TKCatsby
02-16-2012, 07:25 PM
AN: Full title of these pieces as a whole is "And When Your Eyes Reflect the Darkness". This is my first post on here. Please let me know if I'm doing anything wrong. This is a series of one-shots, essentially, with an overarching plot. I'll be fleshing it out as time goes by...
So, without further ado...
Fluorescence
… and then Nataku has me pinned against the wall, pale hands surprisingly forceful as they trap my wrists. The tile is icy against my back, flush against my skin, and I’m made painfully aware of Nataku’s body heat, his proximity as he leans in. I feel his breath, ghostlike against my lips, and for an instant we stare into each other’s eyes—Nataku’s narrow and resolved, my own wide and apprehensive. There is fear there, in my eyes, I’m sure, and for an instant in which I think Nataku sees that, he hesitates. The instant stretches into a moment, the silence bearing down heavily on both of us, suffocating.
“Nataku,” I say then, hardly aware of my lips moving, “Just do it.” The words are barely audible, barely believable, and yet I say them because I know they’ll be good for us both—this will be good for us both. The past and future don’t matter anymore. They can’t matter, because the present is so dire, so demanding, that I can’t handle dealing with the two other stretches of time. And right now, I need this.
At my words, Nataku’s lips part, his hesitation wavering, fluctuating like a frequency in my mind’s eye. Then, it goes flat, disappears, and he’s leaning in, lips pressing against mine, burning. I let my eyes flutter shut, reflexively, and then there’s only darkness and the feeling of Nataku’s tongue forcing its way past my teeth.
He’s a good kisser, a dominating one. I can tell he’s had experience, and I go with it, allowing myself to be trapped between him and the wall as he presses against me. One of his hands gradually releases my wrist and moves to touch my cheek—the other stays where it is, possessive, controlling.
We stay like that for far longer than I can comprehend, far longer than I would, in the future, be comfortable admitting. When we’re forced to break apart, to breathe, the lost contact makes the world come back to us in a rush of fluorescent light and cold, bathroom tile. My forehead rests against his. I blink, and then laugh, giddy and flushed like a schoolgirl.
He smiles, his own cheeks uncharacteristically pink. “What?” he asks, breathless, “What’s so funny?”
And I realize, dimly, that I really don’t know.
*
When I first met him, he had just lit a cigarette outside my apartment. I stopped walking, blinking in my lack of recognition, and then grimaced in distaste. Smoking was of the few things that grossed me out—it had been ever since I was a child and watched my aunt die of lung cancer. After she was gone, we had to clean out her apartment, and all I remember is that the sharp, thick smell of smoke left me gagging. When I saw him outside my apartment, filter pressed against his lips, I almost gagged again.
His eyes eventually flickered over to land on me, and I forgot my disgust for an instant at the sight of them. They were light brown, startlingly close to gold. For a moment, I thought they were unnatural—I had never seen someone with such bright eyes before—but then I realized that I couldn’t imagine them being any other color. They were perfect. My lips parted, and it was then that I decided to ignore the cigarette held between two delicate fingers.
Of course, I still didn’t move, much less speak.
He stared at me for a moment longer, one eyebrow slowly rising, and then inclined his head, awkwardly.
A greeting? I swallowed, and approached the door—he was leaning against the wall beside it.
“Did you just move in?” I asked.
He blinked and was silent for a moment, inhaling and then releasing a stream of smoke. He was careful to blow away from me, but I still couldn’t help but frown at the sight. He didn’t indicate whether he’d noticed this or not. “No,” he replied after a moment, “But I can see that you did. I’m waiting for someone.”
“Hm.” I looked up at the familiar apartment building, took note of the dark windows. “I’m pretty sure the only other person who lives here is Mr. Xuē,” I said.
He only continued to stare at me, as if trying to discern what my point was.
I blinked. “He’s ninety.”
At that, his eyes darkened with understanding, comprehension. “Huh. Really?” He didn’t wait for my confirmation. “Shit. That must be the wrong guy. Has to be. He wouldn’t…” He stopped for a moment, shaking his head. “Nevermind. Thanks.” He put the cigarette between his lips and pushed himself away from the wall, leaning over to pick up the bag that was resting near his feet. Slinging it over one shoulder, he turned to go.
I moved after him without even thinking, without even being consciously aware of my actions, my body. I caught myself after one step and stopped, grip tightening around the strap of my own bag. “Ah…” Though my lips parted, I was finding it damn near impossible to speak.
He stopped, turning again. “Yes?”
I swallowed again. “Um… Aren’t you cold?” It was the first thing that came to mind—a pointless question. It was freezing, but why did I even care…?
He raised both eyebrows and glanced down at his clothing—a slim, threadbare sweater and black jeans. After a moment, he shrugged. “Not really.” His tone was noncommittal; for some reason, it didn’t seem like he meant to shoot down my question.
I shifted nervously. “Do you want to come in?” I asked the question quickly, before I could stop myself, and for an agonizing second, I regretted it to no end. “If you don’t have anywhere else to go…” I added lamely after a moment.
Silence answered my invitation. I couldn’t bring myself to look at his eyes again, and eventually let my gaze drift to the sidewalk beneath us. Suddenly, I felt so juvenile, so naïve. What was I doing here, asking this stranger in to my apartment so suddenly, unreasonably? I didn’t even know his name. Half of me was saying that it was because he just looked so pathetic standing there in his threadbare sweater, that his lack of concern for himself was alarming. The other half knew better.
He was beautiful…
“Sure.”
The word reached my ears as if from far away, and for a moment, I could hardly believe I’d heard it. When I looked up again, he was smiling, though it was small and could have been mistaken for a smirk. I also noticed, dimly, how tired he suddenly looked, though that, too, would have been hard to detect. His amber eyes were suddenly dull with relief.
