Work Text:
“It spreads through the power lines,” she says, hazel eyes blown wide.
“That’s how it gets into your head. Listen to the humming —” she breaks off, forgetting.
“Frond’s name,” Trouble says, grinning. “You’re gone, aren’t you.”
There’s a bottle of wine on the floor between them — Holly reaches for it, but he bats her hand away and takes another swig. The cracked light spills onto the wooden floorboards, tangerine soaking into glass.
“I read a play the other day,” Trouble says, grimacing.
“You read? Kelp, I didn’t know you were literate.”
This makes him laugh, tipping his head backwards.
“Screw you. I was reading this Mud Man play, and there was this line in it. I thought you’d like it. It was, this thing of darkness I / Acknowledge mine.”
“I do like it.”
They both reach for the bottle at the same time, knuckles brushing. Trouble’s face twists into a mock-scowl when she gets there first. The light illuminates half of his face; one of his eyes is brown, the other violet. He looks at her quizzically when he notices her staring, tilting his head, and the effect is broken.
She spills the hot, sticky liquid down her throat. Part of it runs down her chin.
“D’arvit, I’m getting it everywhere,” Holly mutters, mostly for Trouble’s benefit, because right now he’s looking at her with laughter in his eyes and she doesn’t know if she’d rather kiss him or stab him to death.
Drinking in the dorms isn’t allowed. A lot of things aren’t allowed in the Academy, but if the cigarette butts dotting the footpaths tell her anything, it’s that police trainees are terrible at following orders. Trouble’s eyes follow her as she wipes clumsily at her collarbone. His gaze is curious, with a fleeting, barely perceptible weight.
Her face feels hot, but maybe it’s just the alcohol.
“Here’s an idea. I—” and the memory of that conversation ends there, no relief, no conclusion, to be continued.
(When they end up making out it’s slow and careless. Like last time, Holly initiates, taking a deep breath to steel herself. Trouble’s eyes stay closed a second longer after she pulls away. At some point she bites his neck, not out of desire, but something else entirely, and he curses and threads his fingers through her hair.)
* * *
And there’s blood buzzing in her ears, the humming of cables twenty metres above the ground. Holly’s fingers curl and close around nothing, she’s so hungover and horribly awake. The curtains are drawn, it’s night, and there’s a pile of blankets on her. Trouble is asleep curled up at the foot of the bed — he must have let her have the bed, probably put the blanket on her, she realises, and something sicker than the alcohol twists in her stomach. She thinks, chivalrous bastard, and makes a note to thank him when he wakes.
* * *
Then it’s morning and the light is whole again. Trouble is sitting on the bed, reading. She squints and cracks a smile at him, but he doesn’t notice. The solemn temples, the great globe itself, / Yea, all which it inherit, shall dissolve, / And, like this insubstantial pageant faded, / Leave not a rack behind.
“Trouble,” she yawns, her voice thick with sleep.
He puts down his book and pretends to cover his eyes, looking at her through the gaps between his fingers.
“ ‘Morning, world’s worst kisser.”
“Wha—hey!” she groggily kicks him in the hip. He groans. “Ow.”
“Let’s go get breakfast?”
“Not yet. I’m still sleepy. Can you keep reading?”
“You mean, aloud?”
She draws the blanket tighter around her. “Yes.”
We are such stuff / As dreams are made on; and our little life / Is rounded with a sleep…
* * *
The morning passes like this, slow and easy. There are kids smoking on the fire escapes, tiny lilac clouds drifting into the air and melting away in the artificial sunlight. At some point Trouble leans out of the unhooked window, and the papers scattered around the room stir in the wind like doves. Everything is infused with a sense of hungover newness.
Holly is sitting on the bed, her legs folded underneath her, rubbing the sleep from her eyes.
“Breakfast?”
Trouble sticks his head back in, and says, “Finally. Help me grab my jacket?”
She tosses it to him on the way out. The sunlight casts vague shadows across the door. They’re both still wearing their clothes from last night, and Trouble tries not to look straight at her too often. She teases him about it in the lift.
“What, are you embarrassed?”
He catches on immediately, wrinkling his nose in mock-seriousness. “No, not at all.”
They walk across campus grounds and the place is dotted with people, like little fish. The walk to the dining hall is impossibly long. It’s Saturday; a gentle breeze bends the blades of yellow grass. Trouble talks quietly and carelessly, about classes and his brother and making rent. The sunlight skips over his features and shines through his eyelashes. Once or twice he looks at Holly to see if she’s still listening, and their eyes briefly meet.