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metamorphosis2016-11-18 11:35 pm
flair) wrote in metamorphosis2016-11-18 11:35 pm
Entry tags:
504;
Title: weathering the worst
Characters: Ginti, Aligula
Rating: G
Lately, she wonders if he can see right through her.
It wouldn't be the first time—he's done it a couple of times actually, digging right past her unfazeable smile, and she hates him for it as much as it's a factor in why she likes him. (Likes, not loves. She talks a lot about it, but it's not a word she's thought about with him, in conjunction to him, because if she does, it'll slip—that's just how things are between them, thoughtless words and wordless thoughts catching on the edges of each other's sentences.) It would explain the space he lets her have after Ferid leaves, why there's no heat to his warning not to touch his kokeshi dolls when she sets Kitkit and Bunbun with them. Aligula spends hours on the couch instead of the bar, quietly thankful that there aren't any guests for them to entertain at the moment, and finds her hands clenching each other far too tightly when she finally hears Ginti sigh and the elevator ding faintly elsewhere a few hours down the line.
He tells her not to bother seeking them out—just to go back to her room or somewhere out of sight, that he and Memine'll handle things. The cat meows in agreement when Aligula looks at her, and she purrs when Aligula gently scratches her soft cheek on the way out.
Her room isn't the one she goes to when she excuses herself; it's the sauna, empty and cold. It's as close to a bathhouse as they can get, and Aligula tightens her towel around herself as she waits for the coals to heat up enough to warm the rest of the room. The steam is welcome when she can manage to make it come, a blast of pure bliss, and she slowly sinks onto a bench.
Losing them a second time seemed to hurt so much worse than the first. There's the possibility she'll see them again—she said to Sayaka as much, that they were connected by this experience, and Sayaka had replied that that made them all soulmates, and as she's said time and again soulmates definitely always found each other, no matter how long it took—but for now, she aches and she aches, and she pours water on hot coals until she can barely see her hand in front of her face and there's a light dizziness invading her head.
She's not sure she'll ever get completely used to his habit of just... being in places, an uncounted head. It doesn't startle her, not unless she's truly out of it—like in the mornings, and she'd caught him off-guard with a brush to the face in retaliation all of one time—and it certainly doesn't do so now, him waiting for her outside of the sauna. She knows her skin's too red and her hair is still damp, pulled tightly over her shoulder; she knows when he looks at her he's not noticing the little things she'd want him to, like how her clothes fall on her, or how warm she must feel right beside him. That'd be romantic, and romance still isn't something that's entirely gotten through to him yet—if it ever will, the little nuances of it and its importance.
This is the routine they have for the rest of the week: excused absences, steamed thoughts, and waiting. Twice she lets their hands brush and watches his reaction (or lack thereof, glances aside), and every other time she keeps them to herself, fingers entwined in front of her as they walk. Generally it's back to the bar, guestless; she doesn't ask after their judgements because she doesn't care to know, but she does ask him to make her a drink, and he'll oblige while she twirls her hair and thinks about ruby earrings. Other times, it's to her room, and he watches her from the door until she either invites him in with a teasing smile or she ducks away into the bathroom for some reason or another. He's never there when she comes out.
Except today. It's been a week (it has been a week) and he's sitting on her bed, chin propped in his hand like always. She stares at him, fingers idly twisting her hair around, and joins him when it's clear he isn't leaving.
When he asks her if she misses Ferid, in that tone of voice that suggests he's trying something and hoping in his own way that it won't end up like the last time he asked, she leans against him—he tenses a smidge—and sighs, laying her hands flat on her lap.
Of course she does. There's no playing with words this time, no what do you think—she tells him it straight out, head down. He's quiet too, fingers flexing for something to do, and she decides right then, right there, that that "something to do" is going to be holding hers. He doesn't seem horribly against her entwining their fingers together, her hands laughably small compared to his; he also doesn't seem against waiting for her breathing even out after the sniffles start again. It isn't like he's for it either (he doesn't reach for her first, or play with her hair to comfort her the way Inigo used to do), but not being against it works just as well, today.
