Work Text:
There are moans coming from behind the wall, followed by a thumping sound. Shirayuki takes a deep breath, reaches blindly for her headphones and switches the noise-cancelling on. If she were to press her palm against the wall, she might even feel the pounding.
For that reason, there is now one centimetre of space separating her desk from the said wall. For that reason, she’s been spending more and more time at the veranda, now always free from falling leaves and even has some space for her supplies. And for that reason, she has spent the money she didn’t really have on a pair of Bose. Shirayuki caresses the plastic shell covering her ears lovingly before picking up her brush anew.
Best investment of the year.
Inheriting the 2-bedroom cottage was the best thing that could happen to Shirayuki. For many others the rather secluded location on the higher grounds might seem like a disadvantage, but Shirayuki has never liked the beach much anyway, and if she ever feels like wiggling white sand between her toes, it’s only a 30-minute moped drive away.
As a newcomer and a foreigner on the island, her first challenge was to make the first contact with the locals. Language barrier was one thing, but more difficult to overcome was the bitter memory of people laughing behind her back whenever she goes out of the house in paint-streaked clothes, which was still obstinately clinging at the back of her mind, making it hard for her to open up. To her surprise, people here had laughed directly at her face, even shamelessly pointing at her, but then greeted her with a warm, “Must be a new artist in town, eh?” It might not be your usual welcome greeting, but Shirayuki found herself smiling and waving back at them.
Despite the absence of neighbours around her cottage, there are many other artisans and artists in the area, who have built a close-knit community. After some years of living here she now knows where to get canvases in good quality for a fair price. She knows who sells organic oil paint which still produces vibrant colours. She is friends with gallery owners and art curators, who give her honest critiques and who actually appreciate her work for what they are worth, not because of who she is. The last thing she needs is another so-called expert, who would promote even one of her thumbprints as ‘an artwork by the red-haired lady’.
The local markets provide her with the freshest produce and whenever she doesn’t feel like cooking she can always walk to Warung Wayan , the nearest vegetarian eatery with the loveliest and roundest proprietor and cook. It took a while until Mrs. Wayan finally stopped teasing her inability to eat spicy food (“Why is your hair red, then?”, she had said, arguing with her strange logic), but nowadays she sometimes even sends one of her maids to bring cut mangosteen and salak fruit to Shirayuki’s place whenever she has a hunch that the artist hasn’t been eating well – which is usually true.
Such a simple and hassle-free life on the island is a complete opposite to the one she was used to, and is perfect for her to dedicate herself completely to her paintings, undisturbed. Instead of honking cars and noisy traffic coming through her apartment windows, now she enjoys the platter of tropical rain on the roof tile, the bellow of buffaloes from nearby rice paddies and the chirping of jalak birds on the trees...
...until the tenant moved in.
***
On one sunny Friday about one and a half years ago, Shirayuki opened her front door to a very tall, very tanned man with a very wide grin on his face. He had on a traditional udeng headpiece around his messy, short black hair, and a sarong in the typical black-and-white gingham-like poleng pattern. At first Shirayuki thought he was a pecalang – the local police of the island – coming to friendly reprimand her for breaking one of those many local customs that despite her years on the island were still foreign to her. But then she noticed that the vest he was wearing was adorned with a beautiful golden pattern, not the typical black or safari one from the police uniform. Also, he wasn’t wearing a shirt underneath it and was barefooted.
“G’morning, Miss. I was told you have a room for rent?”
Indeed, Shirayuki did. She had repurposed one of the bigger bedrooms as her own bedroom and studio so she could rent out the other one. She was very grateful for her new tenant, for while her life as an artist is a fulfilling one, she isn’t exactly swimming in money. Although she was initially a little wary of sharing her living space with a guy, it turned out that there was nothing for her to be afraid of. Quite to the contrary.
