Random Ficlet Is Random?
Chalk it up to stress/weather changes/insomnia/irritation/a prelude to Angsty April?
I really intended to work on something fluffy and happy for upcoming birthdays (i.e. cbrandtwright and sugarcross). But... things don't always go according to plan. At least it's your OTP, girls? Slightly angsty, but I don't think too bad.
Also, blame this song.
Title: All That Glitters...
Ship: M/K
All that glisters is not gold;
Often have you heard that told:
Many a man his life hath sold
But my outside to behold:
Gilded tombs do worms enfold.
Had you been as wise as bold,
Young in limbs, in judgement old
Your answer had not been inscroll'd
Fare you well, your suit is cold. - Shakespeare, A Merchant Of Venice
Overture
March, blustery spring.
The weather is that chilly, gloomy state that seems all the more frigid because by all rights it should be daffodil weather. The man ducks under the scaffolding, holding a briefcase over his head to shield himself from the cold, nasty drizzle.
The sound of high heels on concrete clicks louder than the rain, and on this gray day she's a spot of bright colour: sunflower dress, lemon chiffon hair with a bright red bow. He opens the door for her and raises an eyebrow and wonders what type of lunatic wears a sundress when it's disgusting outside. She beams at him, juggles purse and snazzy boutique shopping bag for a second, proffers a manicured hand tipped with blossom-pink nails.
She's the one who has goosebumps up and down her arms but he's the one who feels the chill when their fingers clasp together.
&&&
Allegretto
May Day.
The quasi-celebrity two doors down is an odd fascinating mix of oddball quirks and ingenue sexuality and on such a beautiful day as this really she should have any number of places to go and people to see.
But instead she knocks on his door, wearing absolutely no makeup and clutching a huge bouquet of spring flowers, and giggles. "My place is getting painted, and the fumes are absolutely horrible. Can I come in? I just got these," indicating the candy-coloured tulips and daisies, "I am fairly sure they don't do well with the chemicals either."
So he puts away the first-of-the-month report he's working on and keeps her company and gives her a tour of his spartan flat and she clucks her tongue, offers to bring him a few knicknacks to liven the place up, shirt riding up to reveal flawless skin as she indicates bare spots on high shelves.
May Day's a celebration of Spring and lovers.
It's also a sinking ship.
When she leaves she forgets the flowers she had been trying to save and he has no choice but to put them on his coffee table, taking up his favourite oversized coffee mug, right where he can see them every day.
&&&
Vivace
July.
It's too hot and even with the ceiling fan, the room's practically a sauna. She came in wearing tiny shorts and flip-flops but gradually stripped down to her underwear, then nothing-- sweat dampening her skin and making her slippery and difficult to hold onto as they fuck on the floor. Now she makes a noise of impatience as she sits up, too restless to cuddle, unsentimentally pulling back so that their skin doesn't stick together any more, and shakes her hair back like a golden shroud. That he's still inside of her seems to be an afterthought.
He's still trying to catch his breath, get his heartbeat somewhere within the vicinity of normal.
"Hey, want to go to the Three Lights' concert with me next Tuesday?" she asks giddily over the drone of the ceiling fan. "They're SO CUTE. Yaten's sort of an old flame of mine."
He has a work presentation that can make or break his career that afternoon and absolutely no interest in any of her old flames-- unless it involves breaking their fingers or something so they can keep their grubby hands off of her-- but when he declines, she sulks. It escalates into an argument, tempers fraying in the heat, and she slams out, leaving all her clothing behind, running back to her own flat wearing one of his shirts.
She doesn't come back the next day, or the next.
There's a splashy photograph in a tabloid of her and Yaten kissing each other after the Three Lights' concert. It's like a slap in the face that accidentally draws blood from long nails.
He dumps the clothes that she left over on her doorstep, underwear and all. It's petty, but sometimes she brings out the worst in him.
Isn't love supposed to work differently?
