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The Balcony3,635 words
The Table3,652 words
The Sofa3,262 words
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Heat176 words
The Past3,897 words
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Warmth142 words
The Floor3,477 words
The Bullet Train3,675 words
Home2,751 words

The Sofa

Another scotch and half an hour later

The other patrons of the lounge had gradually cleared out. The DJs had switched over, from the sound of it, and the mood lighting seemed a tiny bit darker. The chairs at the table were firm and had grown uncomfortable, so the two of them had retired to a plush black leather sofa near one corner of the room.

They sat side by side, a handful of inches apart, with their bodies turned to face each other, Adagio nearest the window and Spitfire beside a convincing artificial potted fern of some kind, with a floor-standing lamp beyond. Each of them lounged with an arm dangling over the back of the sofa. They both had their feet up on a matching leather footstool in front of them, and Spitfire only occasionally allowed her eyes to wander over Adagio’s flawless legs, bare below the short dress.

Spitfire’s pose was casual, where Adagio’s appeared effortless. After a brief lull in the conversation as the previous topic wrapped up, Adagio leaned in closer and spoke in a low voice dripping with honey.

“How many other girls have sat here before me?”

That question usually came from the jealous or the insecure, but Adagio seemed neither, which helped Spitfire fight back against her first instinct of bristling at it. She pushed the feeling back down, reminding herself that she had nothing to be ashamed of or be defensive over, and any judgement was a fault on society’s part, not hers. Adagio was wearing an ‘impress me’ smirk, and looked to find the idea captivating.

“One,” Spitfire whispered, deliberately choosing to be dramatic about it, and so holding up a single index finger in front of her face at the same time, barely an inch from either of their noses. “It’s always the same person,” she carried on before any objections were raised, “they just wear different faces each time.”

At first, she saw no outward reaction from Adagio, but, very slowly, a grin began on her lips and spread across her face. Within a few seconds she had drawn away to their previous distance apart and thrown her head back, laughing.

“That’s delicious!” she cackled out between guffaws, “To them, you’re an idol, but to you–” she shook her head as laughter shook the rest of her “–they’re not even separate entities...”

When phrased in that way, it sounded like something that ought to make Spitfire feel bad. She’d made peace with her choices long ago, but when attention was really focused on those on the receiving end, the imbalance in affections seemed like something that should have brought on guilt.

It didn’t, though. Hadn’t her partner always been eager? Her prey always wanting to be caught? And if both parties got what they were after, did it matter that they were seeking different things from each other? Surely none had thought they’d be the one she’d fall in love with and want to stay with forever; nobody could be that naive, and to even hope for such a thing would fly against the spirit of the one-night arrangement that each meeting had been very much implied to be. Everybody involved had known that, so no-one should have been hurt by it.

And, however confident she was of her own attractiveness, she knew it was her fame that really allowed her to live that way. Some might even have wanted to sleep with her just so they could brag about it to their friends the next day. The dynamic with fans was always going to be hopelessly one-sided; they knew all about her and she knew nothing about them, and they idolised her as a hero from a poster on their bedroom wall, rather than a real person.

A long way from a good basis for a meaningful relationship. It would never be between equals, and anything longer than one night would be doomed from the start. So she was right not to feel guilty about it, and she had done nothing wrong. And, again, we toasted being free from consciences!

“I guess I’m made of concrete or something,” she shrugged.

Adagio looked her up and down before replying, mostly appraisingly, but with the barest hints of hunger, and managed to do so openly and show her desire without coming across as lecherous.

“And here was me thinking it was all toned muscle,” she chided, pulling out her false pout again.

Spitfire congratulated herself on not blushing, but felt her pulse quicken as her imagination conjured up the sensation of Adagio running her hands over that which she had been admiring. Feeling a light shiver across her skin, Spitfire fought her way clear of the vision, only pausing to enjoy it very briefly before breaking free.

