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impertinences) wrote2018-06-13 10:04 am
impertinences) wrote2018-06-13 10:04 am
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So, I started this a month ago, and I never went back to finish it. It turns out that Roman and Emere are too similar to be interesting. No conflict. Nadda. Nothing.
Here's the bits I managed:
I want to give in
to my dark self destruction.
I will find you there.
- Anonymous
They’re trying to destroy
something inside that
doesn’t belong.
- Anonymous
At three in the morning, all he can hear is the hum of traffic outside their window and the sharp way she cuts then inhales, strikes then drags, drinks then sniffs. Emere’s eyes are red-rimmed and unfocused, like they’ve spent too much time knocking against her skull. There’s a shake to her fingertips. Her blood must be thin, coursing through her veins with all the ferocity and speed of a runaway train.
He isn’t much better, truth be told, but Roman has always been a king of composure. His hands do not shake. There’s sweat stains under his arms and a wild, James Dean glare in his eyes, but he’s otherwise collected. He leans forward, plucking the cigarette from her hand, taking a drag as she absently swipes her fingers through his loose hair before settling back onto the couch. She pushes her bare feet into his lap, one leg bouncing, the muscles in her thigh twitching beneath her skin.
“What time is it?” She’s smoked so many cigarettes, her voice has that match-strike sound, all grit and stone.
“A little past three.”
Her leg keeps bouncing. He pets her calf, stroking down to her ankle and back up.
“Are you tired?”
Roman stares at her, judging her seriousness, and grins when she smirks. “I won’t sleep for days. You?”
“I have a meeting at eight.”
He glances back at his watch. “Five hours.”
“Just enough time,” she murmurs, swallowing a mouthful of gin and vermouth before she rearranges herself and slinks into his lap, a dusky arm thrown over his shoulders, her mouth catching at his bottom lip, the scratch of his beard as harsh as gravel.
Their Mondays are like their Wednesdays are like their Fridays. Rinse and repeat. A copy of a copy.
She never smells like cigarette smoke or scotch or chemicals. He never looks tired or out done or misused.
Sometimes she sleeps against his shoulder in the back of a taxi, her dark hair tangled and tousled against his broad jaw. He keeps a hand on her thigh, his fingers brushing old scars beneath the hem of her dress.
She takes shots of vodka standing half-naked in the loft’s open kitchen, a hip cocked to the side, wearing one of his work-out tanks and nothing else. It’s five in the afternoon, but she shouldn’t be home - she has a list of appointments longer than the Hudson that have her booked for the next week solid - and she definitely shouldn’t be three sheets to the wind. It’s early, even by Emere’s standards, but she already has that feral cat look about her, the angry, ready-for-a-fight attitude she adopts steadily, hour by hour, as the day progresses into night. It’s usually worse after half a bottle of Ketel One. Roman considers himself lucky, even if the hair on the back of his neck stands up in warning.
He loosens his tie, sidestepping a knocked over vase on his way into the kitchen, and pours himself a shot. While he’s at it, he pours her another one, and leaves the cap off the bottle. He’s a whole head taller than her and he makes good use of the height, looking at the cabinets in front of him rather than down at her. Trying to catch her gaze would be like willingly looking into Medusa’s stare.
“Bad day, dear?” he asks.
Emere takes the shot as an answer and slams the glass down on the counter. “Fuck you.”
Roman lifts his own glass to his lips and tips it back smoothly, the burn settling down his throat and into his chest with the glow of an afterthought. He pours another round. She reaches for hers, and he swats away her hand.
“Hold on, let me catch up, and we’ll see what happens.”
He tips his shot back again, surprised by the sound of her laughter.
Here's the bits I managed:
I want to give in
to my dark self destruction.
I will find you there.
- Anonymous
They’re trying to destroy
something inside that
doesn’t belong.
- Anonymous
At three in the morning, all he can hear is the hum of traffic outside their window and the sharp way she cuts then inhales, strikes then drags, drinks then sniffs. Emere’s eyes are red-rimmed and unfocused, like they’ve spent too much time knocking against her skull. There’s a shake to her fingertips. Her blood must be thin, coursing through her veins with all the ferocity and speed of a runaway train.
He isn’t much better, truth be told, but Roman has always been a king of composure. His hands do not shake. There’s sweat stains under his arms and a wild, James Dean glare in his eyes, but he’s otherwise collected. He leans forward, plucking the cigarette from her hand, taking a drag as she absently swipes her fingers through his loose hair before settling back onto the couch. She pushes her bare feet into his lap, one leg bouncing, the muscles in her thigh twitching beneath her skin.
“What time is it?” She’s smoked so many cigarettes, her voice has that match-strike sound, all grit and stone.
“A little past three.”
Her leg keeps bouncing. He pets her calf, stroking down to her ankle and back up.
“Are you tired?”
Roman stares at her, judging her seriousness, and grins when she smirks. “I won’t sleep for days. You?”
“I have a meeting at eight.”
He glances back at his watch. “Five hours.”
“Just enough time,” she murmurs, swallowing a mouthful of gin and vermouth before she rearranges herself and slinks into his lap, a dusky arm thrown over his shoulders, her mouth catching at his bottom lip, the scratch of his beard as harsh as gravel.
Their Mondays are like their Wednesdays are like their Fridays. Rinse and repeat. A copy of a copy.
She never smells like cigarette smoke or scotch or chemicals. He never looks tired or out done or misused.
Sometimes she sleeps against his shoulder in the back of a taxi, her dark hair tangled and tousled against his broad jaw. He keeps a hand on her thigh, his fingers brushing old scars beneath the hem of her dress.
She takes shots of vodka standing half-naked in the loft’s open kitchen, a hip cocked to the side, wearing one of his work-out tanks and nothing else. It’s five in the afternoon, but she shouldn’t be home - she has a list of appointments longer than the Hudson that have her booked for the next week solid - and she definitely shouldn’t be three sheets to the wind. It’s early, even by Emere’s standards, but she already has that feral cat look about her, the angry, ready-for-a-fight attitude she adopts steadily, hour by hour, as the day progresses into night. It’s usually worse after half a bottle of Ketel One. Roman considers himself lucky, even if the hair on the back of his neck stands up in warning.
He loosens his tie, sidestepping a knocked over vase on his way into the kitchen, and pours himself a shot. While he’s at it, he pours her another one, and leaves the cap off the bottle. He’s a whole head taller than her and he makes good use of the height, looking at the cabinets in front of him rather than down at her. Trying to catch her gaze would be like willingly looking into Medusa’s stare.
“Bad day, dear?” he asks.
Emere takes the shot as an answer and slams the glass down on the counter. “Fuck you.”
Roman lifts his own glass to his lips and tips it back smoothly, the burn settling down his throat and into his chest with the glow of an afterthought. He pours another round. She reaches for hers, and he swats away her hand.
“Hold on, let me catch up, and we’ll see what happens.”
He tips his shot back again, surprised by the sound of her laughter.