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speaksoftlylove2016-09-13 01:42 am
dalicious) wrote in speaksoftlylove2016-09-13 01:42 am
FIC - You Try (And Know How We'll Disappear)
blood blockade battlefront/death parade
aligula/ginti
1700 words; trustfelled
for bella
For a while he's finicky about the alcohol in his bar, though he always makes her something when she asks for it; it's usually variations on the same thing, cosmopolitans stained dark pink with raspberries and Stolichnaya or a deep, vibrant red with strawberries and Cointreau, and the sweetness of the drinks is more than enough to mask the strength of the liquor that goes into them. Perhaps more importantly, she knows, it gives him something to do with his hands; it's busywork, nothing pressing and certainly nothing that needs an undue amount of focus, and she feels no qualms about talking to him while he works.
He never told her, she points out one day, what his favorite drink to make actually is.
He's quiet for a moment, the silence brief but practically tangible, before he tells her that he doesn't have one; he shrugs it off, telling her that the ones he makes for her are fine. He doesn't verify whether they're fine because he likes making them or because he likes making them for her; she can't really be sure that he even knows the difference.
Eventually, he will.
She knows that eventually, he will.
There are several things he gets better at quickly, though, far more quickly than love and caring and understanding why certain things are important; he's good at braiding hair, at brushing it out and separating it and twisting plaits into being, and it doesn't take long for them to fall into a routine surrounding it. Sometimes it's plain, but that doesn't mean he didn't like making it just the same (and that's something she has to learn from him, how to tell the difference between the times he's genuinely not in the mood and the times when things just...aren't going to happen properly because of who he is as a person); other times, though, he'll do things with them. A halo braid running around the front of her head, tucked back behind her ears. A French braid that looks sort of like Nona's, pulled lightly until it's fluffy and loose and almost spilling out of the bow holding it in place. A tight fishtail braid that reminds her of Katniss.
That last one always makes her purse her lips a little when she examines it; she tries not to wonder if he remembers why.
He never really gets the memo that he should probably do something while he's working on it; he doesn't ever move to kiss her neck, or to do anything more affectionate than what's already strictly necessary. But there's a lack of bite to his words when he greets her, when she climbs up onto the bar to sit in front of him and wait for him to start, and when he tugs on her hair to get her to hold still time and again it's less brutish and more gentle, and if she didn't know better she'd think he was learning how to tease her.
The couches in Viginti are nice but she always prefers the bar – sitting on the bar itself is good, always, but sometimes it's just as good on a stool with her legs folded beneath her and elbows on the counter, chin propped idly in her hands. That's usually where she is when he makes drinks for her; that's where she is the day she asks him again about favorites.
Does he even understand why having favorites is important, she asks him, swinging her hand out gently and away from her face; she isn't surprised when he doesn't, and she isn't disappointed, either – this, this is something she can explain, it's something that won't come with a mild sting that she'll try to ignore if he doesn't get it.
And her voice is high and lilting when she explains that sometimes things are just better, and it doesn't matter if they have identical functions or seem to be exactly the same except for color or texture or some other quirk that makes them, well, them – sometimes things are just better because they are, and there isn't always a reason for it other than maybe you just like red better or the texture in that particular glass feels nice when you run your fingers over it, and in the end - what matters - is the fact that you like it. Just because you do, just because you want to.
And he listens to all that, and it's obvious that he doesn't understand because he's getting that weird look on his face again, but what's important (what matters) is that he bothered to listen to it at all, and it isn't long before he breaks eye contact and sets one of those dark pink drinks in front of her.
She likes it when he wants things, he says after a good long moment; it's strange, and it's blunt, kind of like he's trying the words out to see if he likes them and is verging on the realization that he doesn't. She toys with the stem of her glass.
She likes it when he wants things, she agrees eventually, but she likes it better when he admits that he wants things.
He tilts his head in that strange way she usually associates with Juri, even now; he watches her for a moment, and when his gaze flicks away he's irritated, and it takes him longer than it should to tell her that he's an arbiter and they weren't designed to want anything.
But she's here because he wants her around, she points out, swirling her drink in her glass.
The silence stretches between them before he shakes his head, and the correction he gives her comes with too much bite and not enough agitation – frustration, not anger, because that's something else she's learned to read off of him, too.
She's here because he wants her.
He doesn't need to sleep, and really, neither does she anymore; just the same, sometimes she'll do it just because sleeping is nice, and sometimes he'll come into her room when she's ready for bed – it's always in that tactless, unannounced way that he has, and he never really sees anything odd about being in there and she can tell, and while she'll tease him about it it's never in a way that implies she doesn't want him doing exactly what he's doing.
