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When Jirou breaks away from the dance floor, breaks out onto the balcony, there's a chill that sweeps over her skin, a shivering paintbrush from head to toe. There's a light buzz in her brain from drink, sound cottony in her ears like she's underwater as she sucks in a cool, sobering stream of air, eyes adjusting to the dark, pinprick stars dotting the veil of night above. It's cold out in a tutu and fishnet tights, in a crop top and ghoulish makeup as she grins, reeling her senses back from scattering across the bar, the dance floor.
Her breath floats away from her when she laughs, and she feels like starlight.
"Pop quiz of the night: does Earphone Jack like the cold or should she be checked for hypothermia?"
Jirou looks back over her shoulder, a smile already warming her face at the familiar voice, the friendly laugh that makes up its threadcount. Whether or not it suits his character, Denki looks good as a devil. Take away the black-horned headband, wings, and plastic trident, and he could pass for any smart-casual function, the dress shirt and pressed trousers are all there. His red and black ensemble looks form-fitting, looks classy. Jirou notes how a button's popped open, showing off his collarbone, the hollow of his lean neck, and her eyes lid at the thought of latching her lips there for a taste.
She blames it on the drink with ease, and her eyes flutter back up to Denki's face. His smile's infectious.
"Can't say for sure," she says, stretching out her arms high above her head. "But punk-girl zombie Kyouka doesn't seem to mind."
She sees Denki's gaze flicker over her form, just when she goes on her tip-toes, his eyes going up again when her crop top teases a strip of her sports bra. At the cue of his Adam's apple rolling, her smile stretches.
"Well then, I guess you could say," he shrugs, settling beside Jirou, side-eyeing her with an impish grin, "the cold never bothered you anyway."
A laugh bursts out of Jirou like a cork flying off a wine bottle. It spills like bubbling froth, lingers in a low fizz, because a touch of alcohol always made things that much funnier to her. When she eventually cracks an eye open, she spots Denki smiling at her, bright and warm in the dim and cool night.
"Sorry, but your princess is in another castle," she replies through leftover giggles. There's a balcony railing Denki's leaning on, so she does, too. "Pretty sure I saw Todoroki hang out by the bar earlier."
"Oh, I know," Denki says. "I think you know you're just the test run."
"A helpless, zombie guinea pig," Jirou sighs solemnly. She cocks her head to the side, lets her axis tilt towards Denki in general. "Self-aware, to boot."
"The greatest curse, clearly," he snickers. He sidles closer. It makes their shoulders kiss, and they linger together there. "Though that went by with flying colours, so I think that punny baby's ready for the real world."
"Release it into the wild," Jirou declared. "Like the wicked witch with her flying monkeys."
"Fly, my pretties, fly!"
He sweeps a dramatic curve with his arm and points out to the skies with his trident, voice gnarled and creaky to add to the effect, and Jirou can't help but laugh again. Her hiccuping body leans heavier into Denki's at that, to the point she's clutching onto him for support. And Denki lets her, laughing as well, and he holds onto her even though neither of them close to falling.
Just as she's calming down from her giggles, Jirou hums. She inhales, a breath away from Denki's neck, smelling something aromatic beneath the alcohol.
"New cologne?" she murmurs.
"Nah," Denki says, softer as well. His hands are at her elbows, relaxed while he thumbs over the sleeve of her crop top there. "Just some aftershave."
"Same difference," she mutters, cracking a smile when Denki chuckles. Her senses sharpen when she feels a gentle bulk at her thigh, where it brushed against the side of Denki's. "Why, Chargebolt, is there something in your pocket, or are you just happy to see me?"
The words flow out of her easily, liquid courage still enlaced in her veins. Denki chuckles, the sound a little flustered, but he doesn't let go of her, and Jirou feels emboldened. In general it's inexplicable, how she wants to tease Denki till he's a mess. She just goes easy on him most of the time.
"Not that I'm never delighted around my little earbud, but I'm just pocketing some Pocky right now." His hands drift away so he can pluck a pink and silver packet from his pocket. Jirou watches without backing away. "Got some in my trick-or-treat stash earlier."
"Test-running your Pocky pick-ups on Halloween?" Jirou asks, arching a brow. "That doesn't seem very feasible on the dance floor."
"Yeah, just casually slip this baby out in the middle of grinding, obviously," he smirks with a roll of his eyes, making Jirou snigger. "I just wanted to keep some to snack on later, actually," he says, sounding honest enough. "Strawberry chocolate's a guilty pleasure of mine."
"Gotta reckon with that sweet tooth you have," Jirou says, a little absently as she eyes the packet. "Gimme some?"
"And just how could I say no to a pretty punk zombie like yourself?"
Jirou gives a snort of a laugh as he pulls open the packet, even though the playful words dip the brush of her body into an inkpot of warmth. Like milk breaching black coffee, diffusing in plumes, becoming indistinguishable as she and Denki snack on strawberry Pocky together. Her gaze keeps drawing to Denki's lips wrapping around each stick when he looks out at the view, looking comfortable beside her, and impatience takes her by surprise when he draws another Pocky. She tugs on his sleeve once.
"Hey."