“Nope, industrial-grade building materials, that’s me,” she said, laughing the compliment off.

“And yet they throw themselves at you nonetheless.” Adagio gave her a teasing, almost playful look from beneath her lashes, “That’s true adoration.”

This time Spitfire focused on her scepticism enough to keep any uninvited mental images at bay, which left her to smile in response without distractions.

“Is it, though?” she chuckled, “Or is it just a more hardcore form of autograph hunting?”

“Ooooh, yes!” Adagio exclaimed, lighting up instantly with inspiration. Not the innocent kind of exclamation that might come from suggesting ice cream to a child, but a breathy near-whisper, laden with dark suggestions that passed on excitement of a different kind to Spitfire, and also gave her the feeling she’d soon regret it.

“Would you sign me?” Adagio pressed on in the same tone, leaning closer again, “Sign your name on my skin?”

Spitfire backed up in her seat, trying to regain some distance. Could Adagio be just another fan, underneath it all? Something else she’d learned over her time as a celebrity was to watch out for nutters. It wasn’t like the signals Adagio sent out suggested ‘normal’ or ‘harmless,’ but Spitfire hadn’t thought her unstable. So perhaps that wasn’t giving Adagio enough credit, and there was another reason behind her actions. Probably more about being adored.

“Why would you want that?” she asked, trying to keep the distaste from her voice.

But do you really want that ‘similar consideration,’ Spitfire? Or might it be a fun new experience to indulge a different obsession for the night?

“As proof...” Adagio said, more softly than Spitfire had been expecting, who, after a confused moment, realised the implications, and felt a paranoid lurch in her chest. She’s doing this just to tell her friends? But no, no, again that was jumping to conclusions – maybe that wasn’t the only reason she was doing it, and Spitfire supposed that it was only natural that if you happened to hook up with someone famous, you’d be disbelieved by those you told and might want some way to prove it. Wanting proof didn’t necessarily mean that–

“...of ownership.”

Ah.

“Because you have the power to do it,” Adagio carried on before Spitfire could process anything further, speaking with more energy. “The rules are different for you. You can do things most people only get to fantasise about.”

Adagio paused, and from the way her expression shifted, it wasn’t just because she needed air.

“I want to see you celebrating that,” she finished, in a voice that could have been supportive, if it hadn’t been so busy being seductive.

Behaving like that, Spitfire was pretty sure, was likely to earn her a bad name in the press. There were always rumours and gossip stories about her, of course, that was to be expected with a job as high-profile as hers. And while such pieces, from the occasional glimpses she’d ended up seeing of them, were usually tacky, baseless and worded as if the content were scandalous, they were rarely actively hostile.

People wanted to hear about the Wonderbolts, to feel that they’d gained some inside knowledge and got to know their idols as real, flawed humans, and so it was likely she’d end up in magazines and newspapers from time to time. Spitfire saw it mostly as the press just trying to do their jobs selling those magazines, with no personal ill will towards her.

But if she started ‘celebrating’ her celebrity, she could see that changing. She’d become a target, one that it would be seen as acceptable to humiliate with scathing exposés backed up by secret snapshots taken by paparazzi following her movements night and day. If she began acting like she was above people, then those people would want to see her taken down.

“You know, most people these days prefer a photo,” she smiled, reluctant but humouring Adagio.

“Do you sign legal documents with a photo?” came an exasperated reply bordering on outrage. “A signature is a flourish of power,” Adagio pronounced, gesturing with her hands to drive home the importance of her words, before resting one hand high on her chest, fingertips caressing the skin on her neck between her clavicles, while draping the other hand back over the edge of the sofa. “So much authority is channelled into the writing of a single word.”

I’m pretty sure some online insurance things do need a photo to make them legally binding, not to mention when security systems have retinal scans but…

“And it’s not some arcane magic word,” Adagio continued, which brought to mind dusty bookshelves, but the withering way she spoke implied that those distant libraries didn’t hold the answer, “this ritual holds far more showmanship than that – your own name is the key!”

