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egoiistas · 2 years

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heavenly bodies

ao3

ffxiv - azem/emet-selch, azem/emet/hythlo rating: e for consent issues and maybe gore? words: 2664

Azem wanders a post-Zodiark summoning Etheirys.

The death of the star arrives with a quiet dawn. The wind does not blow and the birds silence their song. Clouds of ash color the sky of sickness and ill omen, leaving the day dark and suffocating. This is not the dust of a battle overcome; there is no triumph here.

You, the Traveler, know the danger is over, but this is anything but a victory. There have been defeats that have felt more triumphant than this. No, this… This is the wake of a nightmare without the relief of blinking it away. Objectively, it’s merely the aftermath of fiery rain no longer crashing into the earth. The beasts malformed creatures slow in spawning, no longer born by despair. It is a small mercy. Those that remain are slain with their guts and gore splattered at your feet, dirtying the hems of your robes.

Thus, mankind survives.

Through habit, your friends, family, loves, in Amaurot, come to your mind. The brief respite following days of battle take you back to where part of your heart remains. Their wellbeing, their happiness, are questions you no longer have luxury to. Your defection from the Convocation came with no subtlety and your departure from Amaurot surely left those you care for most with pain you never wished to impart. In the hours that follow the end, when no communications or summons come from the Capitol, you know for certain your duty on the Convocation is deemed finished.

Perhaps, one day you might come to regret it, but there is none of that now with the fruition of the Convocation’s plan.

You aren’t ignorant: the stilled skies and the sparse amount of monsters let you know that they went through with their plan. There wasn’t anyone anywhere that had an idea of what was causing the Sound, only that the aether became thin. You aren’t naive; you know they went through with their summoning. There is a marked difference in the air and not in what you can perceive through sight alone. The aether of Etheirys changes to something stagnant and artificial and the chaos threatening to wrest control of your magick disappears with it. It is more than seeing it. It is knowing - feeling half of the world sacrificed for salvation. It’s worse that, in their wake, it feels selfish to think it isn’t enough, not when the thrum of life - once abundant - hardly makes a sound.

You are several days away from Amaurot by foot, and in the days that follow, you wander through the lands you have visited in the past and some you haven’t. There is a grief so palpable in your chest that you mourn for places unrecognizable and those you weren’t able to commit to memory. Even as creation magick fills the material gap destruction has left behind, it does not replace what’s important. It is the empty streets, the shops that no longer open - it is in the same look in each face that screams their salvation has come at a cost far too dear than originally imagined. It is in the scarce amount of people, the plants, the animals, - life that should be there and isn’t.

Magick does not and cannot replace that.

There is a seaside town you settle in for the night. By the time you arrive, the majority of the wreckage has been cleaned up and reconstructed. You would have wondered if the Final Days spared this place if it weren’t for the same faces of grief laid plain to see on each person that passes you by on your way to the inn.

The silent innkeep leads you to a room overlooking the town and a gleaming view of the ocean, and leaves before you can express her gratitude.

With a sigh, your body falls, rather than sits, on the side of the bed; the ache of your feet throbbing to be acknowledged. You have four walls with a door to yourself, creaky floor planks, a desk with a lamp, a bed for two, and windows to enjoy the seaside view. In the solace of the room, you feel lonely for the first time in a long time. It is borne from the possibility of what could have been - what you could have heard: a bustling town readying for the evening, laughter, fighting, chatter, but it is absent. Not even the seagulls circle the edge of the sea, squawking as was their wont near the shore.

The easy remedy would be to involve yourself in this place, know the people and their problems, learn all you could, but who are these people without half their number? What are their problems that you don’t already know? You are in solidarity with them and if you cannot solve your own problems, what good are you to theirs? Like them, you are a victim to the two catastrophes: one brought on by unforeseen forces and the other wrought by man’s hand.

The hollow feeling deep in your gut becomes too much to bear alone and you recite a familiar incantation, starting it a dozen times and ending it just as many. The heartbeat in your chest thrums erratically because you can’t know if Emet-Selch or Hythlodaeus or any of your peers would answer your call following your departure. You all but abandoned them weeks before the Final Days came to pass in Amaurot itself. They must be so angry with you or worse, you muse grimly, that there would be no anger if they are among the sacrificed.

You shake your head, the abrupt tears flinging from your face - if it had come to pass, then you are among the plenty. Not knowing eats you inside so you recite your incantation one more time, your heart unchained and rattling out of control. You stop again with the fear from the rejection of their silence.

