He looks at her. Considers her indirect question only briefly, superficially. It’s a request like any other because they aren’t fond of disturbing each other’s daily routines, as rarely as it happens. Usually, they give each other space. However, she’s erecting a barrier of normalcy between them now that he can’t seem to look beyond. Instead of emphasising domesticity like her sentence would have done before (he hit her), it turns the atmosphere between them... foreign. Distanced. By the absurdity of it.
She begins undressing with her back to him. Normally - before - he would have simply leant back and watched. For the sexual implications, because he’d know what came next. Tonight, though, they’ve entered an unknown country, haven’t they? Rather, she.... insists upon entering it with him, alongside him, despite the fact that he should have gone here by himself. He doesn’t feel grateful to her for it. Instead, he looks away, oddly disinterested in her nudity, choosing instead to answer her question wordlessly by shutting down his Mac and folding his papers away on his bedside table.
It’s not that he doesn’t find her attractive. It’s the situation as a whole; he’s disgusted with the both of them, feeling angry with her and with himself without knowing how to separate the two. It’s too much of a mess, still, what they’ve made of their relationship. And as a result, the grand perspective keeps eluding him.
The rustle of her clothes dissipates, into the rustling of paper and the dullness of his Mac being put away. Her silk blouse slips down her back soundlessly, inch by inch as she unbuttons it - the same satin sensation that she’ll soon be wrapped in once more. The vintage Dior nightgown that Mother had insisted she purchased at one of the Parisian summer auctions is made out of a similar material; from another era, but history recycles the essentials. Alterations that may appear miniscule, creating the foundation for improvement. Thus, she swaps. One silky garment for another, the nightgown hugging her hips and proving its sudden inefficiency as a utility item. She doesn’t wear it often, the fabric too frail for travelling. At home, with Jean Louis, she prefers to sleep undressed, doesn’t she? Usually.
They both know that everything has changed. As they are both aware that change isn’t a negative factor, in and by itself. The opposite, rather. It is what he proclaims and she spends her days studying. Surely, the procedures aren’t so different, simply because those very changes have been imposed on a personal level. Surely, they should... know.
Sliding the door to her closet shut, she moves through the room again. Repeating herself, perhaps. Past the unpacked suitcase. Past the bed, past his side to her own where she sits down, next to him. Despite her make-up, her nightdress and her silence, she isn’t pretending. Neither of them is - the acknowledgement of what happened thick in the space between them, but all revolutions are followed by a period of disorder. Meaning that disorder is the reality they are going to face.
The sound of sliding silk tells him what he needs to know without looking at her; he knows that Dior dress vaguely, mostly because he’s seen it only a few times prior to tonight. She never wears it to bed, does she? Another layer, another barricade. As she sits down next to him, he wonders if this change in their relationship can be perceived as the addition of a dozen barriers and little else. It’s not change, then, as such. But regression, past anything they’ve ever shared before. Their relationship has always been about moving forward; improvements, slight but tangible. Until now.
Leaning back beneath the duvet, he shifts sideways a bit, the physical distance between them increasing with a few inches. Wondering if maybe he should follow her advice. Sleep in the living room, leave her to her own devices, because if she doesn’t walk away then why shouldn’t he? On the other hand, she’s handing back lost territory to him. Be it out of generosity or selfish desperation - well, does it really matter? Who is he to reject an offer like that, to refuse what she gives for free? Logically, it’s just another way to gain. Logically. But in truth, no matter the logic he deploys to justify his actions, it’s a different story. The man who’s lost everything and accepts whatever scraps are offered to him - is not a winner, himself, but a beggar.
The question, then, in its most simple form: how can he make himself throw away what’s left - when she’s the price, no matter how he looks at it? No matter what she’s left him with, she’s still here and he can’t…
“Should I leave you alone?” His voice isn’t weak or uncertain, though the question itself reeks of hesitancy. It’s not really about daring or strength, though. It’s about figuring out what he’s accepting - when he takes her hand and lets her calculate its worth.
If she had intended for her request to be an order, she would have phrased it as such, wouldn’t she? Its original function was inquiring; punctuated by a non-accentuated question mark, not an exclamation. The divergence is incongruous, grammatically. In return, it earns her another enquiry, relatively unmarked as is Jean Louis’ style - a trait of his that she has always… liked. Even so, the question makes her freeze, adding the same rigidity to her posture that the divan downstairs had done. And weighing down on her breathing, as well.
She had considered the option, obviously. By folding and stacking a limited collection of her possessions. Picking up pieces from the floor; clothing, cosmetics - and every other part of her which she’d been able to locate in her immediate vicinity. Mentally, the thought had occurred to her without indulgence even before he hit her, isn’t that so? Never as a choice of hers to make, but certainly as an outcome of his. Choices. His actions. In both scenarios, the one remaining hypothetical and the one taking place between them now, he would have been punished and she left alone. Consequently.
