A/N: I TOLD YOU GUYS I WOULD COME BACK.
Alright, here's the plan. This is probably going to be around 6-10 chapters, give or take a few. Some events will be meshed together and some events will be completely cut out. Format, character themes, and events are going to change. The main idea for this story will forever stay the same, and then the rest is up for you guys to either flame or follow.
Thank you for your support and dealing with my absence. *bows* This chapter has been long overdue, I know. I actually typed this up a week earlier and only had now to revise it, but I hope I can find some time to type the second chapter up soon for you guys!
Alert1, Not at all! I should thank you for liking this story.
Zourriatic, Thank you!
Joy-girl, Ahaha, thank you; dehydrated llamas will forever be in existence.
bedroom fidelity, Aww thanks.
Suzume Suzuki, Yep! Gin-chan and Mayo man are the ultimate bantering OTP LOLZ, and the Neo Cyclone Jet Armstrong Cannon is, well, still going strong! And thanks!
i love okikagu, So sorry for the wait *bows* I hope you enjoy this chapter!
Abstractty, Thank you for your good wishes *tears up* this Panda is ready to write again (albeit slower than usual)!
Gakupoid's writing domain, Oh, no Jesus please don't die over my story . marvel over the new episode of the Shogun Assassination Arc! Okikagu power going strong!
mi-chan, thanks for waiting!
lu89, School is the epitome of suffering, yep, but I'm glad you waited for this chapter!
mitsuki, I should be the one thanking you, for continuing to read my story!
DISCLAIMER: I DO NOT OWN GINTAMA IT BELONGS TO SORACHI HIDEAKI
And without further ado:
Enjoy~
Wavering
Ch. 1: Winter stories: Shields for Eyes
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.
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The cold freezes them both through their clothes.
It's a mixture of curses, of grunts and pushes, of bites and barks and kicks and competition and raving over who gets more protection from the snow.
"Get out of myumbrella." Kagura growls and raises her leg threateningly, but literally. Very literally.
"Ha-ha, very funny China. You think I plan to freeze to death?" Sougo raises his leg to avoid the force of her foot on his already numb limb.
She snorts, "Good riddance to the world."
"That's cruel. My god, you make my heart hurt."
"Am I? Really?"
"Really."
She narrows her eyes, "Get. Out."
"Ooh, feisty today aren't we? You sure Danna's tamed you properly?"
"Why you—!"
The umbrella shifts under their unbearable position, with her arm outstretched to kill and his condescending smirk setting the gears into place, and they turn, oh, so very, very quickly. They are a fumble of limbs in front of the store for a good two minutes, creating a cringe-worthy dance and causing pedestrian damage (but so far they've only destroyed seven benches and caused six broken arms; a new record and a new bill going to one vice-commander and Odd-Jobs employer).
They reach a truce in the middle of the seventh bench once the umbrella starts to fall dangerously out of their reach. One glance towards the other and a nod of the head; bam, half-hearted cooperation.
"Argg," Kagura is ready to tear her hair out. It's been a beautiful, glorious few months where her dog had free reign over pooping in the park and she had fulltime access to her bench. Ah, those were the days, and she wants them back more than anything, and something else, a tiny, niggling feeling though (only every so often) that tugs at the very corner of her soul. "Why are you even here?"
Sadist's been absent for far too long. Her days have been short and sweet with sour sukonbu and terrorizing little kids and walking past the shinsengumi compound at exactly 10 in the morning (give or take a few), and there is only the rustle of clothes and hasty shoes during patrol time, monitored by an angry ball of mayonnaise and an even more exasperated Gorilla. Everyone else is exempt to this awkward, un-sadist-like behavior. But she's seen the look on his face (as miniscule and expressionless as it is); it takes past trauma to know present trauma, and Kagura is smart enough to know that whatever's in his eyes is enough to make her insides freeze.
"I could ask you the same thing, China."
"It's only polite to tell a lady first."
"Hmm," His eyes cross over her head and into the distance. "Who told you that? I don't see a lady."
She feels the cracking of bones underneath her foot and allows a half-hearted smile when she hears a painful grunt. "Anego."
"Figures," he cringes, wrenching the umbrella slightly more to his side, "It's only Kondo-san who thinks of her as a lady."
Now that, she can agree on.
"Or a fellow gorilla," she absentmindedly supplies, gripping his wrist in a bone crushing grip. This man—fucking sadistic cockroach—is not letting go one bit.
"What are you even doing here, China?"
"What are you doing here?"