But three days later she's back, and he'd never changed the locks to his door after all, and comes home to the smell of dinner on the table (only slightly burnt) and expensive perfume. She crawls up from the chair she'd curled up in and kisses him quietly and her mouth tastes like cherry popsicles.
Later they wolf down the dinner-gone-cold as they sit at the base of the wall and he never even got around to taking off his shoes. The rest of their clothes lie in a crumpled pile on the floor, but it's cooler this way anyway.
&&&
Andante
October rolls around with its high winds and falling yellow leaves and he's experienced more turbulence in the last six-and-a-half months than he can remember.
It's a day before her birthday, which he would never have known about had it not been mentioned on some celebrity website or another that the actress who played Sailor V was going to be another year older on the 22nd. He doesn't know what sort of present would be appropriate, because he can't say exactly for sure what their relationship is. Neighbours are different from friends are different from fuck-buddies are different from two people in love are different from snarling adversaries are different from tragic, noble faces in vivid, troubling dreams.
So he puts off saying anything, doing anything, and then as he's walking home he spots a display through the window of a jewelry store, a ring of golden hearts studded with yellow diamonds. It's unusual and extravagant and gorgeous and complicated.
He buys it, then curses himself all the way home. It's too rich a gift for a casual relationship, and maybe she'll be scared off.
Then again, maybe she needs a promise. There are moments when there's something akin to heartbreak just simmering underneath the surface, glinting in her eyes. She moves too quickly and talks too loud and doesn't always mean it when she smiles. Maybe that would change if she has a promise to hold onto.
She's not home when he gets there, and after walking over to knock on her door every two hours or so, he gives up when the clock strikes midnight. She's probably out partying with any number of friends whom she's never considered introducing to him. Why should he butt into her life just because they're sleeping together and she's over at his place almost as much as her own?
At midnight, he drops the jeweler's box through her mail slot and goes home. Whiskey and masturbation are a poor substitute, but they'll do the trick and he'll be able to sleep without aching too much for the love of her.
&&&
Moderato
It's New Year's Eve and he's half-heartedly warming up the last of the leftovers from Christmas dinner at a friend's house when he hears the knock on his door.
He knows, just from the clench in his chest, who it is, even before he opens the door. She'd been out of the country for a photoshoot somewhere tropical and balmy and far far away for the last month, though he'd only known the where through an article in the society pages. She'd not come by to say goodbye before she'd left.
But right now she stands at his doorway, dressed in black, her face pale despite the month in the sun and with dark smudges underneath her crystal blue eyes. This isn't the glittery golden goddess who dashed through the rain in March, or the colourful cherry-popsicles-and-pastel-flowers heartbreaker who lived and breathed two doors and too many demons and dreams too far away. In the sleek black dress and for once minus her red hair bow, she looks older, more fragile, devoid of her usual riot of colour. And when she raises her blue eyes to his gray ones, they're apprehensive.
"Can I come in?"
She'd never asked before. And this time she doesn't carry anything-- no shopping bags or bouquets of flowers or cheap, kitschy knicknacks for his bare shelves or ingredients for chicken curry. Just her, and he doesn't want to let that lull him into a false sense of security. But there's no resisting those eyes, those pouty lips. He can almost hate her for it.
So he steps back, and she steps forward. But he has enough pride to go about his business as though she hadn't interrupted him and barged back into his life. He takes the ham out of the oven, sets it on a wooden board, picks up a knife. He's putting the sandwich on a plate when she clears her throat, breaks the silence.
"I dream of you, of us, and it always ends badly." His hands clench around the edges of the plate, but he sets it down on the table without dropping the sandwich. He knows what she's speaking of, because he's woken up at four in the morning with increasing frequency with visions of fire and blood rushing through his head. She pinches the bridge of her nose, then glances up with a bleak smile. "I was told once that I'd never find true love. It made sense-- I'd other things to worry about, more important things. Breaking someone's heart was easier than letting them in. I guess that's selfish."
