Red Thread of Fate Ch. 02

"Firstly, you got absolutely no sense of forgiveness in that stony heart," she tsked coolly, twisting a knob to painstakingly turn a hooded lantern on its stand, pre-empting his traditional lighting-related gripes. "Secondly, Bartok was the one who talked such a big game - remember, about 'the smartest dog eating his fill', Selma just turned out to be the smartest bitch...wouldn't it be attractive? Someone who beat a man at his own game?"

Bull Market - the latest B-rated smut they'd been consuming like junk food - was a surprisingly engrossing read about entrepreneurs and stock marketeers (in Isabel's own scathing words, 'the locust-class'). The way these people were necking each other one night and backstabbing the next day was entertaining on Jerry Springer levels, but in his eyes painfully unrealistic. She surprised him, at times, with her views on romance, as if love were just as much a competition as high-stakes gambling.

"Being open and honest like that is kind of a cornerstone of any relationship though, and having that turned against you? I am not so certain...how could you ever trust a person again, or even the people they knew?" He snapped a photo; the plastic chk-KLK involuntarily drew his mind back -

- to the humid, drafty cottage on the mountainside, staring down the bad-omen barrel of the army officer's 9mm in disbelief before it cracked three times, smashing his flesh apart and spraying his blood all over the pine-log floor -

Ascher could usually block out the pain from the old bullet scars, but they itched furiously under the thin white cotton, a dark crescent of perspiration pressed against the hair of his cuirass-hard chest.

The topic of betrayal invariably awakened that old ache; a replay of how a girl he'd trusted and almost loved had whispered his name to the Kham-Do Revolutionary Brigade flashed across his mind's theater. He packed his feelings away in the trunk of his mind, stony as a cenotaph, but Mala was looking through him as if he was blown glass. No sympathy or pity, just a sort of feline, patient gaze, since she knew that his pride couldn't tolerate being coddled or cared for.

Mala hopped off her stepladder as he circled the manuscript wordlessly to get a shot of its covers, disappearing briefly before coming back with a wet washcloth from the warehouse's meager excuse for a bathroom.

She placed a small, damp hand, calloused by Himalayan granite, on his wrist, tugging him twice toward the 'lounge' (little more than a corner with two busted old loveseats and a coffee table, piled with dogeared novels) to seat himself.

Ascher let himself smile gratefully as she perched with avian delicacy on the chair's arm at his side, and closed his eyes when she began to daub the sweat from his forehead and neck. "Sticky white boy," she scolded gently as she caught a drop of perspiration crawling down the bridge of his nose.

Back there, up in the rainy peaks, Mala had been the one to discover him bleeding out. She'd saved his life with her own blood transfused into his veins, and her pretty face had been the first he'd seen upon waking on the surgeon's slab.

That whole tragedy was hard to talk about with her, with anybody; Ascher quite simply distrusted therapists, so nobody else knew the story behind the three pit-shaped depressions in his chest, one just under the left side of his ribs. He'd lost a section of lung and his liver was still healing - Isabel had yet to ask about the scars, or the fact that he didn't drink.

Who, beyond this discreet, sometimes furtive woman who'd rescued him from certain death, needed to know? What was needed beyond this comforting, tender ritual between them?

He felt that she was owed better than this, but Ascher was unsure exactly of how to give it to her. Whatever was there was like many other ethereal, unseen-yet-felt things - to speak of it was to destroy it. There was a Pauli Exclusion Principle to words and feelings; when both manifested from the virtuality of the mind, tumbling clumsily into the physical space between individuals, relationships and understanding were disrupted.

Would Isabel understand his reticence with words? She might, and that made him hopeful because she was also from an ancient land...but not the same as places like the night-forests of Andes-Valdéz, the sweltering villages along the Irrawaddy, or misty and war-bent Kham-Do. More to the point, he'd seen how bluntly open she was with her emotions, and sometimes missed cues he thought were obvious...her literalism was cute.

At times, this sort of treatment by Mala made him feel like a mental patient, ever since he got put on leave and she'd decided to stick around State-side...but a quiet, rational part of his brain reminded him that absent this sort of calming attention from someone he was familiar with, he probably would have snapped.

People didn't need to see that violent, repugnant part of him.

