Reaching Perfection //Kheft

My mind and body were at war, waging a battle in the confines of my skin and bone so violent that I thought it might literally rip me apart. It must be so noticeable as I kneel beside this girl, silently going through the motions of pinning the dress, fitting it to the curve of her hip and the narrowing of her waist. I’m breaking rules here, every rule that had ever been set for me whether spoken aloud or merely understood by the very nature of my position. You are an Avox, Brooke…what are you thinking? This fraternizing with clients wasn’t even a topic that Venus had felt necessary to mention. She trusted me. Or was it only that she trusted my disability to keep everyone away?

Those two things were growing so confusing in my mind, and should I take advantage of the fact that Venus had never thought the topic required discussion as a reason to abuse it? What if I was wholly misreading the situation and Everly had no interest in me whatsoever. She was being nice to a young servant whose feelings she had accidentally abused. Yes, that was of course the case. There was no logical explanation for my foolish apprehensions. A rich, sophisticated, privileged woman of the Capitol would have no possible reason to desire the company of an Avox. I was here for a specific reason…to design and ready her beautiful clothing. With that clarification firmly hammered into my head, I felt resolved, if heavy with regret.

Then her head bent down to mine, her fingers caressing my hair in a move that literally made my heart stop beating. There was a panicked moment in which I wildly wondered if I might keel over and die right there on the floor, but fortunately the thumping of my fickle coronary organ resumed with a passion, this time threatening to leap out of my chest and perform backflips around the room. Now I must be going into shock, as my hallucinating brain conjures images of a beating human heart going through complicated gymnastic routines through the fitting room of the shop as I madly chased it, demanding it get back inside my chest. Somewhere in the midst of this, her whispered words sent my castle of pragmatism collapsing like a deck of cards.

“I want you to take my fitting.”

Go to her house, where her wealthy and judgmental family would live, standing in comparison to everything that I was missing and could never offer. How was that a good idea on any level…

Oh…

And then I realized that it was the perfect idea. This idle infatuation that I was developing for a woman I knew nothing about, this was exactly the cure. I would be there as a servant, and treated as a servant. She would be reminded that in no world was I equal to her, and I…well I would never forget it. I would enter through a servant’s entrance into her home, escorted under the governing eye of a butler to the room prepared. Her mother might be there, or her father, and they would laugh and admire the sketches I made without ever making eye contact with me. Because after all, I am merely a tool, like the translator I use…for them I merely translate illusive beauty into visible garments. It would shatter this unusual mirage that we both seemed to be enjoying here in the shop.

My stomach heaved, perhaps in protest of my painfully practical intentions, but it could also have been the lunch I missed. This girl was perfect in every way, and she would find a rich, Capitolite husband equally flawless. I…Brooke DelMar…I would just make her the dress to attract the man.

I slide the final pin into place and gently tugged here and there, ensuring that everything was hanging properly and the lines of the dress hadn’t been altered with my efforts. This was the final garment, and now came only the last arrangements for her house appointment and how these dresses would be delivered to her. I would sent them to our tailor for the minute adjustments, they would come back pressed and enclosed in garment bags which we would then hand deliver to her address. Those were the only thoughts regarding Everly Fiorelli that I need entertain.

I traced my response to her question onto the dully-glowing screen. “Of course, I would be happy to assist.” No inflection, no wealth of meaning in that tone to make her see how much I did want to assist, and the best way I could see how was to be for her exactly what the Capitol intended. My silence didn’t mask some mysterious and fascinating history of rebellion or crime that would thrill her, sweep her off her feet. I was just a plain fisherman and carpenter from a District that struggled to just exist. She didn’t want to know about a boy who walked barefoot on a dirt road with his little sister after school, who couldn’t even talk to girls when he DID have a tongue. I would be nothing she might imagine lay behind this speechless façade. I was just me, and me would never be good enough for her.

