steel blue.
@ruwonid apartment, late night.
to [ ☠️] (sent at 2:46 am) buzz me up motherfucker
it takes her a long time to be able to type it out without typos, her face screwed up into a visage of desperate concentration, vision blurring as she attempts the task. her thumbs are clumsy and her legs are jello beneath her. she’s far too drunk to be at his apartment. she’s far too drunk to be sitting here in this empty, cold lobby. she’s got a hat pulled down over her face and a mask slung over her face, the hood pulled up over her ears, hair long and dark falling over her shoulders. she’s a study in black on black on black, from the tips of her toes and all the way up. as if that makes her incognito. maybe it does, with all of the reality of jowi hidden behind layers and layers of fabric, her good sense buried deep under vodka and tequila.
when he does buzz her into the building she moves quickly. heads for the elevator and up, her footsteps tapping against the marble floors, one arm wrapped around her waist. she makes her way down the winding hall to his apartment and punches in the code, slips inside to toe off her shoes. “you’re up late,” she tells him, as if it isn’t obvious already, as if regularized sleeping hours mean anything in this industry, to either one of them.
it’s a familiar scene.
tousled hair and low slung sweatpants speak to the fact that he hadn’t been expecting company. he looks good like this, collarbones stark beneath the line of the thin white shirt, wire rimmed glasses balanced on the tip of his nose, the soft brown of his hair lending a warm quality to the boy in the dim, blue light. like the world around him is washed in something cold and he stands alone as this beacon of something warm and inviting.
she’s giving him the upperhand.
maybe he’s always had it, in a sense. in his lazy smirks and boxy grins, in the effortless way they burrow into the marrow of her. he’s so warm it feels like burning and she throws herself into that fire over and over again. trembles, frigid, in his absence.
“missed you,” she tells him, in a clipped voice, with a wry expression. as if she regrets saying it as soon as it trips from her tongue. “you busy?” she adds, as if that wasn’t something to ask an hour ago, before she begged a ride over here. before she barged unannounced into his building, rang his doorbell. she bites at her lowerlip. “you don’t want me to go, right?” she adds, shoes discarded, mask following, pulling the hat from her head.