He broke the quiet.

"Knock knock," Ascher leered smoothly at her.

"No." But Mala was starting to smirk; yellow light played off the perspiration crawling down the ripe curve of her soft, inviting bosom, distracting him for only a moment.

"Malaaa, knock knock."

"Uuuugh. Who's there?"

"A little old lady."

"Little old lady who?"

"Wow Mala, I did not know you could yodel!"

She narrowed those big, dark eyes at him, processing the horrible joke and visibly cringed as its meaning sank in. "You're making me suffer, Ascher."

He liked the way she said his name - 'Ahsh-eh' - and even the way she tossed the wash cloth over his face.

" Yodel-ay-hee-hoo! " He sang in a muffled off key as she rose to get back to work, voicelessly chortling.

He tuned in to the local grunge-rock station that neither really enjoyed, but whose grindy, garage-quality chords and gritty cymbals accommodated the greenhouse-warmth of the little hotbox of a warehouse.

By the time the end of the shift had rolled around and it was getting almost intolerably warm they'd catalogued a whole fifteen culturally significant artifacts and seven worthless rocks, three moldering spars of wood and what Mala insisted was a sponge. Embalmed in foam and slid with ceremonious care into a cardboard sarcophagus, each item was shipped off by the USPS truck that came in the early afternoon, transporting thousands of years of cultural transformation off to the Pomdufond Historical Society to join other pieces in sterile depths of The Vault.

There they would repose like saintly corpses until the day whatever war, disaster, or plague ravaging their native land subsided...if it ever did.

"Another few dozen priceless artifacts and we willl be able to afford rent," the tall, fair-skinned Corps veteran quipped cheerfully, sweltering in the afternoon sun and having long soaked through his shirt with sweat - it'd been discarded as a pointless afterthought sometime around 1:00pm when the warehouse's metal roof, reflecting the afternoon glare, turned the place from a hot box into a sort of convection oven. Perspiration caught in the soft, dark hair of his chest - he'd been told it was shaped like a superhero's emblem - trailing in beads down his treasure trail and over the definition of his abdominal muscles.

Well aware that of how their size difference intrigued her, he offered the petite woman a smile that was nine parts innocent to one part suggestive, crossing his arms entice with cords of sinew. "And a lovely sponge has found an expensive home."

Mala appraised him with an open, appreciative eye, but as was part of the game they played she didn't comment. She unscrewed a water bottle and trickled a stream over her cleavage, sluicing away sweat but also just happening to cause the fabric of her sports bra to mold to her round breasts; he could see the impression of little barbels through her nipples, temporarily distracting him. "Mm-hmm." She took a sip and passed the bottle to him, linking her fingers behind her back, well aware of the way his gaze traveled over her alpine-sculpted body. "I'm guessing you're probably too busy to hang out, popular man...heard you been getting busy with a lucky girl."

Ascher appreciated the implication; she would know what he was working with, after all. Pouring some water on his head and slicking it through his umber locks, he finished the bottle and tossed it in a bright blue recycling can. "I am, but she is doing something tonight..." he found himself smiling, a bit more than he intended which drew a saucy little smirk from his colleague, a Gulf breeze fluttering through her own sweat-dampened hair.

"Look at that face.

Ascher threw her a peevish expression and lightly shoved her shoulder - she rocked with it and leered his way like some Cheshire humming bird. "Begging your pardon, the hell you are talking about my face?" He challenged with a laugh as the two of them walked to her car, eager for air conditioning.

"It's like a lovestruck teenage boy's. Having wet dreams about her?" She challenged and they both snickered, climbing into the little Pontiac he'd taught her to drive, sweat-baked bodies convalescing in the AC. Tolerating this sort of deep-south humidity challenged Ascher's endurance more than he'd admit. Not that he'd openly admit it (or any weakness) in front of a woman he was sexually involved with - perfectly healthy, non-toxic male behavior of course.

"Yes," he answered with that same loopy grin, "I do, in fact. Mala she really is something else..." He struggled momentarily with whether or not he should tell her. "I believe I am falling for her," he mumbled only partially coherently, but enough that she looked at him with a peculiar expression.

"Whatever happened to Mr I've-Sworn-Off-Romance-Forever?"

