long time no 5986 [ficficficfic]
Title: [undecided as yet]
Author: cosmonaut_00
Characters: Gokudera & Haru [5986]Warnings: sex and stuff (Parts II & III)
Three parts. Posting the first here:
The chink of broken glass catches him off guard. It is followed by a sigh, and a resigned, "shit."
Curious, he makes his way off the garden path and toward the noise. It came from just the other side of the hedge, really; he steps neatly over a low-lying bush into the somewhat secluded clearing. A fountain stands in the middle, a marblesque Apollo that shoots jets of water from his arrow when the fountain is flowing.
He sits down next to the figure poised with her toes on the ledge, contemplating the shallow water.
"It's not much of a dive," he remarks, swirling the contents of his wine glass. He takes a sip.
"No," she responds absently. "It wouldn't hurt…" She sways drunkenly from side to side, then leans dangerously forward. His body tenses, ready to catch her from breaking her face at the bottom of the shallow fountain--
But she turns gracefully around on her toes and sinks into a seated position beside him. She faces him, registering his presence. He takes in the dark smudges under her eyes and what had been a neat up-do hours before, the remnants of her carefully constructed mask. Her hair is really dark brown, but presently reflects the water that reflects the moon. He briefly marvels at how girls can have such shiny hair.
"You brought a glass," she reaches for it, but he pulls it away. "I broke mine--give me yours." Reaches again.
"Just drink from the bottle," he motions to the half-empty bottle on the ledge. Her hand is still outstretched, his arm holding the glass just out of her reach. She drops her hand and suddenly seems to retreat into herself, as though trying to disappear. Her shoulders slump. She has lost interest in drowning her thoughts in the wine. "Do you have a cigarette?" She knows he does; it's a habit that he hasn't been able to kick in ten years, and will surely kill him someday when he's beyond the reach of guns and gangsters.
He passes one over wordlessly, holds up a light before she asks. The flame illuminates her drained, hurt face. She takes a drag, and it's clearly not her first time. She's been doing this longer than any of the others have caught on, though he is too seasoned not to know that it's a recently acquired habit.
"I feel like this fountain." She gestures clumsily behind her. "I'm so…dry." He chokes a little on the sip of wine he's taking. She's drunk, but the innuendo is not lost on her; she nudges his leg with her bare foot (What did you do with your shoes, stupid woman?). "Not down there, you pervert." Blood rushes to his face; she mercifully doesn't notice. "But here…" She places her hand over her chest with a blank look on her face. "It's like it's dried up. Everything I felt--not just for him, but…" He looks at her hand, resting just above the top of her strapless dress, and his eyes wander of their own accord to her collarbones, taking in the pallor of her skin, the moonlight shining on her hunched shoulders.
"Aren't you being a bit dramatic? It's not like you didn't see this coming." Such finesse, this one. It usually annoys her, but she's grateful this time for his bluntness. What she needs is not sympathy; ironically, he was the most appropriate person to find her tonight.
The breeze rustles her dress as the music from the quartet swells; they are not far from the party, after all. The ring must already have found its place on the hand of the boss's wife-to-be, with whom he was likely sharing this dance. He tugs at his collar, stands up, offers her his hand. "Get up, you fool."
"I don't want to go back."
"Who said anything about going back? We're going to dance." She is too drunk, too tired, too apathetic to say no--or maybe she wants to dance with him. So she tosses her cigarette into the fountain instead, and confesses, "I lost my shoes."
"Where?"
"I think they're in the fountain…"
He sighs exasperatedly. "Idiot. Well, you won't need them--" something cracks under his foot: the glass she broke earlier. Clearly not a dance floor for bare feet.
He moves directly in front of her. "Put your feet on mine." For the first time since they've known each other, she does what he says without arguing. He pulls her into a standing position on his feet. She is leaning backward, caught off guard by the distance (or lack thereof) between them. He places one of her hands on his shoulder, then traces the same arm back down to her waist, pulling her closer until she is no longer leaning away. He, of course, leads the waltz, as though she is no weight at all. Years ago, she would have asked where he learned to dance like this, but those questions have dried up with her curiosity about this strange world she is somehow entangled in. Guns and flames are not a capo bastone's only weapon, and a little barbed diplomacy--a waltz, for instance--is an obligatory part of every mafioso's arsenal that has saved many an unlikely situation from escalating out of control.
