rosalie & eddie
Her hand starts like it wants to find the surface of his chest, to reassure her of the heart beating underneath, but moments like those aren’t hers to seek anymore, so she smoothes the surface of her dress nervously, having never felt so fucking stupid in it until this very moment. How easy it was to lie nowadays, by way of dress, by the dolly gloss of her lips, and the pretty purple of her eyeshadow; how easy it was to lie to someone who’d once known every corner and surface of her soul.
She gives a fluttering laugh, it shudders through the air as violently as its torn from her throat at the sight of that sad smile.
“You look good, Eddie,” she reaffirms, biting down on the inside of her lower lip. “You look like hell chewed you up and spit you back out, but it’s charming on you,” she amends lowly, almost hoping her voice is quiet enough that even he cannot hear this unbidden piece of truth. “Less so on myself, or so I hear,” she tacks on.
She can’t do this.
It’s too raw, like an exposed nerve between the two of them, and she’s much too afraid to address it, scared that prodding will only net a deluge of pain she’s refused to let herself feel. It’s already in his eyes, already dripping off the tone of his voice, so palpable she could reach out and it would well in her hands and seep out the seams of her fingers. “Yeah,” she says thickly. “Uh, busy. Touring and sh- things like that.” She wants to say more, but there’s nothing she can say, really, so she closes her mouth abruptly, and her teeth click together.
She tries again.
“I’m sorry,” she says, like it can even begin to cover the soft murder she wrought upon them both. There’s so much he doesn’t know, piles and piles of price tags that Fusetone’s placed on fame and music, all things she’s been willing to part with – even him. How does she even start explaining it? “I should- I should let you go,” she says, and winces. “Let you go get your drink, I mean. That’s what you were going to do, I think?” She taps her fingers nervously on her thigh – one, two, three, one, two three – gesturing vaguely at his empty glass.
Tired eyes watch as she smoothes her dress out, a dress they would have mercilessly laughed about ( and the women who wore them, sometimes ) back when their days were spent in a flurry of tequila flavored kisses and whispered promises.
The woman he once knew in contrast to this new, updated version was shocking, so much more so in person. It was so easy to write off the whole Gemstones thing, keeping a shred of hope that she was the same girl he’s always known, but her actions speak far louder than words. He’s the same he’s ever been, except some days he’s clad in leather, others in fur, or sequins, or velvet, or whatever other outrageous material that’ll keep people from getting bored and wanting to know the real Eddie Nyx.
He looks away at the compliment, a small chuckle of disbelief escaping his parted lips. “Charming on me. Y’know, a fan said the same thing when she caught me passed out on a bar stool two Sunday mornings ago. Thanks for being polite, I guess.” Another laugh, though it’s far from sincere ---- since when is Rosalie Kang polite? Since whenever she decided he wasn’t good enough, his brain is quick to remind him. “You rocked a hangover better than anyone I’ve ever met.” He adds, quieter this time as his fingers fidget with the rings resting on them.
Her short answer makes Eddie sigh. It’s like pulling teeth to get even a semblance of a genuine conversation with her. What the fuck did he do to deserve this? Her distance makes the wound he’s so carefully tended to all this time flare up, red and angry and raw.
The nostalgia he feels turns sour, his face hardening at her words. “This is the first time I see you ---- since how long, Rose? And all I get are a few diplomatic words, and we’re on our way?” He’s incredulous, and his voice trembles, he’s fighting with all the self-control he has not to raise his voice. For her sake. “That’s fucking cold.”
