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He used to like this sort of thing.
He used to see gods among the flashbulbs of old-fashioned cameras, reporters and journalists crowding him in stuffy dining halls. Weaving through clusters of squealing fans, watching their faces light up with recognition upon having gotten close enough to him to catch a whiff of his cologne. The thrill of it all, the swell of pride in knowing that all these pretty people want to take a lick at him, unaware of how the freeze would afflict them. Too cold to take a bite. You’re so cool, Grusha, they say. It used to be a compliment.
Now it just stings.
Grusha couldn’t wait to get away. Not the best look, admittedly - slinking off right after the dessert, but he can’t have been the only one. He watched the lassitude cross over Hassel’s drooping eyes as he made the champagne toast. Watched Larry fighting for his life behind the bar, white-knuckle clenching the neck of his beer bottle as Iono clung to his arms, slurring her words. No, they weren’t long for the evening any more than he was, but it is kind of funny that he couldn’t stake out past the old men. He’s sure Kofu will poke him about it in the morning. Whatever, he’ll take it. Anything to get out of the stuffy air of the lounge.
It feels so much later than it is. His watch reads ten, but after that last two-hour stretch of speeches and wine it might as well be past midnight. He brushes past the shuffling bellhops and inebriated hotel guests down a narrow hall to an elevator hub, fumbling for the key-pass he was given earlier in the day.
He hates this hotel. La Primera picks it every year (because of the discount, he assumes) for the annual retreat, and it’s fine, honestly. Beautiful, from an architectural standpoint, and the beach location is idyllic - a perfect hub for group activities and relaxation. But Grusha’s qualms with it are unequivocally bizarre, purely a him-thing: he hates the windows.
Floor-to-ceiling windows all across the building, in every room, every space. The place might as well not even have walls. It’s strangely liminal, particularly on the upper floors, where the view of the water is abundant. Anyone else would think it romantic, and sure, objectively the spectacle of it is striking - but the vantage point gives him nauseating vertigo. The elevators are the absolute worst. Even the floor is glass.
And just as luck would have it, his room is a high-rise. Very cool.
He pushes the button, massaging his temples as the machinery pings softly and the doors slide open, greeting him with the dizzying view of Porto Marinada’s harbor, all blaring lights of the boating dock and marketplace. It’s garish.
With great reluctance, he steps inside the cell, finding the right number for his floor and promptly squeezing his eyes shut. Praying the ride up is swift and over quickly.
He gets no such reprieve, of course. The elevator stills right at the next floor up, doors hissing open to welcome another rider inside. Grusha sighs. Just his luck. His eyes flicker open, but he smells the new passenger before he even sees her - all fruity gourmand, decadent hondew and fresh pecha, a note of sensual amber that has the tendency to linger long after she’s left a room. His heart stutters in his chest.
Oh, piss it.
“Grusha,” she beams at him. Red cheri lips curled over starlet-white teeth. She bats her feathery lashes and he’s almost surprised that stardust doesn’t fall from between them.
“O-Oh, h-hey, Tulip,” he stammers, voice croaking out in a much higher register than he’d certainly intended. Great. “U-Um, what floor?”
“Nineteen, please,” she asks him, patent heels clicking softly across the glass. She strides up right next to him, her bare shoulder brushing against his sweater and ho-lee shit, the warmth of her skin. She practically radiates heat. It’s like his nerves have been lit aflame.
“Me too,” he murmurs, stiffening.
“Oh! We might be neighbors, then. How funny,” she giggles, pristinely manicured nails covering her mouth. Why she wants to hide it, he hasn’t the foggiest clue. “It’s good to see you, Grusha.”
Th-thump. His heart skips so violently he thinks he just felt ice shatter around it.
“Y-Yeah? You too,” he says, swallowing down the knot in his throat. Averting the glow of her amber eyes to fixate on the glowing row of numbers instead, watching each one light up and promptly fade out between each floor. “Been a while. Since last time, probably.”
