3IF YOU'RE NEW HERE, SKIP THE AUTHOR'S NOTE (THE BOLDED PART).
AN: This was written based off of my first romance oneshot, You Can't See the Stars From Here. Romance has never been my strong point and over the past year, I've become more familiar with how tricky of a ground it is to handle. In addition, as I've built and re-built the contexts, settings, and relationships of the characters and plot behind these oneshots, I feel like my attitude towards social issues has become a lot more...wary, shall I say.
In addition, I've started reading a lot more things in the YA department (I didn't always like YA lit, tbh) and...let's just say I've learned a few things about human relationships that, as a single asexual virgin, were definitely new to me.
You'll probably recognize the character names, but even I have to admit that they're nothing like they used to be.
I'll do replies and reviews ASAP, don't worry — just postin' real quick before classes.
Her thin fingers flit across his thigh, weaving the bandage with practiced dexterity. It hurts, but he grits his teeth and doesn't say anything. Maybe if Ere was here he'd find some numbing cream or magic pill to knock out the pain, but since he's somewhere in nowhereland — literally — it's all Avi can do to just grin and bear it.
She knots the bandage and he grimaces. Ow.
"Sorry," she whispers.
"It's fine." He's still clenching his teeth.
She sits back, wipes her hands off with a rag and runs her fingers through her hair. She dyed it green at some point and cut it a bit differently, her bangs falling down to hide her eyes. Occasionally he sees a flash of bright green running down her face, a little virus underneath her skin just waiting to spread and take her out from the inside. It never does, and vanishes almost as soon as he sees it.
She's wearing a black tank top, something that before today she wouldn't have even thought of wearing alone. She's different now — all black shirts and army pants, rifles on her back and chipped red nail polish. A tattoo on her forehead just like the one on his, a little black V hidden by badly dyed hair. Once upon a time she didn't have that — back when Syl brought to mind soft jeans and cardigans, turtleneck sweaters and necklaces with little flowers on them.
It's been such a long time.
He reaches for her hand then, catching it just as she's putting away the first aid kit. She freezes at his touch and when he turns her wrist over, every muscle in her arm is tensed. He's a bit more careful now — he's stronger than her, but she's faster and the only one who's armed. Her other hand is on the Glock strapped to her leg.
"I just wanted to see somethin'," he admits, and releases her hand.
He hadn't even been holding it tightly. She bites her lower lip. "How fast I'd react, right?"
"No. I just never noticed that pattern before," he tries to meet her eyes. "It's shaped like a star. Four points, a circle of white. Right there."
She doesn't acknowledge it and turns away, continuing to pack away the first-aid kit. "We lived under the same roof for fourteen years, Avi. I find it difficult to believe that you've never seen my arm before."
Even though she did know. She'd never liked showing her skin to anyone, least of all him. "I seem to recall that a six-year-old version of me made fun of your vitiligo any time you wore anything more revealing than a t-shirt."
"And that is why I hold my doubts." She reaches to a styrofoam cup of iced tea and takes a small sip. Then she grimaces. "How do you even drink this stuff?"
"Thirst," he replies, and takes it from her. "And a desperate need for caffeine."
"I can't even call it tea."
"The Europeans really changed you, didn't they?"
"Shut up."
She's right though. The stuff is disgusting and, in Calcutta's evening heat, can barely even be called lukewarm anymore. He keeps drinking it just to make a point, and gives her his water bottle. No less lukewarm than the rest of anything here.
"Sorry," he finally forces out. "For, uh, six-year-old me."
She meets his eyes again, keeping it this time. The patchy orange light filtering down through the missing tiles of the warehouse ceiling casts a strange shifting pattern across her uneven skin, layering onto the darks and lights. She's slimmed out in the past few years — slimmed and filled out in different places, bringing a natural balance and shape to her form. And she's honestly, truly beautiful in ways that are just barely new to him, something darker, more sensual, and he's not sure how he feels about it.
Her eyes flicker away; a little green glitch runs across her skin and her fists clench.
"Don't do that." Everything she says is only barely above a whisper. This is there, but more like a hiss. Not quite. But close.
"Do what?"
"That," which doesn't give him much of an answer. "Look at me like that. Don't. It's…wrong. You're chemically imbalanced and you know it, so get a hold of yourself. You're not an animal. Control yourself."
As for giving answers, that one does. "Sorry."
She runs her fingers through her hair again and sighs, and in response he looks away. He'd heard this story a dozen times before, and now that he was at risk of turning himself into the villain, it was getting harder and harder to defend the victims. I've dealt with stronger demons than my stupid teenage hormones. I can control them, right?
"Sorry," he says again.
The first aid kit is finally wrapped up and put away, but when Syl pulls out her rifle and begins to clean it (she's already wiped it down twice today) he gets the feeling she's waiting for something.
"I won't do anything without your word," he adds, very carefully.