"Buying the game console." He shoots her a pointed look, as if saying duh, you stupid girl. Why else would I be here?
"Be nice, Chihuahua," she nods her head in agreement. "Gin-chan wants it too."
He offers her a sardonic look, "Who's the Chihuahua?"
"Obviously you."
"Sure?"
"Fucking positive." She tightens her grip on his wrist and allows a serene smile to grace her face.
Ten, twenty, thirty minutes. . .
"It's been an hour. They would've opened by now." Snow fields fall onto the umbrella; white towns of white people and frosty breaths mixing in the air, annoyance radiating from underneath layers of exasperation.
"You think we got ripped off?"
He shrugs, knuckles white and cheeks red, "More or less. Why were you sent here?"
"Gin-chan's suffering from runny diarrhea." At that he offers her a blank look and an even emptier stare.
She gives him a questioning glance, "What about Mayora?"
"Suffering from runny diarrhea."
Their grip on the umbrella causes it to crack into a sharp line of lighting, arching from the handle to the layer of purple protection. Something sadistic graces his face and something akin to anger manipulates her shit-eating grin, and the whole of kabukichou braces themselves for a city-wide emergency lockdown.
"They probably knew we were coming for them." He is sitting across from her, criss cross on her flooring as if he owns the place. The shinsengumi and Yorozya is vice-commander and danna-free.
"Whatever," she slumps against the wall beside him and tips her head back, "Gin-chan can go and marry his pachinko games." They've gone looking everywhere, with swords raised and umbrellas ready to bring hell on earth. The bystanders are probably more concerned of staying home—not because of the blizzard, though.
"I'll burn all of his cigarettes. He'll die from withdrawal symptoms."
She raises her eyebrows, "That's not possible. Mayora's like you." She catches the towel thrown at her and makes a point to pull at his hair when he whips around to look at her with genuine surprise.
Deadened eyes take over, "A bishounen?"
"A cockroach." Impossible to kill. Hard to catch, hard to open up. Braids swinging in the wind and umbrellas twice her size and the smell of hydrangeas and those shields for eyes—
He raises an arm flippantly, "I'll take that as a compliment to my resilience."
She snorts. "More like unwanted pest."
"And this is coming from you, Miss Piggy? I'm shocked."
"Hey! You were there when I signed the immigration papers."
"No, I remember holding you back from Kondo-san when he couldn't find extras."
Oh. Right. "And then Soyo-chan was staying there, and then Gin-chan found the papers in Sho-chan's—ah."
"Yeah."
". . .at least I signed it."
"At least Danna did."
Bastard. She makes a move to slap his arm, watching his eyes move in slow motion as he catches her wrist, fitting perfectly in the crevice of his slender hand. Way too big, she thinks, way too big.
"Where'd you get this?" She points to the long line on his arm, arching up into the red part of his kimono and disappearing up his shoulder. It's thin and fading, and it catches the glint of the overhead light like a silver lining in the sky. Her hair overcasts her eyes, tracing the topography of his skin, finding something—something—
"I fell out of a tree."
"You think I'm stupid?"
He snorts. "Exceeded. You've graduated onto the idiot level."
She growls, "Sadistic bastard—"her other arm encloses into a fists as it reaches over to maim perfection in a fireworks display of blood and bruises, and the thing is, nothing is stopping her from marring this man, nothing stopping her from breaking apart the topography of his skin and creating streams of blood and mountains of split skin.
Shields for eyes.
The air around them stops as her hand is this close to his face and his eyes are unwavering and steady and they are looking at her but at the same time they are not and she brings herself to meet those eyes, to break open this stubborn cockroach and kill whatever's making him run so fast—
Her hand stops, lowers, and slowly, she gives him a butterfly's touch of sympathy, from a hand that has almost killed and is filled with imaginary callouses healed (always healed) by something inside of her. She doesn't have any battle scars to show off. Nothing permanent has ever stayed for long.
His eyes widen as the tip of her thumb manages to feel the flutter of his eyelashes (classic bishounen material, she thinks), and it almost slips. She almost has it, almost.
"What are you looking at?" She asks instead. "Why the hell aren't you fighting back?"
He smirks lazily, "Haa? You're worried about me?" he says as if he doesn't believe it, "Then what's this?" He brings his hand out, reaching out in an enclosed fist and ready to reach impact when her eyes almost blink. Warm, ventilated air slaps her cheek as she feels callouses on her skin and a thumb brushing against her eyelash. The look in his eyes makes her hand still on his cheek. Something twists in her soul; rain and stone steps and an umbrella twice her size. He notices.