The question put Ascher on the spot. He wondered if she was resentful toward him, since the nature of their relationship had always straddled a peculiar space between comrades-in-duty, lovers and friends. He understood from her particular angle, the idea of romance with a man was almost...transgressive, which was why he'd never give any hint in public that they regularly had sex.

Had he misread her? They'd discussed it before in brusque, overly-casual tones, that it couldn't go beyond sex with them - back then she'd insisted their first time would be their only time...then the second, the third, until she'd given in and had come to trust his discretion.

Mala's plush, dark lips were curved up in a little smirk at his expense, and that dispelled any unease he might have had; his broad shoulders relaxed against her seats. "He has the right to go back on his own declarations thank you very much," Ascher insisted with an upward tilt of his chin. "Besides, if you met her I am sure you would see it. She is...really just..."

With what words could he describe Isabel Aphelion?

Many, in fact.

" - startlingly bright, almost unsettling how much information she can process at once. Remember that savant child Rishi, the one who did accounts for the - yeah you know, her intelligence eclipses his and she has actual social skills - "

It just wasn't possible in the space of a few minutes, or an hour, or longer.

" - self-starter for all of these major projects...I think she once started a political party, and I counted around seven paintings in progress. That woman is never still, like...a willow tree in a storm of ideas - "

Not even flowery ones, and he'd always had a gift for bending language to his will.

" - reminds me in some ways of a dryad...you know, like I showed you in the D'aulaire's book. Tall and slender, she moves like smoke in the wind and Mala...have I ever told you the word callipygian? It means her ass is beyond merely amazing - "

And soon he was smiling again at the thought of her in a way he hadn't for anyone, not since that tragedy that brought him back to the USA (if not home, which was far to the North).

Mala's fox-leer was spiced with impish fascination, which was a rare enough occurrence; she usually gave little away, stoic in the manner of her people but matters of Ascher's heart had always intrigued her. "Sound like an absolutely lovestruck man-boy, and it's a perfectly balanced meal of cringe and cute."

"You asked," he pointed out dryly but it was a bit of a pathetic defense because...she hadn't asked for that much, but Isabel was a topic that had few visible horizons. Especially with someone he trusted like Mala; when the two of them had emerged from the depths of the cavernous Metropolitan-South Hospitals, she'd been ill-prepared to handle the literal and metaphorical swamp of Ashland living. In turn the Corps veteran had often confided in her; distrustful of therapists and psychologists, it was more natural to seek solace in her calm, and every so often comfort of another sort.

"So, you two official yet?" Mala's tone was casual as cola, but he knew something underlay her words...curiosity most likely, but was there envy?

"Not yet...we have yet to pin a name on it, even though I certainly would like to," Ascher admitted as they pulled onto the freeway and left Dockside to make their way back to the River District where she lived - the ritual had been to go back to her place, watch whatever unbearable TV series they were working through...play some Switch...blow off some steam, and as an added bonus she'd suck him off, he'd eat her out and they'd fuck.

Normal friend stuff, right?

"Wow. Ascher Ryazansky going mono. Never thought the day would come, big guy," she remarked dryly as she drove. Ascher carefully, tightly gripped the oh-shit handle, as she'd come to emulate the Dixie style of accelerating aggressively and weaving between lanes without signals. "Only been mackin' on this girl for a month, you should give it some definition, otherwise she'll be left guessing about you, man."

His emerald-smoke streaked eyes regarded her in the rearview, biting the tip of his tongue. Under normal circumstances he'd have just asked Isabel to be his girlfriend, and he even suspected that was what she wanted...but in the face of adversity and fear, he felt his emotions retreat inside, sealed beneath the stone of his ribcage...and over the past month she'd been lovingly carving runes of adoration over both their hearts.

She was the only one who could have helped him in the first place, and he was almost past the trauma of Arsha's betrayal. Still. "I worry about the rejection Mala," he explained, candid as he could be with her. "Like...what if the other person she is seeing is better looking? Bigger, better penis? What if he has way more money?"

"All of those except the third are unlikely Ascher." She joined the honking, blaring line of traffic coming off the exit ramp, just as a storm began to roll in from the Gulf of Mexico. "You're hot for a dude...seriously, looks isn't a problem for you. You have a plenty big dick and you fuck real good with it, chill...but yeah he probably got more money than you man."

