Ballroom Scene
Jun. 20th, 2018 07:56 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
It wouldn’t be the first time.
Their lips had been in contact before, she knew. (He knew.) Out of necessity. No different than breathing life into a drowning person.
A passing glance. Her lips could pick his out in a lineup, perhaps. But she did not know them.
And she wanted to.
It must have been the reason she’d agreed to go to the masquerade in the first place. A memory of a rose and a candlelit balcony. A feeling planted, nurtured in the garden of her mind. A whispering bloom of maybe which now opened its petals in a resounding yes.
It mattered little that they were trapped in an akuma victim’s box and that the party was going to hell all around them. It mattered less she didn’t know his name. Fate, or the universe and its odd sense of humor, or herself and her tendency to make bad decisions, had chosen this as the moment. This moment, colored in shades of panic and confusion and laced with a hint of everything they meant to each other.
So she kissed him.
(And wished she could touch him without losing her balance.)
(And wished he could touch her without losing his.)
It seemed as if that one moment sparked a whole eternity, one in which he loosened her hair and rolled her underneath him, staking his claim between quickened breaths and appreciative murmurs, gold tangling in black, green worshipping blue. She could have spent several eternities like that, she realized, hearing him tell her that he loved her over and over, and the thought filled her with so much terror that she pulled away.
He stared at her—whether in perplexity or awe, she couldn’t tell. She rejected the idea that she would have liked either.
“Sorry,” she said. “I slipped.”
And as she stood up to call on her kwami, she heard him laugh and say, “Yeah you did.”