“It has, yeah,” she agrees, twirling a stray curl around her finger. “I couldn’t believe it was time again already. A year passes so quickly, right? I’d almost forgotten my own birthday.”
“It was last month, wasn’t it?” he blurts out, mouth outpacing his mind by a mile. As if he hadn’t already humiliated himself enough with the squeak of his voice, he has to say something that sounds thirsty, too. At least he didn’t blabber the exact date.
Tulip looks delighted, however. She sparkles when she smiles, touching a hand to her chest.
“Yeah, it was,” she hums, her saccharine voice oozing into his ears, just barely audible over the drumbeat of his pulse. “You remembered.”
“Hard to forget,” he says, without thinking, without utilizing even the smallest brain cell to consider how fucking pathetic he must sound. Gods almighty, Grusha, he scolds himself, eyes flickering to hers, arrested by the hypnotic allure of her stare. Maybe it’s bullshit, but maybe she really is deceiving the public - how is it possible for her to draw him in like this without psychic powers?
“You flatter me, darling,” she laughs. The noise comes from deep down in her lungs, making her chest swell over the lacy-whatever she’s got on under her duster, caramel skin flushed prettily in contrast to the pastels of her glorified lingerie. He used to make fun of everyone else for staring at her, jabbing at Rika and Iono for practically drooling whenever she’d pay them a sincere compliment, but over time, he’d come to understand. He felt that torch light the first time she’d actually spoken with him. Even Larry could melt under her gaze, and that man doesn’t fold for anything other than food. She’s witchcraft. “You’re certainly chatty this evening.”
“Am I?” he wonders aloud, more to himself than her. Glancing down at his feet only to remember that the sight below is a cataclysmic vortex. He tries to focus on the crack in the door, fists clenched at his sides to steady his posture. Gods, can this shaft move any fucking faster? “Something in the wine, I guess.”
“Maybe so,” she giggles. Canines digging into the corner of her plush lips, and fuck, the look of that makes him even dizzier. “Are you turning in for the night?”
“Probably,” he replies, honestly. Hoping it doesn’t make him sound like a boring old geezer. “You?”
“I haven’t quite decided,” she explains. “The rooftop club is open, but I’m wondering if maybe I’m too old for that sort of thing, now.”
This makes him bark out a laugh, incredulous. “Please. Didn’t you just turn thirty?”
“Thirty!” Tulip doubles over, dainty hand finding the crook of his elbow and branding him with the warmth of her touch. The muscles in his arm spring taut, heartbeat increasingly ominous as he feels his temperature climbing drastically. Thank gods this sweater covers his neck. “On another planet, maybe! Oh, Grusha, you’re very funny.”
“Told you it’s just the wine,” he mutters, hardly resisting the smile that threatens to steal over his face, melting him. Surprising himself when he keeps talking, mouth seeming to move of its own accord - “Really, though. Don’t let your age hold you back. Not from things you enjoy. Life’s too short for that. You say it yourself, don’t you? ‘Never too old to sparkle’, or whatever.”
Her other hand comes to join the other, slipping around his bicep in a manner most intently coquettish as her voice dips in volume. “So you do pay attention to your colleagues.”
“Not really,” he says, without recognition of his own voice, rumbling from the depths of his diaphragm. He looks at her, then, with the same come-hither intent she’d seized him with, a great stirring low in his belly as he watches the dark pools of her pupils go wide. “Just you.”
She’s so close. Right up against him. Hardly has to lift her head to reach his eye-line, but maybe it’s just the heels. He wonders how much smaller she really is without them. Wonders if she tastes as good as she looks, eyes locked on the shine of her lipstick, her kiss-me pout parted open, almost expectant. His weight shifts, his hips tilting into hers, leaning into the rapidly diminishing space between them when a sudden jolt shakes the whole shaft.
Grusha nearly trips over himself, grasping Tulip’s arms to keep steady as the lights go out, all the buttons promptly shutting off as the upward glide of the cell grinds to a stuttering halt.
“Fuck, what was that?” he gasps, hoarse and strained, glancing around. If not for the windows surrounding them, he’s certain it would be pitch-black in here.