“No.” Despite the hint of breathiness, it isn’t a desperate answer. His question wasn’t worried and neither is she, when replying. Turning her head to study his profile for a long moment before she moves to the side, away from him. Just enough to free the duvet from under her and arrange it around her legs, the satin nightgown an excess of fabric beneath the layer of down. Her wedding ring catches the light from the lamp on the bedside table, when she places her hands on top. She doesn’t want to leave, doesn’t want him to leave her. Because she has no wish to punish either of them.
He stays still for a long moment as the bed moves beneath her. So this rule she will not re-write. And upon reflection, he suspects that this, too, will be a pattern. Mireille is not a strategist - she’s the linguistic professional, the one who takes apart what’s already whole, to improve upon it and clarify its meaning. And put it back together, once she’s done. She doesn’t make the rules on any interpretative scale. He does, at least in a practical, legislative sense. In their relationship too, somewhat, though they’ve never before had any conflicts over it. Not like last night. A first, in many ways.
When she sits back against the headboard, he finally turns towards her. Shifts closer before reaching over her, turning off the bedside table lamp. The room falls into a dim, unfinished sort of darkness, broken in part by the light from his own lamp. The movement itself naturally increases their proximity and instead of pulling his arm back, he pauses above her. Draws back only a fraction, his hand slipping to her waist as he settles down next to her, their legs separated only by the thin cotton fabric of the duvet.
The physical distance between them, then, bridged. Considering the past twenty-four hours, it’s a sudden change; but he works best with those and it doesn’t bother him. Meeting her eyes, he keeps his gaze blank. To reflect the detachment of the situation, of his thoughts which are too muddled still to make sense. He doesn’t really feel much at all; but it’s clear to him that she needs him to lead them through this wasteland they’ve created. She can’t walk it by herself and, well, perhaps he could. Perhaps he couldn’t. It doesn’t matter anymore. He’ll pave the way for her. So they can leave this destruction behind.
After Father’s death, after resuming her relationship with Jean Louis, there has been no noticeable boundary between her physique and her mentality. Whether she was studying at CNL, making a public appearance or having sex up the hallway wall, her mind and body have at no point been forced out of congruence. In practice, it’s all but impossible and undoubtedly she should have expected it to turn out a temporary state. A stage of transition, like their honeymoon to Seoul. Starting with China and ending with home. Now, he leans in over her and her body responds to his sudden proximity first. Autonomously. Eyes following the line of his hand as he reaches for the bedside lamp. If it was unintentionally that he hit her, surely it must be considered unintentional, that she expects for him to do so again.
The tension in her body, her responsive inflexibility, doesn’t diminish when his hand comes to a rest against her waist instead, but she is made poignantly aware of its full extent. Leaving her with the responsibility of controlling it, of course. Compliantly, she focuses her attention elsewhere. On the line of his jaw, the curve of his lips, his nose and how his eyes show her little but a mirror image. They’ve always reflected each other, isn’t that so? - without being ignorant of or ignoring how reflections are also opposites.
Perhaps, when she slowly leans in and presses a brief kiss to his lips - careful not to leave any smear of lipstick behind, it is for this exact reason. Because she knows him to hold all the expressions. When she finds that he doesn’t, she shall have to pay tribute to what used to be. What usually is. There. Between them.
It is only when she leans in and kisses him, barely a touch of lips against his, that he realises how tense she is. Her body feels completely unresponsive, like holding onto herself is her sole focus despite the circumstances. Because of them. He doesn’t understand; after all, surely, no sort of beating ever lingers when it’s done. This train of thought, however, makes him uncomfortable as well (it was a slap, not a beating and that’s not a detail, that’s a fact) and he leaves it be in favour of taking over.
She came to him, wanting to move beyond their combined standstill. What she’s doing now - burying her feet in the sand, refusing to take the next step - can’t be tolerated. This is his responsibility, then, to pick her up and carry her for however long he has to. It’s fine. It’s not a problem.
Shifting further, he rolls over on top of her, legs tangling with hers, the duvet folding up between them. Straddling her, effectively, in her seated position. Her nightdress is in the way - another obstruction - but compared to everything else, it’s a minor inconvenience. Leaning in, he kisses her neck, lips trailing over her skin before settling near her collarbone. He doesn’t feel aroused at all; it’ll change, of course. But it’s unusual anyway. He takes care not to think about it, knowing that for one, over-thinking sex makes it impossible - and for another, that she’s already broken the pace to a stop. If he starts questioning himself, he’ll get stuck with her and they’ll have nothing left but temporal inability.
