3 comments/ 8928 views/ 1 favorites Beauty and the Bruiser Ch. 01 By: TheLateRendezvous [Previously, I began a story entitled "The Lunatic Hour." While I enjoyed the opening, it lacked a certain "spark" necessary to continue it. I turned to boards here on Literotica and fortune smiled upon me for I stumbled into the best writing partnership a man could ask for. ;) I will be posting the entirety of our tale, "Beauty and the Bruiser" here for all to enjoy. This work is the combined effort of both myself and StilletoKitten, whose beauty and wit turns the English language into her plaything. Enjoy, but be forewarned: the first chapter is a slow burning simmer.] 2am... The hours are creeping by and the night is slowly dying out, the day ready and willing to overcome its twin brother's throne. Half of the gym is steeped in shadows, weights and machines lingering in the dark, just out of sight - as if they were the bones to the hulking beast that is this place. An occasional passing car on the road outside...when they would take the curve, headlights would slip away from the road, racing across the empty parking lot and leaping through the plate glass windows of the gym, briefly racing across the room, casting shadows and making the metal of the machines glisten like teeth in the darkness. Dramatic much, Deacon? He puts the weight down - let it thump to the floor with a resounding thud. Should have brought the iPod, should have brought something - anything - to fill the senses and let it be forgotten forget why he was here. Too much thinking, lately...too much of everything. He should be at home. Should be sleeping, and yet...here he was. But sleep lingers tantalizingly outside of his grasp. He could lie there in bed, eyes closed and feigning sleep...putting on a show for no one. We can lie to our friends, we can lie to every around us - put on a brave face and pretend that it is all over and it was nothing...but here in the dark, talking to ourselves...we know the truth. Let us ignore the pain, the feeling of a heart removed - forget the absence in our chest and the cold around the soul. Let's just pick up another weight and lift until our palms turn red and the blisters develop at the base of the fingers - the five finger proof that you are lifting more than you should. Standing now, silencing the running commentary track in his mind...looking into the mirror and enjoying the sight - not in a narcissistic manner, but rather enjoying seeing the reflection half in shadow, half in light. It fits the mood. Five years lost in the haze of training and fighting - six years ago he was behind the desk of a video store, the only exercise he ever knew was the pressing of the buttons on a remote control. Then something happened...a breaking, a twist of the soul...it got him up at five am, strapping on running shoes and pounding pavement until the sun came up. Sweets and fast food suddenly turned the stomach and salads became the only thing he desired to eat. Now here he was, training for boxing. The guy who never met a playground fight he would rather run from...the guy who made his bullies laugh in order to escape with his lunch money...the guy more at home in the library stacks then in the testosterone soaked atmosphere of the ring...ending up here. At home living in his own sweat and finding sweet music in the sweet science. Now here he was, looking at himself in the mirror...hardly recognizable. I have to admit, I enjoy it. The separation. Like a kid at the controls of a video game - and the man in the mirror is the game character created for himself. It is strange how one's form transforms only when you are no longer paying attention to it. To have gone from "husky" to "athletic" -- he only noticed it when others commented upon it. Stranger still, how people react to your presence differently once your stomach turns from a "gut" to a "six pack" and your arms turn into "guns." At first it was complimentary...now it seemed rather absurd. Okay, get a grip. Sleep deprivation and heartbreak should never be a man's choice of cocktail. At the bottom of that glass is a straitjacket. Starting the feel the chill as the cold reaches his skin - the glistening sweat beads are no longer ignored as my body temperature rapidly cools off from the lack of exertion. Suddenly those little beads of sweat become tiny entrances for the cold of the room to slip into the skin, turning blood into ice water. The gym is empty - what the hell? He peels off the cheap "Party Till She's Naked" t-shirt and lets it slap the floor with a wet "thwack." Going shirtless in the gym is a no-no (see the sign on the wall?) but at 2am, the "Who Gives a Fuck?" rule goes into effect. A tell-tale electronic chirp...in his foggy, sleep deprived brain he recognizes the sound but does not immediately process it....the sound it is out of place here. It is the sound heard over and over again during the six o' clock rush hour... It is the sound of a membership card getting read by the front desk scanner... Rachel walked briskly, bundled up in her coat, a scarf wrapped around her head. Her strawberry