Chapter Text
The atmosphere on Mephistopheles has been unusually chipper these past few days.
Admittedly, there's a good reason for that. To you, it felt as if each recent mission was completed quickly, without any major complications, and – most importantly – a surprising lack of deaths. Donqui managed to start only one unnecessary fight (that didn't delay the task all that much anyway, so Vergilius let it slide), and in general, things have been going suspiciously well.
Speaking of Vergilius, he seemed to be distinctly... less irritated with you all. You wouldn't say he was outright satisfied with your performance, but him not telling you off was the closest he could get to that, you supposed. All of this recent luck has led up to the point where, after being pestered by Rodya for over an hour, ("Pretty please, Verg? You saw how well we did yesterday, right?") Vergilius somehow conceded to letting you have a little celebration of sorts.
"...Call it team building, if you will," he grunts, rubbing the bridge of his nose. "But I won't be here to babysit you fools. You are all adults, yes? You should know how much alcohol is appropriate for you to consume with your manager in the same room."
Rodya simply waves him off in an attempt to seem reassuring. "Yeah, yeah, don't you worry~ Ah, but I'm sure Dante wouldn't be opposed to letting us go a bit wild for once. You agree, right?"
Rodya looks at you over her shoulder, winking – her expectant grin, contrasted with Vergilius' deadpan stare was enough to make you chuckle. You do your best to stifle it, clearing your throat to compose yourself, though you still aren't quite able to stop the amused smile tugging at your lips.
"I sincerely agree," you chirp, nodding. "And besides, if anything happens, you can count on Dante to..." you trail off as Vergilius blinks slowly, visibly unimpressed by your attempts to sway him. You almost laugh again. "...As I was saying, I'm certain Dante would be more than happy to, ah, keep an eye on us in your stead."
Vergilius sighs in that long, overdramatic way he usually does, before replying. "Yes, it would be best if there was someone sober to clean up any vomit that may mysteriously find its way onto the floor. The manager seems like they would enjoy doing that.”
Rodya's grin turns slightly sheepish. You quickly jump in, sensing that Vergilius is just dragging you along for his own amusement. "I can assure you that we will do our best to not let things get to that point... and even if something like that were to happen, um... all– all cleaning will be a team effort."
"Mephistopheles will be as clean as a pharmacy tomorrow morning," Rodya promises eagerly.
Vergilius narrows his eyes, closing his eyes with an irritated grunt. "...Very well. Just don't cause too much ruckus at night. Charon is a light sleeper."
"...Doesn't he always sound as if he thought he was our father?" you recount animatedly, waving your arms around. "You know what I mean, Ish, right? He's just so..."
Ishmael's eyes linger on you for a moment, shifting in her seat slightly. When you continue to simply look at her expectantly, she raises an eyebrow.
"Are you really surprised that he treats us all like children?" she says as she leans back in the bus seat. Rodya and a few of the other sinners have left to buy fuel, as Rodya called it, and you assume everyone else was in their rooms – the main corridor of Mephistopheles is silent, save for your and Ishmael's voices and the soft rumbling of the engine. "We get some time off and Rodya's first thought is to get wasted? Not the most mature idea," she huffs, not bothering to hide her irritation.
You blink, dumbfounded. "Huh?" You thought having a few drinks as co-workers would be a fun way to spend some time together. It isn't as if you had the opportunity to do that anywhere in the past few months, either.
...Did Ishmael always have such an aversion to alcohol? You could've sworn she'd never said anything of the sort...
Ishmael's eyes flicker away from you for a moment, and you're reminded of how little you really know about her. Your shoulders fall. You've noticed that you always feel a strange tightness in your throat when Ishmael is in a bad mood.
"And calling it team-building, too," she mutters, raking her fingers through her hair. "It's as if she..."
Following the path of her fingers, you're unable to stop your mind from wandering to how particularly soft Ishmael's hair looks in Mephistopheles’ low light. You wonder if she'd let you braid it sometimes – it'd probably take hours, sure, but spending all that time alone with her...
You immediately jolt back to the present when Ishmael calls your name. It must've been the second or third time, too, by the impatient look on her face. You suddenly feel horribly guilty.