At this point, her initial reaction of pure physicality has faded out. The tenseness lingers in her spine and shoulders, mainly due to the somewhat awkward position he… catches her in, between his thighs and knees. Beneath his weight. Reversed. Because, surely, this is when they usually reduce themselves to mere physique, isn’t that so? When he rolls on top of her and begins leaving his marks on her body, in a heated trail downwards. It’s a fitting transition, however, from a touch that is still burning underneath her make-up and the skin to which it’s applied; to this, the feeling of his lips following the slope of her throat to the hollow of her collarbone. A direct line. Linking the two together, not as irreconcilable realities, but variations of the same theme.
She turns her head to the side. Towards him, seeing how she proposed contact and he accepted. It’s how it must be, of course. His hair tickles her nose and obstructs her view. They are following through - in the general direction that they’ve chosen, by touching and by staying. Respectively.
And since it is necessary, she reminds herself how to. Touch him, when she lets her hands run up his back. What pressure to apply, what path to trail and when to stop; on their own, none of them rediscoveries which substantiate the claim that she should want to. Be with him, in this manner. In contrast, her mind doesn’t need another argument. Truthfully, this - holding him close, one hand cool against his shoulder blade and the other buried in the warm cotton bundled across his lower back - is their interaction as she prefers it to be.
It’s an awkward position and he shifts down after a moment, hands coming up to pull at her waist, taking her with him. It’s a slow but easy transition and she follows without complaints, follows because she’s made a promise now, hasn’t she? To keep up with him seeing as she won’t walk by herself. It’s easy for him, to think about this situation in terms of the here and now; what happened yesterday was, after all... wrong. Won’t be repeated. And so, there’s no need to dwell upon it. Instead, his mind turns to physicality. Her hand feels light but cold against his skin, a familiarly pleasant sensation. Her body is small beneath his, her figure very much perfect. All of this, he wants to bring along - from what came before to what they’ll make of each other now. In short, he wants to pay attention to the right things and leave the rest out of the equation. Really, not such a tall demand.
Surely, it’s not a reduction if the value increases at length. Within a broader perspective.
Reaching between them, he pulls down her duvet, lifting off her enough to bare her body almost entirely. The rest of the soft cotton he pushes down with one knee, quickly and effortlessly. So long as she lets him work, they’ll meet no impossible obstacles. Clearly. That’s how it is. None of his making and none of hers. Pushing the thick silk nightgown away from her breasts, he leans in, the movement just fluid enough not to seem mechanical. Tongues her nipples into hardness with slow, steady strokes, his body warming up so gradually, he has to make a conscious effort not to care about it. They’re moving on now and at the moment, his focus must be on her. On pushing her onwards now that she’s fallen behind by her own admission.
Her responses are automatic, when he pulls her down on her back and leans in over her, baring her breasts and sucking her nipples into his mouth. At the present, it must substitute for familiarity. Whereas the movements and the sensations are recognizable - she can easily identify each one in turn; how he rolls his tongue, applies a temporary element of suction, later with a hint of teeth, the setting is not. Not only foreign, but stripped of inherent value. Arching her back, her breathing following the rising curve only diffidently, she looks up at the ceiling. Presenting her with another unknown quantity, yet he would be nothing but a shadow across her chest, from this angle. If she were to incline her head, to look at him.
Shifting, she positions herself. Openly; thighs apart to accommodate his presence. With Jean Louis, sex can never be unpleasant - the dull throbbing he’s steadily working into her body spreading fast, making her skin take colour where it didn’t hold any shade of red previously. Neither can it be disagreeable, because she is here by choice. Despite everything, however, she shall have to admit that it is uncomfortable. Will willingly accept it. To be so.
Because this isn’t comfort sex, is it? She didn’t hide the blow away beneath layers of make-up for the sake of a surface reading and she certainly isn’t staying in order to pretend that there’s nothing to mend. Rather, they are making amends already. It may not be all pleasure -- if it can... be categorised as pleasure at all, but the opposite is not a lack of meaning.
If he wanted to consider it more closely, he could have realised that everything currently happens in exact stages - replicas of earlier interaction, mostly devoid of both creativity and... well, the usual purpose. Her body is hot beneath his mouth, the arch of her back a dull message of approval. Instinctual. But the drive is lacking. He senses its absence from himself and while he isn’t looking at her face currently, there’s something in the atmosphere that can only be described as... bleak. Uninvolved.
It makes him inexplicably angry. Like she’s simply lying there, distancing herself from the situation entirely despite it being her decision, her choice. Choosing inactivity, despite asking for the opposite. He hasn’t begged her to come back. He hasn’t asked her to stay. But he does understand that in many ways, this is charity. Unless he wants to feel completely useless, he’ll have to work for it, to turn it into something else. Something of value. His hand strays downwards, over silk and brocade, over her abdomen and further. She’s wearing panties beneath her night gown, of course, because adding yet another layer presently is not only typical, but oddly fitting.
