yousei-san (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
flair) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
metamorphosis2016-11-18 11:54 pm
flair) wrote in metamorphosis2016-11-18 11:54 pm
Entry tags:
513;
Title: white lies
Characters: Aligula, Ginti
Rating: G
They're dating, except they're not—she's here to teach a death god to understand love, and if that involves going out on dates, and talking about romance, and doing her best to get it through his dumb-dumb thick head with as many metaphors and similes to his work and things he might be able to understand better, then yeah. Of course she'll do it. But they're not dating, not really, because dating has a certain Standard, and Ferid chuckles when she says it like that.
"Standard."
Like it's important or something, when their group had possibly the most unorthodox set of dating standards to date.
Aligula always huffs when he points it out, and also when he points out that dating her boyfriend, her sweetheart, her soulmate, probably didn't fall under her Standards after the whole liquefying thing.
After a long while of her ignoring him (because she knows he's probably right, and it's been hard to come to terms with that and with the fact that maybe Deldro & Hummer really weren't just playing hard to get and they really didn't want to be with her anymore), Ferid takes her into his arms and undoes her bow, gently running his fingers through her bubblegum pink hair.
She'll slip up one day, he warns her, and she recognizes the tone as one that comes from experience. So naturally, instead of thanking him or anything else a normal person might do, she asks him where he learned that and spends the rest of their idle time teasing him about Isaac instead of touching on their heart-to-heart.
She doesn't slip up when Ferid leaves, or when they're out on dates, or when she's reading over flower books she found in Katniss's old room, or when there's idle conversations and idle questions between her and the only two arbiters she actually enjoys the company of. (Nona, she could take or leave, honestly. The woman is polite and civil, but she has a way of getting under her skin that's not pleasant in the slightest; Aligula spends a lot of time with her mouth closed and her ears open, voicing any snappy comebacks she might've had to Ginti after his boss (her boss) is long-gone.)
She doesn't even slip up when it's quiet and comfortable, when the moment is there; telling him she likes him isn't slipping up because it's fact, it's certain, it's something she's said before and will continue to say until he understands just what it means. How heavy the words are, how light they're supposed to make him feel. He's usually silent in these moments, and whether that's because he doesn't know what to say or because she's running her hands in his hair isn't really clear.
She entertains the idea that it's both, because that would suit him, just like a lot of things do—sharply-tailored shirts, awful camera filters, and the smirk he wears when he's caught her, because he's learned how to tease her and it isn't fair that that's what he's picked up on first. Sometimes when it happens she feels like a mouse caught by a cat, and she surprises herself every time by not minding it, not entirely. It's attractive, even if she's always preferred to lead because the beat she walks to doesn't match anyone else's. Usually.
No, she slips up when she's had a few more drinks than necessary. It isn't like she can actually get drunk, she's pretty sure, just like she doesn't actually have to sleep or eat or anything normal. The feeling is there anyway, as bubbly as love should feel. Pleasantly warm and languid, punctuated with swaggered steps and watching more than talking. Quiet with her is never a good thing, and she knows he's learned that much, so she attempts to make it better by smiling.
It doesn't really do much of anything as far as dissuading him from asking her what's up, and that's when Aligula laughs and replies that she's just thinking about how much she loves him.
Regret is an interesting feeling she's never really had before, and it isn't like she's embarrassed about saying it. Love suits her, after all; there's no way she would've thrown a soulmate finding party, or tried to do some matchmaking and advising if it didn't and if it wasn't so very, very, very important to her. But at the same time, it's because it's important that she feels her stomach squeeze and she turns her attention to her empty glass, spinning it between her fingers while Ginti works out what he's supposed to do with that.
After a good, long silence, he tells her that he knows, but it's said in a way that makes it distinctively obvious that no, he does not. He understands the words and that they exist and that she has spoken them, as carelessly as she's ever spoken anything, but it isn't like he understands why they're there, or why she's thinking about them, or why she feels like that.
To be completely fair: she doesn't really know why she feels like that, either.
