Well and truly word vomit cause I was in a mood. Not proofread, not thought out, just… go with it. Sweet, short…. And, as I told @inkedferns, if there’s one lyric that could sum up this whole thing: “Lost my senses, I’m defenseless/Her perfume’s holding me ransom.” x
P. S. The ending is terrible.
He can’t figure it out when he first meets you, but he feels like he knows you. It’s only a quick, social kiss on the cheek, but he pauses for a fraction of a second and frowns in thought.
He doesn’t know your name, or where you’re from, or who you are, or what you do, but by the end of the night he does, and he’s discovered that your lips twitch if an innocuous word even suggests a double entendre. His own lips tremble when he watches you press yours together while you turn your head, compressing your snickers.
He’s got a suspicion and when he slides closer to impart a particularly filthy turn of phrase in your ear, on the verge of chuckling from his cleverness and anticipation at your response, fingers warm from the sangria he’s been sipping healthy amounts of all evening, he’s rewarded with a snort.
He catches a whiff of something familiar even as he laughs – that real laugh that reaches his belly and that makes his face split and his eyes crinkle and those dimples that make the girls scream dig into his cheeks – but he can’t be bothered to take the time to analyze what it is or where it’s come from. It doesn’t go away, though, with his nose all but pressed against your ear while he continues his monologue, always on the verge of laughter, and chuckling with delighted surprise when you chime in.
You’re familiar, and maybe that’s why although he’s only just met you, he feels like he can put his arm around you to keep you close to his side while the two of you continue to make jokes that wouldn’t be funny to any sober, sensible individual.
You’re the best company he’s found all night, and he’s concerned he’s lost you to the crowd at some point when the two of you get separated – he’s not got your name, or where you live, or anything about you other than the fact that you’d giggled into his shoulder like his shirt didn’t cost nearly six hundred dollars and he’s a popstar, or a rockstar, or actor, or whatever the hell he is now (he’s still figuring that out himself).
Thankfully, he finds you again – spies you passing by out of the corner of his eye – and he loops you into the conversation he’d found himself in and he listens to your animated chatter with that gleam in your eye and the faintest of change in pitch to your voice that would indicate you’re trying hard to ensure you’re speaking clearly despite imbibing.
Before the two of you separate again, he makes sure he learns your name (he likes the sound of it and the feel of it on his wide, clumsy tongue), where you’re going (you’ve got a taxi, thankfully), and he says he’ll see you around and he hopes he can mean it. He doesn’t know how good of a friend you are to whatever mutual one the two of you have, and he doesn’t know if you’ll be invited to the same type of event again – he’s always sort of dove headfirst into things without a guarantee – but he’s thrilled when the next month that’s just what happens and you’re familiar, again, for reasons he can’t quite put his finger on.
Two months later when he’s making out with you on your couch, two legs hitched up over his hips and two arms wrapped around his neck while he pins you against the couch with his pelvis and large, greedy hands, it’s almost overwhelming. He’s got to be positively insane when he thinks you smell like home… his home… him….
Two hours later when he’s lying in bed with you, muscles softer than warm butter and out of breath, face burrowed in your neck while he takes great, sucking gasps of air, he knows he’s going insane.
“What’re yeh wearing?” he rasps, demanding to know as he paws at your side.
“Nothing,” you giggle and he laughs helplessly at your stupid joke.
“Funny,” he says thickly, pinching you and squeezing you closer. “Know tha’?”
The subject drops but he spends the night breathing in your neck. You smell like him, and sex, and—
You smell like him.
He’s bleary eyed when he realizes it the next morning, the notes of your perfume still lingering under his nose. You smell exactly like him, and he confirms it by grabbing you at the bathroom sink and pressing his face into your neck.
“What’ve you got on?” he asks, ignoring your squeak of protest.
“What are you on about?” you ask him, squirming in the prison of his arms.
“Are you wearing my cologne?” he asks indignantly. It’s an illogical question – the both of you are at your place, not his, and strong as his cologne might be and as close as the two of you had been the night before, this is too strong.
“What? No,” you protest, finally freeing yourself from his hold.
“Smells like mine,” he accuses.
“It’s mine,” you snap at him, fixing your hair. “I’ve been wearing it for ages.”
The bottle on your dresser is small, but sure enough it’s the same as his. He picks it up and inhales, although he knows fine well what it smells like, and when he breathes in his shoulders relax as that same sense of familiarity settles in. It’s exactly what he’d smelled months ago when he’d met you and kissed you casually on the cheek. It’s what he’d smelled while he was wooing you with dirty jokes that he can hardly believe he’d told you, and what he’d smelled when you two had your first kiss.
He’d never been crazy at all (well, maybe, just a little, just a bit) – you do smell like home, his home, and him. You always have. A single whiff had been the line, he’d been hooked on curiosity, and he’d sunk when he found out that that your mind drifted to terribly filthy thoughts on perfectly innocent words. It’s like you were marked for him, he’ll think to himself hazily as he scribbles in his journal later that day. You are the fish he was meant to find in the sea – or maybe it’s the other way around, and if it is, he considers himself very lucky to have found your net.
Many years from now, he’ll admit that to you. Maybe not in so many words, and most often through song, but he thinks it was something that was a little like kismet that brought the two of you together. He smells like you, and you smell like him, and there’s a balance to the sentiment that reflects the equality of the handshake inked into the back of his arm. He’s no more of you than you are of him, and the horror that he might not have found out about you if you hadn’t smelled familiar is real in his mind – he’ll admit to having been incredibly stupid in his life, and he wouldn’t have put it past him to have missed out on you entirely without this red flag of that familiar scent.
For now, though, all he does is cock an eyebrow at you and tease you about how he wears it, too. You roll your eyes at him and murmur, “I thought it smelled familiar,” when you grant him his silent, puckered wish for a kiss.