Slipping his hand beneath the hem of her panties, running over soft curls and smooth, heated skin, he dips one finger between her folds. She’s not exactly dripping wet at this point and he forces himself not to be rough with her, his temper making it a highly conscious effort. He’s just impatient to push her forward, to get her moving, preferably at a speed she can’t control or diminish. But as he rubs his finger over her clitoris in slow, steady circles, he can’t quite make himself look up at her and meet her eyes. He doesn’t know why - and he doesn’t question it, either - but simply keeps his gaze locked on the pillow beneath her. On her loosely braided hair, strands curling out here and there. In little more than dispassionate disarray.
Her breath catches in her throat. The pleasure that forces itself through her system is too sudden and too violent to be comfortable, but she doesn't withhold her body's instinctual reaction; doesn't attempt to fight its effects. They shall both have to accept certain... aspects of this stage. In the wake of any conscious decision follows the responsibility of embracing its consequences. Its results. To improve upon them. To utilise them for outward amendment, without immediate personal gain. She has chosen to look past herself, by entering their bedroom tonight. In extension, by indulging in this form of forgiveness. There is no chance of attaining change if one simply abandons a situation once it proves difficult. Twofold. Truthfully, his second mistake is minor to his first, the two being wholly independent of one another. Should not be confused as representative for one and the same problem.
Thus, she makes herself adopt the rhythm of his fingers. Pushes up against his hand in order to obtain the most effective angle and amount of pressure. In turn, she feels her sex slicken gradually, a thin layer of sweat breaking out across her brow and forehead. At the edge of her consciousness, she realises that it will render her efforts in regards to her carefully painted mask vain. The blush will break through the layers and with it, the touch of black and blue. The pain has dulled by now; reduced to a faint throbbing, the sensation of an invisible swelling. She doesn't ignore it, of course, but neither does she ascribe it significance outside its given context. It's a reality, isn't it? Not a concept of self-contained significance. Beyond what meaning it may be attributed.
She is not blind to the difference between the rhinestones they are currently collecting and the diamonds to which they are used. Nevertheless, she cannot afford insisting on her usual privileges. And the most important detail to acknowledge is how rhinestones are not as brittle as glass, even if they are not as resistant as rock either. Nor as precious as gemstones.
She pushes up against his hand, her body working beneath him. From an outside perspective, it’s an act of passion. Wishing for more in the most physical sense, for sexual completion which is the most you can ask for in bed. He obliges, finding a pace that seems to answer her demands, shifting onto his elbow more fully to support himself better next to her. Everything right now feels like a strain. The repeated pattern of his fingers, keeping a distance between their bodies so as not to crush her. Realising that his own breathing remains stubbornly consistent, bringing her closer to climax and getting mostly nowhere himself.
As he looks down at her, finally, he pauses. Swallows down an exclamation and stops himself from raising his hand to the blue shadow across her cheekbone, the prints of his fingers spanning the entire length of her face. With or without makeup, Mireille has always looked flawless to him - so of course, it would take something... different... to put a crack in that porcelain mask. Clearly. Jaw clenching, he looks away, eyes landing on her forehead and the way her hair stretches backwards, different shades of brown breaking the shadows behind her head.
It’s done. He can’t undo it. The only thing he can do, really, is move beyond it - and forgive her, in turn, for following him at a broken pace. Sliding his hand downwards, he slicks up his fingers against her sex, tips dipping into her opening and withdrawing with something close to negligence. Resuming the rhythm, he leans his forehead against the pillow next to her. Never look down, they say, or you’ll lose your footing and fall. While it’s normally applicable to other situations, surely little else could be more fitting right now.
There is relief in allowing her body to take over; the natural result of sexual release. Building and breaking. Having sex with Jean Louis is a continuation, not an escape and she shall approach it accordingly. Loosen the reins that she imposes on herself by default in the shape of perpetual analyses and a constant awareness of appearance. Because sex is the ultimate physicality, isn’t that so - and as such, rarely outwardly composed, but since it is the only way of leading the present to completion, it necessitates that they both give. They will have to, if not out of any initial inclination then out of obligation. It isn’t that she doesn’t wish to reflect, of course. Mustn’t be, but she has reflected already. On him. On his role in her life which surely outweighs whatever complications he could possibly present her with. To strike a balance that has little to do with the calculation of percentages. The equation shan’t equal a product of fifty-fifty, seeing how reality rarely does. As she knows. As they both know.