locks billowed behind her, and the combination of stiff breeze and light rain was hovering right on the edge of discomfort. It was the cold. That was uncomfortable. It was right on the brink of spring, but not that far removed from winter it seemed. Her body was merely chilled, but her faded jeans did next to nothing to keep out weathers wintry hold. When it started hailing, she gave up. Teeth chattering, she pushed open the door to the gym just down the street from her house, the only thing in her possession a tattered copy of The Divine Comedy. She had gotten inside info that her Lit professor always had a pop quiz on the first Monday after the first week, on Inferno. It was not urgent, she could have just waited until tomorrow, or a couple days even. But then, she couldn't sleep. It seemed that was happening more and more these days. There was nothing better to do. She was not counting on the wind picking up, and the subsequent drop in temperature forced the young sports medicine student to seek shelter. Lucky for her, she was a member at this particular gym. Perhaps even more lucky the door was unlocked. She swept the card through the scanner, hearing its familiar beep go off in the distance as she passed it. It was almost eerie the way the abandoned room echoed with its own silence, in stark contrast with the bustle she was used to in the place. Passing a room filled with treadmills, she entered a large area filled with the boxing and martial arts equipment, knowing it had a padded bench, and turned on the lights. They shined on a shirtless boxer. He had a lithe, yet powerful way of moving that matched his well-defined physique perfectly. Rachel thought that she had seen him at the gym in the past, but he was very quiet, and liked to keep to himself. He just seemed like one of those guys that was just fine by himself. In a lot of ways, Rachel could understand this, but she also thought that, maybe, having a meaningful connection with someone would be the answer. She hoped it was anyway. It probably wouldn't be him, the last thing she needed was another jock in her love life. He certainly was nice to look at though. "It's Deacon right?" She took off her scarf, combing her cardinal hair to relative straightness with her fingers. For a moment, he felt strangely 'caught,' as if being here and doing this at such an hour was obscene. His partial nudity, the late night lifting and his cluttered thoughts all seemed indicative of a guilty nature - once again, lack of sleep was wrecking havoc with his mind. He had looked to the door -- at first seeing only the a silhouette, an outline of a very small form walking from the desk and into the gym. It's a she...he could tell that already from the way she carries herself and her petite frame. His first thought is that seemed pixyish...the look of a fairy tale creature who had just escaped from the pages of a child's fantasy book. Her lithe form and face perfectly symmetrical, so flawless it seemed formed out of porcelain. She had the appearance of a living work of art...in grubby sweats. It was almost surreal to watch her walk across the empty room... When she looked at him and actually spoke his name, he did something of a double take. He usually blended into the background of this place, not aiming to socialize or be known by those who worked out here...mostly because they tended to look down upon him and his fellow boxers as being low-lifes and scum for making their living with blood on their knuckles. "Yes...Deacon. I'm sorry, I don't recall your name?" He felt a bit taken aback, until he saw her copy of The Divine Comedy and instantly smiled. "But...I do recall someone resembling you who comes in here nearly every week with a different masterpiece under her arm. Most folks who come in here rarely venture past anything more bold than People magazine." He laughed, revealing a surprisingly warm smile. "Yes...Deacon. I'm sorry, I don't recall your name?" In truth Rachel had read an article on him in the school paper, and saw his photograph. Only then did she recognize him in the gym. She could admit to having sneaked a few long glances his way. Many of the other gym-goers looked down on the boxers, but every once in awhile, when she watched him, she could sense a great storm beneath his fierce visage. It was a very intriguing feature. She would of course never speak of this to him. "But...I do recall someone resembling you who comes in here nearly every week with a different masterpiece under her arm. Most folks who come in here rarely venture past anything more bold than People magazine." He laughed casually. Rachel, trying to hide her mild surprise, returned with a smile of her own. "Yeah, sometimes I think I should be a lit major. My name's Rachel." Unzipping her coat, she strode over to the bench. She set her coat aside and, sitting, crossed her legs, the book cradled in her lap. She looked up at him, green eyes twinkling playfully, "You know you hotshot athletes are all the same. The body needs rest too. Have you been here since six o'clock?" She shot him a friendly smile. "But I suppose