#why bother??? I’ll keep bothering out of spite and stupid foolish hope but I still don’t fucking know why I bother when it never gets better

[samwisefamgee]

Every day I grow closer to throwing my phone into the river and when I do I won’t fucking regret it

[ibijau]

Jin Rusong Lives / On AO3

A morning in the life of Nie Huaisang now that everything has changed

Nie Huaisang wriggled his fingers, fighting the impulse to grab the ties of Jin Rusong's underclothes and help. It would have been faster, it would have been more efficient, and his ward was going to be late for class again, and… 

The knot unravelled again, provoking a frown on the child's face. Unable to resist any longer Nie Huaisang lunged forward, only to have his hands batted away with absolute authority. 

"I can do it," Jin Rusong complained, sticking out his tongue as he set out to try again. "I'm big, and Feng-jie says only babies need other people to tie their clothes for them." 

Nie Huaisang smiled nervously. He had personally never fought hard to be independent when he was a child, perfectly happy to let other people do everything for him until his father or brother decided he was too old for it. Even back then, he had never put any effort in anything that didn't interest him. He'd taught himself to read at four, but couldn't put his boots on the right foot until he was ten. 

Jin Rusong wasn't him. After having been sheltered all his short life, he could have been expected to remain shy for a long time… But he really was his parents' son and had quickly proven he could be quite sociable once given the chance. In the last two months, he had made quite a few friends already. 

The downside to that was that he had started comparing himself to other children and, in true Jin fashion, had hated that they knew how to do things he couldn't.

It was perfectly normal apparently, and Nie Junyu said Nie Huaisang’s job was to encourage and support Jin Rusong's efforts. Which he tried to do, but sometimes… 

The knot unravelled again. Jin Rusong pouted, suddenly on the verge of tears. 

"I'll never do it right!" 

Nie Huaisang sighed, and smiled as he grasped the ties. This time, he wasn't stopped. 

"Like this," he said, making the knot as slowly as he could so Jin Rusong could see it. Then, in spite of how late they were already, he undid the knot. "Now SongSong can try again, one more time." 

"I don't want. I prefer if uncle Nie does it for me." 

"Just one more try. You know uncle Nie is so proud of SongSong when he tries his best."

"But I've tried so hard! It never works." 

It had been a spectacular failure so far, but Nie Huaisang blamed himself more than Jin Rusong. A good student could only do so much with a bad teacher, and in the two months that Jin Rusong had been under his care, Nie Huaisang had come to the conclusion he was not, and by far, a very good teacher. It gave him a new sympathy for Lan Qiren. For Jiang Wanyin and Lan Xichen as well, who had both helped raise their nephews and never seemed to struggle with it.

Sighing again, Nie Huaisang tied the knot one final time. 

"Later I'll ask Nie Junyu if he can tell us a different method," he offered. "He's the one who taught Feng-jie, so he must know how to do it right. I’m sure he’ll be happy to help, and it’s important to ask for help for things you can’t do alone, right SongSong?"

A lesson Nie Huaisang wished sometimes he had learned better. It was a little late for him, but Jin Rusong wouldn’t have to turn out like him. The child did not answer right away, but Nie Huaisang simply took his silence as agreement and worked on putting the rest of his clothes on.

"You won't get mad if I never learn?" Jin Rusong asked with hesitation.

Nie Huaisang’s hands froze for a second. 

"Why would I be mad at SongSong?" he asked lightly, grabbing the next layer of cloth. "Is it something that happened before, people getting mad at SongSong when he has trouble with something?" 

"Mommy says it's important I'm good always," Jin Rusong replied after another too long pause. "Because people will be mean to daddy if we're not all very good. Sometimes LingLing is not good," he added with just a touch of judgement. "But I try because I don't want daddy to be sad." 

"SongSong is such a good boy," Nie Huaisang said, quickly finishing to dress him up. "Let's go. Fang Mingtian is going to scold me again. I need to start waking up earlier so we can maybe try to be on time someday." 

Jin Rusong tilted his head, and offered a foot so his boots could be put on. 

"Uncle Nie is the sect leader. I thought people have to be nice to the sect leader?" 

"Please, do explain that to Fang Mingtian,” Nie Huaisang muttered, grabbing him in his arms as soon as his boots were on. “And to Nie Junyu because he did scold me last week when I was late for that meeting.”

Jin Rusong nodded a little too seriously, as if he really intended to explain to everyone that they needed to be nicer to Nie Huaisang. He really was the most precious child in the world, and Nie Huaisang could only hope his ward nephew would keep that innocence and good heart a while longer.

When Jin Rusong had been dropped in his class (and Fang Mingtian scolded Nie Huaisang for being so late once more), Nie Huaisang headed to his office to deal with the day’s business. It was usually the matter of a shichen at most now that he no longer had to feign incompetence, and then he’d be free for the rest of the day unless something came up.

Nie Huaisang had finished sorting through some requests and checking a series of bills when Nie Funyu joined him, bringing a few more urgent cries for help that had just arrived that morning, before telling him that some merchants from Qinghe had requested an audience with him about some matter they needed Qinghe Nie’s help with.

“Does it look urgent?”

“No, but Huang Xuhuan is among them,” Nie Funyu pointed out with a grimace that Nie Huaisang mirrored.

“That entitled… Fine, I’ll see them right away,” Nie Huaisang sighed, rising from his desk. “It’s probably still about that trade deal he wants to get with Yunmeng. They must think that I’m on good terms with Jiang zongzhu again.”

Nie Funyu raised an eyebrow at that remark, which Nie Huaisang ignored. He’d exchanged a few letters with Jiang Wanyin, and many more than that with Jin Rulan, but he wasn’t so foolish as to think he got along with either of them. Still, of course Jiang Wanyin’s visit a few weeks earlier had been noticed. And when Jin Rulan came to check on his cousin, as Nie Huaisang expected him to do at any moment, there would be still more gossip about reconciliation between Qinghe Nie and the other sects.

Stupid.

Nie Huaisang had further ruined his sect’s reputation, and there would probably not be any going back from that.

Pushing away that unpleasant thought, and as they walked toward the throne room, Nie Huaisang tried to focus on something that he could still do right: Jin Rusong.

-

“I’ll need you to explain to Jin Rusong how to make a knot,” he told Nie Funyu. “When I try, he doesn’t manage it, and he’s scared he’ll never manage. I think he’d profit from a better teacher and you’ve had all those children, so...”

“He is still young, it’s normal for him to struggle,” Nie Funyu replied with a small frown. “It’s A-Feng bothering him with that, isn’t it?” Nie Huaisang nodded, a little embarrassed to be exposing the little girl that way. “I’ll tell her to be nicer to him about that. She’s just figured it out recently, so she’s boasting a bit but she shouldn’t make other kids feel bad. Not to mention she’s nearly a year older than him.”

“I’ve tried to explain that to him before, but he doesn’t listen, “ Nie Huaisang complained. "I wish…" he sighed. "Dage would have known what to do." 

To his surprise, Nie Funyu burst out laughing and had to stop walking.

"Nie zongzhu, no offence, but your brother was really out of his depth when he found himself suddenly in charge of you,” he said when he managed to calm down. “He kept asking Fang Mingtian what to do, and he every other day he had to beg Zonghui to help because he was the only one who could make you eat vegetables."

"I don't remember that," Nie Huaisang mumbled, opening his fan to hiding behind it. "He always seemed so sure of himself about everything."

“Again, no offence, but he let you get away with everything because he didn’t want to be too harsh. With how things were with your father toward the end…”

Nie Huaisang nodded grimly, grasping his fan a little harder. His father had been a good man, a great father, but after his sabre broke, things had been… different. Nie Huaisang had been too young then to understand why, not much older than Jin Rusong in fact, and so all he remembered was a sudden change, bouts of anger, and ultimately…

It still surprised him sometimes that he hadn’t recognised the same symptoms in Nie Mingjue, years later.

He hoped Jin Rusong would never have to see those symptoms in him. With how little he cultivated, with the fact that Jin Rulan would probably want his cousin to return to Carp Tower within a year or two… it should be safe, Jin Rusong wouldn’t be around when the family curse caught up with him at last.

“Your brother didn’t want you to be scared of him like you’d become scared of your father,” Nie Funyu soberly said. “He spoiled you rotten, never scolded you as much as he should have, let you fail in your studies without consequences, he never even really pushed you to practice the saber… We were a little worried how you’d end up at one point, but in the end you turned out fine, Nie zongzhu.”

Nie Huaisang scoffed and started walking again. No need to make those damn merchants angry.

“Sure, aside from the…”

“You did what you had to do,” Nie Funyu cut him, following him. “Not the way the rest of us would have gone about it, but I promise you there isn’t a person in Qinghe Nie who isn’t proud of what you did for your brother. And your brother would be proud as well,” Nie Funyu added before his sect leader could try to protest. “He’d be proud that you avenged him, and he’d be proud that you’re trying to do right by that child.”

Of that, Nie Huaisang was less than sure. Nie Mingjue had been a good man, but his sense of justice had not always been very fair as such. Maybe he would have wanted the total annihilation of Jin Guangshan’s bloodline, the way he had desired the end of Wen Ruohan’s. Maybe…

But there would be no knowing what he would have wanted. Nie Huaisang was left with nothing but his own judgement to decide how to act. A rotten tool to use, and one that had brought him mostly trouble. Still, it was what he had, and he’d work with it.

“I think I’ll play it stupid with Huang Xuhuan,” he whispered to Nie Funyu just before they reached the throne room. “It’ll make him feel he can safely show his hand. Please don’t hesitate to roll your eyes and huff behind my back, it’ll help sell it and you do it so well.”

“That would be because it’s a sincere reaction, Nie zongzhu,” Nie Funyu retorted, fighting a smile. “Can’t believe they buy it when you overact like that…”

Nie Huaisang winked at him from behind his fan, then schooled his features into a pathetic, worried expression as he entered the room where the merchants waited.

“Huang gongzi!” he cried out. “What an honour to have a visit from you! Such an honour, I can’t say how pleased I am… and your friends too of course. Such a pleasure! Did you want to discuss something?”

The merchants grinned, confident that they’d get their way as always, even though that had never actually happened yet. And behind him, Nie Huaisang knew that Nie Funyu had already started rolling his eyes.

It wasn’t how he’d hoped to spend his morning, but this might be fun too.

[we-live-in-a--society]

Nulla dies sine linea

Line.

A blunt, straight-edged cut that divides the surface into twain separate expanses, or a curve, soft and feminine – a contrast for what is stern and malevolent – a pair that undeniably completes itself, deprived of all the flaws, yet soaked within, exemplary balance of two factors.

Equilibrium.

Turmoil, sleeplessness that is supposed to bring answers – a foolish hope of an at-halt man.

Outdated ways of thinking, of perceiving reality, the ones that prevent a person from seeing any alternative, an entirely new approach, a breakthrough that results in remarkable success.

Uniqueness – a pursuit never meant to be achieved.

Truism that holds all the components of the world, a design of another restless demiurge, a greater one maybe, yet a parallel for every single creator, architect of his own destruction.

The Lambs, lost in post-delirium state of an incompetent mind.

* * *

Smoke has never ceased to mesmerize him, the fluency of transferring into billowing shapes that it acquires, only to evaporate moments later – a fleeting notion, so difficult to capture, which might be the exact factor that makes it so appealing to the eye, so desired, a conviction that it is only a matter of seconds required for the vapor to dissolve. Fire has always hit him with a similar impression – hypnotizing, yet fascinating, in possession of a power that he could only dream of obtaining, the one that could easily destroy acres of land, leaving only the grotesque stumps behind – remains of prior imperiality.

Crystal used to rant about how ‘those cancer sticks’ are going to kill him one day, how each of them reduces his life expectancy, how it is even possible for a person to be so blind, so ignorant, so coarse... Truth to be told, he doubts whether she, indeed, cared about his well-being that much, suspecting an entirely different outcome, even more straightforward; she liked to stand out of the crowd, a single woman bathed in the mist of smokers, inhaling the pungent scent either way, as if her perseverance, or maybe stubbornness is a better word, made any difference here – a gloss of irrationality.

Simplification: she was just a pain in the ass.

Past tense.

Either way, he somehow managed to tolerate such behavior for exactly fifteen days, then broke up with her, though she never failed to amuse him, such a frivolous, little girl who took a liking into playing adults, not even referring to her age. He has never believed in such absurd concepts, age as a life-defining factor, ultimate description, featuring every single aspect imaginable – paradox, blatant simplification, something that people seek out in their free time to paraphrase the reality – a trait of the weakest, majority of population.

Such a shame to be a human.

Deep in his reverie, he fails to notice that the cigarette is almost smoked to the filter until it literally burns him, a telling sting in between his fingers, slight but still unpleasant, enough to toss the remains on the street – a dole to society. He catches a glimpse of the smoldering tip, before it disappears into the night, swallowed by the darkness, blinded by the city lights – another contribution to the transience of the temporal world.

Truth to be told, the rooftop has always been his favorite place in this fungous building – a coalescence of equally moldy flats – with the view spreading across miles of urban estates, skyscrapers, and parks. It bestows him with a certain understanding that in spite of his lifelong inhabitance of said space, he is never meant to reveal all of its mysteries, cover every square meter of land, which in turn evokes this peculiar feeling of pettiness, the one he absolutely loathes – helpless man within a harmful world.

Nevertheless, he can either accept, or deny it, while keeping in mind that the latter is a trait of permanently stupid, close-minded people – a group that he wishes to collaborate with at last, if ever. It reminds him of a sect, less formal obviously, yet the analogy is obtuse: one sacrifices the prospect of self-development on behalf of leading a facile life – a blessing as some of them might say.

But not him.

What is beneficial about flatting out one’s existence? Rolling it out to the point where it is almost impossible to surmise whether there is a carpet sprawling on the floor, or the woodblocks are just bumpy? To make sure that there will not be any need to pay the professional to deal with said issue?

Worthless.

Aside from the cult-related illations, he senses yet another alteration lingering in the air, a distinct notion that shifts his focus, akin to a smell of a freshly cooked bacon that tickles one’s nose in the morning, prompting to lift the heavy eyelids, a burning sensation of being watched, even if for a split second, spreading over the flesh of his back, until he is forced to break the logy lull.

“Fancy a cigarette with me?” A thick timbre that slices through the silence, clearly startling the intruder, evident in a startled gasp that the person utters.

“I thought no one comes here,” a silvery voice, definitely female, accompanied by a telltale clink, signalizing that the woman is approaching his sitting spot.

“That would be ignorant, don’t you think?” He remarks, fingers dipping inside a package for another cigarette. “To deprive yourself of the opportunity to see the city from such exceptional perspective.”

“Maybe you’re right,” she shrugs, flopping down on the concrete beside him, gaze flicking to meet his – green interfering with grey – topping it up with a subtle, polite smile thrown in his direction. Her face seems familiar: unlined, with round eyes and shapely nose, prompting that their paths must have crossed somewhere in the past, which evokes a burning need to ask about said issue, followed by a blunt query.

“You live here, don’t you?” He mutters indistinctly with another cig pushed in between his lips, flicking a lighter to ignite the flame.

“I do,” she affirms with a refined nod, hand reaching out to draw the coattails together, as if to keep herself warm, exhaling a billow of air through her nose, visible due to the low temperature. “Is the cigarette still available?”

“I think so,” he flashes her a fleeting smile as the package tilts in her direction, inclining the woman to help herself, to which she complies, fishing out a single fag. He lights it up for her with seemingly no effort – a proficient manner of a long-term smoker – watching her drag on the cig as if anticipating her to choke on its contents, but nothing like this happens. Instead, she lets out a puff of smoke that forms another bizarrely shaped cloud, soon to evaporate with the cool, autumn breeze – another ephemeral prove of world’s temporality.

“You are that painter, am I right?” She conjectures, glancing at him briefly, as if his reaction was supposed to affirm the surmise.

“Should I be concerned that you know about my trade?” He cocks an eyebrow at her – a cunning, seemingly playful banter.

“I thought artists aim for being renowned,” she remarks with a sarcastic tingle that he subconsciously notices, either way decides against acknowledging for now. “But no, I’ve been told that someone with such occupation lives here, and it someway fits you, I mean in appearance.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment,” he laughs, a throaty chuckle laced with a hint of harshness that comes from smoking.

“I wouldn’t say it surprises me,” she mimics his manner – a refined smile playing upon her lips – although not daring to crack yet. One of his friends would claim that if someone is interested, he, or she in this case, will subconsciously attempt to copy your gestures – knowledge that is supposed to be a key to success, at least according to his assertions.

(“I guide others to the treasure I cannot possess.”)

“You never told me why you chose come here,” he interjects after a few longer intervals, enlaced in a peaceful silence, if one excludes the metropolis din, dull and monotonous.

“Well, you didn’t ask,” she eludes, but carries on either way, her voice oddly tranquil in the mist of hectic city. “The explanation is simple: look down. They all seem so far-away, departed from our reality, unable to perceive the world in terms of integrity. I think sitting here gives you an entirely different perspective, allows you to see all the obvious correlations, the ones that they consistently miss.”

“In case someone would want to involve more deeply, am I right?” He retorts – a question that needs no verbal answer. “I think of it more like a paradox: we see more, yet less at the same time, the details long forgotten at such altitude.”

“Are any of those important to you?” She carries on with the queries, glancing at his briefly, as if to affirm whether he is serious. “Those, people, those trifles?”

“Nah,” he counters, flashing her another teasing smirk, “I disagree for fun.”

“Is ‘disagreeing for fun’ a trait of artist in general, or just your trait?” She laughs this time – a pearly chuckle that he finds oddly charming – as the cigarette slips from her fingers, following its path on the concrete sidewalk a few floors below. “Don’t take it personally, or even seriously. I don’t generalize, and to be honest I think it’s a holdover.”

“Trust me, I don’t,” he throws her a mild smile, his ember quick to follow its twin traces. “Also, sorry I haven’t introduced myself earlier,” he adds, luckily without bothering to shake her hand; she doubts whether there is anything worse than that, “Alexander.”

“Serena,” she reciprocates, holding the eye contact for a few longer moments – an affirmative gesture.

“It suits you,” he remarks, eyes glinting with an emotion she is yet unable to place, and so decides to shove aside for a while, soon to be back on the abandoned track of thoughts.

“Alexander…” she begins, letting it reverberate for a little while – time required to formulate a surmise, “like Alexander The Great?”

“Nah,” he chuckles, “like Graham Bell. My mother was particularly fond pf telephones, ‘such life-changing devices’, she would say.”

“To be honest I’ve never given names much thought,” she professes, running a single hand through her windswept hair, their texture silky in between her fingers, “I take them more as a-”

“Form of classification, I know,” he interrupts, spurring her to glance at him, both eyebrow raised, visibly caught off guard. “Quite a rare point of view if you’re asking me.”

She only hums in response, her eyes glued to the cityscape ahead, a bunch of high-rise buildings with most lights already extinguished, considering all the ‘sane’ people are fast asleep by now, with yet another question lingering on the tip of her tongue, curiosity waiting to be satiated.

“Why have you chosen to be an artist?”

