adasglass:
—
the gesture was spontaneous, barely needs a conscious thought prompting it into being — it was pure chemistry: he reached for her hand so she had to take it, didn’t matter whether she did willingly or if this gesture would hold any sort of regret at all in the morning. it had to be — be it for a need for balance, a whimsical belief that it’d stop the spinning. be it because she wanted to. fingers tangled in his easily — too easily, one might argue. the unwanted spectator of the scene might’ve found her willingly putting herself on the edge where safety pours itself into danger, and that would all be a simple excuse to fall against him when the drop came.
oh, ada, what is happening to you? the conscious side of her brain still holding on to thoughts of controlled stillness, urged her to take a breath and run a full check of all the things that were slipping past her control now: the way her skin flushed just slightly the second their skins touched one another, the way her back had lost its arch but found the pride of a fierce, straight line, once she’d found the connection with his hand. all of this was unconscious — a side of her that was not thinking but feeling, auto-pilot without a steering wheel. and none of it came from the booze, no: all of it came from that single touch. but she would not see it — stubborn child that she could be, she would refuse to turn around and sober up, say i’m sorry, disappear back into the pearl-gray nothing she’d come out of. no: instead she kept her hand tangled in his, barely balancing herself, and laughed.
“oh come on, you’re just bragging now. oh, i’m iv-aah-n, i’m so strong, i’m the indiana jones of the fjords ——”, her voice made cavernous by the bad imitation she was providing, then quickly melting into laughter, the melodic kind, the one she seldom allowed to resonate through her chest. her balance faltering, she steadied herself against his hand — still not letting go. “skipping stones over the abyss”. she smiled to herself: wasn’t that, in a sense, what she’d been doing? toying around the notion of balance, knowing a fall was just waiting for her to slip up. “i think i should try that. i’d be fucking great at it”.
--
“No, it’s true! All Norwegian kids grow up to be mountain goats. It’s a thing.” Soft, quiet laughter left him, his lips in a slight part with the smile he carried -- the one he seemed to always carry when she was around, and only then. Most people thought him rude, mean, too intense, too quick-tempered, too this and everything else but Ada seemed to be the only person that saw him beyond all that -- beyond what came with the pain of losing someone he loved. He was a good guy, deep down...compassionate, generous -- he cared, and maybe that was it. Maybe his anger, his intensity, his bitterness -- it was all a product of caring too much, a product of feeling too much...more than he felt was necessary sometimes.
But being drunk -- that was a different story. He was carefree again, joyous, spontaneous, Ivan as Ivan truly was. The way he missed being as of late. Truthfully, he was hurt, and the only way he knew to move away from that, was through booze and weed. Ada, however, made it easier...so much easier, so much that he didn’t need the booze to feel himself again -- now, he needed it to fucking chill, his feelings for her growing every second they spent together, it was maddening...but booze and weed made it easier.
Instinctively, he raised his arm, her hand in his, when she stumbled, a quiet ‘careful’ leaving him as she continued. How she was doing this drunk, he couldn’t figure out. He couldn’t even see straight just half a metre in front of him. ---- “I don’t know,” he continued, “we’re bred at already high altitudes, so our equilibrium isn’t cut when we’re balancing that high,” just shut up, he thought. “Anyway, I’m being a nerd.” A small breath, a smile, and he jogged a bit ahead, turning to look at her. “Come on, Princess Ada,” he nodded toward her, extending an arm, “let’s see if you pass the drunk test.”