Disclaimer: I do not own nor do I claim to own any characters or concepts related to ReBoot. This is a nonprofit work of fanfiction.
This story is set after "Game Over" by the ReBoot universe's equivalent of six years, so about halfway between "Game Over" and "Icons." Enzo and AndrAIa would be the RB equivalent of sixteen.
Mustachio
Enzo emerged from the bathroom with his chin held high and his shoulders set at a debonair angle that did not come easily or naturally to him. He spread his hands wide: ta-da.
"What do you think?"
AndrAIa didn't mean to laugh, but, well, good intentions couldn't account for everything, and the proud tilt of his chin combined with the dark and straggling line of stubble framing his mouth was too much for her. She covered her eyes and shook, helpless. The bed quivered beneath her.
"All right," he grouched. "All right! I get it. You think it's stupid."
AndrAIa wiped hastily at her eyes. "Oh, Enzo, no," she said. She smiled and her lips trembled. "It's, it's great. I love it. You look very...mature." Her voice wobbled treacherously, then cracked.
"I knew it," he said. "It was a basic idea. I should just--"
"You are not going to go pout in the bathroom."
"That's not what I'm--" He scowled at her, his lips pursing. "I don't pout."
"You're right," she said agreeably. "You would never do anything like that."
His scowl deepened. He looked away.
AndrAIa held her hands out to him, palms up and fingers splayed. "C'mere, Sparky," she said. She tilted her head to the side and smiled at him, a slow, sweet smile as much an invitation as the wriggling of her fingers.
He came to her then, he always did, and sat upon the edge of the bed, too large by far and too uncertain in his adolescence to do so with grace. The mattress dipped beneath him.
She wound her arms about his shoulders. "I'm sorry I laughed at you," she murmured.
AndrAIa kissed the corner of his mouth, the thin stubble there scratching at her lips, then turned just so to kiss him properly. He slipped his hand up her back and the faint, ghostlike sensation that filtered through the column of spinal scales shot through her like a cool breeze, like a shiver.
AndrAIa drew back. His breath puffed dry and warm against her lip, as intimate as any kiss. She cupped his cheek.
"You really do look silly, though," she said apologetically. She slid her hand down to cradle his jaw. "But it'll grow in. Eventually."
His shoulders bowed. Enzo turned his eyes down to her knees, framing his waist. "I know." Reproachfully he said, "I was going to shave it."
She ran her thumb along his jaw, following the wavering trail of bristles. "Mmm," she said, "maybe."
She slipped her fingers into his shirt collar and tugged. Willingly he came into her arms, his broad shoulders flexing beneath her hands, his eyes both violet and whirring gold focusing now upon her face, her eyes, her smile.
AndrAIa settled back upon the bed, her hair spilling out around her, thick and strikingly blue against the uniform whiteness of the sheets.
"Maybe later," she told him.
This story was originally posted at livejournal on 10/15/2009.
The title, for the record, is a joke (made at Enzo's expense, natch): "mustachio" literally means "mustache," but it's also commonly used to refer to a bushy or particularly luxuriant mustache. I only mock because I love.