With such sense talked back into my weak-willed mind, I let my gaze meet hers once more. The control wavered at what I saw there, like stepping into the steaming waters of the heated pools so enjoyed around here. It flooded me, crashing into the delicately maintained control and threatening to drown it out. Desire – blatant and unashamed, with no efforts made to hide it from my discovery.

She wanted me, and god help us… I didn’t know if I could refuse.

Sweet bird, if you knew the words
I know that you'd say: fly, fly away

The back of my shoes rubbed up and down with each step, pressing the material from my sock against the skin of my heel and wearing a raw spot that grew ever more painful. I hated these shoes. They were silly and impractical with a high-gloss black finish and the stiff soles that refused to offer even a scrap of support. It was one thing to put them on for an hour of sitting at an event. It was quite another to wear them while hiking halfway across the city, lugging a portfolio of sketches, my translator tablet, and a leather satchel of fabric samples and supplies for the fitting. Still, in a small way I was grateful for the distraction they provided. My nerves had been stretched taut as a fishing line with a thirty-pound bass on the hook.

It was two days since I’d agreed to this private session with Everly Fiorelli, and my mind had conjured visions of every possible outcome the meeting could have, but in truth I had no idea what to expect. My mind was a pendulum swinging from end of an indecisive spectrum to the next. Yesterday had seen me thoroughly convinced that I would go in and be the final word in professionalism, nothing she said or did would have any affect on me. Cool as a cucumber. Who was I kidding? The girl had only to look at me and any cool I imagined myself to possess would be committing ritual suicide. Rich women believed themselves capable of wrapping any man around her little finger, this was true the world over, but especially so in the Capitol. Very few attempted the practice on me, what would you gain from influencing an Avox? Not a whole lot. I thought myself immune, but here I was, the wriggling fish on a hook I’d voluntarily swallowed.

I was going to be a little early for this appointment. Venus had kicked me out early, demanding I go for a walk to burn off all the excess energy. I’d been absolutely useless in the shop over the last two days, the only thing that held my attention were the sketches I obsessed over. Designing numerous ideas for Everly’s gown, each to only end up as a crumpled ball decorating the studio floor. At least I wasn’t empty handed today. Although dissatisfied still, I managed to come up with one design that I thought she would approve of.

My shoes squeaked in agonized protest as I screeched to a halt, almost tumbling over my own feet. I had reached the address provided, and the house (castle?) loomed above me in imperious splendor. It was a more extensive estate than I had imagined it would be. With green lawns trimmed down to emerald velvet, and crystal fountains surrounded by a jungle of intricately pruned shrubs and floral beds. A set of iron gates closed off the main entrance, a callbox affixed to one over-arching stone pillar. I readied my response on the tablet’s screen before pushing the button, which indubitably connected, in a security personnel room. Its radio squeal was piercing, and then followed a bored voice requesting my credentials for access. The tablet chimed them off in electronic precision.

"Brooke DelMar, assistant to Venus of Oracle Designs. I have an appointment with Miss Everly Fiorelli."

A bare few minutes later, I was being met at the delivery and servant entrance by an aging butler in costume similar to my own, though I noticed, with a shade of envy, that his shoes looked far more comfortable. A long hallway stretched out, lined with doors to various parts of the servant quarters and supply rooms, at the end we stepped out in the impressive expanse of a marble foyer. I can’t say too much about what was in that room, a chandelier I remember glancing at, but then Everly was on the staircase, walking down from the upper landing. I felt like, for a moment, my recollections of the very brief touches we’d had were so strong and vivid that the butler beside me must be able to see them projected into mid-air.

"Hello, follow me this way, I figured the sitting room in my suite would be the best place for the fitting, that way you can see some of the things I've already worn as I want this dress to be something special."

I blindly followed her up the steps, and she could have been leading me to a dungeon for all I would have noticed. Thankfully she wasn’t, and after what seemed a monumental journey through hallways and doors in the massive house, she finally stepped into a suite of rooms that were larger than my family’s entire house in District four. The door slid shut with a gentle push of her hand, blocking out the rest of the world with one soft click of the latch.

