Ishmael walks in through the door of the master bedroom; eyelids leaden—wilting his vision, hair falling down his nap tousled—waving through copiously in soft corners.
His gaze summarily, rather instinctively hunts for his wife: on the bed; she's not there, nor her presence warms any cold agapes in this prodigious reach.
His brows drops, crinkles his honey shaded skin in between. Ishmael's scrutiny then draws to the white, cozy crib with two seperate spaces for sleeping, and he's now proceeding his way to the cot.
Adorns a small curve up on the brims of his lips. The two tiny souls he had with the woman he's devoted to; the only person he adores, he had never thought this heart could thrum in glee and rapture for anyone but her; but here, the children Neva carried and birthed for him, they are beautiful... yet so wonderful, hush and sleeping in serenity.
The glinstening eyes mirrors the melting of the heart in love, he swallows down tightly the lump oozing, endeavouring to force in his ecstacy; for he fears, the ocean of happiness always summons him the apocalypse of universe. He smiles at Inaya's puckered lips, his callous hand reaching to graze the round cheek of the little girl in warm beige pink sleepsuit.
It shudders him in disbelief, tingles in his fingertips, a rushing stream through the veins the softness of his sweet child—the euphoria her warm mellow cheek ignites.
Reluctantly peeling away his hand, Ishmael shifts his glimpse down at the dreaming little boy beside; an unearthly bloom in his hardened features as he peers down at the pureness of the twins, thawing a perfect month old today.
A shaky sigh departs from his lips; he would do anything, everything to protect his family, his world that gives meaning to this incoherent existence.
Pacing towards the open balcony, he's breathing in succour, tensed muscles loosening as Neva rests in the cocoon of the vast swinging lounge chair, all curled up beneath the duvet. Her line of sight threaded to the garden behind the mansion, the naked woods powdered in snow.
But her eyes, pale and empty, they reflect the miracle of the sunny noon rays, the mystery of the contrasting woods swallowed in white, the garden of thriving, scarlet winter roses below, nevertheless; the scenery doesn't secure a forthcoming memory in her mind.
"Neva," Ishmael's chasmal, vivacious voice trawls the consciousness of her stiffened form. She turns her head to peer up at him approaching her.
"Have you finished work?" Neva furnishes a query, her tone gentle.
He smiles at her, "I have."
He had been buried in his cabin for half the day, it's a bother to be not in her embrace for every single pulse of the clock.
She spreads him a seat beside her, and as he claims the gap on the chair—his arms on cue entangles around her frame.
He lay his head on her shoulder, eyes closing; soaking in her symphonic heat, her feathery breathing, her pleasant spirit guiding him home.
"It's quite cold, get under the covers." Neva conveys, her voice humming and velvety, thrumming comfortable vibrations straight to his core.
He simply nods, still so close and attached to her. Ishmael's drowsy, he's always drunk with her, for he inhales the sweetest purple grape wine in the air fluttering around her.
Neva nudges him away, but he's adamant to stay one with the flesh, so she gingerly makes an agape between them, enough to strip an edge and wrap the duvet around his perfectly virile body.
He's once again succumbing her in his embrace, his weight swaying her to lean against the backrest of the swaggering chair.
They lay cuddled up, his pressure tolerably conforming almost unbreathable for her.
She sighs, hands caressing his head placed on her chest—fingers stroking his smooth locks.
The slow swirling sun in the bright blue sky, the weather lukewarm, layers of snow reducing on the pine trees, the undressed trees—droplets of water splashing on the ivory ground. A breeze drifts around her, dances her flared onyx waves, brushing her bare face, her rosy cheeks, the svelte, sharp chillness shuddering her lightly.
"Do you want me to get another blanket?" Ishmael asks, the throbbing of his words in sync with the rumbling of the chests, trickling poetic familiarity in the soul of her heart.
"It's fine," Neva responds, flustered, in a daze.
He raises his head to glance at her eyes, and was he lost, lost everything of himself in the wide cocoa pools—glistening golden iris; his own warm autumn.
"Is something wrong?" Neva asks, prettiest brows arched up.
He shakes his head, chin beared on her chest, tangling an aureate string to her eyes.
"You are a feeling beyond paradise. Every phrase and belief ever existed betrays what you are to me." Ishmael whispers, he's portraying a dream–like imagery, the dilated pupils staring at him stunned, the feverish skin creeping in a darker blush.
She clears her throat, gazing away from him. He chuckles, painting a shy portrait of Neva with admiration, the back of his fingers—lovingly fondling her heated cheek.
They stay there tangled for an ergonomic while, when Neva chews her bottom lips to muster up courage for a bubbling probe sinking her in ache.