“I wouldn’t say this is something you ‘chose’,” he frowns, two thin lines stressing out his relatively youthful face – an inclination that he might be right at the cusp between mid- and late-twenties. “It is more about going with the flow, doing things because you find certain pleasure in them, not a formal occupation with all those scraps of paper that people like to label as ‘employment contracts’. Plus it’s not my only ‘job’, considering I manage to pay the bills on time.”

“Okay,” she acknowledges with a fleeting nod, so subtle he suspects it to be yet another half-conscious implication of his mind, “but that still doesn’t answer my question.”

“Patience is a virtue,” he teases, an expression comparatively close to amusement enlightening his features. “Has anyone ever told you that?”

“Never heard of it before,” a flat response, betraying her mild impatience, “but do go on, I’m all ears.”

“Before I move on to the due story, it’s essential to know that my old man was a hippie,” he begins, green enlacing with grey once more. “During my childhood, I barely saw my father, so I used to idealize him as any kid would do, considering his constant absence – quite a simple mechanism if you’re asking me,” another fleeting glance thrown towards her, “and yet, when he wasn’t busy doing hell knows what, he taught me about aspects that appeared more useful to me at that time than all those school rules and down-to-earth expectations from my mother. He taught me how important it is to be free, to go your own way, and stand for what you consider essential, so I did that and almost got kicked out on the street for falling behind on rent.”

“Well,” she shrugs, as if not quite sure how to react, “some social standards are impossible to outrun.”

“It’s not even about that,” he contradicts with a graceful flick of his wrist, too dapper to appear as dismissive, “he was… how to formulate this properly… detached from reality, which is something that I realized during my teenage years, yet was unable to make a use of at that time,” he explains, quick to resume after a brief interval of silence. “Summing it up, I paint because I find certain pleasure in the activity itself, not to make some real money.”

“So are you working on anything particular?” She carries on with the questions, as if genuinely interested in what he is saying, not that he finds said aspect surprising. Something about him has always seemed to attract various kinds of people, maybe encouraged by his pertinent remarks, quick wits, or the general charm he oozes with, as if an intrinsic part of his body’s chemistry.

“Currently? Nah,” he shakes his head in denial, longish hair flowing around, skimming the tops of his shoulders, and luring Serena to run her fingers through the beach waves, to finally verify whether they are, indeed, as silky as they look like.

(Quite a weird thought if you are asking me.)

“Creator’s block? Is that so?” She nags further, as if irking him up already managed to situate itself in between her very special penchants.

“Something like that,” he huffs dismissively, pique evident in his manners, evoking the need to carry on with said intension.

(Mmm… that’s a bingo!)

“I hit the nail on the head, haven’t I?” She teases, too impudent for his tastes – a matter meant to be rectified in due course, another conception already blossoming underneath his skull, a brainchild soon to be implemented.

“Um, maybe you have,” he mutters indistinctly as he slips an unlit cigarette in between his lips, “which gives me a wonderful idea, if I’m being honest.”

“What kind of idea?” She inquires further, aware of the indispensability of said contribution, and despite knowing him for less than half an hour, she would have to be blind and deaf to miss his performative tendencies, topped with self-centered attitude – a form of paradox in itself: decoy and deter.

“Would you mind if I painted you?” He proposes, out of nowhere, snorting when he hears her choke on own saliva. The variety of reactions in this case is something that he still has not fully gotten used to: from the bewildered silence to excited squeals, each of them beautifully exceptional in some sort of way, or at least not overly repetitive.

(Uniqueness is for fools.)

“Excuse me?” She utters a brief moment later, as soon as she manages to compose herself, voice tremulous – a display of confusion and fuel for his amusement, gasoline to put out fire with.

“You’ve heard me,” he replies bluntly, exhaling a ring of smoke through his mouth, as if her response was not even included in the list of all current subjects of interest.

“I mean, um, I don’t know,” she fumbles with the words for a couple of seconds, as if not quite certain which one to pick. “I didn’t expect you to make such request.”

“Think it over then,” he suggests with a carefree banter that she finds a little annoying at this point, “I’m in no hurry.”

“But when-”

“Save the w-questions,” he cuts in, shushing her with a dismissive flick of his wrist. “It’s a simple, yes-or-no matter, plus I have no answers to any of them yet.”

“I don’t know if I should trust you,” she admits, long nails scratching the side of her face, as if it was supposed to relieve the tension and reclaim the focus.

“That’s okay,” he shrugs with suggestive smile adorning his lips – a prelude to whichever impure thought he is just about to verbalize, “I don’t trust myself either.”

“That’s not as reassuring as I would like it to be,” she chuckles – a girlish display of nervousness, or maybe a part of well-developed play, considering his doubts when it comes to whether he is able to read her like an open book by now, not that it lies out of his ability range in general.

“Okay, S,” he disrupts, dumping the half-smoked cigarette aside a brief moment later – a signal that he is just about to leave her here to own company, as if standing up was not clarifying enough. “no pressure. Supposing you make up your mind about this, you know where to find me.”

And with that he walks away, swallowed by the gloom prevailing the staircase, steps echoing in the dusty corridor.

Damn him.

* * *

To begin with, there are a bunch of aspects that can be easily associated with empty flat, solitude being the very first one of them in his case – room bathed in a daylight, clear and bright, such an unusual occurrence during the fall season. Almost blinding upon his face, eyelids forced to shut, as he decorates the ashtray with leftover ember, mashing in into the glassy surface, all remains turned to dust, black powder meant to be taken with the city breeze.

The habit of smoking by the open window should not concern him anymore, since the lingering smell makes no difference for the lone smoker, and still, each subsequent attempt to drop the subject ends up with following the well-known path either way. Said inference entails another one: certain aspects appear to be labelled with a transcendent meaning that walks one through life, upbringing for instance, what parents pass on their children – questionable balance of benefits and burdens – a lead to the final conclusion, a reason why he has to catch a cold every fall season, considering he rarely bothers to put on a coat – ludicrously futile pursuit.

A passing opportunity, bright daylight but no brushes, no easels, no paints, just a half-empty space, the aforementioned objects nestling in the corner, as if intending to express their permanent resentfulness, a silent question why he does not bother to flash them even the most insignificant glance. In the late night hours, he can almost hear their faint whispers, pleas for attention, paired with the jeering mockeries, all addressed to him, reminders that he is heading straight towards the inevitable lunacy, unless, of course, he gets back on track with all the abandoned works.

Highly improbable, considering the time expanse dividing his encounter with Serena from the present situation, rather unfavorable in his case, but also immune to any significant changes – such a life-defining paradox. At some point, he even dared to ponder asking her to come by, but then again he has formed a conclusion that the outcome might be his last intention, if not entirely omitted, having her perceive him in terms of some pathetic desperado who he is unable to sense when is the right time to let go.

People are truly the oddest creatures.

Final verdict followed by something else – a ring, a tearing noise that slices the lull into twain harsh pieces, all blunt, sharp edges, an exhortation to open the door and whisk away the thoughtless intruder, foolish to disrupt him during his time-out. With an exasperated huff, he moves towards said object, unlocking it with a deft flick of his wrist, and so revealing the visitor – a woman, moderate in her motions, hands shoved deep inside the pockets of her trench coat.

Speak of the devil.

“Seems like you’ve made up your mind, huh?” He greets her, first words that come to the mind as soon as his eyes land on her silhouette. The garment itself reminds him of one of his past girlfriends, or rather her clumsy attempt to surprise him with lack of clothing underneath back in his college days, times when he considered most of the career opportunities to lie sprawling within his reach, followed by the caustic awakening soon after the glorious drop out.

“Seems like I have, indeed,” she affirms, chin tilted upwards to meet his scrutinizing gaze, laced with undertones that she is unable to define yet, a manner that she has always associated with botanist examining his subject, spotted merely a few minutes ago.

“Would you like to come in then?” He proposes in time with a graceful step aside, exposing a sliver of his flat to her curious eyes – a bright room, lacking in almost all furniture that have a wide appeal in most houses, at least according to her observations, as if the oddity itself was calling her in.

Intending to find out what else might be hidden inside, she accepts his informal invitation, stepping past the doorway, her surmise soon to be confirmed – an open space with celling-high windows, oriented to the east, and a bunch of objects propped in the corner. On the side, a simple bed pushed up to the opposite wall, adjoining the compact kitchenette – a view that leaves little, if anything, to her imagination, display of exemplary minimalism.

“Tempting, isn’t it?” She cannot help but flinch at the low rumbling of his voice from behind her, a distinctive word, as if signifying a pending promise, an implication impossible to ignore.

“What precisely?” She manages to utter, concealing the incertitude evoked by the odd emphasis, all while he appears to be perfectly aware of her inner perturbation as his hands ghost over her shoulders, eliciting a surprised gasp from the woman.

“The liberty of open spaces,” he clarifies, smirk audible in his voice – a component that she finds rather annoying – blatant amusement, purposely on full display. “Let me take your coat.”

“I’ll manage,” she flashes him a brief glance, immediate to slip her arms out of the sleeves and hand over the garment, leaving him with no other choice than hang it in the wardrobe.

Deciding to have waited long enough, she walks towards the middle part of said main room, indicating to familiarize with the view sprawling just past the windowsill, while he is busy with all the essential preparations – a part that remains almost unnoticed to her until the jarring scrape reverberates in the air, enough to attract her attention. As he moves the easel towards its designed spot, she wonders how many people, or more precisely – how many women, he has brought here before he met her, intending to capture them even in the most vulnerable state, a fleeting expanse of time branded on the blank canvas, an opus for the clueless generations to ponder upon.

“So,” she clears her throat, following the query, “how are we gonna do this?”

“Without making you feel uncomfortable,” he mutters, in process of tying his hair in a messy bun on the back of his head, features now on full display: high cheekbones and sharp jawline obscured by the reddish stubble. “It’ll be visible, trust me.”

“No, I mean-”

“No?” He interrupts, lips laced in a teasing smirk, head tilted to the side, cocking an eyebrow at her in a manner that reminds Serena of some posh aristocrat, flirting with his love interest, but at this point she suspects it might be just an inherent part of his demeanor, approach towards women in general.

“I mean, where am I supposed to stand?” She queries, followed by a refined, although not suppressed, laugh – something that he has learned to associate with her mannerisms overall.

“I’m not sure yet,” he scrapes his nails over the chin – a signification of wonder. “We’ll try a couple of settings, ‘kay?”

“Okay,” she nods in affirmation, albeit quick to verbalize a newfound doubt. “Should I change?”

“Nah,” he waves her off with a dapper flick of his wrist, “I believe your personal choice of clothing is a form self-expression, and I want my models to look more organic, and by saying ‘organic’ I mean comfortable and self-assured with their appearances,” quite a fair explanation, she thinks. “Of course, if you are willing to strip, you can strip, that’s neither an issue nor something new to me, but there’s no pressure, as I mentioned.”

“Mmm… how diplomatic,” she almost purrs, sarcastic manners that fit in his tastes quite dearly, captivating yet caustic, enticing yet eerie, with an underlying promise, bulging just below the surface, meant to soak through the papery layer.

One of many reasons why he has always troubled with finding the right person, although is far from considering himself in terms of a delirious perfectionist with non-satiable cravings, searching for one sublime muse that would give his works meaning, pristine essence, remedy for all maladies, liquid to wash away the dirt. Truth to be told, the situation presents itself as no more no less than a mere cakewalk, which might as well be a polar exaggeration in such case, but either way it never appears to deny the existence of one distinctive aspect, appealing to him in almost every setting possible – freedom of speech, sparring match of two equal opponents, field for discussion, for development, for enrichment, mutual agreement laced with a hint of disparity, merely a flick of a lighter.

Ignition. Initiation.

Inception.

“You’re not listening to me,” a sentence that snaps him out of the trance, crawls in between his thoughts and pulls the threads apart – such an odd association – a slide to the temporal reality.

“I’m not,” he reaffirms, a ghost of what might as well be a smirk lacing his lips, as if to keep up with the ‘cheeky bastard’ profile, “so would you be so kind and reiterate that for me?”

“You don’t have much furniture,” she begins, a statement obtusely simple yet seemingly incomplete, gaze skimming past the empty space only to interfere with his in the end, pupils narrowed due to harsh brightness.

“Thank you, darling,” he smiles, seemingly polite – a well-sculptured façade, she has to admit, “I wouldn’t have noticed elsewise.”

“So I thought…” she carries on, not quite bothering to acknowledge the sarcastic remark, “maybe I could sit on the sill, since the light seems to do us a favor today.”

“Let’s try it out then,” he concurs almost at the spot, gesturing towards said window, to which she complies, helping herself up on the narrow seat, back supported by the wall, ruffling her hair to add some extra volume.

(Now that is interesting.)

“Is that acceptable?” She glances towards him, as if his countenance was supposed betray the intensions – highly improbable display of lacking control – although he would be lying if he said it strikes no cord within him, passes by without acknowledgement, without a single though occurring to be verbalized.

“Yes, darling, you look lush. Now focus,” he bestows her with a quick compliment, although definitely short-lived, his main interest now shifting towards more pragmatic matters. “Before we begin, you should know it’ll be exhausting, or fatiguing maybe, I don’t intend to hyperbolize, but tell me if you need a break.”

“Sure,” she nods, wriggling a little bit to find the most convenient position for those few following hours, “but I believe we’ll find a way not to bore each other out.”

“I believe we will,” he hums in agreement, pencil already in his hand, soon to initiate the process, graphite gliding smoothly over the canvas in a manner that reminds her of a longtime dancer in his natural habitat.

“You’re left handed?” She remarks, eyes glued to his movements from behind the easel.

“I vary,” he replies, ever at ease. “Although I happened to be called a communist from time to time in primary school.”

“What?” She laughs in disbelief, cocking an inquisitive eyebrow at him.

“It was a catholic one,” he glances at her briefly, with a sardonic smirk playing upon his lips. “I think that explains itself well enough.”

“Okay, but why a communist?” She carries on with the queries – a matter of incredulity.

“For some reasons they associated left-handedness with devilish collusions or, as I mentioned before, communism,” he shrugs, his gaze now glued to her face, although not quite meeting her eyes, quick to add a bunch of adjustments on the canvas. “No idea why.”

“Why did you went there then?”

“Well, I was just a kid,” he explains, impatience striking the chords. “My mother made that choice for me.”

“Seems like you managed though,” she remarks, voice laced with a subtle hint of carelessness, as if mimicking his manners, yet galvanizing them with something else – an act of subduing, partial eclipse, moderation.

“Well, I started smoking in the eighth grade and somehow went through,” he admits in a feignedly serious manner, chuckling at her frowning expression. “Christ, it’s just a joke, although I’m glad to be past that stage. It was too… restricting for me.”

“I think it’s every system’s main purpose – to restrict,” she reckons, glancing at the passing cars a few stories below. “But I also don’t have many fond memories concerning my pre-higher educational stage.”

“So you’re in college now?” She hums in agreement. “Well, I dropped out after three terms, I think.”

“Why?”

“I realized it didn’t matter,” he explains as if it was supposed to be the most evident absolute ever encountered. “At the beginning I thought it would allow me to discover fresh ideas, strengthen my expertise, but the professors mostly kept blathering about things that I’ve already come across at some point in my life, and to be honest it felt like a massive waste of money, and most importantly – time.”

“What were you studying?” She asks, most likely out of plain curiosity.

“Journalism,” he reveals, accompanied by a sarcastic snort, “but I intended to mix it up with sociology at some pointed, then switched to philosophy for a while, which actually helped me realize what a great waste it was, at least in my case.”

“Maybe you’re right,” she shrugs, noticing him switch from the pencil to brush, first few paints being squeezed out on the wooden palette. “If we look at education more objectively, I think we can risk saying that reading is the only necessary skill to acquire, and then you’re good to go.”

“Mmm… it’d be more interesting if you disagreed though,” he hums, as if genuinely displeased with the outcome, brush sweeping over the canvas with almost flawless agility that reminds her of a dancer once again, graceful and elegant.

“Then make me disagree,” she concludes, one finely sculptured eyebrow perking up in a teasing manner.

“Should I take it as a challenge?” He baits, glancing at her briefly as an essential.

“Take it however you want,” she replies, ever so carelessly, almost able to set the bar as high as he has once managed to.

“So what are you studying then?” He resumes after a brief moment, gaze glued to her figure in a scrutinizing manner that she finds slightly disturbing, still uncertain how she is supposed to perceive the given adjective – enticing – as seductive or maybe lethal?

“Criminology,” she informs bluntly.

“And what do they teach you there?” He asks, not quite bothering to look at her this time, engaged in searching for the most accurate color proportions – cinnamon mingling with some darker, much cooler shade.

“They teach me about criminal behavior,” she enlightens, an information so indecently obvious that she would find it offensive if uttered toward her.

“And more specifically?” He continues, as if not taking her point, or at least deciding not to indicate it.

“Its biological, psychological, and social causes,” she clarifies, unable to fight the faint shiver running down her spine as a response for the blatant acuteness he eyes her with, caught off guard for a brief moment, hopefully not long enough for him to notice, “so you can safely assume it’s sociology-related.”

“You think it’s the only place where you can learn that?” He quires, as if aiming to pop holes in her outlook, see if it holds up as sensible as it appears to be now.

“No, but it’s the only place where I can get the diploma,” she eludes, flashing him a refined smirk, as if ready to assume the inevitable victory, “since I would like to pursue with this line of work in the future. Although I believe that certain aspects lay beyond education.”

“Aspects such as?” He mutters, seemingly half-preoccupied with his work, stroking the canvas in formerly omitted areas, lighter shades now in use.

“The intuitive component,” she specifies, while he sets the items aside, abandoning the previously heeded canvas, “you either have a hunch where to seek out the truth, or you don’t, which I think is rather obvious.”

“Exactly,” he agrees, quick to snatch a pack of cigarettes from the kitchen counter. “Although I believe we should equalize the two components, since evidence influences the intuition, or the other way around, and it’s better to keep that in mind for more objective judgments.”

“Yeah, that’s obvious,” she reaffirms, pushing herself off the sill, landing on the floor with a quiet thud.

“I hope so,” he mutters indistinctly, cigarette already slipped in between his lips.

“We’re taking a break now?” She ascertains, quick to step aside in order to make a room for him by the sill.

“Yeah,” he nods, reaching out to open the window, cool air hitting her face, goosebumps rising on the exposed parts of her flesh, “and wait till the first layer is dry so that I could add some details.”

“So you have the background now?”

“Nah,” he shakes his head in denial, flicking the lighter with a barely audible click, “I had it prepared before. It was my very intension to paint you on the sill.”

“What if I wouldn’t have agreed?” She speculates in a teasing manner, ever so subtle he questions his abilities when it comes to judging whether it is a matter of fact, or yet another insinuation of his mind.

“Then we would’ve find a way to make you,” he banters, exhaling a cloud of smoke through his mouth, soon to be taken away with the fall breeze.

“Sure, don’t sweat it,” she replies in a careless manner, as if intending to nip the barely existing zeal in the bud, eliciting a horse chuckle from him. “Mind if I take one?” She asks then, having decided to cut the topic short, gesturing towards the pack of cigarettes on the counter.

“Well, that’s the only one left,” he laughs, glancing at the smoldering fag between the two of his long fingers, stained with carob paint that overlaps four runic symbols tattooed on his skin, “but we can always share.”