You underestimate how deep you were in your own head when a knock on your door rips you from your thoughts. Defiant hands wipe your face before opening the door as soon as you approach, not giving it a second thought. If you had, there would have been more preparation for the individual looming at your threshold.

Emet-Selch stands with an expression you cannot parse. Shadows and sleeplessness drag the skin under his eyes. Frown lines are marked deeper, brows perpetually furrowed.

It requires all of your meager remaining strength and stubbornness to restrain yourself from wrapping your arms around him from the sheer relief at the sight of him alone.

“You’ve been discreet in your movements,” Emet-Selch states.

You exhale, finding yourself at an unfamiliar loss for words. You grip the edge of the door subtly. You should be so lucky the Final Days were averted, the din of your thoughts and emotions feel so loud and scrambled that you could have erased this town from the face of Etheirys. Like sediment at the bottom of a river, the emotions of everything that happened before you left is scraped to the surface to mix with your grief and your loneliness and the weight of this despair. For weeks, control of your emotions has been prudent to your survival, but with the Sound silenced, you struggle to keep your emotions in check. You haven’t even had the mental composure to process the fact that he’s been searching for you, but it happens: “Why-” the words choke on their way out and you swallow because your throat is too dry. “What are you doing here?” No, that is the wrong question; you don’t care about that. “Why are you here?”

In lieu of an answer, he unfolds his arms and gestures towards your room. “Could I come in?”

You step aside anyway, giving him passage into your humble room. It would have been a beautiful sun-soaked room from the natural light; instead it is bleak and overcast from the aftermath looming within the atmosphere.

In the depths of your mind, you salvage a sliver of fortitude to speak clearly and silence your raucous mind. You speak before he can say anything else, “I have no business with the Convocation any more since vacating the seat-” But you trail off because you know he’s not here for business, confirmed by his sardonic chuckle. You know him so well that even if he tried to mask his own grief, eventually you’d lift it so he doesn’t carry it alone. The both of you are broken from the looks of it and he doesn’t look victorious either. You are in this dead silence together, staring but not looking, in each other’s company and leagues away from each other. Your resolve is still a work in progress but it crumbles without any warning, because it’s easier to ignore your own thoughts when helping others.

“Emet-Selch…” you say softly, taking a step forward, but it doesn’t stir him from his far-off view. You try again, “Hades…”

His eyes jump to you and it’s anger that you recognize first. “Why did you have to leave? Wasn’t leaving the Convocation enough?”

The quick switch catches you off guard momentarily, but you find yourself again. “The people outside of Amaurot deserved more guidance than what the Convocation was offering, there were those who were confused and hurt and dying. I wasn’t going to standby with idle hands.”

He looks away, the skin of his hands rubbing together as he balled them into fists. There is a deep pain he’s holding back, you can tell without another word.

“But you knew that already,” you add so as to not be misunderstood about your choices.

“You left me.”

You feel that statement drop heavily in your gut. He hardly ever uses something so petty as guilt to get a point across, it was beneath him. “You didn’t come with me,” you say, probably inflicted from the same wound.

“You didn’t ask.”

“Would you have even entertained it? Could you have been persuaded to abandon the Convocation’s course? No. You knew about everything, you even withheld information from me because you knew what I would do. You didn’t need to be asked and you know it.”

“How could I? I wasn’t about to abandon my duty.”

“Just because my seat was vacated doesn’t mean I abandoned my duty. And I did it alone. I walked through only sections of Etheirys in the aftermath and I did it alone. At least you have Hythlodaeus.”

“Had.”

The room falls silent for a breath as you wonder if you heard him right. The wrong kind of tingles envelop your body as your blood pressure plummets. Your rage from seconds ago disperses into the air as if it never existed. “What?” you ask but it’s a feeble thing, coming out breathless as the disbelief grapples your throat.

“I tried talking him out of it, but his mind was made up.”

You step closer. You want to look in his eyes to make sure you are hearing the whole truth. Your breath, it’s coming in and out of you rapidly. “What…what are you saying?”

“The screaming and the fire - the death and destruction, even in the middle of it all, he went so calmly.”

Your fingers grasp the front of his robes, tugging them, urging him to look at you. “Please, tell me-” Tears well in your eyes as you remember the last time you saw his beautiful face, touched his loving skin, heard his musical laugh, and the tears freefall when his hands clasp on each side of your arms, gripping tight. He looks at you with fury and sorrow and pride, unnerving you.

