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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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.

Smoothly, so smooth it's like something from a picture and not anything a guy like Joe could do in real life, he draws Web in against him, free hand finding his hip over the slinky fabric of the red dress.

"You know, I ain't," he says. "And I still haven't got a clue of what I'm doing."

My hands drift to the places they're meant to be. His hand and his shoulder and I can't help but simply drift like the sea hugging the shore until I can press my head to his shoulder atop my hand, eyes faltering shut and I've stopped looking for explanation. "Would it be terrible of me to say I'm enjoying it?" I ask, voice meant for his ears only.

"Yeah."

He says it, and it's chased with a smile, the tip of his nose back against Web's skin, tits pressed against his chest. His hand skims the small of Web's back.

"I am too."

That gets an impish little grin out of me and I sway closer against the touch, knowing there's no music to keep us dancing and yet here we are, dancing away like nothing is amiss. "I meant it, what I said. I really do...you know, like you. You're a good man. Smart. Funny."

"Jesus, Web, don't," says Joe, as his cheeks flush and he ain't got a damn thing else to say about that.

"Let's just be here, okay? Let's just do this."

It's like a metaphorical slap to the wrist and my face falls and I drift further away from his touch, putting space between our bodies as we do this, eyes cast on the ground between us. "Is it so much to ask that you remember that I'm still David Kenyon Webster," I say sharply, the echo of hurt emotions in my words, faltering in my shaky tone.

"I know who you are."

His arm tightens around Web's waist, drawing him back in against him. His jaw tightens while he figures out how to say the next bit.

"You're David Kenyon Webster, and you went to Havard but you didn't finish yet and you've got a massive fuckin' pole up your ass but, for some fuckin' reason, I'm still here, and I'm still fuckin' dancin'."

Pressed in against him once more, I nearly freeze up at his words and I try and do the next best thing when it comes to assuaging him. While my front is pressed fully up against him and my hands slide down his back, I arch up on the tips of my toes and press my lips to his and steal yet another kiss to tuck away with the rest and as my shoulders arch as my hands slide lower and cup his behind with one hand each, tightening us in and locking the space between without a hint of shame.

By the time my lips drift away from his, I'm feeling entirely drunk off something else all-together. My eyes remain half-lidded as I stare up at him in the small space between. "I do not have a pole up my ass," I protest petulantly.

It's easier not to think about things like 'why'. It's easier just to press down into the kiss, one hand coming up to brush the weight of Web's hair back from his neck. His hips urge forward at the hands on his ass, and all he can think about then is tits pressed firm against his chest. His own hand skims down to Web's ass, hodling on just as tight.

"Not through lack of trying," he says, teasing, with a little smirk.

Without shoes on, I find myself shrunk to the point that I am likely equal to Joe in terms of weight and shorter now for height and I move my head from his shoulder to press my cheek to his chest, listening to the heartbeat beneath my ear and my fingers slowly drift from behind him to find a place in his hair and there may be no music, but the beat of his heart and the constant reminder that he is alive is more musical than Bach or Beethoven.

"Come on," I finally encourage, when it feels like hours must have passed. "We should be going."

He just stands there for a moment, his fingers tracing the edge of Web's ear as they rock, still kind of dancing.

"We could always stay." His eyes flick to the boat over Web's shoulder.

"Stay?" My voice feels tinny, as though buried under layers and layers of ocean where the aquatic life is so interesting that I would happily live there if given the option. Then I realize he means the boat, that we should continue the evening here and I stand back to give Joe the appropriate berth to look him in the eye. It's starting to grow harder to remind myself that I'm inside this shell, when emotions war inside me worse than before and I start to feel almost natural in a vessel not my own.

I brush the hair forward over my shoulder as I nod, drawing away from him and picking up my shoes to push open the door to the cabin, ducking inside and digging out the matches to light up candles that provide the lighting.

The look, it's something, right there. Joe stares as Web bends over to pick up his shoes and he can't help but wonder what's under that red dress. He follows Web into the cabin, eyes still on his ass.

"Did I tell you how good you look?"

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