“That’s very kind of you, indeed,” she purrs with an ever present hint of sarcasm evident in her voice, nevertheless takes a drag from the offered cigarette, soon to be snatched from in between her lips by the greedy partner.

“I see you’re a man of generosity as well,” she huffs – a display of irritation, extending past the point where she considers repaying him in kind, even if for a brief moment.

“In capitalistic society you gotta work for your expenses,” he retorts, eliciting a pearly chuckle from the woman, outcome that she finds rather odd – his fluency and deftness in evoking contradict reactions from her.

“You’re relentless,” she laughs, shaking her head in amusement, either way leans towards him once more as he brings the cigarette to her lips, cheeks hollowing in time with the inhale.

“Can’t say I disagree.”

And with that he slips it out of her mouth, almost smoked to the filter, stealing one last drag, before he tosses it out of the window, soon to join its predecessors fouling on the streets.

Damn him.

* * *

A few weeks have passed since their last encounter, time essential for him to complete the project, merely disrupted by his mother’s attempts to call him, asking whether he is coming home for Thanksgiving.

Seems like three times is not always a charm.

Nevertheless, life has been good to him, sparing most of the nuisances that never fail to come along at some point, clinging to him like a limpet, until he collects the willpower to tear them all off, adorned with bloody pulp that once used to be an inherent part of his flesh. Some would claim it is not worth it, to sacrifice oneself for any profits, no matter how considerable, no matter how the so-called balance of benefits and burdens presents itself, to pursue but also prepare to face the consequences of one’s choices.

But placing any result above it?

Understanding this attitude has formed quite an issue for him since the very first attempt of cogitation – profound, not periphrastic – leading to one fairly important conclusion – immaturity is what clears out this path, paired with incapability, with imprudence, leaving only cinders behind – matter of self-destruction. Sinfully tempting, to burn it all down and begin as a newborn man – Child of the Ashes, Phoenix that raises from charcoal embers, shaking off the excess dust to despair of all sceptics.

Although he considers it as not necessary the easiest way available, he prefers to let this challenge shun him, regardless how interesting it might come out as in the end, since annihilating his lifelong ‘legacy’ is currently the last intension, supposing it even counts as one. Development has always appeared as more momentous to him, using anything in possession to form what one labels as artwork, not only in the narrow understanding that applies to exhibits and museums but also as an everlasting creation, as satisfactory as possible, reaching beyond the conceptual realm.

An ulterior motive of his.

With reasoning not quite as clandestine.

“I knew I would find you there,” a melodic voice, definitely female – déjà vu, throwback to their first meeting, enhanced by the prevenient notion, inkling that he was being observed, even if for a split second.

“You’re very astute,” he remarks with a lingering tingle of sarcasm, a tune raspier than she remembered, sending an unresolved shiver down her spine, fueled by the cold weather. “But I assume you’ve came here for a reason, haven’t you?”

“Look who’s a wiseacre now,” she chaffs, nevertheless quick to approach him, steps echoing on the dusty concrete. She perches down  next to him, gaze glued to the blunt edge for a brief moment, required to restrain from dangling her feet off the edge – devil’s incitement, belonging to the conceptual realm, never meant to be carried out in reality.

(What if I scratched his car? Spilled hot tea on him? Seized his bag? What would he do? Would he make me pay? Scream? Call the cops? What if…?)

“I’ve came to ask if the painting is ready to be seen,” she rectifies, her head held upward, eyes gleaming with some odd determination, unplaceable, obscured yet visible enough for a perceptive man, the one who knows where to look.

“What would you do if your mother asked you to come home for Thanksgiving?” He ignores her question – a fill-in for time, purpose hold-up, verification of her intents.

“Depends on the relationship I had with her,” she bestows him with a rushed explanation, right according to his suppositions.

(Such a clever man I am.)

“If I wanted to signify I take it as an essential, I would come. Otherwise – not really.”

“That’s what I thought,” he nods slowly, as if hesitantly, which might as well be a misconception, not a fit for his usual demeanor, rather drawing out the act for suspensive purposes.

“So you’re not coming?” She attempts to clarify as if her patience was running thin, most likely fueled by an occurrence from the recent past, partially his seemingly never-ending queries.

(What are you hiding from me, kitten? Claws?)

“Nah,” he shakes his head, meaning to carry on with the explanation, “each time I’m around her, I tend to doubt my abilities to remain calm,” he exhales, as if to get rid of all the pent up frustrations, bulging just below the surface, protected, or rather prevented from being discovered by the wrong person. “And so, years ago I came to one conclusion, a conclusion of great significance: unless she accepts me for who I am, I won’t try to negotiate with her.”

“Negotiate?”

“I don’t take things for granted,” he clarifies, throwing her a side glance, a dapper flick of his wrist required to indicate the obvious, “She is trying and yes, I can see that, but the effort doesn’t parallel with the goal. Look before you leap, isn’t it what they say?”

“Tell me,” she huffs, irritation now more than evident, almost palpable, tactile, spread out for a graze – his personal penchant, “why do you even ask a question if you already know the answer?”

“The essentiality of comparison,” he reveals – ultimate truth she had never possessed before, “the importance of rectifying one’s opinions.”

“You’re an odd person, Alexander,” she alludes, not quite bothering to acknowledge his words, with approximately another goal already occupying her mind. “Has anyone ever told you that?”

“Does it disturb you?” He cocks an inquisitive eyebrow at her, body turning in her direction for the slightest bit, barely noticeable at this point.

“I wouldn’t put it this way,” she counters, voice odd, distant, dreamy, fingers raking through her hair – a shift he should find disturbing but decides against, even if subconsciously.

“So how would you put it?” He queries further, scooting towards her subtly, still against crossing any comfort zones without an undisputable signal.

“That I like weird,” she avows, a simple statement rolling off her tongue, smooth, thick like molasses, caressing him like the finest silky sheets.

“If I didn’t know you better, I would assume you were flirting with me,” he chuckles, corners of his lips upturned in a teasing smirk – a signature of his.

“Why assume,” she halts, allowing the words to linger in the air for a brief moment, now facing him, her eyes staring, or rather drilling into his soul, captivating, leaving no room for a look away, “if you can find out?”.

“How exactly?” He mutters, a vague whisper, tickling her cheek, faint cigarette scent that fans over her face – lure of agitation, promise of something that is yet to come.

“How would you prefer to?” She leans in further, weight supported on the flat palms, propped on the dusty concrete, bits of gravel biting into her flesh.

“That’s your invention,” he purrs, so tantalizingly close, enough for a taste, tactile and inviting, tempting in his own way – a mannish privilege, sacrifice of fragility. “Surprise me.”

And she does, without a need of further explanation, a clarification, verbal approval, simply accepts the offering, her lips brushing his in a heartwarmingly gentle manner, as if hesitant, uncertain of succumbing to their shared desires. At first it catches him off guard, since he has ever dared to label her with such terms, and although the action itself was rather predictable, he remains still, even if for a brief moment, barely long enough for her to register, allowing the woman to play it out according to her whims.

(What a gracious man I am.)

With a movement too swift for Serena to register, he grabs her by the waist, tugging closer to his frame, which forces a surprised gasp from the woman, hands reaching forward to brace her weight on his chest. Practically seated on his lap, she wriggles a little, feeling the muscles contract just below – an unconditioned reflex to the extra pressure – as his lips work their magic, teasing her in a manner that she has never counted as such, delivering just enough to have her wanting more.

Deliberate. Mercenary.

Bastard.

Who still elicits a breathy moan in response to the harsh bite he delivers, soothing the sting with a swipe of his tongue that leaves a lingering nicotine taste behind, a flavor she never suspected to be considered as pleasant. She lets him guide her for a change, curious about his intents, willing to accept the offering in any given form – desire so potent that it sends an inordinate shiver down her spine, never occurred before.

While awaiting for the situation to resolve on its own, she allows her hands to wander, tracing the protruding line on his collarbone, approximately a scar, following the path up his neck, meant to lay a palm flat on the cheek, coarse stubble tickling her fingertips as she examines the texture. Oddly so, his hands remain in place, sprawled on her sides and cradling her ribs, heavy breaths palpable in such position, while the blunt nails dig into the soft flesh, prominent yet subdued by two layers of clothing.

Instead of gliding them up her body, or even slipping his tongue inside, he breaks away, leaving her aching for more, frowning in bewilderment, mouth still agape, as if supposing he is just about to resume, although nothing of such kind follows, replaced by a verbalization – clearly not a fit for her current desires.

“Still wanna see it?” He mutters against her lips, a lingering brush that might as well be result of delirious mind-prompting, adjusting reality to expectations instead of the other way around, of how it is supposed to be in the first place – malady of a sane mind.

“See what?” She almost purrs – a sound he has heard her utter somewhere in the seemingly distant past, eons before their kiss – rationality abandoned long ago.

“The painting,” he clarifies as he departs from her, fully now, all body heat evaporating from the previously compact space, allowing the autumn air to regain the invaded land. However, on this occasion, he allows his eyes to wander, to take in her figure, still settled on his lap, hands gripping his shoulders for balance.

The initial discernment is striking – flesh of her bottom lip swollen, lipstick smudged – prove of his ‘abuse’ – and yet, he restrains from tracing it with the pads of his fingers, an action that he would like to safe for later, for more intimate setting. Her lips part, as if intending to say something although no words leave them, and instead of that her eyes lift, obscured by the curtain of dark lashes and some eyeshadow, color impossible to discern in the dim lightening. For a brief interval, he hold her gaze, misty grey irises delivering an involuntary association with the ongoing season, nevertheless appearing as seemingly calmer than before – steady undulation of a post-storm ocean – lost somewhere far away within her thoughts.

“So what about the painting?” He repeats, obviously to break the reverie, giving her sides a slight squeeze as if to ascertain eliciting the desired reaction.

“You have my lipstick here,” she mutters, hand rising to clear out the remains from the chapped bottom lip, but he is quick to grab her wrist, locking it in a loosening grip.

“Thanks, but I’ll manage,” his thumb replaces hers, wiping it off with a firm swipe, arm immediate to be released. A fleeting frown passes her features in response to his abnegation, although definitely short-lived, soon to be replaced by a contrary one – smile, benign albeit ephemeral, as if evoked by the newfound concept.

“About the painting…” she alludes, a lingering statement, reverberating in the air for a brief moment. “Still wanna see it.”

“Get up then,” he prompts, motioning her with a flick of his wrist. “I’m not intending to push you off.”

“That’s very kind of you,” she laughs, hesitant to rise from the well-accustomed-with spot, nevertheless back on her feet within a relatively short expanse of time, him following briefly afterwards.

They jog down the stairs, one story below, greeted with a sight of his mahogany door, of course in color, not material, and a telltale click of the lock mechanism that preludes entering the flat, unchanged since her last visit, if she excludes a messy stack of equally unspecified objects lurking in the corner. She tags along with him, eyes glued to his figure approaching the easels and a single hand gripping the cloth, soon to be yanked away, revealing the portrayal below.

Her breath hitches in response to the view unravelling in front of her, seemingly unimportant work of some self-proclaimed painter, and yet linked with so many aspects, just like that, on the go, subconscious associations that invade her mind. Truth to be told, she does not find it that hard to believe – a conundrum of emotionality – since it is the very first opportunity for the young woman to get acquainted with someone else’s interpretation of her persona – experience considered beyond interesting.

Blurred lines yet drawn by a deft hand.

Faint fog yet shapes fairly distinguished.

Bathed in lucid daylight, such an unusual occurrence in the fall season.

Fleeting expanse of time.

Guaranteed to perish in the nearby future.

And the central persona, enhanced by the subtle rim of glow.

Distant? Dreamy? Delusive?

Ethereal? Eccentric?

Feigned?

Or right the opposite?

Authentic?

Ceaseless? Classical?

Expressing verity.

Verdict of his virtuosity.

Exquisite.

“I’m sorry,” she shakes her head, as if to clear out the mind, return onto the steady ground. “You were saying something?”

“I was meant to ask about your impression,” he meets her still misty gaze, lips laced in the same unplaceable smirk she has seen him perform a couple of times in the past, “but I believe that’s not necessary anymore.”

“No, it’s fine,” she smiles, as if to substantiate the impression. “I like it.”

“Yeah, I’m aware of that,” he nods with a wide grin stretching his features – highlight of his vanity, meant to taunt her, “although verbal affirmation is always welcome.”

She only hums in response, as if in defiance of his indication, still standing in the middle of the main room, gaze alternating between him and the painting, as if unable to pick, maneuvering on the pinnacle dividing twain polar opposites – conceptuality and reality. Seizing the opportunity, his eyes rake down her form, quick to notice a few distinctions, incompatible with her usual looks, the heeled boots for instance, or a tint of eyeshadow applied on the usually bare skin, which eventually leads him to another conclusion.

“You went out today?” He asks, the drape back in its prior setting, shielding the picture from her scrutinizing gaze, as if to ascertain receiving undivided attention from his guest.

“Yeah,” she affirms with a refined nod, eyes alluding towards the floor – a fleeting, almost unnoticeable glance, “but it wasn’t lucrative. I mean, the meeting didn’t go as expected.”

“Why?”

“It was a blind date,” she sighs, as if utterly defeated, displeased with being forced to recall tonight’s events. “Fill in the blanks.”

“Lucrative is quite an interesting choice of words in such context,” he teases, a ghost of proper smile playing upon his lips, eliciting a predictably vexed huffed of breath from the woman, paired with a dismissive eye-roll that precedes his reaction – a subdued chuckle, nevertheless considered unashamed and straightforward, although the latter is still yet to come. “Wanna tell me about it?”

“I would rather forget it,” she laughs this time – enlightenment, end of the never-ending sulking era, considered as the least beneficial possibility, not for only today.

“Yeah, I know how it is,” he nods, leaning down on the sill for support, seemingly fed up with standing in the middle of the room, “all those settled dates rarely line up with the expectations.”

“Not only the settled ones,” she sighs – pensive, distant, invaded with bygone memories – as her eyes settle on his silhouette, illuminated by the city lights – echoes of the past, moonage daydream. “You remind me of my grandfather right now. Maybe it’s an odd thing to say, but I remember he used to spend quite a decent amount of time leaning by the sill, claiming he had his share of sitting, which I suspect might have been linked with joints condition that he didn’t wanna share, but still… he was the only person, excluding my father, who truly supported my cause, I mean moving out from home, going to college etc. etc.”

“Is he-”

“No, he’s alive,” she interrupts with an outrunning clarification, “although I might have made it sound like this.”

“I’m glad to hear that then,” he concludes, with a fleeting smile passing his features “Mine was quite… quite different, which I believe is a considerable understatement, but still…”

“How considerable?”

“Well, my Grandfather was a war hero, at least according to his claims, but also a man of dubious mental condition,” he begins, gaze glued to the cityscape spreading outside the window. “When it turned out my father deserted in Vietnam, he disinherited him, which is probably the main reason why I’m doing what I’m doing, but that’s by the by.”

“Which war did he fight in?” She inquires, ready to join him by the sill in a few languid steps, back supported by the wall.

“Oh, which didn’t he fight in,” he chuckles bitterly, rolling his eyes in the most dismissive manner she has ever seen on him. “His stories make for a saga alone, shoving such absurd concepts as historical accuracy aside, although in reality only the Great War.”

“Sounds fantastic,” she remarks – teaser of a hearsay nothing short of phenomenal.

“Anyway,” he cuts her off with a single hand slashing through the air, immediate to get back on the track with said tale, “he used to tell me a story, a bedtime one, always the same. If I remember correctly, which I most certainly do, it went something like this,” he halts, as if on purpose – suspense playing its part as an ever present speech manner.

“There was a cold, cold night, dark, all stars obscured by the clouds, moon long gone, shying away from the primeval force – Grim Reaper coming to take his toll,” he allows the name to linger in the air for a brief moment, a tribute to the transcendent persona. “With everyone fast asleep, as if believing to find the solitude in the trenches, he had the battlefield all for himself, every soul that still hadn’t left its body, clear as day, granting them a passage to afterlife, a safer one, not coming up to what earthy life granted. He never uttered a single word while he extracted them, soon to be taken by the wind, somewhere far, far away, his silhouette acting as their only guide. It was easy to doubt his existence with rime as the only evidence, but whoever was touched even once, even if for a split second, was marked for eternity – Death’s Protégé.”

“And what’s the twist?” She asks, most certain the story itself requires one as much as he need her query to accomplish the telling process, considering the silence that has settled above them after the statement – a prompt to contribute.

“Well,” he interrupts himself with a brief chuckle – a signature of incredulity, “he would claim I was marked, that I was the reaper’s child, which was before he got sent to asylum, nevertheless it still makes for an interesting story to tell, I think.”

“And that’s the only purpose?” She carries on with the queries, as if meant to extract the very essence of said issue.

“Not entirely,” he counters, soon to rectify. “He used to claim there was a link between this and my artwork.”

“What kind of link?”

“He never explained his motives,” he shrugs, a statement considered offensively obvious, “but I think he was just afraid of aspects he couldn’t comprehend, and so opted for a more straightforward solution, a claim that they foreshadowed some ungodly disaster.”

“No wonder he acted like that,” she remarks, as if to continue the pass of plain conclusions. “I mean pairing it with the background story.”

“No need to state the obvious,” he chides, a considerably calm manner, almost able to omit a lingering hint of irritation that the action evokes, “although I would be lying if I denied his diversity, or rather the diversity brought by his stories, which actually reminds me of something that I was supposed to mention before.”

“It’s incomprehensible how you maneuver through topics,” she chuckles, shaking her head in a display of disbelieving amusement.

“I’ve been told that before,” he agrees –necessity of decent conversation, at least according to his mother’s words. “Anyway, cutting to the chase here – I’ve got two tickets for the drive-in, since my friend has gotten ill and decided to spare me the place.”

“Seems like a merciful man to me,” she remarks, with a jeering hint of sarcasm on the tip of her tongue – wonderful pairing for the biblical word. “But I’m not sure if I’m gonna accept the offering.”

“Well, the title is Reservoir Dogs,” he continues, as if pretending to miss out on the snide comment, determined to elicit the desired reaction, “quite a success in Cannes according to what I’ve heard.”

“In Cannes you say…” she hums, as if pondering the variety of options to spend the evening, “not a guarantee we’ll like it.”

“Then how about you give it a try and then you can tell me if it’s worth it or not?” He proposes, posture indicating his readiness to leave, more than aware what her answer will be at this point, not that he has ever doubted his abilities to predict the inevitable.

“You’re truly the brightest mind of our age,” she rolls her eyes, accompanied by the ever-present sarcastic outline – a scaffolding for all the world’s components.

“Glad we agree on this one.”

A prelude for all mutualities, meant to unravel in due course.

Always the one to lurk in shadows – a promise of what is yet to come, a coalescence of twain factors:

Sinister sensuality?

A surmise shamefully salient.

* * *

Drive-in – a place where the movie screening is supposed to take place, at least according to the tenets, undoubtedly omitting another, quite distinctive, aspect to all of these – an ultimate truth that no component carries one purpose only, a statement renown by all, yet acknowledged by few.