She runs one hand further up his back. Over his shoulder before taking hold of it from behind, fingers splayed out over his skin. He is surprisingly unheated. At this point, they are usually both clad in a sheen of sweat, but it isn't unimaginable that she is the only one between them who's had an ensuing exterior to shed. She pushes herself closer. Forward. Forward into a pace in which they are used to move, together - into the rhythm of his fingers against her clitoris. The escalation doesn't engulf her in a rush, feeling too forced and too uneven.
And the realisation comes before her climax. Perhaps dragging her climax along; that the hand he is using to pleasure her with is the same hand with which he hit her the night before. While she stares blindly up at the ceiling, her orgasm finally tears through her body. Uncontrollably, she shudders against his front. Presses her fingertips into his skin, nails digging in further, without restraint. Once again, he embodies Baudelaire’s words, doesn't he? They both do, in symbiosis. Broken and gasping, out into the broad and wasted plains of Ennui --
The signs of orgasm are always straightforward; her body tightening up beneath him, bucking up against his hand and her breathing moving just that bit beyond erratic. The most coherent thought he can manage without getting caught in a backlash of past regret is that she’s caught up now. He has her. And she’s let herself be led the entire way, following through on her unspoken promise when she accepted his advances earlier. With a ‘No’, which is quite a suitable contradiction considering this entire situation.
Then, her nails are digging into his shoulder in a way that’s distinctly unpleasant and he stiffens above her, gaze still locked on the dark of her hair. It’s a stinging, deeper sort of pain than the usual sensation of her nails, running over his skin; the kind that tells him instinctually that she’s drawing blood. He’d shrug off her hand, but what he did yesterday probably - certainly - can’t be compensated for by such a comparatively weak sexual climax. So for a long moment, he simply doesn’t move, the pain growing duller within seconds, his fingers maintaining a slower but steady rhythm between her folds. Pushing her the last bit of the way because if nothing else, he doesn’t do anything by halves.
Under normal circumstances, he’d take her now and by doing so, his own pleasure. But nothing about this is normal, nothing about it fits into their usual routines and he simply... doesn’t want this at the moment. And what he doesn’t want, he never takes. Instead, he slips his hand away, her night gown sliding down her skin, covering her up minimally, unsuccessfully. Lying down next to her, one arm slung over her upper body in a deceptively haphazardly fashion, he finally dislodges her hand from his shoulder, a very, very slight wetness following the path of her nails as it falls away. Uncaringly, he reaches out a hand towards his own bedside table and shuts down the light, finally, the room falling into complete darkness.
Leaving her to fall back into herself without his help, because he’s brought her this far and right now, as things are, he can’t do more than that.
It is a short climax without any impact beyond its implications, lingering solely because his fingers keep working; in slower, softer circles. Managing nothing besides emphasising how sore she feels, the build-up too quick. Too forceful. She doesn’t move on her own accord, aside from the occasional shiver running along her skin, adopted by her muscles in natural succession. Instead he reaches up and frees her hand from the punctures she’s provided him, for free. Normally she never marks him; fully content with her position as recipient. Because, truly, it’s a gift. In most contexts. Despite everything. Now, however, it would seem appropriate, leaving her imprints on him in return. If they were not facing each other on wholly equal terms.
He rolls off her, her arm dropping to her side as she waits for her nightgown to fall back into place. The only thing uncovered at this point is the shadow across her cheek, isn’t that so? A few minutes pass in silence before she realises that he holds no intentions of taking her. Turning her head towards him, she observes how the newly descended darkness casts the same shade over his features which has been seeping into her skin, gradually. Penetration has always been the part of sex which appeals the most to her. Symbolic in a manner that orgasm is not. She could encourage him, of course - verbally or physically, but a distance such as this can’t be crossed in the span of thirty minutes. If nothing else, they are halfway. The rest they shall have to walk in stages. Forwards. Upwards.
His arm is a consistent weight across her midriff, and his reaction his own to administer. Hers adheres to different standards, undoubtedly. She doesn’t look away, from him or from reality. She is well aware that their relation has shattered into pieces. That they will have to pick up an abundance of shards in order to fuse it together in whatever way possible. But if she had walked away, the mess still wouldn’t have been his alone.
Surely -- Surely this is the preferable way for them to share the costs.
She begins undressing with her back to him. Normally - before - he would have simply leant back and watched. For the sexual implications, because he’d know what came next. Tonight, though, they’ve entered an unknown country, haven’t they? Rather, she.... insists upon entering it with him, alongside him, despite the fact that he should have gone here by himself. He doesn’t feel grateful to her for it. Instead, he looks away, oddly disinterested in her nudity, choosing instead to answer her question wordlessly by shutting down his Mac and folding his papers away on his bedside table.
It’s not that he doesn’t find her attractive. It’s the situation as a whole; he’s disgusted with the both of them, feeling angry with her and with himself without knowing how to separate the two. It’s too much of a mess, still, what they’ve made of their relationship. And as a result, the grand perspective keeps eluding him.