He glances with the stick of Pocky at his mouth, like an unwieldy cigarette, before looking at her curiously. She doesn't waste time to lean in, the biscuit tip enclosed between her violet-coloured lips, from the zombie makeup she still has on. She almost wants to laugh at Denki blinking fast, so close and in front of her, like some Jamming-whey experienced another malfunction, a jam, if you will.
But holding onto the sleeve at his wrist, nibbling closer, she doesn't want to.
Her heart's already thudding when Denki's eyes lid, when she feels the stick give with the little bites Denki makes closer to her mouth, and the heat rushing through her face is too strong to blame on the fading alcohol. But the buzz is still there when she keeps biting, when Denki's face starts to take up her vision. The Pocky shrinks to an inch, a half, where the tips of their noses nearly touch, and it doesn't feel cold outside anymore.
Denki gets the last bite in when their lips meet.
Jirou swallows one last time before her eyes fall shut and she leans in. She tastes strawberry chocolate, hints of vodka, smells Denki's soothing aftershave. Denki's hand drifts to her side, resting at her ribs where her crop top covers. But Jirou steps in closer at that, so that their chests touch, and she gives a muffled little groan when Denki sighs over her lips. Her hand at Denki's wrist strokes up to his elbow, her other going up to his back where his wings are without thinking. Her gasp comes barely audible when Denki's arm wraps around her midriff more properly, possessively, solid and warm where her skin was bare to the chill of the air. She gives a soft, coaxing whine when Denki's other hand cups her nape, the back of her head, remembering to breathe in the minute gaps where their lips don't press soft and insistent at each other, giving precious little smacks whenever they part. When they pull apart for a break, intaking the air they need, Jirou spots Denki's lips gone dark with her-lip-shaped smudges, and an immense satisfaction fills her to the brim.
"Kyouka..." Denki breathes out, his fingers squeezing her in his hold for a beat. A thrill seizes Jirou like a strike of lightning. "Tell me," he starts, interrupting himself with a helpless laugh, a burst of air more than anything before he swallows, "tell me you aren't drunk enough to forget this tomorrow."
In any other situation, Jirou's first instinct is to quip. To ask when Denki could ever recall her being blackout drunk, reckless to the point of negligence where she couldn't remember having killer moves, a fun kiss, a good night out.
Being held in Denki's arms, hearing his bright voice sounding so close and small, of course it's not any other situation.
"I...I know you know I mess around," he says. "But this isn't me messing around right now. I mean that."
She pulls an inch away, to look into Denki's eyes. That don't meet hers right away, but drift up gently. Like sudden movements could drive her away. A tension tugs up his brows, a sheen softens his eyes, and he looks imploring.
"You make a better worrywart than I thought you would," she murmurs. "I wouldn't have done anything if I thought you'd just mess around again. It takes two to tango, you know?" She takes in Denki's eyes widening, and smiles kindly. "I'll remember tomorrow," she continues. She strokes a slow line, back and forth at Denki's back, half without thinking. "And I'll hold you to it, too."
At that point, Jirou is amused by how shocked Denki looks. At how his eyes search across Jirou's face like she'd appeared out of thin air, like he couldn't believe his eyes.
"Do I even deserve you?" he mutters, sounding faraway. At that, Jirou does let out a chuckle.
"Jury might be out on that," she teases. She leans up to plant a kiss, just by his barely parted lips. "Dumbstruck's a good look on you, though."
"What a bully," he says, a smirk coming back to his face. "You never go easy on me, do you?"
"And yet you keep coming back for more," Jirou hums suggestively, carefree in tossing her arms around Denki's neck. She glances over his face as he keeps holding her around the waist, cocking her head in a hum. "I wonder what that says about you."
"Either a buried masochistic streak or Stockholm syndrome to a T," he considers in mock thought. "The welcome mat to my mental asylum's gotta be one of those."
Jirou's cheeks puff with laughter at that, and Denki's eyelids dip as he smiles, absorbed committing her snorting giggles to memory.
A gust brushes over the balcony, and goosebumps frisson beneath Denki's touch. He looks to Jirou's laugh fading fast into a shiver, huddling into his arms reactively, and a protective urge rises in him as the cold seeps past his clothes too.
"Why don't we go back inside and warm up, yeah?" Denki offers, stroking along Jirou's back in a hug. "Don't want you catching a cold before our first date."
"Plot twist: you take me to an ice rink and I freeze anyway," Jirou jokes past a chatter of her teeth.
"Like I'd do you dirty like that," he says into her hair, leaving a little kiss there before he takes her hand in his. "C'mon, popsicle-zombie; I need to see if my ancient Frozen reference sticks the landing with our favourite Elsa-proxy."
"Elsa-proxy." Jirou nearly wheezes. "Make that his new hero name."
"Love your beautiful brain, Kyouka," Denki says, just as he pulls open the balcony door back into the building, the heat and distant bass already inviting them in. "Oh, pardon—your mindless brain-hungry husk."
"I'll overlook the slight once," Jirou says, nose upturned.
"Your kindness knows no bounds, my punk zombie lady."
Her pout breaking out into a grin when Denki bows deeply, kisses the back of her hand. She does a curtsy with her tutu before Denki leads her in. Music from downstairs thrums along the walls again, and the stars still shine through the balcony doors when they close shut behind them.