Holding her like this, supporting her featherweight being, it strikes him how small she is: the top of her head barely grazes his chin. Nevertheless, he is acutely aware of her breasts pressed against his chest, the proximity of his hand to the zipper at the back of her dress. She is more substantial to him in this moment than she has ever been, though the sense of emptiness emanating from her threatens to whisk her presence away like a puff of smoke. The next breeze makes her shiver, goosebumps alighting on her skin. Oddly, they trigger the tears she'd sworn she'd gotten out of her system an hour ago. She withdraws her hand from his, links them both behind his neck and buries her face in his chest. She allows herself to be vulnerable, trusting him without words: his feet, his strength, his arms that wrap themselves around her and his fingertips, playing a moonlit sonata on the exposed skin of her back and arms.
"Stupid to believe it could have been me in the end." Tears dried up, voice monotone. He waits for her to continue. "But the worst is having to primp for these things," she feigns a chuckle in an effort to save face, though they are both past pretending. He holds her infinitesimally tighter.
"You look very nice tonight," he says dutifully. She laughs, truly, this time.
"A hot mess, more like. I'm wasted, I tossed a very expensive pair of shoes into the fountain, and I don't even want to know what my face looks like." She plays with his tie with one hand. "And I'm dancing with the bastard who's never once said my name in the ten years I've known him, preferring all sorts of other, more colorful pronouns…" He chuckles at this; who could be more colorful than this crazy girl, who donned a costume a day for the first five years that he knew her?
The laugh reverberates in his chest, through her ear pressed against it, filling her up inside. She looks up at him, perhaps really seeing him for the first time that evening. "You're an ass, you know that?"
He says nothing, only holds her gaze. They have stopped dancing. Something about this scene feels like a decisive moment.
He decides first, bringing his hand to her face. It look enormous against her smallness: his pianist's fingers outline the pinna of her ear while his thumb strokes the mascara bruises under her eye, tracing the runaway tram-tracks to her lips. He waits for her to move.
When she does, she meets him more than halfway, intwining her fingers in his silver hair, pulling his lips to within an inch of hers. They freeze for what could be seconds or hours, until he breaks the spell with the only confirmation they will exchange tonight:
"Would you prefer that I were a gentleman?"
She looks at him, hard. "No. Not tonight."
He closes the rest of the distance uncharacteristically: without hesitation, without second-guessing, without considering the consequences or calculating her--or his own--motivations.
<><><>
Parts II & III
Author: cosmonaut_00
Characters: Gokudera & Haru [5986]Warnings: sex and stuff (Parts II & III)
Three parts. Posting the first here:
The chink of broken glass catches him off guard. It is followed by a sigh, and a resigned, "shit."
Curious, he makes his way off the garden path and toward the noise. It came from just the other side of the hedge, really; he steps neatly over a low-lying bush into the somewhat secluded clearing. A fountain stands in the middle, a marblesque Apollo that shoots jets of water from his arrow when the fountain is flowing.
He sits down next to the figure poised with her toes on the ledge, contemplating the shallow water.
"It's not much of a dive," he remarks, swirling the contents of his wine glass. He takes a sip.
"No," she responds absently. "It wouldn't hurt…" She sways drunkenly from side to side, then leans dangerously forward. His body tenses, ready to catch her from breaking her face at the bottom of the shallow fountain--
But she turns gracefully around on her toes and sinks into a seated position beside him. She faces him, registering his presence. He takes in the dark smudges under her eyes and what had been a neat up-do hours before, the remnants of her carefully constructed mask. Her hair is really dark brown, but presently reflects the water that reflects the moon. He briefly marvels at how girls can have such shiny hair.
"You brought a glass," she reaches for it, but he pulls it away. "I broke mine--give me yours." Reaches again.
"Just drink from the bottle," he motions to the half-empty bottle on the ledge. Her hand is still outstretched, his arm holding the glass just out of her reach. She drops her hand and suddenly seems to retreat into herself, as though trying to disappear. Her shoulders slump. She has lost interest in drowning her thoughts in the wine. "Do you have a cigarette?" She knows he does; it's a habit that he hasn't been able to kick in ten years, and will surely kill him someday when he's beyond the reach of guns and gangsters.
He passes one over wordlessly, holds up a light before she asks. The flame illuminates her drained, hurt face. She takes a drag, and it's clearly not her first time. She's been doing this longer than any of the others have caught on, though he is too seasoned not to know that it's a recently acquired habit.