Reply
They both know that everything has changed. As they are both aware that change isn’t a negative factor, in and by itself. The opposite, rather. It is what he proclaims and she spends her days studying. Surely, the procedures aren’t so different, simply because those very changes have been imposed on a personal level. Surely, they should... know.
Sliding the door to her closet shut, she moves through the room again. Repeating herself, perhaps. Past the unpacked suitcase. Past the bed, past his side to her own where she sits down, next to him. Despite her make-up, her nightdress and her silence, she isn’t pretending. Neither of them is - the acknowledgement of what happened thick in the space between them, but all revolutions are followed by a period of disorder. Meaning that disorder is the reality they are going to face.
Reply
Leaning back beneath the duvet, he shifts sideways a bit, the physical distance between them increasing with a few inches. Wondering if maybe he should follow her advice. Sleep in the living room, leave her to her own devices, because if she doesn’t walk away then why shouldn’t he? On the other hand, she’s handing back lost territory to him. Be it out of generosity or selfish desperation - well, does it really matter? Who is he to reject an offer like that, to refuse what she gives for free? Logically, it’s just another way to gain. Logically. But in truth, no matter the logic he deploys to justify his actions, it’s a different story. The man who’s lost everything and accepts whatever scraps are offered to him - is not a winner, himself, but a beggar.
The question, then, in its most simple form: how can he make himself throw away what’s left - when she’s the price, no matter how he looks at it? No matter what she’s left him with, she’s still here and he can’t…
“Should I leave you alone?” His voice isn’t weak or uncertain, though the question itself reeks of hesitancy. It’s not really about daring or strength, though. It’s about figuring out what he’s accepting - when he takes her hand and lets her calculate its worth.
Reply
She had considered the option, obviously. By folding and stacking a limited collection of her possessions. Picking up pieces from the floor; clothing, cosmetics - and every other part of her which she’d been able to locate in her immediate vicinity. Mentally, the thought had occurred to her without indulgence even before he hit her, isn’t that so? Never as a choice of hers to make, but certainly as an outcome of his. Choices. His actions. In both scenarios, the one remaining hypothetical and the one taking place between them now, he would have been punished and she left alone. Consequently.
“No.” Despite the hint of breathiness, it isn’t a desperate answer. His question wasn’t worried and neither is she, when replying. Turning her head to study his profile for a long moment before she moves to the side, away from him. Just enough to free the duvet from under her and arrange it around her legs, the satin nightgown an excess of fabric beneath the layer of down. Her wedding ring catches the light from the lamp on the bedside table, when she places her hands on top. She doesn’t want to leave, doesn’t want him to leave her. Because she has no wish to punish either of them.
Reply
He stays still for a long moment as the bed moves beneath her. So this rule she will not re-write. And upon reflection, he suspects that this, too, will be a pattern. Mireille is not a strategist - she’s the linguistic professional, the one who takes apart what’s already whole, to improve upon it and clarify its meaning. And put it back together, once she’s done. She doesn’t make the rules on any interpretative scale. He does, at least in a practical, legislative sense. In their relationship too, somewhat, though they’ve never before had any conflicts over it. Not like last night. A first, in many ways.
When she sits back against the headboard, he finally turns towards her. Shifts closer before reaching over her, turning off the bedside table lamp. The room falls into a dim, unfinished sort of darkness, broken in part by the light from his own lamp. The movement itself naturally increases their proximity and instead of pulling his arm back, he pauses above her. Draws back only a fraction, his hand slipping to her waist as he settles down next to her, their legs separated only by the thin cotton fabric of the duvet.
The physical distance between them, then, bridged. Considering the past twenty-four hours, it’s a sudden change; but he works best with those and it doesn’t bother him. Meeting her eyes, he keeps his gaze blank. To reflect the detachment of the situation, of his thoughts which are too muddled still to make sense. He doesn’t really feel much at all; but it’s clear to him that she needs him to lead them through this wasteland they’ve created. She can’t walk it by herself and, well, perhaps he could. Perhaps he couldn’t. It doesn’t matter anymore. He’ll pave the way for her. So they can leave this destruction behind.
Reply
The tension in her body, her responsive inflexibility, doesn’t diminish when his hand comes to a rest against her waist instead, but she is made poignantly aware of its full extent. Leaving her with the responsibility of controlling it, of course. Compliantly, she focuses her attention elsewhere. On the line of his jaw, the curve of his lips, his nose and how his eyes show her little but a mirror image. They’ve always reflected each other, isn’t that so? - without being ignorant of or ignoring how reflections are also opposites.