then I would need an excuse to come to the gym in the wee hours in the morning, with nothing but a book." "Yeah, sometimes I think I should be a lit major. My name's Rachel." He nodded, still feeling somewhat out of place. He was accustomed to being unseen, or being seen and ignored...here was this lovely girl not only knowing him (and regarding him as being on the same level as her, it would seem) but also keeping the conversation going between the two. So many, it seemed were either frightened by his appearance or his presentations in class on continental philosophy...it seemed the only places he excelled where in areas that people feared. As she sat down on the bench, he caught his eyes roaming over her form - not the most gentlemanly of looks, but something about her drew his eyes as if they were metal near a magnet. "You know you hotshot athletes are all the same. The body needs rest too. Have you been here since six o'clock?" It took a moment for him to let his brain take over control and listen to what she said, responding with a slight start, "Hotshot athlete?" He laughed. "Hardly. Just a guy who seems to enjoy giving and receiving abuse in equal measure." Feelingly slightly self-conscious for his half naked appearance (and suddenly becoming all too aware of the fact that his shorts were made of material all too thin and breathable, making all physical...changes...all too obvious, should they occur), he idly stretched his arms, wrist under elbow, stretching idly. Biceps and triceps in turn moved and shifted with the movements, lower down his lower abs would stretch tight from the motion as he twisted his torso in time with his movements. "I was here at six for cardio, but I came back at midnight...couldn't sleep. Figured I might work myself ragged enough so that sleep came not by choice, but by necessity." He nodded to her. "So what brings you here at this ungodly hour?" "Hotshot athlete?" His laugh echoed warmly around the nearly empty room. "Hardly. Just a guy who seems to enjoy giving and receiving abuse in equal measure." Sitting back, she tried not to watch him too closely as he began to stretch. "I was here at six for cardio, but I came back at midnight...couldn't sleep. Figured I might work myself ragged enough so that sleep came not by choice, but by necessity. So what brings you here at this ungodly hour?" She stood, leaving her book behind and grabbing one of the towels from the supply cabinet, walking up and handing it to him. "I couldn't sleep either. I meant to go to the park, since they have the lights on so late. But it started hailing." She crossed her arms, wondering what opposing forces raged in that storm in his head as she watched him. "Its not due for another week. I could use company more than I could use beautiful poetry. Besides, I'm reading the depressing part." Hoping he would join her, she gave him a carefree smile, sitting back down on the bench a few feet away. Strange, such a lovely vixen - and she was truly delightful in her manner with him. He was not one who smiled often, but now he did so - revealing a rare and warm expression on a face that was otherwise unreadable and sometimes cold. He felt the opening being offered, and had to struggle a bit to try and keep up his end of the socializing - this was one dance he was not used to. "Um...well, there is a really good cafe just a block up the road...it's a late night place. It's not as depressing as Dante, but sometimes it's fairly close." He laughed a bit, reaching down and grabbing his pile of wet t-shirt, picking it up as if it were roadkill needed to be taken off the highway. "I was going to grab a shower and maybe head up there for some pie. Their cherry pie is an insomniac's best friend. Takes the bitterness out of the cold night and puts your soul to sleep with a little taste of a happy childhood." Such an odd sentiment...he even wondered to himself as he idly ran a few fingers across his chest, absentmindedly tracing the curves of the Chinese symbols tattooed upon his chest and stretching down his left side, along his torso. As he did so, he caught himself staring once again - seeing the division between her shirt and bare skin, finding his imagination wanting to fill in the rest and wonder what it would be like to see her... He caught himself in the moment, feeling the blood rush southward and realizing he was beginning to feel some stiffness below. Luckily, the shirt hung free from his hand and he carefully let it hang in place in front of his waist, trying to conceal his line of thought. "Um...well, there is a really good cafe just a block up the road...it's a late night place. It's not as depressing as Dante, but sometimes it's fairly close." Letting forth an easy going laugh, he picked up a shirt from the floor. "I was going to grab a shower and maybe head up there for some pie. Their cherry pie is an insomniac's best friend. Takes the bitterness out of the cold night and puts your soul to sleep with a little taste of a happy childhood." She blushed, catching him looking at her, realizing that she wasn't wearing the most modest of