For a few minutes I had enough distraction to keep my focus from the tidal wave of nervousness that threatened to crash any second. My hands shook, and I wondered if she would remark on the embarrassing fact. It took me twice as long to set up the stand for my portfolio as was strictly necessary, I re-arranged the sketchpads and loose sheaves of paper five times at least. I dragged one of the small end tables across, and unloaded my tablet, pencils, fabric book, and the numerous other necessities upon its surface. After that, I found myself at a sudden loss for a next step. Should I take her measurements first, or show her the sketches? Ask for specifications of what she wanted?

A small stand by the door held a glass pitcher of water and cups, without asking, I helped myself to a glass. The coolness trickling down my throat was a blessed relief, and I swallowed half the cup’s contents before turning back to an expectantly waiting client. Of course. This session would proceed as any other might. I should imagine she was someone else…Lady Fitzberry for instance. How would I treat such a fitting appointment?

That gave me enough clarity to reach for my tablet and push forward with the usual agenda.

“Miss Fiorelli, I have prepared a sketch or two for your review, but why don’t we start with you. What have you envisioned for this dress?”

There, that was appropriate. I brought two chairs around to the setup area and held one for her while she took a seat. My tablet was at the ready, a new page opened and ready to begin dictating my notes onto for later review.

Her closet was a world of colors, concentrated and distilled, then painted across the most luxurious of canvases. The whispering silks and, dramatic velvets, and crisp taffetas, nothing in this hall of garments was simplistic or plain—every piece an exquisite work, and screaming to be admired. I could have contentedly stayed in this room for hours, taking notes from the different designers. Instead, I was on a mission, and my fingers picked their way through a lifetime’s repertoire of outfits, many looked as though they had never been worn. Thanks to a meticulous organization, it didn’t take me as long as I initially feared to gather a good sense of not only Everly’s taste in clothing, but also what pieces she lacked that I could supply. Information in hand, I turned back, ducking between racks in search of the doorway out. It felt like a maze, and I was more than a little relieved when my hand closed on the knob.

Her bedroom was as spotless as her closet had been. None of the lived in clutter that most bedrooms collected—articles of clothing on the floor or books near the bed—rather, every item was arranged just so. This created a difficulty for me in my attempts of recreating an image of this girl’s character; there was so little to base an assumption from, except this elegant but nearly sterile décor. I felt like an intruder here, not nearly cleanly or polished enough to match the rest of the environment. Just some interloper spying on a young woman’s privacy.

A woman who was now thoroughly relaxed, lounging in the middle of the king-sized bed. Her posture so far from ‘proper’ that she was giving me an extensive view, creamy skin sloping from throat down to the swell of her chest, barely contained in a low-cut blouse. My cheeks heated in a rush of flame that refused to be extinguished, I felt pinned in the doorway, want and yet not wanting to look away. Shoulders propped upwards by the support of elbows gouging dents in the mattress, her saucy smile communicated a wealth of coy knowledge. This was intentional. The thud of one bare foot knocking lightly against the headboard, pulled my gaze from the exposed skin up top to the arching curvature her spine formed; narrow waist flaring into feminine hips. The painted-on jeans inched down, separating from her blouse’s hemline to uncover a full inch of lower back and…at this point I am fully aware that my brain was beginning to malfunction.

All of this, flirtation and seduction was completely uncharted waters for me. Never having kissed a girl, or even tried to touch one in more than a platonic gesture, I wasn’t sure exactly how I was expected to react. One of her hands patted a spot on the coverlet, and my feet dragged me across the room to her side before my brain had caught up with the gesture. I paused, trying to give myself time to sort through all the implications before I leapt in with both feet. I had a choice in this, I could politely decline the invitation and steer this situation back into acceptable waters…or I could lay down beside her and explore whatever it was that was drawing me towards a veritable stranger with such fascination.