And sometimes he'll sit on the bed with her before she lies down, and she'll reach up idly and pull his hair out of the short ponytail he keeps it in at the back and he'll look cross with her until her fingers are carding through his hair and his eyes just slide closed almost automatically.
It's kind of funny, how predictable he is about it, and the punchline is the part where she can't point it out or he'll stop doing it.
So she just lets her hands run through his hair, red locks running messy through her fingers and it's almost surprisingly soft – she doesn't know what she'd expected, but the softness of it apparently wasn't part of the package and the first time she'd done it there'd been a pause that would have been amusing if it'd been anyone else doing it.
As it was, she just kind of kept going after a while, and now it's just something they do.
She doesn't touch him in front of their guests; she rarely touches him even when the guests aren't there. But sometimes he'll let her touch his hair, and it's not enough, but it's progress, and she tells herself that that's what's important right now.
Sometimes they go on dates, but one day there comes a time when he tells her to get off the bar while she's sitting on it; she moves to slide onto the nearest stool when he stops her again. She's going to be behind the bar for once.
She's been here long enough, she might as well learn how to make a few things.
To his credit, he manages to not stand around criticizing everything she does; it takes almost all of his willpower and she can tell, but he lets her stand there and play. And while the first few she makes are terrible (the first several she makes are terrible), there are a few things she keeps coming back to – bourbon and ginger and bitters and lemon, and upon pouring out the cocktail shaker for what must be the dozenth time she realizes that she's produced something roughly the same color as his eyes.
Sometimes they go on dates, but this one time he lets her play with his booze and drinks the thing she puts in front of him and he tells her it's surprisingly not bad, and she understands that in his own way that probably means more.
She wonders, sometimes, if this is going to be worth it; even if love conquers all – and it always, always does – there's a blankness in his responses when she mentions the others (when she mentions Ferid) that implies that even now, he doesn't remember very well.
But things work their way in here and there, in ways that she doesn't always expect – he still braids her hair like Katniss' from time to time; he doesn't give a single damn about flowers but one of the bedrooms off the main hall (the one that had been occupied, once) always has primroses in it now. Once in a while she catches him playing with that compact that Naoto had found, and she wonders if he still thinks about that girl that she reminded him of.
If he thinks about all of that, then maybe, maybe he'll still think about her too; she's one of the few things he's ever actually admitted to wanting, after all.
He never does kiss her on the neck when he's braiding her hair; instead, he gets it in his head to try it once while she's practicing with mixing drinks.
She drops the glass she's holding, and then he's flustered and yelling about it, and her hands are running back through his hair and she's never, never going to let him live it down.
aligula/ginti
1700 words; trustfelled
for bella
For a while he's finicky about the alcohol in his bar, though he always makes her something when she asks for it; it's usually variations on the same thing, cosmopolitans stained dark pink with raspberries and Stolichnaya or a deep, vibrant red with strawberries and Cointreau, and the sweetness of the drinks is more than enough to mask the strength of the liquor that goes into them. Perhaps more importantly, she knows, it gives him something to do with his hands; it's busywork, nothing pressing and certainly nothing that needs an undue amount of focus, and she feels no qualms about talking to him while he works.
He never told her, she points out one day, what his favorite drink to make actually is.
He's quiet for a moment, the silence brief but practically tangible, before he tells her that he doesn't have one; he shrugs it off, telling her that the ones he makes for her are fine. He doesn't verify whether they're fine because he likes making them or because he likes making them for her; she can't really be sure that he even knows the difference.
Eventually, he will.
She knows that eventually, he will.
There are several things he gets better at quickly, though, far more quickly than love and caring and understanding why certain things are important; he's good at braiding hair, at brushing it out and separating it and twisting plaits into being, and it doesn't take long for them to fall into a routine surrounding it. Sometimes it's plain, but that doesn't mean he didn't like making it just the same (and that's something she has to learn from him, how to tell the difference between the times he's genuinely not in the mood and the times when things just...aren't going to happen properly because of who he is as a person); other times, though, he'll do things with them. A halo braid running around the front of her head, tucked back behind her ears. A French braid that looks sort of like Nona's, pulled lightly until it's fluffy and loose and almost spilling out of the bow holding it in place. A tight fishtail braid that reminds her of Katniss.
That last one always makes her purse her lips a little when she examines it; she tries not to wonder if he remembers why.
He never really gets the memo that he should probably do something while he's working on it; he doesn't ever move to kiss her neck, or to do anything more affectionate than what's already strictly necessary. But there's a lack of bite to his words when he greets her, when she climbs up onto the bar to sit in front of him and wait for him to start, and when he tugs on her hair to get her to hold still time and again it's less brutish and more gentle, and if she didn't know better she'd think he was learning how to tease her.
