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modern-inheritance · 3 years

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Modern Inheritance: Sakura Blossom (Pt 5 of Torin’s Story)

(A/N: Yay! Torin gets a baff, a shave, and a haircut! This is a sort of intermission chapter where Torin starts to drag himself out of the dark place he’s been locked in, physically and mentally, by refreshing his body. That sounds...weird. But yeah lots of descriptions of wet shaving as I warned yesterday.

It’s not the most well received idea, but I’m solid on that Torin’s new haircut is the same Late Season 3!Sokka from Avatar: The Last Airbender. I promise I’m not giving him a man bun. Just a fresh new look and feeling. Anyway, cheers!)

Part 1 // Part 2 // Part 3 // Part 4 // PART 5 // TBC

~~~

The tight quarters of the bathroom didn’t leave much room to maneuver. Twice Torin nearly fell face first into the frosted glass of the tiny shower stall as he peeled off his grimy prison greys, tripping on the hem of the pants before he caught himself on the sink’s counter. Once fully undressed he opened the door and adjusted the shower’s temperature before gingerly stepping inside and clicking the stall shut behind him.

The sensation of warm water flowing over his skin felt almost foreign. Torin tilted his face upwards to catch the spray, relishing in the tendrils of heat that drained back from his forehead and over his scalp.

The Ward Captain had either left in a hurry, or the bathroom had been stocked before he was brought to his new room. A bottle each of shampoo and conditioner sat on the shower caddy, with a bar of the standard issue strong soap that everyone received in their hygiene kits nestled on a folded washcloth on the shelf beneath.

The runoff from the shampoo stung as Torin splashed another handful of water on his hair to lather it more deeply. The sores scattered across his body protested, the cracked and gashed surfaces of his knuckles screaming as the soap infiltrated every crevice that the injuries created. Instead of avoiding the wounds, Torin took his time with them, ferreting out the embedded grit and scrubbing out damaged and dying tissue to give them a fresh chance to heal in this new, clean environment. Months of dirt, sweat, and blood washed away, leaving his body feeling almost raw in its refreshed state.

A new start, vulnerable as it was.

Wrapped in a towel, Torin stepped out with a billow of steam. The collection of clothes in the dresser was indeed quite varied, from jeans and clean prisoner uniforms to cargo pants, T-shirts, and sport shorts. Feeling overheated from the shower, the young man dressed in only a pair of clean underclothes and shorts before returning to the bathroom.

Tendrils of steam still curled lazily from the open shower door, caressing the ceiling before trickling out into the bedroom. The currents they created bloomed small patches of fog on the mirror, the gentle ebb and flow having drawn Torin’s attention. Curious, yet almost fearful of what he would see, the young man reached out with a dry cloth and wiped down the mirror.

Dark eyes stared back at him, ringed and sunken. His damp hair was still wild and jumbled, matching the rough two inches of snarled beard that covered his lower face. Torin ran his fingers through the scraggled mess of facial hair, tugging on it as if to ensure it was real.

He had never grown a beard outside of prison, and even inside it was managed for minimal hygiene’s sake. Every three months the guards would take him out to shower, then strap him to a chair in the back of the base’s barbershop. A gruff, mute master sergeant would then shave his face and trim his hair till it was just at regulation length before shoving Torin out into the waiting hands of his guards and slamming the door behind him. The whole process was reminiscent of the first two hours of his arrival at Gil’ead as a forced recruit, a whirlwind of activity and movement where he had no choice of where he was going nor when he went there.

The guards hadn’t done any of that the last two cycles though, only gave him a large bucket of cold, mildly soapy water and a rag to wash up in his cell. Too much to deal with concerning the war than to worry about prisoners facing the possibility of lice.

Torin scratched at the tangled bristles that obscured his face, frowning. He could barely feel his cheek through it. It looked awful, like an angry mess of thick, curly boar bristles slapped onto his skin.

The beard would have to go.

A little rummaging in the medicine cabinet behind the mirror produced more than what he needed. He found a half-full tin of medicated ointment, which he gently dabbed on his knuckles before bandaging them with the plasters tucked beside it. On a lower shelf was a standard shaving kit, complete with spare blades, scissors and a comb for trimming hair to regimented lengths, and what Torin assumed had been the Captain’s rather fine badger hair brush. A puck of dimly scented shaving soap rested in a mug on the counter, a piece of tape boldly reminding the former owner that it was for ‘SHAVING ONLY.’

As the soap and brush soaked in the filling sink, Torin busied himself swapping out the old blade in the kit’s safety razor before the young man turned back to the mirror with scissors in hand. With a wince of pulled skin, he seized a clump of beard, pulled it away from his face as best he could, and slid the scissors in.

The slow snick as the strands were severed, followed by the chunk of damp hair releasing its hold, was oddly satisfying. Torin settled into a rhythm, slipping his fingers under the tangled mess to move it away from his skin before clipping it. As the pieces came away, scattering across the counter before being swept into the tiny wastebin, something almost recognizable began to take shape. As the final clump fell, Torin raised his gaze to meet that of the man in the mirror.

He had lost weight. His cheeks, still mostly covered by the now close cropped beard, reflected the years of meager meals served in his cell, so different from the slight softness of his teen years. He reached up and gently felt along the ridge of his cheekbone, feeling for the wire-like scar there. As he did, the changes to his body became more apparent. His muscles had been lean before, but were now almost etched under his skin. His collarbones and shoulders bore the brunt of the sores from his dirty uniform, the rough patches raw from where sweat collected and irritated the tiny scratches left from the sand and grime embedded in the coarse cloth. More scattered across his chest and back, where he rested between fits of tossing and turning in restless sleep on that cold steel cot and concrete floor.

Torin swallowed. Maybe recognizing the man in the mirror wasn’t a wholly good thing in his current state. He closed his eyes and breathed deep of the humid air, trying to calm the tremors in his hands.

As the shaking eased, Torin retrieved the wet brush, warmed razor and slick soap from the sink. A shave would help him, he was sure of it. It was an unexpectedly skilled task, one that required concentration to be done correctly and safely, never mind done well. The act had always served as a calming start to his day before it all happened, a ritual carried out by men across the whole of Alagaësia that he shared.

With a practiced flick of his wrist, Torin flung the excess water from the brush and began to swirl it over the puck of soap. Each turn loaded the fine hairs with light froth, building up as the moisture was absorbed. He stopped twice to drizzle the puck with droplets of water, and continued the smooth turning of his wrist until, by feel of the resistance and the sound of the brush alone, Torin knew the foam was instead a thickened paste of froth.

A sprinkle of water into the mug and he began the long art of building a proper lather. The act brought a tiny smile to his face, the slap of the brush as it circled the mug in quick succession reminding him of long past mornings watching his father shave. Once the lather formed peaks, Torin began working the rich foam into the cropped bristles across his face. Light strokes painted everything white, soft and airy on his damp skin.

Outside the room, Torin heard Naela speaking to someone. There was movement and a clattering jangle of objects being settled on the desk, but he paid it no mind as he picked up the razor. This was not a time to be distracted. A steady hand was needed now, and for once his did not tremble.

Tilting his head slightly, Torin set one of the edges of the safety razor against his cheek, right above the gentle ridge the foam created over the start of his trimmed beard. The angle was muscle memory, as was the feather light pressure he applied as he guided the blade with short strokes downwards. After so long, a second pass going against the grain would probably be in order, but for now Torin followed his father’s advice to follow the grain first. It wouldn’t do to have a sloppy shave if the Queen of the Elves were to visit again, no sir.

Every few strokes saw him flip the razor to utilize both sides before swishing the whole thing in the warm water of the sink. It was not long before the first pass was complete, and with a quick reapplication of the still-activated brush, white foam covered his face and neck again.

Moving more carefully now, Torin began the second pass, going against the grain and removing any stray hairs that remained. He could feel the familiar smooth, almost slick texture of the skin that was revealed with each stroke under his fingers as he pulled the awkward sections taut. It felt...good. Felt like normalcy.

With one last stroke, the final patch of soap was removed. Torin set the blade aside and drained the sudsy water from the sink, wiping the stray flecks of foam away with a hand towel as he watched the dregs slide down the drain. Two cupped handfuls of cool water splashed across his face saw the ritual completed in its entirety, soothing the minor irritation that always came with a close shave. He checked the mirror one last time as he ran his hand over his now smooth chin, feeling for any missed spots.

If it weren’t for the haunted look of his eyes and the wild length of his hair, Torin could have sworn the scrawny young man looking back was him on the first day of bootcamp. His face had matured somewhat since then, but the skinny frame and baby smooth cheeks called him back to those first few days of his forced service.

He picked up the scissors and rinsed them in the sink before awkwardly pulling a strip of his hair down. This would be a tad more difficult than a shave.

“You look much younger without your beard. Would you like help with your hair?”

Torin jerked, whirling to face Naela where she stood at the doorway to the bathroom. She tilted her head slightly, hands clasped behind her back. “My apologies. I did not mean to startle you.”

“I-it’s fine.” The young man looked back to his reflection, contemplating his still-damp locks. “...A bit of help would be appreciated. Thank you.”

“Of course.” Naela took the scissors from his hand and led him to the desk chair, which she dragged to the rough center of the room. “Is there any particular way you would like it?”

Torin paused. Part of him simply wished for a return to his previous style, to be able to look in the mirror and forget that anything had happened. To believe that the last years were simply a dream.

But no. To cast aside the time spent in Gil’ead’s cells would be to cast aside the changes he had gone through, changes that were integral to his sense of self. It would also feel like...a disrespect to the elf woman who set in motion Torin’s new path in life those years ago.

A thought occurred to him. “One of the Queen’s guards...I think his name was...Macil? D-do you think you could cut my hair like his?”

The smile that graced Naela’s face could be heard in her words. “I think that is going to suit you very well. I will do my best, Aldsson.”

“Thank you.” Torin smiled as well. The elf’s warmth was infectious. “And Naela? You can just call me Torin.”

The room fell to comfortable silence but for the rasping sound of the scissors through Torin’s hair. The feeling of the comb gently running over his scalp was surprisingly calming. It was nice to just sit for a moment, free from fear.

As the minutes passed, a question drifted into Torin’s mind. “Naela?”

“Yes, Torin?” The elf returned from retrieving a small hairband from her pack, where it leaned against the outer door frame.

The young man chose his words carefully. “When...when I was a guard, there was an elf woman here.” Naela’s hands, gathering up sections of his hair, paused for the briefest of moments, a stop so short that it was little more than a twitch. “Did you know her?”

Naela gently snapped the elastic around the small ponytail she had made and began trimming down the back of his head. “I cannot say. I heard about her, but do not know much.” She checked the length of her cut and used the comb to even it out.

“Oh.” Torin hadn’t considered that. It occurred to him that he had no idea just how many elves there were left after the Rider’s Fall. Were there hundreds? Thousands? It was foolish to think that a single elf out of their entire species would be, just by chance, known by his new guard. “...I never even got her name.” Even if Naela hadn’t taken that moment to tilt his head forward for a better angle, Torin would have hung it in shame. “It’s strange, but...I’ve always wanted to know what happened to her. It’s like her face is burned into my memory.”

Naela didn’t respond, engrossed in her work. Torin left it at that, but the questions still swirled in his mind.

It was only a handful of minutes more before Naela gave a soft hum and used a hand towel to brush the stray hairs from Torin’s back and shoulders. “Finished. Let me know if you would like me to try something else.”

Torin moved to the bathroom to see the elf’s work, peering into the mirror.

He couldn’t help but smile as he ran his hand over the soft three quarters of an inch left at the sides and back of his head. The remainder of his hair, gathered in a tufted ponytail, would hang at the edge of his jaw when released.

It felt clean. New. A true fresh start.

“Thank you, Naela.” He turned back to the summer-eyed woman, beaming with a long forgotten smile. “It’s perfect.”

Not long after, Torin found himself seated at the former Captain’s desk with a bowl of warmed stew and a slab of bread. He did his best to not look like a feral beast as he ate, forcing himself to take a single spoonful at a time and a bite of the thick bread after. It was the first real, filling food the young man had eaten in years, and he would savor it.

Torin finished off the final dregs of the stew and rinsed the dishes in the tiny bathroom’s sink. Once done he wandered back out to the bedroom and sat on the edge of the bed, feeling drained.

Out of habit the young man looked up to the wall to judge the time by the glimmer of the moon and stars. It took him a moment to remember that the Captain’s room was more central than the wards and had no window.

“It is nearly midnight.” Naela commented from the door. “Would you like the light off?”

Moments after Torin confirmed that he did, his head hit the pillow. He sank into sleep, mind abuzz with the turns his life had taken.

