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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"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."

"I do not think you would like me as much if I was rotten."

The smile tugs up on one side.

"I would always like you, even if you be dirty, smelly and rotten."

She giggles - bright and chiming - smile wide and grateful.

Arms quickly, tightly, around his neck and she feels like joy, soft and easy affection.

"Thank you," whisper-soft against his neck.

"Thank you." Ever the witty one.

She blinks for a second in surprise, looking down at herself - she pulls back and wrinkles her nose at him.

"I - you - Oh!"

Her cheeks are bright once more, face shadowed by long curls.

"Shh, please, I am only playing with you." Santino replied well-naturedly, one arm moving around Lethe's hips, then other's hand brushing curls from her face.

"I know," she leans their foreheads together for a moment and crosses her eyes before giggling and settling back into his lap.

He suddenly leant forwards, pressed a quick kiss to her lips.

"I win."

She blinks - slowly, thoughtfully - fingers against her lips and eyes wide.

"I - I suppose you do."

Too much - too fast. Wine that tasted like Lethe-water.

"Not always, though. My luck tends towards the other end."