“Thanks…”
AN: Thanks for reading!
So, without further ado...
Fluorescence
… and then Nataku has me pinned against the wall, pale hands surprisingly forceful as they trap my wrists. The tile is icy against my back, flush against my skin, and I’m made painfully aware of Nataku’s body heat, his proximity as he leans in. I feel his breath, ghostlike against my lips, and for an instant we stare into each other’s eyes—Nataku’s narrow and resolved, my own wide and apprehensive. There is fear there, in my eyes, I’m sure, and for an instant in which I think Nataku sees that, he hesitates. The instant stretches into a moment, the silence bearing down heavily on both of us, suffocating.
“Nataku,” I say then, hardly aware of my lips moving, “Just do it.” The words are barely audible, barely believable, and yet I say them because I know they’ll be good for us both—this will be good for us both. The past and future don’t matter anymore. They can’t matter, because the present is so dire, so demanding, that I can’t handle dealing with the two other stretches of time. And right now, I need this.
At my words, Nataku’s lips part, his hesitation wavering, fluctuating like a frequency in my mind’s eye. Then, it goes flat, disappears, and he’s leaning in, lips pressing against mine, burning. I let my eyes flutter shut, reflexively, and then there’s only darkness and the feeling of Nataku’s tongue forcing its way past my teeth.
He’s a good kisser, a dominating one. I can tell he’s had experience, and I go with it, allowing myself to be trapped between him and the wall as he presses against me. One of his hands gradually releases my wrist and moves to touch my cheek—the other stays where it is, possessive, controlling.
We stay like that for far longer than I can comprehend, far longer than I would, in the future, be comfortable admitting. When we’re forced to break apart, to breathe, the lost contact makes the world come back to us in a rush of fluorescent light and cold, bathroom tile. My forehead rests against his. I blink, and then laugh, giddy and flushed like a schoolgirl.
He smiles, his own cheeks uncharacteristically pink. “What?” he asks, breathless, “What’s so funny?”
And I realize, dimly, that I really don’t know.
*
When I first met him, he had just lit a cigarette outside my apartment. I stopped walking, blinking in my lack of recognition, and then grimaced in distaste. Smoking was of the few things that grossed me out—it had been ever since I was a child and watched my aunt die of lung cancer. After she was gone, we had to clean out her apartment, and all I remember is that the sharp, thick smell of smoke left me gagging. When I saw him outside my apartment, filter pressed against his lips, I almost gagged again.
His eyes eventually flickered over to land on me, and I forgot my disgust for an instant at the sight of them. They were light brown, startlingly close to gold. For a moment, I thought they were unnatural—I had never seen someone with such bright eyes before—but then I realized that I couldn’t imagine them being any other color. They were perfect. My lips parted, and it was then that I decided to ignore the cigarette held between two delicate fingers.
Of course, I still didn’t move, much less speak.
He stared at me for a moment longer, one eyebrow slowly rising, and then inclined his head, awkwardly.
A greeting? I swallowed, and approached the door—he was leaning against the wall beside it.
“Did you just move in?” I asked.
He blinked and was silent for a moment, inhaling and then releasing a stream of smoke. He was careful to blow away from me, but I still couldn’t help but frown at the sight. He didn’t indicate whether he’d noticed this or not. “No,” he replied after a moment, “But I can see that you did. I’m waiting for someone.”
“Hm.” I looked up at the familiar apartment building, took note of the dark windows. “I’m pretty sure the only other person who lives here is Mr. Xuē,” I said.
He only continued to stare at me, as if trying to discern what my point was.
I blinked. “He’s ninety.”
At that, his eyes darkened with understanding, comprehension. “Huh. Really?” He didn’t wait for my confirmation. “Shit. That must be the wrong guy. Has to be. He wouldn’t…” He stopped for a moment, shaking his head. “Nevermind. Thanks.” He put the cigarette between his lips and pushed himself away from the wall, leaning over to pick up the bag that was resting near his feet. Slinging it over one shoulder, he turned to go.
I moved after him without even thinking, without even being consciously aware of my actions, my body. I caught myself after one step and stopped, grip tightening around the strap of my own bag. “Ah…” Though my lips parted, I was finding it damn near impossible to speak.
He stopped, turning again. “Yes?”
I swallowed again. “Um… Aren’t you cold?” It was the first thing that came to mind—a pointless question. It was freezing, but why did I even care…?
He raised both eyebrows and glanced down at his clothing—a slim, threadbare sweater and black jeans. After a moment, he shrugged. “Not really.” His tone was noncommittal; for some reason, it didn’t seem like he meant to shoot down my question.
I shifted nervously. “Do you want to come in?” I asked the question quickly, before I could stop myself, and for an agonizing second, I regretted it to no end. “If you don’t have anywhere else to go…” I added lamely after a moment.
Silence answered my invitation. I couldn’t bring myself to look at his eyes again, and eventually let my gaze drift to the sidewalk beneath us. Suddenly, I felt so juvenile, so naïve. What was I doing here, asking this stranger in to my apartment so suddenly, unreasonably? I didn’t even know his name. Half of me was saying that it was because he just looked so pathetic standing there in his threadbare sweater, that his lack of concern for himself was alarming. The other half knew better.
He was beautiful…
“Sure.”
The word reached my ears as if from far away, and for a moment, I could hardly believe I’d heard it. When I looked up again, he was smiling, though it was small and could have been mistaken for a smirk. I also noticed, dimly, how tired he suddenly looked, though that, too, would have been hard to detect. His amber eyes were suddenly dull with relief.
“Thanks…”
AN: Thanks for reading!