"This is none of your business," he whispers, deadly as he leans over, bringing a hand to the back of her neck and pushing her head against his—
"They're worried about you," she says. He pauses, and she takes this moment to look at him, look at the droplets glistening from his hair and falling against the floor like shattered glass. "They're worried that she's—" She grinds her teeth together as the feels her back slam against the wall. Outside a blizzard is raging, and so is this burning, burning boy.
"Who told you that?" Her shoulders are pinned to the wall as he digs his nails deeper into her clothes.
"Your Jimmy."
"Tch," the grip on her shoulders loosens, "Knew I should've given him Hijikata-san's laxative."
"Don't change the subject." She reaches up to pull him and his shit-eating grin down to earth—cocky bastard. "You haven't been around for three fucking months. You know what that means? Toshi and Gorilla and worried as hell and I'm betting on all of Gin-chan's pachinko money that you're being too fucking stubborn to realize it."
She's stepping in dangerous territories here. When a Sadist is angry he'll create a wall, the biggest wall she'll just have to reign bullets and blood and hurl steel and poison and cutting edges at until it breaks.
"What are you trying to imply here?" The hair falling over his face tickles her cheeks, and that cocky smile of his settles on like battle armor as he leans in closer.
Oh, hell no.
She pushes back; she leans into his advance and almost smirks when he pauses. "There are people around you, you stupid Chihuahua. Don't act as if this doesn't concern them, because if it's hurting them then it is their problem too."
"And they can help me," he deadpans.
"Not my fault you're too emotionally stunted to ask for help from people."
"It's not emotionally stunted, China. It's called none-of-your-concern."
"Really?" she growls exasperatedly.
"Really."
"Then do you see her, huh? Is she behind me? In the corner?" Something shatters against the floor when she looks at him, dripping and apathetic, and the hold on her shoulders is almost so great she manages to wince. Shit. She's hit a nerve.
"You have no idea what you're talking about."
She can hear the crack, crack, craccckk of stone and steel as the bullets rain down from the heavens and destroy whatever is left of that wall. But in all actuality, her cheeks are red and the twisting in her stomach has turned into ice, burned away by something dangerous growing in her soul.
"What?" The nerve. He has the fucking nerve to tell that to her face. The nerve to say that it doesn't concern her because hell, it fucking does because the smell of rain permeates her senses and she is back in a six year old's body and yellow raincoats and telling him don't go, don't go, don't go—
Braids swinging and the smell of hydrangeas and shields for eyes—
She raises her arms and grips the collar of his kimono, wrenching it over and bringing him to her eye level and by god, she is burning, burning, burning with anger and rage, budding themselves in a fireworks display that is lighting her soul.
"You," she says, ignoring the widening of his eyes (the only indication of his surprise) as she grips his collar, feeling her nails digging into the fabric and ripping the seams, "You just don't realize it. There're a bunch of people that'll help you in the state you're in, and you're just going to what? Close yourself up? Bottle yourself in?" She laughs, a breath exhaled, "That's a fucking brilliant plan. You don't even know how lucky you are, eh?" She shakes her head, presses her mouth in a thin line; on her planet, when the eyes became shields and traces of hair dye still stained the sink, she cried herself to sleep every night. Nobody helped her in her sorry state. A yato wasn't supposed to show weakness; a yato wasn't supposed to cry.
She counted the stars and waited for anyone to come home; she told stories to mami and burned every single damn thing that he owned because he was the one who left, he was the one that destroyed this family. And yet, and yet—
She smiles, a mechanical lift on both sides of her mouth, her own defense, and she can feel his breath on her mouth and butterfly touches from his eyelashes on her red cheeks. "I see him sometimes."
Ever since—ever since—(when? Since he left?)—from time to time; dreams of rain and mami's hydrangea flowers and an umbrella twice her size and just maybe, maybe she'll get a visit during the day (and more so during the night) but she won't tell anyone. Okita Sougo seems obliged to be one of the people who will keep quiet, because his grip is completely off of her right now as he takes two steps back before slumping forward and tilting his head up next to her. Outside she can hear ice breaking and snow falling, and she can almost smell the cold.
She slumps over too, drags a hand against the floor, and remembers the sensation of butterflies on the tip of her thumb. "Where do you see her?"
Slowly, he tilts his head over her direction, dulling red eyes for a dimming boy on the cusp of tragedy, but he brings a hand up and points to the air in front of him. Kagura stares at the space in front of him, tries to imagine Okita Mitsuba to the best of her abilities, tries to attribute a kind smile and a dimple on the left cheek, tries to attribute features that were so real, so life-like, so alive.