She pops out the cartridge, inspects it, and then slides it back in. "This also applies to mission-related things," she adds. "That was a stupid move back there, Agent 2."
Agent 2. The stupid, joking "agent numbers" Viv assigned to them. Seemed like Syl could, in fact, turn everything into a serious conversation. But numbers or no, she was right, and she was technically his superior. He nodded. "Yes, sir."
"Don't make a move like that again."
"I think the bullet hole taught me well enough," he nods again, towards the bandage around his left leg.
She doesn't say anything, and sets her gun aside and exhales. "You acted well in response, though. Thank you for that."
"No problem."
She gives him a look.
"I — I mean, you're welcome, sir."
A ghost of a smile. "Better."
The silence begins to drift in, stagnating in the heat of the Indian evening. A quick glance at the sky and he sees the orange is gone, replaced by a hazy grey-violet of mixed smog and the oncoming nightfall. It'll never be cold here, not in the middle of May, but as the minutes tick by the absent sun's warmth slips more and more away. He's used to the daytime heat and rubs his arms, but she seems just fine. Even relieved. Well, she is Russian…
"We'll rise at oh-five hundred," her voice cuts into his thoughts. "Talwar's leaving for New Zealand at oh-six hundred, and if we catch a taxi and rush we could bribe our way in, maybe he'd even let us sit together without his bodyguards all over us — "
She's reaching towards his backpack when she freezes, both in words and in actions. She'd accidentally put her hand down an inch away from his, their fingers a step away from touching. She's so close, he can even smell the light, apple-y fragrance of her shampoo — mixed with sweat and general Calcutta grossness, sure, but still there. She'd probably done that hour-long morning hair ritual before she came to basically save his skin.
"Together," he repeats, almost as a question.
He sees it in her eyes, her beautiful green eyes — she's going to say that she meant just to discuss the plan, but there is no plan to discuss. They're both as lost as the rest of their comrades, and who knows where those kids are right now. They're just two kids, spinning helplessly in this little game of love and loss.
And she's so close, so near that he feels her light, quick breath on his cheeks; and it's so gradual and almost slow-motion that he barely even recognizes at first when her fingers slip under his, when her other hand touches his cheek and traces the line of his jaw, how her eyes are almost as wide as his.
And it's like he's waking up for the first time, opening his eyes to a rush of light and noise and feeling as her lips, dry and cracked and beautiful still, touch his.
The kiss is clumsy, awkwardly quiet, and too hard — anyone could tell that this was a new experience for both of them. Twice, their teeth bump and the first time he tries to apologize, but she catches him again in the kiss and the word is silenced. Their entwined fingers come up and break before his arms wrap around her waist, before her hands tangle themselves with his thick hair. Her body presses against his and it's like they can't get close enough, like there's so much they could discover if they were just regular teens, not fugitives in an empty Indian warehouse. It's a rush he loves and hates all at once, a drug. It makes him sick to just think of what he's doing, but the thrill of the moment is something he'll never forget.
A small gasp escapes her lips; she pulls them away. For a few moments they just stay there, foreheads pressing together, both breathing heavily, shaking. Then she lets go.
"I shouldn't have done that," she whispers, hugging her legs to her chest.
He doesn't reply for a while. Then he dares to ask, "Did you like it?"
Her gazes snaps up and he swears he can see another glitch in her eyes, but then it's gone and all that's left is Syl, and him, and the memory of the kiss that he knows neither of them will forget.
"Did you?"
"A little."
Wrong answer. She's too good at lying to be lied to. "Only a little."
He changes the topic. "Your first?"
"Yeah. You?"
"Nah. The chicks dig me too much."
She rolls her eyes. "Meaning you just watch a lot of Bollywood romcoms."
"Shut up." He's trying not to laugh.
They fall into a different kind of silence. This one's warmer, lighter, more like home. She looks at him, and he realizes she's smiling.
"It was fun," she says finally, pushing a lock of hair behind her ear. "But…I don't want to do it again. Not now, at least."
Now. Meaning, as long as this war goes on. He bites his lip. "Okay. That's fine."
She squeezes his hand. "Thanks."
Later that night, as he's keeping watch, he looks down to where she's curled up on the ground not two feet away from him. Her hair is silver in the smog-hazed moonlight, and the patches of unevenly-colored skin are barely shadows. They're not flaws. They're beautiful. And when his eyes are closed, when her fingers are trailing down his chest, when the two of them aren't…aren't just, it's impossible to think of them as anything except Syl, except the feminine perfection that she is. And there's so much that he wants to say to her in those moments, in these moments, so much he could do to get what he wanted, and she'd never see it coming…
But what then? What then, after she woke up the next morning and realized — recognized him for what he'd done?
And so he sits back and holds his hands to his chest, even touches the place where the bullet had been, presses it and watches himself flinch from the pain. Good. You can wait, he tells himself. Nothing without her word.
He pulls his eyes away from her and takes a long breath out.
Sorry.