Entry tags:
fic: New York, 1929
Title: New York, 1929
Series: xxxHolic
Character/Pairing: ClowYuuko
Rating: PG
Word count: 513
A/N: fic_promptly: any, your scandalous ways. Hugh MacDiarmid is the author of A Drunk Man Looks At The Thistle. Happy winter holidays,![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
doumeki!
"I hope she'll be a fool--that's the best thing a girl can be in this world, a beautiful little fool... You see, I think everything's terrible anyhow... And I know. I've been everywhere and seen everything and done everything."
- F. Scott Fitzgerald, The Great Gatsby
It was 1929. Big band was in, bobbed hair, her hair was long, but she could wear the clothes of the flappers just as well. Several beaded fine pearls cascaded down her neck and dipped into the exposed low neck of her dress. Yuuko had never been one to follow the fashions, she was so three centuries ago. She wore her nonchalance better than most women wore their jewels at this party.
The smoke drifted. Cigarettes weren’t forbidden, but alcohol was. This of course, merely made crime flourish as people sought out the drink which made life bearable.
"I can’t believe anyone would support such a horrendous bill," she sniffed contemptuously at the apple juice provided.
"The worst possible, eh Yuuko? As a Florentine clockmaker once said, ‘To deprive oneself of Aqua Vitae is to deprive one of life.’"
"Would that clockmaker happen to be a smug, insufferable bastard?" She said drily.
"Some may have said so," Clow said.
"Count me among the many," she said.
He removed a small silver flask from under his vestments and poured in a generous share of some forbidden alcohol. Perhaps it was spiced Spanish rum, or even the cask of Amontillado. Clow never settled for the mundane in anything, least of all his drinks.
They never settled for the mundane unless they were playing at being mortals that day.
At her bedside was Mrs Dalloway and The Great Gatsby. He’d been the one to give them to her, for he was ever so captivated by Fitzgerald. She had a feeling that his interest in Joyce and Woolf were merely to annoy her, however.
She handed over a poem, A Drunk Man Looks At The Thistle.
“It reminded me of you," she said flatly.
"Oh?" he said with a quirk of a smile. "How so?"
"It’s long-winded and reeks of drink," she said.
"I’m pleased to see I come into your mind at the most unexpected times. Do you think of me when you’re alone and dreaming as well?"
Suddenly a vision of her home came. A dress, a cap, some shoes–hell, a whole outfit he’d given to her. Books he’d give to her. Bottles of alcohol he’d found for her. Her whole current living space was filled with pieces of him, which encroached in on her. He must have planned it like that; it could not be by chance.
Still, she rose her chin defiantly.
"Not a bit," she said.
He chuckled to himself, insufferable and smug as always. "A pretty lie," he said.
She rolled her eyes, but for once, did not deny it.
For they both knew he was right.
Series: xxxHolic
Character/Pairing: ClowYuuko
Rating: PG
Word count: 513
A/N: fic_promptly: any, your scandalous ways. Hugh MacDiarmid is the author of A Drunk Man Looks At The Thistle. Happy winter holidays,
doumeki!"I hope she'll be a fool--that's the best thing a girl can be in this world, a beautiful little fool... You see, I think everything's terrible anyhow... And I know. I've been everywhere and seen everything and done everything."
- F. Scott Fitzgerald, The Great Gatsby
It was 1929. Big band was in, bobbed hair, her hair was long, but she could wear the clothes of the flappers just as well. Several beaded fine pearls cascaded down her neck and dipped into the exposed low neck of her dress. Yuuko had never been one to follow the fashions, she was so three centuries ago. She wore her nonchalance better than most women wore their jewels at this party.
The smoke drifted. Cigarettes weren’t forbidden, but alcohol was. This of course, merely made crime flourish as people sought out the drink which made life bearable.
"I can’t believe anyone would support such a horrendous bill," she sniffed contemptuously at the apple juice provided.
"The worst possible, eh Yuuko? As a Florentine clockmaker once said, ‘To deprive oneself of Aqua Vitae is to deprive one of life.’"
"Would that clockmaker happen to be a smug, insufferable bastard?" She said drily.
"Some may have said so," Clow said.
"Count me among the many," she said.
He removed a small silver flask from under his vestments and poured in a generous share of some forbidden alcohol. Perhaps it was spiced Spanish rum, or even the cask of Amontillado. Clow never settled for the mundane in anything, least of all his drinks.
They never settled for the mundane unless they were playing at being mortals that day.
At her bedside was Mrs Dalloway and The Great Gatsby. He’d been the one to give them to her, for he was ever so captivated by Fitzgerald. She had a feeling that his interest in Joyce and Woolf were merely to annoy her, however.
She handed over a poem, A Drunk Man Looks At The Thistle.
“It reminded me of you," she said flatly.
"Oh?" he said with a quirk of a smile. "How so?"
"It’s long-winded and reeks of drink," she said.
"I’m pleased to see I come into your mind at the most unexpected times. Do you think of me when you’re alone and dreaming as well?"
Suddenly a vision of her home came. A dress, a cap, some shoes–hell, a whole outfit he’d given to her. Books he’d give to her. Bottles of alcohol he’d found for her. Her whole current living space was filled with pieces of him, which encroached in on her. He must have planned it like that; it could not be by chance.
Still, she rose her chin defiantly.
"Not a bit," she said.
He chuckled to himself, insufferable and smug as always. "A pretty lie," he said.
She rolled her eyes, but for once, did not deny it.
For they both knew he was right.