"Patrols don't help much. It makes me think that she's not following me." He suddenly says, then pauses to smirk, "She always looks like she's lost in the crowd, but then she looks at me, and then she's crying."
"Since when?" She looks at him, shoulders hunched and head looking straight; fallen angel, she thinks. The shadows in the house overcasts his face, morphing it into something inhumane, leaving nothing but rubies for eyes, and she thinks, for a boy—for a man to be this beautiful has be a sin.
"Since she was buried."
Kagura clenches her fist, "I don't even remember anymore."
He sighs, placing a hand in his head and pinching the bridge of his nose, "That bad, huh?" he curses tiredly under his breath, "I'll be damned if I live with this forever."
She snorts, "You just don't want her finding your porn stash."
"I-di-ot." He flicks her forehead and watches the recoil. "There's no porn stash in my room."
Kagura brings two hands up to her head, blinking stars away from her eyes and grinding her teeth together as she sees the faint curve of the corner of his mouth; two eyebrows raises and an amused face—the old sadist—and something light shoots through her stomach and erupts through her throat, sending ripples of vibration and tremors throughout the room, through the halls, and she doesn't know why but it just is and the fact that he's here (actually here) and real and smirking that smirk all sadist smile and—and—he's there. And he's looking at her.
"It's in Hijikata's stash."
Oh, lord.
The sense of the sheer comedy of their situation is phenomenal and she doesn't know why but it just is and it makes her grab her sides and bang her head on his shoulders because she is laughing so hard—over his words and over her actions, and over everything else in between—so maniacally, so full of everything she had bottled up and hadn't told anyone in a long, long time, and she doesn't know how to stop anymore.
Okita Sougo seems just as confused as she is, raising two eye brows and narrowing his eyes, but laughter is contagious, and sadist are naturally inclined to laugh when something goes wrong, and as Kagura grips his shoulder and her mouth splits open into lopsided smiles and half-hearted attempts at stopping, there is no hope for them, they realize. It'll never go away, what they've seen, what they will see, what everyone sees but just won't talk about because they're all fucking cockroaches—the lot of them, all packaged up in a box just for them in this moment, and before she knows it, something escapes his throat; a puff of light and dust and just a little bit of something else, and pretty soon they are grabbing each other's shoulders and laughing alongside each other as if this whole entire thing is just one big fucking joke.
"You—" she swallows air in between laughs, "Mayora's gonna be pissed."
They don't stop. This is a cycle, a play, a plan, a pattern. They're linked by big brothers and sisters and families that have been broken many, many time before, and with every breath they release they are spilling out bottles filled with secrets and lies and unspoken promises made to no one but themselves, because they know how it feels, to lose precious, precious things, to have the sense of never walking away completely (because they are just so fucking stubborn), and to love and be left behind.
It comes in a rapid torrent of gasps and hiccups, but before either of them know when the tears start falling or who it came from, they are already clinging onto each other in a parody of self-pity and loathing, gripping and grabbing and reaching to be as close as possible, because they need a safe, a lifeline, an assuage that this, this is what is it and this is real and the things they are seeing are—
Kagura is leaning against the wall, cradling a boy's head as her arms move around his shoulders, watching as he listens to the blood pumping through her heart as she sobers up her thoughts.
"I'm not—," she whispers to no one in particular, and to everything; to the shields for eyes and the umbrella twice her size and the braid swinging back and forth and the broken boy in her arms—"I'm not—"
The arms of a sadist encircles her wait in confirmation; she nods; he tightens his grip, and what has turned into laughing and life lines and apparitions of umbrellas and smiles and tears has turned into a tangle of limbs, of wishes and lost hopes and wet, saline tears dripping down onto the wooden floor. They don't know who or how it starts, but it does and this is real and they are there and there is nothing for them to hide as they breathe in tandem and listen to the sound of their hearts and the scratching of the floorboards.
They are bare in each other's presence, a portrait from a fantasy, a moment in time where realization is supposed to dawn and they are supposed to say "yes—yes, this is it." But they don't. There is hissing and cursing and tears and the rip of fabric and the muffling of voices behind red hands; a byproduct of desperate relief and painful visages of memories and ghosts and moments at night, and when they reach the epitome of the climax their hands are still searching, searching, searching for temporary lifelines and broken walls and something precious to hold onto until the storm ends.
