Entanglement - Chapter One
: Contact (Sano POV)
He's still in the office, sitting with his back to the window. The lights are all out and the moonlight from the window both shadows and lights his face.
You have no idea why you are wasting time, sitting in this tree, watching him sit there, doing nothing. Strangely enough, he isn't smoking. Just as well. You hate the smell.
He leaves the building. Going home, probably. Another night wasted. Just another night in the long lists of nights you spent in the tree.
You look down and nearly fall out of the tree. He's standing underneath you, leaning against the tree trunk, his long legs stretched out languidly. A flame flickers momentarily as he lights up a cigarette. He exhales a pale stream of smoke through his lips and you have an urge to jump down and yank the cigarette from between his lips. It smells. There are better things to have at his mouth.
You slide down the tree, along the other side, and walk around to him.
"Smoking's a bad habit." You say.
He draws another breath on the cigarette and exhales.
"Does it bother you?" he asks silkily.
"Yes. It does."
He raises an eyebrow in an expression of deliberate indifference, draws another breath, and exhales luxuriously.
It is the attitude at angers you. He never gives you a second thought, never gave a damn about you. You clench and unclench your fists reflexively. Why is it you always feel a need to do unspeakable things to him?
Without really thinking about what you're doing, you walk over to him with quick, strong steps and yank the cigarette out of his mouth and toss it away.
His face is perfectly expressionless. His eyebrow is deliberately arched as he prepares to light up another one.
You snatch at his hands quickly, catching his fingertips, your fingers snagging on his white gloves and tugging them off.
You realize with a jolt that this if the first time you've seen his hands properly. They are pale, very pale, and seemingly smooth. His hands are elongated, slender, with delicately articulated fingers that taper down to blunted points.
They are very pretty hands, you find yourself thinking with a tinge of horror. They don't match his sharp, gaunt face like that of a deprived vampire, his shuttered eyes and thin, twisted mouth.
Involuntarily, you glance down at your own hands. Yours are dark and tanned, burnished and bronzed, rather square, and the fingers seem somehow stubby next to his. Your knuckles are bruised and scratched, your palms rough and calloused.
You turn his hands over; surprisingly, he lets you. His palms are soft, knuckles unblemished, lines etched in the skin lightly. They really don't match him, you think repeatedly, they are somehow feminine and elegant, but the rest of him screams of hardness and masculinity.
"Your hands match you face." He says quietly, abruptly. Startled, you look up at him - it's always irritating that he's so much taller than you. His eyes are amber, flickering like pale fire, flecked with gold sparks, not an unhealthy yellow as they appear from a distance. Dammit, why does everything about him look good from up close? You'd have preferred to keep thinking of him as a vampire. Now he's a pretty vampire. Ergh.
"They look reliable." He continues. "Dependable. Honest. Determined." Then almost to himself, "A good friend and strong fighter . He was right."
You say nothing. Your gaze is locked on his eyes, searching for something. You don't know what it is but you feel that you need it. Want it. He's looking down at your hands, holding on to them now.
You feel a brief coolness winding about your palm. He's tracing the lines meticulously, following every one to its end with his slim fingers, the soft skin of the tips gliding smoothly.
He does it to both hands, then laughs.
"Your lifelines are so short," he says softly. "According to them, you should be dead at this time, week after next."
"I don't believe in palmistry." You say shortly.
He glances at you. He seems surprised at your flat tone - did you sound overly hostile? - and lets go of your hands.
"I can't survive without one in my mouth," he says, almost plaintively. The said mouth is twisting as he looks at you.
"There's a place selling opium down the alley." You reply. "Go there, find a substitute, whatever."
You turn away from him.
"Why should I go there?" he says suddenly. "There's a better substitute right here."
"And that is what, exactly?" you ask, wheeling around.
He takes you completely by surprise. Moving forward swiftly, he grabs your shirt and slams you against the tree. Leaves shower down as he kisses you very strongly and you find yourself responding, your mind a whirl of confusion and excitement.
He pulls back, hair rumpled, eyes flashing, his blue jacket halfway unbuttoned and flapping in the night breeze.
"Eager, aren't you, Sagara?" he says, mouth curved in a questing smile.
"Talking wastes time." You reply shortly, and he laughs.
"You little whore."
You feel his touch, silky and gentle, sometimes searing with heat, sometimes freezing with frost, on you bare skin, ravishing you, drawing patterns and tracing with precision all over you, the tantalizingly seductive contact ever present.