"I'm sorry," you blurt out, feeling your face burn up just a little. "Ah, Ish, it's just that... your hair looks... nice."
Ishmael was just about to tell you off for ignoring her spiel, but she swiftly goes quiet.
"...Huh? What?" she grimaces slightly, as if she isn't sure what kind of expression to make, her eyes glancing off to the side for a moment. Her hand twitches towards her hair, before she sets it down in her lap. "I mean– thanks, but that wasn't..."
Ishmael purses her lips, and your eyes linger on her freckles and a wave of embarrassment washes over you. You feel your stomach flip. What the hell is wrong with you?
"Yes, sorry, Ish. You were saying?" You give her your best apologetic smile, hoping it does something to ease her bad mood.
Ishmael narrows her eyes suspiciously, before eventually picking up her trail of thought again. "...Right. As I was saying, I really can't believe you. I didn't think you'd just go along with anything she..."
"Come on, Ish, everyone can have a drink from time to time," you sigh, leaning forward slightly. You liked her, really, but you were quickly getting weary. "I mean, look, you don't have to come–"
Ishmael almost seems hurt, but she parts her lips to speak before you can really dwell on her expression. "That's not what I–" Ishmael cuts you off, but she's unable to finish her thought as the bus door opens with an abrupt hiss.
"Good evening, boys and girls~"
It's Rodya, of course, commanding your attention the second she walks in. In her hand is a bottle of... something. A third of its content is already missing, and you can't help but chuckle fondly. Ishmael automatically looks away as Rodya approaches you two, uncomfortably shuffling in her seat.
"Oh? Oh, just girls, then," she corrects herself swiftly, her eyes falling on you and Ishmael. "Want a sip?"
"No, thanks. We should get everything ready, first," you say gently. Ishmael doesn't bother with a reply. She just crosses her arms, huffing.
"Mhm, suit yourself," she shrugs, setting her bottle down onto a small folding table you prepared in advance. Soon after, Sinclair stumbles into the bus, four full bags of groceries in his hands. "...Uh, Miss Rodya, could you maybe..."
"Oh! Right!" Rodya straightens up, taking two of the bags from him, before putting them down onto the floor with a giggle. "Sorry, Sinclair~ Thanks for carrying it all for me."
Sinclair seems significantly less distressed now, walking over to the front of the bus and setting the remaining bags down wherever Rodya points him to. Hong Lu, who stepped in just after Sinclair, stands near the door as he looks around in a confused manner.
"That's a little strange," he tilts his head. "Weren't you guys supposed to put up some decorations, or something? It doesn't look like you did a very good job at that," he says airily, one hand behind his back. You notice Ishmael's hand visibly twitch at his words, and you're suddenly glad her mace is nowhere near her in this moment.
"Never mind that!" Rodya cuts in. "Not like we need decorations to have fun, hm? Hey, Sinclair, could you be a dear and go get everyone, please~?"
The room is filled with pleasant chatter and laughs, and you struggle to remember the last time you felt so at ease in a group of people (especially if those people are a bunch of unstable maniacs). The scent of cheap alcohol and various greasy snacks permeates the air, and yet the combination feels strangely comforting. You're nursing a glass of wine in your hand, a small smile on your face as you absent-mindedly listen to your fellow sinners talk (or, well, shout, in the case of– "MANAGER ESQUIRE!!! DO NOT LAMENT THINE INABILITY TO INGEST WONDROUS LIQUID COURAGE!!! THOU ALREADY ART AS COURAGEOUS AS THE MOST SKILLED OF FIXERS!!!").
Contrary to Don Quixote's words, Dante seems like they're enjoying themselves as well. Their stance is quite relaxed as they chat with Outis, the latter eagerly nodding along. You can't help but smile to yourself. It must be nice to not have Vergilius breathing down your neck for once, you suppose– but it also might be just the fact that Dante's simply grateful that no one's currently trying to kill each other.
Despite all of the bubbly commotion, there's still one glaring worry on your mind.
Your gaze moves across the room, chuckling at the usual image of Rodya pestering Gregor over something you didn't catch, before your eyes land on Ishmael. She isn't sitting too far off – she must've moved to the third row seat at some point – and yet she still seems as if she was lost deep in thought, her brows furrowed slightly.
