Heterochromia

"How did you get those eyes?"

I'm startled. Did anyone ask?

I looked around and found him looking back seriously. Bump.

"Why do you ask?"

"Nothing particular." He made the same expression. I rolled my eyes. That 'I don't care but knowing it won't hurt much' expression.

After that long pause and silence, I decided to voice out.

"Waardenburg Syndrome."

"Hm?"

"A symptoms of the syndrome, Heterochromia. I got it since I was born. Genetically. Though I didn't literally experience the syndrome, but I have the symptoms anyway."

"Oh. Well, I'm glad you got them."

What? Is that the modest response he could give? My brain always works as fast as I speak.

"That the modest res..." I nearly shouted. Oh, I already did.

"At least you got the beautiful bicolor iris which I can look at everyday."

Another long silence.

I didn't know how to respond, then continuing this paperwork would be the best.

I started to pick some books and put them in the same old shelves, yet they had been cleaned properly even I could smell the old wooden.

He kept ignoring the fact that he should help me rather than kept reading those law books with heart to the full content.

The smell of old papers has flourished to the air, filled everywhere with the decent scent. It helped me remember the old house, the one we've stayed before. How Papa always smelled his books first

before reading them. How Mama kept telling me to make sure that their treasure are being taken care.

"That's how you get this silver hair?" Another shocking line.

"Stop saying things so sudden!" I finally shouted properly. It's not that his way of speaking freaked me, but my current condition on this fragile stairs of this shelf was not supporting any kind of shock treatments.

Another long silence. I'm getting used to it. Oh, and another stare.

"Muriel."

"I said, stop freaking me out! I'm working here!" A long sigh.

"Yes! Will you please stop saying things so sudden!?" I sighed long enough to make sure that he heard it.

Again, the long silence. The awkwardness appears within his words, not in silence.

I murmured bitterly. His words were all decent yet I felt like being stabbed over and over again. As long as he's over me -winning all those trophies and such- I can never have the place to defeat him. Or even to withstand him.

Another long silence is better than those random questions he kept blurting out. I mean, what if I cannot answer them? What if the questions are not in my major? What if it's beyond my expectation? It'll widen our difference, how great he is and how incapable I am.

I felt heavy, well my head to be exact. I always wanted to cut it short yet Papa begged not to. He said it's his charm, to win cases.

"It's charming." Another soft voice.

"Will you at least help me out? We still have dozen of these books to be put back," I complained heavily. It's been two hours since we started to work and not even half of the books were being put.

"Let me have your hair, then." He said bluntly.

"Are you nuts!? Stop making excuses and work already! What the hell is wrong with your head anyway!?" I shouted angrily. It's not like he used to do this stuff before.

He looked back at me sharply. No emotions, as always. Wonder why Papa even adopted him. Well, as a prosecutor, he's damn genius.

"You have no cuteness at all, dear little sister," said he while pulling my hair. Ouch!

"Snap out of it! Get back to work already or I'll let Papa know that you made me work alone." I challenged him.

"Let's. If only Papa knows how adorable you are while you're angry, he won't blame me."

Something really wrong has happened to him today.

Muriel

Arctic

Cold.

Every spot you know in this humongous place is cold. I'm shivering yet these layered clothes have tried their best to warmed me up. Even writing anything won't do much.

It's not an escapade towards the probable possibilities in the next few minutes. I am not escaping from any destinies, whereas the mighty Gods have put them this way. Nonetheless, I am admitting the losing against them. Since I know it's useless.

Those Gods are bored. They simply feel bored toward humanity's routines. No changes. At least none of them were interesting.

The footsteps sounded terribly strong yet lonely. Or gentle. Or frightening. I can even feel the pressure which was given by those simple footsteps. Which are heading this way, this room, this door, this corner.

I let my hair laid down to the wooden floor. The warmth it always given sometimes delivers me to dream land. Yet the cracking sound of a God, getting closer per step to this corner scared me the most, even to go to the dream land.

You struck your hands to my long-black laid hair. They moved closer as they're going to touch my very skin. No, you have touched me. Senses are my pride, and hair is another 'skin' to me. The breeze.

The cold touch.

Yet it feels warm when my face finally met your hands. Like those cats you like to keep in your room. How they always make those murmur sounds as you reached out your hands on them.

"Wake up."

I always hate the voice as well. That demanding and selfish, egocentric exclamation you've always made to everyone. Even to your may-be bride.

But you hardly know my voice. The murmur that sometimes resembles your cats.

Ah. These hands again. As if I'm as light as those trembling kittens, you simply pulled me up and kept this body on your chest. The warmth. The constant heartbeats. The soft cloth. And your scent.

As if I'm able to read out everything. You always hold you possessions well. Even if I'm only your may-be bride. One and only.

I never take initiatives to face your expression. It's always you who started to look, to face, to smell. Even to guess. The dim light you have in your room never solve problems. Though I can always see no matter how dim it is. Your gold, charming-alike aura that keeps resonating to me since we first met.

You finally placed me on the decent chair. Or to be exact, you placed me on top of your lap while you're sitting on the decent chair. You neatly tied my hair while having that "I don't really care whatsoever" look. And thus I had no reason to not to look back at you since it'll be pretty obvious if I looked to the other way.

You softly kissed my hair. Top of my head. My forehead. My eye. My nose. My cheek. My ear. My chin. My neck.

And I softly leaned to embrace your lips. How those always work when you started to embrace your may-be bride. How you always startled to find me embracing your lips first. When you're kindly avoid mine.

It felt nothing. But not when you're embracing mine. As like you did now. Embracing yours to mine. Gently yet over-possessive. Soft yet thrilling feelings you delivered, and the shock after. Your scent became one. Your breath became mine. But no pulse. No heartbeat. I just can read no more.

Is this your way to actually increasing my heartbeats? How you always try to increase the rate of my pulse when you kiss me? How it feels like a mystery and a great victory to have my pulse increase a bit?

---

I'm learning to write in English with a better phrase than I used to use. This is just a part of a long story, though.

Dina

Cuteness Overflows

Thank you for the Hangout, people.