twiststheblade | (no subject)

(no subject)

Miho's room is, indeed, much more personal than the last time Mary Anne saw it. It's still stark and white - white walls, white sheets and comforter on the low futon - but now there's also a deep pile rug (also white, of course), on the blonde floorboards, and an enormous and extremely comfortable (white) leather bean bag sofa with a coffee table in front of it.

A book-case at one end of the bean bag has an eclectic collection of books, graphic novels and movies, and there's a small (digital) sound system next to the television. A few half-finished projects are lying on a neat desk. In other words, she looks like she's moved in, not as if she expects to leave at any moment.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

"Looks like it."

The glimpses of skin are given all due attention, but she's attempting to be polite, so it's look but don't touch. For now.

"You're welcome."

They're actually entirely innocent, or as innocent as things ever get with Miho. More an indication that she's comfortable around Mary Anne. She looks at her glass for a moment, then throws back the contents, grimacing slightly, before refilling.

She arches an eyebrow.

"Easy, sweet. I'm not gonna beat you to the bourbon."

"You're not drinking bourbon," she points out. "And I'm not going to keep drinking that fast. I was just getting a start."

And to give the lie to her claim, she swallows half of the contents of her glass. She does, however, then put the glass down on the table, and catch up the remote for the hi-fi. She eyes it for a moment, then selects a smoky jazz playlist.

"Hope you like jazz."

"Fair enough."

She settles back against the couch, sipping idly at her drink.

"Sounds good to me."

The remote is replaced, the glass picked up again. Miho takes another sip, and leans her head against the beanbag.

"What made you do it?" She asks, suddenly.

She doesn't need to ask what.

Still, she's silent for a moment, just watching the ice in her glass before answering.

"I wanted to protect the people I love--to help them, to fight for them...to do all of that better for them."

Miho nods. She can understand that. After all, that's what she does, really. All she was, for a long time. She only just started living for herself - and is still guilty that she isn't at home, even though she knows that no time is passing here.

"Is it worth it?"

Again. No need to say what she means. Mary Anne knows. She might have gained a lot, but she's lost a lot as well.

"I think so."

Heartbeat.

"I hope so."

There is, after all, no going back.

No, there isn't, is there? Would she like a refill of that tequila?

"I'm sure the decision wasn't made lightly."

decisions? Suck.

As a matter of fact, she would.

"Been sitting on it since May," she admits.

They suck outloud.

Miho snags the bottle, and refills Mary Anne's glass.

"That's a lot of thought."

She sighs, and looks away.

"How did you know it was the right decision?" And how do i know.

"It felt right, when I did it. Felt like it fit."

A mouthful of tequila.

"But I guess I can't know for sure."

Not without looking down paths she didn't take, and that's more than she's willing to do just now.

Miho sighs.

"Yeah."

Never can know for sure. And dammit, what's she supposed to do?

Mary Anne doesn't have any answers. Just a question.

"You want a refill?"

Yeah. Miho isn't even sure that she actually has questions. Just that there's something that needs fixing.

"Yes, please."

With bourbon. Which is having the desired effect. She's beginning to feel a little warm - after all, there isn't a great deal of her.

"Here you go."

She tops off Miho's glass, then returns to her own drink, letting booze and jazz blend together in her brain.

Miho eyes the glass, and takes a sip. Then she pulls the towel off her hair, twists sideways on the beanbag, and slips down so she can rest her head in mary Anne's lap. Her hair is mostly dry.

"Why is life so fucking hard?"

It's mostly a rhetorical question, and seems to be addressed more to her glass than to her company.

Her fingers slide into Miho's hair, combing out faintly damp strands.

"If I knew the answer, lovely, I'd tell you."

"Hmm."

Miho looks up, near-black eyes meeting oddly blue ones.

"I know. Don't suppose you have any advice for me?"

She shakes her head.

"Nothing particularly useful, 'm sorry."

She sighs.

"It's just. . ." This is the bourbon speaking. "Well, Goldy. She says that she wants to make this work, but she doesn't seem to want to put any effort into it. If we have a problem, she seems to think that a cute smile will make it better. And it doesn't work like that."

Sigh.

"She doesn't take me into account. I don't own her. But it would be nice if she thought about my feelings."

"Not everybody's big on dealing with things head on," she says, still toying with Miho's hair.

"Especiallly not confrontations with people they care about. Not defending it, 'm just saying."

And taking another sip of tequila, since that helps the philosophical processes.

"I've never been good at it. But at least I make the effort."

She sighs and sits up again. Far too hard to drink whilst lying down.

"I'm just starting to think she doesn't care."

"I think she does," she says, the words not so much argument as gentle disagreement.

"In her own way."

Because she's not willing to believe just yet that Goldy doesn't care at all.