Perhaps it was the wine you've already had – you aren't certain – but you lean down to grab a half-empty bottle, your feet unsteadily leading you towards Ishmael.
She stiffens as you approach. Her breath catches in her throat, and she looks like she might bolt out of her seat for a moment. You stop in your tracks. What the hell is it with her?
You hesitate for a moment.
"...Want some?" you ask, raising the bottle.
Ishmael says your name, exasperated, and it makes you feel incredibly small. You falter for a moment, and you're just about to turn around and leave, before she sighs and reaches out.
"...It's not like it's gonna be the end of the world if I have some," she mumbles to herself as she takes the bottle from your hands, her fingers brushing yours. You feel your cheeks heat up, and you're more than glad you can blame it on the alcohol.
She opens it up, takes a few sips, and her lips look really soft and then she's already passing it back to you.
Ah.
"Tastes like shit," she mutters roughly, wiping her mouth with her sleeve. You let out a giggle at her reaction, and you could almost swear Ishmael's expression softened at that. Or maybe you're already drunk.
"Do you not like wine?" you ask, leaning forward slightly. Ishmael hesitates for a moment, her eyes lingering on yours, before abruptly glancing off to the side again.
"...It's too sweet," she replies eventually.
"That's strange," you say airily, grabbing the edge of Ishmael's seat to balance yourself slightly. "Rodya said this one's her favorite..."
Ishmael's gaze flickers to Rodya for a moment, the air between you feeling like it dropped a few degrees – the sudden shift especially jarring compared to the warm atmosphere in Mephistopheles. Ishmael's eye twitches as she leans back in her seat, averting her gaze from you again.
"...Guess so," she says simply, and you feel your shoulders slump again. You stand there for a few more moments, perhaps hoping that Ishmael would continue, before finally giving up.
"Okay," you nod, doing your best to straighten yourself up even as you sway slightly. "I, uh... If this whole thing starts being too much for you, just let me know. We could get some... fresh air, or something."
Ishmael stares, and for a moment, you're positive she can't stand you.
"...Thanks," she says after a beat, her expression conflicted. "Just... don't overdo it with the alcohol. You're going to feel like crap in the morning."
You blink, in your tipsy state unable to comprehend why Ishmael would be giving you friendly advice all of a sudden. You reassure her with a simple nod, before turning around and heading towards the rest of the group, bottle in hand.
It's not like she had any reason to worry, anyway. You've always made sure to only have as much alcohol as you can handle. You like to think you're pretty responsible in that regard.
Perhaps you're not very responsible after all.
You're not sure how much alcohol you've had. Well, it certainly is difficult to say no to Rodya when she's refilling your glass with such vigor. You're sitting beside her, your brain foggy to the point you can only really register her proximity and nothing else in the room.
Your head is resting on her shoulder as she talks enthusiastically, her energy only rising the more alcohol she consumes. Her hand is on your waist, keeping you tucked into her side snuggly, and you can't say you're complaining. Rodya's warm.
A brief moment of clarity has you worry that you're drooling. You slowly raise your head, opening your eyes groggily. Heathcliff's passed out on the floor. You giggle.
"Where's Dante?" you slur, leaning into Rodya again. "Someone should take Heathcliff to his room."
"Somebody got nauseous, I think?" she replies, shrugging as she takes another hearty sip. "Can't remember who. Dante took them outside. Greg went too, I, uh... I'm pretty sure. What a darling," she hums, rubbing your waist casually.
You nod, even though you didn't really process half of what she said, and your body feels so light you think that if you closed your eyes, you'd fall asleep. You're about to do just that, when you feel Rodya suddenly stir beside you.
You grumble something half-coherent about her staying still. You hear the clinking of a glass against a table, before she gently squeezes your shoulder.
"Hey. Uh..." Rodya trails off, glancing over her shoulder nervously for a moment. "Did you and Ishy, like, fight, or... whatever?"
The mention of Ishmael's name feels like the sun filtering in through a dense forest, and you feel yourself sober up just a bit. Blinking heavily, you look back at Rodya in confusion. "Huh? Wha... uh, why...?"