~~~

The morning brought a breakfast of overnight oats and fruit, a delicacy Torin had nearly forgotten existed. As he slowly peeled each segment from the last orange at his disposal, the young man mulled over what to do in the coming hours till the Queen came to him again.

There were no books in the room. Naela was reading a novel, but when she offered Torin one of the two others she had in her pack he was dismayed to find that they were in a script that he did not understand. Most of the drawers of the desk were empty besides a few pieces of the thick, cotton-based stationary the Captain used for official correspondence. No pencils or pens rattled about, and beyond a dusty chewing tobacco tin filled with paper clips that had fallen between the desk and the wall, nothing else of note could be found.

The last segment disappearing between his lips, Torin quietly got up and rinsed the oats bowl in the bathroom sink and disposed of the strawberry tops and orange peel in the small wastebasket.

Naela looked up as he moved. “Would you like anything else, Torin?” She smiled, sliding a thin wooden tab into the book on her lap. “There is plenty more food if you are still hungry.”

As always, her kindness made the edges of Torin’s lips tilt up in a returned grin. “No, thank you.”

A jolt suddenly shot through his mind. The conversation the night before. Naela’s uncertainty surrounding the elf he had met those years ago. His shame at never even learning the woman’s name.

“Actually, Naela. Do you happen to have a pencil?”

He didn’t know her name. But he would never forget her face.

Torin shifted his grip on the pencil, feeling the gentle rasp of the graphite against the paper’s texture as he defined the edge of the scar that interrupted the woman’s right eyebrow. That one had been old, he was sure. He refused to add any of the scars she had gained in Gil’ead, trying to capture the person she was away from the prison’s influence.

It had been hours since Naela handed off the pencil to him. She occasionally peered over his shoulder and praised his unusually steady hands but otherwise let him work in comfortable silence. Torin let the world melt around him, everything else a blur.

A sudden shuffle alerted him to a change outside his cone of focus, but he paid it no mind. He was almost finished, added the last flecks to the eyes, and sat back with a crackling pop as his hunched spine straightened.

The elf he had met before stared back at him. As always, there was fire in her eyes.

“It is customary to rise when a guest enters.”

Torin strangled a yelp. Queen Islanzadí stood in the doorway, Naela at an eased attention just outside.

“M-ma’am!” Torin put the pencil down and scrambled from the desk, nearly knocking over the chair in his hurry. A long buried instinct told him to snap to attention and salute, but at the last moment he stifled the urge and hastily bowed. “I-I’m s-sorry, I didn’t hear you c-come in. I beg your f-forgiveness.” Torin kept his head low, unsure if he should rise from the kowtowed position.

He could feel Islanzadí’s golden eyes roving over him. “That is quite enough.” Torin straightened, somewhat relieved. The Queen turned to Naela with a short, “Thank you. You are dismissed. Return in three hours.” before returning her attention to the young man before her.

Torin felt his fingers digging into his skin where his hands hung at his sides. Naela was a balm to his anxiety, and part of him wanted to ask if she could stay. The departing elf gave him a warm smile over Islanzadí’s shoulder and subtly nodded towards the hall door as she left.

The knot of tension in Torin’s stomach eased slightly. Naela would not be far.

“Tell me. What had you so absorbed that you forgot the world, Aldsson?” Torin snapped his gaze back to the Queen just as her own gaze fell on the desk.

A bolt of lightning seemed to shock through Islanzadí’s expression. It was there for the barest measure of a second before it was gone, replaced with a sudden tightness in her voice. “What is this?”

Torin felt himself shrink at the sharpness in her tone, but something inside him held firm. He drew himself up, and lifted the sketch from the desk with steady hands. “Ma’am. I don’t know the woman’s name, but I can remember her face clearly.” He offered the drawing to the Queen, a nagging urge to please flitting in the back of his mind as she accepted it. “I...I wanted to know if she made it. Naela did not know but–”

Islanzadí held up a hand, halting the rush of words in Torin’s throat. She studied the drawing intently, eyes gliding over the details Torin had included. The young man swore he saw a hint of warm softness color the chill of the Elven Queen’s countenance.

What felt like an eternity ticked by. Cautious, curious, Torin risked a quiet question that had been burning in him since waking that morning.

“Did...did Your Majesty know her?”

Islanzadí did not look up. Instead she breezed by him to the desk and picked up the discarded pencil. Torin felt a jolt of protectiveness over the drawing, surged forward to stop her from destroying it, before Islanzadí’s sharp glare stopped him in his tracks.

Torin could only watch, first in dread and then in relief as the Queen wrote out four human runes at the base of the picture.

She turned back and held the sketch out to him. “Arya.”

The former guard’s mouth went dry, heart pounding in his chest at the single uttered word as he carefully took the offered page. “A-Arya?” He dropped his gaze to the drawing.

“Yes. Her name.” When Torin did not move, frozen in place, the Queen pointed to the bed. “Sit.”

Body numb with the new information, emotions roiling through his skull, Torin obeyed. He sat on the edge of the simple bed and finally managed to tear his eyes away from the name elegantly scrawled below the face that had haunted him all these years. One question answered, another took its place. “What ha–”

“Now is not the time.” Islanzadí’s statement snapped his mouth shut again. Regal even now, the Elven Queen turned the desk chair and sat to face him. She had taken on the cool demeanor once again, the deadly hawk still debating on whether to end this little field mouse or let him live.