Perhaps, when she slowly leans in and presses a brief kiss to his lips - careful not to leave any smear of lipstick behind, it is for this exact reason. Because she knows him to hold all the expressions. When she finds that he doesn’t, she shall have to pay tribute to what used to be. What usually is. There. Between them.
Reply
She came to him, wanting to move beyond their combined standstill. What she’s doing now - burying her feet in the sand, refusing to take the next step - can’t be tolerated. This is his responsibility, then, to pick her up and carry her for however long he has to. It’s fine. It’s not a problem.
Shifting further, he rolls over on top of her, legs tangling with hers, the duvet folding up between them. Straddling her, effectively, in her seated position. Her nightdress is in the way - another obstruction - but compared to everything else, it’s a minor inconvenience. Leaning in, he kisses her neck, lips trailing over her skin before settling near her collarbone. He doesn’t feel aroused at all; it’ll change, of course. But it’s unusual anyway. He takes care not to think about it, knowing that for one, over-thinking sex makes it impossible - and for another, that she’s already broken the pace to a stop. If he starts questioning himself, he’ll get stuck with her and they’ll have nothing left but temporal inability.
Reply
She turns her head to the side. Towards him, seeing how she proposed contact and he accepted. It’s how it must be, of course. His hair tickles her nose and obstructs her view. They are following through - in the general direction that they’ve chosen, by touching and by staying. Respectively.
And since it is necessary, she reminds herself how to. Touch him, when she lets her hands run up his back. What pressure to apply, what path to trail and when to stop; on their own, none of them rediscoveries which substantiate the claim that she should want to. Be with him, in this manner. In contrast, her mind doesn’t need another argument. Truthfully, this - holding him close, one hand cool against his shoulder blade and the other buried in the warm cotton bundled across his lower back - is their interaction as she prefers it to be.
Reply
Surely, it’s not a reduction if the value increases at length. Within a broader perspective.
Reaching between them, he pulls down her duvet, lifting off her enough to bare her body almost entirely. The rest of the soft cotton he pushes down with one knee, quickly and effortlessly. So long as she lets him work, they’ll meet no impossible obstacles. Clearly. That’s how it is. None of his making and none of hers. Pushing the thick silk nightgown away from her breasts, he leans in, the movement just fluid enough not to seem mechanical. Tongues her nipples into hardness with slow, steady strokes, his body warming up so gradually, he has to make a conscious effort not to care about it. They’re moving on now and at the moment, his focus must be on her. On pushing her onwards now that she’s fallen behind by her own admission.
Reply
Shifting, she positions herself. Openly; thighs apart to accommodate his presence. With Jean Louis, sex can never be unpleasant - the dull throbbing he’s steadily working into her body spreading fast, making her skin take colour where it didn’t hold any shade of red previously. Neither can it be disagreeable, because she is here by choice. Despite everything, however, she shall have to admit that it is uncomfortable. Will willingly accept it. To be so.
Because this isn’t comfort sex, is it? She didn’t hide the blow away beneath layers of make-up for the sake of a surface reading and she certainly isn’t staying in order to pretend that there’s nothing to mend. Rather, they are making amends already. It may not be all pleasure -- if it can... be categorised as pleasure at all, but the opposite is not a lack of meaning.
Reply
It makes him inexplicably angry. Like she’s simply lying there, distancing herself from the situation entirely despite it being her decision, her choice. Choosing inactivity, despite asking for the opposite. He hasn’t begged her to come back. He hasn’t asked her to stay. But he does understand that in many ways, this is charity. Unless he wants to feel completely useless, he’ll have to work for it, to turn it into something else. Something of value. His hand strays downwards, over silk and brocade, over her abdomen and further. She’s wearing panties beneath her night gown, of course, because adding yet another layer presently is not only typical, but oddly fitting.
Slipping his hand beneath the hem of her panties, running over soft curls and smooth, heated skin, he dips one finger between her folds. She’s not exactly dripping wet at this point and he forces himself not to be rough with her, his temper making it a highly conscious effort. He’s just impatient to push her forward, to get her moving, preferably at a speed she can’t control or diminish. But as he rubs his finger over her clitoris in slow, steady circles, he can’t quite make himself look up at her and meet her eyes. He doesn’t know why - and he doesn’t question it, either - but simply keeps his gaze locked on the pillow beneath her. On her loosely braided hair, strands curling out here and there. In little more than dispassionate disarray.
Reply
Thus, she makes herself adopt the rhythm of his fingers. Pushes up against his hand in order to obtain the most effective angle and amount of pressure. In turn, she feels her sex slicken gradually, a thin layer of sweat breaking out across her brow and forehead. At the edge of her consciousness, she realises that it will render her efforts in regards to her carefully painted mask vain. The blush will break through the layers and with it, the touch of black and blue. The pain has dulled by now; reduced to a faint throbbing, the sensation of an invisible swelling. She doesn't ignore it, of course, but neither does she ascribe it significance outside its given context. It's a reality, isn't it? Not a concept of self-contained significance. Beyond what meaning it may be attributed.
