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[FIC] PoT/Reborn!: Mutual Understanding
HAHAHAH WHAT. WHAT, SELF, WHAT.
I wrote this at approximately 3.30am last night. That might explain everything. Because, you see, this is the first time I've ever written Inui properly, the first time I've THOUGHT of writing Bianchi... and it's het. I rarely, rarely write het.
Hahah oh god, this is so crack.
Mutual Understanding
Fandoms: Prince of Tennis and Katekyo Hitman Reborn!
Characters/Pairing: Inui/Bianchi
Rating: PG
Words: 600
Summary: ‘She meets him in front of a roadside stall.’ Inui, Bianchi, and sharing the joys of cooking. Inspired pretty much by this post.
She meets him in front of a roadside stall.
The signboard screams ‘SPORTS DRINKS FOR SALE! GET YOUR SPORTS DRINKS HERE’ and she is intrigued, because the jugs were filled with neon green liquid, glowing faintly in the light of the afternoon sun. She tilts her head, and sees blue smoke wafting out, curled like snakes.
She finds them absolutely fascinating.
“Do you want to try it, Miss?” she turns, and he is there, thick black glasses obscuring the windows to his soul. He is smiling at her, and takes a jug of the liquid and pours a little to a small plastic cup, handing it to her. She smiles on automaton; looks at the plastic that is melting slightly; feels the gun hidden in her thigh holster; looks back at him.
She takes a sip, tasting the flavours that are unfurling on her tongue.
And smiles.
***
It is not love, but a mutual understanding. Love is what she feels for Reborn, something beautiful and pure and so strong it takes her breath away. Reborn is her Apollo, her Adonis, her God on a pedestal but he-
It’s something far more visceral, she thinks. Something like the sound of the fire’s roaring melding with the humming of the blender; something like the brush off their hands as they passed ingredients to each other; something like the taste of the other’s creations in the other’s mouths, tastes weaving into each other into something so utterly unique that not even they can replicate it.
He sets down the knife and pours another cup of juice to her. She gathers her spaghetti up with a fork and offers it to him. He smiles, reaches forward, and eats it messily, blue-and-purple noodles falling out of his mouth. She smiles, touches her fingertips to his lips, and takes the cup.
It’s simply a mutual understanding between two connoisseurs who share the same taste.
***
She cooks by emotions; by feelings. She puts love into each press of the knife, each turn of the ladle, each spear of the fork. She puts in whatever ingredients she feels right to add, her skin brushing each and every piece that is set on the table. She gathers the feelings of her food; of herself; and turns it into a dish.
It’s something instinctual to her.
But for him – it’s entirely different. The counter is covered by green notebooks, tottering dangerously, nearly off the edge. Each page is full of calculations, of previous ‘experiments’, of the property of each ingredient he adds into the blender. He always carries a pen with him, murmuring to himself and scribbling down notes.
It’s something analytical for him.
Their methods are different, yet- their goal is the same.
After all, they just want to make something special for the people they love.
***
There are moments when they almost forget themselves. When his eyes – brightly green like his juices, usually hidden behind his glasses – are boring into hers, darkened and intense with lust; when her hand is in his hair, tugging on the short spiky strands and not deluding herself that it’s someone else; when they kiss and he tastes his soul on her tongue, and vice-versa.
It is in these moments that she forgets about love, about assassination, about Mafia; that he forgets about hard work, about tennis, about Seigaku.
Then he will pull away, glasses back on his nose and glinting, and she will flip her hair and walk away-
And the moment is lost.
They both think: This is enough. Because this understanding-
That is all that they need.
End
I wrote this at approximately 3.30am last night. That might explain everything. Because, you see, this is the first time I've ever written Inui properly, the first time I've THOUGHT of writing Bianchi... and it's het. I rarely, rarely write het.
Hahah oh god, this is so crack.
Mutual Understanding
Fandoms: Prince of Tennis and Katekyo Hitman Reborn!
Characters/Pairing: Inui/Bianchi
Rating: PG
Words: 600
Summary: ‘She meets him in front of a roadside stall.’ Inui, Bianchi, and sharing the joys of cooking. Inspired pretty much by this post.
She meets him in front of a roadside stall.
The signboard screams ‘SPORTS DRINKS FOR SALE! GET YOUR SPORTS DRINKS HERE’ and she is intrigued, because the jugs were filled with neon green liquid, glowing faintly in the light of the afternoon sun. She tilts her head, and sees blue smoke wafting out, curled like snakes.
She finds them absolutely fascinating.
“Do you want to try it, Miss?” she turns, and he is there, thick black glasses obscuring the windows to his soul. He is smiling at her, and takes a jug of the liquid and pours a little to a small plastic cup, handing it to her. She smiles on automaton; looks at the plastic that is melting slightly; feels the gun hidden in her thigh holster; looks back at him.
She takes a sip, tasting the flavours that are unfurling on her tongue.
And smiles.
***
It is not love, but a mutual understanding. Love is what she feels for Reborn, something beautiful and pure and so strong it takes her breath away. Reborn is her Apollo, her Adonis, her God on a pedestal but he-
It’s something far more visceral, she thinks. Something like the sound of the fire’s roaring melding with the humming of the blender; something like the brush off their hands as they passed ingredients to each other; something like the taste of the other’s creations in the other’s mouths, tastes weaving into each other into something so utterly unique that not even they can replicate it.
He sets down the knife and pours another cup of juice to her. She gathers her spaghetti up with a fork and offers it to him. He smiles, reaches forward, and eats it messily, blue-and-purple noodles falling out of his mouth. She smiles, touches her fingertips to his lips, and takes the cup.
It’s simply a mutual understanding between two connoisseurs who share the same taste.
***
She cooks by emotions; by feelings. She puts love into each press of the knife, each turn of the ladle, each spear of the fork. She puts in whatever ingredients she feels right to add, her skin brushing each and every piece that is set on the table. She gathers the feelings of her food; of herself; and turns it into a dish.
It’s something instinctual to her.
But for him – it’s entirely different. The counter is covered by green notebooks, tottering dangerously, nearly off the edge. Each page is full of calculations, of previous ‘experiments’, of the property of each ingredient he adds into the blender. He always carries a pen with him, murmuring to himself and scribbling down notes.
It’s something analytical for him.
Their methods are different, yet- their goal is the same.
After all, they just want to make something special for the people they love.
***
There are moments when they almost forget themselves. When his eyes – brightly green like his juices, usually hidden behind his glasses – are boring into hers, darkened and intense with lust; when her hand is in his hair, tugging on the short spiky strands and not deluding herself that it’s someone else; when they kiss and he tastes his soul on her tongue, and vice-versa.
It is in these moments that she forgets about love, about assassination, about Mafia; that he forgets about hard work, about tennis, about Seigaku.
Then he will pull away, glasses back on his nose and glinting, and she will flip her hair and walk away-
And the moment is lost.
They both think: This is enough. Because this understanding-
That is all that they need.
End