Title: Miaou (1/1)
Summary: Syl. Krit. Stuff happens.
Spoilers: And Jesus Brought a Casserole.
Rating: PG13.
Disclaimer: Cameron and Eglee.
Date: June 22, 2001.
She is wearing a red sweater, faded jeans, black boots. Her hair is a thick blonde braid close against her head, heavy over the back of her neck. She hasn't bothered with makeup. There is a jar of vaseline, and she dipped her finger into it and smoothed it out across her lips. Her lips are shinning, light catching against them with every curve into expression she attempts.
His name is Patrick, and he thinks that he's older than her. His body proclaims his intentions before he moves. She lets him kiss her, because she has killed and even died a bit, but she's never done this. She puts her hands on his shoulders and doesn't close her eyes. This close, she can see his pores. She wonders if she could see straight through his head if she focuses her eyes.
His tongue is against her glossy lips. It slides past shiny slickness, into her mouth. She doesn't think. She bites down. He tastes like nicotine and tomato soup and blood. Patrick pulls back from her, slurring curses. She's been called worse. Blood and saliva mix, pool in his mouth, form at the corner of his lips. She licks her teeth and lets him swear.
*
The first thing she feels upon waking is her own breath at her lips. She feel raw and old and she makes not attempt to be careful as she squirms out from under the arm and leg draped over her. She's naked, but she doesn't mind that. She can remember her skin being split apart, blood falling past her hands and whole flesh is full enough covering now. Strawberry lip-gloss is little more than a memory and her lips feel dry.
His name is Kyle, and he thinks that he's more experienced than her. He is laying on the bed, sheets low on his back. He is on his stomach, head turned away from the place where her own rested. She can see red lines down his back, from his shoulder-blades down towards his ass. She knows that beyond even her sight, his skin is caught beneath her unvarnished nails. He is snoring, air rattling in his nose.
She goes into the bathroom, pauses before the mirror. She is small and slim and she's still vaguely amused by the breasts she sees. She remembers that they are still small enough to nearly disappear behind Kyle's hands. She's never been young, she thinks and tells herself that there is no reason to mind any of this. She hadn't thought of Kyle like this until her body force-fed her want. He enjoyed himself. Her body was beyond caring about enjoyment, and that's okay, because she's leaving and won't have to deal with any of this.
The water is hot against her skin, and she would be burning if she wasn't what she is. The water goes cold before she's done.
*
She ties her robe closed around her as she moves towards the door. Nighttime, and sounds are louder in the darkness. She can hear a heartbeat, the sound of scuffing shoes. Her sense of smell had always been the best of all of them, and she can pick up traces of sweat, soap, tuna sandwiches and guns. She opens the door and isn't surprised to find the man awaiting her.
He looks surprised at the sight of her. She knows that she looks small and youthful, and maybe he has a daughter her age. She listens when the officer tells her that they found Mark's body. She closed the door softly behind the officer, locks the door. She pauses in the living room and sucks in a breath of air. She can still smell Mark in her home.
She packs quickly. She doesn't even consider taking something by which to remember him. She can't forget, not even when she wants to. Years later, Mark is still crisp and clear in her mind and she nearly chokes on anger when she learns that Max has told a man the secret she never told even Mark. She can't forget her anger, not even when she thinks she should.
*
She sits silent and broken in the van with a man she hates and another who has no right to their secrets. She twitches with every breath her creator takes until she thinks she will die with a scream caught sharp and hot in her throat. She doesn't return to Seattle with them. She catches Krit with her eyes and pleads for his company without speaking a word. They leave the van heavy with the emotions of the two men who have the least right to the fullness of them.
It has always been a possibility between them, and alone, she steps into his space. She has to rise to her toes to reach him. He lays his hands on her hips to steady her, habit more than any great understanding of her intentions. She doesn't kiss his cheek. She presses her lips to his and feels his surprise. She pulls back enough to see his eyes. She lays her hand against his cheek. Her eyes are wet, and his face blurs before her.
Krit sighs, mimicking her action. His hand is strong and warm against her face. He understands. He kisses her instead of crying.
*
She hasn't ever enjoyed parties. Her ears are sensitive, and she's been trained fully enough that she can't ever stop paying attention to her surroundings. The club is loud and full and her mind is swimming with the attempt to remain aware of all possible threats. Phoenix loves parties and people and loud music. It is only because she owes Phoenix for the worry she caused her that Syl is here.
Phoenix likes men, looking and flirting, anticipation and adoration. Her lips are glossed. She parts them, waiting, and runs her tongue at the space where gloss fades into the wetness of her inner lip. She swirls a lock of red hair about her finger. Phoenix has a hierarchy of attractiveness: abs, ass, chest, arms, eyes and her gaze flicks through the crowds in search for a man who fits the parameters of a suitable date.