She's glad he isn't aware enough to immediately ask that question off the sheet he likes to pull from every so often.
He doesn't follow up his reply with anything, and she doesn't argue it (for the moment), and the quiet's tangible enough that after a while she excuses herself to bed and pretends to be asleep when he steps in to check on her, or whatever it is he does when he decides to appear in her room without a word.
At the very least, saying it becomes easier and less regretful afterwards. Aligula works around her static-laden nerves and goes for it the way she's gone for everything else: without stopping, without hesitating, without a hint of self-consciousness. She replaces "like" with "love" in her usual declarations, and when he finally asks about it, she says it's important to his understanding of the thing.
"Like" is just a subset of "love," after all, and he'd heard that plenty. He'd sort of understood that too, given that he likes her and he liked a lot of other people. Even if he doesn't recall it, he still liked them. Most of them. A couple of them.
...The point is, she continues, that he liked anyone at all, against the odds of liking people, because arbiters aren't designed for it. And it occurs to her very shortly that she is doing the equivalent of fucking up a perfectly good machine in an attempt to make it suit her admittedly selfish desires, but she passes that thought without a care, because it's something to better him. If he understands love, he might judge things better. If he understands her, he'll be able to handle people like her better.
So he has the basics, and he's ready for the advanced, and that's why she's telling him she loves him. Because she does, and it's something he's just going to have to deal with being a thing.
It's obvious that he still has no idea what to do with that, or how to argue it, because she's already pointed out his usual thing—his arbiter excuse, as she calls it—and Aligula doesn't really give him time to anyway, hopping off the bar to scout their guests or finish some project she has lying around. She can tell it bothers him to some extent, but it's easier to sort out her whys without him not-asking her about them.
Or asking about them, actually, which is surprising in of itself. She's carding her fingers through his hair, his head pleasantly heavy in her lap, when he asks what she likes about him anyway. It's from her sheet—she did not spend hours making thirty-one of those by hand to forget them, nor did she spend time asking him what he liked about her to forget this particular one—and she hums thoughtfully. He looks up at her, expression as neutral as ever, and Aligula giggles when she pinches his ear in an attempt to make it change. When she asks why he's asking, he tells her to answer before she asks anything—because that's how she's always played this game, and she knows it, so he won't point it out to her again—and she's quiet while she thinks about it genuinely.
His looks, for one. She gets an eye-roll for that, and she waits until his eyes are closed again, her fingers rhythmically messing with his pretty red locks, before she continues. He's fun to talk to, he's someone she doesn't feel like she has to pretend around (which gets a snort, because she doesn't pretend around anyone, and she knows he doesn't remember the people she'd been upset about losing but she knows he has to remember that she'd been upset in private and smiling otherwise, because it deals with her and him and only them), and, just as simply: she just does. She just likes him because she does.
She's never found it hard to either, she adds. There were hard times, but even when they fought, it wasn't... She hadn't thought of really hating anything about him the way the others had. Even with his awful trick, when she said that she did, or when he'd brought up things she'd confessed in private. That isn't to say she likes everything, because she doesn't. The list of things she doesn't like about him is a lot easier to go down, though, and she lays back into her mountain of stolen pillows without explaining more than that.
Ginti doesn't move from his spot on her lap, which is fine by her, and he's so quiet that she feels like she could go to sleep and he could leave and things would go back to what they always are. Inevitably, they'll go back to that anyway, with minor surprising changes that prove she's making marks on him without actually making any marks. When he speaks, it's in the tactless, blunt way she's as endeared to as she is irritated by, and it's just to say that he was curious.
He doesn't know why he was, when she presses him for a better answer, and there's an edge of irritation to his tone for that, so she drops it and teases that if he wants, he can sleep with her tonight. They're already laying together anyway, and he's warm, and she likes it.
She doesn't expect him to take her up on her offer, but he does, sort of; he's there when she finally drifts off even if he isn't when she wakes up, and she isn't sure how she feels about that. She isn't sure how she's supposed to feel about it, and staring at the ceiling doesn't give her any answers immediately.