“Tell me more of your story, Aldsson.”

Sakura Blossom: Renewal

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swishandflickwit · 4 years

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a million nights i've lived this quiet (i need to know if you hear this too) — 1/1

Summary: “That looks dangerous.”

“I eat danger for breakfast,” he snits, tone dry as a desert and the effect just as unpleasant.

She raises an unimpressed brow.

“You’ve been spending too much time with Toph.”

He smirks.

“That one’s on your brother, actually.”

“Figures,” she mutters with a roll of her eyes.

zutara + haircut

Ratings: General Audiences

Words: 2.8k

Warnings: unbeta'd, fluff, fluff without plot, haircut, hugs, hand holding, canon divergence (i think?), sozin's comet, set somewhere in the old masters (because as usual, we throw canon in the blender), generally a lot of wholesomeness all around, gratuitous use of sun and water metaphors (as you do when it comes to zutara), basically zuko and katara share a quiet moment before canon hits the fan lol

AN: i see a lot of zutara post agni-kai but what about zutara pre-agni kai huh?

Title from: wanna know by sabrina claudio

Other song inspirations include: frozen also by sabrina claudio and this version of chasing cars originally by snow patrol, covered by the wind and the wave. highly recommended listening.

Also on: ff.net | AO3

Other writing

Tagging: @jerkbend by request! hope you enjoy this one bb <3

-//////-

"That looks dangerous."

He doesn't chuckle, but neither is he quick enough to suppress the tug curling at the right corner of his lips—his mirth incontestable even through the warped looking glass from which she views him, stood as she is at the opening flap of his uncle's tent.

By the time she fully steps into the living quarters, his face is schooled into the deeply discontented, partly pained-to-be-alive glower he so favors.

"I eat danger for breakfast," he snits, tone dry as a desert and the effect just as unpleasant.

She raises an unimpressed brow.

"You've been spending too much time with Toph."

He smirks.

"That one's on your brother, actually."

"Figures," she mutters with a roll of her eyes. "What with half his brain being in his stomach..."

The laughter that the gibe yanks from the firebender is biting and brief, but Katara's breath hitches at the sound all the same. She latches on to it, holds it somewhere between her throat and chest, not too distant from the pitifully hollow space in her heart that she isolates from the bitter, ugly parts of her that are forged in battle and conflict.

"Should you…" is there a delicate way to phrase such a question? No, judging by the dirty look he throws her way, guessing at her thoughts, no there is not. She stifles the giggles bubbling at her throat with herculean effort, before remarking rather bluntly, "Are you qualified to handle that?"

He maintains his glare a second more before bowing his head and releasing a hot huff of air towards the ground in resignation. He places the mirror—from which the whole of their interactions had been exchanged thus far—atop the low table in front of him, then shifts so the entirety of his figure faces her. When he lifts his gaze, the veil of gloom that so frequents his visage has dissipated enough to allow a brittle smile to peek through.

"Probably not," he concedes with an amiability uncommon to his appearance. "Will you help me?"

But she likes the way the expression settles on him. It quells the ragged contours of his scar, somehow—his eyes seemingly unburdened by the sorrow he often declines to share, for once. As if in putting breath and voice to the request, he's quieted the ghosts of his troubled past for the moment to be fully present, here.

With her.

So when his metal-ladden hand falls almost shyly towards her, his stare gentle but no less piercing in its signature, sun-blessed intensity—obscured as they are by his unruly, ebony tendrils—she smiles. It is a fragile thing, muscles straining as they pull from the recesses of memories she also staunchly refuses to be tainted by war, but there—its sweetness shaped after her mother's loving lullabies, built in her father's effervescent embrace, and fashioned from each of her friends' unconquerable spirits.

She catches him, fingers winding into the shears in his grasp, and there is nothing for her than to accept.

"So what do you wanna do," she starts, eager to dispel the solemn atmosphere. "Some more layers? A buzz cut? Oh!" she nicks at the air experimentally, gleefully. "How about we just cut everything off?"

"You look way too happy to have an excuse to point that thing at me. That very sharp, very death-inducing thing."

"Shut up!" This time she lets her laughter loose, shoving at him playfully so that he's once again turned to the wooden chabudai. "Seriously," she cajoles until he picks up the mirror and through it, she glimpses his sedate mien. The levity in her demeanor fades, pitch dipping instead to match his contemplative stare. "What do you want?"

"I've been asked that a lot this past year," he sighs, bending his legs into a lotus position before slumping in on himself. "Yet I don't think I've ever really given a straight answer."

Task temporarily forgotten, she abandons the scissors at her feet to squeeze both his shoulders in reassurance. "Well whatever it is, I won't judge, if that's what you're worried about."

"I know. You're a great friend," he leans into her touch, and she beams at both the declaration and the rare show of guileless affection. "Fortune rarely sees fit to favor me but I'm really lucky I get to call you so."

The gravity of his proclamation has distress roiling like a tsunami underneath her skin, tempered only by the tinge of whimsy that weaves itself into his articulation. More curious than concerned now (although the stale taste of it lingers on her tongue), she lets her alarm abate at his unexpected resonance. She folds into a seiza at his left, fingers trailing the stalwart line of his back as she goes before placing them serenely on her lap, in absolute symmetry to their figures from last night. And just like she did then, she does so again now, ears at the ready and heart wide open so she can be the friend he needs, someone deserving of his reverence.

(Someone, she thinks as flickers of retrospection—of fighting against him slowly evolving into fighting with him—burst into brilliant clarity, worthy to be at his side.)

"You asked what I wanted," he rasps, low and tenuous.

He meets her stare and she hopes the encouragement in her chest burns soft like an ember through her eyes, enough to fuel the feeling of safety that ignites all too easily the more they orbit each other's presence. He inhales deep in a way that is familiar from his meditations then releases, a surrender in the exhalation—as if his apprehensions could drift away in the warm gale.

"Peace," he whispers, breaking their connection to look down at his fidgeting hands. The revelation is wrapped in such unfettered fear, as if in admitting the longing he has secured its impossibility instead of the inevitability she knows it to be, and she aches for him. "I want to put a stop to the bloodshed, an end to the suffering of both my people and yours and the rest of the nation. I want there to be a place for my soldiers to come home to. I want my mom," he sighs shakily, "and for no child to ever feel what it's like to lose a parent and for no parent to have to fear for the lives of their children as they're forced to this—this—needless slaughter. I want Toph's parents to see her for the capable woman that she is and for Suki's fellow warriors, her family, to be okay. I wish Sokka's plan succeeds, whatever it may be, and that I could guarantee your father's safety and that of your tribe. I wish my sister wasn't so messed up and that I didn't have to keep relying on my uncle to clean up after me when he's already lost so much to this fight. I wish the Spirits weren't so cruel as to put the fate of the world on the shoulders of a twelve-year old. I wish—I wish I could take back the past year, the past hundred years. I wish I could make up for all of it. I wish…" his gaze darts to her neck, digits hovering just shy of the luminescent pendant there, but not touching.

"I wish I could bring her back for you." He drops his fingers before he can make contact. His whole body wilts with the motion before he tightens his hand to a fist at his thigh. He shakes his head, craning it towards the ceiling where he directs his smile, devoid of any humor when he adds, "But yeah, a trim should do it."

Her heartbeat is loud in her ears in the wake of the silence his confession inflicts. The weight of his monumental aspirations sits heavy on her chest yet strangely enough, it doesn't leave her shaky. If anything, it strengthens her, grounds her, lends fire to the ice in her veins so when she moves, it's with the lofty grace she knows she possesses but doesn't always feel—the skill of a master and the experience of a hardened soldier encased in her fourteen-year-old bones.

But she is grateful for it anyway, when she positions herself at his back and the scissors don't tremble in her grasp when she loops her fingers around it.

"Yeah," she murmurs right back, smoothing her digits through surprisingly silky locks. "Yeah, I can do that."

She doesn't deign to push her skill given how dim it is—both inside and out, the sun sequestered by its billowing companions like it's taken refuge because it knows the blazing, celestial wildfire to come—and that there isn't much to cut in the first place. His tresses are at that awkward length of too long to be considered short but too short to be tied up into a bun or tail. So she merely evens out what she can, tidying stray tufts and snipping at scraggily ends, grappling at any excuse to keep her hands on him. And when that same excuse runs thin—because there's only so much she can cleave before she makes good on her drollery and indeed hacks it all off—she summons the dew drops hugging the blades of grass from outside the former general's tent. She glides the ribbon of water where her hands cannot reach, siphoning the severed hairs from his person and his clothes, before discarding the soiled glob completely.

"Thank you, Katara," he mumbles, though his focus remains on the distortion his image projects on the once cast-aside mirror, particularly on his marred skin. She wants to do something about the melancholy etching his warped effigy—a stark contrast to the hue of near-tranquility that had painted itself beautifully across his pale, elegant features—so she resumes her place at his left, sitting side-saddle with her left hand propping her up and her legs curved comfortably behind him. She narrows her vision onto his profile—the pucker of his mouth, the acuate bridge of his nose, and the graceful sweep of his jaw—then lays down her query with dogged finality.