attire. Still, every girl loves a complement. "I would love to. My soul could use some rest, I think." She really loved the way he had described that pie. Somehow, he had convinced her it was just what they both needed. "Do you think you could give me a ride? The hail isn't deadly, but its pretty annoying." Her father had spent every last penny sending her to this school, and even then, she had to work and live in a dangerous part of the city. He constantly worried about her safety, but she was usually very careful. Growing up in the less-glamorous desert of California's Inland Empire, it had taken a lot of hard work to get her scholarship. But now that she was here, it seemed that was the easy part. She felt alone, overworked, and a little homesick. Maybe she could have a pleasant evening with him. Maybe she could just forget it all for a little while. He smiled at her smile, an chain reaction that sent him in danger of revealing far too much about his current state of though below the waistline. Instead, he carefully kept the t-shirt in front and nodded. "Sounds good. Two insomniacs, getting together - I'm sure it will end with us both happy in bed. Give me a minute to shower up and we can go?" He walked past her...heading for the back rooms...only three steps away did he realize his strangely worded phrase. Hmmm, well...already said. Somewhat innocent, but still - it did not feel innocent in his intent. Oh, stop thinking already...too much thinking had already threatened to give him something else requiring attention, but that was something which could be done in the shower. As he crossed the darkened gym, he grabbed his gym bag from the floor, realizing all he had inside was a pair of jeans and a rather trashy t-shirt, grabbed at the last moment for its status as being the only clean shirt left in his apartment. In a moment, he turned the corner into the locker room area - weird how the gym simply had a corner turn into the area, no doors or anything else to notate the beginning and end of the locker room areas. Tossing his bag on the nearest wooden bench near the lockers - he looked up in time to see his reflection...and the rather large and noticeable budge in his shorts which resembled a tepee set up in his crotch. "Lovely," He spoke to his fully attentive member, "Your timing is - as always - impeccable. I would take care of things now in the shower, but that would add enough time to make her suspicious that I'm in there whacking off while thinking of her, thus making her arm herself with pepper spray for the rest of the night. Or, you could die back down in the cold water and remember that I'm going commando in jeans and tight denim and you are not friends. The choice is yours, sir." She suppressed a smirk at his words, failing to restrain herself from taking them quite literally. I don't think it will go quite that well, prince charming... Still, the prospect of having someone be with her tonight was tempting. The last thing she wanted was for a prospective boyfriend to only stave off one cold, lonely night. No, she thought tentatively, the pie would have to do, if those characteristic fits of impulsivity never took hold of her. They tended not to let go. Sighing, she lay prone on the bench, her knees curled to her chest. She grabbed the remote on the end table and flipped on the tiny television in the corner, to the only channel the thing had apperently, CNN. All the horrible things happening in the world bombarded her at once as she awaited the cute boxer's return. The sheer terror of the news was almost comforting, as if the worlds turmoil and her own were at an equilibrium. She dared not call it apathy. Nor resignation. Both of them were nasty words. Letting loose a more hefty sigh, she tried to tame her unruly hair a little further. My idealism is under assault. Rachel was generally prone to romantic fantasies, and thus was a little vulnerable to men like Deacon. He was handsome, athletic, and at least appeared to be intelligent. She tried not to hold him to unrealistic standards, reducing her suspicions about him to mere hopes that he was the poetic silent type. He had charmed her thoroughly in their brief conversation. Wondering who he was, wondering why she had not spoken to him sooner, and the distant doom and gloom of the news produced a thought-cocktail that had her tired body drifting off into that place between sleep and waking... Beauty and the Bruiser Ch. 01 He approached her, the girl rubbing her eyes and sitting up, offering him a lethargic smile. "What took you so long, I almost fell asleep! I need to get some pie and coffee in me stat." He was a bit taken aback at her sudden waking, startling him - as he was thinking of ways to gently wake her that would neither be abrupt of invading her personal space - he stood in front of her, dressed now in jeans and a faded t-shirt advertising some sort of indie band that had long since faded from the public eye. It fit his persona - the man who never quite fit in anywhere at any time... Still, she had been so lovely there - her face quiet and still in the cool glow of