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Reach up and make a wish
IP: 184.167.4.118
Posted on July 14, 2020 at 07:37:22 AM by Alethea

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He’s very charming. Even when he sweats.

Alethea has been the object of enough men’s attention to see that his is laced with self-consciousness. The difference is, most men that she’s made self-conscious have fled the scene before they could embarrass themselves. Not so, with this one. He downs a glass of a shimmering pink drink in one swallow and holds his ground – that is to say, her ground. Throughout their exchange he’s verged steadily closer. Intimately close. He assures her that she can practice her terrible lines on him, and she cants her head, biting her lip and smiling. Her voice is playful but pitched low, not needing much volume to cross the shrinking distance between them.

“You may live to regret that offer.”

When he reaches to accept her hand, she is prepared this time, tamping down on the magic that strains to twine with his like interlaced fingers. She expects he’ll shake it or kiss her knuckles but cannot guess which, and is surprised when instead he holds it, as gently as if she were made of glass. Her smile softens. “Hi, Gabe.”

He doesn’t release her hand. She finds she doesn’t mind. She holds his gaze, her own eyes shining beneath demurely lowered lashes.

He is so tall.

She should feel intimidated. They have only just met, and she cannot read his mind, much as she thinks his thoughts are writ large across his face. He could overpower her, if he wanted to. But all she can think, looking up at him, her hand resting in his like a bird on a branch, a faint tremble detectable beneath her fingertips…all she can think is that he looks so sweet, she could devour him. And maybe Kane had given her some good, if vulgar, advice.

After a protracted moment Gave pulls her forward, and she steps into his space with her free hand on his chest. It slips up to his shoulder, her arm assuming a practiced place flush against his bicep, elbow to elbow. Her smile bends into a smirk.

“If I am a fallen angel, does it still qualify?”

Years and years of dancing lessons have made her an easy, pliable partner, grace smoothing any mistakes. They sway to the music in an unadorned box step, and Alethea thinks he might be avoiding any flourishes for the sake of keeping her close. And they are very close: torsos tight, his nose grazing her hair. If he had been anyone else, it might have felt too bold. But he is tooth-achingly sweet and earnest as a choir boy, his thoughts spilling out of him like confessions.

“Thank you,” she giggles, then takes an exaggeratedly deep breath that presses her breasts tight against his chest. “You smell like…clean. And whatever we were drinking.” She turns her head to look at him. He’s looking at her lips. She smiles. “And summer.”

It’s cruel, her whisper. Even she can hear it. She isn’t sure what’s gotten into her – the alcohol, maybe, or the general excitement of the night, or relief after so many months of torment, or Kane’s dubious influence. Who is she, clutched in this man’s embrace? It’s almost startling how easy it is to finesse the words into implications. It’s almost shocking, how good it feels to be wanted. To want something within reach. She feels beautiful and powerful beneath his gaze, as compelling as the moonlight tugging at her magic. She feels like magic.

And for once in her life, it is effortless. In his arms she feels light, and easy, and alive.

“Mmm, don’t apologize. I think you are very charming without trying,” she reassures him, honestly. “It’s refreshing.” They veer in another direction, joining up with a larger crowd of dancers. Alethea barely notices them. The music is louder here, nearer, but they are still so close that she barely needs to raise her voice above that pillow-talk volume of before:

“I don’t know, Gabriel of the Keen Olefactory Senses…what am I doing tomorrow?”

She channels everything she’s seen of Tristan, then, and even more of Kane, and flashes him a smile that is at once teasing and challenging and a wide-open invitation. Then she ducks under his arm, twisting in his embrace as the music shifts into a rowdier beat. Her back is to his chest just long enough to flash him a wink over her shoulder, before she’s spinning away, anchored to him by his grip on her hand. Like a tether. Like gravity. Motes of light shiver up her arm from where they touch. He’s pulling her back when the drunk collides with her.

It was bound to happen, eventually. The night is deepening and most of the guests are deep in their cups, all their scruples undone by what is bottomless and free. The man that stumbles into her is several steps past soused – his foot comes down hard on her dress, her foot, and her high heel snaps audibly, even beneath her gasp. Then he’s stumbling away, mumbling something that might be an apology or an accusation, and Alethea is gripping the front of Gabe’s shirt. Her cheeks, previously rosy with wine and happiness, are white.

“I need to sit down,” she manages, bravely. It is painful, but Alethea has known much greater pain. Leaning against Gabe, her limp is barely perceptible as he guides her away from the dancers. Even so, she cannot help but think that she is cursed – that every perfect moment, every storybook scene is bound to be ruined for her by some calamity or another. She supposes she is grateful that her skirt is merely ripped, and not ripped off.

Somehow, he finds a seat for her amidst the maelstrom of the party, and she sinks into it, reaching down to unbuckle the strap. “And we were having such a lovely time,” she laments through gritted teeth, and attempts a laugh.
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