Theirs appears to be invaded by an offbeat amount of people, seemingly not caring about the crisp air and cold weather, as if looking forward to the so-called ‘grand reveal’, cars lined in a couple of rows, more or less equidistant, while the screen remains blank, enhancing the anticipation of those who are meant to actually pay attention to the soon-to-be-presented piece of cinematography. Without a doubt, she considers herself as a relative of the latter group, eyes glued to the outstretched fabric in the central point, glad to see it unravel in front of her as the process is initiated – illumination of said canvas, inauguration of the gathering.

“But ‘Like a Virgin’ was a metaphor for big dicks.”

Delightful.

“Really?” She frowns, glancing towards him, as if searching for a confirmation.

“Do I look like a Madonna fan to you?” He retorts, eyebrows raised in a display of euphemistic irritation.

“Well,” she begins, as if pretending to ponder upon the subject, all for the never-ending purpose of riling him up, “again, not really.”

“So just sit back and watch,” he huffs, accusation evident in his tone, as if genuinely interested in the so-called Cannes successful movie, not that he is the only one.

Hence, she complies to the request, head lulling sideways to rest on his shoulder, leather of the coat chilly against her equally cool cheek, sending an unpleasant shiver down her spine, soon to be followed by another one, much sultrier this time, evoked by his arm encircling her frame. In search for the needful warmth, she leans in to him, the heavy weight draped over her figure elevating said experience to an entirely different dimension: a higher one, encrusted with chaste intentions, although built upon impure thoughts, leading to the simplest of conclusions, a statement reverberating underneath her skull in repetitive cycles.

Certain aspects are easy to deny, without even bothering to acknowledge their existence, nameless components of equally anonymous world, run on secrets. Take for instance the blossoming attraction, one is capable of ignoring it all the way, forget it ever influenced the perception, cross it out and pretend said spot has ever been occupied, or present an alternative approach – bite the bullet – ability craved by all, yet possessed by few.

The latter.

As an ever-present goal.

Any time her gaze lands on him, she cannot help but ponder upon his true intentions – an intelligent individual with whom she enjoys to converse with, and yet unfairly unreadable in some situations, leaving decent amount of room for speculations, doubts blossoming within her mind, invading it akin to a disease, deadly one to be specific. So-called fascination, an inkling that it might lead her to places that should to remain undiscovered, at least for her own sake – a simple analogy to the secluded areas of forests along with all the habitants.

(Keep in mind that hunters do not bother with such absurd concepts.)

“Isn’t he supposed to put pressure on the wound?” She frowns, gaze glued to the scene currently playing on the screen, with criticizing scrutiny, albeit interested in the events altogether. Despite the vanity of using a comb in such circumstances, nevertheless understandable if paired with both personality and relationship traits, she gets an impression that Cannes has opted for quite a judicious mark, especially if focusing on the dialog aspects – astonishing, magnificent.

Exquisite.

“If we’re discussing practical matters, then yes,” he replies, voice laced with an edge of irritation, evoked by her daring interruption.

“And if not?” She carries on with the queries, as if altogether aware of the effect that they have on him, and yet pretending not to acknowledge it.

“Then we oppose,” he enlightens with a dismissive eye-roll, audible in his speech manners.

“Mmm… astute,” she retorts, purring sound that reverberates in his ear, invading his senses like a disease that spreads far too quickly, and yet is oddly anticipated, akin to purposeful cold before school.

“So is your question,” he concludes, a dry exclamation of a long-term deceiver.

“That was my very intention,” she admits, voice deprived of proper hesitance, indicating the visionary tendencies – playing a major part in

(spoiling)

her master plan.

A query of ‘could it?’

Oddly so, it has taken him a relatively long expanse of time to get used to having her by his side with the floral smell of her hair wafting under his nose, lily of the valley he believes, nothing more than a reminiscence of his past now. Nevertheless, it stirs something within him, a distinctive hue applied in the perfect amount, oscillating between omitted and overwhelming, hands itching to reach underneath her clothes, check whether the rest is as cold as her palms are, clutching at the cotton of his tee in response to the scene playing in front of them. And yet, even in the face of all these notions, no matter how pleasant, another one is evoked – contradicting polarity – jealousy, bitter possessiveness, referring to who she has gotten all dolled up for – silly idea of a long-retired teenage boy, enhanced by the fact that his contestant failed oh so spectacularly.

Ignorant piece of shit.

Aside from her bygone partner, the current song appears to be a perfect match for his thoughts, father’s favorite, remembrance of grandpa’s tales, tales of a successful man, but only if he opts for reading selective verses, a twain of them in this case, chosen in advance – lie so blatant that it should be considered offensive, personification of his ancestor’s lives. Although seemingly different at first glance, the second, more discerning one, reveals another aspect – veracity, indicating their lack of professionalism, prattling tendencies, and poor life constructs that seem to work only if the rest is omitted, wiped away from the piece of paper in hopes it will be left unconsidered – definition of their compatibilities, denied with such ardor.

Alex

ander.

When you started off with nothing

And you're proud that you’re a self-made man.

“Fucking hell,” she mutters under her breath, unintentionally digging her nails in the firm plane of his chest, “I thought he ain’t gonna do this.”

“Well, you can always look away,” he shrugs, eyes remaining glued to the screen – a nonverbal denial.

“That’s not necessarily the case,” she counters, fingers releasing the hold on his tee, quick to smooth out the material – a manner he would never attempt to associate with her, marking his forehead with a frown of confusion, even if for a brief moment.

“Yeah, I know,” he affirms, emphasized with a refined nod. “It’s captivating.”

“So-called pornography of pain,” she adds, a term he has been all too familiar with for quite a while now, “and by that I mean the phenomenon of violence perception in culture, or even in real life, not sadomasochism.”

“Yeah, sure, everyone would say so,” he mutters, purring sound that catches her off guard for a brief moment, allowing the words to reverberate in the air for a longer while, as if in perfect awareness of said effect. “Anyway, I must agree on this one, although some might be eager to deny it, ‘I’m not a fucking psycho’, they would say, but to be honest I think morality is overrated in this case, unable to outrun the primal thirst for brutality. Since how else would you explain all those bloodbaths in art, cinematic for instance?”

“Time is too precious for such absurdities.”

Terminal conclusion followed by peaceful silence – an expanse ranging from the first, and unfortunately last, appearance of some German Shepherd all the way to the thirst-satiating finale, and her genuine content with the entirety, a relatively rare occurrence to be honest. Whatever has just betided in front of their eyes, appears to be the preface of a very promising phase in the movie industry, a phase she is eager to step into and thus familiarize with its offerings.

“It might have been the worthiest investment of those twenty five dollars that Daryl could ever think of,” he murmurs, stretching the limbs behind his head, fingers skimming the rooftop in a fleeting motion – a contrary to less-than-subtle deprivation of his supportive frame.

“Daryl?” She rubs her eyes – a substitute for proper refreshment. “You mean that nameless friend, right?”

“I do indeed,” he affirms, throwing a glance towards the door – a prelude for the subsequent proposition, “but I think we should drive away now, unless we want to get stuck with all those homespun drivers.”

“We don’t,” she agrees with a fleeting smile passing her features, much to his delight, even though the situation itself required no such approval, considering a man

(Alexander)

will do exactly as he pleases.

“Wonderful,” he concludes, soon to slam the back door and stake out the driver’s seat, while she follows his steps but to the passenger’s spot. With a flick of his wrist, the engine is ignited, and thus he is able to navigate their way through the more or less troubling labyrinth – a composition of cars in various states of decay: some fairly new, while others tend to oppose, their glory days undoubtedly classifying as bygone.

“So what now?” A trite of words that slices through the partial silence, accompanied only by the monotonous hum of engines. “You’re gonna drive me home like a decent man would?”

(No, I’m gonna fuck you like a decent man would.)

“I’ve never taken you for a person with such low expectations,” he remarks with a teasing timbre lacing his voice, glancing at her briefly, albeit long enough to catch the confused expression upon her face.

“Excuse me?” She frowns, their eyes meeting halfway – an occasion for her to get acquainted with the evidence of his self-content, oh so unexpected.

“You’ve heard me,” he shrugs, a brisk response of perennial philanderer – a verbalization of who he has always appeared to her as.

A womanizer.

Possibly a libertine too, which is at least what the more promiscuous part of her counts for, even though she is more than certain that contributing will lead to a bitter aftermath, the one when a man asks more or less kindly to leave, and yet considered worthwhile, which might as well be the reason why her mother used to label Serena with traits such as ‘occasionally self-destructive’. And yet, what would life be if deprived of any risks, decisions made in the heat of passion, meant to be rethought in due course, most likely after the milk will have already been spilled but still… distant future is what grants the vacancies.

(Isn’t it what they say?)

* * *

Her mother is a person of many claims, each more straightforward than the precedent, a person who belongs to the realm of appearances, where anything obvious requires to be verbalized – an unwritten purpose. Said manner never fails to amuse her in some sort of way, assuming the word itself is descriptive enough in such circumstances, and yet she has the tendency to retreat them from the depths of her mind in times of trial, considering the current situation is supposed to be perceived as a relative.

Cutting to the chase, that godforsaken woman would say: ‘he who lurks in the shadows, must be a sinister creature’ – a triviality in its purest form, and yet an appropriate summary for all her maladies oscillating around one person – star of her own planet system.

(Is it possible to dethrone the solar?)

(A question vain to consider.)

“What have I gotten myself into?” She mutters under her breath, seizing an opportunity that he is standing by the counter, pouring himself a drink, the reminiscence of amber waves evoked from seemingly great distance, soon to wash the shore of her lips.

“I’ve allowed myself to fix you one too,” he turns around to face her, both glasses snug in his hands, shiny brown liquor skimming the transparent surface as he approaches her figure, settled on the window sill, “and that’s actually a fairly expensive brandy.”

“You mean the real reason why you live in such a shithole?” She retorts, nevertheless accepts the offering, bringing it to her nose for a sniff, as if pretending to be a seasoned expert in alcoholic field, the one who is able to differ which wine was opened earlier with barely no effort.

“Partly yes,” he laughs – a lighthearted chuckle meant to loosen the tension, evident in her posture and the stagnant air, “but give it a try, it’ll do no harm.”

Without further ado, she complies, tilting the glass to her lips in order to take a final swig of amber liquor, shivering at the newfound wave of heat blossoming within her throat. Whilst the feeling itself is gradually subsiding into a sweet, fruity aftertaste, she even dares to consider admitting the accuracy of his claims oscillating around the liquor’s quality, but in the end opts against it, settling on a refined nod of approval, as per usual.

Over the years, she has gotten a chance to discovered one distinctive aspect that comes with the activity of pondering, more specifically the prompts of polar opposites that exist within each one of us. To set the record straight, she means no mental disorders, but the complex nature of any decision making process, hopelessly linked with all these constant whispers, both subduing and encouraging. Taking a leap of honesty, not faith in this case, since integrating with such ‘virtue’ is not included in her List of Matters Beyond Important, she is capable of admitting that opting for certain choice is rarely so intricate, while keeping in mind that they all appear to be fairly simple – negative for what she is attempting to sort out now.

“Serena,” he calls from seemingly great distance, grabbing her by the hand – a gesture so unexpected that she almost tears it from his grasp, although in the end manages to take a steady inhale and focus on the runic pattern marking his fingers, while he continues, voice ringing within the empty room, “are you afraid of me?”

“No,” she utters a nervous chuckle, squeezing his palm as if to reaffirm the veracity of her statement, “it’s just- I’m thinking too much, that’s all, and sometimes I wish I’d stop. Knowledge is a burden.”

“I must agree with the former, although the latter…” an exclamation laced with a hint of disapproval, emphasized by the tsk-noise, deprecating click of his tongue over the palate. “It’s nonsensical.”

“Well-”

“When I was younger, I used to play chess with my grandpa, and to clarify – that was before he got crazy, at least crazy enough to qualify for any asylum,” he interrupts, finally letting go of her hand, and siting on the cold sill for a change. “Anyway, there’re various kinds of openings in this game, some of them referred to as ‘gambits’. You know what a gambit is?”

“Yes,” she nods, always brisk to prove the point. “You sacrifice a pawn in order to achieve something significant.”

“Yeah, more or less,” he agrees, frowning as he takes a swig from the previously abandoned glass, soon to settle it down once empty, accompanied by a telling clink. “So tell me, can you see a parallel now?”

“You’re such a narcissistic asshole,” she shakes her head in disbelief, eliciting a throaty chuckle from her partner, the one meant to set her nerves on fire.

“That’s why you’re attracted to me,” he shrugs as the laughter gradually dies out, leaving only the remains of so-called smug smirk behind.

“Is this the time when I’m supposed to confess my never-ending love and admiration towards you so that our relationship can be consummated?” She spats bitterly, unhinged with exasperation.

“Nah,” he brushes her off with a dismissive flick of his wrist, more nerve-wrecking than ever. “Let’s just cut to the chase, shall we?”

“I don’t get it,” she frowns, shaking her head in irony-laced disbelief, “the story about gambits; is this your pick up line? Your big move?”

“Wanna know what my big move is?” He taunts, serious at the first glance, if not for the twitch of his upper lip, meant to betray any actual intentions.

“Yeah,” she nods – a refined one, as per usual, aiming to cover up any possible traces of excitement, “tell me your big move.”

“I paint the girls that I wanna fuck.”

(And tonight’s guest is…)

The greatest, most magnificent, unexpected surprise ever imagined.

A sentence allowed to reverberate in the air for a brief expanse of time, so cruelly interrupted by her pearly laugh, enhanced by the dismissive eye-roll of her partner.

“I know, unbelievable.”

“Well, I gotta say I’ve expected that, and either way I feel honored,” she speaks, clearing her throat as soon as the breathless chuckle dies out, intent to her rid of any unpleasant coarseness, “but why am I your pick, like specifically?”

“You intrigue me,” he bestows her with the merest of explanations as if for the simple sake of getting on her nerves. “That’s why you’re my ‘pick’.”

“And that’s all?” She cocks an inquisitive eyebrow at him, wanting, willing to hear out more details. “You know, ‘it's the details that sell your story’.”

“I can’t believe you’ve just said that,” he huffs, shaking his head in disbelief, soon to rise from the previous seat – an indication of movement, of change, creeping closer and closer until in reach to brush her ankle, swallowed by the dimness of his flat. “But what more can you wish for? You intrigue me, and I’ve wanted to have you since our little encounter on the roof,” he states, without a hint of hesitation scaring his voice, instead some distinctive at-ease carelessness that she has found both exasperating and enticing since the very beginning. “Even though I don’t believe in the qualities such as uniqueness, meeting you was an interesting experience, downright repeatable. Is this specifying enough?”

“Well yes,” she agrees, a hint of uncertainty lacing her voice, most likely linked with the matters yet to be revealed, “but don’t you thinks it’s degrading: ‘wanted to have you’, another term for expressing male domination, claiming a woman like you claim a prize.”

“If you’re so keen on sorting this out,” he begins – an offer she cannot refuse, “we can have a chat about ‘male domination’ as soon as… how did you put it… as soon as… our relationship will be consummated.”

“By that, it appears to me you’re in some sort of a hurry,” another jeering remark, the one he has no intentions in letting slide for a change, “is that correct?”

“Claiming that I’m the only one is an obtuse lie, don’t you think?” He purrs, all of sudden turning around to face her, hands on either sides of her thighs, resting on the cold sill. “And that’s truly degrading, not your whole ‘male domination’ shit.”

She cannot help but let out a reedy squeal at the abrupt turn of events, now trapped between his body and the freezing glass, not literally cornered and yet feeling like so, even more as he leans in towards the woman, breath stuck in her throat. With the cooper waves tickling her cheek, and heated blows on her neck, he begins to speak, words impossible to be distinguished for a split second, molding into a monotonous tone, dark and rich, sending a pleasant shiver down her spine. She relishes in the teasing flutter, fighting the innate urge to arch in his direction, until he grabs her by the face, cradling the side of it in his left hand, fingers biting into the cheek, even if for the slightest bit, eyes meeting halfway with reflection of city lights encrusted on the green background.

“… and I want you to lay on the bed now,” he finishes – a garnish that leaves her confused and frowning, both due to lack of concentration – a trait she loathes oh so deeply and has never dared to label herself with before.

“Gonna fuck me already?” She asks in attempt of clarification, eliciting a short-lived laughter from her partner, a coarse chuckle that prickles her skin with goosebumps.

“Why the rush?” He teases, both hands shifting to curl around her thighs as if bracing for the final lift, but instead pulls her body towards the edge, legs wrapping around his hips in order to regain the substantial balance. “Delayed gratification is what does the trick.”

“Well, I thought that saying so is a determinant,” she huffs, eyes glued to the godforsaken furniture as if evading his gaze would help her focus, “but apparently not.”

He only chuckles in response, vibrations palpable in her chest, resonating all the way through, enough to redirect her attention to more carnal aspect, beginning with the plainest closeness, with how her breasts mash against his firm flesh, for instance. It has her wondering why they have not even kissed yet, despite the intimate proximity, just an inch to the left and their lips will brush, all in vain, considering his plans obviously differ, evident in the abrupt hoist up that tears a feminine squeal from the caught-off-guard woman. In a manner beyond desperate, her hands clutch onto the cotton of his t-shirt – yet another reason to laugh for the unfavorable male – although rather quick to drop her onto the more sturdy ground, if mattress can be referred to as such.

“Maybe we shouldn’t do this if that’s how little trust you have for me,” he mutters, outwardly on own benefits, while she believes it is also meant to reach her ears, gaze fixated on his towering silhouette, helplessly braced on the elbows.

“Sure,” she retorts, an inseparable hint of sarcasm lacing her voice – a phrasal of personality traces, “like you could stand it.”

“Mhm,” he hums, imitating her tone just to witness Serena huff in exasperation, “tell me about it.”

To that she has no answer, just an awaiting stare following his movements to the kitchenette, confused when it comes to what he is actually looking for there, an assumption about his libertine tendencies rushing through her mind in a frenzied display of nervousness, soon to be mitigated by the following object – a chair fished out from its spot behind the island.

“Who would have thought your flat is full of such useless possessions,” she remarks, rising up to a sitting position, weight braced on the open palms.

“Unbelievable, huh?” He teases with a banter not quite considered as lighthearted, emphasized by the rough scrape on the wooden panels, sound utterly terminal in its fiendish form, skin erupting with goosebumps – titillation and trepidation mingling into a fairly undistinguished integrity. “But I think you owe me a show. So strip.”

Unrepeatable opportunity to observe the medley of emotions manifesting themselves on her face, so calm and straight most of the times – long-awaited variety from the common, day-to-day occurrence. Beginning with the wide-eyed surprise – nonverbal statement, albeit still notably refined – then progressing to the thought-indicating frown – violation of the smooth palette of her forehead – to finalize with mouth-agape attempt to transfer the bizarre concoction into proper words. For a brief moment, he considers teasing her about it – cat’s-got-your-tongue cliché – but opts against it in the end, exchanging it for a less foreseen phrase.

Sure.

“C’mon, I ain’t got all day,” he urges her to comply, taking a seat on the aforementioned chair, backwards, arms rested on the top rail, soon to fish out a cigarette from leftover pack hidden in the inner pocket of his coat, draped over the frame, then toss what is redundant on the table top. He lights it up with a precise flick of his zippo, eyes glued to the billowing smoke for a split second, until he slips it in between his lips, sucking up a nicotine drag.