“He is part of our mighty Zodiark now! Along with half our number, he made the noble sacrifice so that we may live!” He recites this like it’s memorized, like he’s been saying it in his head for a while. “Azem-”

“I’m not Azem anymore,” you interject but the words rattle on an unstable foundation and he didn’t hear you besides. Would have been different if you had stayed?

“He called it his greatest contribution. Our dearest friend, our other. Do you feel that emptiness in your chest?” You do, but he doesn’t give you a chance to say so. Hades’s sorrow is palpable with every verse despite his zealotry. “He’s not even in the Lifestream, I cannot see his soul. He is lost to me… but you are not.”

You aren’t frightened, not in the least; you are concerned for him. Even now, you don’t feel as if you can mourn your lost partner, disallowing yourself to feel it for the moment as you had the days after your defection. “Hades…Hades, listen to me, you need to rest.”

“No. Don’t you understand? I needed you, I need you. Why else would I come all this way? If you feel this loss too, why haven’t you called for me?”

The breaking of his voice splinters your already broken heart; there is guilt but not regret for leaving Amaurot. You don't realize you’ve looked away until his hand jerks your head towards him from under your chin - he kisses you just as rough. Your head whirls from it as your lips are pressed between teeth and tongue. You’ve joked before, back when there were three of you, of how he was a slave to sentimentality but this is different. There is an ambiguous darkness to his words, to how his hands roam, to his unfamiliar kiss. He is grieving, no doubt, but he’s changed.

You push away from him, to breathe - to gather your thoughts. “Hades, wait-”

His hands pull at you around your waist and you are pressed flush against him. He angles his neck to look down at you but his eyes are closed, your noses ilms away from touching. “Do not deny me,” he pleads darkly. “It is your comfort I desire.”

There are a million reasons to give into him, but you still don't feel right about this. You try to wriggle loose, but he is adamant. “You are not yourself.”

“You are correct.” Hades leans back with another unsettling smile. “I am better, as is Dark Lord’s will, but you are still bound to me and currently your only remaining husband.”

It is his only excuse to capture your lips again.

His kiss is unfamiliar to you now; no longer impassioned or gentle, but frigid and dark. His urgency isn’t to feel your aether at his fingertips, to know your warmth, but merely consume you. You feel the edge of the inn bed at the back of your knees and he lowers you on your back, doing the work of relieving you of your underthings. Yes, he is hungry for you, you see it clearly in his eyes especially when he looms over you aligning himself into her. “This is the most docile you’ve ever been, one could get used to it.”

“I wouldn’t,” you tell him, followed by a harsh inhale as he penetrates you without preamble. Your eyes close as you try to relax, far too frayed to use any creation magicks to hasten the lubrication, but your body eventually relieves you. It is a confusing moment, because he holds you as he always has a million times before. He feels like he has a million times before. But you know in your heart of hearts it’s not your Hades. It’s not Hythlodaeus’s Hades. Your body, however, doesn’t know the difference.

He touches spots inside you that temporarily make you curl your toes and elicit small noises from your throat. He kisses your neck, marks you there, and nibbles on your ear in the ways he knows how. Naturally, you reach your orgasm and he has you on all fours so he can reach his.

You join together several times through the night, but it is in the morning, when he is least expecting the cast of True Sleep, that you leave him and never see him again.

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egoiistas · 2 years

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I didnt manage to finish it yesterday but here it is! Happy (late) birthday @capthawkeye ! I know you’re in your FF mood, but I remember you being quite fond of Greed!Roy, so I hope you like it!

#IM STILL CRYING GBYE

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egoiistas · 2 years

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sofia & alondra

a/n - an original ficlet based on @b-griveros‘s OCs Sofia & Alondra who are the cutest wlw beans ever istgdjhf. Happy Pride Month!

“There you are.” It was hard to miss her. The volume of golden curls did her no favors especially they poked out at either side of the tree at its base. The front passing over the uni campus left Sofia’s cheeks so numb from the cold air that she hardly felt the breeze when she rounded the tree. She stuffed her hands inside the pouch of her hoodie, at least, to be merciful to her fingers.

Alondra sat on the ground, knees to her chin with her arms wrapped around them. She looked indignant with her bright, red nose matching her windbreaker. A clear indicator she had been crying. Even the small bow over her head was off-center and lord knows how much she hated it when that happened.

“I’ve been blowing up your phone. This campus isn’t small, you know.’

Alondra gave her a quick glance and tried to contain her pouty lip. “I want you leave me alone. Please.”

