When I first met Lana the two of us had both been at that age where anyone whose name you learn becomes your best friend. The fact that we had both been able to see one another almost daily for years thereafter served to strengthen that bond, made it as solid as though it were cast in iron. Throughout the years we spent growing up alongside each other we had always found ourselves shunning the attention of our peers whenever possible to spend what time we had in a shared kind of solitude.
Most of the time Lana and I did not even play the same game, now that I think about it. Sure enough we did some activities together: read sitting with our backs touching, played noisily, laughed, cried, shared a little tantrum or two. The joy we derived from most of these actions was never the need we satisfied by engaging in them. At least, that was the case for me. I would assume Lana felt the same way, seeing how she acted in a manner much like mine and arranged for us to be by our lonesome just as often as I did.
Our actions did not go unnoticed, of course. The more frequently Lana and I met for our get-togethers the louder some of our peers became about complaining that one of us was hogging the other's time and attention. At first this did not bother the adults much. Some would call it endearing, joking about potential futures, ruminating what occupations would work best for a happy, shared future between the two of us.
At that age Lana and I thought these ideas ridiculous, of course. We had nothing but the present to occupy our minds with. We had time and we made damned well sure that what part of it was in our hands would be spent in a sort of two-tone silence.
During one such prolonged bout of quiet, though, something changed. The two of us had matured quite a bit and come of age, each working now for a couple of years in our respectively chosen occupations, both also having moved out of our parent's abodes to find lodgings more compatible with our daily duties.
As it so happened Lana and I found ourselves to be direct neighbors. At first we considered this a blessing and visited each other as frequently as we could, taking pleasure in the well-known comfort of one another's company.
When our new neighbors got a bit too nosy — and openly outspoken — about us sharing so much time in the other's home we found ourselves oddly embarrassed. I'm ashamed to admit I had been blind to how these nightly visits must have appeared to people; it was only by chance that I overheard the land-lady gossip to one of her friends about some rumor about Lana entertaining men at night to 'afford her lodgings and hobbies'.
Utterly embarrassed to have been the cause of such foul lies I'd become more conscious of the timing and frequency of my visits to Lana's room. I never spoke about it with her directly, though from the mischievous looks she gave me during the next few visits made it quite clear she understood my motives.
Lana, in turn, had reduced her visits to me and invited women to her place, perhaps in earnest as she had made their acquaintance at her place of work. Subsequently, most certainly aided by the nosy landlady's questioning of Lana's associates, these illustrious rumors abated sooner than later. And — though still unspoken — the two of us agreed to keep our visits limited, much as it pained me.
Things continued like this from summer until winter, when Lana asked me to assist her in some minor renovations to her private study. At first my naiveté had me consider this a mere pretense to increase my visits to her apartment without arousing the suspicion of our neighbors. It turned out Lana was quite serious about it, though. Her new friends had talked her ear off about her study missing 'a lady's touch' and that it looked too much like an 'old man's office'.
As such a lot of replacing and rearranging of furniture was needed. Out with the old, bulky furnishings that reminded us so of our parent's homes and in with newer, more modern items. It was hard work for a single man, but I was more than glad to do what I could for Lana. That feeling only increased tenfold when I found a cause to renovate my own study a bit.
You see, our apartments were practically mirror images of each other. As such my own study shared a wall with that of Lana. And it just so happened, that on that wall we shared — behind a bulky bookshelf Lana wished to move — I had found an old door. It was hard to make out at first, having been covered in wallpaper and its handle being removed, but there it was.
When I presented my discovery to Lana, we made quick work of making the door accessible from both sides again. No longer would we need to use the hallway where our neighbors could see us to have private meetings in each other's rooms. While I was nothing but ecstatic about this Lana kept a more level head, reminding me from day one that we still had to visit one another through our front doors. Occasionally, at least. Lana also insisted we only use the study door when it was still light outside, lest the noise of our shared steps in the dead of night gave our little secret away.
It came as a big surprise when Lana turned out to be the one to break this dogma she herself had mandated. Some months had passed since we'd inaugurated the study door. The night was dark and dreary; a storm was brewing outside our window, the fingertips of rain tapping at the window panes. Only the rare, distant bursts of lightning and thunder interrupted the melodious trickling from the outside. Despite it being well after midnight I was still awake, watching the rain outside my window. I'd always been fond of rain. Something about it simply put me at ease. Lana, however, I knew hated such weather. As I sat there, staring into the void of the rainy outside I thought how unnerved Lana must be. She never quite admitted to being afraid of storms, though it was all too clear when you shared a minute or more with her, sitting in the same room as a storm rolled on by.
More and more I caught myself glancing towards my study, where I knew Lana would be a mere two doors away. I could simply sneak my way in, find her, alone and afraid in her bed and then...what? Scare the daylights out of my dearest friend? Perish the thought! That would only worsen her situation, I told myself, forcing my attention back to my window. I couldn't help myself, then; I stared outside and muttered a soft "Oh, Lana."
You can surely imagine my fright when my careless whisper was answered by the softest sound. "Nigel?" I'd head a familiar voice ask, followed by a "Are you still awake?" coming from behind the door to my study. I turned, then, baffled as I watched Lana creep into my bedroom, a candle in her hand.
She looked desperate, then; all her usual confidence and certainty was replaced by an air of despair. Lana looked like she'd seen a ghost. Her gorgeous, lush, chestnut colored hair was tied in a lazy braid that hugged her shoulder. And I couldn't help but notice this being the first time I saw my childhood friend in a nightgown.
Only another utterance of my name pulled me out of my reverie over the sight Lana inadvertently presented to me.
"Wh-why yes, Lana, I'm wide awake," I whispered back to her, watching with glee as a warm smile spread across her desperate face. Not wanting to be too noisy I motioned for her to join me in sitting on my bed, which she quickly did and pulled me into a tight embrace; but not before safely placing the candle on by bedside table.
"Oh, Nigel," Lana muttered into my chest as she held onto my arms, "I just couldn't find any calm on my own tonight."
My dearest friend sat there, trembling as she clung to me for comfort. And I would not deny her that. I embraced her tightly, giving her a brief squeeze before letting a hand brush up and down her back.
I couldn't help but chuckle, though, the sound of which caused Lana to look up at me quizzically. "I was afraid you'd find no peace tonight. After all, you've never dealt well with inclement weather."
News of my knowledge of this only surprised Lana for a moment. A radiant smile danced across her soft lips soon after, and she rested her head on my chest, listening to my heart beat. "That easy to read, am I?" she asked in a barely audible whisper.
"Well," I began with another, measured laugh, "I had plenty of chances to pick up on it. Even a dolt like myself would know that much."
Lana's grip on me tightened, for a moment before she looked back up, her smile having become subtly different, more intimate. "Don't call yourself that, Nigel. You're a clever man — handsome, to boot."
One of Lana's hands crept up my chest to my cheek then, cupping it with her soft, tender digits.