There's a bitter accusation at the tip of his tongue, an assertion that he hates her for it, but a glint of something catches his eye. On a slim golden chain around her neck she wears the ring he stuffed in her mail slot. The little golden hearts bring a sliver of wispy memory that he can't make sense of yet. But she notices where his gaze is drawn and unclasps the necklace, slides the ring free. "You bought this for me."
"You weren't there," he counters. "You were gone."
She carefully cups the ring in her palm and slides it across the table, towards him. Manicured hands with blossom-pink nails. But this time it's her who feels the chill, her who shivers. But she takes a deep breath, places the ring back in his hand.
"I'm here now."
He takes a moment to consider it. There's a lot of risk here, laying himself open, and he's certain beyond anything that he's ever known that she can end him. Time feels heavy as lead as he slides it onto her finger, just as the clock starts striking the hour of midnight. She looks terrified, and yet there's a smile that stretches from ear to ear as she crosses the table and curls up in his lap, her eyes shining with a million unspoken joys and fears as she presses her lips to his. Neither of them know what the year will bring. But soon, she's laughing, and it's infectious. He hoists her up and lets her legs naturally wrap around his waist and for once they actually make it to his bed.
&&&
Coda
The bed is cold and he wakes up alone the next morning.
There's still the imprint of her head on the pillow next to his, a few stray golden strands of hair on the bedsheets. He slowly feels every bit of himself turning to ice, one square inch at a time, and then the bedroom door opens. She stands there with wet hair wearing his bathrobe, which slips off one creamy shoulder and drags on the floor.
"You have no conditioner, no blow-dryer," she informs him with a sulky pout. "Also your towels are scratchy. We need to go shopping."
Outside, the sky is gray, the snow is white. In a tatty gunmetal-gray bathrobe, she's still the brightest thing he sees. Gold and lead. Who chooseth me must give and hazard all he hath. He smiles, then laughs, then stands up and crosses over to her.
"Okay."
I really intended to work on something fluffy and happy for upcoming birthdays (i.e. cbrandtwright and sugarcross). But... things don't always go according to plan. At least it's your OTP, girls? Slightly angsty, but I don't think too bad.
Also, blame this song.
Title: All That Glitters...
Ship: M/K
All that glisters is not gold;
Often have you heard that told:
Many a man his life hath sold
But my outside to behold:
Gilded tombs do worms enfold.
Had you been as wise as bold,
Young in limbs, in judgement old
Your answer had not been inscroll'd
Fare you well, your suit is cold. - Shakespeare, A Merchant Of Venice
Overture
March, blustery spring.
The weather is that chilly, gloomy state that seems all the more frigid because by all rights it should be daffodil weather. The man ducks under the scaffolding, holding a briefcase over his head to shield himself from the cold, nasty drizzle.
The sound of high heels on concrete clicks louder than the rain, and on this gray day she's a spot of bright colour: sunflower dress, lemon chiffon hair with a bright red bow. He opens the door for her and raises an eyebrow and wonders what type of lunatic wears a sundress when it's disgusting outside. She beams at him, juggles purse and snazzy boutique shopping bag for a second, proffers a manicured hand tipped with blossom-pink nails.
She's the one who has goosebumps up and down her arms but he's the one who feels the chill when their fingers clasp together.
&&&
Allegretto
May Day.
The quasi-celebrity two doors down is an odd fascinating mix of oddball quirks and ingenue sexuality and on such a beautiful day as this really she should have any number of places to go and people to see.
But instead she knocks on his door, wearing absolutely no makeup and clutching a huge bouquet of spring flowers, and giggles. "My place is getting painted, and the fumes are absolutely horrible. Can I come in? I just got these," indicating the candy-coloured tulips and daisies, "I am fairly sure they don't do well with the chemicals either."