“Mmm. That’s a hard no.” Sofia set her backpack on the ground and took a seat next to the crybaby. Without another word, she dug in her bag, rustling through paper and textbooks. As nonchalant as she could manage, she asked, “What did you do this time?” There was a little guilt for approaching it like this, but she looked more mad than sad and her wounded pride won’t let her open up easy.

“I didn’t do anything!” She whined, but it sounded muffled from the way she suddenly crouched into herself, curling herself tighter. “They don’t know the rules.”

Her hair was no longer pinned to the tree so when the wind blew Sofia caught wafts of loose blonde hair in her face that she had to swat away. She barely wanted to deal with her own hair as fine and short and dark as it was, much less billows of someone else’s no matter who it belonged to. She pushed her glasses up the bridge of her nose after that ordeal. “Was it the tall one?”

Alondra turned her head to her this time. She gave a small frown. “No, it was the cute one.”

Sofia ripped the package of candy she bought on the way over here. “Not so cute anymore, is she?”

She huffed, straightening herself against the bark. Her cheeks were flushed from the autumn chill and probably also from getting herself in a tizzy. “The DM said I had to roll for persuasion during this encounter so I did and then–”

“What’s a DM?”

“Dungeon master, please keep up.” Sofia made a face that went unnoticed. “And then, one of them brought up that it should’ve been intimidation skill check - which my character does not have expertise in, but then the DM said we’ll just see from then on, so whatever. But then some of the other players were “Roleplaying”-” she says with quotation marks in the air “- when they started yelling at my character for no good reason. I carried them through that whole session. Like, I’m sorry you don’t know how to minmax, sis.”

Crunching on some chocolate with magical hidden peanuts, Sofia intoned, “You literally spoke gibberish to me just now.” She lurched sideways after Alondra went for her arm with the inertia and weight of her body. It was surprising for someone with such a small frame. Sofia, however, was not only built sturdy, but fortified. Thank you, soccer conditioning.

“Sofi, you have to join me! I can’t deal with them alone,” she whined, clutching the sleeve of the hoodie. It was kind of cute. All of her was kind of cute.

“Why don’t you find another dungeons and dragons group?” She offered a piece of the chocolate and Alondra took it. She did that thing where she hummed as she was chewing and thinking about what she was going to say.

“This uni doesn’t really have many and this is the only one that fits my current schedule.” She said, twirling her hair while still leaning on Sofia. Alondra was then quiet for a moment. “None of my other friends are really into this either,” she confessed somberly. Her hand wiggled down the space between Sofia’s arm and her leg, lacing their fingers together. “And it’d be nice to do something like this together.”

She looked at their hands and she smiled softly, not really used to it despite the many months. “Is it always at this hour? Because you know I have practice.”

Sofia didn’t have to have a clear view to know Alondra’s lip was pouting again. “When does your season end?”

“Not for another two months.”

Alondra turned her head to bury her forehead Sofia’s arm again. “Stupid futbol.”

“It’s soccer here.”

“Futbol.” She was so willful, glaring at Sofia just to be right. Or perhaps to have a win. She was so far from home, after all.

Feeling willful herself, Sofia kissed her lips, pouty as they were, and she seceded, “Futbol then.” A blush bloomed across Alondra’s cheeks and Sofia felt the heat rising in her own face, like a couple of useless girls who liked each other. “Can you “persuade” them to move the time?”

Her eyes lit up and she basically jolted to a stand. “If I can move it and convince the DM, will you join me? We can roll up a character for you, create a backstory! Make it really gruesome.”

She went on as Sofia lifted herself from the ground, dusting the debris from her butt and collecting their stuff.

“Hey.”

Sofia looked up, pushing her glasses back up. Alondra surprised her with a kiss of her own.

“Thank you. Sorry I’m such a crybaby.”

“Are you kidding me? Who doesn’t know when a persuasion roll should be made?” Sofia smirked, putting the bookbag on one arm.

“It’s check.” Alondra tried not to snicker.

“You’re really busting my balls right now?”

“If I don’t then who will?” She giggled. “But you’re trying. It’s cute.”

“You look too cute to be playing DnD dressed like that.” She outstretched a hand to hold hers. “Come on, let’s go get dinner.”

