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The plane was completely silent, all except for the chain of frustrated groans of Steve Burnside as he tried to turn the plane on; trying furiously to floor the rudder pedal, only for the plane to be silent as it, well, doesn’t turn on at all, makes no notion to move. ‘ Nada’, Steve thinks, now glaring at the keyhole on the control panel, the thin red circle around the keyhole only serving to taunt him, he could almost hear it laughing at him, almost saying ‘You’re not done yet!’
“Seriously?!” he bellowed, getting up and making a move to kick the seat out of sheer frustration; searing pain that this caused him be damned!
This outburst caused Claire Redfield to snap her head to look at the ginger boy, to which he put his hands up and sat on the instrument panel, shifting uncomfortably to not sit too close to the flight controls, and muttering a brisk “Sorry.”
Claire’s head tilted subtly, starting to look at Steve, her eyes softening at the sight of him, now resting his arm at his knee, she noticed his hands rub at his left eye, occasionally blinking his restlessness away, as he’s not slept in a while -- well, not a proper sleep -- Steve’s ginger hair stuck to his sleepless face from earlier exhausts of fighting the undead, oh, and his dad, too; That must be the weirdest way for your dream girl to meet your dad, him being a zombie and trying to tear her larynx out.
At least I’m getting out of here alive . Steve thought bitterly, he hoped his dad would be happy with him keeping his memory alive, after he escapes from Rockfort.
“Well, this plane was a fuckin’ bust.” He breathed, and it was only now that Claire noticed that his breathing was more noticeably heavy, his entire body subtly heaving, each breath more labored than his last. He kept his gaze on her, but it was much softer than she was used to from him.
“Yeah, no kidding..” Claire murmured breathlessly, feeling those breaths subtly quicken like her heartbeat, her own gaze keeping close to him, but never quite making eye contact, she didn’t like keeping eye contact.
The auburn-haired woman glanced at the Ashford manor from the large window next to the cockpit, her blue eyes narrowed while she tried to visualize the floor and overall structure of the manor and prison; the floors, ceilings, it’s strange golden yellow lighting -- which honestly gave her a headache, she hated yellow lights --.
Upon staring at the structure and build of the place, Claire bit her bottom lip, eyes rapidly shifting glance as she tried to think.
“Say,” she turns back to face Steve, seeing that he almost jumped, racing to meet her gaze, freezing; no longer fidgeting with the hem of his prisoner jacket, the dull navy-coloured fabric being caught between his pointer and ring
fingers, and staying that way. Claire noticed his gaze as he examined her face, a mannerism that she’d steadily started to notice a lot more, but dared not to comment on; she thought it was cute, him trying to be subtle.
Claire briefly smiles, savoring the slow flood of confusion on his then almost stoic face, before continuing.
“I see this big rectangle window, Did we explore that room? It might have that key you’ve been looking at!” she suggests, blinking at him when she sees him make rapid eye movement, thinking.
“Good idea, yeah” Steve nods, his narrowed eyes looking up to his right as he speaks, as if he was trying to remember the room. By the time he looked back at her, she was already climbing out of the cockpit, auburn hair almost ethereally falling, even if it was in a low ponytail.
Steve almost had to catch his breath, looking at her, before calling out,
“Hey, wa-wait up!”
Now, the two wait in a large dining room area, only illuminated by uncomfortably bright light emanating from the chandelier, as it casts a warm, but lonely golden yellow light around the room. The warmth of the room heavily contrasts the cold dimness of the rainy outside.
Steve slowly walked towards one of the small tables on the side, a mahogany coffee table that was only decorated with red tablecloths, three photos -- of course, of members of the Ashfords, dancing, out of anything else -- lined at the back of the table, one wide photo, surrounded on each side by one long photo, depicting who Steve could only guess was Alexia and Alfred, with a fancy family photo being framed in the longways picture.
‘ Wonder if they had family reunions..’ He thinks, ‘That would sure be weird, huh?’ Steve could hardly imagine how those would turn out.
“ ‘Hey fellow Ashford, have you killed anyone recently yet?’. ‘Why I have not, other Ashford!’ “
Wow, Steve thought, when was his last family reunion? He didn’t think family talked to each other like that.
While Steve occupied himself with the awkwardness of an Ashford family reunion, Claire stayed in a crouch in front of the large painting of Veronica Ashford. She took the time to study the numbers and faint circles on the floor, they looked to be dance instructions, out of anything else.
She glanced back at the painting, Veronica was depicted in a dull purple dress that looked more like a babydoll dress than a ball gown. Veronica’s purple dress was frilly, adorned at the hems and sleeves with delicate silk-esque lace. Claire stared up at the painting, her blue gaze fixed on the regality of the blonde’s stance, her poise, and elegance. She absently brought her left hand to her face, feeling at her lip, abruptly becoming acutely aware of her own messy hair, unkempt from her struggles of the day.
After a brief pause, she hears concern from her partner,
“Hey Claire, are you uh … alright?” Steve asks, to which she responds with a quick nod, the woman moving to stand up while she keeps her gaze on the floor.
Claire’s arms crossed behind her back as she tapped the heel of her boots on the floor a few times and her mouth remained agape. Without really thinking on it, Claire positioned herself at the first circle-step, her foot kept idle on it as she looked for the second step; then the third, fourth, fifth, and eventually, by the sixth, she thinks she gets it!
