2007-09-19: Not Much Of A Boyfriend


Felix_icon.gif Mariska_icon.gif

Summary: After a brief trip to The Secret Lair, Felix and Mariska return home to get drunk and drop the F-bomb no less than four times. (Though, technically, I think it's actually the J-bomb in Russian but, you know…)

Date It Happened: September 19th, 2007

Not Much of a Boyfriend

Queens, NYC - Felix's Apartment

Several hours (and half a bottle of Kubanskaya vodka) later…

What started in the kitchen as another evening spent in with a home-cooked meal and a nip of the new stuff has slowly degenerated into an intoxicated, half-dressed sprawl on the living room floor that comes complete with pillows and blankets brought in from the bedroom and a pair of cats keeping watch on opposite arms of the couch as Soviet shenanigans unfold.

Felix, leaned against the couch in only boxer shorts and a white undershirt, hosts Mariska's head in his lap. (Not like that.) She's lying on her back in a pair of borrowed boxers and, hey, a white undershirt; her ensemble owed to a joke in poor taste about making Felix feel more comfortable after 'the moment'. It'll be funny later. The half-empty (or is it half-full?) bottle of vodka is cradled in the crux of the woman's arm and its nectar splashes against the sides of the bottle as she laughs heartily at something just spoken.

Felix is grinning. Not his usual tightlipped, restrained smile, but that dazzling lopsided grin that seems to take up most of his face. Man, vodka helps with everything, doesn't it? The boxers Fel's wearing are of red silk, and actually have little hammers and sickles on them. Someone's old idea of a gag gift, but hey, they're comfy. He's lazily running his fingers through her hair, admiringly. «I never knew I was that funny. This is some good stuff,» he says, eyeing the bottle.

Mariska's eyes are all heavy, half-lidded, and feline in their sparkle when she slides him sidelong glances on the sly… you know, as if she still had to play it cool and coy if she was ever going to convince him to 'go all the way'. «S'the best,» she declares with pride, as if she'd made it herself. One elastic arm bends backwards, up and over her hand to clasp against the thigh currently serving as her pillow while the other arm helps introduce bottle to bruised lips again for the umpteenth time too many this evening. The sip is punctuated with a groan and a hiss as her lax alcohol tolerance couples with the previous evening's injuries and reminds her, once again, why maybe it'd be a good idea if that was her last pull. Mmmmyummmmmoww. She's then suddenly struck with an 'oh, that reminds me' look and goes all wide-eyed and gasping. Her head turns sharply so that she's all eyes on four-eyes and abruptly tosses out, «You so want to fuck that man we met in the store today!»

Well, he was leaning down to nuzzle her ear, hopefully. Only to stop and recoil a little, meeting her gaze with an oddly open expression. «Yes, it is,» he agrees. And then… hello, conversation stopper. «I… uh. I'd be lying if I said no,» he says, very quietly.

Big eyes! Or, rather, even bigger eyes! Mariska jabs a knobby-knuckled index finger into the man's chest at an awkward angle and succeeds in looking both horrified and triumphant all at once. «I knew it!» Because, uh, he just said so. The poking jab becomes a mild, open-palmed slap to the sternum before she recoils and goes back to occupying her striking hand with clutching at the neck of the vodka bottle. «I knew it…» Aw. That one almost sounded sad. She stares up at the ceiling now, shifting her hips to situate herself lopsided but still in his lap for the most part. «Is he who you're thinking about when you're fucking me…?»

«Good God, no,» Fel retorts, horrified. «Do I seem like I'm distracted when we're having sex?» Because far from it. He's intense, to say the least. «I do enjoy women, too, you know. Physically.» There's another serving of 'Well duh'. «You're not like… a substitute, or something, if that's what you're thinking.»

«No…?» Is that an answer or a question? It's hard to tell. «Really?» Mariska's tone has gone all stuffy and nasal, or rather has been all stuffy and nasal since the car accident and so she can't help but somehow sound as if she might be perpetually fighting a yawn or struggling to keep herself from sniffling. Let's not confuse curiosity with complaint, however. «And here I was hoping that I was the exception to the rule…» Oh, but there's that wide, split-lipped grin again and she turns her head once more to show it up, eyebrows bouncing.

«It's not that I don't desire women. It's that I don't get involved with them, because men demand so much less,» Fel hastens to explain. «But I can count the female lovers I've had on one hand, let's put it that way. Honestly, though, no. I find Will attractive, but I am not fantasizing about him when I'm in bed with you. I swear.» He's red from embarrassment, as well as the booze.

Mariska, meanwhile, has absolutely no shame. She must have left it back at The Secret Lair along with the copper pennies tosses into the community cup. «Oh yeah? Which hand?» she jokes, craning her neck as if to allow her inspection. She retrieves his palm that had been rested against the crown of her head and asks, «This hand?» before not so subtly suggesting something to his index finger with her tongue. Wow, yeah, so, HI! Thankfully, she calls off the sexual innuendo squad early and goes back to blathering on drunkenly from the floor. «You're right, though… about women. We're very…» Crotch glance. «…demanding.» It'd be worse if they were sprawled out in the kitchen for the icon of the Virgin and Child to see. The living room (like the bedroom) is relatively free of judgmental saint iconography and, therefore, Misha is apparently free of any obligation to feign modesty. «If we hadn't met…» Again. «…do you think you'd be with him instead?»