Downfall of all hedonists.

Guarantee of premature death.

Damnation – opt out from salvation.

Godsend?

Simply obsolete.

“And you want me to do what precisely?” She asks with some odd precaution that almost elicits a direct laugh from him, open-mouthed and blissfully mocking, resembling a skittish animal, dangerously close to leap of the ground and escape for good.

“Strip,” he reiterates, voice seemingly deprived of all emotional layers, if not for the lingering huskiness, a smoky tune that reminds Serena what evoked her perplexing attraction in the first place. “And don’t force me to repeat my request.”

“Request?” She huffs in disbelief – a mocking show-off, meant to taunt him, push his button even now – an everlasting purpose, menacingly deathless. “Now that’s funny.”

Either way, she begins to strip, sitting up straight to get rid of the first layer – a chequered shirt, tied at the waist – clearly taking her sweet time with the knot and those few buttons, while his hands itch to rip it, shred the unimportant piece of cloth in two – a situation he will not allow to happen at current rate, ever-present penchant for delays. With smug, although definitely short-lived, satisfaction, she notices his eyes shift to her chest, breasts still clad in the black bralette – the-best-way-possible definition of classic elegance, underlined by a subtle hint of lace.

The jeans are what follows, paired with the requirement to stand up and bathe her body in the city lights, luminous on her pale complexion, vision glued to the buildings tearing up the horizon, almost undisrupted by the scratchy sensation of denim slipping down her legs. What makes her shiver though is the intensity of his gaze, almost palpable on her back, as if his fingers were right there, skimming over the heated skin – an inkling that prompts her to turn around and flop back onto the bed, searching for any support in the cold headboard – iron railing that bites into her soft flesh.

“Do go on,” he requests, or rather enjoins, calm at the first glance, if not for the smoldering zeal shadowing his eyes – a parallel for the ember at the tip of his cig.

“Why?” She bothers to ask – presumably mistaken about the evoked concept, fool’s pursuit, leading to nothing else but bitter disappointment.

“’Cause I like to play God,” he clarifies – plain instance of an unexpected answer, “at least from time to time.”

“Then c’mere and do it yourself,” she rolls her eyes – deliberate taunt – in hopes to break his resolve, and so impose him to approach her, an unfamiliar thirst for his touch seemingly insatiable.

“That’s not how it works,” he shakes his head, an exclamation laced with a hint of mock disapproval, as if genuinely displeased with the outcome, “first you gotta earn it, and then I’ll reciprocate. Maybe.”

(Maybe?)

Intent to make as quick work of it as possible, elongated only by a fretful huff, her hands reach the hem of said bralette, and pull it over her head in a relatively graceful movement, adding it up to the stack of clothes piling at the foot of his bed. In attempt to ignore the heat of his gaze upon the newly exposed skin, she focusses on the last step dividing her from accomplishment – sliding the matching panties down her legs, the ones that almost land on his face as in a display of blatant irritation, evoked by his shameless gawping. As in response, her limbs close on their own accord, interfering with his nettled countenance: bitter and relentless, prompting the woman to rearrange them, to which she counters, locking their gazes together once again.

“Very well,” he hums with yet another cigarette stuck in between his lips, soon to be ignited, as his gaze skims her figure, expression softer than he has ever witnessed on Serena, as if afraid of what is just about to be uttered, “now touch yourself.”

“Excuse me?” She chokes out in disbelief, brows furrowed in confusion, arms encircling her frame, meant to deprive him of any explicit view, sending a shiver down her spine as the cold digits brush the side of her breast.

“You’ve heard me,” he retorts, blunt and seemingly careless, tapping out the excess ash onto the dusty floor, while his gaze remains focused solely on her, or rather on the heaving chest, its intensity settling a smoldering zeal in the pit of her stomach, and so prompts Serena to enlace the pressing knot. Both the towering position and the distance put between them enhances the subdual, and for the first time in her life she is ready to admit that whatever is going on between them appears to stir something within her too, whatever that ‘something’ is.

Uncertainty?

Trepidation?

No?

(Not all feelings are possible to be classified.)

And with that, she resumes, or rather initiates the whole process, hands lifting to cup her breast, filling the palm quite snugly, while she can only imagine the comparison with his, cradling her ribs just a few hours ago. The thought itself sends a delicious shiver down her spine and before she knows it, the right arm follows its path to the cleft between her legs – movement fueled by the burning impatience, by the hope that it will manage to convince him to finally touch her, to soothe the pulsing ache – when all of sudden he breaks the silence – a lingering denial that infuriates her more than she could have imagined.

“Not so fast darling,” a single exclamation that slices through the smoky lull, meant to halt her pursuit, undermine the control she appears to possess over own body, and to his partial surprise, the woman complies, lying her palm slack on the inner thigh, fingers biting into the flesh – undisputable evidence of all frustrations.

“But-”

“How long has it been?” He interrupts, a puff of smoke obscuring his face, careless and vexingly at ease, as per usual. “Days? Weeks?”

She nods to both of them, which elicits a throaty chuckle from her partner – an exclamation of some sadistic amusement, prickling her skin with goosebumps, but at the same time having the brunette wish he was right there next to her, stroking the heated flesh as in indication of some leisured worship.

(Only two can play this game.)

“Then you can wait a few minutes longer,” he concludes, almost forcing a chocked cry from Serena, disappointment evident on her face, and hell, she even pouts at him – a mannerism he would have never linked with her before.

“So what do I do now?” She sasses, aggravations outrunning any possible consequences. “Sit here and watch you smoke?”

“Of course not,” he laughs, presumably to spur her even further, “I’m not much of a sadist, even though it might seem so right now.”

“Mhm, sure,” she hums in mock agreement, a lingering hint of sarcasm that betrays her every single time – a matter meant to be rectified in the near future.

“So from this point, run your fingers along the inner thighs,” he mutters, sending another intense, rather disturbing, tremor down her spine, nipples pebbling with arousal, and she instinctively reaches to squeeze them, wishing to replace the smooth substitute with harsher texture of his fingertips. Either way, she complies to his request, stroking the tender skin with the very tips of her fingers – teasing replacement for proper touch, lingering breeze that might as well be yet another result of delirious mind-prompting. She sighs, arms itching to reach just an inch to the side, impatience bottling up and ready to explode any second now, akin to a can of coke after decent shaking, and so, to release some of the tension, she shifts her legs helplessly, wanting, willing him to end the decadent suffering.

“Now touch yourself,” he directs, failing to cover up the hint of arousal underlining his voice, as his gaze alternates between her face, eyes shadowed by a lustful fog, and both hands, now occupied with more pressing matters, “but keep it light. And slow.”

(About fucking time.)

With one brisk movement, betraying the eagerness, her fingers shift to the spot in between her legs, forcing a surprised gasp out of her throat, as if genuinely shocked with the amount of wetness coating her fingertips. The act itself, no matter how simple, almost forces a loud moan from her constricted throat, relieved with the slightest bit of pressure, even if more to enhance than to actually soothe the pulsing ache, tickling sensation on her folds. For a split second, she forgets about the male company, a real person just a few mere feet in front of her, until he speaks again, rich and husky tune that elicits a faint moan from her, all to his delight.

“Enjoying yourself, darling?” He queries, to which she nods, maybe a little too feverishly, although her lacking response is certainly not pleasing enough for him, with the subsequent demand to ensure the veracity of said assumption. “Answer me.”

“Yes,” she gasps almost at the spot, hand twitching in attempt to contain the needful rub, light and slow as per his request.

“Very well then,” he purrs, a gravelly sound that has her insides coiling in anticipation for the following words. “I want you to slide your fingers in, one at a time. Good girl. Now crook them and rub.”

The intrusion itself, in consideration of a relatively long expanse of time, draws a pained whimper from the woman, loud enough to reach his ears, lips lacing in a smug smirk, as if on their own. However, the generous amount of slick allows her to smooth out the thrusts, and keep the pace slow but steady, although eager for things to speed up, yet certain that Alexander will interfere in response to her arbitrariness.

Such a fucking hypocrite.

“Eyes on me,” he demands all of sudden, in spite of the fact she has barely registered them falling shut, an abrupt sound that causes her to jerk in surprise. Nevertheless, she is immediate to open them, meeting the jade green of his own irises, visibly darker in the dim light, overlapped with the conspicuous lust shadowing his gaze, luring her to take those few leaps towards him and perch atop his lap, but then again, he will not allow it – a standstill in the worst variant possible.

Therefore, in a final attempt to focus on the carnalities, her attention shifts toward more pressing issue – long nails mercilessly scratching her walls – one of main reasons why she prefers male’s touch, excluding a bunch of few, equally important, aspects. Obliged to work with what she has got, in hopes it will get her off sooner than later, she moves the other hand to her clit, and circles it – an action that sends a promising shiver down her spine, but also prompts him to break the silence again.

“You’re close,” a question (?), either way followed by an approving nod and desirous look thrown in his direction. “Then stop.”

“No- but I’m…mmm… please,” she whines, while her own body seems to betray Serena once more, following his request before her mind registers what is actually going on. Fighting the innate urge to carry on with what has been so cruelly interrupted, she adds another query, full of misery, her lip quivering as she speaks. “Why?”

“It’ll feel much better this way, trust me,” he reassures, voice meant to soothe all maladies, retreating the wish to have him beside her once again, feel the warmth radiating from his body, the skillful caresses of his lips dancing over her skin. “You can go on now.”

Uttering a defeated huff, she resumes the whole process, circling her clit until she is shivering in delight, legs shifting in obvious impatience, until he tells her to stop once again, and again, and again, the amount of disposed cigarettes working as the only time-measuring factor. She is close to bursting into tears by now, needy and frustrated, although unable to deny that every single stroke, even if barely present, feels electrifying, has her wishing to be replaced by another and another one, and yet he denies the climax every single time, drawing all kinds of desperate whines from the woman.

“I know,” he soothes, and she might have even believed him if not for the sadistic inclination hiding behind his gaze – primal pride of possession. “But it’ll feel so good, I promise. Doesn’t it now?”

“It does,” she manages to utter, voice breaking pitifully at the end as another shudder passes down her spine, silently begging him to end the misery. “Can I… please…”

“Yes,” he affirms, smirking as she sobs in relief, her hips jerking in time with each and every movement by now, following the inevitable release, “but keep your eyes on me.”

And so she does, her vision nearly blacking out from the intensity of newfound experience, wave after wave crushing through her body, fingers almost cramping as she clenches around them, back arching in a catlike manner. Trembling with aftershocks, she is only capable of lying slack on the mattress, both hands mindlessly sliding onto the mattress, wiping any evidences of whatever has just taken place on the sheets, not quite bothering whether he minds it or not.

Dazed with the fervency of said experience, her eyes close on their own accord, barely able to register him getting up from the chair and flopping down on the bed, until he brushes the tender side of her breast, nipples still tingling with arousal. Drowsy as ever, she somehow manages to meet his gaze, pupils dilated in evidence of lust, frenzied and unhinged, yet partly subdued, as if in attempt to stop himself from completely devouring the lush partner, at least according to what she likes to tell herself on such occasions.

While lying on the mattress, boneless and spent, he traces the lines of her cleavage, smirking as she twitches in some unconditioned reflex, still a little dizzy and so unable to contain herself, body arching towards him, presumably enough to take a note of. There is something helplessly embarrassing about being so responsive – confirmation of the potent influence, the fact that he is capable of eliciting even the most absurd reactions from her with nothing else than just a mere stroke of his fingertips.

Pathetic.

(Is it?)

She looks – no – is absolutely fucked, he thinks as his palm follows a path down her body, teasing touch that tickles her flat stomach, sends a repetitive shiver down her spine, legs opening to give him the essential access – a shapely female in his bed, all to himself, which paired with the knowledge of how much she will let him do to her now, has his member throb in impatience, with the variety of scenarios running through his head. The whole experience allows him to see Serena in a different light, more as a self-conscious woman than a sarcastic lass, which in turn makes him wonder whether he was even supposed to offer her that brandy for a loosen-up – doubt definitely short-lived on the benefit of more pressing matters running through his mind. It appears to him that he has managed to dig out all the carnal-oriented parts of her, thirst never to be satiated, which in turn fills him with the so-called male pride, desire to push her limits on every occasion possible, such as now, full at his mercy with legs drawn apart.

“Mmm… fuck,” he mutters to himself, failing to notice the corners of her lips twitching in a sly smirk, too preoccupied with the carnival of thoughts rushing through his head. Nevertheless, such momentary satisfaction is not enough to soothe the blossoming ache, sheer desperation for the long-craved attention that has her squirming on the mattress, helpless and miserable, hips shifting to get him where she needs it the most. Unfortunately and much to her lust-laced despair, the cruel hand only hovers over the mound, barely brushing her skin, which elicits a frustrated huff from the woman and prompts her to roll over to the side, ignoring all protests of the weakened body.

Draping a single leg over his hip, she leans in to steal a kiss, the nicotine aftertaste lingering on his tongue, far too intense to be considered as pleasant under any other circumstances, and in spite of said assumption some wicked part of her still longs for more, pressed flush to his body. He allows her to do so, hands grasping her by the hips to prevent Serena from grinding against his thigh, or whatever stunt she is attempting to pull, which elicits a frustrated huff from the woman, one of those that has him chuckling against her lips.

“Can you like… take off your clothes?” She mutters, still less than an inch from him, unfortunately putting their kiss to a premature end. “It makes me feel awkward that I’m the only one naked.”

“I thought you would prefer to receive some attention first, but if that’s what you want…” he cocks an eyebrow at her, even though she is unable to see it at such close proximity, taking special pleasure in the way her hands fall down with a slap– illusion of pining him to the mattress.

“No- I mean-”

“No?” He interrupts, teasing manner that lights her eyes with newfound doze of frustration, clutching at the cotton of his tee.

“Can you touch me first?” She almost whines, the sheer desperation within her voice makes him twitch inside the constricting denim, wish to remove the barrier between their bodies, then, of course, fuck her into the mattress until she is babbling nonsense. “Please.”

“Thought you’d never ask,” he smirks, as if genuinely pleased with how the situation has played out, for his own benefits obviously, flipping them sooner than expected, which elicits a surprised giggle from his female partner. She props herself on the elbows, watching him with anticipation written across her features, curious about his actual intents, chest heaving in time with each uneven breath, skin practically glowing in the city lights – a reach-through to the most carnal parts of his brain.

(So, so ready for him.)                                                

Hence, he decides to take some pity on her

(him),

since she has been quite cooperative throughout their whole encounter, yet to reach the end, and so rewarding her for such is certainly fair enough, if only to see the misty eyes light up once more, stormy pools of sensuous lust, luring him to lean in – one step closer to his inevitable damnation. Therefore, he rolls the t-shirt over his head, jeans soon to follow – an action that draws an excited gasp from the female – although the underwear stays on, considering it might be a little hard to contain himself if elsewise, paired with the longing look she flashes him as in response to the unexpected turn of events.

Before she gets a grasp on what is happening, he tugs her by the arm, directing her onto his lap once again, breasts snug against his chest, and a single hand unceremoniously being pushed in between her legs, cupping the whole expanse in one rough palm, which elicits a vocal moan from the woman. Her hips rock against it, seemingly on their own, craving for more blissful friction, as she literally throbs in relief, opening up like a flower underneath his touch – silent plead for more, encouragement to pursue, to reward her for how compliant she has been to him.

“Just like that…” she moans, obviously content with the situation itself, eyes falling shut on their own, as she settles into the position, or rather gets used to the pressure applied by his hand, with a ghost of breath on her neck.

“Like this?” He teases, pressing down on her clit hard enough to draw a pitiful squeal from the woman, hips bucking in response to the rough caress – such an absurd concoction of words – as her hands raise to take a steady grip on his shoulders. His breath is palpable on her skin, tickling akin to the reddish strands, having her wish his tongue would run over the heated flesh, suck at the soft spot just below her ear, in need for any sort of relief, since all he has been performing for quite a while now qualifies as merely teasing, no less no more.

“You’re relentless,” she sighs, as if to spur him with the helpless act, thighs quivering with effort of containing the innate thrusts of her hips, pad of his finger circling the swollen nub with almost inhuman deftness, drifting her thoughts back the drive-in, and the following doubt: which one is she? The thirty-ninth? That low? Maybe fifty-first? This, paired with the ability of turning her mind into a shapeless mush, so clear and brisk at most times, capable of fluent concentration, freaks her out more than she cares to admit, along with the lust-laced submission, the fact that she is past the point of common self-respect, goaded by the primal urge to hit the climax once again – unhinged desire that breaks down far too many barriers, that forces her to…

“Mmm…fuck,” she moans as soon as his fingers reach further south, prodding at the spasming entrance, so close to sliding inside and yet elongating the blissful torture. “Please, I need this so much.”

“Who would’ve thought you were such a greedy, little girl,” he teases, oh so harmlessly, fighting the pressing need to grind against the moist heat, almost dizzy with his own lust, practically bursting as if caught on some high school fling.

(Self-control.)

“Tell me now, what have you done to earn this?”

Now that is humiliating, she thinks, while in consideration how regrettable would be to disobey him, even if for a mere moment, hands twitching with effort of containing the immature idea of pushing him away, then expressing her immense displeasure by twisting his dick off. Possibly the worst case scenario, and yet the only one left when cornered, hesitating between twain of opposite solutions, unable to fit anywhere in between, and accordingly so, she chooses to speak – weak insubordination, mindless babbling of sheer desperation.

“Each and every thing you wanted me to do,” she argues, one of her hand reaching his, pressed in between the tensed thighs, wordlessly prompting him to pursue, “so I think I deserve a reward.”

“A reward you say?” he retorts – a query almost lost in the space-time as soon as he presses down onto the swollen folds, drawing another feminine whimper from her. “Fine, so let’s make it worthwhile.”

And with that he resumes, quick to slide a pair of his fingers inside, which forces a choked cry from the woman, hands once again flying up to grasp his shoulders, long nails biting into the firm flesh. He hisses at the mingling stab of pain and pleasure, unable to contain the subtle shiver running down his spine, especially when paired with the reedy moan she utters as soon as he brushes the g-spot, dizzy because of the long-craved fullness, based on those male preference aspects, squirming upon his lap as the caress grows on intensity. This, or the self-named leakage, calls back to involuntary disclosure of one’s true intentions, hidden desires, cravings never qualified for direct verbalization, popping out to the surface when uncontained, least expected, or simply unfortunate.

“Hear that?” He rasps into her ear, causing the tiny hairs on female’s neck to stand up as the tickling heat begins to spread through her body, skin almost itching to be touched. “Hear how wet you are?”

“Yes,” she gasps, now actually paying attention to the squelching sounds, cheeks burning hot red, as she buries her face in his neck, lips brushing the sensitive flesh as she speaks.

“Look at me,” he demands, fingers grasping her chin, as he tilts it upwards, eyes adverting to the side, prompted by the silly need to hide away from the intensity of such contact, “and I want you to hold it.”

“Okay,” she gulps as her walls clench around his fingers – involuntary response that elicits an amused chuckle from the male, all to her exasperation, not so mild anymore, sweeping away the prior embarrassment. Even so, she considers the smug composure itself in terms of an aspect beyond enticing, exciting maybe, the one that drags her towards the end faster than expected in comparison to what she is used to. Furthermore, she cannot deny him the skills, but at this point also qualifies it as the less meaningful factor, with its lack of extent towards the mental dimension, towards the emotional bond that blossoms into trust as a parallel to relationship development.

