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It’s a mistake, the first time. He’s hurting, angry with teammates, there and gone, upset with himself, tired from the lack of sleep and the physical exertion that comes from taking on jobs that are for a complete team by himself. Angry at this woman, who failed his friend, left him in a mockery of the word family. She’s angry as well, familial reminders sweeping in at the insults she’d given her brother. There’s pride there too, and stubbornness. Who could this stranger be, that he thinks he’s a better brother. They are arguing, angry with each other, hands at each other’s throats, until the hands start moving. Neither can say who started it.
It’s not love. They both say it, him in his sneering grunts and her in her moans that do nothing to hide the look on her disgust. She’s 6 years older than him, taller, richer, his commanding officer and more importantly a friend’s sister. A superior in every way. They rationalize it in their heads, even as they tear off each other’s clothes, in the cramped closet. Pleasure, the baser need of humans in this terrible world. By the end of it, neither can look at each other, before leaving. It is assumed that it is a one time thing.
The second time, it’s a diversion. She’s trying to evade yet another suitor, her father has sent after her, taller, with dark black hair and a clever shift of light pink lips. The man is obvious, and yet persistent, talented in making the oblique statements elite society prefers, the ones that make insults sound like compliments. She flees, searching for a lifeboat in the sea of sharks, and finds him. She proclaims him, hers, in hopes of freeing herself. It works. They end up dancing through the crowd, the huntsman and the Schnee, moving like they’re walking on air, liquid grace that is impossible for any mere mortal to obtain. The disgusted looks her father sends her are far greater gifts than any jewel a suitor could bestow.
It’s not love. They both say it, her in a fake smile as she stands above him, a goddess given flesh, him in his petty small talk as he moves her around with the power of an animal, pulling her clothes off in a barbarous fashion, leaving bruises that won’t vanish till morning. He takes his pleasure from her, just as she took hers.
The third time, it’s a balm. He’s come back from something he shouldn’t. They’re at a bar, drinking for 12 while they number 4. He’s laughing at something, before he catches a former friend’s eye, pink as the new husband walks through the door with his darling wife, red haired and as fiery as lightning. Without permission, he challenges her, and she accepts, a sneer on her face as they argue and spit, something nonsensical in the importance of the moment. He grins, and she laughs, and there, something is born and something dies. The circle of life.
It’s not love. She’s vicious, spitting and hissing like a feral cat while he bears it all, the grunt of physical effort, enough to stun and bewilder while she laughs. This is the coldest they’ve ever been, her calling him other lovers names, while he mocks her familial resemblance. It is as much sex, as it is assault, mutually given and mutually taken. Both wonder if they’ve gone too far, and if they’ve taken liberties they shouldn’t have. Alcohol is often used as a crutch for actions taken, and they clutch onto the anger and sadness the liquor provides. But, the laugh rings in his ears, while the weary smile clings to the edges in her vision. After what’s been done, there’s an implicit agreement that this can’t go on. He leaves Atlas, while she clings to local missions and administration duties.
The fourth time, it’s a celebration. They’ve fought for days on end, struggled and lost countless friends, and everyone wants to honor the lost. The guest of honor, Ruby Rose, 21 and her team RWBY, declares it a party for the ages. It numbers in the thousands, with the goal of seemingly getting everyone legal and illegal drunk. One could swim in the liquor that’s there, given in barrels and casks and bottles of all kinds. It’s an alcoholic's wet dream. She’s there, with her younger sister, making sure that the savior’s best friend doesn’t get too overwhelmed from the emotional stress of planning the party to end all parties while recovering from the horrors of the weeks beforehand, the ones where her mother and father are killed, and is patiently overprotective. He’s a part of the logistical team, the friends of the heroes, who’ve spent the days scouting and pruning the monster herds, while wading through filth. It is an intensive job, given only to some of the most powerful huntsmen and has had a high mortality rate. He is here, only on threat of defenestration by the hero herself, and has contented himself of relaxing in the corner, imbibing illicit substances that have effects on his waning mental status.
They meet in the corner, after her sister has gotten annoyed, and his drugs have started to wear off. Both haven’t spoken to each other in months, and are shaken by what they see. Both have seen each other as perfect archetypes and to see such stereotypes shaken by the physical and emotional toil of what has come before, is something that neither expected. It’s not love, both tell each other, it’s gratitude, it’s happiness, it’s catharsis. It’s not just sex, but it’s definitly not love. Still, there’s something in the way her back archs like a rainbow, something in the way he grips her that’s right.
The fifth time, it’s a wedding. It’s small, and uneventful, under the full moon, near where they first meet. There is no drama, no seven gun send off like her former general wants, no massive bachelor party like his mentor wants. It numbers less than 30 people, and yet, in each other’s eyes, neither would’ve wanted anything else. The preacher says the vows, things are made official, and both dance in front of the crowd, looking like deities rather than the worn out soldiers that they are. They move with liquid grace, and as she laughs those in the audience notice that she has never looked happier, while his smile causes friends to look at each other, shocked that he still has the muscles for such a movement. And then, like all things, the dance ends. They stare at each other, and for a second both look immortal under the moonlight, before dancing music plays and other couples start to move to the stage.
It’s vicious, and soft, it’s sorrowful and impactful. They leave bruises on each other that won’t heal for days, have left bruises on each other that won’t ever heal. There are smiles and snarls, scorn and moans. It is love, somehow created and sustained on shared trauma, love and hate.