Tulip inhales a shuddering breath, brushing stray locks of hair out of her eyes as she seems to gather herself relatively quickly. “Goodness - I think the elevator might be stuck.”
Shit. Grusha shivers, bile rising up in his throat. Oh no. Oh, no no no, please - not here. Not this. Not this. This is the worst. The worst possible thing that could happen. “Oh no. Oh no, oh no - ”
“It’s alright, love,” she says mellowly, smoothing a hand over his shoulder, not yet realizing the way he’s been rendered nearly immobile with fear. “It’s a big hotel, someone else will need to use it soon. I’m sure it’s only a hiccup.”
“Is there an emergency button?” he hears himself chirp.
“There is, but all the lights are out,” she says calmly, glancing about. “It might be an electrical surge. Let’s give it a minute, hm?”
“Y-Yeah, okay,” he nods, trying to swallow down the knot that’s lodged itself in his throat. “Okay. Okay.”
Breathing erratic, Grusha covers his eyes, debating whether or not he should try to conceal the fact that he’s about to have a breakdown, wondering when she’s going to notice, and fearing that somehow the glass floor is going to swing open and send them falling to their deaths hundreds of feet below. He shivers, rigid on the spot, his heart the sole moving part of his body, thrashing so violently against his ribs that he’s sure a bruise will be inevitable. He fights to catch his breath, trying to keep quiet, but his distress doesn’t go unnoticed for much longer.
“Grusha?” Tulip murmurs, rubbing his shoulder. “Are you alright?”
“I’m...f-fine, it’s f-fine,” he lies. He can’t even hear himself speak.
“You look anything but fine, doll,” she tells him, not unkindly. Her honeyed voice oozes concern, amber eyes looking him over with worry. “What’s wrong?”
“N-Nothing. Just. Don’t move,” he begs her, humiliated and afraid and clinging desperately to any semblance of sanity he’s got left in this catastrophically nightmarish scenario. He grabs onto her shoulders, acutely aware of the diminutive space between their bodies, hoping she’ll just keep still so that he has something tangible to hold onto while the rest of the shaft seems to swirl around him. “Don’t let go, please.”
“Grusha,” she mutters, drawing those laminated brows together in a most doleful-looking frown. So ridiculous that even concern looks good on her.
“Please, d-don’t say anything,” he pleads with her, throat itching with the threat of tears. His vision is getting blurrier, knees buckling with the haunting memory of falling, falling -
But though he feels faint, something keeps him from losing his balance: the weight of Tulip crushing herself against him, arms encircled about his waist as she pulls him close to her chest.
“Shhh,” she whispers. Her pillowy lips grace the shell of his ear. Oh. “Shhh.”
He feels like he’s breathing through a straw, but at least his head feels a little lighter. If that’s a good or bad thing, he can’t quite tell - his muscles aren’t frozen anymore, and that’s a good start.
“You’re alright, love,” she assures him, rubbing little circles on his back. “You’re safe. You’re with me.”
“T-Tulip,” he mumbles, leaning his cheek into her shoulder.
“Is this okay?” she asks him, nuzzling against him. Warm and gentle and grounding. “Too tight?”
“N-No, it’s fine,” he says. He shivers against her, clinging to the chiffon of her duster like a life-line, and she just holds on. Dulcet tone of voice pushing away all the intrusive recollections of the white spears of mountain peaks and blood splatters in the snow.
“Good, good,” she coos. “Would you want to try to breathe with me?”
He gulps, lungs straining to take a fuller breath, but it’s like his heart is getting in the way; a monstrous and offending obstacle working to suffocate him rather than circulate the red life inside of him. “I-I…I can try, yeah.”
“Okay. In through your nose, out through your mouth,” she instructs him, clinical and direct, simple. Grounding, grounding. “On counts of three. Steady, okay, doll? Listen to me.”
He feels Tulip’s inhale, slow and even, just as she’d said. In through her nostrils, one, two, three - and out through her mouth. One, two, three.
