Vouloir, C'est Pouvoir
Garry x Ib
R15
Author's Notes:
My first legitimate non-Hetalia fanfic in a year and a half, haha. So . . . this fic is actually the complement/companion to Tokyo-Milk's Qui Vivra Verra. QVV is written in Ib's third-person POV, so naturally, this fic is in Garry's third-person POV.
I highly suggest you go read QVV first, because that's technically the "main" story.
Oh, and the rating will get bumped up to R18 at some point (either in this fic, or in the sequel). So be warned.
Enjoy, and do drop me a review or two and let me know what you think!
One
Macaroons
He always woke early on Monday mornings. There was something crisp and ready about them; something that made him want to jump out of bed, have a cuppa, and paint by the curtainless bay window until it was time to leave for his classes. Monday mornings were when his mind was at its clearest, separated from reality, bright with inspiration. It was both refreshing and comforting to sit before his canvas in a T-shirt and shorts and study London, his beloved, gray-skied London, as he squeezed out paint and touched paintbrush to palette and outlined his thoughts in color.
The mattress creaked under him as he sat up, tiredness falling away like droplets of rain. He was about to swing his legs over the edge when he felt sleepy fingers touch his elbow.
"It's still early . . . stay with me, love," Rose murmured.
He looked down at her hand, and his artist's eye took a snapshot of it to file away for later reference: the slim knuckles, the clear-polished nails, the thin silver ring that she never took off save to wash her hands and shower. "I want to go paint for a bit," he said.
"That can wait, can't it?" She was blinking awake now, too. She had green eyes that were disorientingly pale; looking into them was like looking at vulnerability itself, in all its intensity and timidity and wishfulness. However, the Rose that he knew wasn't vulnerable. No . . . the Rose he knew had tiny thorns that pricked but fell just short of drawing blood. She had to be held carefully, and even then, it was hard to keep clear of her sharp edges. He hadn't really used to mind. Not in the beginning, at least.
"I'll have to leave for class soon, though." He appealed to reason. "I want to do some painting before I go."
She eased herself up, folding her legs to the side, and rubbed her cheek with a yawn. Her honey-kissed locks tumbled comfortably about her face. "Why now? It's far too early. You can paint after you come back from the café." Her tone was sweet, though the words weren't. "Come and cuddle with me. Please?" She held her arms out to him. The straps of her bra—all pink and white lace—had slipped off her shoulders, and the creamy top halves of her breasts were exposed. For a moment, he was tempted. But it was a meaningless desire, one that he overcame easily. He'd seen her nude plenty of times; it was only routine, and he'd gained at least some immunity to it.
He looked away. "Rose, you have classes today, too. I—there's not enou—"
Smiling, she pressed herself into his lap, wrists hooking casually behind his neck. "Please," she said again, more firmly, and kissed him. This time, he couldn't push her away. His body responding to hers was routine as well, and not as simple to ignore.
As it was, he got to his first class five minutes late.
He was still trying to push the memory of that morning out of his mind when it was time for his shift at the café. Thankfully, the main bustle was already over, and there wasn't much to do but give the tables a wipe-down. He straightened the small black tie at his collar, adjusted his name tag (after checking that he hadn't pinned it on upside-down), and got to it. There was comfort in putting everything in its right place, solace in taking and filling orders for leisurely customers. He let the tranquility carry over into his thoughts. His steps quickened by habit.
Even so, the end of his shift was slow to arrive, though the storm clouds that had been hovering all day weren't. When he had about an hour left . . . there she was. Not Rose, thank God—the little girl.
She looked up at him with her big doe eyes and ordered three macaroons. No drink. He watched her for a moment, studied her hazelnut hair and honest face, and realized that while he was still wearing the smile he put on for the customers, it had become less of a courtesy smile and more of an "I'm glad to see you" smile. And he was.
She was a regular at the café; whether she came with friends or by herself seemed to depend on factors beyond his knowledge. But he'd taken notice that when she was with friends, she was the only one who didn't preen or suddenly develop a "sophisticated" vocabulary or pry him with little-girl-curious questions when he dropped by to take their orders. She just kept looking at him with those eyes of hers, and though it was a bit unsettling . . . he found that he appreciated her genuineness. They lived in a world of smoke and mirrors and masks and yet, young as she was, she seemed to be wholly unaffected by it. Untouched as china, pristine.
He came back with her plate of macaroons, set it down before her, and then just kept standing there for no real reason. She glanced up at him with a slightly puzzled expression. Nothing about it was rude; it was more like she honestly couldn't figure out why he was still there. She must have been used to his usual whirlwind of activity. He doubted she'd ever seen him stand still for more than a handful of seconds, actually.
"Do I know you from somewhere?" he asked. God knows where that question came from, because he definitely didn't. He'd been scrabbling for something to say, and somehow that had won over everything else.
She blinked once. Twice. "Maybe," she said, and looked down at her macaroons.
Something in her passive tone gave him pause. Wasn't that the same voice he'd used before, when her friends had been plucking at him with their nosy curiosity? Yes, it was. She was deflecting his interest with the same care, the same politeness. It was an odd sense of déjà vu.
He slipped into the chair opposite her, earning himself another quizzical look. "My name's Garry," he said cheerfully, without preamble. He couldn't just walk away after asking such an absurd question. That would just make things awkward. Besides, part of him really wanted to hear her talk beyond placing an order—she had a soft, tentative voice, but not like she was unsure of herself. More like she was always adrift, like him. "But you probably knew that," he added, trying to think of something to chat about. Then it struck him that despite having seen her in the café in an on-and-off pattern for almost a year, he had no idea what her name was. "And you are?"
"Ib."
For a second, he didn't quite know what to say. Ib?
"It's a nickname," she clarified.
Ah. "I see."
The rain was pattering against the window next to her with more insistence.
He decided to try for conversation again. "You order macaroons every time you come here. You must like them a lot." There was some safety in stating the obvious, he realized. Perhaps it would encourage her to speak more.
No luck. She just nodded, her eyes fixed on him, her brow slightly furrowed like she was trying to make out what his intentions were.
"I like them, too," he ventured. "They're good, aren't they?" He thought of Rose, who disliked macaroons and pretty much anything else that tasted sweet, and quickly tried to forget her again.
Ib nodded a second time, mutely.
Maybe he should just give the poor girl some space. He was probably scaring her. "Well, I have to get back to work. It was nice meeting you, Ib," he said, and he meant it. Then he sailed off to take another customer's order. While he was walking away, he peeked over his shoulder, and saw the girl smiling down at her macaroons as if she was sharing a secret with them.
Something about that smile touched him. He vowed to make her smile again—and to come up with a legitimate topic of conversation next time.