of fire and ice, and fire
.
I.
the first time he sees her, she's walking across the street with a bag of oranges, the little betrayer.
he's got too many words and too little feelings to go with them, and antipathy and loathe (probably) spread in his gut like wildfire.
he forces himself to keep on walking and forget her face.
but he dreams of her face many nights after that, and when she and the memory of all that comes with her starts to haunt him, he begins to think that maybe he should've stalked up to her and glared his frustration away- pretty much like a 10-year-old kid.
.
II.
the second time he sees her she looks crumbled like a pile of spent logs consumed by the fire. he vaguely thinks it's an odd comparison, that maybe by saying that he's likening her to him. but it cannot be, because she always was fire, and he was never but ice to no-one.
he sees her and he sizzles inside, because it's 2 am and she's out only in a short skirt and high heels and some sorry excuse for a blouse, and supporting a drunken guy that looks too much like her not to be her brother.
sizzling. the late-night sound of sirens and street cats and tipsy singing and the pulsating bass that pervades the disco's walls.
sizzling. the persistent buzz in his ears that tells him he sleeps too little and works too much, and betrays that other people go home after partying when he's only barely left preventers HQs.
sizzling. irony. nightmares. old memories that intertwine with the recent stench of alleyways with lousy drainage.
he hails a cab a couple of blocks away from them. pays the driver what he judges will be more than enough, points him in the general direction of the blonde girl dragging the passed-out kid.
it eases the sizzling and he walks all the way back to his apartment, across town. figures that the nightmares will stop, but the bitter taste in his mouth doesn't make him think he'd just made a good deed at all.
.
III.
brussels is where the world is- old nobility, new nobility, diplomacy at its finest and art and science and glitter and glamour. and backstreets and gangs and misery, just like in every other place in the world.
so, no, he isn't as surprised as he should be when he sees her for a third time in the city where he goes home to when the circus tours the colonies (he's sworn he won't ever go back up there again)
he'd never thought he'd stoop to be the kind of man to dangle between anger and passion and blur the line of distinction, but he stands there in the row, behind her; and evaluates her while she buys a set of lightbulbs as if he had to dewire a timebomb; and realizes he's hot and cold and completely confused.
he follows her out of the electrical supplies store, trailing in her shadow, more to try to find where he stands than to know where she's going, but all too soon she's coming into an apartment building and he scurries silently into the dark lobby, once he sees her disappear up the staircase.
with professional precision, he gives her a headstart and goes up after her. from the dark recesses of the staircase pit of the 4th floor, he watches as if he were a spy and had to make sense of the pre-teen that opens the door for her and hugs her, or of the obscurely familiar mop of hair belonging to that one brother of hers that he saw slouched drunken in a dirty late-night street.
to his surprise, she beckons her brothers in but remains outside, in the dim corridor. she heaves a sigh and addresses her unseen follower-
'dunno what you want, shoot me or show yourself, but leave my family alone.'
'i don't mean any harm to you,' he replies from the shadows.
'then come out, 'cause you're creeping me out,' her deep voice says.
he shrugs. 'i think i'd rather not.' in a way, he feels rather childish.
'why follow me all the way up here like a ninja if you're gonna get cold fins… unless you wanted to sneak in and steal from us. I promise you, you'll leave with a couple bulletholes if you try.'
he doesn't doubt her words, he doesn't.
'I'm not here to steal from you.'
'good… well. if your business was just to creep me out, good work, you made it. you don't need a key to open the door to the street from the inside, be on your way and leave us alone, mister.'
'hmmm,' he says, pensively. half of his face is sheltered in the darkness, and the passing light of a car, down in the street, lights up the other half for a fraction of a minute.
she catches it, and looks at him. transfixed. he knows that she knows who he is now, and he knows what she is thinking: when they were 10 and she was a sweet, determined, stupid little girl, deep down she'd had a good heart. her words confirm it:
'are you death?' she asks, levelly, 'is it already time for me to go?'
'i don't know, middie,' he says, 'i think that people like you and me always overstay our welcome in this world.'
dumbstruck, she can only nod.
'i'd let you linger longer here, if i were death, though,' he says softly, a shimmer in his eyes that she misses to the darkness. he feels like he's made of fire and ice, and fire- the two meanings of his words bifurcate like a man who has two shadows.
she finds her voice. 'why are you here if not to haunt me, No-name?'
a shrug, again.
'by chance, i suppose. maybe to put myself to the test,' he whispers, 'see if i'm actually able to end you, like i wished when i was younger.'
'well…?' she asks, expectantly, her voice strained, the key she holds in her hand clutched beyond necessity.
'i don't feel i want to,' he concedes easily. 'i think our sins are paid for, in a way. is your family well?'
'i lost a brother and my father to the war. but we went on, and here we are. we get by.'
'i am glad,' he voices, his lips pursing ruefully, wholly retreating to the dark recesses of the staircase, 'be well, middie. goodbye.'
he means to go, but he does not move. he sees her well, although she cannot see him—she stands in the halo of the bleak light of the corridor that makes the place look like a hospital, or maybe the morgue, looking at where he stood with corpse-like paleness, her hands shaking and her pretty eyes rimmed with tears. he acknowledges that the weight of the past must still feel to her like a thousand bricks dragging her down, and that her treason to him was not her only one.
'i am sorry, No-name,' she says, at length, speaking to the smoky-rimmed blackness, 'i wish I could make you a pot of coffee, like before. but i only got tea, and that's lousy to offer.'
the third shrug- the last one. '… it's late for coffee, anyway,' he says. with a sigh, she rises the keys to the keyhole. he doesn't know for certain, it's dim and she's not too close, but she might look slightly relieved.
'you're right,' she whispers, 'it's late'.
he finally steps out of the shadows.
.
.
.
end
A/N- good lord, I was falling asleep today and the start of the story popped up in my head, and then it wrote itself and now that I'm posting it I'm like, what did I write, I'm not even sure where I stand with this ship...
pardon the lack of capital letters, I sometimes like to take some artistic licenses.
I hope you enjoyed this story. Comments are appreciated :)