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brithefruitbat · 3 months ago

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In Her Kiss, I Taste the Revolution

Luigi Mangione is a rule-following, buttoned-up Computer Engineering major from a wealthy conservative family in Baltimore. Raised on classical debate, private schools, and deference to institutional order, he believes in logic, compromise, and clean-cut appearances. His life is measured, polished, and painfully predictable.

Enter Serena Chávez. An unapologetically loud, lime-haired punk singer with a passion for direct action, mutual aid, and anti-capitalist theory. She's a whirlwind of radical politics, thrifted leather jackets, and tattoos that tell her story. To her, the system isn't broken. It's functioning exactly as it was meant to.

This is a romance fic about dialectical materialism.

Serena leaned into the microphone, breath rattling on the cusp of exhaustion and defiance. Strands of electric lime hair clung to her forehead, slick with sweat. A halo of melting neon. Her eyeliner had surrendered to the heat, pooling in streams down her cheeks. She’d just rendered her throat raw with a final, eviscerating scream. An exorcism that closed Deathwish’s set. Her voice now carried a gravelly edge. The result of the same flawed technique that once haunted Kathleen Hanna - inhaling while she sang, rather than exhaling.

“Thanks,” she rasped, her umber eyes sweeping over the modest crowd clustered near the bowling alley’s entrance. They were clad in worn band tees, battle jackets armored with patches, and boots that had seen better days. To Serena, they were signifiers of a scene stubbornly refusing to die.

The bar regulars hadn’t come for a punk show. Their participation was incidental, softened by alcohol. Still, some nodded in passive appreciation, a few even flashing the horns. It was a gesture somewhere between goodwill and apology. A subtle acknowledgment that they’d crossed into alien territory, and would try not to trample anything sacred.

“We’ve got CDs and patches at the table,” Trent announced, loosening the strap of his sticker-covered bass. “Help us survive under Crapitalism.”

Serena let out a chuckle. A whisky sour beckoned from the back of her mind.

As their audience began to scatter, a sudden and distinct force permeated the room. The doors cracked open, and in flooded a tide of volume and arrogance. Chatter collided with itself in a din of testosterone and entitlement. Voices barked fragments; “pledge,” “bro,” “shots!”

A wave of backwards caps, sweat-dampened polos, and unnecessary sunglasses. The unmistakable cacophony of Greek life.

Disdain surfaced in Serena’s brain. She stiffened. Were there girls unlucky enough to be sandwiched among them? Trapped in ambiguous situationships? Forced to humor these neanderthals?

They scattered like pests, swarming around the outnumbered punks. Pizza was procured, rounds of liquor demanded into being. A few cast curious, sidelong glances toward the leather-and-denim fringe that was the Death Wish faithful. The divide was sharp, hostile. Cultural oil meeting vinegar. No emulsification in sight.

Serena shrank into herself, suddenly hyper-aware of every stud on her top, every theatrical line of her makeup which was now melting into chaotic strokes. Laughter. Mocking, guttural, it rippled through the interlopers. Then, words flung like darts.

“Fucking freaks.”

She blinked slowly, as if processing a foreign language, and then smiled. Not kindly. Her gaze cut to her bandmates. “Let’s do ‘Sorority Girls,’” she said, voice steady but gleaming with wicked glee. The sting of insult had alchemized into mischief. Trent’s lips curled into a half-smirk. Jenny raised a bleached brow and shot a thumbs-up.

“Hey!” Serena shouted. Heads turned. Some retreating toward the door paused. Others froze mid-merch selection, their hands hovering over the Pay What You Can jar. “This one’s a cover,” she announced. A knife before the plunge. She struck the opening chords of the song. Grimy, angular, and unapologetically confrontational. Her voice, when it came, was candy-laced poison, dripping sarcasm as she sang.

“Alpha

Beta, Delta

Placenta

Zita, Smegma

Alfalfa!”

Cheers. Nervous, delighted reinforcement from the crowd that mattered. They surged forward again, forming a bulwark of grins and combat boots. Serena flexed theatrically, mocking the very machismo that now glared at her.

“Hey, hey, hey, boys let’s go to the frat party

The theme is white people

Get your roofies ready!”

Middle fingers shot upward. Boos punctuated the performance. She stood unwavering, feeding off their disapproval. Her voice climbed higher, edged with barely contained laughter, as she delivered the final verse with venom and flair.

“Brainless fucking football dudes,

Wanna puke and spew on you!”

A roar of applause overtook the space. A tidal wave of affirmation. The punks stood taller, unified. Conversation erupted as the band began to pack up. Neon-clad security hovered uneasily, fluorescent against the ocean of black jackets and faded jeans.

Serena slipped her guitar into its padded case and helped haul gear into Trent’s rusting van. She leaned against the side of the vehicle for a breath, eyes fluttering shut. Her whole body was humming, not from exertion, but from the resonance of adrenaline. The kind you only got after a set where everything came out exactly wrong and exactly right. Off-key, messy, glorious. The scent of sweat, beer, and residual reverb clung to her like a second skin. She lived for this. For the moment where the noise quieted but the ache stayed.

