aren't you something
there is something odd in the villain's gaze when they're pressed against the wall outside the bar.
the bass makes their spine thrum to the beat against the cold, rough bricks digging into their skin.
"look at you," says the villain, tracing their knuckles down the curve of their cheek. it hits them, belatedly, that they're leaning in close. they're a little too high to say anything about it. "i thought you hero types slept at eight and rose at six like little do-gooders."
the hero stays silent, and it's mainly because they're thinking too much about the remark. the hero had thought so, too, that they probably stuck out. high at bars as they performed songs.
the villain takes their chin and tilts their head towards the light of a nearby lamppost, and the hero wonders if the light's bright enough to separate their brown irises from their pupils.
"and high as a kite..." the villain swipes a thumb across the corner of their lip, then under one nostril, and brings that thumb to their tongue. "aren't you something?"
of course the hero's something; they're a wonderful thing. they know that. the villain takes them by the waist and turns them around until they're in the middle of the little alley. the hero grabs their jacket for balance. the powder's making their stumbling funnier than it should be.
the villain starts humming the song they'd been singing in the bar. it's not fit for a bar. but the hero plays whatever, and whoever listens likes it. the hero jokingly calls themself a siren because of it.
it's teasing, how the villain sings the lyrics in a low mumble, as people usually do. "let me in, through the door."
"i can't find it if you hide it," sings the hero, and the powder makes their lips quirk up at the harmony. the villain knows the words, too, because the hero pronounces their consonants well. it's one thing they like about their singing. "...i'm a wasted girl."
first the villain pauses, then lets out a monosyllable laugh, then spins them around like they're doing the waltz. it's odd. the hero likes it. the villain grins as they sing along. it's not good, of course it isn't, but the hero likes it. how mundane it is. how the villain isn't insecure about it. "and i don't know how."
"i'm a wasted girl," they sing, voice quiet (with the complement of the villain's humming) and still louder than the bass from the bar. "i'm a wasted nun, and i don't have fun." the two dissolve into giggles. or at least the hero does, because the villain merely chuckles their Villainous Chuckleâĸ as they stare. their eyes are light in colour, their usually pinprick-thin pupils the size of polka dots. they brush off the bits of loose rock that have probably stuck to the hero's jacket.
"aren't you something," the villain repeats. "i thought you'd be a bubblegum pop doll." they tilt their head to the side. "what else do you know?"
evanescence. avril lavigne. just the basics, but the villain handles it with an endearing curiosity and lets the hero push them against the bricks as a joke. for a flash there's the panic, that that was the wrong thing to do, but the villain merely smiles down at them and the powder makes the hero think it looks dazy and fond.
the villain traces the curve of their cheek again with their knuckles, pushing messy hair out of their face. they just listen to the hero talk and ask innocent questions, and in the morning there's that record they've always wanted on their bedside table.
the teasing about last night, of course, never stops.