It wasn't long before they'd pulled up at the base of her building, squeezing into a parking spot barely adequate for her Buick; their conversation had devolved backward into primitive bickering about Bull Market , and whether or not the author even listened to her fanbase...they were, of course, members of her Eris channel and even voted in polls that seemed pointless in the face of the author's abandonment of her fan's opinions.

In the air conditioned sanctuary of Mala's apartment, they both stripped off their sweat-soaked clothes, tossing them irreverently in her washing machine and making for her shower-room. At the landlord's approval, the two of them had used what they'd learned in the Corps to install the kind of communal shower they'd grown used to in the barracks - communal bathing had become as natural an activity as dining together...and was an excuse to enjoy the other's body, exposed and steamy.

The second shower of the day was the best, and hot water streamed pleasantly over his stone-hard shoulders, over his marble-carved stomach and down the cut length of his penis. At 187cm, brawny from field work and hardened by the wind, he knew he was an impressive specimen of masculinity. The one regarded the other, he rubbing soap into a colorful loofah, she lathering gritty exfoliant in her palms.

Mala was by no means hard on the eyes...quite a beautiful woman. Small even for a Kham woman, almost an entire 30cm shorter than he, her body was smoothly athletic with barely an ounce of fat on her. He found it hard to ignore her breasts, round like a pair of grapefruits and capped by those dark nipples, nut-brown and gleaming with those little gold barbels. Beneath the little piercing in her navel, her bare hips flared, a gap between her shapely thighs revealing the pout of her dark labia under short, trimmed black hair.

"So. Who is this perfect mystery girl of yours, hmm?" Mala somehow made the unceremonious act of drizzling pink, exfoliating soap on her shoulders a tempting act; tendrils dripped down her collarbones, like fingers reaching for her chest.

"Why do you want to know so badly? Are you intent on snatching her for yourself, Seng?" Ascher teased as scrubbed along the back of his neck.

"Maybe I should if you don't have the ball to lay it down first," she challenged with a sneer, turning her back to him. His eyes traced down the lines of Tibetic script inked in her flesh, across her hip bone and drawing attention to her loins.

"Alright, alright," he relented with a groan. He closed the distance between them as she turned around, gently placing her palms against the tiles. She sighed with relief and anticipation as he scrubbed and soaped her deltoids and triceps...gazing at the shape of her back like this, touching her soft, feminine body was distinctly erotic. "Her name is Isabel."

...and just like that she became piqued and tightened like a spring, turning to look over her shoulder at him with pinpoint interest. She spun beneath the shower water to regard him as if they were the same size, her big jaguar eyes glittering playful. Ascher was somewhat taken aback by her reaction, by the way she walked him up against her tiled wall. "Isabel. Curly dark hair, Greek, tall, artsy."

"You know her?" he asked her warily, holding the sponge between them as if to ward her off. Her expression was guarded and hard to read when she reached for his cock, slippery, soapy fingers incredibly pleasant as she stroked them along his quickly hardening length...never breaking eye-contact.

"Tell me all about how you fuck her...and I want details, Ascher."

They'd installed these benches underneath the spigots that could be pulled down from the wall - Ascher credited his own creative genius in that regard, having installed hinged doors in schools, houses, hospitals and temples throughout the far-off lands his sacred work had taken him. Sometimes, it was nice to just sit in the warmth of the running water and just...chat, as they were doing now.

Well, in truth it was mostly his own narration - she'd always been an eager audience, but this particular fascination surprised and puzzled him. Rather than question her, however, he gave her what she wanted, as he'd always been a generous man...and she was good at being convincing.

Mala's hands stroked him from base to head with both hands, seated attentively before him and moving her fingers along the slippery, curved length of his shaft as he coolly, quietly told her how -

- Isabel responded so eagerly to his lightest touch, feather-brush of his lips over her lovely jawline; his teeth scraping the defined bar of her collarbone; the way her rosy-pink, beautiful nipples hardened when he trailed his tongue around them in teasing, concentric circles. The silken, forest green of her panties clung to her flared hips; creamy, hot arousal had already slicked them before he even took them off, and he found her juices sticky and hot between her thighs and swollen labia...