Dedicated to my cousin: for coming out in the face of adversity. Stay strong, love<3

#:happyblush:

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egoiistas · 2 years

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Can you imagine "i slept with you the other day and i didnt know we had a mutual friend and now we’re sitting across each other for brunch and it’s awkward because i ran out when you were asleep" royai au? Because that would be freaking tremendous

wha- how could you force my hand on this. rated: t+, for obv suggestive themes. words: ~750

“We’ve… met,” he drawls, shaking her hand if only for courtesy. Crudely, she remembers those fingers have done worse.

Flabbergasted, Maes’s jaw drops. “You have?! Where?”

Riza feels unable to form words thanks to a constricted throat and a lump the size of an orange lodged at the back of it. She nods regardless, jaw muscles twitching, as she tries to regain composure. “He’s - We’re members of the uh-” She never stumbles over her words. She wonders how much Gracia has told Maes about her. “Sorry, we go to the same shooting range,” she blurts out. Did he ever mention he owned a gun? Riza doesn’t recall. She lets go of his hand and wipes the moisture discreetly on her linen pants. It didn’t occur to her to question whether her own palms were sweating or his.

There’s a boisterous laugh and distantly she sees Maes patting Roy on the shoulder, mentioning how he’s never this diligent to go to the shooting range. She guesses luck was with her on that front. It was a dark bar, in truth. She bites a lip wondering where she could hide, knowing well there wasn’t bound to be one any time soon.

Then, a hand lands on her shoulder, yanking her out of her reverie. She flinches and Maes is staring at her with concerned eyebrows curving upwards. “Are you okay there, Riza? You’re looking a little pale.”

She forces a smile and a chuckle that obviously sounded strained. “Yes, wonderful,” she breathes.

“Gracia, my lovely Gracia, always prepared.” He looks over to her fondly as she talks with other friends, as if they weren’t engaged. “She packed medicine for nausea if you’d like some.”

“You’re really kind, as always, Maes, but I think I’ll be fine.”

He ignores her. “Say no more, I’ll get some for you.”

Standing still across from her, he regards her in silence. Was this karma? For sneaking out of his place in the early morning? No contact, no note, nothing - only to reunite here of all places for a friend’s group vacation brunch.

He’s shorter than she remembers, but then again, there’s not much of that night she remembers in its entirety. Her memory was filled with holes the morning after, only to be haunted with its reemergence with fleeting images of how naked bodies moved against each other, or how they sounded, or how it felt.

She often caught herself blushing from the thought that would bubble up, looking out into the middle distance as it replayed. Regrettably, the man with a ridiculous name like Roy Mustang wasn’t entirely forgettable.

The few seconds of silence since Maes left hangs heavily on her. This isn’t her; she can be an adult about these kind of awkward situations. She’s not used to being so blindsided by it. She’s not one for one-night stands either, but something about that night made him the exception. Perhaps he isn’t so cross about the situation.

“Had to leave that bad, huh?”

Wrong, she was wrong. Instead of feeling apologetic or guilty, she’s indignant about the way he phrased it. Riza lifts her chin up. “I had my reasons. Surely, we can be adults about this.”

Roy scoffs and he smiles incredulously with dimples that probably had a lot to do with this mess. “Was there something childish in the way that I made that statement?”

“No, but I don’t go around bringing up previous encounters at the first chance.”

“I’m a curious creature by nature.” Roy shrugs. “I just wanted to know what it was that made you leave.”

“I really don’t think this is the time or place to talk about that.”

He crosses his arms. “They’re called one-night stands.”

She wouldn’t consider herself prude, but she strangely is about that particular phrase that she steps in closer and tells him to keep it down. It amuses him enough that he chuckles and lifts a brow. In turn, it aggravates her. He draws in a breath like he’s readying himself to shout something when Maes reappears next to them.

“Here you go, Riza. Save some for me because I certainly get seasick.” He hands her the orange bottle and switches glances between them both. “Did I interrupt something? I’m feeling a vibe here.”

“No, Maes,” Roy supplies. “Just becoming fast friends.”

“That’s certainly good to hear.” He grins. “By the way, the captain says we are on schedule for this voyage, I’d hate for anyone here to dislike each other because we’re all stuck with each other for the next seven days.”

#hejfsjbsdhjbsdhj this one still makes me giggle

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egoiistas · 2 years

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hear me out: Havoc takes Riza on a date.

@rizahawkaye made me do this, she bent my arm until i cried to write this. Biggest thanks to @lonepiper5758 for looking over this !

HavocaiWords: Rated T for very nuanced themes.

A new one joins the ranks.

