Astilbe [2/2]

Astilbe and Yew didn’t become best friends, or even regular friends, immediately after the survey team debacle. They did occasionally meet in the run down courtyard between their respective department buildings. It was never expressly planned, Yew was simply there frequently enough to make her presence predictable. As for Astilbe, he just wanted to observe her a while longer; he thought if he spent more time around her he might gain the ability to understand her and thus fit her into his view of the world. However, she often defied categorization.

She didn’t look at him often, he’d noticed. He thought she was just disinterested in him, or dismissive, she wouldn’t be the first. Except, she would listen to him. She would tell him she didn’t understand the point of studying architecture, nor what he found interesting about carved stones in an organized pile. And yet, she never stopped him. Never said it was a waste of time. Never implied he was lesser for his pursuits. If he spoke to her in the courtyard for ten minutes or an hour, she would listen for as long as she had the time.

Then he thought she might be the type that’s indifferent to everything. Maybe she lacked an opinion entirely. He thinks he may have asked her a thousand questions that month, to determine that she does care about many things, and doesn’t care about an equal if not greater amount. Yet, he couldn’t bring himself do ask directly, “do you care about me? About what I have to say?” Of course, for many reasons, but a more prominent reason was that it felt silly to ask of someone he’d only met a couple months ago. Astilbe couldn’t imagine that she would truly care about what he had to say when there was barely any rapport between them. People that had been far more invested in him didn’t even care what he said.

Eventually, she had started to ask more of him too. Tentatively at first, she had asked him about the meaning of something someone had said to her. He no longer recalled the exact question, because he was more focused on the lance that struck through him as he realized that she did catch on to the double meanings of words. She just didn’t always know what the meaning was, but she could feel it like a missing tooth. She had noticed the game, she just didn’t understand the rules. Moreover, didn’t understand the purpose of it. Why couldn’t people just say what they meant, instead of making her guess?

So began a habit in which she would ask and he would explain as best he could. Which evolved, as habits so often do, into preemptive explanations or answering unspoken questions. He didn’t figure out how to categorize her, but he did start to understand her. So well, in fact, that he knew when she was puzzling over behaviors and when she was thinking about her research.

Then one day he realized as he was watching her expressions; she looked at him and it was so much. It was everything he’d ever wanted, given freely and so naturally he almost hadn’t noticed. She cared about what he said; tucked it away in her memories like it was important, like he was important. In an impulsive second, he had blurted into a brief lull in their conversation that he thought she was his best friend.

Yew had frozen so stiffly, Astilbe was nearly convinced he’d ruined whatever camaraderie they shared. But then, in a voice softer than falling flower petals, face pink, with a hopeful smile she’d spoken, “You’re my best friend, too, Astilbe.” And the world kept turning. Nor did he wake from a dream.

Here was kinship and belonging. Here was the understanding he sought. Here was a place for the heart that had been crushed and reborn and crushed and repaired again. Here was where a charcoal drawing of a little shed from eight-hundred years ago had brought him.

And she burned too. If the topic was about runes, she would spring to life. All the stillness around her would vanish, giving way to words that were sometimes too fast to keep up with. If he asked the right question or brought up the right detail, she was like a stoked coal roaring back into a fire. It was addictive in a way, to feed that energy.

Is it really a surprise that he fell in love? He was so very prone to loving, after all; and Yew, for all that she was and wasn’t, was so inevitable to love.

***

The most recent Patronage Ball had been going well. The venue was stunning as always, the refreshments smelled delicious, and the music was lively but not so much that it would prevent conversation. Astilbe had been ready to play the game and thrive at it this night too. When he arrived he readily found Yew, she was recognizable by the unique dusky brown of her hair so similar to the color of storm clouds, he could find her in an instant. She was talking with her sponsor, clearly interrupted mid-meal. He was too far to hear, but he knew she was agitated; he still wasn’t sure if Yew liked the man or hated him. He suspected her true feelings lie somewhere in the middle. Being near hurt, but being apart was unbearable.

He barely stepped in her direction when a voice he hadn’t heard in years called out to him.

“Oh, Astilbe darling, is that you?”

His former patron hadn’t changed much in four years, but then again, few adults did. He turned but couldn’t make himself move any further. She never came to this event in person, she always sent a butler or steward of some sort. Until this moment, he hadn’t known how he would react to seeing her again. He thought he might be sad or sentimental, perhaps a sense of bittersweetness created by distance and time. He did not expect the anger bubbling up.

She may not have change much in four years, but he certainly had.

It’s a funny truth of teaching, that the teacher often learns just as much as the student. Astilbe had been teaching Yew about people for the better part of three years at this point. Long enough to realize that this woman had played him like a fiddle. The reason he had forgotten so easily that he was merely an amusement to her was because she had carefully raised his expectations with the intent to smash them down. She was the sort that liked to break toys when she was done with them.

She stalked up to him, where he clenched his fists at his side and tried very hard not to say something regrettable. The scent of her perfume was overwhelming, not because it was very pungent, but because it drove his mind right back to those days when he had foolishly trusted her. She lifted a hand, as if to caress his cheek; she used to do that, he recalled. He couldn’t stop himself from slapping her hand away. The sound of it reverberating in his ears so loudly he could hear nothing but its echo and the beat of his heart. Her smile immediately strained to hold itself in place as she massaged the mild pain out of her hand.

“I see you’re still carrying on with this little academic farce of yours, I would have thought you’d put your time into something more worthwhile by now,” she prodded. She was trying to upset him, he realized. There was nothing of value for him here. No reason or obligation to stay and be a part of this. He took a page out of Yew’s book, for once.

“No,” he said directly. He walked away with a thousand words on his tongue, swallowing them all, because entertaining someone that only wanted to get under his skin would be the true waste of time. Besides, nothing could make that woman angrier than ignoring her. He knew her once, too, after all.

He escaped to the terrace to clear his head, breathing in the crisp autumn air alone with the moon.

Until Yew found him there, of course, but that was a good thing.

He wasn’t sure if he’d ever told her the full story before. He was sure he’d alluded to it, but she had left his sore spot alone; just as he had let hers be, even if he more or less knew the details. When all was said and done, he held out a hand and asked her to dance. The rest of today would not be ruined by what happened yesterday.