the television screen. For a moment, he could feel that organ within his chest beating again, the warmth spreading from that familiar feeling - the feeling of closeness with another, instead of the cold harsh reality that had come with the last break-up, as she ejected him from her life...no, must not focus on that. Here was a sweet, lovely woman sharing the same insane late night hour as him. Let it be that. Just for a few hours, let it be a good night of two people making the cold hours a little less unfriendly. He smiled. "Well, the other option was to come out smelling like...well, like someone who just spent the last hour lifting weights and forgetting to pack deodorant. I would think you would have some standards..." The walk was uneventful, save for the tiny hail falling down upon their heads...he lifted his bag, trying to cover both of their heads, but it only managed to make the tiny bits of ice fall in different directions. They would both laugh at their rushed progress - but only once did either one of them slip and nearly fall...each catching the other (as best as they could). A few minutes later would find them in a corner booth of the tiny coffee house, seated at the back of the place, under a warm glowing neon sign that read: "WORLDS BEST PIE." The orders would be placed and within moments two slices of cherry pie were in front of them, the crusts overflowing with the sticky sweet contents within. "Go ahead now - you first. Take a bite and tell me that's the greatest slice of heaven you have ever had." His smile came so much easier now, with her... The reduced hail made his valiant but failed efforts at sheltering her amusing instead of frustrating. They filled the walk with small-talk and little, playful flirtations, arriving at the small coffee shop and pushing the door open. A soft ring greeted the employees, and they took their seat at the rear of the establishment, in a dim yet cozy corner. Gasping at the delicious smell, she broke into a delighted grin as the warm pie was placed before her. "Go ahead now - you first. Take a bite and tell me that's the greatest slice of heaven you have ever had." Laughing spritely, she took a forkful in her slender digits. "Alright, boxer-man, it better live up to your claims." The cherry goodness exploded onto her pallet. She smiled coquettishly at him through her mouthful. "Mmmmmm..." Finishing her mouthful, Rachel hovered over her cup of coffee, inhaling deeply its rich scent. Her eyes opened slowly, the heated mug in her hands obscuring the lower half of her face as she peered at the man across from her through long, dark lashes. They seemed to be searching him, wondering if he was going to hurt her. She found only honesty, and a similar loneliness. In truth it was very good pie, and the fact that she was sharing her solitary, wandering nights with another made it even better. "It's wonderful..." She set the book on the seat beside her, looking at him from the corner of her eye. "So how does boxing work? Do you box for the university, or a private organization?" He smiled, watching her enjoy the pie...sure, she was adding a bit of acting to her work, trying to save his feelings (which he found oddly endearing and even more than a bit funny - he wondered what would have happened if he had suggested the place's notoriously noxious tuna melt...). Stabbing a small chunk of overflowing red filling and crust, he took it to his lips, slowly savoring it as he took a slow bite... "You go so long on measured carbs and restricted sugar when your cutting for a match - afterwards, even something this simple becomes bliss on a fork." He laughed to himself, feeling foolish - but delightfully so with her. There was something delightfully profound in the exchanges they shared, with nothing hanging on every syllable, no judgments or competition - neither sizing the other up (at least obviously so) or trying to find a way to overtake the other. It was wonderfully unique to him, considering that between school and boxing, it seemed all of his relationships were competitive lately. "To answer your question, I train and fight for Ballistik Fighting, the fighting club that does training in town. I've been with them long enough that they added me to their official fight team so they help set up my matches with promoters and when I fight, I wear their colors. I don't make that much - I'm just fighting middleweight and I'm only just starting out, really. Right now my professional record is only 3-1." He shrugged. The fighting was merely prelude to everything else in his life, fighting in the ring only being the necessary extension of what he did in his training. "But what about you? Lit majors are a fickle group, usually. What's your area of expertise so far?" He smiled a bit at the weak English majors joke, thinking back to the handful that he knew, an odd and strangely endearing group of misfits with extensive knowledge of classics and very wry senses of humor. Rachel found his boxing to be incredibly sexy, in a typical girl-meets-strong-man kind of way. She mentally chided herself for being such a