Title: Empyrean
Pairings: RxH/HxR
Warnings: Yuri
Note: This came out more flowery than I would have liked, but... I still
like it. ^_^
I'm covered in oil and dirt and grease when she glides in, invades me, my tattered cut-offs dangling strings that tease the skin of my thighs and the thin, ineffective cloth of my sleeveless T-shirt plastered to my chest by the sticky pervasiveness of sweat. She is clean and sweet, smelling of some elusive scent that cuts through the grime and circles me, drawing me away and to her in only that way she can. Like sunlight; she pulls people to her with effortless gravity. And I can only stare in helpless wanting.
She doesn't touch me yet. Wandering, slipping in and around jagged slabs of war waste and confused corkscrews of metal, warped and twisted by force, she goes, leaving me but glimpses of her. The vertical waterfall of honey wheat that jets to the junction of her back and waist -- it feels as cool and soft as the underside of her breasts in my hands. There, the swell of her hip, smooth and perfect in the design of flaring bone, taunts me. Slender fingers trailing across cold metal plunges into my center and leaves heat and ache.
I pull the back of my hand across my forehead, salty dampness mingling with salty dampness. She continues her perusal, as if she has never been here before and my eyes follow, prisoners without conscious will. Unrepentant, her eyes laugh as they touch mine, and her lips stretch, curve, and follow. A cherry mouth, delicately formed for words of political seduction and artful persuasion. It brands, scorches, marks me. Skilled hands fold in deceptive submission as she turns, faces me, her ivory pleats flashing and settling above her knees, a calculated move to send my gaze to her lissom calves, arched from matching heels.
There isn't a seam, a gesture, done needlessly, or without thought. She is a meticulously constructed ensemble that I am gifted with the ability to unravel. Desires surface as the layers fall away, and the tranquility of her martyred beauty is ruffled by the flushed abandon of veracity. It's then that I see her without the trappings of her world and the guises of her self-preservation. For touched by me, held by me, she is only a woman who needs. Maybe that's why she so seldom comes.
I'm rarely given to poetry... She's the one who wields words like poison tipped weapons, honey layered gifts, or artic centered subtleties. But she's also the one who reaches the depths in me that others overlook. I begrudge her that the same as I offer it freely. Some I give, some she takes. Ours is an evenly-matched pairing, marred by the sharp claws of everything that is outside of us.
There are parts of what she is that I can't touch, that I can't have. Resentment flourishes as the seeds of discontent are watered by reality, but I swallow the bitter after-taste and remind myself that promises weren't offered. I can have what I have, and until the press for more is unrelenting, it will be enough.
She comes when she needs. To give, to offer, to take. As she moves to me, I stand rooted, held by invisible threads, bound by my own needs, which tangle in hers until there is no separation between them, us.
The column of her neck is a graceful expanse of pale silk, and I want to touch it, but my hands are dirty and roughened from work. I content myself with looking, as she stops short of touching me, and reaches up to undo the buttons of her suit jacket. When it slips from her supple arms, she remains in her school-girl skirt and bleached cotton blouse, the cream of lace visible where the swell of her breasts rise.
Laughter falls from her lips like the touch of air through pliable wind-chimes. "You're dirty."
"I'm working. What do you expect?" I hurl back, part defensive, part play.
"A greeting..." The entreaty is soft, but the calculation is tangible as she inclines her head.
My expression settles into a well-worn smirk. "I don't want to dirty your pretty suit."
She looks down at it as if just seeing it. "I have more."
"Of course," I mock, and maybe I dislike her for it. Her easy wealth. But it can't be a wedge between us, because there are better things to use that way.
Instead of answering, she reaches out, wipes her fingers across my cheek, leaving heat and awareness. I grasp her hand as she retreats, entwine our fingers, and gently tug her in. Hip to hip, she is fuller, rounded, where I am angular and sharp, jutting bones and uncooperative limbs. Our lips meet, and meld in slow appreciation. She slackens into me, and I sigh, marveling at the yielding of our flesh to one another.
Our bodies require little prompting to remember.
"Now you're smudged, Princess," I tease, knowing she hates being dubbed that.
"This seems to be an issue for you. Should I just remove my clothing?" She leans back, mischief etched in her features.
I offer a half-laugh, step away. "Don't tempt me."
"It's not difficult," she jabs at me in that way she has, that never draws blood but stings all the same.
It chafes, so I look away. I've always prided myself on strength, because there were times when I had little else, and relinquishing any part of my will isn't something I do with ease.
"Hilde..." I've always liked the way she said my name; precise and elegant; breathless and wanting.
I turn back. "What would you do if I told you to leave, Relena? Would you come back?"
Her arms fold, as if for protection, and her expression turns quizzical. "Do you want the truth?"
The look I give in return conveys my opinion of that question.
"I shouldn't have asked." And she's amused. "If you told me to leave, I wouldn't come back. Unless you asked me to."
"I wouldn't."
It annoys me that I can't. Relena is to me everything I'm not, and everything I crave. I think she knows this.
Her hand touches my arm. "Would you? Would you ask me to leave?"
"You know I wouldn't. But I want to..."
"And you hate that you can't," she affirms easily, knowing me.
"I hate anything that has control over me." I shrug. Her hand goes with the motion.
"Most everyone does," she says in a way that makes me feel like a child. "Sometimes it's better not to think at all."
My eyes narrow on her face. "Don't give advice you don't follow." She, who never stops thinking.
Relena smiles; serene and knowing. "I've never had giant machines to pilot my ego, so I learned to use what came natural to me. Worlds are shaped by wars, Hilde, but they're manned with brains."
The soldier in me scoffs; I don't think Relena fully understands what a mobile suit can _do_. Worlds aren't only shaped by wars, they're crushed by wars. Yet... I look closely at her, and recall it's people like her who pick up the pieces and re-build. But she didn't come here to talk to me about war.
"I don't want to talk about politics, Relena, so save it for the boardroom, or whatever the hell you call that 'Den of Iniquity'."
Swinging her suit jacket the way a child would a twine of rope, she laughs at me again. Does she laugh this much with anyone else?
"I call it my office, actually."
I snort. "Give me your jacket. We're going in because I need to shower, and you probably need to eat."
Wordlessly, she slips her arm beneath mine and we walk, a contrast of many things. I don't know how we started this, and I don't know how it will end. Except that when she leaves and doesn't return, I won't go looking for her.
The End
(:./jen/empyrean)