But that day still haunts her, to split the fragile life only with a mild tug; the newborn children, the pistol to their head—and her own, the coldness of the blade; the goriness of Maria's corpse; the sense of blood and matters of minced flesh on her face.
She touches her bandaged neck, Maria left her a scar, her throat running dry—she gulps to moisten down, her spine suddenly immaneable.
Everything was fogged in the span of dread, and these days she has recalled, it was Ishmael who blew her wrist off.
"Ishmael, can I, ask you something?" She murmers, earning a deep hum of approval.
"Do you kill people?"
The fairly snoozing Ishmael is taken aback by her frankness. His brows wrinkling in distress, he had already expected that question to come around someday, but he's yet to rip away the hard shell of fear encasing him. "Yes," he reveals, abruptly tensing her form.
Neva gulps down, Ishmael's cavernous gaze holding her own wavering ones.
"If I don't, they will." He immediately clears. And it washes her uneasy features in a frown.
"What does it mean?" She squeezes out.
He sucks in a deep breath, rallying to sort out the nearing messy words. "A homeless sixteen year old wouldn't have it easy in a completely alien world. One night, while I was wondering through an alley, I saw a teenager getting beaten by some street gang. I interfered and rescued him, getting myself battered." Ishmael explains as Neva looks at him, calmly listening with confusion and emphathy swirling in her appearance.
"That guy was Jacob, you've met him." He briefs, to which she dizzily nods in enlightenment, her lips pursed, brows raising—urging him to continue.
"His father was not a simple man. Jacob convinced him, and they took me in. I looked up to him; a self-made man, climbing up from dirt to the stairs of gold. No matter the virtuous amount of blood sweat and tears had made him the baleful drug lord he was." He utters, his misty gaze floating in nostalgia of the misery and pleasure of wildness.
Neva doesn't miss the fall in his demeanour, so she rubs his back, yielding a small smile as their gaze threads again.
"I too was not spared Neva. It was my own will to favor the illicit route to be who I am today. This spawned me many enemies, forcing a choice to kill; or be killed." He sequels, her tender watery meres mellowing his own.
"Where did you sleep before you met Jacob?" Neva enquires, her arms around him unknown to her squeezing him into.
"Alleyways, under bridges, underground train stations, anywhere." Ishmael replies, sprinkling pain in Neva's soul, in a blink— tears wetting her face.
"What did you eat?" Neva hardly strains out.
"Sometimes I stole, or picked scraps of foods from bins." Ishmael's declaration has Neva's lips tremble, a choked sob escaping her.
She could never imagine the loneliness he suffered, hungry and cold, with no shelter in storms. It's shattering her brutally, agonizing stabs to her chest, somewhere she's perhaps aware; she's probably at fault.
Wearing a worried countenance, he hoists his upper body up.
He wipes her tears—kisses her forehead, and presses her up against him.
Whimpers flows out Neva, breaking his heart. Ishmael buries himself in the crook of her neck, she's sniffing—gripping onto his body, her chin shored on his broad shoulder.
Then out of nowhere her misery merges with the cries of an infant, following with the opposing sniveling of the other twin, echoing loud out from their room.
It preserves a void in their perspiring adherence.
"Oh, they're awake." Ishmael mumbles, resentfully having to part from her. Neva smiles at him, drying her tears with the sweater paws.
"I'll get them." She says, but before she could arise he acts a light pressure on her shoulder to have her seated.
"Let me," he says, and Neva just watches him, lingering there as he hurries inside to fetch the weeping little ones—soon appearing in her sight, flickering her heart in affection, he's holding their babies in each cradle of his arms, shushing them benignly.
Neva approaches him, taking the still bawling baby from his secure.
Her embrace calming Isaiah down, he's nestling, snuggling in her tender wrap—reasurring the little heart, his careful mother's languid sways.
Recognised relief gleaming in the features of the new parents, she glimpses down at the lulled Inaya in Ishmael's adhere, peering at her with such misty, beautiful watery eyes.
A string knots Neva's gaze to Ishmael's own. And they share an insightful; a sweet meaningful smile.
She had for forever appeared only in his dreams, but here she stands by him; his Neva, his wife, the mother of his children.
He drinks in the actuality, his realism, earnest stare bonded to her; she's peppering kisses, whispering honeyed words of endearment to their cherubs.
It's erupting him sensually, through a dizzying ardour for her, oblivious how to illustrate that he's swimming, floating, flying in love—in symphonic ecstasy.
The past of hurt was over; this family is blessed; the birth of the children; luring hope of goodness, warm sublime days.