The Shirt

Jan. 28th, 2016 08:36 pm
mistkitt: (Default)
 Originally posted 7.1.2015

I have to drabble it out. Would love something sweet and romantic, but the usual universes feel worn, and that means it’s time to reopen Pandora’s Box with… Eros.

~

If she was wearing his shirt in the morning, she wasn’t done with him. First time, he’d thought it meant something. Read more into it than he should have. But Ulquiorra was quick to learn that a missing shirt from his bedroom floor signified nothing but the fact that whatever fight the woman had gotten into the night before had left her with a particularly voracious appetite. And it wasn’t pancakes with whipped cream she was hungry for.

When the woman was really hurting, she got sloppy like that. Stayed longer than she intended to. Laid on her stomach beside him, the glow of her cell phone screen illuminating her exhaustion, her anger; things she tried to keep behind her straining bedroom door along with all her sadness and dying expectations. And he would sit there, tousled and tired, until she either left or pushed herself back into his lap.

Shame, really. She wore his shirts way better than he did. Ill-fitting, too tight in the chest, never able to cover much of her backside because he wasn’t exactly tall. His old self would have been disgusted by his shameless admiration of the view. But his old self had never been in love before, and love had a way of blinding smart guys like him.

If they ever got into a real relationship, would she wear his shirts more often? Would she sleep in them, go to class in them, steal them for warmth in the winter? Take his sweaters and wear the sleeves up to her fingertips? Would she smile at him when she did?

He stepped out of the hallway, into the kitchen where she stood buttering a flaky croissant, clad in one of his night shirts and nothing else. It wasn’t his job to think about such things. In the stage drama of the woman’s life, he was no one, a lowly stagehand who ensured that the woman was comfortable, while staying in the darkness, out of sight. He approached her from behind and lowered his lips to her neck, knowing it was pointless to bother with a greeting she wouldn’t return.

And she, with her shadowy eye circles and vacant stare, rolled her head back onto his shoulder as he opened his stolen shirt one button at a time.

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