There were small symbols with each of the circles, with step six, the symbol notioned for Claire to twirl -- which she did carefully -- to step seven, which wanted her to face step two and bow, gracefully traipsing to step eight, before backing towards nine, one more spin, then she was done.
By the end of it, she could practically feel Steve glancing at her as if she was insane.
“You sure you’re okay?” He asks, his expression somewhere between genuine concern, and him trying not to laugh his ass off. “Never thought I’d see Claire Redfield dancing.”
“Yes, I am!” she chuckles, “I took dancing lessons when I was twelve, only for like... a day,” she states jovially, her brief smile never escaping her face as she talks with Steve. “I never thought I’d remember how!” Her smile did, however, falter a bit, as she opened her mouth to bring up her dad, and how he even said that same thing, -- after telling Claire that he was sure she would quit the lessons regardless -- but, the last thing Claire wanted to bring up was fathers at the moment.
“Me neither, it’s such a girly hobby” Steve remarks, his tone still cheerful and playful as his smirk widened, watching as Claire narrows her eyes at him in faux annoyance.
“Hey, I might make you help me, Burnside!” she taunts, silently going over the steps once more.
“Ohh noo, close contact? Anything but that!” He jabs, returning Claire’s faulty smile as he studies her movements; trying to copy them at certain moments; with more of a faux-mocking tone, of course, keeping up the playful banter they had going on. “You’re .. really into that huh?”
Claire nods, face remaining stoic in her haze of concentration; “it almost feels like muscle memory..” she mutters, only barely doing a twirl without losing any semblance of balance.
“C’mon Steve, if you’re such a knight in shining armor why don’t you come help your damsel in distress?” she chuckles, looking over at Steve after trying again on the twirl.
With a laughing sigh, Steve crossed his arms as he walks towards the painting; towards Claire; who welcomed him with open arms -- well, hands -- as she leaned forward and took his hands in her own, and pulled him close, “You’re-” she interrupted herself with a gasp after Steve tripped, “Cold!” she laughed softly, was he really that nervous?
Steve rolled his eyes, deflecting the statement by confidently saying “If you wanted to hold my hands, you coulda just asked”
Claire only made a ‘pff’ sound, before toeing over to step four.
The two tried following the same step at the same time, but occasionally bumped into eachother, or into objects, so that was a no-go.
Every misstep just caused a fit of laughter to befall the two, their closeness -- and maybe deliriousness from staying up so long -- only making the two laugh like they were put on laughing gas in a dentist's office.
Eventually, they felt like they had it figured out.
Steve started at step nine, Claire started at step one, with a mutual bow, -- which both ended up losing their balance and messing up with a little -- they started; both teenagers made sure to keep their arms close to their partner, but was it due to not wanting to risk one of them getting injured by a dastardly fall to the ground? Or was it due to remaining close to eachother? Not even they knew, really. Claire had properly pulled off a spin, followed by Steve properly leading her to step seven, even if it almost resulted in Claire tripping.
“Hey, you’re doing great, Steve!”
“Really? Or are you just wanting me to keep going?”
“No, I’m serious!”
Cue the two going into another fit of laughter as they messed up step eight.
Steve huffed, rubbing his eye as he turned a little to look at Claire, who looked ready to jump in again; as always.
“Well, we almost had it! Wanna go again?”
And so, the two went at it one more time, hand-in-hand; Every twirl, spin, bow or curtsy, every traipse they took towards the next step seemed to deepen their bond as they tried for the dance.
The two didn’t really seem to realize how close -- emotionally and physically -- they had gotten, up until that very last bow, backstep, and spin;
Claire’s hand leading Steve’s as he stood to twirl, where he was briskly secured in her arms; the twirl, was followed by a moment where their foreheads were gingerly pressed together; their arms seemed to mingle, along with their heavy, and strained, hitching breaths.
For a moment, it was as if everything paused, as if everything around but the two of them, was pushed to the side, it was their turn to be the focus of each other's own little worlds.
Claire’s mouth kept slightly agape as she looked into the eyes of her partner -- now, as she understood, in more ways than one -- she was sure that both of them were pulling the other closer to them, mutually attracting and pulling each other closer, with the likeness of a magnet...
Until the wall right beside the coffee table pushed itself in with a loud BANG! Not only revealing the moth-wing key they had needed, but also effectively scaring Steve half to death, he had let out a yelp, followed by a jump as he instinctively let go of Claire, and reached for the gun holstered at his hip, and pointed it to the wall; only realizing after two seconds, that it was just the wall; his face flushing a little in embarrassment as he heard Claire’s warm laugh, walking towards the key, and bending over to pick it up.
Claire held the key in her hand as she brought it up to the light of the chandelier, having to close her left eye due to the way the light glossed blindingly over the key’s faux-membranous wing.
Claire spotted Steve, watching as he leaned back against a table, hand to his heart, easing its poundings; he occasionally laughed at his own scare, remarking inwardly about how easy he was scared.
Steve’s playfulness was one of the things she would always remember him fondly by; She would miss him when he was gone; and it was hard to believe that this would be his last day alive.