"Will you do something for me?"

"Name it," he vows in that inordinately earnest manner of his, his countenance brightening enough to keep the deceitful umbrages at bay, that she feels almost bad for asking. "Name it and it's done."

She tuts. "I can't promise it will make up for everything, and it certainly won't be easy."

"I'm used to the fight." There is no arrogance in his enunciation, only a steeliness and determination that is uniquely Zuko. "I'll do whatever it takes."

"You promise?"

"I swear it, on my uncle's life—my mother's, wherever she may be—my nation—"

"Your honor?"

He chuckles—a little broken, a little watery and not enough amusement—but does accede. "Especially on that."

"Then forgive yourself, Zuko." He drops the looking glass in shock, head abruptly swiveling towards her in a dazzling collision of blue and amber, though she does not cower—her own renowned stubbornness stoking her fortitude when she simply holds his scrutiny. "And live. Live to see your soldiers come home. Live to reunite families, to find your mother. Live long enough to create the peace you seek, and to revel in this new world you will help rebuild, help heal. Because Aang's going to save the world. But you? You're going to change it."

I hope I'm there with you when you do, she wants to say, for he may not be able to alter the past but the future—

The future will be his to shape.

So she blinks back the mysterious haze in her eyes and swallows against the lump in her throat, and teases him instead, "I mean, you're not half as useless as I thought you were after all, so you could definitely do it."

"Your vote of confidence is astounding," his inflection is wry, but she is an excellent student and he had fast become her favorite subject. She knows him, and sees the carefully cultivated rancor for the barrier that it is, hoarding all the anguish and the grief but all that overwhelming love, too, that he is so hesitant to give. And who could blame him? When he's been shunned to darkness for every moment he's attempted to part with his vulnerability. All that radiance too afraid to shine, and she wants to tell him to let the light in.

(If Aang won't kill Ozai then she will convince—not that it would take much—Toph to dig the deepest, murkiest, most rodent-infested hole for the monster who dared to smother his own son's flame.)

"And I guess," she toys with rescinding, then thinks better of it, trading banter for sincerity when she unfurls his still-clenched fist and slides her fingers in the spaces between his. "Maybe I like having you around."

And, oh, but there it is—the soaring of the dawn, and all the exaltation of new beginnings it brings with it, in the exquisite harmony of his golden gaze.

"So," he hums, twirling the tawny ringlet right by her collarbone round his pointer before tucking it behind her ear. She reels with the gesture, tilting into his space. "Forgive myself, huh?"

"And live, of course," she miffs, albeit wetly. "If not for yourself, then for your uncle who loves you dearly." She tips her chin up defiantly, daring him to contradict her. "For all of us, who love you dearly."

"Is that all?" He rolls his eyes but that elusive, frolic quirk toils with his lips. He inclines his head until their noses are but a scant few millimeters apart, buzzing impishly, "Anything else I can do?"

"Actually," she hems, stroking at a badly-hewn strand by his cheek with just a pinch of regret before resolving not to volunteer for the act of cutting his hair again in the foreseeable future. "There is."

She bites her lip, wondering if she should request it at all before ultimately throwing caution to the wind. "We still have some time. Can we just pretend for a little while…" but no, the thought of ignoring the war even for a few minutes reeks too much of Lake Laogai so she amends. "Just stay here with me, please? Just—"

She brings their joined hands to his chest where she can sense his heartbeat, as strong and as steady as the soul it vivifies. With the tip of her finger from her other hand, she traces the frame of his too-tense lips until it is slack with repose, trails a featherlight pathway to the outer ridges that make up the border of his scar.

"Be quiet with me."

Those scorching orbs dance about her visage like the flickers of a candle—except he is more wax than flame when she cups his scabrous flesh, and he melts into her caress.

"I would do it just because you asked," he utters in the most dulcet of notes, and she is honored, for she recognizes the tenderness for the offering that it is. "Whatever happens out there, I'm glad it's you," he sighs, just once more. "I'm glad it's you with me."

"Together," she agrees, chin slumping onto his shoulder for purchase at the alluring giddiness his words incite. She is whirling, unmoored, until the digits of his own free hand anchor at the downy arch of her waist. He nudges, and she ebbs into a pool of untouchable calm on his lap, awash as she is in the current of him.

She closes her eyes, and when he follows suit, content to flow at her pace like he always does in return, a piece of her she hadn't even realized was aslant slots right into place.

They are hours away from the most important battle of their lives, one in which its outcome could very well destine the course of the next hundred years. Katara will not know the caliber of her entreaty, the importance of his promise, until the comet is at its zenith and her life is a paroxysmal brand seared across his middle like a supernova.

But for now, foreheads touching and their fingers seamlessly twined right above his vibrantly thrumming heart, she stows this moment beneath her ribcage, right in that war-untouched trove that pulses to the rhythm of his heart.

They are steeped in stillness, disrupted only by the din of the busy camp, and even that fades away as their breathing syncs.

Somewhere outside, the sun coasts along the heavens, beams of brilliance wrestling against its adumbrate prison.

The clouds part, feeble rays snagging at the canvas archway of their shelter.

The light pours in.

The shadows recoil.

And together, they shine.

-//////-

AN: okay this was supposed to be an exercise in brevity and restraint but uh, i don't think i succeeded?? but given that my goal was less than 2k and we're clocking this in at 2.8k, all things considered, i see this as an absolute win lmao so if you would be so kind as to let me know if you liked it, that would be stupendous!

come say hi to me!

#zutara #zutara fanfiction #katara #zuko #zutara fan fiction #zutara ff #zutara fluff #zutara friendship #swishandflickwit ff #ngl im so sleepy rn #i posted this instead of sleeping #its all about the forehead touching and the HANDS #zutara owns my life #this is the proof

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boogiewrites · 6 years

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Choking On Sapphire Pt. 6

Title & Song: Stop The World

Characters: Alfie Solomons x OFC

Word Count: 4300+

Summary: Genevieve Durand is a force to be reckoned with. An intelligent, independent and brutal businesswoman. When she moves to London for a new chapter in her life, she finds herself very interested in the friends the father of her godson has found himself in business with. But where does the line go between personal and professional?

A/N: Every chapter of this story will have a song to work as the title and as a soundtrack. Chapter 5 song is Stop The World Because I Want To Get Off With You by Arctic Monkeys. All text in italics is spoken in French.

Part 1: Thieves & Kings.- Pt. 2 Conquest - Pt. 3 Nail In My Coffin - Pt. 4 - 60 Feet Tall Pt. 5 I Bet You Look Good On The Dance Floor Pt. 7 Making A Fool Of You

My Masterlist.

Warnings: Language. Threats of Violence.

Tags! Let me know if you’d like to be added or dropped! Thanks!

@fangirlfreakingout @jaegeeeeer @cosettewinchester @lookuptheskyisfalling-blog @brianaisasongbird

You're perched on a stair at the bottom of the red carpeted staircase, leaning on the huge marble columns with matching decorative banisters. The stairs lead up to a grand bar, spanning the width of the staircase, impressively carved from stone. You were correct in your assumption the place would have the smell of money in the air tonight.

The inside of the grand London hotel, surrounded by the lit monstrous exterior, was warm with the heat of the bodies within it. The heat from the day still lingering in the air within the stone walls. Everything was covered in filigree, velvet, and elaborate embroidery. You looked around, seeing the grand paintings moved out onto massive easels and podiums, littered across the grand rooms each with its own clusters of people dressed in some of their best. You floated with the tide of moving bodies around the paintings, speaking to the students and artists of the pieces, they were much more interesting than most of the dinosaurs in the room. They were here to show off their money and pretend to be deep intellectuals. You hear their musing through their cloud of intoxication with their elementary understanding of color theory. You'd bought a lovely painting of cherry blossoms from a sweet girl that had made you ache for Paris this time of year.

You’ve finished a general sweep of the place, having gotten there a bit early purposely to do such a thing. You'd not been in this building before and you liked to know your entry and exit options if you were to be confined for the evening. You'd been approached by older gentlemen, as you almost always were at these sorts of events. A woman alone at such things was a beacon, telling them you were single or a whore and it didn't matter which. You'd politely ducked away and hidden to avoid their advances before returning to a high spot to watch for the arrival of Mr. Solomons. Your arms are crossed under your chest, hip jutted out on the stairs, your eyes continuously scanning the large room.

He sees you before you see him, as you'd had to make a circle around the staircase to avoid another man. You've perched again on the bottom of the stairs, peering far out to see him coming in, you weren't looking among the faces already in the crowd and noticing your attention was elsewhere, he gets to take a long look at you uninterrupted.