The couches in Viginti are nice but she always prefers the bar – sitting on the bar itself is good, always, but sometimes it's just as good on a stool with her legs folded beneath her and elbows on the counter, chin propped idly in her hands. That's usually where she is when he makes drinks for her; that's where she is the day she asks him again about favorites.
Does he even understand why having favorites is important, she asks him, swinging her hand out gently and away from her face; she isn't surprised when he doesn't, and she isn't disappointed, either – this, this is something she can explain, it's something that won't come with a mild sting that she'll try to ignore if he doesn't get it.
And her voice is high and lilting when she explains that sometimes things are just better, and it doesn't matter if they have identical functions or seem to be exactly the same except for color or texture or some other quirk that makes them, well, them – sometimes things are just better because they are, and there isn't always a reason for it other than maybe you just like red better or the texture in that particular glass feels nice when you run your fingers over it, and in the end - what matters - is the fact that you like it. Just because you do, just because you want to.
And he listens to all that, and it's obvious that he doesn't understand because he's getting that weird look on his face again, but what's important (what matters) is that he bothered to listen to it at all, and it isn't long before he breaks eye contact and sets one of those dark pink drinks in front of her.
She likes it when he wants things, he says after a good long moment; it's strange, and it's blunt, kind of like he's trying the words out to see if he likes them and is verging on the realization that he doesn't. She toys with the stem of her glass.
She likes it when he wants things, she agrees eventually, but she likes it better when he admits that he wants things.
He tilts his head in that strange way she usually associates with Juri, even now; he watches her for a moment, and when his gaze flicks away he's irritated, and it takes him longer than it should to tell her that he's an arbiter and they weren't designed to want anything.
But she's here because he wants her around, she points out, swirling her drink in her glass.
The silence stretches between them before he shakes his head, and the correction he gives her comes with too much bite and not enough agitation – frustration, not anger, because that's something else she's learned to read off of him, too.
She's here because he wants her.
He doesn't need to sleep, and really, neither does she anymore; just the same, sometimes she'll do it just because sleeping is nice, and sometimes he'll come into her room when she's ready for bed – it's always in that tactless, unannounced way that he has, and he never really sees anything odd about being in there and she can tell, and while she'll tease him about it it's never in a way that implies she doesn't want him doing exactly what he's doing.
And sometimes he'll sit on the bed with her before she lies down, and she'll reach up idly and pull his hair out of the short ponytail he keeps it in at the back and he'll look cross with her until her fingers are carding through his hair and his eyes just slide closed almost automatically.
It's kind of funny, how predictable he is about it, and the punchline is the part where she can't point it out or he'll stop doing it.
So she just lets her hands run through his hair, red locks running messy through her fingers and it's almost surprisingly soft – she doesn't know what she'd expected, but the softness of it apparently wasn't part of the package and the first time she'd done it there'd been a pause that would have been amusing if it'd been anyone else doing it.
As it was, she just kind of kept going after a while, and now it's just something they do.
She doesn't touch him in front of their guests; she rarely touches him even when the guests aren't there. But sometimes he'll let her touch his hair, and it's not enough, but it's progress, and she tells herself that that's what's important right now.
Sometimes they go on dates, but one day there comes a time when he tells her to get off the bar while she's sitting on it; she moves to slide onto the nearest stool when he stops her again. She's going to be behind the bar for once.
She's been here long enough, she might as well learn how to make a few things.
To his credit, he manages to not stand around criticizing everything she does; it takes almost all of his willpower and she can tell, but he lets her stand there and play. And while the first few she makes are terrible (the first several she makes are terrible), there are a few things she keeps coming back to – bourbon and ginger and bitters and lemon, and upon pouring out the cocktail shaker for what must be the dozenth time she realizes that she's produced something roughly the same color as his eyes.
Sometimes they go on dates, but this one time he lets her play with his booze and drinks the thing she puts in front of him and he tells her it's surprisingly not bad, and she understands that in his own way that probably means more.
She wonders, sometimes, if this is going to be worth it; even if love conquers all – and it always, always does – there's a blankness in his responses when she mentions the others (when she mentions Ferid) that implies that even now, he doesn't remember very well.
But things work their way in here and there, in ways that she doesn't always expect – he still braids her hair like Katniss' from time to time; he doesn't give a single damn about flowers but one of the bedrooms off the main hall (the one that had been occupied, once) always has primroses in it now. Once in a while she catches him playing with that compact that Naoto had found, and she wonders if he still thinks about that girl that she reminded him of.
If he thinks about all of that, then maybe, maybe he'll still think about her too; she's one of the few things he's ever actually admitted to wanting, after all.
He never does kiss her on the neck when he's braiding her hair; instead, he gets it in his head to try it once while she's practicing with mixing drinks.
She drops the glass she's holding, and then he's flustered and yelling about it, and her hands are running back through his hair and she's never, never going to let him live it down.