girl. It wouldn't be the first time she fell victim to the 'helpless cheerleader complex.' In fairness, she thought to herself, he seemed to be much more than just another jock. Sipping her coffee, she smiled at the question. "Actually, I'm studying sports medicine." She took off her coat, the plunging neckline of her tee perhaps showing off a little too much of her lightly freckled cleavage. It was only fair, since he started off the night bare-chested. Besides, she liked the way his eyes felt on her. "Who knows, maybe I'll end up working with you one day." Shooting him a coy smile, she walked over to the juke box before he could reply, flipping idly through all the old and new records. She had always had a penchant for sixties music, and it reflected in her choice. When the truth is found To be lies. And all the joy, within you dies. Don't you want somebody to love? Sliding back into her seat, she savored another bite of delicious pie. "I haven't really had any good pie since I still lived with my parents in California." She took another big bite, her eyes twinkling at the taste. "I can feel it warming my soul, just like you said." Philosophy texts may line the walls of his tiny apartment on the outskirts of town...boxing paraphernalia may hang from hooks all over his living room...and he may sport the endurance and training schedule of an athlete...but he was a man, after all. So as she moved in the bench, putting on the song so dear to his heart - and shifting in her seat in such a way as she removed her jacket...his eyes were stuck, his attention lost in that view. Something about freckles had always turned him on - the way it made it a girl seem so carefree, like a tomboy. The way it spoke a certain unflappable type of woman. So many magazines airbrushed their inhuman models to the point where they seemed plastic and alien...no, for him it was the girls with those tiny little signs of life, those unique little bits that made them unique and real. He had to shake his consciousness a bit - he was fixated on her chest like a thirteen year old discovering breasts for the first time. Don't be that guy, brother. You're not a lech. He spoke to himself, feeling slightly guilty but at the same time very aroused by her presence. She was full of life and vitality - it came across in her demeanor, which was as charged as small star - sitting now in a booth, eating cherry pie. "Sports medicine? Good to know I have someone to call when I get injured...again." He laughed a bit, scooping up more of the pie and taking a bite - trying not to think of how much more he was going to have to run tomorrow to burn it off...just enjoying the moment. "You lived in California, huh? I've never gotten that far west. Always wanted to, though. Especially the desert - Nevada and New Mexico. I have friends who have gone on this spiritual retreats with some tribes who live out there. They had amazing experiences....so what made you come all the way here to Boston?" "You lived in California, huh? I've never gotten that far west. Always wanted to, though. Especially the desert - Nevada and New Mexico. I have friends who have gone on this spiritual retreats with some tribes who live out there. They had amazing experiences....so what made you come all the way here to Boston?" She thought of all the reasons she came here. Education was the first and foremost, but in reality leaving home was a big part of it. Americans flocked to california as if Moses himself was leading them there. But she was a native, and she already knew it wasn't a promised land. Then again, her family would never have been able to afford living on the beach, or in San Francisco. As much as it was impossible for her to understand the rest of the nations mentality about California, she understood better than most the idea of a promised land. "Well, I have a scholarship. My family has sacrificed a lot to get me here. It's a lot of pressure, being the only hope." Blushing, she tried to lessen the melodrama. "Boston is a great city, and I am grateful. I don't think I've had enough fun to truly endear the place to me. Maybe I could come to one of your fights?" She wasn't ashamed to be looking for an excuse to see him again. He smiled to himself, hearing her talk. He sensed some reservation...there appeared to be far more motivation hiding behind those eyes and shy demeanor than her words might imply. "Well, my fights are...interesting, to say the least. It's not often the most pleasant of sights - watching two men beat themselves into a bloody mess." She smiles, knowing he was probably right. It made her a little concerned for his safety, and she hoped he got out before having one concussion to many. "Well that is true, I suppose. Maybe I'm just concerned for your safety. Medicine, remember?" The pie was steadily shrinking on her plate. "Besides, I would love to revel in your victory with you." So strange, when people who barely know each sense a connection...here she was, a stranger - and her voiced concern for his safety felt genuine - real enough that he was strangely moved by the admission. It seemed