Since I was young, I have always followed the rules, practiced caution and been content to live within the boundaries laid out for me. What had that achieved for me? I was an Avox, punished for just the sort of crimes I had made a point never to commit! It seemed that my life was trying to tell me something; that living prudently wasn’t working for me. Maybe…just this once…it was time to step outside of my little box and step off the cliff edge. At least I would have the thrill of screaming all the way down. My lips drew back in a lopsided grin. With exaggerated movements, I made a point of dragging off my shoes, one at a time. Everly moved over, but only a token amount as I sat down, stiffly perched on the very edge of the bed.

My posture felt awkward, I wasn’t sure what to do with my hands or my legs, and the comforter was made of some slippery material that wanted to send me crashing onto the floor if I wasn’t careful. With a mental sigh and shrug, I realized that if I was going to do this, I might as well jump all the way into the danger zone. A movement that managed to be much more graceful than I anticipated, pushed my entire body into a reclined position. Long legs stretched out towards the pillows, and one arm folded, hand propping my head up so that I could still see her face. I quirked an eyebrow, a silent inquiry to ensure this is what she had in mind.

It makes sense that it should feel just this way
As if to say: Sure it don't matter except in the most
important way

I'm in up to my neck by this time, and I've thrown every caution to the wind, so it's a matter of seeing exactly where this is headed. What does she want from me? The delicate touch of her fingers across my knuckles is hypnotic, like being the keys on a piano as a musician coaxes some beautiful sonata from your mute throat. Mute, get it? I didn't have a voice for song, but my nerve endings had no difficulty performing a composition of the greatest complexity. If this is what I feel from a simple touch on the hand, what exactly am I in for?

I'm relaxing now, an odd sensation when I should be under the extremes of emotional anxiety. It's something to do with the fact that I've made up my mind to let the situation play out that has allowed me to kick back and enjoy. What is the worst that could come from this? Should she report me to the authorities it would only bring undesirable notoriety to herself and her family. I couldn't imagine that ever being worthwhile for her. Besides, there was something about this girl that told me she wasn't working an angle, honestly there was nothing I could provide that would be worth her time to extort. And I wanted this. I hadn't realized that was the case, but this sudden craving in my gut said otherwise. I wanted...needed to experience this physical closeness, touch, it was so long since anyone had touched me with intent. There was always the accidental bump or brush of human contact on the street or in the shop, but no one went out of there way to shake my hand...hug me. I hadn't been hugged by another human since I left my family behind. That was six years ago.

Her touch is accompanied by the close scrutiny of her gaze, and I wonder what she is looking for; what does she see in me? Her next question rides on the intensity of that look, and it is the one question I can't answer for her. It isn't even a question, more conjecture that she unwittingly gave voice to, and by the expression now flooding her face, it wasn't intentional. But I want to explain, I hate to think that she sees a criminal in me. Even though the crimes of 'traitor against the government' is ludicrous in light of every crime the government commits against its citizens every single day. That isn't a topic I want to broach with her, it's one I doubt she could understand, never having seen what the Districts are like. I don't blame her for that ignorance, it isn't her fault. It's a roll of the dice, where you were born.

The words build up in my throat, seeking a way to escape and spill over. I've never been able to tell anyone about my life before being an Avox, that this punishment wasn't even mine to bear. But that's just it. If my gesture is to mean anything in the long run, then it's a secret that I can't share, not ever. My translator is in the pocket of my shirt, and I slide it free, cradling it in my palm and considering how much is mine to tell...

"I'm here so that someone else can be free." I didn't know if that explained it, if she would just think me some crook making excuses or shifting blame, but it was all I could offer her right now. I could only hope she would understand. Then her palm slide across my face, stroking the angle of my cheek and along my jaw. Her skin was warm, scorching me, sending little flickers of fire straight from her fingertips to my heart that was beating so loudly in this still, still room. It felt like being drunk, that swirling euphoria coupled with a piercing heightening of the senses...and somewhere, suppressed at the back of your mind, the dreadful knowledge that you are going to pay for it tomorrow. You don't think about that part, and neither did I. I just drank in the affection like a starving man, eyes sliding closed to hide from her knowing smile. I felt exposed, and I wasn't sure I minded. Her hand started pulling back much sooner that I was willing to allow, and I caught it in my own, holding it against the warm spot on my cheek that she had created.