She has never judged men by anything her friend would understand as attractiveness. She has dated men that Phoenix would not so much have looked at. Syl judges men by how close they come to her family. She looks for strength, for grace, for sorrow, for pain. She hasn't been aware of her own actions for long. It surprised her at first, the thought that she was looking for some version of herself and her family. She doesn't think that anyone else would have the ability to handle her, much less understand her.
She thinks of Krit then. She swallows hard and fishes through her pocket for the crumpled bills she'll use to buy herself another beer.
*
She knows someone is in her home before she opens the door. She thinks she know who is waiting for her, and she manages to feel surprised even when she finds that she is right. She says his name, and is shocked to hear that she sounds breathy. His eyebrows hike upwards and he's laughing at her silently. She doesn't mind. She hugs him and laughs, too, so hard that her entire body shakes against his.
She thinks that Krit has an interesting mouth. She touches his lips with her fingers before she lays her lips against his. They are warm and soft and she opens her mouth to breath the same air as does he. They always move, his lips. His teeth catch against his lower lip when he's thinking hard. He likes candy and gum and breath mints, and if she listens hard enough, she can hear candy clicking against his teeth. There is a small lump at his cheek where the candy rests, and his cheeks cave in as he sucks.
She lowers herself until she is flat-footed on the ground once again. They don't grope each other or rush towards the bedroom. No awkwardness or unspoken uncertainties grow between them. They smile at each other and she squeezes Krit's hand briefly. She asks him to stay, and he understands that, too.
They stay up all night and talk. She's happy with him, like that, and she thinks that he is, too.
*
They watch television together in the evenings. They sit on the couch, and she rests her head on his shoulder and his hand settles on the curve of her hip. That close, she can hear the sound of his heart so clearly that she sometimes cries. She does not cry easily. None of them can do anything half-way and her tears are hot and violent. Red eyes and face, tear tracks and snot and a thick voice and he kisses her and hugs her close to him.
She has never seen him cry. She wants to tell him that he can if he wants to, that she understands and knows that it hurts that first time. She beings to see when he's crying even when he isn't and she doesn't need tears to give her permission to hug him back.
He turned off the television one night. They sit in front of the black screen and listen to each other breath. She learns that she sleeps easiest with his heartbeat leading her into dreams.
*
Krit watches her, and she isn't quite sure what to think about that. She's been watched before--eyes trained on her breasts, her lips, the sway of her hips, the glide of cloth against flesh as she strips. He doesn't stop watching her, even when she's dressed in an oversized sweatshirt and jogging pants. Sometimes, he sits on the edge of the tub and talks and watches as she scrubs at her teeth. She can feel the warmth in his eyes then, even as toothpaste dribbles down her chin. He watches her when she eats, and she knows she's nowhere near sexy as she chews at mouthfuls nearly too large for her to handle.
She stands between his parted knees. They are in the bathroom and she took the razor from his hand, pushed him back until he sat on the closed toilet. His eyes are open, watching her. She is slow, deliberate, carefully running the razor over the edge of his jaw. She pats at his face, steps away. She shakes off flecks of white shaving cream over the sink, washes the rest away with a spray of cold water. She looks back, and he's still sitting there, watching her.
She nearly asks him what he thinks of when he looks at her like this. She cuts off the question before it forms. She isn't sure that she needs the answer. She knows that she feels warm and safe in such moments, and that is enough.
*
Krit slept on her couch the first two weeks he stayed with her. He was too tall to fit comfortably, and she had woken in the morning more than once to the dull thump of Krit falling off the couch. She rolls her eyes as she watches him fold his blankets. She points at her bedroom with her thumb over her shoulder. He wriggles his eyebrows and mock-leers and she laughs in response.
She takes up more of the bed than does he. She spreads out over the mattress and he tells her that she squirms into his space while she sleeps. He tells her that she snores, too, and she growls and punches him in the shoulder for that.
He is neater than she is, and he makes the bed every morning. She enjoys messing it right back up. She will jump on the bed and flop back against crisp, cool sheets. They laugh together, even when there isn't anything funny to laugh about.
*
She isn't sure how to ask him, or even if she wants to. She sits at the table, watches his hands. She can remember boy-hands, the sight of a weapon in them, the feel of his open palm against her cheek. She reaches out across the table, captures one of his hands with her own. He lets her pick up his hand and turn it over. She drags a short-cut nail down the center of his palm, watches his reaction from beneath lowered lashes. She sighs and lowers his hand back to the table-top. She pats at the back of his hand once before pushing away from the table.
She nearly leaves it at that. Too many of them have done exactly that. That thought stops her, makes sorrow burn at her eyes. She turns back towards him, moves forward. She lays her hand on his cheek. He looks up, lifting his eyebrows in what she chooses to see as a challenge. She smiles. He smiles back. He understands.
She knew he would.
~end~