Becoming Anne Again

Chapter Thirty Seven

A/N Longer chapters will be coming soon

It only felt natural that the day would end with a tryst with Aquatica, her reality swimming together with a dark fantasy that may as well have been a fairy tale to her. The truth was, as much as she loved feeling the softness of Diana's skin, or Charlie's arm around her, or Matthew's lips on her forehead, she missed the harsher realities—the cold waves cutting into her like a blade, the wind whipping into her skin and burning her raw, the pain that reminded her she was alive. It was something old, familiar. In some twisted way, it was comforting.

But, whether it be because of growth or impatience, she sat on the shore, fully clothed, stretching her toes out so the water just barely tickled the pads of her feet. At first, Samantha had worried over Anne like Matthew did, but she faked a smile and said she would be fine, she just needed time. And like that, she stole away from the Green Gabled house and into the world of sirens of mermaids.

She pursed her chapped lips, her tongue running over the flakey skin and then thoughtfully chewed on it. "Aquatica," she breathed, her voice as reverent as it always around the fierce siren of her dreams. Still, the name caught on her lips, as if Anne couldn't quite break through the glass that separated her from fairy tales and trapped her in a miserable existence that was all hers.

She heard the tell-tale opening and shutting of the door, and the dark haired boy who had somehow crept into her world of mermaids gently, prudently walked down to the beach, before settling down beside her, his legs crossed over each other and his arms hanging limply on his knees.

For a moment, neither said anything, and instead Anne focused on steadying her breathing. Then finally, he broke the silence, his lips slightly parted as he looked over at her. "Hey."

She snorted, looking over at him, almost slyly. "Hey."

"I'm sorry were you—didn't you want to be alone?"

"Yes." But somehow, as he earnestly looked over at her, uncomfortably shifting as if he was getting ready to run away from her, she deflated. "But it's okay. You can stay."

"I just don't like you being alone out here. You seem to be kind of reckless around the ocean," he said, smiling shyly at her, but still with a twinkle in his eye.

She tilted her head to one side, and somehow, despite the fact that most times she was stripped down to almost nothing when they met by the shore, she couldn't help but feel like she was naked in front of him. Uncomfortably, she began to pluck at her jeans, until finally she sucked her bottom lip into her teeth, gently chewing again. "I guess."

He stayed silent, before leaning down on his elbows. "Congratulations, by the way."

"For what?"

He looked curiously at her, but she was too focused on the waves to notice. "You know—being Belle."

She blinked, turning to face him once again. Then slowly, her lips turned upward.

Oh, come on sweetheart, relax. You were having such a good dream.

Just like that, the ocean was no more, or perhaps it was, perhaps its cruel waves, crashing against rocks were nothing but the push and pull of hands that shouldn't be there, thighs opening and parting, closing, handprints left on skin, and erotic asphyxiation, God, how could she even know what that was? The ocean, burying her and somehow edging its way into her fantasy all the same. That's what all this was, right? A dream, a fantasy, she never she got out, she never left, Sadie and Hannah, get them out, they don't deserve this—

"Anne! Anne!" Gilbert was beginning to be almost frantic. Anne's eyes were wide, almost glassy, her lips slightly trembling, her arms so tensed they were shaking. Somehow, he knew.

The kids aren't alright. He didn't know why that line in particular flashed into his mind, but it still struck fear in his heart, because it was true, wasn't it? His arm shot out almost of its own accord, squeezing her and willing her to come back.

His skin on hers caused her to blink, her breathing still erratic as she turned to look at him, lips still parted. He was real. She was here. They were here. And because she desperately needed to know this, to feel alive, and because pain wasn't really an option, she launched herself at him, burying herself in his chest and breathing in his scent, somewhat sweaty and mixed with an earthy scent, but was all him, all real.

He froze, suddenly unsure of what to do with the redheaded vixen quivering in his lap. But then, out of instinct, his arms immediately encircled her, hauling her closer to him and resting his cheek on her head. "I'm here," he whispered, gently rubbing her back until her breathing evened.

She knew, logically, that she should get up, but he felt safe and she needed that. "I'm sorry," she said, her voice muffled by his shirt.

"For what?"

"Everything."

"You don't need to be," Gilbert said, a slight stutter to his voice as he continued his ministrations, pressing his hand against her back, the palm of his hand drawing circles on his skin. It was just as therapeutic for him as it was for her—he was, after all, only a fourteen year old boy who had yet to come to terms with all things that were Anne.

The words barely registered in Anne's mind, but she pressed closer all the same, the fabric of his shirt pressing a pattern onto the skin of her cheek.

How was it the one she had fought for so long was comforting her?

Was that all she ever did? Fight?

Did she ever get to stop fighting?

When was it time to stop?

She closed her eyes, willing herself to only hear the singsong voice of the ocean, and of the feel of the water against her feet, the way Gilbert's hands felt around her, his shirt, the smell of him, the sand underneath them—all sensations that were real and were slowly grounding her.

"I think—I think we can be friends. If you—if you want," Anne said, biting down on her lower lip and refusing to look up at him.

But, oh, what those words did to him! He felt as though his heart skipped a beat—no, a hundred beats as he blinked, staring down at the red headed mop that had somehow become the main fixture of his life. "I think—I think I would like that. A lot."

He didn't ask her what her nightmares were about, why she looked as if she had been to hell, and maybe she liked that. He didn't need to know; he was her anchor. An anchor wasn't meant to calm the ocean, only to tether its ship to safety.