“In…and out,” she does it again, and he listens, trying to block out the screams that rendered his throat sore. Trying to control his heartbeat by pressing himself hard against hers. It’s a little fast - he wonders briefly if that has anything to do with him, or if it’s just wishful thinking - but even in pace, much slower than his. He’s surprised he can make it out at all. Grounding. He thinks he can focus a little better.
In through the nose, out through the mouth. Counts of three. He tries it. He fails. He stutters, but he tries it again. He gets it after the fourth or fifth attempt. One, two, three.
“Just like that, darling,” she praises him. He can feel her smiling. “In…and out.”
In and out. In and out. One, two, three. One, two, three. It’s coming to him a little more easily. The tiny room they’re trapped in has finally stopped spinning.
Grusha peels himself off of her, only slightly, only enough to look her in the face. Just to make sure he’s not imagining things and assure himself that she’s real, tangible. That she won’t slip away.
“You can keep your eyes shut, if you need to,” she tells him, looking back at him with a tender fondness he’d never imagined seeing from her.
“It’s alright, it…” he trails off, trying to find his voice, to remember how to use his voice. Keep the bile down. “It helps if I can just - focus on one thing.”
“Eyes on me, then,” she murmurs, grinning with her teeth. He dizzies for it, spellbound, feeling his chest swell upon the next concentrated intake of breath. Remembering to follow her instruction, and she praises him. “That’s right, breathe. Just like that.”
They continue just like that, years-long minutes later, and finally, he feels like he can breathe, lungs expanding beyond the constraints of his treacherous heart. Calming, just a little bit. Relaxing, a little bit more. The speed is still dire, still well-over what it should be, but at least he’s stopped feeling like he’s drowning.
“Didn’t know you…knew h-how to handle this kinda thing.”
“You know how many different sorts of people I’ve worked with, honey?” Tulip says, still rubbing his back. “Happens all the time. You’re not alone.”
It’s difficult, but he manages to smile. “R-Right.”
“So, what is it, then?” she wonders, naturally curious, as he’s sure anyone would be. “Claustrophobia? Motion sickness?”
“H-Heights,” he confesses, nodding. “I can’t deal with h-heights. Ever since the…”
“Accident?” she finishes, frowning deeply. Funny, sympathy typically infuriates him - like, yes, he knows his life is ruined, thanks. Not like anybody can do anything about it. Not like it changes anything. Even if everyone in the country felt bad for him, it doesn’t do anything to help. And people are always trying to help, always offering to help, knowing damn well there’s not a thing they can do about it. And even if they could, he doesn’t think he’d want to set foot on the slopes again. Not after what happened. Always a wretched feeling, when people ask if he misses it. He doesn’t think he does, anymore.
What he misses is feeling respected. Being treated like a person, rather than some fragile glass ornament. Like he could break if you just looked at him for too long. If you get too close. People walk on eggshells around him, even his colleagues - all either too young to understand what he’s been through or too old to really relate anymore. Most of them got to live their dreams already. It’s hard to navigate a relationship with someone who had theirs torn away. Cut down in the prime of life, people say. It’s nauseating. They talk about him like he’s a ghost.
Not her, though. There’s something different about the way Tulip looks at him. Like she’s really seeing him. It’s refreshing. Terrifying, but.
Refreshing.
That’s why he feels like he can be honest with her, he guesses. “Y-Yeah. Even just looking down…”
Looking down. He makes the mistake of glancing away. Losing his focus. He looks down at the pitch darkness beneath their feet and almost collapses -
But Tulip is quicker than that, grasping him with steady hands, holding him close. Letting him sink against her.
“Shh - shh - It’s alright, I’ve got you,” she mutters. “I’ve got you. I’m sure we’ll start moving shortly.”
He chews his inner cheek, biting back stinging tears. Shivering in her solacing embrace. “I’m s-sorry.”
“You have nothing to apologize for,” she assures him, squeezing him tight. “Nothing at all. Most men aren’t so willing to be vulnerable, heheh. I’m happy you trusted me enough to let me help you.”