At Mustang’s behest, sharpshooter Jean Havoc joins the team and changes the dynamic of their barely amicable, two person unit like the crack of the rifle. A loud one that brings out the boisterous side to Mustang they’ve both long forgotten. He sings terribly off-tune, uncaring that it is, and walks around heavy-footed with a cloud of smoke wafting in his general vicinity. He stands tall and proud, and speaks with a lilt from the countryside that, with a crinkle of her nose, reminds her of her old home. His hair looks like he grabbed a handful of hay and slapped it on right above his hairline. Secretly, this tickles Riza the most.

With his guns and his drawl, the man is a walking stereotype.

And yet, Riza indulges in his eyes. For a flutter of a second, they’d catch her off guard; somewhat mesmerized with how they reflected like the surface of still waters. Unassuming and clear. Vibrant, but they weren’t burning with life or ambitions or broken promises. They didn’t ignite her with ire or rekindle a yearning. The calming effect on her was strange, invigorating. Refreshing that she’d be able to look into a man’s eyes and not walk away with a whirlwind of emotions.

He isn’t the brightest, Jean admits openly to her on the shooting grounds. But that he makes up for it in intuition. Just knowing when things are right and when they aren’t right, he says.

Is that right, she intones, focused with restocking a clip. Riza, wholly unaware to his body language, doesn’t even look at the smug look on his face, the quirk on his lip, when he declares that she wants to go onto a date with him as his example.

Her finger slips. The bullet clatters on the wooden table and it echoes like the nerves rattling in her head, suddenly frayed. Riza slaps it down with her hand.

That she’d like a nice, simple dinner and good conversation. Nothing extravagant. With a nice coffee and dessert to top it off. Maybe a kiss on the cheek, because she looks old fashioned. Also the little twang in her voice isn’t as gone as she likes to think.

Riza frowns, because that does sound nice and because that twang is gone. No. Wait. She’s never had that twang.

He leans into the table separating them just as she props the rifle up. Those blue eyes shine just looking at her, suddenly serious. It dawns on Riza what gave her away. Earnestly, he says, he can’t promise good conversation, but he can sure make a fool of himself trying.

A chill tickles the back of her neck. She wants to smile from such a candid comment, so honest and simple. Uncomplicated. But that’d remove her from what she was trying to become, as if smiling would render her vulnerable. That’s absurd she thought. What’s even more absurd is that she agreed; his intuition had been correct. She made herself obvious and he caught her, so the answer is yes.

He celebrates like a little boy, pounding a fist on the table and saying a country phrase that is too embarrassing to commit to memory. Riza’s lips curl inward, trapping them in between her teeth. She stops herself from laughing at such a boyish display as if the joy of a simple response was contagious.

Then he tells her there are three conditions. Her eyebrow raises with suspicion.

One index finger. No talk of work. A middle finger. No mentions of superiors. A ring finger. And they both have to look darling.

She can agree to that, Riza says.

He warned her about making a fool of himself and make a fool of himself he did. An average date for an average man. In her mind, she thought about how mean-spirited it was to think about how nothing about him is represented to an exceptional degree. Had she stayed in her father’s manor, she’d marry a man just like him, give him children. Die old.

Mustang’s interest in him was well-spotted: He’s good company and a greater asset on the field. Probably follows directions well, but doesn’t give them.

The streets of East City welcome the rain during their walk back and then it pours. She eyes the makeshift rivers just outside the curb of the sidewalk. The deluge takes every stray leaf with it. Every thread of her Sunday best is drenched. Tendrils of hair stick to her face but she’s unbothered and especially relieved when he doesn’t coddle her about it. Then, something about as strange as indulging in someone eyes happens as the fabric sticks to him like second skin and his hair flattens to look like something less ludicrous.

They approach the front of her building and he tells her they’ll get the sweets next time, when it isn’t raining farm animal out here. He shrugs timidly. Maybe a kiss on the cheek then too, he says, scratching his cheek, eye darted away in embarrassment.

Riza studies him and how the water ran in rivulets off him. The rain hits her head, almost rhythmically to a tune so foreign she blinks it out of her eyes. She confesses she isn’t old fashioned enough as he’d like to think to particularly care for kisses on the cheek.

But…

She has coffee and maybe some stale pastries in her cupboards, if he’d like to join her upstairs. Maybe a cozier reprieve from the rain to delay this denouement.

He pauses and narrows his eyes until the lamplight behind him illuminates. Those are some big words, Jean says. But he can agree to that.

#reblog #uhm #i wrote this?#forreal?#wowowow

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