[strawberry banana] 10
author: Frances J./Meep
title: A Sort of Homecoming
verse: Jazz Remix
prompt: Strawberry Banana #10: "Dress Up"
word count: 374
rating: G
summary: Mariel and Tristan get dressed, while Aya is still asleep.
notes: This is the start of a new arc in an established storyline. In the four years since Tristan Delacroix died (rather, "died"), his young widow, Mariel, has taken up gambling, tailoring, and cross-dressing. She has been living as a man in New York City with her girlfriend, Aya. (Mariel presents as male, but identifies as female and all of her friends know.)
"I feel a little queer, watching you dress," said Tristan.
He stood behind Mariel in the little bathroom of the apartment she shared with Aya, who lay sprawled out sleeping on the double bed. Mariel could see the shock of Aya's black hair against the cream colored sheets from the corner of her eye as she leaned forward to see into the mirror.
"Mh," said Mariel, her mouth full of hairpins as she tucked it up in a style that would easily hide beneath her hat when they went out. Tristan reached forward and twisted his fingers around a loose curl. Mariel pinned it up.
Her shirt, a men's shirt, hung unbuttoned over her bound chest, cuffs undone and a striped tie draped around her neck. Her slacks were buttoned, but slipped down around her hips without a belt. He caught her eye in the mirror, and she smiled around her mouthful of hairpins.
"Queer like your uncle," continued Tristan.
In the mirror, Mariel's reflection raised an eyebrow at him. He gestured towards Aya, still sleeping in the bed where she and Mariel slept. Mariel took the last pin from her mouth and stuck out her tongue. He laughed.
"Who isn't, these days?" asked Mariel, laughing.
"I wonder."
Tristan began buttoning his shirt, but Mariel turned to him and waved his hands away. "I'm still your wife, Tristan Delacroix." She hadn't forgotten how to do his buttons, backwards to her own, fingers moving with practiced ease.
"I can button my own shirt," said Tristan, in ineffectual protest. He stood with his hands on her hips as she buttoned his shirt.
"But can you tie your own tie?" asked Mariel. She kept her head bent and hoped he didn't notice as she wiped her teary eyes on her shirtsleeves. Without a word, she took her own tie and knotted it deftly, though she pulled it too tight with trembling hands.
After pulling the knot loose again, he took her left hand in his own. She wore his ring and threw hers into the sea years ago. When she tried to return it, he refused. Now he held her hand in his own, and hugged her close.
For the first time in four years, Mariel cried.
*
/waves hello My name (on the internet) is Frances J., but you can call me Meep. (I'd like my author tag to say "[author] meepalicious," if you'd be so kind.) I'm a twentysomething librarian girl living in Tokyo. I usually write stories about lesbians.
title: A Sort of Homecoming
verse: Jazz Remix
prompt: Strawberry Banana #10: "Dress Up"
word count: 374
rating: G
summary: Mariel and Tristan get dressed, while Aya is still asleep.
notes: This is the start of a new arc in an established storyline. In the four years since Tristan Delacroix died (rather, "died"), his young widow, Mariel, has taken up gambling, tailoring, and cross-dressing. She has been living as a man in New York City with her girlfriend, Aya. (Mariel presents as male, but identifies as female and all of her friends know.)
"I feel a little queer, watching you dress," said Tristan.
He stood behind Mariel in the little bathroom of the apartment she shared with Aya, who lay sprawled out sleeping on the double bed. Mariel could see the shock of Aya's black hair against the cream colored sheets from the corner of her eye as she leaned forward to see into the mirror.
"Mh," said Mariel, her mouth full of hairpins as she tucked it up in a style that would easily hide beneath her hat when they went out. Tristan reached forward and twisted his fingers around a loose curl. Mariel pinned it up.
Her shirt, a men's shirt, hung unbuttoned over her bound chest, cuffs undone and a striped tie draped around her neck. Her slacks were buttoned, but slipped down around her hips without a belt. He caught her eye in the mirror, and she smiled around her mouthful of hairpins.
"Queer like your uncle," continued Tristan.
In the mirror, Mariel's reflection raised an eyebrow at him. He gestured towards Aya, still sleeping in the bed where she and Mariel slept. Mariel took the last pin from her mouth and stuck out her tongue. He laughed.
"Who isn't, these days?" asked Mariel, laughing.
"I wonder."
Tristan began buttoning his shirt, but Mariel turned to him and waved his hands away. "I'm still your wife, Tristan Delacroix." She hadn't forgotten how to do his buttons, backwards to her own, fingers moving with practiced ease.
"I can button my own shirt," said Tristan, in ineffectual protest. He stood with his hands on her hips as she buttoned his shirt.
"But can you tie your own tie?" asked Mariel. She kept her head bent and hoped he didn't notice as she wiped her teary eyes on her shirtsleeves. Without a word, she took her own tie and knotted it deftly, though she pulled it too tight with trembling hands.
After pulling the knot loose again, he took her left hand in his own. She wore his ring and threw hers into the sea years ago. When she tried to return it, he refused. Now he held her hand in his own, and hugged her close.
For the first time in four years, Mariel cried.
*
/waves hello My name (on the internet) is Frances J., but you can call me Meep. (I'd like my author tag to say "[author] meepalicious," if you'd be so kind.) I'm a twentysomething librarian girl living in Tokyo. I usually write stories about lesbians.