A/N: Um. Wow. Hi. I did a thing. 8 years later. Because nostalgia is a thing. Bye again, and enjoy.
He sits in the corner of the room, hunched over and tense. Occasionally his red pupils flicker to the corner of his eyes and he lets out a sort of grunt. A small candle flame dances atop its wax pillar, illuminating just enough light for the woman reading in the adjacent chair to see. She ignores the disgruntled creature glaring at the floor. Now at her.
It's about 11 pm at night.
"Sherry," comes his gruff voice, but still the woman does not respond. Her brow simply twitches in reaction. The demon's glare darkens a little, red pupils piercing through the thick grey of his eyes. "Sherry."
"I am reading."
Her dismissal causes his eye to twitch as well, and he curls his hands tightly together. He soon lets go, instead flexing his fingers idly for a minute before trying once again.
"Sherry-"
"What."
Blue eyes meet his red and the two pause, locking their gaze in place. It holds. Whoever looks away first means submission. Both are very stubborn.
Another minute more passes.
Finally he turns his attention to the wall, his brow furrowing deeper. He is not pleased, and growls lowly in irritation. A small victory for Sherry, although she thinks if his frown goes any lower, his eyes will disappear into that eyebrowless face of his.
She stares still even though Brago has turned away, just to reassure herself that her dominance in the situation remains. The candle flame continues to dance in her peripheral view, and the movement of dripping wax immediately catches her attention. Watching it is an excuse to finally look away.
The demon hisses in frustration. Sherry knows she has the upper hand, her annoyance with him justified, but her companion's temper is almost amusing.
Almost.
Again her brow twitches and she looks to her book to turn a page.
"Sherry," he growls once more, a little more bitter than before. He is a sore loser.
"As flattering as it is to hear you say my name repeatedly, that is not going to change the fact I am angry with you." Sherry skims past the words in her book. She is not actually reading, and in fact, has not been for the past 40 minutes. Pretending to read was a decent guise to temporarily keep her companion's banter at bay-at least, while it lasted. Now it is wearing thin.
Brago sits up in his chair only to slump back and lean his head away, his feet stretching out and pushing his seat backwards. The wooden chair squeaks against the floor in protest. This is how he sulks.
Just like a child, Sherry thinks.
"Look," he hisses, glaring back at her with a roll of his head. "We need to be training. This is a waste of time."
Sherry turns another page, her own brow starting to push down. It is getting harder to concentrate on her guise. She hasn't even read but two sentences from the past section. "It is ten past eleven at night and we have been training all day. In addition to that, we burned a book. I will be sleeping soon to wake up early tomorrow anyway."
"That's not the point."
She glances up at him as he lolls his head in the other direction to avoid her gaze. This has to be painful for him, she concedes, but he certainly deserves this treatment. For one of the most demanding and threatening demons out there, sometimes he is such a baby. It's his own fault he is uncomfortable.
"Then what is the point?" Crystal blue eyes are met with a heavy red stare.
"You know what I mean."
He is avoiding the issue.
"Perhaps I want to hear you say it yourself," she states, staring a moment longer before returning her attention to the novel at hand. It is too bad she cannot focus, it is a rather intriguing story and a favorite of hers to reread. Alas, today the comfort of a classic adventure-romance cannot tear her away from the moment at hand. How ironic, she muses, that the couple in the novel experiences something similar. Maybe she subconsciously picked this up for cathartic reasons.
Brago does not respond, but instead continues to fuss. Golden locks slip past Sherry's shoulder as she shifts which leg is crossed over which. It is getting extremely uncomfortable in the room. She can feel the tension building, her quiet shuffling only agitating the demon more. His hissing and sighing is starting to get louder. It is all she can do to suppress her own temper and muster the strength to ignore his tantrum.
Nothing is working.
As soon as he makes the next irritated huff her book snaps shut and his eyes snap to her.
Sherry stands and glares firmly. Eyes are bright and filled with anger.
They're also filled with hurt.
The two stare at each other. Her lips form a thin line that rise high up. She's holding in what she can. Brago is clearly uncomfortable. He knows he is in the wrong. He will not admit he is in the wrong.
At least not to her. Out loud, anyway.
More melted wax drips from the candle. A second drop pursues, and it is then that Brago realizes Sherry is crying. Softly, quietly, but definitely crying.
He hates this.
"If you're not going to say anything about it, just don't bother," she hisses through gritted teeth and turns to leave the room. He watches quietly as she exits, eyes glued to her back until she slams the door shut behind him with a barely audible "Good night."
His gaze lingers on the door before slowly perusing over the room. Sherry's book is left on the desk, next to a larger black tome covered in circular silver patterns. Here he watches quietly, even though the only movement to observe is the candle flame flickering and dancing on the side. Melted wax has filled its container to the brim, and he is certain Sherry is on the brink of spilling her own emotions as well.
He really hates this.
While Brago finally rises from his chair, his thoughts linger on the woman in white. On the opposite end, Sherry too thinks of the demon in black.
It is there, laying on her bed, that she realizes the black book is still in the other room. It is what it is, she sighs. Right now Sherry was certainly in no mood to venture into the other room to retrieve such a precious book. Such a precious piece of work.
Kind of like him.
Her eyes close and she prays for peaceful dreams, of ones like tales from the her book on the table next to the smoking candle, of adventure and romance. It has a happy ending, but she knows deep down that this will never be.
At least not for her.
Sherry slowly opens her eyes and stares at the ceiling. There are speckles of different shapes and patterns in the marble above, and she makes out a face in a corner here and there. It is but a temporary distraction.
There is silence, and soon her eyes finally close for the night. Perhaps her companion will learn how to produce a proper apology. Perhaps not. Perhaps he will continue to be an obnoxious twit.
She dreams of oceans and the sounds of seagulls nearby the shore. There is a tree and a coconut falls on Brago's head. In the morning she laughs at the manifested frustration, but soon forgets. The next time she sees him her frown returns, and the cycle of the previous evening continues. He still won't apologize, but it is what it is, and she cannot help it.
It's not that she hates him, but her pride won't allow for anything else.
For now, at least.