thewordofweb | [Night Two]

[Night Two]

I cannot believe he fucking heckled me.

...That's about the only thing that comes to mind as I sit there with the brush and shove it through the long hair, still figuring out how I'm going about this. This, this being whatever attachments have fused and grown firmer in our time here and through yesterday (however you explain that) and this morning (I'm not sure if we can explain that away, given our sobriety) and now I'm standing at the door we share in a strapless red number that cuts down to my ankles and my bare feet press against the wooden floor.

There is a very set plan about this and I might have even stolen some products for the night, pressing pink to lips and smudges to eyes in a simplistic way the likes that Oscar Wilde would have very much approved of (it's really almost as if this place and these events would have fit so perfectly in his novels). So there I am, with a plan, and with a single knock on Joe's door, it's not going to reverse, now.

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I lean back and wait for Joe, long enough to grab hold of his hand and to fish out the little slip of a handkerchief, easing behind him and tying it over his eyes. "This," I inform him, lips right by his ear, "is for heckling me and calling me a fag for going to Harvard." With that, I yank the knot tight and finished.

"Dinner, on the dock. Things are ready. Then whatever you want. I mean, it's not as if we need to follow what I said we'd do. I doubt you'd really want to stargaze or dance or anything like that."

With the blindfold on, Joe's skittish, but you can always trust the man next to you, long as he's a Paratrooper, even if that Paratrooper's temporarily a woman who smells really fuckin' good.

"I gotta find my own way down there?"

The notion is slightly tempting, I will admit. But I'm not going to be that cruel and I reach and grab Liebgott's hand with both of mine and hold him by the wrist as I walk him out of the Homestead and in the direction of my sloop (now outfitted with pillows and linens, foods, and papers and pens). "I mean, Harvard is a respectable place of study," I lecture as we go. "It doesn't mean that a person is slightly more inclined one way or another just because he likes to read."

Joe lets himself be led, careful not to stumble, careful not to trip, and still breathing in the scent of Web that's different, somehow.

"I'm not sayin' it's just the readin', Webster," he says, and, mostly, he's joking, but, yeah, there's a treacherous little bit of his brain that remembers Webster kissing back.

I tug and yank and sometimes lead Joe over uneven path just to see what he does, but for the most part, I am steadfast and true in our path and don't falter. "And today? The heckling? But really, I get that. I really do," I say, and it's neither a compliment nor a curse.

I stay quiet as I bring him to the beach and only when we can hear the lapping of waves do I take the blindfold off him and make my way up the dock without him to fetch the food inside the cabin of my boat, finding it and bringing it back out, setting it down on wooden planks while the sky is brilliantly clear above.

Though Joe stumbles once or twice, he manages to keep his feet just fine, one had firm in Web's.

"In my defense, you were pitchin' like a fuckin' girl," he says. "And the tits aren't no defense when Kara can throw the way she does."

On the deck, Joe stands for a moment, and part of him thinks he oughts to be looking at the sky, the moon which has never looked so big, but he's watching the girl on the boat who ain't a girl at all.

"Wow. Look at all this."

"If you suddenly had a pair of breasts, you'd be off balance too," I complain as I lean back for the white wine and lean over the edge of the boat to get it open. It's a calm night which means next to no waves, which is why I don't mind doing it there, where there's actual places to perch. "Especially these annoying sandbags," I mutter, back curving to really take a look downwards before moving on and unpacking the simplest of meals in the form of pasta-bowls and breads.

I ignore anything else because I'm toeing off my shoes and getting settled against the railing on the wooden bench, a quarter glass of wine watered down so as to avoid things like...well, last night.

"Hell, I'm off balance 'cause of yours."

It's a rare moment of honesty and Joe reaches for his wine to hide it. Once Web kicks off his shoes, Joe reaches for one of his feet, bringing it up into his lap.

He couldn't explain why he does it either, other than it's easier to forget how fucked up this all is when he's touching skin.

Out of simple reaction, my toes curl slightly at the suddenly welcome movement and they brush against Liebgott's inner thigh, just touching, just enough to remind me of what he's done. The wine is watery and dry at once and I ignore the food for the most part, having eaten while I cooked. The stars are far, far more interested and I tip my head back, hair falling over shoulders as I sight constellations that ought to never belong together, and yet there they are, co-existing perfectly entwined and seemingly natural for it.

"Here," I coax, "Look," I say, pointing skywards and shifting until it's not my foot in his lap, but my bottom inside, shoving a space for myself so I can grab hold of his hand and point it upwards to track the stars. "Circinus," I marvel with a hint of a grin. "The compasses." Without a moment's breath, I find another. "And Perseus, the hero. Virgo," I add, tapping a point of each major star in it. "Literal translation," I explain, tipping my head back. "The maiden."

It all happens so fast that Joe can't follow it, but suddenly, he's got Web in his lap and they're stargazing, just like Web said. What Joe remembers is the nights in Bastogne when the fog broke and he tipped his head back and saw the stars among the bare branches.