"I feel like this fountain." She gestures clumsily behind her. "I'm so…dry." He chokes a little on the sip of wine he's taking. She's drunk, but the innuendo is not lost on her; she nudges his leg with her bare foot (What did you do with your shoes, stupid woman?). "Not down there, you pervert." Blood rushes to his face; she mercifully doesn't notice. "But here…" She places her hand over her chest with a blank look on her face. "It's like it's dried up. Everything I felt--not just for him, but…" He looks at her hand, resting just above the top of her strapless dress, and his eyes wander of their own accord to her collarbones, taking in the pallor of her skin, the moonlight shining on her hunched shoulders.
"Aren't you being a bit dramatic? It's not like you didn't see this coming." Such finesse, this one. It usually annoys her, but she's grateful this time for his bluntness. What she needs is not sympathy; ironically, he was the most appropriate person to find her tonight.
The breeze rustles her dress as the music from the quartet swells; they are not far from the party, after all. The ring must already have found its place on the hand of the boss's wife-to-be, with whom he was likely sharing this dance. He tugs at his collar, stands up, offers her his hand. "Get up, you fool."
"I don't want to go back."
"Who said anything about going back? We're going to dance." She is too drunk, too tired, too apathetic to say no--or maybe she wants to dance with him. So she tosses her cigarette into the fountain instead, and confesses, "I lost my shoes."
"Where?"
"I think they're in the fountain…"
He sighs exasperatedly. "Idiot. Well, you won't need them--" something cracks under his foot: the glass she broke earlier. Clearly not a dance floor for bare feet.
He moves directly in front of her. "Put your feet on mine." For the first time since they've known each other, she does what he says without arguing. He pulls her into a standing position on his feet. She is leaning backward, caught off guard by the distance (or lack thereof) between them. He places one of her hands on his shoulder, then traces the same arm back down to her waist, pulling her closer until she is no longer leaning away. He, of course, leads the waltz, as though she is no weight at all. Years ago, she would have asked where he learned to dance like this, but those questions have dried up with her curiosity about this strange world she is somehow entangled in. Guns and flames are not a capo bastone's only weapon, and a little barbed diplomacy--a waltz, for instance--is an obligatory part of every mafioso's arsenal that has saved many an unlikely situation from escalating out of control.
Holding her like this, supporting her featherweight being, it strikes him how small she is: the top of her head barely grazes his chin. Nevertheless, he is acutely aware of her breasts pressed against his chest, the proximity of his hand to the zipper at the back of her dress. She is more substantial to him in this moment than she has ever been, though the sense of emptiness emanating from her threatens to whisk her presence away like a puff of smoke. The next breeze makes her shiver, goosebumps alighting on her skin. Oddly, they trigger the tears she'd sworn she'd gotten out of her system an hour ago. She withdraws her hand from his, links them both behind his neck and buries her face in his chest. She allows herself to be vulnerable, trusting him without words: his feet, his strength, his arms that wrap themselves around her and his fingertips, playing a moonlit sonata on the exposed skin of her back and arms.
"Stupid to believe it could have been me in the end." Tears dried up, voice monotone. He waits for her to continue. "But the worst is having to primp for these things," she feigns a chuckle in an effort to save face, though they are both past pretending. He holds her infinitesimally tighter.
"You look very nice tonight," he says dutifully. She laughs, truly, this time.
"A hot mess, more like. I'm wasted, I tossed a very expensive pair of shoes into the fountain, and I don't even want to know what my face looks like." She plays with his tie with one hand. "And I'm dancing with the bastard who's never once said my name in the ten years I've known him, preferring all sorts of other, more colorful pronouns…" He chuckles at this; who could be more colorful than this crazy girl, who donned a costume a day for the first five years that he knew her?
The laugh reverberates in his chest, through her ear pressed against it, filling her up inside. She looks up at him, perhaps really seeing him for the first time that evening. "You're an ass, you know that?"
He says nothing, only holds her gaze. They have stopped dancing. Something about this scene feels like a decisive moment.
He decides first, bringing his hand to her face. It look enormous against her smallness: his pianist's fingers outline the pinna of her ear while his thumb strokes the mascara bruises under her eye, tracing the runaway tram-tracks to her lips. He waits for her to move.
When she does, she meets him more than halfway, intwining her fingers in his silver hair, pulling his lips to within an inch of hers. They freeze for what could be seconds or hours, until he breaks the spell with the only confirmation they will exchange tonight:
"Would you prefer that I were a gentleman?"
She looks at him, hard. "No. Not tonight."
He closes the rest of the distance uncharacteristically: without hesitation, without second-guessing, without considering the consequences or calculating her--or his own--motivations.
<><><>
Parts II & III