Author's Note: Hello, everyone. Here is the first chapter of this fanfiction. I don't have much to say here, except for disclaimers and the like.
I'll start off with saying that this fanfiction does have drinking. I'm sure it's no big deal to most of you, though.
Next, I do use female pronouns for Grell. As I always say, it's my own preference, and if you have a problem with it, you can address it in a message if you must, but I'll leave you to your opinions, if you leave me to mine. I do think that I mention Grell's gender dysphoria in this chapter briefly, also. I believe Grell is a trans woman (with canonical evidence), so that's where that comes from, if you were wondering.
Characters belong to Yana Toboso.
I did check this the best I could for grammar and spelling errors, as I do believe that it totally ruins a story for some of you out there to have words misspelled or used incorrectly, so I hope I didn't fail you there. I've noticed this fanfiction is mostly a look into what Madame Red, exclusively, is feeling, and I tried to make it more action and grounded rather then all of her thoughts. Hopefully you won't get bored. .
Enjoy! c:
Gluttony - having more then what is sufficient, even to an unhealthy extent or to a point where others have none of something.
Angelina stared intently at her wine glass, swishing the thick, rich red wine around. The drink splashed up against the sides of the glass and stained them red, fading to only a thinner color as the wine splashed back up over the sides. A lot like the blood, spilt on the dull grey tiles. They never cleaned up after themselves after a murder. Whether they were both too careless to bother cleaning up evidence, or too nervous to stay long enough to do so, neither of them knew. The Madame glanced over at Grell, who had her posture fit to the straight back of the sofa, her spine curved forward just so that she looked alert. What was she trying to hide? She always kept the same posture, shoulders back to push her chest forward, back almost arched from strain. Had she always held herself like that? Certainly not when the redheaded reaper shed her prolific crimson attire and assumed a disguise as a clumsy butler. Then, she allowed her shoulders to slump, to match the character, and perhaps the small voice within herself, that constantly whispered something along the lines of, she wasn't good enough to sit with such a dignified, straight back, even without the meek disguise. Grell was always being defiant of something. Of herself, mostly. What was she running from now, with her back so straight?
Grell had a way of balancing her wine glass between her thumb and index finger that made drinking look like an art, and she looked like a master of the arts, bringing the glossy glass rim up to her cherry red lips, hiding the fact that her bottom lip was trembling. What made her shake so? Angelina's eyes watched as the wine glass was tipped back to reach the shinigami's mouth, red lipstick bleeding on the rim as it was brought back down. The woman looked back at her own hands, which were trembling just the same, swishing the wine around in her own glass to distract themselves. From what? Was it to exercise themselves from the strain of her grip on the knife's handle, as she tore through flesh, ignoring the metallic and meaty smell of blood? Her knuckles turned white with the grip, and she wondered; was it a grip on sanity and life itself, or a grip on a blade, a murder weapon?
They drank because they tried to forget, more specifically, to distract. Like every other thing they did together, to distract them from the fact that another prostitute was dead, at their hands, no less. To smell the bitterness of the alcohol instead of the thickness of blood, and to console their minds as they polluted their thoughts with the buzz that drinking gave them. It was something they were both familiar with, the distracting and ignoring. Maybe one more then the other, perhaps equally. No matter, because they both shared an equal fancy for the drink.
"God, Angie. I hate it when you stare." Grell said suddenly, pulling Angelina from her thoughts.
The woman noticed that her eyes had lingered back up to the redhead's face, and she blinked slowly. She blinked again, quicker, hoping she didn't seem too dull as she opened her mouth to reply. Apparently her response was too slow, because Grell spoke again before she heard an answer. She was never good at patience, it seems.
"What do you stare for? I'm nothing special to look at." The shinigami tilted her head to the side, and as she did, a deep carmine lock of hair fell in front of her glowing eyes. Always the eyes, piercing so, darting about. What was she searching for in the shadows, with those phosphorescent chartreuse orbs? They were glazed over, a hardened shell to conceal emotion. She'd mastered so far, drinking, and the useless and evasive expression in her eyes. People say that eyes are a window to the soul. What a joke, especially when you don't have one.
Angelina spoke carefully, trying not to slur the words as she talked. How much wine had she drank already? "You are. Special, to look at. You're very beautiful, Grell."