She doesn't know how she treads on the topic of her brother. It happens all so suddenly—too suddenly—and when she starts her eyes begin to haze over and her voice feels like someone shoved a shitload of sandpaper in it, and she doesn't know when to stop. Her brother's eyes, all jaded up and apathetic and ruthless sets her off on a tangent of just how fucking useless she was, how stupid of him to break the bonds and leave in the rain and tread all over mami's hydrangea flowers and break their family (their family) apart, and how stupid she is for still following his shadow and chasing his footsteps and counting the seconds in between breaths whenever she sees his face, all smiles and lies and shields for eyes.
Sadist brings his hand up to flick at her forehead, and watches the retelling of a story as she swears a profanity and mutters to herself, widens her eyes and realizes just the state she's in; purses her lips into a frown and growls.
"Fuck this, I'm getting a drink," she mutters to herself as she stands up under the thin blanket. Her clothes are strewn all over the floor, and she hides no shame in strutting towards the counter top with just picking up her underwear. "Beer or vodka—ah," she's hit the jackpot, "Gin-chan also has whiskey," she pulls out the vodka and watches as a smug smirk grows on his face.
"Whiskey."
They get fucking wasted that night. She learns he can hold his liquor; he learns she packs an awful punch when her cheeks are red, and the minute they clink glasses to one shitty day and a generally shitty year, they drown out their sorrows and cleanse their souls and pretend to forget everything that has happened, and just for fun, they start something real.
"Be my girlfriend, China."
"Hah?—hic!—Y-you—you're dr-drunk—hic!—aren't cha—stupid Chi—CHIHUAHUA."
"At least in better shape than you." He watches as the moonlight veils her figure, watches as the glass in her hand clinks to the floor in a series of bell chimes as her red hair (burning, burning red) splays out over her shoulders and chest like tumbling waves; half-lidded eyes covered in the dark and the curve of her mouth slurring words and profanities that'd make a sailor blush red.
"But I—dunno." She picks up the glass, swirls the red liquid and watches as it turns into the abyss, "Gin-chan's only told me—that I—hic!—'m in for a lot of s-shit if I—get. . .ge—hic!—'nother boyfriend—"
"Wait, what? You had a boyfriend—"
"Fifteen years old—hic!—bastard—Giant alien w-wi—hic!—huge ego. . ."
"Oh, right. The one who almost blew up the whole entire Earth."
"Yeah," she says with a crooked smile, "that—hic!—'at one. . ."
Her crooked smile stays on for only a moment more, remembering nice moments with golden rays of sunlight streaming through snow-colored blinds and a head full of curls and the smell of detergent off of Pachi boy's clothes, "—and—and—" and, "he says t-that if I find a person—imma—hic!—gonna—'nna get hurt again—Imm—hic!—'ma get my heart crushed—hic!—'f something really happens, and I—I don't—hic!—don't want—that." Her hands finger the glass in her hands, and she looks at him, shieldless eyes and crimson jewels glistening in the moonlight, "—not really 'xpectin anythin'—hic!—b-but, you good fur nuthin'—co-COCKROACH," She ignores his unamused look and carries on, "—promise me something—" she pushes herself to her feet, sloshing vodka onto the ground and watching as he looks at her with precious, precious eyes—
"Humans are weak imouto. So quick to break."
"I have no use for weaklings—"
"The difference between you and me is that I'm strong."
He is standing in front of her, clad in black and red and blue (mami's blue, she thinks), and he is smiling down with bloodied teeth and a bloodied bloody but she knows it's not his blood and that makes it so much more worse. His hand is like a snake, sly and unavoidable as he extends his open palm towards her. Pandora's box is a perfect fit in his hand, everything dark and disgusting and red in there, except for that yellow ball of light (hope, she remembers), which doesn't bring her ease, because that yellow ball of light is her, in the middle of being crushed and worn and destroyed between black masses filled with ugly, ugly feelings, and she drops the glass and ignores the shattering of crystal droplets on the floor and gods, she is twitching and shuddering and remembering the smell of hydrangea flowers—
He mouths something, the same words over and over and over again, and he smiles.
"Come with me."
"J-Just," she pauses for a moment to cover her head with hands stained with his blood, watching and whispering and remembers the last time she's cried. "Don't—just—hic!—don't—fuckin' bastard," she points at his face (the one with red eyes and hair filled with precious gold) when he tries to stand up, "—whatever you do—"
He's already next to her, getting closer, closer, closer—
"Humans are weaklings."
