Blacker than White
"Ryuhou on stress, first impressions, and the way that one night and one dress can change everything. Ryuhou x Mimori"
"Who in the hell are you?" It comes out a bit ruder than you had originally intended, but then again you really hadn't meant for it to come out at all and therefore it's a bit of a moot point.
But it's a valid point, you argue silently, for this is certainly not the woman you know. This is someone different, someone bolder, someone softer, someone so full of things that are not your Mimori, that you are confused. It's understandable really.
But at the same time you're not certain whether or not you like the change or if you'd rather run for the hills. Because right now Kiryuu Mimori looks so damn beautiful that the hills are looking rather homelike. And when her smile does nothing but widen, you begin to think that you've been issued an express invitation.
"My name's Mimori," She says it with a laugh and an even wider smile.
You know that. You want to tell her so but you don't. Instead you grimace a little, thinking that the slim black number and high, high heels she's wearing should be some kind of sin. You open you're mouth to tell her so, but then you are dazzled by the subtle sparkles in the makeup around her eyes and lips and your thoughts are suddenly suspended.
Because you're staring into her eyes and noticing just how big and bright they are. Noticing things about Ms. Kiryu that you've never noticed before. And at the same time, and at the same moment, you're thinking that she is different and wonderful, and dark and beautiful, and you're wishing that maybe you could say something. So you do.
"You look beautiful," The words are out of you're mouth before you can stop them and you're beginning to think that this is a bad habit you're slipping into, this talking-without-thinking thing.
But Mimori merely smiles and leans down to remove the high heels, "Blame Kanami, please, she and Tammi were the ones who decided that the corporate dinner needed a 'centerpiece'." She smiles fondly at the thought of her friends, and you smile fondly at the thought of her.
You're watching her (you can't exactly remember escorting her to your apartment, but since that's where you are you're assuming that's what had to have happened) as she takes off those high, high heels and rubs her feet. She slips into the bathroom then, and when she comes out her face is clean of the sparkling makeup. Her hair is let down and she smiles a relieved smile.
And it's at that moment that you just can't resist. You're brain, between the abstract beauty that she had played, and the honest, pure woman that she is now, is so overloaded that you are really not to blame.
You take her head in your hands and you kiss her, kiss her like she's going to disappear, like she's a rare wine that has to be savored, but at the same time a decadant piece of chocolate that has to be devoured. You're kissing her like you're a starving man and she's the feast, and you're enjoying every minute.
When you stop, it is a slow stop, a regretful stop. She smiles at you, surprised, but pleasantly so, "Wow." She says softly.
"Yeah," You agree.
And somehow, that's enough.
Cataracta's Notes: Let me know what you think!