Quite Something Nonetheless
Written for then_theres_us challenge 72.
They never linger.
It's the time of year in Kyoto when the fog rolls down the mountains and presses down upon the gasping city, choking it with waves of heat and humidity, and when the birds sing, it is a song of desperation and worry (worry that the chill will soon come, worry that it will stay evermore).
Sweat trickles down a lover's face, paving a salty trail through furrowed brows and over moaning lips. A sparrow watches from his nest through the open window of the room with mild interest as two bodies, darkened under hazy skies, move together. Fingers claw at skin, legs wrap around waists, and mouths mask words that, if spoken, will require a steadying of sorts.
The sparrow leaps onto a passing breeze and the scent of passion spent greets him when he returns, worms wrestling with his beak.
She glances up at what appears to be a ceiling composed entirely of smog. “So this is New York, the city so good they named it twice.”
“You know, Rose,” he begins with a smile.
“I feel a monologue comin’ on,” she interrupts with a smirk.
“There might be more than thirty-seven New Yorks in civilized history, but there’s only one Statue of Liberty. It was designed by the great French sculptor Frédéric Bartholdi, who was, at one point several years back, a friend of mine.” He frowns for a moment and tugs his ear absentmindedly. “Well, when I say a friend…”
A tongue slips across her lips. “You drove him absolutely mental, yeah?”
“Semantics, really.”
Looping her arm around his, she feigns a pout as they pass the Rockefeller Center. A red-haired child screams when her ice cream cone splatters to the pavement. “You never did take me here, you know. For Elvis and stuff.”
If she didn’t know him well enough (after all, she is fluent in his body language) she wouldn’t catch the slight downward twitch of his dark eyes.
She stops walking quite suddenly at the corner of 5th Avenue. It’s the loss of her warmth and her scent (strawberries and void stuff and wanderlust) that prompts him to spin around on the spot, nearly knocking over a little old lady in the process.
“Rose?” he murmurs as he approaches her, his hands on her face as soon as she’s in reach.
There are tears swimming around her irises. “Doctor, you know I was only joking, right?” she asks in a nervous whisper. “Because I don’t care about any of that. Elvis, I mean.”
They’re getting frustrated stares from both natives and tourists, so he pulls her into his arms and back on the path they had been following. “St. Peter’s Cathedral is just up 50th. It’s no Pantheon, but it’s quite something nonetheless.”
They fall asleep on the lawn of Montmarte (and he gets pick pocketed).
They share hummus in Fez (well, he gets it on his nose, and she licks it off).
They celebrate Día de los Muertos in Ocotepec (and when they offer a matriarch wax candles they found in the marketplace, they’re received as family).
They spend their days in Gaza in near silence (for they are struck by the stench of desperation and loss and dwindling hope).
And somewhere between Bavaria and Beijing, this roaming lifestyle of theirs becomes home again. Later, they realize it always was.
Instead of a TARDIS theater and Casablanca, it’s Inception on her portable DVD player and a plane. He’s got his arm draped around her shoulders and his jaw slack. She’s eating stale crisps without (much) complaint.
And there is laughter when Eames says, well, anything, and deep kisses that offend a prepubescent boy in the row beside theirs and two hearts beating out a samba.
“So, Barcelona?” she asks into his neck.
“It was that or Vegas. And while I wouldn’t mind catching Celine, I figured Barcelona holds more sentiment than Sin City. Although,” he pauses with what can be best described as a lecherous grin. “Considering that you insist on living in sin, I guess it would be rather appropriate.”
“Shut up.”
They never linger.
It's the time of year in Kyoto when the fog rolls down the mountains and presses down upon the gasping city, choking it with waves of heat and humidity, and when the birds sing, it is a song of desperation and worry (worry that the chill will soon come, worry that it will stay evermore).
Sweat trickles down a lover's face, paving a salty trail through furrowed brows and over moaning lips. A sparrow watches from his nest through the open window of the room with mild interest as two bodies, darkened under hazy skies, move together. Fingers claw at skin, legs wrap around waists, and mouths mask words that, if spoken, will require a steadying of sorts.
The sparrow leaps onto a passing breeze and the scent of passion spent greets him when he returns, worms wrestling with his beak.
She glances up at what appears to be a ceiling composed entirely of smog. “So this is New York, the city so good they named it twice.”
“You know, Rose,” he begins with a smile.
“I feel a monologue comin’ on,” she interrupts with a smirk.
“There might be more than thirty-seven New Yorks in civilized history, but there’s only one Statue of Liberty. It was designed by the great French sculptor Frédéric Bartholdi, who was, at one point several years back, a friend of mine.” He frowns for a moment and tugs his ear absentmindedly. “Well, when I say a friend…”
A tongue slips across her lips. “You drove him absolutely mental, yeah?”
“Semantics, really.”
Looping her arm around his, she feigns a pout as they pass the Rockefeller Center. A red-haired child screams when her ice cream cone splatters to the pavement. “You never did take me here, you know. For Elvis and stuff.”
If she didn’t know him well enough (after all, she is fluent in his body language) she wouldn’t catch the slight downward twitch of his dark eyes.
She stops walking quite suddenly at the corner of 5th Avenue. It’s the loss of her warmth and her scent (strawberries and void stuff and wanderlust) that prompts him to spin around on the spot, nearly knocking over a little old lady in the process.
“Rose?” he murmurs as he approaches her, his hands on her face as soon as she’s in reach.
There are tears swimming around her irises. “Doctor, you know I was only joking, right?” she asks in a nervous whisper. “Because I don’t care about any of that. Elvis, I mean.”
They’re getting frustrated stares from both natives and tourists, so he pulls her into his arms and back on the path they had been following. “St. Peter’s Cathedral is just up 50th. It’s no Pantheon, but it’s quite something nonetheless.”
They fall asleep on the lawn of Montmarte (and he gets pick pocketed).
They share hummus in Fez (well, he gets it on his nose, and she licks it off).
They celebrate Día de los Muertos in Ocotepec (and when they offer a matriarch wax candles they found in the marketplace, they’re received as family).
They spend their days in Gaza in near silence (for they are struck by the stench of desperation and loss and dwindling hope).
And somewhere between Bavaria and Beijing, this roaming lifestyle of theirs becomes home again. Later, they realize it always was.
Instead of a TARDIS theater and Casablanca, it’s Inception on her portable DVD player and a plane. He’s got his arm draped around her shoulders and his jaw slack. She’s eating stale crisps without (much) complaint.
And there is laughter when Eames says, well, anything, and deep kisses that offend a prepubescent boy in the row beside theirs and two hearts beating out a samba.
“So, Barcelona?” she asks into his neck.
“It was that or Vegas. And while I wouldn’t mind catching Celine, I figured Barcelona holds more sentiment than Sin City. Although,” he pauses with what can be best described as a lecherous grin. “Considering that you insist on living in sin, I guess it would be rather appropriate.”
“Shut up.”