The first thought Spitfire had was that of course a person’s name was the key; that was the thing unique to them, and signatures were used to authenticate who they were. But anyone could write a name; the part really being assessed was their handwriting, and in theory any word could be used to test that.

So why the name? She remembered the play they’d read in school, set several hundred years in the past, in which characters agonised about signing their name to a lie, as if it were the most important thing they had. She thought of how someone’s word had historically been treated with a great deal of trust, and how doubting such a thing had been seen as a grave insult.

A person’s name, back then, had been tied up with honour, and while those attitudes were gradually being left behind, the legal system was often slowest of all to move with the times, so for now a signature did indeed hold a weight more powerfully binding than other words.

“If you sign that one word on a Wonderbolt uniform,” Adagio stated, “it doubles in value.” That thought was held for a moment, giving Spitfire time to process it and appreciate its stark truth, eyes widening momentarily at the revelation. She almost jumped when she felt a touch on her hand, which, in all their drawing towards and away from each other on the sofa, she hadn’t moved from hanging over the back of it. She felt slender fingers wrap around her own, and Adagio stared straight into her eyes, leaning in closer again, perhaps unconsciously.

“If you write it on me?” she asked, in that same breathy voice from before, of dusky temptations. Spitfire was a rabbit in magenta headlights, with only the rush of blood in her ears tying her to the world. “Everyone in the building goes home jealous.”

That... Hoo, wow, yeah... ok, that actually does sound kind of sexy.

Maybe the press wouldn’t take it too badly if she went down that route? She wasn’t exactly known as a good girl, after all. Her reputation as captain was already fearsome, so in some ways her letting loose might just enhance it.

Maybe that was only wishful thinking. Or maybe she should try it, and see how it would be received? If it went down terribly, then, as a one-off wild night, it would probably be forgiven, and at least she’d know for sure.

“Where do you want signing?” Spitfire grinned, taking a permanent marker pen from her bra. Adagio lifted an eyebrow at that, but didn’t comment. She would learn in time, Spitfire thought, when her band went big, how frustrating it was when fans begged for autographs but then insisted she wait while they frantically asked around for a pen.

“Across my chest,” Adagio said with absolute certainty. Of course.

“It’ll ruin your dress,” Spitfire scoffed, but Adagio was already sitting upright and reaching behind her to unbutton it. She smoothly slid the straps down her shoulders, leaving them hanging on her upper arms, pulling the mesh top section down with one hand and holding the corset in place with the other.

Spitfire too sat up, pen in hand, and Adagio swept her hair out of the way behind her shoulders and leaned in, extending the exposed top of her chest forwards expectantly. Spitfire knew from experience how awkward skin was to write on, and so moved as close as she could and began writing her signature slowly and carefully, her head only a few inches above the top of the pen.

“Don’t worry about the dress,” Adagio whispered mischievously in her ear as she wrote, from the sound of it having noticed where Spitfire’s eyes were wandering, “I’m not going to be wearing it for much longer.”

Spitfire felt her cheeks burning, half the rest of her body too, but she also snorted with laughter.

“What are you trying to turn me into?” she shook her head, amused and bemused together. She sighed, but happily. “I dread to think what my family think of my lifestyle as it is.”

After adding the finishing touches to her autograph and mostly managing not to smudge the ink too much, she placed the top back on the pen, and replaced the pen down the front of her dress. Adagio looked down at her own chest admiringly, beaming at the signature, before lifting her eyes to Spitfire’s own.

“Why would I want to make you any different to who you are?” she said warmly, reaching out to brush the backs of her fingertips down Spitfire’s cheek, with the hand not holding her dress in place. “I like who you are.” Adagio then slid the straps back onto her shoulders and reached both hands behind her neck, where they disappeared into her great mass of hair, but were presumably actually doing the dress up again. “I just think maybe you should, too, and should embrace it.”