"That'd be you, then," he teases, taking his mind off it.

I spend moments explaining more constellations, ignoring Joe's words and the way I can feel the warmth of his body every time I take a deep breath in and out and finally finish on a quiet utterance of, "Vulpecula." My eyes scan the stars and they shouldn't all be in this hemisphere. It's impossible.

Says I, sitting in Joe Liebgott's lap and wearing a skin not my own. Impossible has become the norm now. I lean forward for the bowls of food and pass it to him, picking up the bottle of wine to top us off in the meanwhile as I shuffle to get momentum and to pry myself out of his lap.

With food in one hand, Joe's other finds Web's hip without any instruction from him at all. He's not even in control at the moment. He has no idea where this is going.

"Don't have to," he says.

My face flushes a hot pink and I'm just glad that my back is to Joe so he can't see the way I'm coloring without hesitation. I stop in my movement and slide back against him, but now I feel as if he'll be able to tell because I'm blushing down my neck and to my shoulders, if such a thing is possible. Maybe it's just the wine, I tell myself. I manage a babbled and shaky, "Okay. ...Okay," before I settle back in against him with the bowl in both hands, focusing on the sea and not the sky as I eat, watching the moon reflect off the inky water.

The air's cool enough that Joe can feel the heat pouring off Web's skin. His fingers bunch the fabric of his dress slightly over his hip and Joe leans back and his arm slips around the slender waist, drawing their bodies closer together.

As if that as possible.

"Don't think about it too hard."

It's hard not to think about it too hard when I tip my head to the side and my nose can almost brush his shoulder and I'm a Harvard educated man, for god's sake. I spent years and years thinking about the smallest of things too hard. And this, this with Joe's arm so tight around me, all I can do is think about it.

I don't even want to drink the wine anymore because I can easily grow drunk off Joe being so close. "How's the food?" I ask quietly, looking for approval that isn't the feel of our bodies pressed flush together.

"Pretty good, considering you cooked it," murmurs Joe, but there's no malice in it. He's teasing, the way he'd tease any girl he'd got in his lap like this. Just gentle. Just making fun.

Web smells really good and it's not that much of a stress for Joe to press the tip of his nose to his neck and just breathe it in.

There's a moment in which the softest of gasps escape me as I can feel just the slightest brush of skin against my neck and my body shifts, curves, tries to get in closer to Joe as my hand sets on his thigh, feeling strong muscles from running up a mountain that lay enemy to all and from a war too far prolonged. The food is placed by the wayside, forgotten about, and I simply lean back into his arms. Then, I remember myself and simply rest and don't try to push closer. "We can't all be as accomplished as you, now can we?" I murmur.

It's so easy to forget that it's Web in there, a man who he's fought with, a man who he's seen bleed. It's easier to think about the slim waist under his arm, the curve of the brushing against the back of his hand when he scratches his arm.

It's easier to think aout the smell of her skin and just not put a name to it.

"We ain't all born great, baby."

Don't think.

Edited 2009-01-17 21:21 (UTC)

The 'baby' is almost like a harsh slap in the face or a bullet in me with the sharp and too-hot reminder of reality. I'm just some woman for him to curl up to in times of need, when fraternization is so desperately wanted. And yet, the feel of him so close is still enchanting to the point I'm happy to let it happen and I reach for the wine, my bare foot slowly pushing up and down the inside of his calf as I pour us new glasses.

"But then," I add, condescending, "Some of us did go to Harvard." There, I think. A reminder.

That tone, it's as loud as Sobel screaming in his face and Joe can take the hint. He reaches down, skimming his fingers against Web's bare shin as he holds out his hand for the topped up glass

"So we know different things," he says.

I lean over and grasp the glass of wine between my fingers, handing it back to him while I use the opportunity to push out of his lap, hand brushing his arm and then his hair as I do, almost wanting to press a kiss of memento to his lips, but I don't.

I just stand in front of him and let the light breeze catch me as I lean against the railing. "And some of the same."

"I don't want to talk about those things."

He knocks back half of the wine too quickly, feels his head spin in response and he trails his tongue against his bottom lip, chasing after the taste of acid.

"Fuckin' dance with me or somethin'."

I let out a laugh of shock and surprise, shooting Joe a completely wary look as I shake my head, sputtering out a, "What?" of confusion as I gape at him, not sure what to make of that. "I told you, I was just making fun," I protest pedantically.

Joe stands up, setting his glass to one side and pushes his hand through his hair before he holds one out.

"Just fuckin' dance with me," he says. "We'll figure it out."

My eyes fall to his feet on the ground and I know how to dance as intimately as I know how to write and how to read and how to speak a language not my own. So maybe it's Taft kicking in as I take hold of his fingers and draw closer, as if we're always just going to drift closer and closer due to magnetism. "Are you drunk?" I ask, curious.

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