So he puts away the first-of-the-month report he's working on and keeps her company and gives her a tour of his spartan flat and she clucks her tongue, offers to bring him a few knicknacks to liven the place up, shirt riding up to reveal flawless skin as she indicates bare spots on high shelves.
May Day's a celebration of Spring and lovers.
It's also a sinking ship.
When she leaves she forgets the flowers she had been trying to save and he has no choice but to put them on his coffee table, taking up his favourite oversized coffee mug, right where he can see them every day.
&&&
Vivace
July.
It's too hot and even with the ceiling fan, the room's practically a sauna. She came in wearing tiny shorts and flip-flops but gradually stripped down to her underwear, then nothing-- sweat dampening her skin and making her slippery and difficult to hold onto as they fuck on the floor. Now she makes a noise of impatience as she sits up, too restless to cuddle, unsentimentally pulling back so that their skin doesn't stick together any more, and shakes her hair back like a golden shroud. That he's still inside of her seems to be an afterthought.
He's still trying to catch his breath, get his heartbeat somewhere within the vicinity of normal.
"Hey, want to go to the Three Lights' concert with me next Tuesday?" she asks giddily over the drone of the ceiling fan. "They're SO CUTE. Yaten's sort of an old flame of mine."
He has a work presentation that can make or break his career that afternoon and absolutely no interest in any of her old flames-- unless it involves breaking their fingers or something so they can keep their grubby hands off of her-- but when he declines, she sulks. It escalates into an argument, tempers fraying in the heat, and she slams out, leaving all her clothing behind, running back to her own flat wearing one of his shirts.
She doesn't come back the next day, or the next.
There's a splashy photograph in a tabloid of her and Yaten kissing each other after the Three Lights' concert. It's like a slap in the face that accidentally draws blood from long nails.
He dumps the clothes that she left over on her doorstep, underwear and all. It's petty, but sometimes she brings out the worst in him.
Isn't love supposed to work differently?
But three days later she's back, and he'd never changed the locks to his door after all, and comes home to the smell of dinner on the table (only slightly burnt) and expensive perfume. She crawls up from the chair she'd curled up in and kisses him quietly and her mouth tastes like cherry popsicles.
Later they wolf down the dinner-gone-cold as they sit at the base of the wall and he never even got around to taking off his shoes. The rest of their clothes lie in a crumpled pile on the floor, but it's cooler this way anyway.
&&&
Andante
October rolls around with its high winds and falling yellow leaves and he's experienced more turbulence in the last six-and-a-half months than he can remember.
It's a day before her birthday, which he would never have known about had it not been mentioned on some celebrity website or another that the actress who played Sailor V was going to be another year older on the 22nd. He doesn't know what sort of present would be appropriate, because he can't say exactly for sure what their relationship is. Neighbours are different from friends are different from fuck-buddies are different from two people in love are different from snarling adversaries are different from tragic, noble faces in vivid, troubling dreams.
So he puts off saying anything, doing anything, and then as he's walking home he spots a display through the window of a jewelry store, a ring of golden hearts studded with yellow diamonds. It's unusual and extravagant and gorgeous and complicated.
He buys it, then curses himself all the way home. It's too rich a gift for a casual relationship, and maybe she'll be scared off.
Then again, maybe she needs a promise. There are moments when there's something akin to heartbreak just simmering underneath the surface, glinting in her eyes. She moves too quickly and talks too loud and doesn't always mean it when she smiles. Maybe that would change if she has a promise to hold onto.
She's not home when he gets there, and after walking over to knock on her door every two hours or so, he gives up when the clock strikes midnight. She's probably out partying with any number of friends whom she's never considered introducing to him. Why should he butt into her life just because they're sleeping together and she's over at his place almost as much as her own?
At midnight, he drops the jeweler's box through her mail slot and goes home. Whiskey and masturbation are a poor substitute, but they'll do the trick and he'll be able to sleep without aching too much for the love of her.