Once, after a backyard show in South Philly, a girl with a busted lip came up to her and said, “You made me feel like I could do anything.” Serena never forgot that. That’s what she wanted to be. A weapon people could hold when the world got sharp.

The night air bit at her sweat-slick skin, and thirst curled in her throat like smoke. She debated her options. Brave the throng for a drink, or stick to the steel water bottle waiting in her tote? Logic whispered hydration, but her craving screamed bourbon.

Head high, she marched back inside, shoulders squared, every step a statement. High-fives from fellow outcasts met her along the way. “Freak” was a badge of honor.

She waded into the crowd of frat boys like a fish swimming upstream, trampling over a Birkenstock. Its owner snarled.

“Watch it, bitch. You're just mad ‘cause you’re chopped.”

Serena didn’t flinch. She tossed cash on the bar and gave her order, letting her glare speak volumes. The guy wasn’t done. He loomed, breath sour, fists coiled.

“You think you're cool ‘cause you’re emo?” he slurred. “You look fucking stupid.”

She stared up at him, measuring. His eyes glinted with hostility. She spat.

Time slowed. His face twisted, a cartoon of shock and rage. He stepped too close for comfort. Serena inhaled sharply, ready to duck or run.

Then, cologne. Subtle, green, a hint of sage beneath the sweat and booze. A man had wedged himself between them, shoulder broad, thick brow furrowed in quiet concern.

“Is he bothering you?” he asked, voice low but clear.

His arm slid onto the counter in a gesture of protection. Jaw tight. He looked nervous, almost shy. Serena arched her brow, suspicious of hero complexes.

“His existence is an affront to evolution,” she muttered.

It caught him off guard. He snorted and grabbed her drink as it arrived.

“Let’s go outside,” he offered, nodding toward the exit.

She eyed him warily, but the bourbon called. She followed.

Once in the cold, she snatched the glass from him. “Can I have that, or are you gonna slip something in it first?”

His expression flickered. Shocked, then solemn. “Of course not,” he said quickly, hands raised in surrender. “Just didn’t want you to leave it behind. That guy was looking to throw hands.”

He hesitated. “Wanna sit?”

With a sigh, Serena dropped into a patio chair. Her legs sang with fatigue. She took a long pull from the straw, the bourbon sliding down her throat. Liquid courage.

He joined her, awkwardly adjusting in his seat.

“So...you go to Penn?”

“Yeah. Second year. Fine Arts. Poli Sci Minor.”

“Same. Engineering. Philosophy Minor.” He paused, then smiled. “I’m Luigi.”

“Serena.”

“Good to meet you.” His grin was wide, toothy, honest. “Caught the end of your set. It was...interesting.”

She tilted her head. “You can be honest if it’s not your thing.”

Luigi ducked his gaze, lashes brushing his cheeks. “I’m more into EDM,” he admitted sheepishly. “But I listen to some rock.”

Serena leaned forward, amused. “Is that so? Which bands?”

Luigi shifted in his seat, propping an elbow on the metal table, pecan eyes flicking up as if to scan a playlist in his head.

“I mean... I like Joy Division, obviously. ‘Atmosphere’ is genius. And Nine Inch Nails. ‘The Downward Spiral’ is basically a thesis on digital alienation. Velvet Underground. Lou Reed's voice sounds like someone reading Bukowski out loud in a dive bar. Bowie’s Low is my go-to coding album. New Order, I respect the fusion. ‘Temptation’ might be their best.”

Serena’s expression didn’t soften, exactly, but something behind her eyes flickered. Not approval. Curiosity.

“Hm,” she said, swirling the ice in her drink. “Respectable. Safe answers. You do your homework.”

“Safe?” Luigi looked mildly offended. “Low is emotionally deranged.”

“You’re not wrong,” she allowed, cocking her head. “But if you really knew Bowie, you’d talk about Scary Monsters before Low. That’s when he got vicious. And Joy Division? I’ll take ‘Disorder’ over ‘Atmosphere’ any day. Rawer. Desperate. Still bleeding.”

Luigi blinked. “Okay, fair. What about New Order?”

Serena took a sip of her drink, then pointed a black-painted nail at him. “If you say Blue Monday, I will end this conversation.”

He laughed. “I was going to say ‘Your Silent Face.’”

That caught her off guard. Her eyebrows lifted. She was impressed despite herself.

“That’s... actually my favorite,” she said, slower. “Fine. You pass.”

Luigi mimed wiping sweat from his brow. “Thank God. Okay, but,” he said, leaning closer, “Radiohead.”

Serena rolled her eyes dramatically. “Thom Yorke sounds like a faulty humidifier.”

“False. He sounds like a mourning ghost.”

She laughed, despite herself. “Alright, fine. 'Weird Fishes' slaps. But only because of the drums.”

Luigi nodded solemnly. “Philip Selway is the true MVP.”

Serena smiled. Not wide, but real. She crossed her legs, boot toe tapping in rhythm with some phantom beat.

“Okay, so come on. Which one?”

Luigi blinked.

“Huh?”

Serena snickered.

“Which frat are you in?”