So Aligula does what she's always done: move ahead without giving it more thought than necessary.
Characters: Aligula, Ginti
Rating: G
They're dating, except they're not—she's here to teach a death god to understand love, and if that involves going out on dates, and talking about romance, and doing her best to get it through his dumb-dumb thick head with as many metaphors and similes to his work and things he might be able to understand better, then yeah. Of course she'll do it. But they're not dating, not really, because dating has a certain Standard, and Ferid chuckles when she says it like that.
"Standard."
Like it's important or something, when their group had possibly the most unorthodox set of dating standards to date.
Aligula always huffs when he points it out, and also when he points out that dating her boyfriend, her sweetheart, her soulmate, probably didn't fall under her Standards after the whole liquefying thing.
After a long while of her ignoring him (because she knows he's probably right, and it's been hard to come to terms with that and with the fact that maybe Deldro & Hummer really weren't just playing hard to get and they really didn't want to be with her anymore), Ferid takes her into his arms and undoes her bow, gently running his fingers through her bubblegum pink hair.
She'll slip up one day, he warns her, and she recognizes the tone as one that comes from experience. So naturally, instead of thanking him or anything else a normal person might do, she asks him where he learned that and spends the rest of their idle time teasing him about Isaac instead of touching on their heart-to-heart.
She doesn't slip up when Ferid leaves, or when they're out on dates, or when she's reading over flower books she found in Katniss's old room, or when there's idle conversations and idle questions between her and the only two arbiters she actually enjoys the company of. (Nona, she could take or leave, honestly. The woman is polite and civil, but she has a way of getting under her skin that's not pleasant in the slightest; Aligula spends a lot of time with her mouth closed and her ears open, voicing any snappy comebacks she might've had to Ginti after his boss (her boss) is long-gone.)
She doesn't even slip up when it's quiet and comfortable, when the moment is there; telling him she likes him isn't slipping up because it's fact, it's certain, it's something she's said before and will continue to say until he understands just what it means. How heavy the words are, how light they're supposed to make him feel. He's usually silent in these moments, and whether that's because he doesn't know what to say or because she's running her hands in his hair isn't really clear.
She entertains the idea that it's both, because that would suit him, just like a lot of things do—sharply-tailored shirts, awful camera filters, and the smirk he wears when he's caught her, because he's learned how to tease her and it isn't fair that that's what he's picked up on first. Sometimes when it happens she feels like a mouse caught by a cat, and she surprises herself every time by not minding it, not entirely. It's attractive, even if she's always preferred to lead because the beat she walks to doesn't match anyone else's. Usually.
No, she slips up when she's had a few more drinks than necessary. It isn't like she can actually get drunk, she's pretty sure, just like she doesn't actually have to sleep or eat or anything normal. The feeling is there anyway, as bubbly as love should feel. Pleasantly warm and languid, punctuated with swaggered steps and watching more than talking. Quiet with her is never a good thing, and she knows he's learned that much, so she attempts to make it better by smiling.
It doesn't really do much of anything as far as dissuading him from asking her what's up, and that's when Aligula laughs and replies that she's just thinking about how much she loves him.
Regret is an interesting feeling she's never really had before, and it isn't like she's embarrassed about saying it. Love suits her, after all; there's no way she would've thrown a soulmate finding party, or tried to do some matchmaking and advising if it didn't and if it wasn't so very, very, very important to her. But at the same time, it's because it's important that she feels her stomach squeeze and she turns her attention to her empty glass, spinning it between her fingers while Ginti works out what he's supposed to do with that.
After a good, long silence, he tells her that he knows, but it's said in a way that makes it distinctively obvious that no, he does not. He understands the words and that they exist and that she has spoken them, as carelessly as she's ever spoken anything, but it isn't like he understands why they're there, or why she's thinking about them, or why she feels like that.
To be completely fair: she doesn't really know why she feels like that, either.
She's glad he isn't aware enough to immediately ask that question off the sheet he likes to pull from every so often.