: Contact (Sano POV)
He's still in the office, sitting with his back to the window. The lights are all out and the moonlight from the window both shadows and lights his face.
You have no idea why you are wasting time, sitting in this tree, watching him sit there, doing nothing. Strangely enough, he isn't smoking. Just as well. You hate the smell.
He leaves the building. Going home, probably. Another night wasted. Just another night in the long lists of nights you spent in the tree.
You look down and nearly fall out of the tree. He's standing underneath you, leaning against the tree trunk, his long legs stretched out languidly. A flame flickers momentarily as he lights up a cigarette. He exhales a pale stream of smoke through his lips and you have an urge to jump down and yank the cigarette from between his lips. It smells. There are better things to have at his mouth.
You slide down the tree, along the other side, and walk around to him.
"Smoking's a bad habit." You say.
He draws another breath on the cigarette and exhales.
"Does it bother you?" he asks silkily.
"Yes. It does."
He raises an eyebrow in an expression of deliberate indifference, draws another breath, and exhales luxuriously.
It is the attitude at angers you. He never gives you a second thought, never gave a damn about you. You clench and unclench your fists reflexively. Why is it you always feel a need to do unspeakable things to him?
Without really thinking about what you're doing, you walk over to him with quick, strong steps and yank the cigarette out of his mouth and toss it away.
His face is perfectly expressionless. His eyebrow is deliberately arched as he prepares to light up another one.
You snatch at his hands quickly, catching his fingertips, your fingers snagging on his white gloves and tugging them off.
You realize with a jolt that this if the first time you've seen his hands properly. They are pale, very pale, and seemingly smooth. His hands are elongated, slender, with delicately articulated fingers that taper down to blunted points.
They are very pretty hands, you find yourself thinking with a tinge of horror. They don't match his sharp, gaunt face like that of a deprived vampire, his shuttered eyes and thin, twisted mouth.
Involuntarily, you glance down at your own hands. Yours are dark and tanned, burnished and bronzed, rather square, and the fingers seem somehow stubby next to his. Your knuckles are bruised and scratched, your palms rough and calloused.
You turn his hands over; surprisingly, he lets you. His palms are soft, knuckles unblemished, lines etched in the skin lightly. They really don't match him, you think repeatedly, they are somehow feminine and elegant, but the rest of him screams of hardness and masculinity.
"Your hands match you face." He says quietly, abruptly. Startled, you look up at him - it's always irritating that he's so much taller than you. His eyes are amber, flickering like pale fire, flecked with gold sparks, not an unhealthy yellow as they appear from a distance. Dammit, why does everything about him look good from up close? You'd have preferred to keep thinking of him as a vampire. Now he's a pretty vampire. Ergh.
"They look reliable." He continues. "Dependable. Honest. Determined." Then almost to himself, "A good friend and strong fighter . He was right."
You say nothing. Your gaze is locked on his eyes, searching for something. You don't know what it is but you feel that you need it. Want it. He's looking down at your hands, holding on to them now.
You feel a brief coolness winding about your palm. He's tracing the lines meticulously, following every one to its end with his slim fingers, the soft skin of the tips gliding smoothly.
He does it to both hands, then laughs.
"Your lifelines are so short," he says softly. "According to them, you should be dead at this time, week after next."
"I don't believe in palmistry." You say shortly.
He glances at you. He seems surprised at your flat tone - did you sound overly hostile? - and lets go of your hands.
"I can't survive without one in my mouth," he says, almost plaintively. The said mouth is twisting as he looks at you.
"There's a place selling opium down the alley." You reply. "Go there, find a substitute, whatever."
You turn away from him.
"Why should I go there?" he says suddenly. "There's a better substitute right here."
"And that is what, exactly?" you ask, wheeling around.
He takes you completely by surprise. Moving forward swiftly, he grabs your shirt and slams you against the tree. Leaves shower down as he kisses you very strongly and you find yourself responding, your mind a whirl of confusion and excitement.
He pulls back, hair rumpled, eyes flashing, his blue jacket halfway unbuttoned and flapping in the night breeze.
"Eager, aren't you, Sagara?" he says, mouth curved in a questing smile.
"Talking wastes time." You reply shortly, and he laughs.
"You little whore."
You feel his touch, silky and gentle, sometimes searing with heat, sometimes freezing with frost, on you bare skin, ravishing you, drawing patterns and tracing with precision all over you, the tantalizingly seductive contact ever present.