milliways_bar | (no subject)

Entry tags:

lethe,
santino

(no subject)

[OOM: Artist's block]

Santino opened the door to the bar, this time without the pleasant automobile awaiting him at the curb visible behind him. Dressed somewhat in his usual thoroughfare- black suede pants, polished black shoes. Crisp collard shirt, top two buttons undone. For once, sans his iconic leather jacket or any of it's deritives. Hair slightly longer than usual, though much shorter than it previously had been. A slightly different style, tonight.

Santino ordered himself a red wine and several glasses, somehow managing to balance these on the journey to his selected table. Out in the open, highly visible and with more than one empty chair welcome to be filled.

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"Mmm, yes." Santino replied, one arm slipping under her knees and the other to support her back as he drew her into his lap and an arms-around-the-waist hug.

A small, startled laugh and she is safely deposited in his arms, fingers pressing into one flushed cheek.

"I try to be braver than they think I am – than I think I am – but Salvatore that is not terribly brave to begin with."

"And as soon as I can manage to say that I will be alright - I know that I do not want to because I fit there," slender arms wrap around him, cheek pressed against his chest. "I was happy there, at home with him."

"You are far braver than you can imagine, Lethe." He assured her, hugging back.

His heart beat much faster than it should, though she might not have had such experience with hearts as Santino.

Lethe just listens - eyes closed and fingers tracing soft, idle patterns where they rest.

"Mmm ... perhaps."

Her own beats slow - lethargic and easy - always simple things.

"And far more beautiful." Santino replied, a kiss to the top of her head, seeing as it was the only part he could reach.

She tilts her head up - eyebrow arced and nose wrinkled skeptically.

"Why do people think that I look so special?" she huffs, pouting slightly. "I do not understand."

Santino smiled deviously and placed a finger upon the top of her head.

"One head of perfect hair," Counting as the finger made it's way down, tracing her facial features. "Two beautiful eyes of intense colour, one delicate nose," now moving sideways a little to seek her cheekbones. "Two well-formed cheeks, one cute chin and two full lips."

"All together, beautiful."

The blush brightens, fades in and follows his fingers - nose scrunching further and teeth worrying at her lower lip.

"I - it - it is n-nothing special," the words come out tripping and stumbling over one another - eyes wide and fingers quickly coming up to hover over her mouth. "Everyone has eyes and a mouth and -"

In a soothing tone, "You have these features in a quality that's rare and beautiful, is my point."

"Oh, I - thank you," she presses a soft kiss to his cheek before she blinks - slow and thoughtful.

"Does that make me a liar?"

The question is innocent, confused.

"No." Wheels turning in his mind at incredible speeds. "Did someone call you a liar?"

She blinks, eyes unfocused, caught up somewhere in the past.

"Easier," she whispers. "Easier to lie when you look like me."

"But I do not lie," another slow blink and she looks down at her hands. "At least I do not think so."

"The beautiful are persuasive, if that is what you mean. People will tend to believe you because they are attracted to you."

"No, you are not a liar."

"Oh," a slow sort of dawning and she scowls, brow furrowing slightly. "I - I did not trick him or try anything to change his mind - I did what he asked. What he wanted."

The edges of her shimmer and she clutches tightly at her shoulders.

"He loved me because I was me," her voice wavers, and she swallows - eyes wide and almost frightened. "N-not because I was beautiful."

It isn't meant to come out as questioning as it does.

"He loved you because you were you." He told her, gathering her into his arms. "You did not force him, he asked you. You did what he asked because you love him."

She's trying so hard not to cry - fingers shaking with the effort of it.

Things may come easier to beautiful girls. Oh, but not these things.

"Love him," she echoes, muffled against his chest. "I love him and it does not make sense."

A soothing tone, "You may cry, Lethe."

And so she does - pure and simple - fingers clutching, curled close - Lethe tears, such dark waters.

"I am sorry - so very sorry," the words are stuttered - warbling, desperate apologies - overlapping one another, caught and tattered. "I do not mean - so sorry."

She does not want to feel like this - she does not want him to feel like this.

Some psychic defence lay between them, perhaps by his make or her failure to transmit clearly.

He held her silently.

Things should not hurt this way, because it just is not fair. She had never asked for anything - never wanted anything before.

And, perhaps, that's what it comes down to. Wanting. Wanting things that you cannot have.

"You should stop being so nice to me," she whispers. "I seem to be very bad luck."

A faint, watery laugh.

"I doubt you'd rub off on my luck."

She sniffles slightly, pulls back to meet his gaze - cheeks red and eyes bright from crying.

"You deserve good things, Salvatore."

Her fingers rub at the tear stains on his shirt apologetically.

He took her hands away from the tear stains. "I have you, I don't need anything more."

She ducks her head again with a shy, crooked smile.

"Too nice to me," the words are quiet, light and subdued.

"I don't care even if I spoil you rotten."