You make the mistake of looking over your shoulder, too.
Ishmael's glaring.
You look away immediately – well, as quickly as you can with your numbed reflexes – and you feel as if you can't will away the prickles on the back of your neck.
"...I dunno," you reply, voice muffled. "She's been so.... strange all day. I dunno."
There's a beat of silence as Rodya seems to mull over your words.
"...You," Rodya declares, "should go talk to her."
"Tried."
"Then. Try again."
"Did."
"Then," Rodya says with a drunken confidence, turning around to grab both of your shoulders. "Do it one more time."
"Mhm," you hum, not even really registering what you're agreeing to. You stand up slowly, holding onto Rodya's arms for balance. She gives you an encouraging thumbs up, before you turn around to walk over to Ishmael's seat again.
Walking is a generous term – you more or less just stumble towards her, almost tripping over your own feet. She's unable to hold her glare as you approach, her expression twisting into something a bit more conflicted.
Your mind goes blank, and you have to steady yourself with one hand on the back of Ishmael's seat. "...Hi," you greet bluntly, keeping your eyes on her face.
"Hey," she says back, obviously trying not to let her confusion break through her guarded demeanor. She eyes you suspiciously, before letting out a small exhale, her eyes softening. "You're drunk."
"Sorry," you apologize, though you aren't really sure why. It's not like she was reprimanding you. It was just an observation.
"You, uh... Ish. Ishmael. You... seem upset."
" 'm not," she shoots back quickly. Maybe a little too defensive to not be obvious. Her words come out slightly slurred, and you narrow your eyes at her as you lean forward. Ishmael's eyes widen, and even though she looks like a deer in headlights for a moment, she doesn't pull away.
You're so close you can catch the faint scent of alcohol on her breath, and you tilt your head to the side slightly, noticing an empty glass on the windowsill.
Huh.
"Hey," you point towards the glass, "Didn't you, like..." you go quiet, losing your trail of thought for a moment. "...think this was all immature... 'n stuff?" You wave your hand around clumsily, not gesturing towards anything in particular.
Ishmael's shoulders grow rigid, and she lets out an irritated huff in response. "Changed my mind. 's not... illegal, is it?" she asks, turning her head away from you.
That... gesture of hers begins to irritate you more than a little bit. It's not like Ishmael has problems holding eye contact. Does she really just...
You move to straighten yourself up, letting go of the back of her seat. That proves to be somewhat of a bad decision, as in your intoxicated state, you slightly mix up the order of things – you first let go of your de facto crutch, and only then try to stand upright, which, of course, doesn't work.
You almost topple over right into Ishmael, and she just barely manages to grab your forearms to help balance you in time.
Ishmael is frozen for a moment, her lips pursed into a tight line. She adjusts her grip on your arms – you doubt she did it consciously – and you feel a shameful thrill rush up your spine.
"...Hi," you repeat dumbly, and Ishmael lets out something like a mix between an exhale and a laugh. "Ish, if you're angry with me, you should just... tell me. I dunno."
No reply. Ishmael simply looks away and sighs, and you, embarrassingly enough, feel your eyes well up with tears. Maybe you really should've declined those last few glasses.
At that, Ishmael seems to grow concerned, her hold on you tightening slightly. "Shit, uh..."
She stands up, glancing around Mephistopheles, seemingly trying to best figure out what to do with her crying, drunk-out-of-her-mind colleague (especially since she herself wasn't really sober either). "Okay, uh... let's go somewhere else, yeah? Your room? Yeah, I'll, uh..."
Slightly awkward, Ishmael puts your arm around her shoulders, supporting you by your waist. You're not sure whether she wants you to lean into her or not, but you aren't really able to walk on your own anyway, so you let her help you without protest.
She feels nice.
Ishmael leads you toward the backdoor. You assume so – everything seems slightly blurred to you. You try to focus on putting one foot in front of the other without stumbling instead of Ishmael's closeness and her hand on your waist. It's not working.
You two find yourselves in the back corridor. You can only tell because Rodya's lively voice now sounds muffled – you can barely make out her words from here.