as if his world was lately filled with people who viewed him only as a instrument of pain - both in academia and the ring. To hear someone talk about him as if his pain were not merely a side effect of his endeavors, to talk about him with concern...it strangely moved him. He blushed slightly, hearing her talk of his victories as if they were absolute and abundant. "Well, perhaps you could watch me spar sometime. It's less bloody and the victory still feels sweet. You can uh, help me revel." He laughed, a genuine laugh of amusement with her - it felt good to be genuine with someone again. It had been far too long. Laughing with him felt liberating, and a little weight left her shoulders. "That would be lovely." Leaning forward a little, (Admittedly taking advantage of her neckline.) She spoke softly, above the rebellious tones of Jefferson Airplane. "So, Deacon... Tell me, why are you really up so late?...What are you thinking about?" Oh, the things a girl can do the spirit of a man with such a simple move. A playful smirk quickly flashed across his features as he saw her shift in her seat, idly wondering about her wily machinations behind those innocent eyes...nevertheless, he braved a glance (one does not hang a Picasso in a gallery and then expect an art lover *not* to look, after all) and found himself reaching for his water glass to parch his suddenly very dry mouth. He leaned forward with her, so as to be heard over the music - and also because he was only now catching her scent - apart from the sweat and metal of the gym's dank interiors. "I...I don't know, frankly. Lately it seems as if my head is filled with the background static of a million half thoughts and ideas, concerns and questions. I never feel as if I can sleep for it feels like my days are unfinished, as if I'm forgetting something important each night..." Damn. The words spilled out of him, bringing into sharp focus those things he could not even explain before. Strange, the effects she had on him... "I...I don't know, frankly. Lately it seems as if my head is filled with the background static of a million half-thoughts and ideas, concerns and questions. I never feel as if I can sleep for it feels like my days are unfinished, as if I'm forgetting something important each night..." Her green eyes were sincere and attentive as she listened. Something about the desperation in his voice took hold of her. Perhaps it was the recognition of such a state in her own mind. Silent for a moment, she chewed her lip, thoughts racing over what to do next. He had touched on something in her with his words. Something that had been bothering her. Something she had been forgetting. Something that... stonewalled her thoughts. It was not too much of a stretch to make the connection between his presence and her feeling of liberation. She didn't want him to leave her tonight, knowing the contrast of his lost warmth and another empty bed would likely have her crying. Boston was so much colder than California. Grabbing his hand, she tugged him from the table. "Come with me..." She paid the cashier frantically, walking briskly back towards her small efficiency apartment. Deacon looked bewildered as she turned to face him, at the door to her complex. Slender wrists snaked around his neck, her crimson locks framing her face, adorned with tiny ornaments of hail. "I know your pain. I sleep knowing I'm not complete." She cradled his cheek with her small hand, knowing he could disappear any moment. She rose to her tip-toes, even that only just enough to bring her lips to his, the lightest of caresses... Her heart fluttered, and she looked fearfully into his eyes. "Please Deacon, stay with me. I don't want to be alone tonight..." Anyone with any sense would call her a foolish little girl, but she trusted him, for some reason. She couldn't bare the thought of him leaving her sight that night. It felt almost like providence. The whirlwind she had taken him on had brought him to this place, outside of her apartment - he had been lost in the moment, taken aback to the point where he had no idea where any of it was leading. Strangely, his only fear was that at any moment she was going to let go of his hand and take off, leaving him alone - it would have been a crime to do so, coming after this night and their brief but oddly powerful conversation. "Please Deacon, stay with me. I don't want to be alone tonight..." Her lips touched his and suddenly the warmth between them grew, to the point where he could feel himself start to nearly break a sweat despite the freezing cold around them. With that the touch became a kiss, a deep one...until it became language between them, a conversation of bodies touching and responding - tongues melting into each other as they melted into each other's embrace. Though no one would see it, the hail that lightly clung to their skin and clothes melted as their body heat rose between them. Suddenly the night was no longer cold and empty. Without thinking, he looked into her eyes and his soul spoke for him - "You are not going to be alone tonight." Continued in Chapter Two...