Days after that week are better. Memine's fun company, and Aligula tries not to grin too widely whenever she catches Ginti watching them with pursed lips. He's jealous, she knows, that Memine's attached to her, and that they have a good time with the caterpillar toy from the vending machine, or the different ribbons she wears every day. Most are Ferid's, and they make Ginti's face do something—a blank expression while he tries to figure out how to react or why he's reacting at all that eventually ebbs into recognition, and that takes a little longer to dissipate as time passes.
It makes her heart sink further and further; she's aware one day her pictures, her little reminders, will have the same effect on him as Ferid's ribbons, as that girl's compact he plays with sometimes. Despite that worry hanging over her head, the days and weeks after that week are better, and she thinks she can see him relax a little more now that she isn't completely torn.
Completely torn being the phrase here. She still finds herself walking through empty halls, picking up instruments and setting them aside again, or traveling to the ballroom to spin in circles until she's catching herself on the piano. She always makes sure she's perfectly presentable when she returns to the bar, hopping on it like she hadn't been thinking about everyone running ahead of her or how she's going to be just as much of a ghost here as they are one day, and Ginti always looks at her but he doesn't ask. It's probably better to leave it unspoken between them, an agreement they've never had to make because it just was always there, even if neither of them can leave things alone for long.
Things like this are wasp's nests, though. If there's anything they've learned, it's these things sting and burn, and Aligula is more than happy to let it smolder under the surface of her usual cheer instead of letting it flare up and catch either of them again.
At least, not unawares.
"I don't wanna be forgotten," she says one day, broaching the topic broadly, head cradled in her arms; she's sitting in a stool this time, improperly, but sitting in one nonetheless. She hears him pause in cleaning glasses, but it's just momentary, and she rolls her head to the other side, presses her cheek against her arm so she can watch him work. "That's totally dumb, right? Because it's unavoidable."
There are reminders, and there are things that stay, but it wouldn't be the same as being remembered as she is. Ginti doesn't reply immediately—and she doesn't expect him to, because this is a subject the same way Do you want me to keep you? had been a question. He doesn't look at her when he finally talks either, and it makes it easier, somehow, to stomach the way he says, "Yeah, it is."
Blunt as ever (minus the bite that might come with the words for anyone else), because there's no other way he'd ever be—or that she'd rather have him, for that matter. She isn't entirely sure which part he's answering, if it's dumb or unavoidable, but it's probably both and it doesn't matter. Aligula sighs, drumming a song that's way off-beat on the counter, and mutters, "I don't want to forget you either. That's dumb, too."
She's almost certain she's never going to forget the moment he says he wants her, in that frustrated, tactless way he has. She could cycle through a hundred different lives and she'd never stop thinking or dreaming about it, or about the way her heart quickened, or how utterly screwed she was in the long-term because finding out a way to handle her feelings aside from having fun with them was a bit of a pet project for her and now it's gone tits up, essentially. Not that it'd been working out before: she likes him just as much as she did when she told him she might agree with Chitoge and Ferid, and that might be the hardest part to think about, considering everything.
She doesn't know if she minds it so much though, because they aren't the three words she'd normally expect, and they aren't said the way she'd ordinarily want, but they're something. Arbiters aren't designed to want anything; they're not designed with soft spots in mind, with care or with love, with favorites or anything like that. All the same, there are cracks, and Aligula digs her fingers into them as far as she can to pry them open, bit by bit.
It's always exciting, starting a new relationship. It's going to end one day, but for now, he's hers in some way.
Similarly, she's sure she won't forget how he kisses. After their frankly-awful-if-fun first, there's more, but they come at a pace she's had to force herself to get used to. It's easier to coax him into it when they're on her bed and she's not-so-idly running her hands through his hair, unsubtly leaning over his lap and pressing their lips together when she's close enough. There's always that initial confusion that works itself out eventually, and it really never progresses past her hands in his hair and her in his lap; it never progresses past her feeling sickly sweet and warm, even when she convinces him—once—to spend the night with her.
Neither of them need really need sleep, but it's nice to lay with him, to close her eyes and think about the day's events, sorting them in her head until eventually Ginti has to leave. He's gentle when he slides her off and tucks the blankets around her, and his touch sort of lingers (and she's certain he doesn't know why exactly, and she's also certain he won't ask because he has a general idea of what she'll say about it), but in the end she's left alone in her bed, curling up in the warmth and memory left behind.
