( various ) winter

[caipirinha]

it's the season of eyes meeting over the noise
and holding fast with sharp realisation
it's the season of cold making warmth a divine intervention
you are safe here, now.

Comments

( beluosos | diniz + iseile )

[caipirinha]

Frost patterns the windows in delicate patterns, swirling and jagged, soft and sharp all at once, and she traces them with a delicate, slim finger, bound to leave smudges on the glass, but she doesn’t care. It’s the first real frost of the season, not the powdery white that covers the lawns and drapes over the evergreens, the sort that melts into watery dew, but the sort that heralds winter. It’s trying to find cracks in the foundations of the house, in the walls, pressing to the glass as it urgently tries to force itself into the sphere of their warmth. Well- warmth. There isn’t much of that, not yet. The cold snuck up on the land like a ghost, silent and subtle, creeping along behind everyone in the form of icy blusters, dragging out its own absence until it could wait no longer, until the world had just about forgotten its inevitable arrival. Iseile is shivering in the few minutes since rising from the bed and tip-toeing across the room to inspect the frost in the pale, limp morning light. She exhales a little shakily, her petite frame trembling on the window seat with only a thin silk gown to cover an otherwise bare body. The turn of the seasons have always been a strange exhilaration for her, and she could never really say why; summer as a whole never really held her much allure, besides having a suitable excuse to wear very little clothing, and autumn was very beautiful, in all its auburn glory, but it was winter and spring that fascinated her the most. Winter was a worldly death; the destruction of the things not strong enough to outlast it, a merciless grip that took anything - anyone - that happened to lie in its path, and yet- spring followed. The rebirth. Leaves unfurl once again, and flowers begin to bloom, rising anew from the damp earth. How did the land recover, every year, without fail? Perhaps there’s a real explanation, she considers. She’d rather not know, though. The wonder of it all is worth so much more than the answer. Diniz speaks behind her, a sleepy mumble that is no less expectant and commanding as usual, asking her what she thought she was doing out of bed. With a roll of her eyes and a dry whisper of protest, Iseile slips her feet back onto the floor - so cold beneath her toes - and daintily skips back to her rightful place. She swings herself easily back onto the bed, at once diving under the duvet and clambering over Diniz to tuck herself in by his side. He remarks upon how cold she seems, absently drawing his arm around her as she buries her face against his neck, in part out of affection, in part because her nose is terribly chilly. His body radiates heat that she gladly absorbs, wrapped around him this way, cocooned once again, and feeling oddly… safe. “Safety” is not often the kind of sensation one would feel around Diniz Moniz. Iseile feels confident and proud and self-assured in his presence, but she has also been very, very frightened, on more than one occasion. Sad, on others - miserable, even. Once or twice. There’s a difference between feeling safe and feeling secure. There is security in being with him; the knowledge that she can get away with things that most others can’t, that she can have comfort and luxuries to indulge in, a sumptuous bed to sleep in even if it isn’t always by his side. As his index fingers circles lazily over her hip, an absent movement of a mind ready to drift back into slumber, Iseile feels for a few, precious minutes, that the walls of the house could all crumble into thousands of pieces, right here, right now, and yet it wouldn’t matter. In this moment, she has all that she needs in the world in the space of a bed.

( kings & queens | cat+bass )

[caipirinha]

The first winter they spend sharing a bed is a strange experience of testing each other’s boundaries and developing their relationship in a way that they’d never had a chance to before. When Cat had arrived in New York, she had just turned twenty eight and November was easily as cold as a London January, the night time in an awkwardly heated apartment meant sleeping in two sweaters and grumbling about it to each other. One year on, Cat is fresh over the twenty nine mark, Bass is thirty six, and yet the pair of them are no better than a pair of nine year olds. Perched on top of him, straddling his hips, Cat scowls from beyond the thick, ungainly cloak of duvet she has made for herself, clutching it tightly as Bass half-heartedly tries to tug it from her grasp, tug it - and her - down over himself, because neither of them remember how this fight started, only that Cat doesn’t want to be the one to finish it. It had begun near the door (one of those days where their shifts ended at similar times, and they met in the subway to go home together), and it had migrated across their small apartment to the kitchen until somehow she’d caught him off guard; and here they are now. “What are we even fighting about?” Bass asks her pointedly, suddenly, still clutching parts of the duvet in both hands even though he stops trying to pull it away from her. “What? Don’t be an idiot.” Cat frowns, her brow creasing, the freckles on her nose crinkling with annoyance and uncertainty, as if she’s suddenly unsure as to the subject of their tussle is. “I wanted to turn the bloody heating up, that’s what. Look, I can practically see myself fucking breathing in here--” “After we spent all that money fixing the boiler and the repair guy told us to take it easy?” “But it’s so goddamn cold! It could start chucking it down with snow in the next five minutes and you still wouldn’t give a shit, would you?” They both suddenly come to a very similar realisation at this point. How they manage it is entirely beyond them, maybe it’s the case in point of the very thing that they realise; they’re more than a little bit domestic. Arguing and fussing over bills, boilers and heating, they’re all things that neither of them could have ever dreamed up a few years ago, not when they were knocking around Hamlets, not when they were fanning the flames of whatever fire consumed the two of them. Cat stiffens, briefly, and Bass’s grip on the duvet spontaneously tightens (she has a tendency to step back from the obvious signs that this is an actual, tangible relationship, bolting away from it as if it poses some kind of danger to her; he still sees the way that “I love you”, rarely as it is spoken, stumbles out of her mouth, words forcing themselves off her tongue, not because she doesn’t mean them, but because she’s still learning what affection is). “Fuck it, if that’s the way we’re playing it, then ‘m having your thick sweater and you’re not doing a damn thing about it, understand?” Her voice has quietened into a rough mutter as she leans down, her hair sweeping over her shoulders and tickling his cheek for a short moment before she bumps her forehead against his - hard, of course - releasing her death grip on the duvet and finally allowing him to pull it around his shoulders. They’re both still fully dressed, but neither of them particularly care, not sandwiched here between each other, the mattress, the duvet. Bass feels a momentary tightness in his chest ease once again, and he moves his arms to loop around her, smiling vaguely as he mumbles yes, of course he understands, but she’ll have to fight him for it-- He relents when she nips him sharply on the nose, laughing and indignant all at once at the sheer stupidity of the way that they loved each other.

