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Black Ring fic/semi-drabble of blurgh
Sep. 28th, 2010 10:33 pmThe most awesome coming-out scenario due to the wearing of a black ring ever to potentially happen. I don't know why I wrote this (unbeta-ed, too), except for the fact that a line from the story has been sticking in my head for a while. None of the characters are based on anyone living or dead, but I do have skinny-ass, old lady's fingers- and a nervous tendency to slip my black ring on and off and play with it. Hence, rambly fic.
--
"I'm not what you're looking for." He's slightly taken aback by the arrogance of this. It's one of the cheesiest rejection lines they both know, and as it dawns in her eyes what it sounded like, her eyes drop. "I'm not straight, you know. So…. Definitely not what you're looking for, am I right? Arrogance hopefully doesn't come into it." She smiles at him, tentatively, and he smiles back. She got what he was thinking, and despite himself he likes that.
Having followed her out of their class in to the bright campus, with the lawn caught between bachelor-unkempt and golf-course-short grass, only to be rejected like this is a little… Odd. "Not straight…. Weird turn of phrase, isn't it? Is it complicated?" He knows that now he's the one spouting rude phrases, and feels the urge to offer her a glass of wine to throw in his face if she wants. But there's no look of offence at his words, and so the apology stays on the tip of his tongue.
She sighs. "It's always the same…" and fumbles with the black band on her right middle finger. Her skinny fingers are those of a pianist's (does she play? He can't remember, has only seen her in the classes they share) and the band catches at the joints. The pause is comfortable, not awkward, and when the ring is off she absentmindedly spins it between fingers always in motion.
"Do you see this? If the world was fair, you wouldn't have to pry and risk offending me. People would know, and they'd understand." He isn't sure whether he should stay now and go, should ask or shut up. Obviously, he has no idea what she's talking about- but he'd like to find out about the girl with the bird-like manner, who skips everywhere and takes classes full of men in suits and has hair the colour of cotton candy.
"I have to leave now. It was nice, talking to you." She slips the ring back on, a lot easier than removing it, and shrugs on her bags that she'd dropped whilst conversing under the campus trees.
--
"Did you find out?" Of course he did. The fact that he's here, has spent an hour in the library braving dirty looks and chatter to look up the significance of sexuality-related jewellery is proof of that. And therefore, she also knows what he thinks. Why he's still here, hasn't become cooler and politely edged away.
She flutters her hands at him, the ring catching the sunlight.
He isn't sure what it's meant to be. An invitation? A threat? A promise?
He takes the ring hand and encircles it in his own.
--
"I'm not what you're looking for." He's slightly taken aback by the arrogance of this. It's one of the cheesiest rejection lines they both know, and as it dawns in her eyes what it sounded like, her eyes drop. "I'm not straight, you know. So…. Definitely not what you're looking for, am I right? Arrogance hopefully doesn't come into it." She smiles at him, tentatively, and he smiles back. She got what he was thinking, and despite himself he likes that.
Having followed her out of their class in to the bright campus, with the lawn caught between bachelor-unkempt and golf-course-short grass, only to be rejected like this is a little… Odd. "Not straight…. Weird turn of phrase, isn't it? Is it complicated?" He knows that now he's the one spouting rude phrases, and feels the urge to offer her a glass of wine to throw in his face if she wants. But there's no look of offence at his words, and so the apology stays on the tip of his tongue.
She sighs. "It's always the same…" and fumbles with the black band on her right middle finger. Her skinny fingers are those of a pianist's (does she play? He can't remember, has only seen her in the classes they share) and the band catches at the joints. The pause is comfortable, not awkward, and when the ring is off she absentmindedly spins it between fingers always in motion.
"Do you see this? If the world was fair, you wouldn't have to pry and risk offending me. People would know, and they'd understand." He isn't sure whether he should stay now and go, should ask or shut up. Obviously, he has no idea what she's talking about- but he'd like to find out about the girl with the bird-like manner, who skips everywhere and takes classes full of men in suits and has hair the colour of cotton candy.
"I have to leave now. It was nice, talking to you." She slips the ring back on, a lot easier than removing it, and shrugs on her bags that she'd dropped whilst conversing under the campus trees.
--
"Did you find out?" Of course he did. The fact that he's here, has spent an hour in the library braving dirty looks and chatter to look up the significance of sexuality-related jewellery is proof of that. And therefore, she also knows what he thinks. Why he's still here, hasn't become cooler and politely edged away.
She flutters her hands at him, the ring catching the sunlight.
He isn't sure what it's meant to be. An invitation? A threat? A promise?
He takes the ring hand and encircles it in his own.