"If you don't mind...I like it where it is." I had to press it closer over my face then, to hide the flushing color that rose at my open request. Her wrist smelled floral, like bath soaps or lotions, or whatever girls liked to use. Distinctly lilac. The heady scent was lovely, and I was a little relieved that she didn't wear the stronger musks that many Capitolites held a fondness for. In fact, the smell was so refreshing and light that I turned into her palm and shyly let my lips press against her skin.

Her body, her mouth, everything is a breath away from me, hardly separated at all. My suit coat is sliding off my shoulders and landing in a heap on the floor before I can blink. She's even better than I am at finding her way around a piece of clothing. My tie follows, nearly yanked from my neck and coiling up like a snake atop the abandoned jacket. I'm trying to catch my breath from the whirlwind of things suddenly set into motion, and then the slick caress of her tongue and press of her mouth and all the air is knocked back out of my lungs. I can't stop the strangled groan that manages to squeeze past the damage in my throat. It's the only sound I'm capable of, and encompasses by fervant encouragement.

Then just as quickly as she jumped the barriers between us, she's gone again. A mocking smile and half-lidded gaze, coy sidelong glances that are all evidence of the game she is playing. The touches that inflame me are just bait, dangling before me, taunting the ferocious appetite that is now making its presence known. I want to laugh and shake her simultaneously, and then I know what I really want...I want her to feel this same frustration. My imagination is conjuring an image of this perfect, pristine, wealthy woman...wanting me. And it burns so vividly into my brain that there is no way I can ignore it.

Her hand tugs at my arm, urging me closer even as her body has inched further from me. Well, Everly...that just won't do. So I throw the last scraps of caution into the wind, and I lunge across the gap between us, pushing myself up onto my knees beside her. I'd forgotten how small she was--so much bossiness wrapped up in one tiny package. So she's accustomed to ordering people around, to having everything exactly the way she wants it, and being the one to leave everyone else panting after her. I may not have seen all these actions in play, but I know with perfect clarity that this is precisely her character. A little latent mischievousness prods at me, and I sit firmly across the tops of her legs. It's an easy matter to catch one flailing wrist and then the other, tucking them beneath her back, pinned to the mattress. I look down with the smallest smirk flickering over my lips, a touch of self-satisfaction. Of course, now I have no idea what to do with her. Throw her back, she's too small? The thought amuses me.

No. I know what I want to do. The one urge I've been suppressing since we first met. My fingers find the sides of her neck, tracing a path upwards. For a moment I'm distracted by the tiny curves her ears make against the sides of her head, my touch pausing to explore, but it's only a momentary diversion before I sink my hands into the silken soft strands of hair framing her face. I take a moment to smooth them idly between my fingertips, memorizing their texture. Then I catch her gaze, and I grin like the cat about to eat the mouse, and my hands ruffle her perfectly groomed hair into a cloud of adorable disorder.

I spare one hand to scribble a lopsided message onto the translator that lies abandoned beside us on the bed. Thank goodness for excellent technology, I'm not sure if even I could interpret the scrawling text. I bend closer to her, letting our foreheads touch and the tip of her nose brushes my cheek. I can indistinctly hear the chime of my machine, and I blindly drag it close enough to her ear that she can listen to the words as if I might be saying them.

"Now...you are perfect." Does she understand what I mean by that? She doesn't have to try so hard to pretend; she's stunning without all of the artifice. To prove the point, I take my courage in both hands...

And I kiss her.