Felix is still bright red - his lips twitch at her mouth on his hand. «I… I don't know. I'd have tried to get him into bed. I don't know about long term. He seems like a decent guy, and I don't know that… I just. Things go bad, with me. I guess I'm not much of a boyfriend.»

«Outside of the bedroom, you mean?» The Russian woman can't help but smirk even though the right side of her mouth so wishes she wouldn't. «So I've noticed.» She's very obviously feeling no pain but, come morning, this is all going to be recognized as not the best idea she's ever had. «But, really, what you're saying is… you just want to fuck him.»

«I… yes. I do,» Fel says, simply, shifting uncomfortably. Of all the conversations to be having while she's got her head on his legs.

Because, you know, in all of their awkward encounters, somehow this manages to qualify as unfamiliar territory for either of them? Probably not. At least, not in a physical sense. All the same, Mariska finds them a fidgety pillow makes for a poor place to rest one's head and so she wills herself erect, fingers curling into the short sleeves of Felix's shirt for assistance, and then hovers a few inches away to continue her intimate inquisition. «…and that's it?»

«What do you mean, that's it?» he parrots back at her, blue gaze flickering over her features. «It's pretty simple,» he notes, lip quirking, even as he reaches up to brush her hair out of her face.

Mariska's eyes flutter closed as she's groomed and, hey, maybe that'll make it easier for both of them if she isn't staring him down or something. With lids drawn, the bruising beneath her eyes seems somehow lessened; the sharp contrast of her light eyes withheld. «So, that's what you do, then. You just…» Fuck people, apparently. When her eyes open up again, it's just in the breath before she asks, «Haven't you ever been in love?»

His face seals over like the Neva in winter. It's not instant, but a slow process. «Yes, I have. It didn't… well. The first time ended well. The second time, not so much.» He's tracing her injuries, fingertips very light.

Truthfully, she could look a lot worse. The fact that she's still sporting a face and all of her faculties speaks volumes for the flexibility of Plexiglas… and the durability of the woman's skull. Hard-headed in a very literal fashion, it seems. It's like looking in the mirror a few weeks rewound, maybe. Wasn't Felix's face equally graced by rude bruises, too, when they first found each other again? And then, the horrifying confession. It's so terrible, she relays it with eyes closed again, chin tilted into the touch: «…I haven't.»

It's like the blind trying to read, like he could divine something through touch the eyes can't catch. «Ever?» he wonders, calmly, no incredulity in his tone. «I think that makes you lucky.»

Mariska opens her eyes again and the look she gives him is hard; accusational. She's a thirty-something, unwed mother currently being caressed by the 'mostly gay' man who happened to knock her up seven years ago and now thinks she's lucky for having never actually experienced the emotion that might have made it somehow meaningful or worthwhile. Ever. Really? Her opinion on the matter clearly differs.

His gaze is guileless, clear to the depths, for once. «It's not like the fairy tales. It's like… like an addiction. I'm not talking about affection, or companionship, or attachment. It's like having all your nerve endings on fire. Not in a good way. It's torment.» Fel is dead serious - not a flicker there to show that he's exaggerating, or lying.

Has he been drinking at all this evening? Suddenly, Mariska's head begins to swim as if she'd been hitting the bottle solo. Love sounds like something that's lost its way somewhere between obligation and anger; obsession and annoyance. «Maybe I have been then,» she retorts, the prickling beneath the surface of her skin sorely tempting her to amend a 'now' though her tongue thankfully refuses.

His gaze is distant, as he rummages through memory. And then he recites, quietly, diction still excellent despite all the booze. «Now, like a little snake, it curls into a ball, bewitching your heart, then for days it will coo like a dove on the little white windowsill. Or it will flash as bright frost, Drowse like a gillyflower… But surely and stealthily it will lead you away From joy and from tranquility. It knows how to sob so sweetly in the prayer of a yearning violin, and how fearful to divine it in a still unfamiliar smile.» His tone is even, though his voice is halting - memory's a little fuzzy on this one. That same poet.

Mariska abruptly brings hand up to grasp Felix's chin and half-pucker the man's lips as her finger clutch at his cheeks. «You and your poetry,» she says, almost lamenting before she exhales a heavy sigh, turns her gaze away, and then roughly relinquishes her grip. She kicks her legs out and flails momentarily, trying to find her feet so that she might be able to wobbly tromp barefoot across the hardwood while headed for the bedroom… or the bathroom… or one of those doors down the hall.

Felix follows after her. Just curious, right? She's not gonna be sick, is she? He's left standing lost in the hall, embarrassed again. This never ends quite right.

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