He doesn't follow up his reply with anything, and she doesn't argue it (for the moment), and the quiet's tangible enough that after a while she excuses herself to bed and pretends to be asleep when he steps in to check on her, or whatever it is he does when he decides to appear in her room without a word.
At the very least, saying it becomes easier and less regretful afterwards. Aligula works around her static-laden nerves and goes for it the way she's gone for everything else: without stopping, without hesitating, without a hint of self-consciousness. She replaces "like" with "love" in her usual declarations, and when he finally asks about it, she says it's important to his understanding of the thing.
"Like" is just a subset of "love," after all, and he'd heard that plenty. He'd sort of understood that too, given that he likes her and he liked a lot of other people. Even if he doesn't recall it, he still liked them. Most of them. A couple of them.
...The point is, she continues, that he liked anyone at all, against the odds of liking people, because arbiters aren't designed for it. And it occurs to her very shortly that she is doing the equivalent of fucking up a perfectly good machine in an attempt to make it suit her admittedly selfish desires, but she passes that thought without a care, because it's something to better him. If he understands love, he might judge things better. If he understands her, he'll be able to handle people like her better.
So he has the basics, and he's ready for the advanced, and that's why she's telling him she loves him. Because she does, and it's something he's just going to have to deal with being a thing.
It's obvious that he still has no idea what to do with that, or how to argue it, because she's already pointed out his usual thing—his arbiter excuse, as she calls it—and Aligula doesn't really give him time to anyway, hopping off the bar to scout their guests or finish some project she has lying around. She can tell it bothers him to some extent, but it's easier to sort out her whys without him not-asking her about them.
Or asking about them, actually, which is surprising in of itself. She's carding her fingers through his hair, his head pleasantly heavy in her lap, when he asks what she likes about him anyway. It's from her sheet—she did not spend hours making thirty-one of those by hand to forget them, nor did she spend time asking him what he liked about her to forget this particular one—and she hums thoughtfully. He looks up at her, expression as neutral as ever, and Aligula giggles when she pinches his ear in an attempt to make it change. When she asks why he's asking, he tells her to answer before she asks anything—because that's how she's always played this game, and she knows it, so he won't point it out to her again—and she's quiet while she thinks about it genuinely.
His looks, for one. She gets an eye-roll for that, and she waits until his eyes are closed again, her fingers rhythmically messing with his pretty red locks, before she continues. He's fun to talk to, he's someone she doesn't feel like she has to pretend around (which gets a snort, because she doesn't pretend around anyone, and she knows he doesn't remember the people she'd been upset about losing but she knows he has to remember that she'd been upset in private and smiling otherwise, because it deals with her and him and only them), and, just as simply: she just does. She just likes him because she does.
She's never found it hard to either, she adds. There were hard times, but even when they fought, it wasn't... She hadn't thought of really hating anything about him the way the others had. Even with his awful trick, when she said that she did, or when he'd brought up things she'd confessed in private. That isn't to say she likes everything, because she doesn't. The list of things she doesn't like about him is a lot easier to go down, though, and she lays back into her mountain of stolen pillows without explaining more than that.
Ginti doesn't move from his spot on her lap, which is fine by her, and he's so quiet that she feels like she could go to sleep and he could leave and things would go back to what they always are. Inevitably, they'll go back to that anyway, with minor surprising changes that prove she's making marks on him without actually making any marks. When he speaks, it's in the tactless, blunt way she's as endeared to as she is irritated by, and it's just to say that he was curious.
He doesn't know why he was, when she presses him for a better answer, and there's an edge of irritation to his tone for that, so she drops it and teases that if he wants, he can sleep with her tonight. They're already laying together anyway, and he's warm, and she likes it.
She doesn't expect him to take her up on her offer, but he does, sort of; he's there when she finally drifts off even if he isn't when she wakes up, and she isn't sure how she feels about that. She isn't sure how she's supposed to feel about it, and staring at the ceiling doesn't give her any answers immediately.
So Aligula does what she's always done: move ahead without giving it more thought than necessary.