Exquisite but eerie.

Verdict of veracity to validate.

Deep in her thoughts, at least as much as the current situation allows her to, she appears as genuinely caught off guard by the pulsing wave of bliss, pre-orgasmic but potent enough to tear a surprised gasp from her throat, meant to shatter the pitiful remains of so-called concentration. With the eye-contact aspect long forgotten, she throws her head back, exposing the slim column of her neck, luring him to finally suck at the creamy skin, glistening in the city lights, itching for extra touch. Despite the pair of fingers, shoved knuckles deep inside her, along with the ragging hard-on, he manages to get the hint, quick to dip down and attach his lips to the tender flesh – an act that elicits a relieved moan from the female – hands tangling in the velvety mass of hair.

At this point she can barely sit still, squirming in his grips as he lavishes her skin with open-mouthed kisses, nibbling and licking until she becomes a quivering mess, longing for the second climax – honeyed tang upon her tongue, as if possible to be tasted. Chasing the inevitable release, she rocks against the heal of his palm, desperate for more friction, frenzied and unhinged, torn between tethering on the cusp forever and tilting forward to the thirst-satiating finale – doubt definitely short-lived, minuscule expanse of time carved from the eternity.

With a final spasm, she arches towards him, lips colliding in a messy kiss, clenching around his fingers, so tightly that his thrusts are forced to a halt, labored breaths exchanged between the lovers – his in carnal desperation, hers as a result of mind-numbing bliss. In attempt to steady her trembling body, one of his arms snakes behind her back, holding the partner upright as she rides out her orgasm, bucking against his hand in languid manner that indicates the gradual ebbing of prior pleasure.

When their eyes meet, glassy and high on post-orgasmic delight, something snaps within him, and despite the discontented whine she utters, he pushes her away to the side, then in one brisk movement gets rid of his underwear, almost ripping the fabric in process. Having discarded it to the side, he climbs back on top of her, prying her legs open with a rushed knee jolt, but she halts him by laying a single hand on his chest, his face now marked with a frown of confusion.

“The protection,” she reminds drily, causing him to roll his eyes, but at the same time reach to the lonesome box chilling by the bed, soon to fish out a single foil package and rip it with one precise flick of his wrist.

“You’re such a mood killer,” he huffs, albeit quick to put the (un)necessary interval to an end by rolling the latex piece onto his throbbing hard-on, groaning when treated by the meager pressure, applied in the cruelest way possible.

Impatient as ever, she watches him jerk off a few times, before he kneels in front of her again, and without wasting any more time, lines with her entrance, the rapid slide that forces a chocked cry from her throat. With dark spots marking her vision, she lifts the gaze to meet his eyes – pools of pitch black with a barely present rim of jade, captivating, almost to the point of hypnosis, burning with unhinged lust – chest heaving with labored breaths.

“Shit…” he groans, delirious, voice laced with newfound desperation, selfish need to get off as soon as possible, especially when she is pulsing around him, once again anticipating the approaching wave of bliss. With his clean hand, he laces their fingers – a gesture she would consider romantic if not for the following exclamation, mindless babbling of incoherent man, lacking in the usual finesse. “Makes me wanna fuck you so hard.”

“Then do it,” she spurs, wriggling her hips as if to signalize that she is more than ready, wanting, willing to find out what he has to offer, but instead of transferring the words into proper actions, he speaks again, rough and husky – gravelly driveway to the dream estate.

“Say that again,” he practically growls – a sound that throws her off the current train of thoughts, even if for a brief moment, primal in the way that sends a chilling shiver down her spine.

“Do it, please,” she repeats, more determined than before, legs wrapping around his hips as if in attempt to drag him closer, heels digging into the tensed muscle. Having him inside her calls back to the long-forgotten sensation – peculiar fullness, linked with the most pristine connection – intended to be relished, but at the same time aiming for a further pursuit, walls spasming around him as if to prove a point. “Please.”

To that, he has no answer, at least not the one she wants to gain, instead keeps staring at her for what seems like forever, but in reality must oscillate around less-than-a-minute interval, with her squirming impatience failing to affect him. Seemingly deprived of the desired ability to make him comply,

(Come closer and see)

she focuses on the distinctive melody playing in the background, coming from the adjoining flat,

(See into the dark)

the one she used to consider as a fit to hear out while you get high, but that was before she has learned the meaning beyond lyrics, beyond the goth-rock tune that she enjoys to replay in her head, so brutally interrupted in the middle by an unknown hand.

(Just follow your eyes)

he says and for a split second she cannot focus on anything else but the lingering tone, leaning to one inevitable conclusion, and all of sudden there comes a time when ‘male’ is preceded by ‘fe’.

“Please?” He croaks at some point, barely acknowledging enough to pierce through the metaphorical barrier, one of his hands squeezing her hip, blunt nails digging into the fleshy part of her side, until she squeals in discomfort, eyes now shifting to meet his – pools of shady lust.

“Yes,” she gulps, struggling to get the words out of her parched throat, one slim leg hooking over his midsection as if to cover up the prior absence, “please.”

In what must take just mere seconds, he releases her hand – a hook to reality – both of his switching to her shoulders in search for a more convenient position, sure to leave bruises as they bite into her skin. She finds it unsettling, the swiftness of his movements, the barely present grasp on changeable turn of events – concern soon to evaporate in the chilly night in time with the first push, hitting her heftier than expected, evident in the stunned cry she utters.

His lips are parted, letting out heavy breaths, tongue flicking over the parched flesh – an action that enhances her want, no – her need, to taste him – while all he contributes in, minus the thrusting part, is holding her down, lost in the mind-numbing desire to feel her clenching around him each time he rubs against her cervix. He keeps the pace slow, allowing him to reach deeper inside his restless lover, her hands now tightening around his wrists, eyes falling shut, as she attempts to grind against him, clit throbbing for attention. She almost sobs in relief when he gets the hint, one of his hands dipping in between their bodies to circle the swollen nub with a pair of long fingers, not quite meaning to grant her the relief yet, instead teases the edges with ticklish touches, parallel to the fluttering of butterfly’s wings. Nonetheless, she is clenching around him, throbbing and squirming, almond-shaped nails biting into the tendons crossing his wrists, as if to stay connected with the runaway reality.

Noting more than a pointless pursuit…

According to Alexander, there is a fair amount of adjectives to label a woman with, selection almost mind-numbing during the initial recon, ranging from the less favorable traits to the absolute heaven of compliments, quite difficult to choose from in such circumstances. Either way, enticing is what he opts for at the moment, skin glistening with sweat, presumably as much as his, breasts swaying in time with each thrust, and the variety of sounds slipping past her lips, now bleeding from excess biting. The crimson mark prompts him to dip down, sweep his tongue across the cut, if only for a taste – a craving impossible to ignore – and finally lean in, kissing the split flesh – an action that elicits a relived mewl from the woman, along with the carnal groan he utters – shaping up a need to verbalize what is on his mind, a bunch of half-coherent words.

“Always so fucking stubborn, such a tough bitch out there, and look at you now,” he groans, breath tickling her chin, a single hand now tightening around her throat, which forces a chocked whine from the female. “You’d do anything I say, anything to cum, am I right?”

“Yes, yes, you’re right,” she chants as if in some unspoken desperation, rewarded by the profuse pressure on her clit that draws a content sigh from her, soon replaced by a deep moan, back arching off the mattress as both contraries mingle – inside and outside, downright blissful. She shivers as her breasts brush his chest, hands reaching to squeeze the pert globes, eyes closing on their own as the pleasure begins to build up, not so gradually anymore, rather in comparison with the waves crushing to the shore – rhythmical intensifications that parallel with the involuntarily clenching walls.

“I know, I- fuck,” he groans, spurred by the sight below to increase the pace, even thrusts long forgotten on the benefit of something more feral, pleasure-chasing, nerves tingling, as if to brace for the approaching surge of bliss. Torn between the polar opposites, on one hand willing to reach the thirst-satiating finale sooner than later, while on the other force her to beg once again, if only to maintain the ‘authoritarian’ figure, which at this point also appears as nonsensible, futile, with trembling muscles, tightening sac, and shut-off brain.

Although he can tell that she is tethering right on the edge too, he needs to speed up the process, lips attaching to the sweet spot below her ear – an action that elicits a broken moan from the woman – hand around her neck involuntarily tightening, as he holds himself up. Struggling to breathe properly, her nails rake down his shoulder blades, leaving a bloody trail below, his own teeth biting a sangria-colored bruise on the tender skin until she squeals, akin to some high school girl.

“C’mon, darling,” he purrs against the sore spot, flicking his tongue over the soon-to-form mark, rough stubble scratching her delicate flesh, hips grinding against his hand, caught in some frenzied state of lust. With a final scrape of his palm, or beard maybe, she clenches around him, spine bending as if to form a late triumphal arch – the most anticipated conquest – immediate to drag him with her, bodies spasming in each other’s arms, as their breath mingle, lips trace the flushed skin, and with both eyes closed, they attempt to ignore the black spots making their vision. Unable to keep himself upright, he collapses on top of her, drawing a pitiful mewl from the confused woman, cutting her airflow once again, which forces yet another choked whine from her throat. “’M sorry,” he mutters, although apparently struggling to roll over, muscles not working on his account for a change, but in the end somehow manages to rest on his back, leaving her cold and empty on the side.

In search for the essential warmth, she reaches out to him, half-climbing, half-snuggling to his side, body trembling as the sweat begins to evaporate from the cease of her spine, loose strands of hair ticking his cheek, lips joining in a leisure kiss. While neither of them dares to break the silence, still hazy with the post-orgasmic delight, his thoughts drift back to the events of seemingly distant past, the unspoken whim that has been lingering in the air for quite a while now, satiated by the least expected person.

It all seems so absurd now…

How close she brings him to God.

* * *

“Aren’t you gonna be jealous?” She frowns, her gaze glued to the enormous portrait decorating the snow white wall – a color almost too perfect to be true.

“No, why?” He glances at her, scratching his chin with the inked fingers, freckles manifesting on his skin more than usual in the blinding gallery lights.

“I don’t know,” she retorts, sarcastic as usual. “’Cause all of them will see me naked?”

“That’s only half of a story,” he replies, ever at ease, if not for the possessive squeeze of her shoulder, betraying what is lurking underneath the surface, probably deep enough to remain unacknowledged by the direct ‘stakeholder’ – a mere tincture of so-called jealousy, “only a poor substitute of what we are beyond that, I mean as people.”

“Well, that’d make a lot of sense,” she agrees, hand reaching out to fix the collar of his shirt, purposely scratching the now fading bruise with her nails, “if you weren’t lying, of course.”

“Me? Lying?” He counters with feigned astonishment – an actor in his own theatre of absurd. “In what world?”

“Think about this now,” she begins, hand floating through the air gracefully, indicating the unlimited possibilities. “Someone buys these portraits, every single one of them, to do what exactly? Appreciate art with his family on Thanksgiving?”

“Let him have them then,” he shrugs, calm to the point it drives her nuts.

“What?”

“Think about this now,” he explains, mimicking the prior manners, much to her exasperation. “Family gathering, licentious orgy – a dream come true.”

“I can’t believe you said that,” she huffs, attempting to conceal the giggle, treating to sip through the neatly polished façade – a signature of professionalism.

“Why not kill two birds with one stone?” He continues, almost laughing at the expression upon her face, flawless features marked by the frown of rebuke.

“The fuck is wrong with you?” She glares at him, chewing at the corner of his lip – an indication of surprised chuckle.

“Does it even matter?” He shrugs, with a smug smirk crossing his visage, eyes glistening with the so-called male pride that somehow reminds her of the cinematic philanders with dashing smiles and thick hair. “If you’d want me to fuck you either way?”

“Shut up,” she shakes her head,  tormented by the mixture of amusement and annoyance that she has somehow learned to enjoy with him – a turnabout of least expectance. “Just shut up.”

“See that guy over there?” He alludes, motioning towards some poor man, obviously not in terms of money, furthermore lacking in the aforementioned qualities.

“Yeah,” she nods, partly expecting to hear the following answer, and yet it manages to irk her up even this time.

“He’ll totally buy it.”

“Oh fuck off,” she swats him on the chest, gasping when he catches her wrist, fingers digging into the slender arm – a nonverbal warning.

“C’mon, there’s no need to sulk,” he purrs into her ear, lips barely brushing the tender flesh just below, smirking at the feminine gasp she utters in response to the well-accustomed-with caress, “I’ve wanted to show you something anyway.”

“Well… I don’t know,” she drags the words on purpose, gaze following his to the corridor at the end of the hall, “I thought you were supposed to stay here.”

“Agreements are contractual.”

“Mhm… astute.”

Verdict of his virtuosity.

 Created: 11/02/20

Completed: 12/28/20

Edited: 12/29/20

[ahtohallan-calling]

chapter 8 of it’s always ourselves we find is here!

1 / 2 / 3 / 4 / 5 / 6 / 7

[kristanna / m / modern au / coworkers & enemies to lovers ;) ]

At half-past noon, the unthinkable happened: Anna’s stomach growled, and Kristoff overheard.

He glanced up from his work so quickly she had to wonder if he’d really been working at all. “Are you--”

“I’m fine.”

He didn’t look away like she was hoping. “We can go get lunch if you want.”

“You can. I’m fine.”

“But I…” 

For a moment he just sat there, clearly choosing his words carefully, before he sighed and scratched awkwardly at the back of his neck. “I...I thought maybe we could talk. Like we always do on Monday.”

“What?” she asked, eyebrows pinching together in confusion.

“We always eat lunch together on Monday and talk.”

“No we don’t.”

He tilted his head to the side, looking genuinely puzzled. “Every Monday, you bring leftovers from Sunday lunch at your sister’s, and I get a sandwich, and we eat at our desks and just, I don’t know, talk. Well, I guess we don’t always talk, but we’re not fighting, either.”

Anna blinked once and then again as it sank in. He was right, completely so; how had she failed to notice the habit forming? And, more importantly, how had he noticed all of hers?

“Okay,” she heard herself saying. “We can get lunch. And...whatever. But not here, not where the others can listen.”

“Definitely not,” he said, already getting to his feet as if he couldn’t wait to get this over with. “Especially not that rat bastard Hans.”

Anna laughed in spite of herself. “Lead on, then.”

“I’ll drive,” he said over his shoulder as she followed a half-step behind him.

“Obviously. Considering you drove us up here,” she said drily, smirking when she saw the back of his neck turn red. 

As they stepped out into the parking lot, they slid back into an uncomfortable silence, remembering the new tension between them. Anna didn’t dare to look at him, even when he opened the door to his truck for her and held out a hand to help her up. “Thanks,” she said softly, letting go of his hand as quickly as possible.

It took several moments, as usual, for him to get the ancient engine running, and Anna used the time as an opportunity to glance over at him and judge his expression. He was frowning again, but his eyes looked glazed, somehow, as if it was something more than just the engine bothering him.

When at last they rumbled out of the parking lot, Kristoff cleared his throat. “I, uh, I just realized I didn’t ask where you wanted to go.”

“Oh-- anywhere, you pick,” Anna said quickly, hoping to prove that she could be perfectly agreeable, really, when she wanted to.

“I...we can...fuck.”

He sighed and turned to her as he came to a stop at a red traffic light. “Please just...argue with me again about something, Anna.”

Her heart constricted at the pleading note in his voice; she’d never known him to beg for anything, least of all from her. A small, foolish part of her wanted to lean over and wrap her arms around him, to reassure him in a way that didn’t demand she show a similar vulnerability. Instead, she shook her head, not daring to meet his eyes. “There’s nothing to argue about,” she said, her voice small. “You’re driving, you can pick.”

The light changed, but he didn’t put his foot on the gas again until the car behind them honked. Anna turned to stare out the window, at the colorful clapboard houses and souvenir stores that slid past, at anything that might distract her for at least a moment.

“I’m sorry.”

He sounded so sad all of a sudden that she did turn to him then, unable to stop the worry that flashed through her. “What?”

“I’m really, really sorry for being a dick this morning. I...shit, I knew I was being one at the time, but I just...I don’t know, I just wanted you to go away. I didn’t mean to actually hurt you.”

“It’s okay,” she said out of habit.

“No, it’s not okay,” he said seriously. “I was way out of line, and you didn’t deserve that. And I know you think I really actually dislike you, and I guess that’s my fault, but...I don’t know, Anna. I’m just...sorry.”

He was still focused on the road ahead, but she could see a new tension in his shoulders and in the set of his mouth. This was a new side of him, one she didn’t think she’d ever seen before. Strange, to think that even after over a year of working elbow-to-elbow she was still learning things about him.

She took a deep breath. “It just...what you said, it was like you just...you knew.”

“Knew what?” he asked as he pulled them into a parking spot in front of a rickety looking seafood shack.

Anna squirmed under the weight of his worried gaze. “It just...it felt like you knew the exact right thing to say to upset me.”

“I-- fuck. I knew I was being a dick, but I didn’t mean to hurt you. Seriously, I-- I just said the first thing that came to mind, you gotta believe me,” he insisted, looking stricken. “I-- Jesus.”

“It’s okay,” she said hurriedly, instinctively reaching out and setting a hand on his arm. “Really, Kris, I…”

She trailed off, and for a long moment neither of them dared to move. Kristoff glanced down at her hand, his eyes lingering for a moment, before looking back up at her, something earnest in his expression. “I don’t really hate you, Anna.”

You should move your hand, the voice in her head said, this is getting weird. Make a joke, play it off, tell him--

She squeezed his arm softly. “I don’t hate you either.”

His Adam’s apple bobbed in his throat. “How did...how did this get started, then? Us...fighting all the time?”

She shrugged. “I don’t know. I just thought you disliked me from the start, I guess, and then I thought maybe you didn’t, but by then it was just...a habit.”

“Why did you think that?”

“Kristoff...do you really have to ask why someone thought you disliked them?” she teased, though her voice was a little more gentle than usual.

“Fair point. But I...shit, Anna, I thought you didn’t like me.”

“Why?”

“Well, after that party you went to with Hans, you glared at me for a week, and then--”

“Wait, what? I thought you set me up with him for that because you hated me.”

They stared at each other in surprised silence for a long moment, and Anna realized she was still inexplicably holding on to his arm, that at some point he’d turned towards her and that their knees were now just barely brushing against each other.

“I think we’ve got some shit to talk through at lunch,” she breathed.

Kristoff opened his mouth to reply, but before he could, his stomach growled so loudly Anna jumped in surprise, her hand finally leaving his arm. They both laughed then, their cheeks reddening. “Guess we do,” he said, already getting out of the truck and moving to open the door for her.

---

For a little while, they managed to make small talk about the menu and the weather and how much time they had until they went back, but once the waiter had taken their orders an uncomfortable silence fell between them again. Kristoff was stirring his glass of tea with his straw, his eyes unfocused as he watched the ice cubes clink against each other. She permitted herself a moment just to watch him, to try and reconcile the parts that made up the whole of him, how he could be so gruff and irritable with her and yet look so devastated to hear he’d hurt her. 