She is not blind to the difference between the rhinestones they are currently collecting and the diamonds to which they are used. Nevertheless, she cannot afford insisting on her usual privileges. And the most important detail to acknowledge is how rhinestones are not as brittle as glass, even if they are not as resistant as rock either. Nor as precious as gemstones.
Reply
As he looks down at her, finally, he pauses. Swallows down an exclamation and stops himself from raising his hand to the blue shadow across her cheekbone, the prints of his fingers spanning the entire length of her face. With or without makeup, Mireille has always looked flawless to him - so of course, it would take something... different... to put a crack in that porcelain mask. Clearly. Jaw clenching, he looks away, eyes landing on her forehead and the way her hair stretches backwards, different shades of brown breaking the shadows behind her head.
It’s done. He can’t undo it. The only thing he can do, really, is move beyond it - and forgive her, in turn, for following him at a broken pace. Sliding his hand downwards, he slicks up his fingers against her sex, tips dipping into her opening and withdrawing with something close to negligence. Resuming the rhythm, he leans his forehead against the pillow next to her. Never look down, they say, or you’ll lose your footing and fall. While it’s normally applicable to other situations, surely little else could be more fitting right now.
Reply
She runs one hand further up his back. Over his shoulder before taking hold of it from behind, fingers splayed out over his skin. He is surprisingly unheated. At this point, they are usually both clad in a sheen of sweat, but it isn't unimaginable that she is the only one between them who's had an ensuing exterior to shed. She pushes herself closer. Forward. Forward into a pace in which they are used to move, together - into the rhythm of his fingers against her clitoris. The escalation doesn't engulf her in a rush, feeling too forced and too uneven.
And the realisation comes before her climax. Perhaps dragging her climax along; that the hand he is using to pleasure her with is the same hand with which he hit her the night before. While she stares blindly up at the ceiling, her orgasm finally tears through her body. Uncontrollably, she shudders against his front. Presses her fingertips into his skin, nails digging in further, without restraint. Once again, he embodies Baudelaire’s words, doesn't he? They both do, in symbiosis. Broken and gasping, out into the broad and wasted plains of Ennui --
Deep and still. Her breathing ragged.
Reply
Then, her nails are digging into his shoulder in a way that’s distinctly unpleasant and he stiffens above her, gaze still locked on the dark of her hair. It’s a stinging, deeper sort of pain than the usual sensation of her nails, running over his skin; the kind that tells him instinctually that she’s drawing blood. He’d shrug off her hand, but what he did yesterday probably - certainly - can’t be compensated for by such a comparatively weak sexual climax. So for a long moment, he simply doesn’t move, the pain growing duller within seconds, his fingers maintaining a slower but steady rhythm between her folds. Pushing her the last bit of the way because if nothing else, he doesn’t do anything by halves.
Under normal circumstances, he’d take her now and by doing so, his own pleasure. But nothing about this is normal, nothing about it fits into their usual routines and he simply... doesn’t want this at the moment. And what he doesn’t want, he never takes. Instead, he slips his hand away, her night gown sliding down her skin, covering her up minimally, unsuccessfully. Lying down next to her, one arm slung over her upper body in a deceptively haphazardly fashion, he finally dislodges her hand from his shoulder, a very, very slight wetness following the path of her nails as it falls away. Uncaringly, he reaches out a hand towards his own bedside table and shuts down the light, finally, the room falling into complete darkness.
Leaving her to fall back into herself without his help, because he’s brought her this far and right now, as things are, he can’t do more than that.
Reply
He rolls off her, her arm dropping to her side as she waits for her nightgown to fall back into place. The only thing uncovered at this point is the shadow across her cheek, isn’t that so? A few minutes pass in silence before she realises that he holds no intentions of taking her. Turning her head towards him, she observes how the newly descended darkness casts the same shade over his features which has been seeping into her skin, gradually. Penetration has always been the part of sex which appeals the most to her. Symbolic in a manner that orgasm is not. She could encourage him, of course - verbally or physically, but a distance such as this can’t be crossed in the span of thirty minutes. If nothing else, they are halfway. The rest they shall have to walk in stages. Forwards. Upwards.
His arm is a consistent weight across her midriff, and his reaction his own to administer. Hers adheres to different standards, undoubtedly. She doesn’t look away, from him or from reality. She is well aware that their relation has shattered into pieces. That they will have to pick up an abundance of shards in order to fuse it together in whatever way possible. But if she had walked away, the mess still wouldn’t have been his alone.
Surely -- Surely this is the preferable way for them to share the costs.
Reply
Leave a comment