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People were dancing in the streets, most definitely drunk, or at least well on their way there. Their voices however were few and now further in between, as everyone was headed to the town square to see the great bonfire. Midsummer’s night. It was in the air, so thick one could easily cut it with a knife, that something a foreigner might crudely dismiss as atmosphere.
On a small room's balcony, hidden in the edge of the lively midtown, an observer silently breathed in what he called meon, midsummer night's spirit, the mood, which was unique to this particular night, each year. A feeling which turned strangers into brothers, sisters, lovers. Yes, there was love in the air. Like the couple right down from where he was standing. They were leaning to each other, holding hands and trying to walk a straight line all the while gazing into each other's eyes, like "Tá siad splanctha i ndiaidh a chéile", he murmured with a smile touching his lips.
"I suppose that was supposed to mean something to me," a voice interrupted his romantic thoughts and he scratched his neck embarrassedly. He turned his attention from the streets to the person who'd just joined him on the balcony. With his unusual purple hair, which gleamed slightly in the light coming from inside the room, he looked like a midsummer night's fairy. Álainn, beautiful.
"No, not really", answered the observer, turning out to be a handsome man in his mid twenties, with earthly brown hair and some freckles on pale skin. For someone who knew these things, he looked very, very Irish in the setting provided, especially with a bottle of whisky in his hand. "I'm just spouting gibberish for the sake of the party."
"I'd rather you spoke in a language I can understand if you have to speak at all," was the sharp answer he got for his effort, but the expression on the fairy-like man's face was closer to pout than that of contempt. He smiled at his companion, thinking that perhaps the meon was affecting the usually so unaffected young pilot. Lifting his arm invitingly he surrendered to the meon as well.
"Won't you join me, Tieria?"
There was a quiet moment when they just looked at each other, and it was making him wonder if his offer would be declined, but then, the reluctant pilot moved forward, let the Irishman wrap his arm protectively around his shivering form. At first he was stiff as a board, but then the alluring warmth next to him seemed to win, and he huddled carefully closer.
"Lockon, what are we doing?" Clear, red eyes turned to him, holding the demanding quality that was so familiar to him. He turned his eyes towards the building opposite from them and the occasional half-seen fireworks lighting the sky far behind that house, the one after it, and the one after it, all the way to park. They reflected from his baby blue eyes.
"Watching the city", he said, his voice surprisingly low, even to his own ears. He wondered if Tieria had turned his attention to the sky as well and glanced at his companion discreetly, only to find the red eyes still on him, holding an unreadable expression. No, not unreadable. Simply something he hadn't expected to see in these particular eyes. The expression on the pilot's face was lovelier than ever, prompting him to say something crude, like "Did you finally realise what a wonderful man I am?" But he held his tongue, knowing the result from such a line. This was something he knew not to ruin for Tieria, or for himself.
"I don't see the benefit of this," the beautiful man said, having noticed him looking. Lockon shrugged carefully.
"Shall we do something else then?" he asked fondly turning face-to-face with his comrade. He was rewarded by a self-conscious blush, which both made his heart beat faster and had him wondering whether there was such an expression on his own face.
"Lockon, what-?" He stole the rest of the question with his lips. Just a light touch and a glance to the flustered look of absolute bewilderment. Yet the purple-haired pilot was still in the protective circle of his arms and wasn't trying to run from him. It made him both relax, and hopeful, and he bent down to kiss the man again. By the third kiss Tieria relaxed and leaned against him. After the seventh Lockon considered that a magical number and settled into just holding the lovely fairy in his arms. "That wasn't watching the city..." came a breathless, tiny voice from his shirt and he chuckled fondly, petting the silky, purple hair gently.
"No. That was kissing." Warmth still lingering on his cheeks Lockon settled easily into his usual confident demeanor.
"What...no, why...?"
"Happy midsummer's night", the Irishman said in a jolly way, then tightened his hold of his comrade. "Gráim thú", slipped so easily from his tongue it was scary. A language he'd only spoken as a child, as an Irish citizen, neither of which he was now.
"More gibberish?" Tieria looked up at him, and this time he was definitely pouting, in a cute, disapproving way. As easily as the words just now, his usual smile moved the corners of his lips.
"Yes. Just a little more gibberish." The smile didn't erase the sadness in his eyes.