In the Language of the Flowers

~ Second Interlude ~

[NSFW ahead, my lovelies. ฅ(*°ω°*ฅ)]

✾ Bird of Paradise ✾

I lay there, listless and partially paralyzed. The only remaining kernel of energy I had left, which may have kept me going, had sunken deep down into my fears and hadn't moved since. It was now immersed and drowning. Because of this, I'd retreated to my room in the middle of what was supposed to be a relaxing night out. I'd meant to forget my worries in a haze of alcohol, and yet there I was, tossing and turning in them like a fool. 

I used to share such intimate looks with strangers. Across a room or a street or behind a bar. I'd look at them knowing full well that the way I did so awakened something in them. I could always feel their desire slowly coming to life. It was a funny thing watching their expressions shift rapidly from surprised to confused to intrigued. 

Earlier that night, I'd caught a girl looking at me in that same seductive way. She was beautiful, of course. The ones who initiate in such a bold manner usually were. But I found myself immediately looking away from her. 

The realization that I no longer desired other people--despite the fact that I'd never been allowed to touch James' body--sent me reeling. I left the party with an aching heart long before I'd even gotten close to a buzz. 

Perhaps I did so because the pain was a reminder that there was something tying me to James, other than his being my professor. It wasn't just a dream. Despite his neglect, I didn't want it to be one. If I erased the pain, I erased James. And I couldn't have that.

Someone knocked on my door. Well, more like pounded. I groaned and pulled my pillow over my head. "Fuck off, Nicholas!" I shouted. I couldn't deal with that overly curious weasel. 

The idiot knocked again and I pitched my shoe at the sound. It thudded against the wood and fell to the ground. "I said fuck off!" 

"It's not Nicholas..." he said quietly.

I sat up straight, panic seizing my throat. Fast as lightning, I was up, across the room, and yanking the door open. James was standing there wearing a dark turtleneck, his glasses hanging perilously from the tip of his nose. I forgot for a moment that I was supposed to be angry at him. He was so precious. 

I grabbed his arm and yanked him into my room. "What the hell are you doing here? This is a student dorm, and you're a professor." 

"I knew you had a single," he said. He looked around my room, and I felt suddenly awkward. It wasn't that it was dirty, or anything. It's just that the walls and my desk bore probably hundreds of photographs, drawings, post-cards, and posters--of places I'd lived, people I'd loved, all of my little fascinations--which basically displayed everything about me for him to see. And when it felt like I knew so little about him...

He picked up one of those photographs, a framed one of my family and me in front of the Colosseum in Rome, and stared at it like it held instructions on how to defuse a bomb in Swahili. I took it from him and set it back down, causing him to look a little upset. "You know you shouldn't be here. Just because I don't have a roommate doesn't mean you should just swing by."

James deflated. "Yeah. Sorry. I'll go, then." He turned to escape. 

"You're not even going to argue with me?" I asked, disappointed. Surely, he'd come to me for a reason?

He froze and turned to look at me. I watched him nervously pull at the neckline of his sweater. I pressed a hand to my stomach, suppressing the desire to kiss the little spot of skin he revealed. "Do you want me to argue?" he asked.