Disclaimer: Does it really look like I own Tekken? Because if does, then you need glasses.
Author's Note: Noonan neomu yeppeo… -coughs at the realisation that she's been caught singing, and watches the Steve x Christie fans come out in abundance with torches and AK-47s once they realise the pairing- Yeah. Okay. Hate line that way –points to the other side of the world- I like the pairing too you know, so just go easy on me. Work the stomach, not the head. ANYWAY. In all seriousness, come on people, where has the Eddy x Christie stuff gone? I know authors on here who can't see them together because "Eddy's too old for Christie", of all the reasons… Any of you lot ever thought about the age difference between Dragunov and Lili? :\ Hm. Anyway. Enjoy…
REPLAY
The music faded away, leaving behind the memories of a sweeter sound, a rhythm that couldn't be satisfied and a body that refused to stop chasing after the beat. Replacing the melodic cure that was almost like honey, were wracked sobs that couldn't be contained, flowing freely to the treble highs and the bass lows, with staccato cadence and slur accents.
Dance, dance. Don't stop dancing. Keep moving. It doesn't matter if you fall apart to half time.
A newer song sweeps in, bellowing through the speakers, masking the vocal despair that emits from Christie Monteiro. It began with a slow and steady rhythm, enough to reel in the erratic tempo of the previous number. The raw, thudding sound that echoed within the club's walls, and her own mind, had been replaced entirely with the mellower number. There was still enough beat to dance to, and that was all that mattered.
Dance yourself into sickness.
Andantino. Slightly faster than andante, a walking a pace. Or slower.
She forced her body to slow down and match it, to blend in and be disguised in the crowd around her. She was thankful that the harmonious vocalisations being pumped out through the song were louder than her distressed wails. No one around her could hear her cry, nor see her. Her tanned face would only be illuminated for a brief, shining, painful moment when a light flashed before her, no matter the colour.
No strobe light rainbow could pick her back up from the ground.
She flipped her chocolate hair back, not caring whose face it may or may not have whipped into, and continued to sway her hips. Her muscles were aching and her head was swimming, both in agony, confusion and despair. It was here that she realised… this 'cure', this 'way' to forget her troubles wasn't actually working at all. The music didn't blow her memories from her brain and out her ear, and the dancing, whilst exhausting, didn't reduce her to an unmoveable piece of mush.
Nor did it stop the constant belittling of herself in her mind.
It's your fault. It's your fault. It's your fault.
She continued to move, her body an orchestra in itself, each assigned a different part to play. Her hands to touch, her arms to move, her legs to guide, her head to emphasise. And she, she was the conductor, the weeping conductor; aimlessly telling them where to go, what to do, how long to hold the accent, when to change it, and so on.
Failure. Failure. Failure. Nothing but a worthless failure.
It was almost like there was a bully in her head. One that wouldn't go away, though Christie desperately wished it to leave. But of course, you can't fight the bully, when the bully is yourself. When it is you who is taunting yourself, saying how you could've done better, saying how you are the one that caused your Grandfather to die because of your loss… how you are the failure.
And once a bully has picked apart the victim's shell, the words leave a darker stain.
Thirsty, Monteiro dragged herself off the dance floor, weaving her way through the stream of other dancers. She reeled in the tears, wiping the ones that had fallen off her exotic face, trying to mask the pain once more, and sighed. Her body would finally get the rest it wanted, though her mind wouldn't, because it was never off. No, it was never off.
White walls plagued her mind, along with ragged gasps for air and slowing mechanical beeps. An aged face haunted every corner, a withering smile along with it, and her Grandfather telling her so many things with the dying breaths. So many wise, important things that she couldn't listen to at the moment, because to hear the voice replay was torture.
Yet that was the song she always replayed.
"What would you like, darling?" the bartender asked saucily, leaning forward.
She could barely see the fat, hairy arm that was directly in front of her eyes because of the warm water that refused to stay put. To compromise, she lowered her head, her hair falling forward, hiding them, "I don't care. Just… give me anything."
"I love you."
But she didn't love herself, especially not now.
"Don't let anyone control you, or stand in your way."
No one was controlling her or standing in her way but herself.
"And don't ever give up on your passion."
She just didn't feel like doing anything anymore.
The bartender returned with a glass full of Scotch. She murmured a thank you, paid up, and took the heavy glass with her hand. After careful and idle deliberation, she raised the glass, pressing it against her lips, and tilted her head back, along with the drink, feeling it slide down her throat and burn. Just burn.
Though it was nothing like the fire inside.
Christie slammed it back on the table, her fingers clenching around the glass fiercely, just wanting something to hold onto. Her other hand was clenched and perched on her muscled thigh, which was slick with sweat and heated. Something, she noticed, that nearby men certainly appreciated, considering the fact that she was wearing a very small pair of dark blue shorts, and her favourite green shirt.
