Once and Always [2/4]
anonymous
August 4 2009, 23:29:05 UTC
He laughs, but not at her. Not out of mockery, unless it’s self-mockery. “Mm… always good to hear nice things from a pretty lady.” He winks at her and stubs out his cigarette. “Makes a man’s day, that.”
She only blushes darker and extinguishes her cigarette as well. Then she stares at her hands, which tremble faintly.
He glances sharply at her. “What’s going on?” he asks, warily.
She doesn’t reply. His expression darkens and she sees his hand go to his service pistol on the rickety table by the window for a moment. But he doesn’t even pick it up; the safety remains on and his hand goes back to his side.
He exhales very quietly. “I can remember every battle I had with my brother,” he says after a moment. “Every single one of them.” His eyes stare, not at the wall, but through it. She fights the urge to look over there too, so intent is his gaze.
“I don’t know if it’s worse, what you’re going through,” he continues. He pauses and says, “My situation wasn’t… it’s not the exact same as yours.” His hands gesture clumsily, wordlessly. She gets his intentions and she finds her lips twitching upwards in an involuntary smile.
“Thank you,” she says after a moment.
He sits in the one chair in the room and they stare at each other for a little longer. The tiny room makes it impossible to maintain any sort of distance; as it is, his chest is only a foot away from hers. Perhaps he leans in for the kiss as she reaches to lean her head against his. Somehow in the spindly threads that connect people and nations, thoughts and memories and emotions, they find each other and touch. They share a soft, tentative kiss.
Maybe in another life they could have known each other in peace time. Maybe they would have been nothing more than friends and allies and he would tease her about her breasts and she would threaten to beat him senseless. Maybe they could have been lovers, not just two individuals pushed together, weary and lost and aching.
Whatever the case is, they deepen their kiss, out of desperation, out of fear. Yes, fear. Fear of the dark, of flames and destruction, that dark abyss that swallows their people, their children, and yawns wider for more. Their nervous fingers undo each other’s clothing. His uniform crumples to the ground in a clatter of metal buttons. Her ao dai falls atop it with a slither and sigh of silk. In the light of a single bulb and what blares in from the city outside the little window, she stares at his ravaged body. How thin he is- no, not thin. He simply has no excess. Under the uniform, he is muscle and whipcord, not an ounce of fat to him. His stomach bears a horrific scar, puckered skin and flesh in a cruel curve that goes upwards.
He touches her forearm gently. “He has one too,” he says quietly. “On his chest and shoulder.” His eyes look like dark pits. “I gave it to him.”
He touches her naked body, at the many burns scattered on the landscape of her torso and abdomen. His hands brush against her scabbing, lacerated wrists and forearms but he says nothing, not even on how some of those marks look remarkably like the crescent moons of fingernails. He touches her breasts with his rough fingertips, his fingers as richly textured as leather but having nothing but tenderness.
She only blushes darker and extinguishes her cigarette as well. Then she stares at her hands, which tremble faintly.
He glances sharply at her. “What’s going on?” he asks, warily.
She doesn’t reply. His expression darkens and she sees his hand go to his service pistol on the rickety table by the window for a moment. But he doesn’t even pick it up; the safety remains on and his hand goes back to his side.
He exhales very quietly. “I can remember every battle I had with my brother,” he says after a moment. “Every single one of them.” His eyes stare, not at the wall, but through it. She fights the urge to look over there too, so intent is his gaze.
“I don’t know if it’s worse, what you’re going through,” he continues. He pauses and says, “My situation wasn’t… it’s not the exact same as yours.” His hands gesture clumsily, wordlessly. She gets his intentions and she finds her lips twitching upwards in an involuntary smile.
“Thank you,” she says after a moment.
He sits in the one chair in the room and they stare at each other for a little longer. The tiny room makes it impossible to maintain any sort of distance; as it is, his chest is only a foot away from hers. Perhaps he leans in for the kiss as she reaches to lean her head against his. Somehow in the spindly threads that connect people and nations, thoughts and memories and emotions, they find each other and touch. They share a soft, tentative kiss.
Maybe in another life they could have known each other in peace time. Maybe they would have been nothing more than friends and allies and he would tease her about her breasts and she would threaten to beat him senseless. Maybe they could have been lovers, not just two individuals pushed together, weary and lost and aching.
Whatever the case is, they deepen their kiss, out of desperation, out of fear. Yes, fear. Fear of the dark, of flames and destruction, that dark abyss that swallows their people, their children, and yawns wider for more. Their nervous fingers undo each other’s clothing. His uniform crumples to the ground in a clatter of metal buttons. Her ao dai falls atop it with a slither and sigh of silk. In the light of a single bulb and what blares in from the city outside the little window, she stares at his ravaged body. How thin he is- no, not thin. He simply has no excess. Under the uniform, he is muscle and whipcord, not an ounce of fat to him. His stomach bears a horrific scar, puckered skin and flesh in a cruel curve that goes upwards.
He touches her forearm gently. “He has one too,” he says quietly. “On his chest and shoulder.” His eyes look like dark pits. “I gave it to him.”
He touches her naked body, at the many burns scattered on the landscape of her torso and abdomen. His hands brush against her scabbing, lacerated wrists and forearms but he says nothing, not even on how some of those marks look remarkably like the crescent moons of fingernails. He touches her breasts with his rough fingertips, his fingers as richly textured as leather but having nothing but tenderness.
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