You didn't compare to anyone else in the entire room. Your dark blue floor-length gown shimmered in the light. He thought the sequins made the curves of your body reflect like the moon off the sea at night. The low V neckline mirrored in cut by the back, showed your chest shamelesly, your pale skin glowing from the oils you use, your arms exposed. The night chill hits your bare skin and you shiver, pulling tighter against you the long black fur you're wearing draped down your back and across your forearms. The sun falling and the rise of the night makes the dimmed light of the room reflective off your large sapphire and diamond necklace. Your teardrop shaped diamond earrings, to match the shape of the stones on your necklace, are nestled into your dark curled hair, falling down the center of your back and framing your face. You're the only woman in the room in your age group without the short haircut that was popular among your peers. You'd always found great pride and pleasure in your femininity and chose not to change what you already liked about yourself and your style as the trends changed, merely adopting the bits you liked as you knew they'd be out by next season anyway. Your eyes lined with makeup, big and dark connect with his as he gets closer. Your red lips smile in acknowledgment as you slink down the few stairs the floor to greet him.

His hat immediately created an intimidating silhouette as his large shoulders made people part to let him through. His cane was just as elevated as his choice in jewelry. His rings, bracelets, necklaces, and cuff links all attracted your eyes like a magpie. You see the ring you gave him, the solid square shape of it easily recognizable to you. You choose not to mention it, but it does look as attractive on him as you thought it would. His top button on his shirt, undone in what you felt was a rebellious gesture to the black tie code of dress. His layers of necklaces settled in his chest hair just visible at the base of the hollow of his throat. Without his usual large coat you'd seen him in, covering his form, you got the see the breadth of him, impressive as he gets close enough for the deep hue of your dress to darken his blue eyes.

"Mr. Solomons." you say with a playful, welcoming tone, holding out your hand.

"Miss Durand." he says with the same underplayed excitement in his voice, his noticeably just groomed beard presses with his lips against your hand. "I don't think you're supposed to try 'n upstage the art, Genevieve but here you are." he grins and you roll your eyes but a laugh bubbles out of you from between smiling lips. You move in closer to him to speak more privately.

"You and your canny words, Alfie." you taunt with a warm soft tone, resting your fingers on the smooth fabric of his suit jacket for a fleeting moment. "I have to say that you look both powerful and expensive tonight," you say with a raised eyebrow, shrugging your shoulders to fluff up the fur around your shoulders in a playful gesture, swatting the end of the fur at his jacket. A reserved, closed mouth smile with big bright eyes and raised brows greet you as you pester him. "If there are two aesthetics I enjoy more I'm afraid I have not learned of them yet." you grin, your nose scrunching up with it to show your sincerity but also put him at ease with your typical level of affection. He tips his hat at you in acknowledgment. He looks around the room behind you as his tongue rolls across his teeth, as he lets out a low rolling laugh. His eyes return to you, the corners crinkled in a genuine smile down at you.

"I would say the very same of you tonight." he leans in slightly, his eyes away from yours.

"You like it, Alfie? I got it from Paris." you say, opening the length of fur in your arms to show him the full front of the gown. You give a slight back and forth with your shoulders as you watch him suppress that masculine, predatory look that sat behind his eyes.

"The blue. It suits you, dunnit?" his lower lip partially reveals his bottom row of teeth as he drags out his last words as if he were still considering his opinion. His expression shifts into a much lighter message, he moves his hands with is words. "You look like a million pounds, ya do." his fingers run over his trimmed beard as he nods, enjoying the invitation to look at you although he's quick to not overstay his welcome as he changes the subject. "I hope you've not been waiting too long for me to arrive." he says, leaning away, his eyes still on the necklace before he breaks the connection to gaze over the crowd as he stands back up straight. His face falls into that raised brow visual stalking expression when he was surveying a space.

"I haven't." you shake your head, "I've bought one painting and three gentlemen have approached me since I've been here so I suppose I've not been here that long." you say with a low chuckle.

"Only three? With you looking like that I'm surprised to see you not turning down proposals at this point in the evening." his straightens his posture, his voice a bit gruffer and teasing, inflecting in a sarcastic way as his ringed fingers hold the lapel of his coat.

"The night is still very young though, isn't it?" you kid, your chin moving as you speak.

"It is young, Genevieve, but let's not keep ya out too late now. Shall we try to enjoy ourselves before we shake these drunken, pompous wigs for their secrets?" he holds his arm out to you and you happily accept it, locking your eyes with his as you hide the girlish, dimpled smirk that threatened to stay on your face. You were entirely too excited to be out tonight back into the plush, lavish lifestyle people who attended these things lived. You had this entertaining gentleman on your arm for the night, talking of art and your fondness of it. You shared laughs that traveled all the way up to your eyes, even if you didn't look into each others during these moments because you were trying to repress your laughter and not build and continue it. Which only made you both want to not only laugh more but louder against the expected politeness from you at these sorts of events.

He picked a more secluded spot to sit together towards the back of the crowd for a presentation from one of the schools the funds benefited. Your legs are crossed towards him at the knee, your elbow on the arm of your red velvet and gold chair, your arms touching from his placement on his chair arm, next to yours, not feeling awkward now due to being on it on all night up to this point in the evening.

You sit together, close but not too close. You speak in a soft voice, talking about how you couldn't believe how one of the young artists had used a technique you'd never heard of to compose his landscapes, but you see that he's fallen still, his head cheated forward but his attention not in that same direction. Upon closer inspection you see him chewing his cheek, his eyes in full focus on the sapphires around your neck.

"Here," you mumble, moving your arms up to unclasp the heavy necklace."Would you like to see it?" you mock rhetorically, presenting it to him in your hands.

"Yes, please." his words polite but his voice dark, taking it delicately into one hand, pulling a loupe out from his coat and you want to laugh at the fact that he just happened to have the magnifying eyepiece in his pocket if you hadn't found it so endearing in it's own obsessive way.

"You've been eyeballing it all evening, just don't drool on it, please." you instruct, rubbing the place where the stones sat on your skin.

"She's beautiful," he says quietly but enthusiastically. "I didn't think it could look more so, anywhere but around your neck but I find myself disagreeing upon this closer inspection." he says, almost mumbling to himself. If you weren't leaning so close you might've missed a few words. He was clearly having a moment with this piece and you didn't blame him in the least. It was one of your favorites.

"Very complimentary of you," you say with sarcasm. "I spent a long time looking for such clarity in gems in such a grand necklace." you express fondly, seeing the teardrop-shaped gems slip over his fingers like stone tears as he fusses with it.

"Time well spent." he says in a groan of jealousy, placing the eyepiece back into his pocket and so effortlessly moving, placing the piece back around your neck and clasping it for you. In the moments his fingers manipulated the clasp, his arms steady on your shoulders, you can't help but notice how he doesn't smell of rum tonight but of something masculine.

"Wonderful taste in jewels tonight, Genevieve." he says in a polite toned, gruff voice. He's quiet for a moment, his hand hovers over yours, he taps your finger that wears the simple but sizable sapphire ring. "This one here would assure a body sank right to the bottom of the canal, yeah?" You let out a low huff of a laugh.

"Yes and she's a personal favorite of mine so don't suggest she'd be on any sort of hand that would let itself end up in the bottom of the canal." you hold it out, your arm outstretched, shifting your hand to see the facets shine, admiring the ring.

"I'd never suggest such a thing about her. Merely an observation." he grins and sits back in his chair. "Now, I'll let ya when someone of interest comes in, yeah?" he says softly, his head tilting towards yours for the duration of his words. He looks around the room, his brow furrowed. You nod in response, glancing over at him in acknowledgment.

"I've only recognized one person here tonight." you whisper.

"You rubbin' with some big shoulders if you're friendly with these types."

"The woman in the mauve dress, red hair." you point with your foot, hidden from view from everyone but him. "I met her groundskeeper at a farmers market and ended up helping her produce business with some of my bees." you explain.

"It's funny how those bees have been takin' you all sorts of places, innit? Those bees become more and more interesting everytime you talk about 'em" he looks over the couple you're referring to.

"That's because they are interesting, Alfie." you say obviously. The corner of his mouth hidden from you pulls back at your no-nonsense tone with him. He continues looking around the room, his hand rubbing his beard, he was in thought. He's pulled out of it as he feels the soft skin your hand against his cheek as you whisper into his ear. "Do you know the man with the lavender tie? With the salt and pepper hair?" you try to say as quietly as you can while still being heard. He swallows and clears his throat, shifting in his seat and subtlely motioning in the direction of the man. You see you'd made him react from your touch. Although it had been subconscious at the time, you now feel the tiny thrill of the acknowledgment from him, although unintentionally so, that your touch could affect him. The troublemaker inside you delights. You hurried to shut her up.

"I've done business with him before, yeah." his voice gravely, his mouth frowning slightly.

"That did not end well, I will assume." you say smugly. Alfie side eyes you, his lips pursed. "Although I couldn't tell which of you tried to turn on the other because I can see he has some dark tendencies."

"You can see darkness in people, can ya?" he says quietly, his voice with less teasing than you'd expect to come from him.