Grell smiled. It was a mocking smile, almost taunting the woman as the corners of her lips tipped up, almost wobbling with effort. "How charming. Have you been practicing for a moment when you could try and win me over with sweet words? News flash, Angie. Sweet nothings only work on foolish men. I've heard too many compliments for them to be any more valid."
"Then what am I supposed to say?" Madame Red asked, taking another sip from her glass. If Rachael was there, she would be scolded for not being dainty in her drinking. However, mother's teachings held no place to dine, with a broken scarlet haired woman and a god of death.
"Say nothing." The redhead huffed, narrowing her eyes. Her eyelids were heavy, and they folded over her shining eyes, blinking, not caring if it was too slow. She knew that she didn't look stupid. "It's a woman's place, to stay quiet, is it not?" She'd learned that lesson the hard way.
"I refuse. As the most sensitive feminist I know, Grell, you should at least know that I won't keep silent. Not with any man, and not with you." Angelina retorted, feeling her thoughts jumble together in her head as her vision stuttered in the darkness.
It was dark in her parlor, where she sat, close to her butler, who had shaken out her hair, laced on her heels, and unbuttoned her shirt. Grell never felt a need to keep things modest between them, and now was no exception. The drapes were pulled closed, because Angelina always said that she felt exposed when the moon shone in through the window, the stars staring, blinking down at their mindless indulgence to alcohol, and whatever escape it brought. Her corset felt too tight and her hair fell over her ears in a way that she longed to be able to put it up again. Her long, heavy skirts rested on her hips, with the hem brushed along the floor. It was a stuffy outfit and she hated it too much for words. The only relief she got was a cool draft on her bare arms and neck, and that she could be barefoot and pull the hem up to her mid-calf to expose her ankles, in just the presence of Grell, who didn't care at all if she showed a little skin. Yes, the room was dark, she knew that much. Either that, or she'd closed her eyes to steady herself, and it was dark behind her eyelids. Blinking open her eyes, her vision steadied on Grell, whose pale skin was made visible again as she brushed her stray hair back behind her ear, taking another drink of the wine from her glass. Her skin was illuminated by the slivers of moonlight that did make their way into the room, settling on her face and giving her a deathly glow. The shinigami's eyelashes (false, no less) brushed over the tops of her cheeks, over her chiseled cheekbones. She pursed her lips as she brought the glass back to it's place, resting in her lap, before turning back towards Angelina to make her reply.
"You will be as loud as you please with me as you would with a man, or you would be annoying as hell with any man, and especially with me, regardless that I am not, in fact, a man, useful only to pester?" Grell asked, her eyes darting back to her lap, up to Madame Red's face, across the room at the clock, back to her lap, back up at the Madame's face.
"I am not annoying." Angelina puckered her lips slightly, to pout, or perhaps to bite the insides of her cheeks, like she did when she grew nervous. That was all she could think of to say, but as the words played over again in her mind, she began to question if it was in fact true.
"That is not what I asked. It's a matter of opinion, of course, if you are annoying or not. When you whine about the trivial of things, yes, you are annoying. When you let yourself wild, when you wander..." -smile turned to smirk on Grell's face- "...when you let your hands and lips wander... You are tolerable."
"That's all? I'm tolerable? I was expecting something," Angelina paused as she sipped her drink. "Perhaps, more harsh?" She ignored the suggestiveness of what Grell had said, dismissing it as only a play on words, which was the redhead's favorite thing to do.
"Oh, how could I be harsh? Dear, Angie, no. Not harsh." Grell sighed, giving up the strict, straight posture to lean her head back on the couch, letting her shoulders fall enough to touch Angelina's. It was a defeat for herself, to give in to relaxation, and it didn't happen often.
Madame Red didn't allow herself defeat, however. She stayed sitting up, not allowing herself to lean her head against Grell's shoulder and sigh at her touch. She took another drink, to increase the tingling in her fingers, or to further distract herself from the way the shinigami would breath deeply against her bare skin, when they would find themselves in each other's arms. Angelina didn't allow defeat. To death, she mused, in her head. Ah, one day. Perhaps then, she will allow herself to relax a little, be it in the restless oblivion, or in a religious view point, the fires of hell. She swallowed hard at that thought, and drew her mind to some place else. A place more constant, in the moment. She looked over at Grell, who had finished off her glass, whose lipstick was faded from rubbing off on the rim of the glass that was more loosely held in her hand, now that none of the contents could ruin her white shirt, or the Madame's velveteen sofa cushions.