&&&
Moderato
It's New Year's Eve and he's half-heartedly warming up the last of the leftovers from Christmas dinner at a friend's house when he hears the knock on his door.
He knows, just from the clench in his chest, who it is, even before he opens the door. She'd been out of the country for a photoshoot somewhere tropical and balmy and far far away for the last month, though he'd only known the where through an article in the society pages. She'd not come by to say goodbye before she'd left.
But right now she stands at his doorway, dressed in black, her face pale despite the month in the sun and with dark smudges underneath her crystal blue eyes. This isn't the glittery golden goddess who dashed through the rain in March, or the colourful cherry-popsicles-and-pastel-flowers heartbreaker who lived and breathed two doors and too many demons and dreams too far away. In the sleek black dress and for once minus her red hair bow, she looks older, more fragile, devoid of her usual riot of colour. And when she raises her blue eyes to his gray ones, they're apprehensive.
"Can I come in?"
She'd never asked before. And this time she doesn't carry anything-- no shopping bags or bouquets of flowers or cheap, kitschy knicknacks for his bare shelves or ingredients for chicken curry. Just her, and he doesn't want to let that lull him into a false sense of security. But there's no resisting those eyes, those pouty lips. He can almost hate her for it.
So he steps back, and she steps forward. But he has enough pride to go about his business as though she hadn't interrupted him and barged back into his life. He takes the ham out of the oven, sets it on a wooden board, picks up a knife. He's putting the sandwich on a plate when she clears her throat, breaks the silence.
"I dream of you, of us, and it always ends badly." His hands clench around the edges of the plate, but he sets it down on the table without dropping the sandwich. He knows what she's speaking of, because he's woken up at four in the morning with increasing frequency with visions of fire and blood rushing through his head. She pinches the bridge of her nose, then glances up with a bleak smile. "I was told once that I'd never find true love. It made sense-- I'd other things to worry about, more important things. Breaking someone's heart was easier than letting them in. I guess that's selfish."
There's a bitter accusation at the tip of his tongue, an assertion that he hates her for it, but a glint of something catches his eye. On a slim golden chain around her neck she wears the ring he stuffed in her mail slot. The little golden hearts bring a sliver of wispy memory that he can't make sense of yet. But she notices where his gaze is drawn and unclasps the necklace, slides the ring free. "You bought this for me."
"You weren't there," he counters. "You were gone."
She carefully cups the ring in her palm and slides it across the table, towards him. Manicured hands with blossom-pink nails. But this time it's her who feels the chill, her who shivers. But she takes a deep breath, places the ring back in his hand.
"I'm here now."
He takes a moment to consider it. There's a lot of risk here, laying himself open, and he's certain beyond anything that he's ever known that she can end him. Time feels heavy as lead as he slides it onto her finger, just as the clock starts striking the hour of midnight. She looks terrified, and yet there's a smile that stretches from ear to ear as she crosses the table and curls up in his lap, her eyes shining with a million unspoken joys and fears as she presses her lips to his. Neither of them know what the year will bring. But soon, she's laughing, and it's infectious. He hoists her up and lets her legs naturally wrap around his waist and for once they actually make it to his bed.
&&&
Coda
The bed is cold and he wakes up alone the next morning.
There's still the imprint of her head on the pillow next to his, a few stray golden strands of hair on the bedsheets. He slowly feels every bit of himself turning to ice, one square inch at a time, and then the bedroom door opens. She stands there with wet hair wearing his bathrobe, which slips off one creamy shoulder and drags on the floor.
"You have no conditioner, no blow-dryer," she informs him with a sulky pout. "Also your towels are scratchy. We need to go shopping."
Outside, the sky is gray, the snow is white. In a tatty gunmetal-gray bathrobe, she's still the brightest thing he sees. Gold and lead. Who chooseth me must give and hazard all he hath. He smiles, then laughs, then stands up and crosses over to her.
"Okay."