Luigi chuckled, sheepish again.

“I'm in Phi Psi, but I mostly joined for the house Wi-Fi and Smash Bros tournaments.”

Serena took another drink.

“Y’know, I’ve always felt the need to walk home with my keys between my fingers,” she said quietly. “I don’t go to parties unless I’m sharing my location with someone.”

Luigi’s shoulders slumped a little.

“That sucks. That’s not how it should be.”

Serena nodded.

“Broadly, it’s not just a frat problem. It’s a men problem.”

He looked pensive. She continued.

“If there’s a bowl of M&Ms, and you know 10% of them are poisoned, you wouldn’t eat a handful.”

Silence stretched. Not the awkward kind. More like letting things settle. She looked at him again—really looked. His eyes were earnest, warm. He wasn’t trying to impress her. He was just there, open. It disarmed her more than bravado ever could.

Trent walked through the door, supporting a giggling Jenny as she leaned on him. Serena’s canvas tote bag was held on his other lanky arm. “I’m DD,” he assured, beckoning for her to join them.

Serena stood. “Gotta go.”

Luigi rose to his feet with her. “Thanks for the chat.”

She pulled a magenta Sharpie out of her back pocket - the same one she’d used to scrawl the band’s setlist - then grabbed his hand without warning. “Hold still,” she commanded, writing her number across his palm in sharp, messy digits.

He smiled, the kind that reached his eyes. “I’ll text.”

Luigi stood for a moment in the chill air, watching her go, lime green hair a radioactive flare in the dark. Her number felt warm on his skin, like a sigil. He stared down at it, the ink already smudging.

“Broadly, it’s not just a frat problem. It’s a men problem.”

Her words stuck to him. Not guilt. A challenge. An invitation to understand more, to do more.

He opened his phone and snapped a picture of the number, just in case it faded. Then he turned toward home, humming “Your Silent Face” under his breath.

Serena locked the door to her apartment with a satisfying click, toes already aching to peel out of her platform Chelsea boots. The night’s adrenaline was ebbing, replaced with the slow throb of sore muscles and a stubborn, lingering tension in her shoulders. Half from the set, half from... everything else.

She tossed her keys onto the kitchen counter, and headed straight for the bathroom. The apartment was dim except for the silver glow from streetlights slicing through the blinds. Her space was small, cluttered with canvases and half-finished embroidery hoops, but the bathroom was hers. A temple.

Black tile gleamed. The walls were lined with shelves that held a careful arrangement of jars and bottles, her own modern witch’s apothecary. She pulled down a holographic pouch with lettering that read, ‘Twisted Allure: Unicorn Blood Milk Bath.’

She opened it and inhaled. Cotton candy. Sweet, synthetic, nostalgic. Like boardwalks and lip gloss and childhood whispers. She poured it in slowly. The water swirled as it filled, colors blooming into fantastical clouds of pink, lavender, and pastel blue. The surface shimmered faintly, reminding her of oil on pavement.

She lit her candles one by one, white soy wax in glass tumblers. The flames flickered against the tile, reflecting like stars caught in obsidian. When the bath was full, she sank in with a hiss of relief, the warmth stealing a groan from her throat.

For a long moment, Serena just lay there. Limbs floating. Steam curling around her collarbones. Her skin took on the tint of the water — a soft swirl of dreamlike colors. She watched a bubble drift and burst.

Then, slowly, her mind wandered. Uninvited, but not unwelcome.

Luigi.

That guy with the careful voice and the shy, crooked grin. He’d smelled clean. Green. Something herbal and grounding. Sage, maybe, or cedar. Not Axe or sweat or liquor, but...safety.

And those curls. Dark and tight. She remembered how they caught the light when he leaned forward. The slight sheen at his temples. Thick brows, low over those wide, brown eyes. The kind that crinkled when he smiled. There was kindness there. And some sadness, too.

Serena closed her eyes. Let herself picture him fully now.

A square jaw, softened by the slight flush that had colored his cheeks when she teased him about Radiohead. Long lashes, criminally long, like he didn’t even realize their impact. Lips that were neither thin nor pouty, just inviting.

She sank deeper into the warmth, water lapping at her collarbone, cotton candy scent thick in the air. The bath was making her drowsy. Her limbs, already sore, now felt boneless. She imagined tracing her fingers along the ridge of his jaw. Curling one of those dark locks around her pinky. What would it feel like to kiss him? Slow, maybe. Intentional. Or would he be the kind to surprise her, all hidden heat beneath that gentle exterior?

Her lips quirked. She didn’t usually daydream like this. Not about frat boys, certainly. But Luigi didn’t feel like one. Not really. He hadn’t looked at her like a body, or a spectacle. He’d looked at her like a person. Like someone he actually wanted to understand.

Unicorn Blood, she thought, watching the color swirl around her toes. The name felt stupidly fitting. Something rare. Maybe even magical, in a way.

Serena sighed. Let the thoughts fade. Let the night dissolve around her. There would be time to decide what Luigi meant. For now, she would soak in sugar-scented warmth and the memory of a man who stood between her and danger. Quiet, and smelling like sage.

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