“H-Ha…I guess you’re right,” he agrees, sniffling. Pulling away again, just to see if she’s still wearing that same expression, if that same affection is lingering in her eyes. (it is.) “It’s probably just the wine talking, again, but….”
He takes in a breath, the deepest he’s managed in what feels like hours.
“This whole time I’ve mostly been afraid y-you’d…think I was lame,” he confesses, sheepishly, childishly. Feeling younger than he really is as he shrinks under this woman’s radiance.
But he’s met with that contagious grin, that winsome sparkle that puts him both at ease and on edge. Utterly incomprehensible.
“Not in the least, darling,” she says, and he believes it. She means it. “There’s a bit of trauma in all of us. It’s nothing to be ashamed of. I’m so sorry that yours haunts you in this way.”
It’s so, so uncool of him, but he feels his face start to crumble, tears dripping down the slope of his nose as he grumbles her name. “T-Tulip…”
“Shh, hush, hush now, Grusha,” she soothes him, hugging him again. Cuddling him close. He buries his face in the crook of her neck, chasing her scent. Wondering how dizzy it would make him to kiss her, there. What kind of noise she would make if he were to suck on the pulse in her throat. Fuck, she’s so. She’s so. “You’re alright. You’re with me. Feel any calmer, yet?”
“N-Not yet,” he admits, trembling against her. It sucks, because he should be, by now, but he doesn’t think he’ll actually fully recover until he’s back in the comfort of his hotel room. (with all the curtains pulled closed.) “My heart is still - my heart won’t slow down...”
“Would it help if you listened to mine?”
Grusha fumbles, awkward chortles catching in his throat as he feels the tips of his ears burning. “H-Hahaha, I don’t uh…I appreciate the thought, Tulip, but respectfully, I think I’d pass away.”
Thankfully, his callow flirtation gets a generous laugh out of her. “You know, Grusha…”
She clutches his sweater a little tighter, coffin-cut nails grazing his sides in a pleasant scratch. Oh. Mmm. Wow. That’s nice. Those nails on his back might be even nicer. That’s doing nothing to help your heart rate, idiot.
“You’re not nearly as cold as they say you are,” she almost whispers. Almost kissing his ear.
Grusha lifts his head, leaning in almost close enough to kiss her on the mouth. Almost.
“Guess you just warmed me up,” he says, feeling stupendously foolish - seriously, what kind of lame line is that? It really must be the wine, the anxiety - he’d never have said something so stupid to her sober. (he hopes.)
And as if coming to his rescue, there’s another jolt under their footing, a whirring buzz of machinery coming back to life as the lights flicker on, the ding signaling the arrival to the next floor ringing in his ears. Grusha could almost melt. He hasn’t felt relief like this since accepting his offer for Gym Leader.
“Thank goodness,” Tulip breathes, although she doesn’t move an inch away from him. The upward swing of the shaft is jarring, but he feels scads better now that they’re that much closer to getting out of this bedeviled fucking box. Whew.
He catches his breath, finally feeling like everything within the constraints of his ribcage is operating at a normal speed again - at least until the elevator rings for floor nineteen, and Tulip effectively blockades the exit.
She lets him off of it, first. The doors hiss shut behind them and the shaft glides down for its next slew of passengers. But Tulip curls in on him, leaning in close as she did before, nailing his feet to the floor with the pierce of her gaze.
For a moment, she says nothing, just watches his face as it flushes, heat crawling beneath the cowl of his cable-knit. Her fluster is much more apparent in the fluorescent light of the hallway, sweat and glitter shining along her collarbone. She flips out her phone, plugging in a few digits on the keypad before it whizzes back into her dress pocket.
“In case you need any more…warming up,” she purrs, waggling her fingers under her chin in a little wave.
Grusha is stunned, frozen on the spot for a moment as he just watches her leave, watches the sway in her elegant gait as she disappears round the corner. He takes his phone out, then, scrambling to find whatever it is she must have sent him. His breath catches. Oh - 1903.
Her room number.