Ishmael stops in her tracks, speaking your name quietly, before gently reaching for your hand – shit – and setting it down on something strikingly cold in comparison to her skin. The door handle, you realize.
"...You gotta open it," she reminds you, her breath warm against your ear. She adjusts your stance slightly, one hand firmly on your waist, the other loosely holding your wrist where your arm rests around her shoulders, and by now you're certain you fell asleep somewhere on your way to Ishmael's seat and are currently dreaming.
You push the door open before you can second-guess yourself. Your room materializes in front of you, as always, and Ishmael guides you inside, before closing the door behind you. The abrupt silence only manages to remind you that you've never let any of the other sinners in your room before. That fact should reasonably make this feel like an invasion of privacy, and yet you don't feel any apprehension about Ishmael specifically.
You zone out for a few moments, and the next thing you know, Ishmael's carefully easing you down on your bed. You wipe your eyes with the back of your hand, feeling heat rush up your cheeks at the state you're currently in. Ishmael stands in front of you, hands awkwardly suspended in mid-air, as if she wasn't quite sure what to do with them. It was endearing.
She looks a little out of place in the sterile white of your room. She stands out like a sore thumb, really – her hair is probably the single most colorful thing here.
You stare at her for a few moments, unable to muster up anything more than yet another slurred, "Sorry."
"Don't– Ahh, don't apologize," she huffs, raking her fingers through her hair. "I... I was the one who made you cry."
"No, that's not your..." you shake your head, embarrassed, and you feel lightheaded for a moment. "I mean, I wouldn't have cried if I hadn't... I had a lot. Of wine. 's not your fault."
Ishmael can't help but scoff slightly, not bothering to hide her disapproval. She slowly straightens herself up, trying her best to keep herself steady, before rolling her shoulders. "...Well, when you're with someone like Rodya the whole time..."
You tune out the rest of her words, only focusing on the expression Ishmael was making. It almost felt as if you were trying to read a book in a foreign language. She's been like this all day – fine one moment, then you mention the party, then Rodya's favorite wine, then...
Hm. Rodya?
Your eyes widen in realization – as if you had just solved the world's greatest mystery. Perhaps you should take up the mantle of a detective?
"Is this cuz of... you know. Is this cuz of Rodya?" you ask, leaning forward slightly. Ishmael's reaction immediately makes you narrow your eyes. She leans back slightly, pursing her lips.
"...What?"
"Did you two argue, or somethin'..? No, that... doesn't make sense. Rodya was asking me if I was the one who fought with you..."
"Wait– wait." Ishmael waves her hand, motioning for you to stop talking momentarily. "Where did you even get that from..."
"...You were glaring at us."
"I wasn't," she shoots back without missing a beat, though she glances off to the right for a moment.
"...You totally were," you slur, standing up shakily as you jab a finger into her chest accusingly (Jab is a strong word. You sort of just tap her.) You sway slightly, threatening to keel over, and Ishmael swiftly moves to steady you.
"Sit down."
Ishmael gently pushes your shoulders down, and you automatically do as she says. It briefly crosses your mind that you must've looked like a dog.
She keeps her hands on your shoulders for a few beats longer, simply looking back at you.
The room is quiet.
Silence is one of the reasons you generally prefer spending your time in the main corridor, in the company of the other sinners; then there's just enough noise to keep you from wallowing in your own thoughts for too long.
It's often silent with Ishmael. There have been more quiet moments with her than you could reasonably keep track of, and yet you never felt uncomfortable in her presence. She simply tends to not speak her thoughts until the situation absolutely calls for it.
You didn't mind. You do, now.
Ishmael must've felt you tense up, as she slides her hands down your arms – probably in an attempt to get you to relax – and you forget why you were irritated for a second. Her hands linger against your jacket for a moment longer, before she pulls back, and you feel uncomfortably warm. As if someone set all your organs on fire.
...Maybe that isn't the most pleasant comparison. You're no poet.
Ishmael lets out a soft exhale, and you find yourself staring at her lips and wondering just how nice it'd be if she hadn't pulled back and her breath had hit your skin instead.
You need to stop thinking.
"...It's just... ahh," she breathes out, visibly restless. She averts her gaze from you, but you can't find it in yourself to be mad – her cheeks are flushed red (...from alcohol, you assume), and it's such an uncharacteristic picture you can't help but be a bit mesmerized.
