In which Howl is a peacock and Sophie, well, she is not a bird

Waves, not unlike those in celebrated ocean paintings, heaved onto the pale shore. The white blot that was a sun remained tucked out of sight behind a sheet of day-away rain. Sea life flecked the sand; people were gradually unwinding. A fishy, tangy smell hinting of adventure and the opposite continent was breathed in by all.

Howl appreciated the ocean-struck feeling for five seconds after his bare feet sank into the giving and grainy sand. The whole beach seemed terribly cold and timeless to him. You'd only have to give him another five seconds for him to move on to appreciating better, prettier things. Like Sophie.

He used his height to stare at her, trying hard not to go the way of the slack-mouthed creep. Sophie peered forward. She walked to the sea and he followed. Hiking to the beach, she'd missed a bit of hair while braiding and the strands lay against her neck.

Sophie's wispy hairs, looking so soft, had Howl dying to take them into his lightly trembling hand, fingering them like one picks out fine fabrics, then, he'd bend and he would worship her neck's skin with his lips, and she'd startle and gasp his name and be so beautiful he'd really feel the weight of his heart.

He was a born planner.

Howl hadn't held Sophie's hand since yesterday morning, when she was playing with his palms, tracing out invisible lines that tickled. He'd trapped her so simply. Snapped shut his fingers, warmth on warmth. That stuff made Sophie his, one big wrought cage for her of flesh and love. They built a good nest in the castle, and with it, they'd one day creak.

Howl swung his arm forward, locked their finger bones together. He tugged. She stumbled into his embrace. He gave his lips to her, pursed with an impossible gentleness in the indent of her neck. She would barely feel that kiss. He touched her cheek, ran his middle finger up to her temple, then placed his whole palm to the curve of her head and slid his fingers into her hair.

Sophie tried to tug free. He flexed and tightened his hold.

"Howl!" Her indignant tone was as imagined. He breathed her in, and breathed out himself.

His lips were at the very tip of her chin, that little tip joining two halves of her face, and they traveled up straight to the petals, he swore by their texture and virgin colouring, which she always kissed him with.

He didn't feel on the shore. Sophie smelled like mountains and their castle, and with his eyes closed, that's where Howl was.

It was only the obvious happening that she would kiss him too. Each man takes turns being the happiest in the world.