He glanced up and noticed her staring. “Sorry,” he said, before she’d even had time to stammer out an explanation. “I-- I’m not good at...talking.”

Anna felt the corner of her mouth quirk up into a smile. “I’ve noticed.”

He managed a laugh at that. “I guess it wasn’t so bad when I was just, you know, fighting with you. But now it’s...different.”

She tapped thoughtfully at her chin. “We can keep fighting some, I think. I mean, it’s kind of fun, you know?”

“Definitely. And someone’s gotta keep you in line,” he said, a little hesitance in his voice, unsure if it was alright for him to resume picking at her like normal.

And there was that stupid instinct again that had her reaching across the table to clasp his hand. “It’s okay, Kris,” she insisted. “I’m not upset anymore, now that I know you didn’t mean anything by it.”

To her surprise, he drew in a deep breath and turned his hand slightly so that he could squeeze hers in return. Something shivered within her at the realization of how much his fingers dwarfed hers. “You’ve never called me that before today.”

“Called you what?”

“Kris.”

He was right, and she hadn’t even noticed. 

She’d heard before that sleeping in the same room with someone always led to a lowering of walls between them, that the implicit trust required by doing such a thing led to an increased vulnerability, but that had all seemed like a load of bullshit to her until right here and right now, when his thumb was brushing slowly against the back of her hand and his eyes were so soft she thought she just might melt right along with them.

“Is it okay? That I do that?” she asked, shy like she hadn’t been with him for months.

He nodded, looking like he wanted to say more, but the waiter returned with their food, and the moment was lost.

[paradise-of-guilty-pleasures]

Shattered Reflections {20}

[Helsa RP- Fanfic]

Fandom: Frozen

Genre: Post-Frozen/ Canon Divergence

- Hurt/Comfort, Drama, Romance

Pairing(s): Hans/Elsa, Kristoff/Anna

Previous Chapter: 19.Girls’ Night

A/N:

Prepare for Puns xD

20. Boys’ Night

While the sisters had a lovely tea party inside their pillow fort, the boys’ night out was continuing to be unsurprisingly uneventful. Kristoff had finished brushing Sven a while ago, and now the boys were stuck roaming around the courtyard, encircling it for what seemed like the millionth time. Olaf got bored fairly easily, so of course he tried to nullify his boredom himself the only way he knew how, by talking, practically non-stop, barely letting Kristoff get a word in edgewise. Olaf's virtually self-supporting conversation consisted of him rambling stories, spontaneously jumping into song, and (the part that actually required Kristoff to be present to answer them) curious questions. 

 "...magic, so I guess Elsa's like my mom, but kids seem to have both a mom and a dad, and they don't have magic --at least I don't think they do-- so it's got me thinking, how do people make babies without magic?" Olaf wondered curiously, it one of the countless questions he had asked that night.

Kristoff had always been a good listener, so he didn't mind the rambling. They could possibly have done other things, but Kristoff was at least vaguely aware of Hans' whereabouts and wanted to be sure he was nearby in case he was needed. He wasn't oblivious to boredom per se-- just too focused on everything else to process it. 

He just about choked when he tuned in to Olaf's question. He certainly made a sound like it, but he cleared his throat. 

"Why is this not the first time I've been asked that?" He asked, more to himself and his gods than anything. "It involves complex biology and is way more gross than you'd want it to be..." He started.

 "Oh look, we have company!" He changed the subject quickly and pointed out Hans and the Captain wandering home. In spite of the drinking, Hans seemed little more wobbly than he already had been with his injury. 

"Ahoy Admiral!" Kristoff called, just to draw attention and avoid the question from Olaf. 

"View Hallou!" Hans replied, curious what he was being hailed for. "The night is young and we are getting older." Hans joked dryly to the Captain, wandering to meet Kristoff and the party. "Well if it isn't the little snow-prince and the Arendelle royal cavalry. Good evening gentlemen. And I am counting the reindeer." He gave a respectful greeting gesture to all of them, perhaps especially the reindeer.

"I'm Sven," he introduced. He should at least be known by his name instead of just being 'the reindeer'. 

"Oh! Hans the Fool!" Olaf greeted, now completely sidetracked from the question he'd asked earlier. "Are you having a night out, as well?" Hans raised an eyebrow at Kristoff, more amused than perplexed, though there was plenty of that. 

"I am, little prince. Getting to know the Captain. It appears I'll be helping the Royal Guard with my sword. I'm a little more than a fool, I must admit. Shall we have the remains of a night out together? Telling stories and whatnot?" Hans' tone was always lighter and sweeter with Olaf, as anyone might be while working with children. Especially a fool.

Olaf's face brightened with glee at the notion of having Hans join them.

 "Yes! Let's do that!" Olaf exclaimed with excitement. He really did appreciate Hans' company, no offense to Kristoff and Sven, but having someone else that shared his enthusiasm, overjoyed Olaf. 

"If that's what you wish to do."

 "Good Evening," saluted the Captain, as he approached the group. "I see Westergaard's already inviting himself to join your party," he chuckled, already accustomed to his antics. "Is it alright to leave him in your hands?" He attentively asked Kristoff, almost as if he was watching over a puppy or a small child, instead of a grown man, a slightly drunken man, sure, but still. The Captain thought he should ask, Hans felt like he was his responsibility and he didn't impose anyone with that duty without their consent.

"Not going to join us, Captain? Just handing over Gaoler duty?" Hans joked dryly. He honestly meant it as a joke, but perhaps it did speak to his self-image. 

"We'll be fine, Captain. In spite of Anna's wariness, I'm pretty sure I can handle this driftwood log, and if he gives me trouble, I can always pitch him back out to sea." Kristoff joked, nudging Hans with his foot. 

"Oho, the Reindeer Lord has jokes. One of us is the Queen's fool, be careful who you challenge." Hans joked in return. He truly wore that stupid made-up title with pride. But then, Kristoff had his own made-up title, perhaps it was only fair.

"Hate to be an old fogey, but I'm afraid I've had enough excitement for one night, all I want to do now is get as much rest as I can to try to avoid having a headache in the morning," he said as he yawned. "I think my ears are still ringing from all that singing," the Captain twisted his pinky in his ear as if trying to dislodge something. "Keeping up with you isn't easy, you've completely drained me, boy. I need to hand over the reins and have someone else keep a watchful eye on you, just because of your capriciousness, and for your own well-being. Wouldn't want to find you floating in the fountain in the morning. I lost track of everything that happened tonight at the tavern, but if I recall correctly, I'm sure at one point you suggested doing a balancing act on a chair." 

"Oh, I've seen him do that once," Olaf interposed. 

"Of course, you've done it before, why am I not surprised?" The captain said with a disapproving head shake as he brought a hand up to his face. He let out a sigh. "Anyway, thank you for keeping tabs on him Lord Kristoff," he gave a nod in appreciation. "Fair warning though, his mood seems to be as fickle as the sea."

Hans laughed. "You flatter me, captain. And you need more practice at drinking if you plan to keep up with me. I was still sober at that suggestion." Hans grinned wryly. "And at the singing. I just like singing." He hummed. "Sleep, old man. See you in the morning, we'll try to keep tomorrow quiet then, hm?" Hans thumped the Captain on the shoulder, as good mates do. 

 "What else would we expect? Fickle moods seem to be all we know of him for sure." Kristoff pointed out. But he smiled and shook his head a little. "Tag me in next time, we'll see how I do at holding my drinks against a sea captain."

"I'd say bragging about your sobriety when acting like you were isn't something you should be proud of boy, but you already dub yourself a fool," he chuckled. "Indeed. Next time you're welcome to put him in his place," the Captain affirmed with a nod. "Goodnight gentleman, hope you enjoy the rest of your night-- and you don't cause too much trouble," he nudged Hans back. 

"I'm off to bed. I bid you all adieu." After one more reverence, the Captain took his leave.

 "Can I go to the drinking party next time too?" Olaf childishly asked. He wasn't aware of the alcohol involved, instead he was envisioning some sort of manly tea party. "It sounds like fun!"

Hans laughed a little. "Maybe when you're much older, little prince." He teased. "The men say things we oughtn't say around younger folks, and act more like fools than we ever should." He observed. "But what the captain doesn't know is, a fool is wiser than he seems, and a wise man more foolish than wise men ever think. The wisest man is the one who takes himself for a fool, even around fools." Hans smiled a little, playing wordplay games. He always liked puns and wordplay. 

"This is like that riddle, 'the wisest man is he who understands that he understands nothing'." Kristoff hummed. "Hans likes to say silly things, and worse, sometimes I imagine he says things that get him into trouble." Kristoff observed. 

"Aye, and out of it. More often out than in, but when in, then in big." He observed. It was a statement one really had to track to understand, but that seemed like the theme. Drunken philosophy night with the strangest assortment of characters around. "So, what are we all wandering about for?" Hans hummed. 

"The ladies are having a girls’ night, so I was on patrol to keep an eye out that you weren't up to trouble." Kristoff answered honestly. 

"What a good guard you are. You've certainly done that job." Hans hummed. 

"Out drinking with the Captain of the Guard? I bet that was a wild night." 

"Cards, drinks, and encouraging positive feelings toward myself. It's so easy, as if my last visit to Arendelle never happened. Anna is thus far the most sensible person I've seen." Hans admitted, a bit more soberly. 

"You're not upset?" 

"Oh, deeply. But that's sort of the point, isn't it." Hans didn't seem too bothered, just logical.

"Aw," Olaf groaned when he was denied his request to partake in the future fun only because he was deemed 'too young'. People kept telling him, 'when you're older Olaf', but when was that going to happen? He was a walking talking snowman, not an actual child though he was very much one in essence. Olaf tried to follow Hans and Kristoff's conversation, but got a bit lost in their philosophical talk. Hans smiled a little at Olaf. "Just as well, I don't think it would appeal as much to you, yet. Not really. In much the same way that politics only makes sense and isn't boring when you get older, it likely wouldn't be quite the same for you as for us." He assured him. He almost instinctively patted Olaf's head, perhaps forgetting that he was made of ice and snow.

 "You two seem chummy." Kristoff remarked, amused. 

"Of course. He's kept me company while I've been unable to walk around and chatter quite so much. I don't talk very much at home, it's good to be here and be able to say the things I think. Oh, Olaf, did you ever figure out what the meaning of my story was, that day of the raid? I suppose I never finished it. Predictable, but the best stories are the ones that take what you know and turn it upside-down. Like an hourglass, it renews the story." He may not have been drunk, but Hans certainly wasn't sober either. He was prone enough to meander (both in words and walk) while sober, and drinking only exacerbated it as he wandered off toward grass, just to walk on something more natural than cobble. Hans loved adventure, even if it was only venturing off the cobblestones.

Olaf laughed a little at being patted on the head. "Hmm...the meaning of the story?" he pondered. "I think it means that even the Mirror Prince had his own side to the story," answered the little snowman. It was obvious even to him what story Hans had been trying to tell him that day. "You know, I have my own retelling of that story too and so does Sven, don't you Sven?"

"Oh, I would wager you do." Hans agreed, sounding intrigued. "So you've figured out that I'm not just Hans the Fool, then?" He hummed, with a little smile. "I keep picking up titles these days, sooner or later I won't know what to do with them all. I wonder if they can be recycled. Someone else can be a prince, I'll keep Fool and Admiral and let the others slide." He joked, all lighthearted for the moment-- perhaps purely because Olaf was there. 

"Do pray tell, tell your version of the story? You can be quite a storyteller all your own." Hans remarked, his tone light and sweet. Kristoff wondered if that was what he was always like with children-- as Hans seemed under the firm delusion that Olaf was more of a strange child than a 'snowman given life through strange ice magic'. Kristoff supposed that was the better way to view things. Would he be like that with his own children? If Hans ever chose to have any, anyway. That would be its own pot of problems when they got there. Kristoff was glad that wasn't his problem-- but lately he had been thinking a lot more about families and family life. One could hardly blame him for thinking about the way Hans thought. Especially since he seemed to show a different face for every combination of company he might keep. Sometimes it seemed to change by the moment.

"Oh, yeah, everybody wouldn't be making such a fuss about you if you were just a fool, but I do prefer Hans the Fool," he giggled. The young snowman's face lit up at the invitation to share his account of the day he was created and the events that followed. 

"Okay, be prepared, I'm going to start from the beginning, well, my beginning since I wasn't there for the rest of it. This story starts up on the North Mountain where Elsa created me using her magic..." Olaf was very thorough in the retelling of his story. He told Hans how Anna, Kristoff and Sven freaked out similarly (or even more so) than he did when they first met him as well. He went into detail about everything (even the unimportant stuff) from how he got his nose, his love for warm hugs, mistaking Kristoff for Sven and of course his love for summer. Olaf continued his explanation about how he led his new friends up the North Mountain to find Elsa to bring back summer. Of course he couldn't gloss over he got impaled. And trivial facts like how he waited for exactly one minute before he joined Anna to talk to Elsa at the Ice Palace. How Elsa herself was also a bit shocked that she'd brought him to life. He described the sisters' interaction after Elsa stuck Anna and how they got kicked out by Marshmallow, only to have Anna aggravate him shortly after. He couldn't leave out how he bravely volunteered to distract and hold Marshmallow back to no avail and that they all ultimately fell off the cliff. Olaf didn't skip out on any of the awkwardness. He went on to talk about how they all ventured to Kristoff's 'Love Experts', and how he thought Kristoff was totally crazy talking to rocks he called his family until they revealed themselves to be trolls. Also that he figured out his name was Kristoff not Sven. Olaf relayed the full extent of their visit with the trolls, attempted wedding and all and how they went to go find Hans (for a kiss) after they were told that 'only true love thaw a frozen heart'.

He explained how he ended up getting separated from the group and that he was the one that had found Anna locked up after Hans abandoned her. Olaf recounted how he almost melted trying to warm Anna up. He was quite proud of his 'Love Expert' advice that made Anna realize that Kristoff really cared for her. Then it was on to how the two of them managed to escape a freezing castle through a window and make it to the fjord. Olaf had gotten blown away by the storm and so the next thing he witnessed was Elsa embracing a frozen Anna on the fjord. Olaf expressed how devastating it was to think they lost Anna forever, but was happy when he was first to notice that Anna had in fact been saved, her frozen heart thawed by an act of true love different than the one they all had envisioned and that none of them had expected. He conveyed how delighted he was at the return of the summer once Elsa was able to control her powers, even though the sun had promptly begun to melt him, but thankfully Elsa kept him from melting. That was practically the end of his story about the events he'd observed, because after that he had been too distracted and overjoyed, by his own personal flurry that allowed him to enjoy summer, to pay attention to everything else that was going around him, like Hans getting punched in the face by Anna. The little snowman was very animated with his explanation, transforming himself and acting out the parts as he went along, he was a very theatrical storyteller even more so than Hans. 

"...and that's the story of how I spent my first day of life."

Hans laughed through much of it, amused by Olaf's transformations and animated behavior, and all of his excitement. 

"You lived quite an adventurous life, and all in one day! Many people would be jealous, and I would venture to say you have lived the most adventurous life of any snowman. I wonder if Marshmallow would say the same? I very much remember Marshmallow, nearly killed me on the ice bridge, but what an adventure that was!" Hans hummed. He seemed quite fond of Olaf, and only more so with time. 

"You remind me of someone, somehow, but I'm not quite sure..."

"Yourself." Kristoff proposed.

 "How, exactly? We're not exactly alike." Hans pointed out. 

"You both laugh in the face of death, love jokes and stories, change to adapt to your environment, and everyone underestimates what you're thinking." Kristoff gestured to both of them.

 "...Well perhaps, but there's no need to insult him." Hans scoffed, tone a little flatter. 

"Oh shut up, I bet he's what you would have been like if you were raised in a happy family, without whatever screwed you up." Kristoff wouldn't let Hans deflect this one. And granted, perhaps Hans would have been a little annoying. Most children were. Olaf truly was just a child. 

"Hm. That may be so, but for once I don't find much merit in exploring hypotheticals. I can't imagine that alternative history. I'll have to just enjoy the one we're in, instead." His tone was perhaps a little less pleasant. If anything, he seemed a little more protective of Olaf, after that. He didn't want anyone to think they were like him. He was one of the disappointments, a prince turned treasoner and fool. He was not an example to follow.

"Ah, yes, an adventure of a lifetime, those were the days. My, how time flies." Olaf said in an almost reminiscent tone. "I don't know if Marshmallow would say the same, he's not much of a talker. But what I can say for him is that sure mellowed out since the last time," Olaf laughed at his own joke.

"You both love wordplay..." Kristoff added, amused, as Hans laughed at Olaf's joke. Hans was probably the only one who would laugh at that joke. 

"Your lifetime is only just beginning! You also lived through the assault on the castle, remember, there's plenty of adventuring time left." Hans assured, then he brightened up more. "Ah! I'm out of the castle, I can visit my horse in the stables! Would you all mind if we went? I haven't seen him in... probably a month? I'm not sure how long, now. Two?" He turned to go that way without waiting. Whether Kristoff wanted him to go or not, Hans wanted to see his horse. Kristoff shrugged and moved to follow. He was planning to end the night there anyway, and may as well let the man see his buddy.

"Oh! You have a horse? Is it a boy or a girl? What's it's name? Do you talk to them like Kristoff does to Sven," Olaf asked an abundant amount of questions as they headed back towards the stables.

Hans chuckled. "It's a boy, his name is Sitron. I talk to him, but he doesn't talk back." Hans assured with a little laugh. When he made it there, he jogged toward the horse, ignoring the pain in his side. Sitron seemed happy to see him, too, making happy sounds and tossing his mane. Hans threw his arms around his horse's neck and petted him. He was deeply fond of his horse, and they clearly missed each-other. Once again, it was easy to forget he was a prince, once. Now he was a man who had little but a mixed reputation, and a horse. A horse he was very glad to see again. 

"Hello you, I'll have to go riding again soon, they haven't been giving you enough exercise, hm?" He cooed to the horse, petting its nose. "I never thought I was going to see you again." While he kept his tone relatively neutral, it was just because there were people around. He had deeply missed his horse. He had few other friends.

Sitron was indeed ecstatic to see Hans again, it had been far too long that they were about. He gently trotted with excitement at the notion of being ridden again. His tail was raised in excitement and his ears were facing forward in full attention. Of course he had to sniff and nuzzle Hans with his nose. There was no doubt Fjord Horse had deeply missed his friend as well.  

"Oh, so that's Sitron, handsome horse, I was wondering where he'd come from, looks like he really missed you," smiled the little snowman. "Maybe you should groom him," he suggested, seeing that Kristoff had brushed Sven to start off the night and the reindeer seemed to enjoy it, so. "I know Sven likes it a lot when Kristoff does that to him."

"You know, I was thinking that myself." Hans agreed, immediately rolling up his sleeves and looking for the supplies to groom. Kristoff handed some over so Hans wouldn't have to think about it, and Hans happily took to tending to the horse as if he did that all the time. Maybe he had been a prince, but he had been a prince who wanted to be useful. "Ah, the lemon's turning into a lemon cake. You need to exercise." Hans teased, patting his horse's side to indicate that the horse was getting a little chubby. Still, he was glad his horse was being overfed, rather than underfed. He was the horse of a treasonist, after all. "Are they taking good care of you? You look well-groomed at least. No parade horse, but there's no neglect in Her Majesty's stables." Hans observed, more muttering at the horse than really talking to him as he groomed.