"What is harsh, Grell? Us drinking because we have the wine, or children starving because they have not the resources for basic needs as food?" Angelina asked, and despite her question, taking another sip.
"That was a drastic change in topics. Are we to talk politics, or must we deal with the more pressing matters at hand that we drink to forget, and then remember in the morning?" The redhead asked, with the ever-present, silly smile on her face. She was an actress, that's what she said, and the Madame couldn't deny it. She had also mastered keeping an always fake smile across her lips. Of course, she was defeated, but defeat never required admittance, did it?
"I feel sick." Angelina muttered, shaking her head. The wine, as it travelled down her throat like liquid blood, felt like it was boiling in her lungs, salty in her heart, and white-washing ribs, eating through her flesh like a hole in her middle, like the empty places in the whores that she ripped wombs from, in a vain attempt to retake what she could never have.
"We all do. The children who starve on the streets and the kings who eat too much have one thing in common, and that is that they are empty, whether physically, or at the heart." Grell said. Her voice fell deeper. Of course, it was deep already, but she usually at least tried to make it sound lighter, whether it worked or not. Now, she was either too tired or too drunk to notice or care that her voice had dropped to a lower tone.
"Everything I have, I wish I could just give it all away. It means nothing, and yet, I still keep it up. Still drinking, still buying dresses and diamonds and things that I think will fill up a void." Madame Red clicked her tongue. Scolding herself, perhaps? Did she have the humility? Or rather, was she even bold enough?
"Nothing will fill you back up again. Not the burying in your paperwork, not those silly brats you dote upon. Not any lover's touch, or a knife's laceration. No," The shinigami sighed again. "Nothing will replace what you had. Would you rather be drinking with Death herself in your parlor, too many hours passed midnight, dead already, or in a grave, in your sister's place, next to the man that you wasted your time loving?"
"I would much rather be dead then in the place I'm in." Angelina said, speaking quickly, too quickly to think about what she was saying.
"You know, that wouldn't be so hard for me to arrange." Grell chuckled. "Goodness, Angie. You're so selfish. Don't you think I need this just as much as you do? I have my own demons. Do you forget?"
"Then, selfish I am. Kill me here, or tomorrow, or a year from now. It matters not." Madame Red took the last sip of her drink, feeling the bittersweet wine burn down her throat. She felt heavy with the drink, like chains on her feet, but light in her head. It was a sensation nothing else could give her. Enough to distract her from everything. At this point, death would be the sweetest release. "Not, anymore."
"I suppose I shall let you live, if you wish to die so. If I am harsh, let me be. Live is but the cruelest of punishments, right?" Grell's chest rose, her whole frame trembling with the effort of her breath. Filling her lungs with air, holding it with her face so calm and chest rigid, Angelina wondered if breathing was a choice to be made blissfully, or a demand of the body and mind. The shinigami had a way of making things like that look as easy as blinking. Perhaps because she'd been practicing, holding her breath with such tranquility, every time William scolded her, or she scolded herself. Ignorance was bliss, isn't that what they said?
"Right." Madame Red whispered. She didn't mean to whisper, but a stronger tone of voice wouldn't have sounded correct.
"Gluttony at it's finest, Angelina. You will be buried with diamonds around her neck and wine dripping on your lips, while those cold and hungry children you speak of will die without a voice or shiver, and without a flower on their headstones." Grell exhaled the air from her lungs with her words, making it effortless, and making it silent, making her nostrils flare.
"It's not a crime, to dote upon yourself."
"For the wrong reasons, everything is a crime. For the right reasons, crimes, in the end, are still crimes."
At that, they both fell silent. The wine was finished and they had no words left to say. It seemed to Angelina that Grell always got the last word, and it bothered her to no end, but the tingling in her fingers travelled through her veins, and her mind grew foggy. They drink to forget, and it does make them forget. They forget boundaries and borders, what is sane and what is true. Madame Red rested her head on Grell's shoulder, letting her figure fall into the other woman's, matching the pace of their breaths. She allowed herself defeat, and it broke her as much as it made her feel alive.
Brief A/N: Regarding the Guest who left that lovely review: Damn, they're on to me! Nobody must know that my true inspiration comes from a children's television show!