For a good, long moment, she thought she could hear her name being called out. The voice behind it was strong and firm, and flew above the song that was currently playing in regards to volume. Crescendo. To increase in volume.
Within moments, the volume is almost unbearable, as if her name is being shouted in her ear. The Brazilian moved to cover her ears impatiently, just wishing that the sound would go away. It was an unwelcome buzzing, like a fly daring to venture close to the ear, or a mosquito, late at night in the absolute serene silence. Only, this environment was far from silent.
"God dammit, stop ignoring me."
Christie turned her head to the left, seeing a familiar face sit on the stool next to her, and felt her heart throb.
"That's better."
"Eddy…"
He grinned slightly and rested his arm on the table, "Good to know that you're back with the living."
She turned away quickly and angrily. Pssh. The living. How appropriate. How bloody appropriate.
"You've come here every night for the last two weeks," he stated, "There's no use making yourself sick here."
"It's not like I'm of any use anywhere else. I may as well just be a flailing fish in this noisy stream."
Gordo bit the inside of his cheek for a moment before speaking again, "What, you just want to let yourself rot here? You just want to be left here, to waste away in a plastic box? To let everything you've wanted and worked so hard for, wash away underneath a tide of alcohol and sweat? Come on Christie. I don't think your Grandfather would want that."
As her stomach curled painfully, she was tempted to snipe 'how would you know' but immediately opted against it. Eddy was an utter master of arguments. Sure, she could start them, but oh God, would he finish them. And he'd finish them hard, making sure that the topic was won in his favour, and to never be brought up again. Ever.
"He wouldn't want you wasting away in here. No one does."
"It's not wasting," she snapped uncontrollably, "Its distracting."
"And you plan to 'distract yourself' in here for the rest of your life?"
See?
"Y'know, if you keep turning away, it's only gonna get worse and hurt more. You need to face this sometime."
Christie leapt off her seat and snapped at him again, her fists clenched hard. She could feel the tears threatening to take a swan dive down her cheeks, and reveal to him exactly how much she was hurting, "You just shut up! We both know that I killed him! My own family member, murdered by his 'sweet' granddaughter! If I didn't lose to that stupid, snobby Monaco girl, we both know that he'd still be alive! He would be okay!"
"What's to say that you wouldn't get knocked out in the next round?" he remarked flatly.
And again. See?
Infuriated and unwilling to try and fight back again, the Brazilian turned away, weaving her way back to the centre of the dance floor, hoping to lose him. She let the tears come, because there was no one around to care, wonder or see. Taking a deep breath in, she started up again, conducting her body into difficult dance positions, with the music supporting the actions. Her muscles reactivated, and the ache returned.
But she kept dancing, like it was a precious, precious lifeline – one that, under no circumstance, should be removed. She couldn't afford to stop, even as the song changed again, this time to a very slow song. It was difficult to reign in the desire to keep dancing at the fast pace; but she managed, disguising herself once again, like a clever chameleon.
Hands graced her hips, firmly holding them, yet moving along. Monteiro looked over her shoulder, seeing the man that she was running away from look back at her with a light smile. She tried to get away entirely, though he didn't let her. She bit her lip angrily, turned away and tried once more, only to fail, again, and have her mind continue its taunting onslaught.
"It's not your fault," Eddy whispered, "It never was."
She reigned in a sob.
"Even if you or I won… the money couldn't make him better. It wasn't the antidote. It never was, it couldn't be."
"But the money could've found it…" she replied.
"There was no cure. Remember what the doctor said?"
"I don't want to remember what he said."
Yet like the memories of her dying Grandfather, they kept replaying.
It was better to hold onto false hope than give up entirely.
"Right, because to forget is so much better," he drawled.
"It is."
"Is it?" Eddy pressed, still dancing with her slowly, "Is it better to forget? What, you want to forget your Grandfather? You want to forget the times he would walk down the street with you, making silly gestures along the way to make you smile? You want to forget his wise voice, and everything he has ever taught you? You want to renounce him?"
"How can you say such a thing to me?!"
"How can you say such a thing to yourself?"
Christie paused again, taking his words to heart in thought. He had a point. Well, several points.
Well, the conversation. Again. As always. And hell, she could even feel a small smile on her face, even as she sniffled.
"Cry, Christie," Eddy ordered, pulling her closer towards him comfortingly. His fingertips on her skin were almost as good as kisses, to her, "Dance and cry. And then don't come back here. Leave your despair to flutter between the lights, and to fade away under the music. Let it just fade away slowly under the music, to be left here on the floor, alone, as it should be. As it should be."
Diminuendo. To gradually get softer.
And like a good student, she followed her teacher's advice.
No more holding onto the sadness. Grandfather was better now. No more blaming yourself, because it was never your fault. He was okay, he was swinging those legs around in a crazy Capoiera fight like he was young again. No more tears, because the smiles are always better. Take those depressing grey rain clouds away, bring on the sun.
No more replaying.