Sitron whinnied to show he was content. He was being treated well of course but he sure did miss going out for rides instead of being cooped up in his stall most the day. 

"Did you name him yourself or was he named that when you got him?" Wondered the curious snowman. "He doesn't look like a sour horse to me," he commented since he didn't understand why he was named after a lemon.

Hans chuckled. "I did, I was a boy and boys do silly things. He's got a slightly yellow-y tint and it reminded me of lemon meringue, especially with his mane." He hummed. "Certainly not a sourpuss, Sitron has been my friend for years. Sometimes the only one I felt like I could talk to, since he can't talk about whatever I tell him. Secrets are a resource in my homeland, they're hard to keep and valuable for it. No matter how mild, it seems it can be a danger. So if I only told my horse, I never had to fear it getting to anyone else. And what does a horse care what I have to say? He's a horse. He cares that I feed him, groom him, ride him, and make sure his shoes are on right." Of course, the stable hands handled the shoes in Arendelle. Not that he would usually shoe a horse, but he liked to at least make sure they were taken care of.

"Your homeland sounds like an awful place if you can't talk to anyone but your horse," remarked Olaf. "No offense to you lemon meringue, I'm sure you're a great listener."

"It is." Hans assured, nonchalantly. "Our family and staff have a lot of petty squabbles and teasing that tends to go... overboard. I'm the youngest, I get a lot more trouble than the rest. That's why I left for anywhere else. The sea is a great big 'anywhere else' to me. When I couldn't sail, I rode. As far as possible, somewhere as wild as possible. Often to a beach or a shore, sometimes to explore some forest. A horse makes for a fine friend, but it does lead to much less conversation." Hans admitted, focusing on his grooming. Sitron didn't seem offended, it was the truth.

"You and Kristoff are a lot alike when it comes to finding fine friends in animals, yet Sven does seem to converse more than Sitron. But then again Kristoff isn't much of a conversationalist when it comes to people, I've heard him sing that he thinks 'reindeer are better than people' when playing his lute," mentioned the childish snowman. "I think it's because he was raised by rock trolls," he tried whispering the last part.

"Aye, you could say that." Kristoff admitted, amused as he folded his arms and looked down at Olaf with a raised eyebrow.

 Hans laughed a little. 

"Maybe he's not wrong. A reindeer never committed a coup." He pointed out lightly. "Everything's a matter of perspective, I think. Perhaps the rock trolls have a better perspective." He paused a bit. "Did I know about the rock trolls? I think I didn't. That's weird. But not the weirdest thing I've seen, I hope one day to meet them, then. If only to say I've done it." He hummed a little bit at that. He liked experiences for the sake of them. Who needed reasons to see or do something new?

"You should definitely meet them, the rock trolls are fun, very nice, wise and they really like telling embarrassing stories about Kristoff," Olaf said, completely ignoring the look Kristoff gave him. 

"Maybe they'll do the fixer upper thing with you and Elsa, it looked like a lot of fun," he said, not really aware that it had resulted in the trolls attempting to wed Kristoff and Anna last time or was he? It was hard to tell will Olaf sometimes.

Hans looked curious, and chuckled a little. 

"Afraid I'm not a big fan of embarrassing stories from family." He admitted. "Too familiar with that bitter pill, myself. I'm not sure I know what you're talking about, but, it's probably for the best if we don't. I'm the Queen's fool, but I won't flatter myself to think we'll be spending much time together." He waved the thought aside, with a horse brush in-hand. Kristoff gave Olaf a curious look, wondering if Olaf was thinking the same thing he was about that. Olaf could be dim sometimes, but he -like Anna- had a habit of hitting upon the important things without knowing it.

For the first time in forever Olaf was uncharacteristically taciturn. 

 "Oh," he voiced in a slightly dispirited tone. He looked up at Kristoff a bit bemused.

Kristoff held the silence for a moment, a slow smirk showing up, identical to the one he wore when he wanted to tell Olaf all about how snow melts in the heat, but Anna stopped him. 

 "Flatter yourself, idiot." Kristoff shifted over to swat Hans playfully on the back of the head. Hans ducked, perhaps a little more than he needed to, receiving some small amount of the swat anyway. 

 "Excuse me?" He seemed uncertain whether he should be offended, or amused, but he looked a little more defensive either way. 

"You think she visits just to make sure your wounds don't rot? That's what doctors are for. Anna may not like you, but Elsa does, at least as a friend. You might hate yourself, but you're the only one. And maybe Anna, but she'll forgive in time, if I know her at all. I won't tell you to get over it, but at least get the picture; you're staying in the castle, you're going to see the Queen plenty. Still, probably best you don't see my folks and her at the same time, they're likely to marry you both." Kristoff joked dryly. 

 Hans laughed, a somewhat nervous laugh. But he didn't know how to respond, so he focused on brushing Sitron, instead. 

 "Let's talk about something else." He was quick to press the conversation away. Even if it was awkward, he would sooner hold an awkward silence than think about what Anna thought of him, or acknowledge that the Queen might like him. Somehow, both were painful.

Maybe the awkwardness now was karma for what happened earlier at the tavern. Kristoff had brought a wide smile back to the young snowman's face. 

 "You sure are a strange fellow," Olaf commented. Countless people would love to be in Elsa's good graces (especially since she still wasn't the most open person), but Hans seemed to think it was a bad thing, maybe he thought he didn't deserve that kind of attention, Olaf didn't quite understand and thought the former Prince was being silly, the title of Fool suit him quite well. He wasn't going to press him any further he saw Hans didn't seem too happy about the topic and Olaf preferred smiles to scowls. Of course Olaf couldn't bear the silence for too long, so he tried breaking it. He was an expert on changing the subject and going on random tangents. He didn't wish for Hans to stay silent, it just didn't feel right to him. 

 "Hey, Sven," he began "What do you call a reindeer with no eyes?" Olaf paused for a moment and Sven grunted. "What? You really don't know? I was only asking you cause you're a reindeer and I have no eye deer." He resorted to telling jokes, it was second nature to him. He’d much rather hear laughter than nothing at all.

Hans laughed quite suddenly at that joke, and rested his free hand on his face while he recovered from that one. 

 "Oh! That was a genuinely good one! it has layers." He did so love wordplay and puns. 

"Honestly, he has snow idea how to tell a good joke." Kristoff proposed. He liked Olaf's tactic. It worked a lot better. 

 "Snow thanks, Ice see what you're doing here." Hans retorted. They were probably going to be doing that a while.

And that they did. Once you start wordplay especially with people that are willing to continue it's a bit hard to stop. There were lots of snow and ice puns, of course, those were the easiest to make, as well as horse and reindeer ones, but the best kind of wordplay was undeniably the one that used their names.

  "I gotta Hans it to you, Sitron is looking more Hansome now that you brushed him," Olaf declared with a giggle. --

The puns continued for a long while, certainly long enough for Hans to finish tending to his horse and spending time with it. When it was finally time to leave, he gave his horse a fond farewell with reassurances that he would be back. Kristoff escorted him back to his room, just feeling as if that was now his duty, since the Captain of the Guard was gone-- and also he was the most sober one there (both of mind and body). 

By the time Elsa would have come to check on Hans, much later in the evening than she probably intended (because Girl Talk and catching up was simply too riveting), Hans had already decided to sleep, with an arm over his eyes and a leg hanging off the bed. Some people when they slept looked as if they had been laid to rest. Hans looked as if he had been thrown to rest, and he seemed perfectly comfortable with that fact. His hair was mussed and his collar rumpled, but only from the day's activity. And of course, he smelled a bit like rum and horse. It was sometimes easy to forget that he was an admiral. But not at that moment.

[biomeberry]

Friends

Ayy, it’s ya girl Salty, back at it again with the fanfic!

Alright, I’ll never intro anything like that ever again. This was supposed to be a drabble but hit the 2k mark so that’s a thing. @prinxiety-logality-sanders-sides asked me to tag them the next time I wrote so hey.  I’m also going to tag @sanders-sideblog for being a cool and supportive bean, hope you don’t mind! 

Fandom: Thomas Sanders (I know I’m shocked)

Pairing: Prinxiety (mostly brotp with fairly strongly implied romantic feelings)

Prompt(s): the last two lines of dialogue

Summary: A collection of moments between childhood best friends Anxiety and Roman. 

Warnings: Very deceptive beginning. This is gonna be angst guys. Childhood Prinxiety is precious but it doesn’t last. There’s some very light swearing I guess? Nothing too foul. 

Roman doesn’t know what year or month or day of the week it is when he first meets Anxiety, but he remembers the moment.

He's coloring at the table. Thomas is busy with homework, which he isn't used to, so Roman is kind of on the back burner. He's vaguely aware of Thomas’s mom scolding him for leaving the project for too long.

“Roman!” Morality calls out to the boy. Roman looks up from his picture to see the oldest trait leading an unfamiliar figure into the room.

“We have a new friend! Why don't you show him around? I'm sure he'd like to get to know you!” Mo ruffles Roman’s hair before slipping back out.

The new boy is thin, with a too-large coat and too-small shoes, which he stares at instead of meeting Roman’s eyes. He reminds the young Prince of a nervous alley cat he’d seen once on Thomas’s walk home.

“Hi there!” The boy doesn't answer.

“I'm Roman, what's your name?” He tries again. No answer. The young prince bites his lip, thinking hard. He's not about to be bested so easily.

“I'm coloring, do you want to see?” The other looks up and gives the slightest of shrugs. “Awesome!” Roman walks back over to the table and picks up the paper. “It's a dragon witch, see? It's got fire and magic and lasers and stuff! I’m gonna battle it!” He uses the paper as a makeshift sword, with his own personal sound effects. He has a sudden thought. “Hey, do you want to draw too? I don't mind sharing my crayons!” The new boy seems to consider for a long while, before very softly nodding. He goes over to the table and grabs a piece of brightly colored construction paper and a black crayon. Roman smiles and goes back to his dragon witch, as the other boy colors the entire sheet of paper black.

“Ooh! Logan taught me a really cool trick with that earlier, let me show you.” Roman reaches over to grab another piece of paper. He then pulls out a small Swiss Army knife. “Don't tell anyone I have this, Mo would freak out.” He scribbles quickly with a thick layer of black crayon over the red paper. He then gently presses the knife into the wax, just above the paper. He scratches it off in the shape of a crown, then holds it up. The new trait’s eyes widen slightly, a small “woah” leaving his lips. He grabs a popsicle stick and tries it on his own paper. Satisfied with the result, he begins to doodle. The work in contented silence for a while.

“Um...Roman, right?” Roman jolts up at the sound of the other’s voice.

“Yeah!”

“You asked what my name was earlier…” He squirms in his chair. “I don't have one. Thomas’s mom called me ‘anxiety’ when he asked about me...but I don't have a real name like you do.” ‘Anxiety’ looks down again, putting an unnecessary amount of concentration into his doodling. For a moment, Roman is just shocked by the unfairness of it all. Why would you bring a trait into the world and not give them a real name?

“That's okay, I'll give you a name! Can I call you Ann?” Anxiety shrugs.

“Sure, if you want. I don't care.” But Roman can see the way his mouth turns up.

“Well, Ann, I’m super glad to meet you! Can we be friends?”  He holds out his hand. Ann stretches out his own hand, pausing for a second before grabbing Roman’s.

“Yeah. Friends.”

2 weeks after Ann comes to live with the rest of them, Roman is woken up by a knock on his door. He's been practicing his vigilance lately, so as soon as he hears the noise he's awake, with one hand on the knife Mo still doesn’t know about.

“Come in?” It comes out too much like a question to be as brave as Roman would've liked, but all thoughts of that fled his mind as a tiny, shivering Ann crept through the doorway.

“H-Hey Roman.” He takes a couple steps back. “I'm sorry, I shouldn’t have bothered you, I’ll just go…”

“Nonsense!” Logan had just taught him that word yesterday. “If something has upset you in the dead of the night, it's my duty to kill it!” Ann looks slightly taken aback and opens his mouth to reply. He's cut off, however, by a loud clap of thunder. He lets out a small squeak and cowers. Roman can feel Thomas whimper too, his fear and anxiety getting the better of him. Ah.

“Oh, I see. That's a pretty bad storm, isn't it?” Ann nods.

“But it's dumb to be scared of them, you probably think I'm really lame. And, I-I know I'm scaring Thomas--I'm not trying to, but I am and so you probably hate me, too.” He rambled. Roman feels his heart break a little.

“Ann, don't be silly. About the hate, not the storms!” He clarifies quickly as the younger’s face drops even more. “I know you're just doing your job, trying to keep Thomas safe, right? Anyway, thunderstorms are pretty scary. I used to hate them, but then Logan told me that the sound is basically clouds bumping into each other! Cool, right?” Ann rubs his eyes quickly.

“Yeah, I guess.”

“Hey, come over here.” Roman pats the bed next to him, the other boy pads over, hesitant as always. “So you know how I'm Thomas’s creativity and stuff?” Ann nods. Roman grins and snaps his fingers. The large window high above his bed shifts from bleak rain and clouds to a bright, sunny day. Shadows from a tree bounce against the glass and cast the whole room in dappled light.

“Woahhh….” Anxiety smiles in spite of himself. “That's so cool.” He turns to look at Roman with shining eyes. “You’re really cool.” Roman blushes in spite of himself.

“Of course I am!” He tosses Anxiety a blanket. “Just because it looks warm doesn't mean it is. Don't be foolish.” Ann rolls his eyes, but smiles and wraps up anyway. They spend the next hour cycling through window designs, everything from lightly falling snow to a tropical beach with waves lapping against it. After a while, Ann’s eyes start to flutter shut. Soon enough, he leans against Roman’s shoulder, completely asleep. Roman gently moves the other boy so that he's lying on one of the enormous fluffy pillows that lined the bed. They both sleep better than they have in a while. 

“No, no, hear me out!”

“Ro, for the last time we are not sneaking back into the middle school late at night and using Mr. Brunsby’s tables to make a skateboard ramp!” Ann gestures wildly with the straw of his smoothie.

“But it would be so cool!”

“Thomas will break something, and it’ll probably be a bone.” Roman sighs, flopping dramatically over onto the floor. Deep down he knows it’s a stupid idea.

“Why do you have to be such a buzzkill?” Ann wraps his arms around Roman, smirking. “It’s just what I do, Princey boy.”

“Ew.” Roman pushes him off, though secretly he doesn’t mind all that much. The other trait is weirdly warm and it’s kind of nice. “Okay, so what about--”

Slurp. Ann makes deadly eye contact as he sips his smoothie as loudly as possible.

“What about if-”

S l u u r p

“Ughhhhh. I was saying--”

Sluuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuurp.

“ANN!” Roman shrieks and hits Ann so that he tips over, laughing wildly. “I hate you.” He puffs a lock of hair out of his face and pouts. Ann looks up from his spot on the floor.

“You love me.” As Roman looks at him, hair a mess and the grin still stretching across his face, he thinks that Ann just might be right about that one.

“I hate high school.” Ann wails, flopping onto the couch. Mo makes a sympathetic coo and offers the younger trait a cookie. “It’s terrible.” Roman joins him on the couch.

“Tell me about it. But hey, at least there’s auditions for the musical on Friday. I can’t wait to get back into it!”

“Yeah, yeah, Mr. Born-For-The-Stage. But speaking of which, is Thomas prepared?” Roman smiles proudly.

“Indeed! We have our song choice down, and we’ll make sure that he gets a good night’s sleep.” He pats Ann gently. “But, I know you get worried. Do you want to assist my conquering of the theatre?” He offers Ann the script. The other pushes it away. There’s a sick feeling in his stomach. Thomas really, really wants to do well on this.

“Are you sure? What if you forgot something?” Roman frowns, his brow furrowing.

“Yes, I am quite sure. And no, everything is in order.”

“You don’t know that though, do you? Not really.”

“Ann, don’t antagonize him.” Logan calls from across the room.

“I’m not trying too! Look, all I'm trying to say is that there are a million things that could go wrong.”

“And that’s not helpful.” The prince says, a little icily. Ann feels his throat constrict a little.

“Um...I’m just going to go. You guys don’t need me here.” He gets up and quietly begins to leave the room.

“Ann,” Roman says gently. “Just go for now. We can play video games later, how about it?” Ann shrugs and slinks out.

When that Friday morning comes and a very anxious and sleep-deprived Thomas pours orange juice in his cereal, Ann can feel Roman staring at the back of his head.

A plate smashes.

“Can you just stop?”

“No, I can’t! If I could, I would!”

“Thomas has been so happy lately. He likes the campus, he has friends, and he’s doing so well. Ann, I lo--like you, but you can’t just take over like this!”

“I’m not trying to!” His voice is harsh, abrasive and cold. But Roman isn’t oblivious. He’s learned how Ann reacts to things. He’s about to cry.

“Ann, listen to me--”

“Don’t call me that! It’s not my name.” Roman is slightly taken back. There’s never been any rejection of the nickname before. “Anxiety,” he says slowly, the syllables sounding wrong and foreign on his tongue. “Anxiety, you’re my friend. I care about you. I want to help you.”

“No, you don’t.” Anxiety hisses. “You want me to go away. You want me to just stop existing.” Roman is getting frustrated.

“You know that isn't true!” He’s starting to see red. “Christ, Anxiety! You know what? Yeah, my life would be a lot easier without you! Is that what you want to hear? That you're a burden? Well great, cause it’s true!”

Roman has never felt more suffocated by silence. Ah, crap. He's messed up. Anxiety--no, Ann, his Ann--really did start to cry then. Hot, angry tears that slipped down his cheeks.

“Hey,”

“Save it.”

Morality sighs.

“You two have been attached at the hip since the beginning of your existence. You’ll make up.”

They don't.

Then, Roman cries, too.

It's a Saturday morning, and Logan suggests they all do a spring cleaning of the mindspace. And Logan, who for all his brilliance could learn to take a hint or two, decides to pair up Roman and Anxiety.

“You two have disagreed on the pettiest things. It's high time that you resolve your issues through teamwork.” No amount of groaning or complaining from either party could change his mind.

And so, the two traits end up shifting through a box of Thomas’s old memories. Anxiety mutters the entire time about how Logan probably just wanted a chance to make out with Morality. It was a fair accusation.

“Hey, remember this?” Anxiety says, out of the blue. He holds up a beaten up cardboard crown. Roman leans over.

“Oh, yeah.” He reaches behind the crown. “What’s this?”

“Hey maybe don’t--” Roman pulls out a photo.

A much younger Roman and Anxiety are hanging from a tree branch, both holding popsicles. Roman is giving the camera a huge, gap-toothed smile, and the photo catches Anxiety mid-giggle, slightly blurry. He still brings his hand up like that when he laughs. The back of the photo is covered with Morality’s loopy handwriting. Princey and Ann, age 10.

“I remember that…” Anxiety says, very softly. Roman nods.

“You know, back then I thought we’d always be friends.” For a moment, the look on Anxiety’s face is one of pure misery. Loss is scrawled so plainly across his features it’s almost painful to look at. Then, he smooths his expression out and gets up.

“Yeah, well that’s where you were wrong.”