"When someone wears it so proudly, yes." you could've gone over how you could tell he was a powerful man who did bad things by his body language and those around him. Although there was something about his hooded almost white blue eyes that had made your insides twitch with a warning when they'd glanced over yours. Perhaps it was the way his eyes fucked every woman he looked at, with no light behind his eyes on the subject.

"And what about the drunken Lord near the front in the blue and gold?"

"I would suggest he learn how to hide how he's fucking his wife's..." you tilt your head and narrow your eyes. "Cousin? Sister? Hmm." you hum to yourself in thought. He chuckles and pats your arm, telling you without words that you were correct.

"Some of these poor women," you sigh, shaking your head. "I wonder how many know they're husbands prefer their nights within the secrecy of horse stalls with stable boys to their own feather beds with their affection starved wives." you pout your lips as you shrug your shoulders. The genuine enough hurt in your voice strikes him as you hadn't been one to show much sympathy to these other people so far tonight.

"You are impressive, Genevieve, ya know that?" Alfie lets out a small amused sound, he knocks your arm with his elbow. You look at him with wide-eyed innocence and a soft face, one it might bother him to scold publicly. He looks down at you in a mischievous way. "Now there's no way you can know those sorts of things now, can ya?" he says with a touch of grit and taunt. "Even if your tales are very entertaining, yeah? Ya somehow manage to be poignant yet humourous." his words complimenting you but sounding scolding.

"I’ve seen some wild things in my life, Mr. Solomons. Believe me when I soberly muse on these sorts of subjects." you deepen your voice, your eyes still matched with his. "You'd be smart to place a little more faith in my words." you retort, your inflection up at the end, a playful warning.

"Well I did invite you here tonight to do exactly that now, didn't I?" he says, thinking he's made your criticism look incorrect.

"Yes and I wasn't implying you weren't smart." you say, another casual and obvious statement from you as your lips warp into a quirky smile, showing your hand and letting him know you did not misspeak. The speaker rises to the podium and begins. As names are called, he whispers in your ear bits of information about them and what he'd like to know about them.

You switched into work mode, your face back to a stoic neutral pose as you walk on his arm across a ballroom after the presentation. You mostly smiled politely and nodded, as the majority of questions were addressed to Alfie, but you watched and listened, people showing you their true intentions. You were given the distinct advantage of being the only sober two in all the conversations you had. You've been giving Alfie his money's worth work wise as this continued for what felt like hours. Having to giggle and touch your chest in flattery every time a wife interrogated you after being shooed away to let the boys talk, suggesting how you and Alfie looked so complimentary to each other. You hadn't appreciated the beauty and the beast comparison one gentleman made but you weren't really in the position to retort.

"Not that I'm not enjoying your company, Mr. Solomons. But I'm finding myself tired at this point in the night already due to the combination of sobriety and these people's painful personalities." you rub two fingers on one of your temples, and he pats your forearm. "After tonight I am reminded why I left Paris and the people in it behind." you roll your eyes before you wiggle and stretch your face to invigorate yourself.

"If I could find the man I wanted you to meet, as he's alluded us since the presentation, we could end this night before we both go cross-eyed from having to interact with these bloated fucks, yeah?" he motions with his hand, not lowering his voice and you lower your head to hide your face against his jacket arm, not touching it but grazing it as you hid a laugh at his words. He sees your shoulders shake and he pretends he doesn't know that the memory how your upper lip raises to show your front two teeth when he makes you unexpectedly laugh with his crass words would be making its way into his thoughts at a later date.

"I find relief in knowing you are as miserable as I am." you whisper in a reassuring tone. "Who are we looking for? If I know what I'm looking for I can find him." you suggest politely.

"'Ol lavender tie." he says low, voice groaning a bit as his neck stretched to look past the room you were in and into another. Your nose scrunches at the news.

"The one I didn't like. Wonderful." you say sarcastically.

"Well it's never all fun and games, is it?" he says obviously. You purse your lips together and scan the room as he plants you both by the bar. Eventually, the man comes to you.

The closer he gets the more uneasy you get. You try to charge yourself up to protect yourself against how this guy tried to throw his bad energy around. You could tell immediately these two men were only being civilized because they were in public.

The man manages to disrespect you with a look without even opening his mouth. You know Alfie feels your body stiffen against him in your attempt to ground yourself and work through this without emotion.

You're telling the man partial and incorrect information of your farm at his adamant request.

"And you feel safe out there? Little sweet thing like you all alone out there in the wilderness?" he lights a cigarette as he speaks.

"I've been given no reason to feel unsafe so far. I do take precautions, of course, living with the woods creatures so closely with civilization, I must." you state, your face purely informative in expression.

"Oh, there are animals in the city that you have to protect yourself against too, darling." he exhales smoke towards you, glancing between the two of you before settling back on you.

"Yeah, I seem to have introduced her to one." Alfie snarks, his back straight, shoulder and feet planted wide, chin up in defiance. You quickly interject.

"Men mustn't lower themselves to act like unevolved beasts, mustn't they?" you state with more insistence, looking to Alfie out of the corner of your eye before returning them to the other man, who was returning Alfie's glare, while his fingers fuss over the box of matches in his hand.

"That's where you're wrong, honey, some men MUST." he says, looking you over predatorily before snarling his lips while he brought the cigarette up to them while doing everything but snorting and stomping his feet to try and assert his rather pitiful need to show dominance with fire in his eyes.

You're waiting for your car, you pull your fur piece over your shoulders as the wet night air hits your bare skin. It wasn't just the dropping temperature that was making you feel chilled and unusually jittery. Alfie is looking at his pocket watch, he mumbles something about it being late, you only half listen as you're distracted by the man with the eerie eyes.

"Alfie..." you say softly as your car pulls up and he moves you towards it with his arm hovering over your back. He opens your door for you and you turn to him. The surprise in his face isn't hidden, even on the dimly lit sidewalk as you take one of his hands into yours. "This will sound very cheeky of me and it isn't meant to be," you say with your eyebrows raised. "But if you find yourself in need of a place that no one would look for you, I offer you space at my home to ride out the storm I feel coming for you." you insist, even using a weaker tone to see if you could appeal to his masculine energy.

"Genevieve." he says with a sigh, his head lowering, his eyes disappearing under the shadow of his hat brim.

"I know you think my concern to be based in exaggeration but I do feel like that man intends to do you grievous harm." you say, leaning in, looking up at him, he raises his other hand to cover yours, now rested against his chest.

"It's part of the job, you know this, yeah?" he tries to comfort you with a dismissal. "Your kind but displaced worry is appreciated but not necessary." he says with a slightly scolding tone. He uses your grip on his hand to turn you to the car, you hesitantly get in with a heavy sigh you know he hears.

"I told you to put faith in my words, Alfie." you say, your eyes wide, your face serious. The moon hits your eyes, there was no doubt to the truth of your words to be seen. He wishes he didn't find your insistent nature on your correctness to be such an endearing trait at this moment. You, armed with nothing but a gut feeling, telling him he was wrong so certainly.

"And I do, Genevieve, I do, yeah?" he says in a hushed voice. "But I can take care of myself and your work is over here. Go home, forget about me as you should until you find a purpose for me again." he gives you a charming smile, under normal circumstances, it would ease your nerves as was the intention of the gesture. "Goodnight, Miss Durand." he says definitively, letting you know the conversation was over.

Your face frowns and you look at him seriously. "Let Claire know which flowers I should send to your funeral, Mr. Solomons." you say, feeling the lack of a personable nature in the use of your last names from him. You shut the door and turn your face to the front windshield, not looking back to him before your driver pulls away. He stands there, his head shuddering back and forth his eyes blinking quickly at your words. As usual, he finds himself affected by your parting words.

Alfie groans and lets his body sink into the large back seat of his car. His sciatica thankful for the end of the night, but not so much the rest of him. He's looking out the window, the way the streetlights reflect through the glass remind him of how your gemstones would catch the light whenever he'd look away from you, always shining in his peripheral vision. His mind was turning your words over and over in his head, his hand gripped the handle of his cane and he sighs loudly.

"Ishmael? Take me to the warehouse instead of the house for the night, yeah?"

"Of course." he responds with a subtle shrug.

He resituates himself in the seat, brow drawn down tightly, lips pushed in together tightly. He found himself wishing your words hadn't been proven true and trustworthy up to this juncture. He found himself hoping you were wrong, but his own intuition was telling him you weren't.

Pt. 7 Making A Fool Of You

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shamelessly4shameless-blog · 7 years

Text

The Sand In Your Shoe (pt 10)

Within two days, Ian arrives in La Pesca. According to Google maps, he is a five-minute drive from ‘Galagers’ but Ian wants to see Mickey’s new home before he gets there. He wants to feel it in the way Mickey must have done when he arrived. He parks the rusty old station wagon he bought near the border and shoulders his backpack.

Ian buys a bottle of iced tea from one of the little shops that line the main street and sips it as he walks, taking in as much as he can.