"...You never cling like that to me."
"Oh." That makes sense. "Wait, huh?"
Ishmael gestures with her hand loosely, the rest of her body tense as she still doesn't meet your gaze. "You were all..." she trails off, her hand dropping to her side, "...over her all night," she continues, and you're confident that if she was sober, she'd rather die than say something like this out loud.
You stare at her in disbelief, your lips parted faintly, and you notice her eyes flicker down for a moment. Your heart feels as if it stopped beating.
After a few moments, your brain finally processes her words, your face slowly but surely beginning to warm up again as realization dawns on you.
"Ishmael," you say breathlessly, suddenly feeling as if you were unable to look anywhere else.
Her face twists into panic for a moment. "No– nevermind. I–"
Ishmael moves to take a step back, but the alcohol in your blood is making you bolder than you really are. You reach for her wrist before you can think better of it. Her breath catches in her throat, and she instinctively almost tugs her hand away, before willing herself to relax.
"Ishmael," you say her name again, corners of your lips twitching up in wonder, "are you jealous?"
You feel her hand twitch. "No, I... forget it, we're both drunk, you need to rest. I'll just–"
"No, wait," you stammer, your grip on her wrist tightening. "Ishmael, I... I really don't like that you never tell me what's on your mind."
She goes quiet. Perhaps undergoing some sort of introspection. Sighing, her expression softens just a little bit.
"It's difficult to do that if it makes you sound like a child," she mutters, pursing her lips. Her eyes flicker to where you're still holding her wrist. "...You can let go now. I'm not leaving."
"I don't want to."
She huffs your name skeptically, but she doesn't protest anymore.
"In fact," you declare, carefully standing up again, "I think it's more childish that you just... expect me to guess whatever you're thinking. I really don't like that."
You let go of her wrist, only to slide your hand lower, intertwining your fingers together. Ishmael's breath audibly hitches. You lean into her, and she almost loses her own balance, stumbling back a step. She tries to quickly regain her footing, her arm automatically moving up to steady you by your waist.
Your heart might as well beat out of your chest.
A moment passes.
"...You just... smile a lot with her," she admits with some difficulty.
“...Ishmael, I was convinced you couldn't stand me,” you shoot back, and your room feels as if it was tilting on its axis. “I had no idea… if you had just told me…”
You grab onto Ishmael’s sleeve with your other hand. You see her gaze drop to your lips again, and you'd be lying if you said you weren't tempted to lean in.
“...We shouldn't be having this conversation when both of us can barely stand,” she murmurs softly, slowly walking you back towards your bed. “It's… not fair.”
She carefully sits you down onto your bed again, but you don't let go of her hand. You lightly tug her forward, and she almost falls over, her knees brushing yours.
“...Why wouldn't it be…?”
“I don't want to put you on the spot,” Ishmael jumps in quickly, tenderly squeezing your hand, and you feel incredibly light for a moment. “Or– or make you feel as if you owe me something the next day if it's just… the alcohol talking.”
You stare at her blankly.
She looks back at you, her eyes half-lidded, and she's overwhelmingly soft and sweet and everything you've wanted for so long now and Wings, she's still holding your hand and–
“Ishmael, I really want to kiss you,” you blurt out.
…Her face contorts into a strange, alarmed expression for a second. You think she's going to pull away again. She leans in.
“You can't–” she breathes out, pressing the heel of her palm into her forehead. Her eyes flutter shut out of frustration, and she lets out a shaky exhale. “You can't say that if you aren't serious about it.”
“I am–”
“You're drunk, that's what you are,” Ishmael says sternly, and yet her voice is shaky. Her hand absent-mindedly comes up to brush a strand of hair from your face, lingering for a moment before pulling back. “You need to sleep it off, and tomorrow we'll act like this conversation never happened. Alright?”
Your chest feels tight. “Ishmael–”
“Don't say my name like that,” she pleads.
“...You're still holding my hand.”
Ishmael seems caught off guard.
“...Yeah.”
“Well then, why don't you…” you trail off, voice faltering.
“I don't– I don't want to.”