He warned her she'd hate it here, and she does, but it's easier to forget that she does when she's with him, and really, that's what love's all about.
Characters: Ginti, Aligula
Rating: G
Lately, she wonders if he can see right through her.
It wouldn't be the first time—he's done it a couple of times actually, digging right past her unfazeable smile, and she hates him for it as much as it's a factor in why she likes him. (Likes, not loves. She talks a lot about it, but it's not a word she's thought about with him, in conjunction to him, because if she does, it'll slip—that's just how things are between them, thoughtless words and wordless thoughts catching on the edges of each other's sentences.) It would explain the space he lets her have after Ferid leaves, why there's no heat to his warning not to touch his kokeshi dolls when she sets Kitkit and Bunbun with them. Aligula spends hours on the couch instead of the bar, quietly thankful that there aren't any guests for them to entertain at the moment, and finds her hands clenching each other far too tightly when she finally hears Ginti sigh and the elevator ding faintly elsewhere a few hours down the line.
He tells her not to bother seeking them out—just to go back to her room or somewhere out of sight, that he and Memine'll handle things. The cat meows in agreement when Aligula looks at her, and she purrs when Aligula gently scratches her soft cheek on the way out.
Her room isn't the one she goes to when she excuses herself; it's the sauna, empty and cold. It's as close to a bathhouse as they can get, and Aligula tightens her towel around herself as she waits for the coals to heat up enough to warm the rest of the room. The steam is welcome when she can manage to make it come, a blast of pure bliss, and she slowly sinks onto a bench.
Losing them a second time seemed to hurt so much worse than the first. There's the possibility she'll see them again—she said to Sayaka as much, that they were connected by this experience, and Sayaka had replied that that made them all soulmates, and as she's said time and again soulmates definitely always found each other, no matter how long it took—but for now, she aches and she aches, and she pours water on hot coals until she can barely see her hand in front of her face and there's a light dizziness invading her head.
She's not sure she'll ever get completely used to his habit of just... being in places, an uncounted head. It doesn't startle her, not unless she's truly out of it—like in the mornings, and she'd caught him off-guard with a brush to the face in retaliation all of one time—and it certainly doesn't do so now, him waiting for her outside of the sauna. She knows her skin's too red and her hair is still damp, pulled tightly over her shoulder; she knows when he looks at her he's not noticing the little things she'd want him to, like how her clothes fall on her, or how warm she must feel right beside him. That'd be romantic, and romance still isn't something that's entirely gotten through to him yet—if it ever will, the little nuances of it and its importance.
This is the routine they have for the rest of the week: excused absences, steamed thoughts, and waiting. Twice she lets their hands brush and watches his reaction (or lack thereof, glances aside), and every other time she keeps them to herself, fingers entwined in front of her as they walk. Generally it's back to the bar, guestless; she doesn't ask after their judgements because she doesn't care to know, but she does ask him to make her a drink, and he'll oblige while she twirls her hair and thinks about ruby earrings. Other times, it's to her room, and he watches her from the door until she either invites him in with a teasing smile or she ducks away into the bathroom for some reason or another. He's never there when she comes out.
Except today. It's been a week (it has been a week) and he's sitting on her bed, chin propped in his hand like always. She stares at him, fingers idly twisting her hair around, and joins him when it's clear he isn't leaving.
When he asks her if she misses Ferid, in that tone of voice that suggests he's trying something and hoping in his own way that it won't end up like the last time he asked, she leans against him—he tenses a smidge—and sighs, laying her hands flat on her lap.
Of course she does. There's no playing with words this time, no what do you think—she tells him it straight out, head down. He's quiet too, fingers flexing for something to do, and she decides right then, right there, that that "something to do" is going to be holding hers. He doesn't seem horribly against her entwining their fingers together, her hands laughably small compared to his; he also doesn't seem against waiting for her breathing even out after the sniffles start again. It isn't like he's for it either (he doesn't reach for her first, or play with her hair to comfort her the way Inigo used to do), but not being against it works just as well, today.
Days after that week are better. Memine's fun company, and Aligula tries not to grin too widely whenever she catches Ginti watching them with pursed lips. He's jealous, she knows, that Memine's attached to her, and that they have a good time with the caterpillar toy from the vending machine, or the different ribbons she wears every day. Most are Ferid's, and they make Ginti's face do something—a blank expression while he tries to figure out how to react or why he's reacting at all that eventually ebbs into recognition, and that takes a little longer to dissipate as time passes.