Some of the buildings are run down and a little shabby but the main stretch of road is framed with wide fanned palm trees and the ocean glimmers through the gaps between houses and storefronts. Cats laze on high garden walls, ears twitching toward the distant sound of gulls circling the shore.

It is a place of nooks and crannies, twisting alleyways and all of them leading eventually to the ocean vista or back to the endless highway. Ian can see why Mickey chose to settle here. The town offers the joint promises of secrecy and freedom. It is at once beautiful and humble and the people offer Ian shy smiles but otherwise mind their own business.

There are enough white Americans around that he doesn’t stick out too much and Ian smiles at a family, clearly on vacation, walking along with ice-creams. He walks past a barbers and pauses mid-stride. He wants to look as presentable as possible but the thought of getting a special haircut makes him feel self-conscious. He quickly checks Facebook but there have been no new messages. He isn’t surprised at all, Mandy had taken a massive risk telling him as much as she did and Ian knows she won’t give him anything further.

He drums his fingers against the leg of his pants and makes a decision.

When the cut is finished Ian declines the offered hair pomade, instead running his fingers through the top lengths and pushing them to their familiar position, sweeping gently back from his forehead. The close trim at the back feels softly bristly and he remembers how Mickey used to stroke those short, neat hairs over and over again with his knuckles as they drifted toward sleep, his rhythm never altering until his hands would gradually still and his breathing deepen. Ian barely slept at the time and he remembered it clearly, the way Mickey’s chest would rise and fall beneath Ian’s cheek until he would gently detach himself and roll Mickey onto his side, curling protectively around his body.

“Gracias.”

Ian smiles and leaves a generous tip. He checks his phone on the sidewalk and sees that he is now only a five-minute walk away. Straight ahead, then left, then straight along the beach strip for two minutes. He buys a baseball cap from the shop next to the barber to shield his face from the sun. Adrenaline is pumping through his body and his hands feel jittery but he will not delay any further. He starts walking again.

Ian has never stood on a proper beach before and for a moment; the sheer magnificence of it stops him in his tracks. The beach is the sort with pale, white sand stretching for miles in either direction and the ocean is more shades of blue than Ian even knew existed and the sun reflects off the surface in glittering ripples. Ian draws the fresh, salty-air deep into his lungs, releasing it with utter relish, lifting his face to the sky and letting the sound of the water fill his mind.

“Damn.”

He breathes admiringly, to no one but himself and turns back toward his destination.

The bar is a little way past the ice-cream shack and the wave-board place, it is clearly old and the pale blue paint is peeling off the brickwork in places but it looks solid and dependable, like time has tested it and the building is winning.

The front is styled more like the modern places further back down the strip, it has a simple wooden porch that is dusted with white sand and a rustic looking sign that says ‘Galagers’ in bold, curved letters, written in bright orange paint with a neatly painted duo of beer bottles in the top right corner. Ian can imagine Mandy nagging until Mickey finally gives in and agrees to let her make him a sign, standing back, arms folded, with that ‘half-irritated but not really’ frown on his face as she painted it. He can see Mandy smiling shyly as she steps away to let him see and the grudging nod and flick of his eyebrows as Mickey concedes that ‘yeah, that’s fine.’.

The door is wide open and he can hear glasses clinking inside as someone (as Mickey Ian thinks with a jolt) sets up for the night ahead. Ian’s heart is pounding so hard in his chest that he is worried he’ll faint or something if he moves too quickly so he forces himself to walk slowly up the steps. There is a squat barrel serving as a table and a couple of deckchairs on the porch and beside one of them is a small bottle of tequila, a battered pair of black leather sandals and, of course, a lighter and packet of smokes.

Ian almost can’t stand to go in. He realises that if he leaves now, if he turns around and leaves right now, then he can do so happy.

Mickey made it.

He made it out of Southside.

He made it out from beneath his father’s vicious shadow.

He made it to his beach, and he has his sandals and tequila.

He did everything he said he was going to do and Ian knows instinctively that Mickey is happy here.

What more can Ian possibly offer than that?

Ian hovers in the agony of indecision, he is clenching his fists so hard that his short nails are pressing harsh lines into his palm and his arms are trembling. He takes a step closer and tries to see into the dimly lit room, the sound of glasses replaced with the sound of beer-pipes being flushed. He catches a glimpse of black hair ducking down behind the bar to pick something up off the floor and his breath catches, strangling the greeting that rises in his throat.

It’s now or never.

Ian closes his eyes and puts a steadying hand on the warm wood of the door, steeling himself.

“Hey buddy, we don’t open til four.”

Ian spins on his heel, completely caught off guard.

Mickey is squinting up at him from the beach, one hand raised to shield his eyes from the brightness of the sky but as Ian turns, his eyes shoot open in recognition and his hard expression of wary distrust shifts to the most brilliant smile Ian has ever seen.

“Hey Mickey.”

It is not what Ian had planned to say but it is all he can manage.

“Hey.”

It is such a small word but when it falls from Mickey’s lips, it contains so much, almost too much to bear, and it breaks through the last of the defences Ian has built around his heart.

He doesn’t remember moving but suddenly he is down the steps and Mickey is in his arms and he can feel Mickey’s splayed hands clutching his back as tightly as Ian is grasping fistfuls of Mickey’s shirt. Ian buries his face in Mickey’s neck. His hair is wet and somewhere at the back of Ian’s mind, he realises that he can taste the ocean on Mickey’s skin.

Mickey is gripping the back of Ian’s neck, holding him close, he is mumbling something, but Ian can’t quite make it out. He feels Mickey’s fingertips graze over the soft, red bristles at the back of his head and Ian brings his own fingers up to trace the curve of Mickey’s jaw, squeezing his eyes shut tight, seeing through touch.

He is extremely aware of Mickey’s lips, mere inches from his own. He begins to turn his head and as their eyes meet, he feel Mickey tremble, ever so slightly.

“Mick…”

Ian whispers his name softly but the small sound shifts something between them and Ian sees the moment Mickey comes back to himself. The arms around Ian stiffen and he is being pushed upright, it is a calm urging, softer than most people would think Mickey Milkovich capable of, but it is insistent and Ian reluctantly lets go despite the hollow feeling he gets in his chest from doing so.

“It’s good to see you, man.”

Mickey sounds wiped out as he hastily rubs beneath his eyes with the thumb and forefinger of his right hand. He steps back a couple of paces, chest heaving with staggered breaths. Ian tries to bridge the distance Mickey has put between them, wanting to be closer but Mickey is maintaining his space now and Ian forces himself to stand still, quickly dashing the heels of his hands beneath his own eyes.

“It’s great to see you! This place Mickey … Wow! You really made it out here.”

Ian gestures around them, beaming, he wants so badly for Mickey to see how proud he is of him. Mickey thumbs his lip as a small smile tugs at the corner of his mouth.

“Yeah, no, I mean it’s not the fuckin’ Alibi, that’s something!”

Mickey’s smile is sweet and a little shy and Ian cocks his head to the side appraising him playfully

“You look good with a tan.”

“Yeah? I got fuckin’ freckles on my shoulders though. They look like yours …”

Mickey bites the words off, pressing his lips into a thin line. Ian grins and shrugs

“Well I’ve got a week. Pretty sure mine will look worse by the end of it.”

Mickey blinks at him, his smile suddenly gone. Ian doesn’t know what he’s said wrong and Mickey doesn’t seem about to tell him, he just snorts and shrugs.

“A week, huh? Well whatever man. You might wanna buy sunblock or something.”

“Yeah I should.”

Ian agrees, grinning. Mickey doesn’t say anything further, he is looking around as if he has lost something and isn’t sure where to begin searching, looking anywhere except Ian. A sort of sickly panic is fluttering around in Ian’s chest. All of the tenderness of the previous minute is gone and he has no idea why.

It’s almost as if Mickey is pissed that he is going to be here a whole week. Disappointment stabs sharply beneath Ian’s ribs. He had almost imagined that he would fly home in a week to hand in his notice at work and sort out storage for his things but of course that was stupid! Mickey has his own life and it looked like a damn good one! Ian had no right to presume that he still automatically has any real place in it.

The silence between them becomes awkward and finally Mickey jerks his head toward the bar almost aggressively.

“You seen Mandy yet?”

“No I wanted …”

“MANDY! GET YOUR ASS OUT HERE!”

Mickey cuts him off with a yell and stares resolutely at the bar doorway, no longer even looking at Ian.

A couple more seconds pass and then Mandy appears. She looks ready to be pissed at the nature of her summons but then she sees Ian stood beside her brother and she screams, sprinting down the steps and launching herself at him.

Ian catches her with a happy laugh as she locks her arms around his neck, squeezing tightly and kissing his cheek fiercely.

“When did you get here?”

“About an hour ago, I had a walk around to see the place and then I came straight here.”

Ian tries to look at Mickey when he says this but Mandy’s hair is lifting in the breeze, blocking him from view. She pulls back finally but doesn’t relinquish her grip on his arms. She looks happier and healthier than Ian has ever seen her. She cocks her head to the side and scrunches her nose giving him a sweet smile.