It's my first kiss, and I'm not entirely sure what I should be experiencing, but the feeling that I've just set my chest cavity on fire is not what I expected. It's like I'm burning alive, like my heart will beat free of my chest, and like falling infinitely...all at once. All of the most extreme circumstances that make you remember vividly just how alive you are and wish to remain. That is what kissing Everly felt like. It took me a long minute of revelling in the sheer adrenaline of the experience before I could even appreciate the way her lips felt like velvet, and her mouth tasted like...mint and honey? The flutter of lashes against my cheeks and the rapid burst of warm breath on my skin reminded me of the other participant in this moment, so I inched back, curious as to her reaction.

The emotions inside me are welling up, stirring and overflowing, out from the center of my chest to the rest of my body. I'm lost, tossed adrift on waves and waves of sensation, no longer sure which way is up...towards air and sanity...if I even want to return that way. I don't understand this, but I want it, I want to love this girl.

Love? That one word clears my head, the hormone-induced fog lifting for a moment of cold clarity. Because, I don't love her. I don't even know her. Nothing in this situation is about love. Is that ok? I'd always assumed that someday I would love someone, that I'd marry her and have children. I knew that dream might not be possible here in the Capitol, but in my mind that interpreted to a life devoid of this physicality of a sexual experience. It was naive to assume that the opportunity would never arise simply because it never had. Now that I was faced with it, I had no pre-ordained decision on which to rely. Was it better to live a sterile, lonely life, or to sacrifice some of my standards in hopes of taking comfort in what passion Everly and I produced? Could I trust myself to choose wisely with all of this arousal and testosterone pumping through my system? So many questions and no rational answers, just the flesh and bone need that my body was experiencing.

This should be special, something more shared than just the joining of our bodies. I couldn't escape that certainty try as I might. The little that my mother had shared with me about 'the ways between a man and woman' had always steered me towards this belief. As I grasped and clawed at any scrap of sense in this storm, I found myself with one perfect memory of my mother, just an image of her face. So simple and insignificant to anyone else. But I had been living in the Capitol for six years, and in that time, memories dulled and faded. It was inevitable. What could once be called into focus with crystal clarity, now seemed like poorly drawn caricatures of what my family must look like. As if I'd clipped individual body parts from various images of other people, based only on the facts. My mother has red hair, she loves to dance, her eyes are the slate blue of a stormy sea. Clip, snip, and then trying to paste them together into a composite that should resemble her, but it lacked any true life. Now, after months and years of straining, her smiling face slipped into my grasp without any effort. Maybe summoned up by the need I had for a small whisper of her wisdom.

My eyes opened, and my gaze travel back up the naked torso of the very lovely girl who was willing to offer me something that I hadn't dreamed anyone ever would. Able now to think past the immediate pressure down...well...below, I wanted to know why. If I had believed myself fashioned for love, didn't she? Why was she so willing to waste this on me? An Avox. The question wouldn't dissipate. So, despite the fact that I was confronted with a wealth of exposed and unexplored flesh, I couldn't continue this...not just yet. I needed some answers, and to content myself that this was at least a shade more than just sex.

I couldn't do it with her chest staring me in the face. I'm only human. I dislodged her seat, pushing myself up and gathering Everly into my lap. I had to tug the blanket loose and wind her in it to temper the distraction. That modification made, I laid back against the headboard, gently pulling her upper body with me. My lips placed the softest of touches to one temple, losing my train of thought in the appreciation of the way her hair smelled so clean and sweet. Still intent on my mission, I didn't let the moment last, but fished out my translator from a fold in the covers and propped it against one knee. My eyebrows raised, I glanced between it and her, hoping she was open to this alteration in what I was coming to realize was a well laid plan of hers.

"Why are you doing this, Everly?" The question--voiced in a loud, monotone recording--fell harshly on my ears, and I cringed, hastening to amend it, "Not that I mind, as I'm sure you've noticed. I just don't understand." I was afraid now, that I'd burst this bubble of fantasy and she would go scurrying out of my arms and running for safety. It's the risk you take when you look a gift horse in the mouth.