nuisance to toss from its surface though Zachary supposes they're perfect should one not sleep. It's the bay window that appears lived in, ever-so-slightly tousled though its apparent Rosalie adjusted the cushions into place before departing.
