I'm still in love with Rock x Revy. Also, so much introspection!
Disclaimer: I don't own Black Lagoon.
Absurd
He finds it absurd.
It's nights like these when he truly wonders. Thunder rolling in the distance, the raindrops drumming a steady rhythm against the window. Inside the short nails dig into his shoulders, hips rutting down against his as he rolls up to meet her. He doesn't need to see her face, he doesn't need to look at her, not anymore.
The sheets are scratchy against his back and her shoulders hunch forward, eyes shut tight, refusing to meet his.
And he wonders.
She isn't beautiful.
Beauty is subjective, and to him it will always mean the delicate smile of a gentle girl. The demure smiles and downcast eyes, porcelain skin and folded hands.
Revy is none of that.
She's hard and sharp and calloused hands. Toothy grins and intense, fiery gazes are her domain. There are no held gazes and lingering feathery touches.
But he can feel it.
He can feel it in the playful shoves and the hard back slaps. In the synchronised fist bumps and the bodily shoving.
Its when his gaze lingers just a fraction longer on the wild red hair swinging over tight shoulders, the new length dragging his gaze down the curve of her back to the sun darkened skin.
She's perfect...
He knows she feels it, of course she does. And he wonders yet again if she is in fact human. Her head tilts back, loose red strands draping over her tattooed shoulder, slowly sliding down. His gaze traces up her sharp, soft jaw, her curious mouth, parted just so in a question to the warm gold of her eyes.
He feels something coil gently in his chest and feels his lips quirk up in a half smile.
So imperfectly perfect.
She holds his gaze, it doesn't linger there but bores deep into his. Red brows furrow and she purses her mouth at him and he can't help but laugh. Because it isn't lust.
He wonders if she knows.
Its when they spend the day in the office, taking a breather between jobs. The couch is Revy's territory and only Rock is allowed on it. Because only he goes as far as to wordlessly slip warm fingers into the red strands and gently massage the hangover away.
Its when he sits there touching up the books before the accounts become too much to handle (because he likes to stay ahead) and she throws her legs over his thighs, crossing at the ankles with her eyes boring into a magazine.
His eyes no longer travel along her curves and edges like they used to. No longer does his gaze linger on the swell of her hip or the dip of her waist. It doesn't fix on the skin under her navel when she stands too close for comfort.
There is no longer a 'too' close.
And still when he runs a finger behind her knee she squeals, leg flexing in a startled kick, face flushed in embarrassment as she glares daggers at him. Dutch rolls his eyes and Benny mumbles about getting a room.
Rock just laughs.
Maybe later.
No one can touch her like he does and live to tell the tale.
It's not romantic.
Romance, as a concept is too far out of his reach. He does want to be her gallant knight, riding in on a white horse and a shining armour to save her but that isn't what she wants. And he doesn't think he can give her that anyway.
Romance is what he finds in movies. Where everything is so absurd he doesn't know what to think. Reality is nothing like that and he hasn't believed in romance in ages.
Love does not survive in Roanapur, it only gets blackened by the filth and sin till it distorts into a shameful shadow of the once pure emotion.
Even Benny's kisses with his girlfriend seem like a cheap porn scene to him, not that he would judge. He can't help the warm feeling that spreads in his stomach when he sees his blonde friend so happy.
Isn't it odd how we cling to such illusions?
He isn't jealous though and he wonders why, he wonders. He wonders.
He wonders till a loud cackle reaches his ears and his gaze is pulled to the redhead harassing the Indian girl.
Maybe that's why.
Fate is a strange thing.
Its an absurd concept. The red string of fate, a popular concept in Japan. Two people tied together by a red string, soul mates. He wonders if he believes it.
It's absurd how his life played out. It's absurd that it was him who was given the job on that fateful day, it's absurd that it was he who got kidnapped, it's strange that he was the one to be given the responsibility of a drunken Revy then a tired Revy and soon just Revy.
Just her.
Maybe fate exists and he wonders if maybe his is connected with hers. Because if it is, he is entirely too willing to let that string drag him wherever she goes.
But he doesn't love her.
He knows that.
She knows that.
Even now, when her breath rattles in the humid heat of her room, the air conditioner eternally shot. Even as beads of sweat roll down her curves, skin glistening as the taut muscles ripple underneath it. Even as her fingers dig into his shoulders, refusing to let her back curl and let him comfort her. She knows. And he knows.
She's too proud to let it show. She doesn't ask for sweet gentle kisses and he doesn't grant them. It would be disrespectful in her warped twisted mind and her broken heart held together by the sheer will to exist and he knows that.
He respects that.
But when he watches her, her hips rolling against his as his own breath comes out in gasps and groans, he feels the warmth again, spreading in his chest, down his spine and up his neck, slipping into his limbs and creeping up his face. And while she tries desperately to hold him at a distance, to keep from tainting him (as if he's so pure) to keep from breaking him, he reaches up to her. Long fingers weave into her hair, trembling with the agony of her fear but firm with his own resolve. He pulls her forward, not by the hair. His fingers press against her scalp, kneading the hot, sweat damp skin under his fingertips, pulling her closer till she is leaning over him.
Her lips are swollen from her biting them too much, her breath warm and stuttering against his flushed face. His arms wrap around her shoulders, gripping her around her ribs, crushing her to him.
She doesn't want comfort but that doesn't stop him from showing his affection. She doesn't argue and she doesn't push away. She can't raise up anymore so she rocks against him instead, accepting. Her lips press into his hair and he feels her staggering breath ruffle the lengthened strands. She knows not to argue with Rock when he makes up his mind.
He smiles at the thought and presses his lips to the skin below her ear in a tender kiss.
He doesn't love her.
He doesn't.
He can't.
But he will never leave.
Not without her.
And if she wants to stay then so will he.
His lips move against her skin, teeth grazing gently against the kiss bruised spot and he wonders if she can tell what he is saying from the ghost of his breath.
Of course she can.
He doesn't stop to wonder if the hitch in her breath means something special. So he keeps breathing the words against her throat, though no sound ever seems to come out past his lips. Because he doesn't love her. But...
I'm right here Revy...I'm always going to be right where I am.
He doesn't love her, she doesn't love him. But he's there and she is a solid warmth in his arms. She's real. This is real.
And he can live with that.
Read and review!