( blackboard | cat + joshua )

[caipirinha]

It’s the one time she allows him to stay with her for most of the night, the one time because they end up staying awake until a ghastly hour of the morning, and it throws her off for the rest of the next day but - at the time, she hadn’t minded, not even slightly. So far it’s always been a case of unplanned, stolen instances in obscene locations - it’s too damn cold to keep having fast, breathless sex in the sports shed - but this time there had been less urgency. It had been slower, drawn out and careful. He had peeled her t-shirt away from her body gently, discarding it in much the same manner, and she had watched him intently in the process, seen the great restraint it took him, at first, to do everything in measured steps after all the time they’d spend rushing. It was an exploration, this time, not a sudden thrill, his delighted study of her body, the curves of her pale skin, allowing his lips to pass over her collar bone, kneading her breast as he travelled downwards, settled between her thighs, his mouth so warm and inviting, making her skin tingle and prickle with anticipation. (When was the last time she’d anticipated someone else’s hands on her?) It had been an exploration for her too, stopping herself from bossing him about and allowing him to figure things out on his own, playing with the hair on the nape of his neck as he touched her, watching the curves and shapes of his developing muscles, privately appreciating his goofy smile of enjoyment even though she’d roll her eyes on the outside. Scowling at the little laugh she heard him utter when she arched and her breath caught in her throat, but never having time to do anything about it because then he’d continue and all she could do was grip the sheets and try not to moan too loudly. She had liked pushing him over without warning, lowering herself over him, lacing her fingers with his as she moved her hips at a slow, rhythmic pace, listening to the sounds he made and the movements of his facial features, smiling to herself as he came. She’d allowed him to gather her into his arms and kiss her hard and hold her, in fact, she’d responded just as ardently as he initiated, letting him press her down onto the bed, creating their own bubble of warmth and vitality in the otherwise chilly air of her bedroom. They had spoken - bickered, whispered, laughed - for hours. She hadn’t even noticed the time go by, lying on her stomach, hugging her pillow while he traced abstract patterns on the small of her back, and the they did it all over again, the cycle of little caresses becoming more, when he would gently roll her onto her back, watch her hair splay out over the pillow as his hand slipped down between her legs and her lips parted into a moan that he caught in yet another kiss. The next morning she would find herself thinking far too much about the night as if it had happened years ago, already wanting it to happen again (sometimes hating herself for it, but most times, not), pushing it far, far away with difficult. She would wonder if it’s as hard for him as it is for her (it is). It’s only at four o’clock in the morning that she - somewhat regretfully - shoves him from her bed and to the door. He makes a very good radiator, and the heating isn’t what it used to be when she was sixteen, but she pushes him to the door anyway, not without one final, fierce kiss before she shuts the door in his face and he’s left alone in the icy, dark corridor. They both linger either side of the door for a moment, before he leaves and she drifts back to bed, lying down with the sudden, sharp realisation that this boy has done something to addle her mind. It had all begun with some inappropriate sexual desire, and now it’s more than that. She wants his presence and his voice, his personality, as much as she wants him physically. It’s one of the most frightening sensations she’s ever experienced.

( soapbox | kevin + penny )

[caipirinha]

The clock struck twelve a few hours ago, and now the apartment is empty. Everyone's gone. January welcomes them into the new year with soft flurries of snowfall fluttering outside, the kind that melts as disappears as soon as it touches concrete, and for a few minutes she listens outside the window to hear the little hiss of flakes on the metal railings just outside, to the distance whoops of merry folk streets away who don't care that the snow won't settle. The apartment suddenly seems to vast and so silent; they're alone. He knows she hasn't touched a drop of alcohol all evening. She's been drinking elderflower cordial and sparkling water. He himself has only had one drink, but time and reality shift around them as if they're drunk. Something unreal passes between them. Neither of them breath a word. He's sat on the sofa, and she crosses the floor towards him, barefoot, quiet and smooth as a cat, her dainty features bright with some kind of wakeful determination - and fear. Stood in front of him, she offers her hand (he stares for a long moment, not sure what it means), and when he takes it, she coaxes him to his feet, doesn't stand back when he's stood with his body just millimetres from hers. Their eyes don't leave each other, not for a moment, and slowly she laces her fingers with his, her free hand finding his other, catching it by the wrist, guiding it. Her hand brings his past the skirts of dress until it's resting on her warm thigh, pushing it along so that his palm moves over skin, up until he finds her lower abdomen and then- then he takes his cue. He kisses her hard, but not fast, relishing the way their mouths slide against each other, the soft intake of breath before their lips meet, gripping her hand that little bit tighter as his fingers slide past the fabric of her underwear, between the warmth of her thighs, and her breath catches before she kisses him harder still, and he feels the curves of her body press closer to him. Outside, flurries of snow continue to billow and swirl amongst the rooftops of London, indulging in a quiet than never lasts for long.