She sees herself, and she's standing over people that make up her soul, swirling together and falling all at once in a blur of washed out smiles and memories—and then the background glass shatters and she is laughing and pouncing and running and ravaging and it's her doing the breaking, her who can't live with them and herherher—
Nonono—
It's her smiling.
Shields for eyes. Shields for eyes.
And she whispers, ever so softly as she brings her head up, gnashing her teeth together and gods the blood on his hands (somuchsomuchsomuchsomuch); they drip onto the floors and leave markings of history on her legs and her lips echo words, apparitions, and her voice is as dry as sandpaper and shields for eyes, shields for eyes—
"D-don't make—hic!—don't make—me hurt 'nyone." Don't make me hurt you crosses her mind once. Only once.
A vulnerable beast on the ledge. Her heart is pounding miles per minutes and onii-chan is just right over her (reachingreachingreaching)—and then he smiles. Smiles and waves, blood sloshing all over the ground like glistening tears (but redredred), and she knows that this isn't the last visit. And then she feels a pair of arms around her the minute realization crashes down (he'scomebacknonono) and she finds herself gripping his arms and whispering incomprehensible nothings into his chest and nii-chan and don't go and nonono—
"I won't," he says softly (unusually softly for a hitokiri) while she is whispering and shutting her eyes, butterfly touches on her shoulders and back. "I won't let you."
"Nii-chan, why's it always raining?"
"Hmm. . .cause the sun's cryin'?"
"Don't—hic!—don'—make me hurt—hic!—" he won't be able to do that. He's too weak, too tired, too-
"I won't." Butterfly touches on her shoulders and back, shields broken, moonlight trailing through the cracks and illuminating him in a show of golden stardust.
And he was supposed to be the broken one.
Her eyes haze over, wrapping themselves in the glow of midnight and saline droplets trailing down from eyelashes; she nods. I won't I won't I won't.
Okita Sougo's head is tilted towards the heavens, lips opening and arching and bringing syllables to life, but her mind is too fuzzy to comprehend any of them as they lay there, almost entirely naked save for his boxers and her undergarments (she's 100% sure that this isn't his first—not like it's hers either), and she feels this powerful urge to close her eyes and dream of golden stardust.
She hasn't had a relapse in quite a while. She's become an expert at hiding it. Gin-chan won't interfere and Shinpachi (she hides it from him because he'll only worry—stupid Patsuan). As much as she loves them, the most Gin-chan—bless his soul—will do is let her fight her own battles, because he has to fight his own too.
(During the day, darting eyes around the crowd after the last dango, searching for a head filled with bandages and the owner of a pretty eye he has—needs—to destroy.)
"Wha—what'd cha—hic!—cha say?"
"What, you didn't hear?" He pokes her in the head, watches as she brings a hand up to punch him in the shoulder; she can still leave bruises on him, she believes he remembers, and covers her fist with his hand. No way in hell is he going to risk a broken bone. He's learned from Kondo-san that drunk women are always the most troublesome to deal with (i.e: Shimura Otae).
"Whaaaa?"
"Idiot, I wasted words on you."
"Hic!—No, tell—meeee—" She bangs her head on his shoulder enough for him to wince, hears him swear a few of her favorite choice words, and feels her head lolling to the side before she knows it, and then she's covered by a pair of arms, holding her in his lap as he tilts his head towards the window and swirls his glass of whiskey in one hand, and she watches him with something in her soul, something burning, burning bright and steady, a tiny flame in the iceberg, waiting to combust into shimmering stars.
She feels the start of something. Something dangerous, something special. And maybe, just maybe, she can grow to like this mutual suffering that's linking them together. The prospect of liking him in the past has never crossed her mind, but now, now, she thinks it's possible.
A/N: I exceeded the previous chapter one by 2k more words (O.o)
One of the most critical things I was aware of was the pacing of my story. I immediately turned them into lovers without considering the actual feelings they would hold for each other in the original version. Now, I just hope my writing isn't that bad, and that people can see the relationship that is starting to form is based off of quelling mutual inner conflicts rather than love at first punch, and slowly, but surely, turn into something more.
Critiques are greatly appreciated. Leave a review or a PM if I've made any errors or OOC character plots (yes, omg, the OOCness. Just, gah. . .okay kiddies, my babies have to be OOC in order for this to work, so just put this as a darker, somber, and more mature outlook. Kapeesh?) Lolz jk. But really, please leave a review or PM if I have made any mistakes.
Now then, I'm going to bed. It's the middle of the night and the only good thing that's happened to me over the weekend is that I finally finished the first chapter.
Rewritten: 1-10-16
Til next time~