“God! You look so great! You must be tired though. You want something to eat or a beer?”

“Oh … I mean, yeah sure. I ...”

Ian trails off, glancing at Mickey, who looks away quickly, his nose twitching a couple of times and his hands flexing slightly like he doesn’t quite know what to do with them. Ian wonders if they are still tingling from their embrace, if Mickey is still feeling the warm touch of skin against his fingertips because Ian sure as Hell is and it is making it damn near impossible to concentrate on anything Mandy is saying.

Mickey looks back and finds Ian still watching him. The expression that flits across his face is almost pained before the old mask of indifference slams into place, locking everyone out and everything he feels inside of himself.

“Yeah. You must be hungry too. Mandy can you get him something from the kitchen – whatever he wants. I gotta run some errands.”

Mandy gives her brother a puzzled look

“What the fuck have you got to do?”

“I gotta buy … ice.”

Mickey snaps, the warning clear in his voice, but Mandy simply gives him a bored look and points at the bar.

“We have shit tons of ice in there, Mickey.”

“I have to buy fuckin’ lemons then! What does it matter? Take Ian inside set him up with some food and I’ll be back soon. Jesus Christ!”

“You’re being fuckin’ rude.”

“He doesn’t mind me leaving for an hour. It’s been nearly five fuckin’ years, and we have a whole fucking week to catch up, so what difference is one more hour?”

Mickey’s focus snaps back to Ian, almost daring him to contradict this and Ian stays very wisely silent. Mandy looks ready to thump him but Mickey’s entire body is thrumming with tension and it is obvious he needs to get away for a bit.

Ian feels a twinge of hurt but pushes it away.

“It’s cool, I’m pretty tired. Maybe tonight we can …”

“Yeah. Tonight. Good.”

Mickey cuts across him shooting each word like a bullet and takes the steps to the bar two at a time, grabbing his smokes and sandals, then doubling back past them, heading towards town, keeping his eyes stubbornly forward.

“What the fuck is wrong with him?”

Mandy scowls at her brothers retreating back but there is no heat to her words and Ian knows she is only acting outraged for his benefit.

Ian watches Mickey walk away and it takes all of his willpower not to chase after him and blurt out everything he feels and everything he wants so badly to explain. He can feel the words bubbling inside him, desperate for release but he forces his feet to remain still.

“Hey, c’mon, I’ll make you some eggs.”

Mandy tugs his arm gently, her expression one of sympathetic understanding.

“Thanks.”

Ian sighs, pushing his hand anxiously through his hair.

“Mandy?”

“Yeah?”

“It is really good to see you.”

“You too.”

She gives him another slightly scrunched smile and links her arm through his, pulling him along with her into their home.

#shameless #shameless us #shameless fanfiction #mickey milkovich #ian gallagher #Ian loves Mickey #ian x mickey #gallavich #Gallavich Love

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kadobeclothing · 4 years

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The Biggest Men’s Hair Trends For 2020

Refreshing your look needn’t cost more than a round of drinks. Yes, you could spend the equivalent of a small car on a new wardrobe, but 45 minutes in the barber’s chair can have the same effect if you’re brave enough to say something other than “The usual.” Plus, if it’s the kind of barbershop we like – plush seats, hot towels and craft beer – it’ll be a lot more pleasant than a march up the high street.So what are we doing for you, today? If 2020’s hair trends are anything to go by, you can go one of two ways: messy or military. While some cuts favour texture and grunge-style long hair, others are all about a sharp short back and sides or no-messing buzz cuts.From fashion weeks to your working week, here’s a heads up on the best men’s hairstyles for the year.The Textured CropSince the bad bowl cuts of nineties and the acne-inducing emo side sweeps of the noughties, sensible men have instinctively given fringe haircuts a wide berth. In most cases this has been wise risk aversion. But, this year’s big hitter on the fringe front – the textured crop – is neither scarily precise nor antisocial, just flattering for the majority of guys.The style, in a nutshell, is a remix of the short back and sides where the length on top works with gravity rather than against it. “The messy cropped cut works with your own natural growth patterns,” says Robbie Burt at London’s Sharps Barber and Shop. “It’s best on those with thick hair that has natural texture. You should ask your barber for the makings of a high and tight but ask for plenty of length to be left on top which should be cut for bold, square texture.”The style comes from the woke-up-like-this school of hairdressing, so if you’ve got several thousand hairs out of place that may be a good thing. “Maintaining this style involves minimal fuss,” says Burt. “By working a matte paste through your hands and applying evenly through your hair you can create a softer, undone appearance.” If you’re more slick Rick than bird’s nest though, you’re still eligible to apply. “To create something with a smart, smoother finish by using a water-based pomade.”The Undercut QuiffThe quiff is the default hairstyle of adolescents armed with too many hormones and too many bargain hair products. This year’s version is not so try-hard, however. It sees the quiff enter the serious grown-up hairstyle arena via a sharply contrasting undercut and a finish that prizes gentle matte texture over skyscraping stiffness.Before you think about which industrial-strength hair product can secure your hair into place, think about the cut; it’ll make maintaining this style a hell of a lot easier. “Ask your barber to disconnect the sides from the top at clipper grade zero, creating a blunt contrast in length,” says Bradley Smith, creative director at Bradley Smith Hair Heathrow. “Then you’ll need a taper off through the neck and sides while leaving length on top and your fringe will allow room to create texture and volume at the front.”Those familiar with keeping a quiff in place will know that technique (and a steady hand) is everything. “To start, towel-dry your hair until slightly damp then apply a pre-styling agent,” says Smith. “Work a dash of sea salt spray into your hair all the way to the roots, then blow-dry your hair into shape, using a round brush to create texture and volume. Follow this by working a coin-sized amount of clay into your hair and create texture with your fingers. To complete the look, use a booster powder to help group your hair together.”The Tapered High & TightNot really into long hairstyles? Can’t be bothered to style your hair? Don’t want to look like an egg with human features? This year’s tapered take on the high and tight sounds right up your street. This short, low maintenance style borrows the buzz cut’s CBA attitude but leaves you with something to play with up top.The high and tight is a time-poor, style-conscious classic, but on the wrong head, it can get a little too Secret Service. “For a sleeker version of the basic short back and sides ask for a tapered high and tight at clipper guard one or two with a compact crop on top,” says Smith. “The finished cut should echo tradition but a sharply cut and textured length on top will steer modern; think Jake Gyllenhaal and Ryan Reynolds.”Most of the artistry of this style is down to your barber, so once you’ve survived the awkward chair chat, the hard part is over (although you will have to go back regularly). “Apply a smudge of fibre paste to towel-dried hair, working from to back to front distributing the product to create weight and texture with an overall natural but smart look,” says Smith.The Messy Man BobSince time immemorial, long, messy hair has been the preserve of rebels and grungers. It’s been regarded as a hairstyle that just kind of happens to a man when grooming goes out of the window. With a bit of TLC and fancy scissor work though, long locks don’t need to smear you as a soap dodger. Mid-shoulder-length hair that’s slightly messed up has plenty of potential to reach the hallowed mid-point between making an effort and not. Look to the likes of Timothée Chalamet and Kit Harrington as your go-to guardians of the messy man bob.Although this year’s take has undoubtedly smartened up its act, avoid anything too smooth; that’ll land you in ABBA tribute band territory. “This style can work on those with any thickness or texture, the key to getting it right is making sure that you’re asking your barber for layers which complement your face shape and hair texture,” says Burt. “Strong shapes should be cut into the hair’s outer layers to create flow or drop within hair, ensuring that the weight and balance is evenly distributed.”Pleasingly, this cut doesn’t require the patience of a saint to style, it can mostly be left to its own devices. “Let the style dry naturally,” says Burt. “You should use product though depending on the finish you’re after; use a little salt spray for a messy matte effect or soft wax to encourage texture and curl.”The Buzz CutTraditionally, the buzz cut has been shorthand for either rebellion against ‘the man’ or a way of turning you into just another number. Depending on your point of view, when the clippers come out, either your individuality or compliance with society will end up on the floor. Not that it can’t show off your good looks, but that’s the thing – you need to have the features for it.The sad fact of life is that we’re not all blessed with pleasantly proportioned heads. “Before getting a buzz, feel your head for any lumps or bumps as these will be visible,” says Smith. “I suggest looking in the mirror and imagine what you would look like with a buzz cut and ask yourself is this right for me?”Once you’ve got the all clear to go all clear up top, it shouldn’t be a self-shave job with the hair clippers. The buzz cut may be uniform in length but small variations on your clippers’ guard can be the difference between Channing Tatum and Gollum. You’ll also need a barber to clean up the edges. And as it grows back, don’t think you won’t need a little product. “You may wish to add some product to change the texture, such as a matte paste. However, for a shiny polished look, a pomade-based product will do the trick,” says Smith. Source link

source https://www.kadobeclothing.store/the-biggest-mens-hair-trends-for-2020/

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