You feel heat rush up your neck as Ishmael's grip on your hand tightens. A weak laugh escapes your lips. “You're so strange, Ishmael.”
You lean forward subconsciously, looking up at her through lidded eyes, and even though she’s still tense, she doesn't pull away. She inhales sharply, her shoulders rigid as your breaths mingle. You catch the familiar scent of wine on her breath again – it's pleasantly dizzying, and the unbidden thought that you'd like another taste crosses your mind.
You stay still for a few moments. You had always hoped she'd be the one to kiss you, first.
She doesn't. Ishmael’s eyes flicker to your lips, briefly, before she forces her gaze somewhere onto the floor – as if she was ashamed for even looking at you in that way. Your heart stutters in your chest. You don't feel like waiting anymore.
You impatiently close the distance between you.
It's only a brush of lips at first. Your other hand tentatively moves to clutch the hem of Ishmael's jacket, tugging her close as you feel yourself melt into her.
Ishmael reciprocates. You barely register that she let go of your hand, tracing her fingers up your arm. Heat rushes up through you at the gesture, and you part your lips slightly, hoping she'll follow your lead and deepen the kiss.
She lets out a breathy exhale, as if she was about to do the same, before jerking back, her hand leaving your shoulder as her fingertips brush across her lips in disbelief.
You feel dazed.
“...Hah,” she exhales, brows furrowed. “Don't look at me with that face.”
You're still holding onto the hem of her jacket, and you'd love to oblige, really – but how could you do that when her lips were on yours just a few moments ago? Her chest heaves slightly as she tries to catch her breath, her cheeks painted a becoming pink. You realize you must look quite the same.
Your other hand moves up the hem of her jacket as well, gently tugging her closer. Her eyes widen, and she has to plant her hand on the mattress right beside your hip to steady herself.
She's so close again.
“You're really not making this easy,” she mutters.
“...You're the one telling me that,” you mumble, your voice barely above a whisper as your fingers slip into the hair at the nape of her neck. Her breath hitches in her throat, and she lets out a soft, flustered sound you've never heard from her before. Her hair is as silky as you'd assumed. You let out a breathless giggle, your other hand moving to fiddle with her shirt collar.
“You know,” you say light-heartedly, your fingers wrapping around her tie, “I wouldn't mind doing that again.”
“...Wings,” she sighs, brows creased together, though you note that she's not pulling away. “Are you sure? I don't want you to wake up tomorrow, and…”
“It's fine,” you reassure her, gently tugging her closer. “I swear, Ish.”
“I can't understand you,” she breathes out, expression softening, and this time, she leans in first. Her hand cups the side of your jaw, and then her lips are on yours again and she tastes better than any wine you've ever had.
Ishmael's lips are soft and pliant against yours, her right hand grabbing your waist, and you feel so secure being in her grasp like this. You kiss her again, then again, still holding her close as she leads you to lie down on your bed.
Your back hits the mattress, and you’re looking up at her as if she hung the moon. Ishmael pulls back, slightly out of breath, and her eyes linger on your face for a moment too long. She then kneels down, and seeing her between your legs has a certain thought flash through your mind. Your face burns up, and you have to avert your gaze for a moment in your attempt to not feel like a creep.
Ishmael simply unties your shoes, carefully removing them, before standing up and slipping off her own shoes as well. She climbs into the bed beside you, the mattress dipping under her weight. You’re about to shift slightly to make some space for her, but she swiftly stops you by grabbing your waist.
Her other hand twitches slightly in mid-air, hesitant, before gently caressing the side of your face. You might as well have stopped breathing.
“You're so pretty,” you blurt out, unable to find it in yourself to be embarrassed. She lets out an exhale, and you can see her tense up slightly.
She doesn't look away this time.
Her hand mirrors your earlier movement as it wraps around your tie. You gulp nervously, feeling anticipation coil in your gut as she leans over you, her hair falling into her face.
She mutters your name softly, a hint of concern in her expression. “If… if you want me to stop, then…”
“No,” you shake your head, a breathy quality to your voice. “Go on.”
Ishmael slowly undoes your tie.
You don't expect her to still be in your bed when you wake up the next morning.