Had anyone asked Spitfire yesterday, she’d have said she embraced being who she was to the full. Then Adagio had shown up, and suddenly Spitfire’s established standards of self-acceptance, self-celebration even, seemed so relaxed. But none of that really mattered at that moment, not compared to Adagio’s touch on her skin, which still tingled.

Enough passed between them as they looked into each others’ eyes that no words were necessary to prompt them into both rising to their feet from where they’d been perching on the edge of the sofa. Spitfire ran her hands down her sides and hips, smoothing out the lemon-coloured fabric that hugged her body, while Adagio gently tugged the bottom of her own dress straight from anywhere it had ridden up while they had been sitting.

“I’m not going to be wearing it for much longer,” Adagio’s voice echoed in Spitfire’s mind. As one, they turned and headed towards the door, with Spitfire just ahead, the fluttering in her stomach far more pronounced than the usual casual anticipation she’d feel at that point of an evening’s events.

Spitfire opened the heavy door upon reaching it, standing aside to usher Adagio through, with both of them smiling at the put-on impression of courtesy. The music hit Spitfire the instant the door was opened, the thump of the bass slamming into her after sitting for so long without it.

Hot on its heels (ha ha!) came a wall of heat, with the combination of the body heat of hundreds of people dancing and the natural warmth of the May-acting-like-August night proving too much for the air conditioning to cope with. She halted for a moment, almost disorientated by the change, but quickly started walking again after shaking her head to clear it.

By that time, Adagio had drawn several feet ahead of her, and, apparently realising, slowed down and reached out a hand behind her in Spitfire’s direction. Slipping her own hand into the one offered, Spitfire looked towards the back entrance of the building, through which she usually entered and left to avoid most of the public attention. But before she had a chance to say anything over the pounding music, Adagio had already led her past the bar and was almost at the balcony, with the stairs to the dancefloor waiting beyond. Adagio appeared set in her course, so Spitfire said nothing and followed.

She felt the temperature rise further with each metal grille step they descended towards the main floor of the club, and smelled the odour of sweat and booze growing thicker in the air. The bouncer guarding the velvet rope at the bottom looked up at their approach, but dropped his eyes to the floor again after seeing who they were. He drew back the rope for them and smiled in their direction, but did not make eye contact or look up for longer than a moment. Spitfire was too valued a customer, she guessed, to risk an expression being misconstrued when she was leaving with someone. Or, on that occasion, being led out by someone, the context of which could not have been more obvious.

The dancers were packed even more tightly than before, bobbing and swaying to the music, and Adagio led Spitfire through the crowd by the hand, like a snake somehow slithering between the waves of an ocean. Their path through the heaving bodies was slow, taking a few seconds to go each few feet, pressed up against people on either side.

Many spared neither she nor Adagio a first glance, let alone a second. But many others definitely recognised Spitfire, sometimes before noticing the girl she was very clearly leaving with, sometimes after, and she noted how the looks they gave her changed accordingly.

The leers weren’t nearly as prevalent as she expected, especially given the signing thing. Adagio had been right; the most common response was envy, although who it was directed at was split between the two of them. Others were impressed, some amused, some astonished, and some even made ‘aww, that’s so sweet’ faces – she wasn’t sure how she felt about those, she didn’t really do ‘sweet.’ But none appeared angry, or like they wanted to tear her from her pedestal and bring her back down to their level.

Adagio looked like something between the cat that got the cream and the cat that ruled the universe. Spitfire found the whole thing intoxicating, the warmth coursing through her from the inside matching the tropical atmosphere of the room. Between that and her actual intoxication, she gave up trying to fight the feeling, and her own expression ended up mirroring Adagio’s by the time they reached the door.

Author's Note:

I've never commissioned artwork for a story before, but Naiad made me appreciate how much the image needed making, and Lucy-tan did a brilliant job of bringing it into being.