It makes her heart sink further and further; she's aware one day her pictures, her little reminders, will have the same effect on him as Ferid's ribbons, as that girl's compact he plays with sometimes. Despite that worry hanging over her head, the days and weeks after that week are better, and she thinks she can see him relax a little more now that she isn't completely torn.
Completely torn being the phrase here. She still finds herself walking through empty halls, picking up instruments and setting them aside again, or traveling to the ballroom to spin in circles until she's catching herself on the piano. She always makes sure she's perfectly presentable when she returns to the bar, hopping on it like she hadn't been thinking about everyone running ahead of her or how she's going to be just as much of a ghost here as they are one day, and Ginti always looks at her but he doesn't ask. It's probably better to leave it unspoken between them, an agreement they've never had to make because it just was always there, even if neither of them can leave things alone for long.
Things like this are wasp's nests, though. If there's anything they've learned, it's these things sting and burn, and Aligula is more than happy to let it smolder under the surface of her usual cheer instead of letting it flare up and catch either of them again.
At least, not unawares.
"I don't wanna be forgotten," she says one day, broaching the topic broadly, head cradled in her arms; she's sitting in a stool this time, improperly, but sitting in one nonetheless. She hears him pause in cleaning glasses, but it's just momentary, and she rolls her head to the other side, presses her cheek against her arm so she can watch him work. "That's totally dumb, right? Because it's unavoidable."
There are reminders, and there are things that stay, but it wouldn't be the same as being remembered as she is. Ginti doesn't reply immediately—and she doesn't expect him to, because this is a subject the same way Do you want me to keep you? had been a question. He doesn't look at her when he finally talks either, and it makes it easier, somehow, to stomach the way he says, "Yeah, it is."
Blunt as ever (minus the bite that might come with the words for anyone else), because there's no other way he'd ever be—or that she'd rather have him, for that matter. She isn't entirely sure which part he's answering, if it's dumb or unavoidable, but it's probably both and it doesn't matter. Aligula sighs, drumming a song that's way off-beat on the counter, and mutters, "I don't want to forget you either. That's dumb, too."
She's almost certain she's never going to forget the moment he says he wants her, in that frustrated, tactless way he has. She could cycle through a hundred different lives and she'd never stop thinking or dreaming about it, or about the way her heart quickened, or how utterly screwed she was in the long-term because finding out a way to handle her feelings aside from having fun with them was a bit of a pet project for her and now it's gone tits up, essentially. Not that it'd been working out before: she likes him just as much as she did when she told him she might agree with Chitoge and Ferid, and that might be the hardest part to think about, considering everything.
She doesn't know if she minds it so much though, because they aren't the three words she'd normally expect, and they aren't said the way she'd ordinarily want, but they're something. Arbiters aren't designed to want anything; they're not designed with soft spots in mind, with care or with love, with favorites or anything like that. All the same, there are cracks, and Aligula digs her fingers into them as far as she can to pry them open, bit by bit.
It's always exciting, starting a new relationship. It's going to end one day, but for now, he's hers in some way.
Similarly, she's sure she won't forget how he kisses. After their frankly-awful-if-fun first, there's more, but they come at a pace she's had to force herself to get used to. It's easier to coax him into it when they're on her bed and she's not-so-idly running her hands through his hair, unsubtly leaning over his lap and pressing their lips together when she's close enough. There's always that initial confusion that works itself out eventually, and it really never progresses past her hands in his hair and her in his lap; it never progresses past her feeling sickly sweet and warm, even when she convinces him—once—to spend the night with her.
Neither of them need really need sleep, but it's nice to lay with him, to close her eyes and think about the day's events, sorting them in her head until eventually Ginti has to leave. He's gentle when he slides her off and tucks the blankets around her, and his touch sort of lingers (and she's certain he doesn't know why exactly, and she's also certain he won't ask because he has a general idea of what she'll say about it), but in the end she's left alone in her bed, curling up in the warmth and memory left behind.
He warned her she'd hate it here, and she does, but it's easier to forget that she does when she's with him, and really, that's what love's all about.