Her tenant, Obi, is a member of several performance troupes, in which he acts as a dancer or a fighter, and sometimes as both. The outfit he wore when he showed up at her doorstep is from the one called Gebug Ende – a combination of dance and trial of prowess, where two fighters try to beat each other with a long rattan stick while using a round shield made from cow skin to protect themselves. This is where he gets most of his bruises and other injuries. Shirayuki winches whenever she sees a new one, but Obi always assures her that they’re nothing to worry about.
The other performance is called Mepantigan . This one has only been recently established as a tourist attraction on the island. It’s a form of martial arts show combined with drama, contemporary dance and traditional music, mostly played in a muddy rice field. Some people simply call it mud wrestling, but it’s really so much more than that – at least from what she’s heard. Shirayuki has never been to one.
Thanks to his occupation, Obi’s body is an enticing package of lean and lithe muscles. Ever since he’s around, Shirayuki has no more difficulties in transporting big canvases and heavy frames. Once, when a burglar attempted a break-in, he went after him and even caught him and turned him in. Shirayuki has never felt safer in her life.
It’s not only that. Whenever Shirayuki is engrossed in her work she tends to confine herself in her room and forgets everything else. When this happens Obi would knock on her door and check on her, or rather, scold her. “Hoo boy, does it stink in here,” he would say while pinching his nose and waving the air, then he would drag her out of her room and shove her into the shower.
When she comes out of the shower, fresh and rejuvenated, there is usually a warm meal waiting for her on the dining table. With Obi around, Shirayuki’s stomach has finally stopped bothering her, mainly because she’s now pretty much eating regularly. Mrs. Wayan still sends her fruits now and then, but the last time Shirayuki went to her place she had told her with a wink that she would need to find a new regular, now that Shirayuki has her own personal cook at home. She didn’t mean to blush at that remark but she did. Obi’s cooking is delicious, though she did choke and cried a river the first time she tasted it. Since then – and after a good dose of laughing and teasing – he always makes sure to prepare a separate, non-spicy portion for her.
Another thing that has changed after Obi became her roommate is that Shirayuki’s back no longer hurts. Even though she still has the bad habit of falling asleep on her desk while working, she always wakes up tucked in her bed the next morning. She also goes out more – in a literal sense of stepping out of the house. “Fresh air is good for the artist’s brain,” Obi would say. “I could work on the veranda,” Shirayuki would argue, though she knows exactly that Obi wouldn’t let it pass. It’s thanks to him that Shirayuki now appreciates the nature surrounding her place even more.
As if it wasn’t enough, Obi has gradually become her number one fan. Whenever he has time and if Shirayuki would let him, he would watch her working. He even asks questions she thought nobody would care about, like why she chooses a certain hue or what gave her inspiration. In the first couple of times it felt a bit awkward to her, but now she’s grown to like his unobtrusive presence near her.
Really, Shirayuki couldn't wish for a better roommate – if it weren't for this one thing.
Obi is a real chick magnet and knows how to use it.
The types he usually brings home are local girls with their deliciously tanned skin and curved body, their large and firm breasts, their long, shiny black hair and full, sensual lips. But there were times when he brought home a blonde or a brunette with ivory skin and colourful eyes. Probably tourists. Maybe he doesn’t have a type he fancies after all.
One thing is clear, though – they’re all pretty girls, and each of them has their own obvious sex appeal. Also, when they’re around her roommate they radiate a certain kind of aura – a certain I want you to fuck me now aura. Whenever Shirayuki sees them flirting to their hearts’ content in the kitchen – her kitchen –, slapping butts and licking lips, it always takes a while until she manages to tear her eyes from the scene and brings herself to retreat to her room.
Unfortunately, it wasn’t long before her room ceased to be her safe place.
The first time it happened Shirayuki couldn’t believe her ears. The girl was petite, even smaller than her and had greeted her with a soft voice when she passed her in the hallway. Her dark eyes gleamed like a pair of onyx, her shiny black hair cascaded down her shoulders like midnight ocean waves. Her flawless olive skin reflected the lights, giving her a fresh look. Though she looked young she moved with the elegance and confidence of a mature woman.
After throwing Shirayuki a peculiar smile and a nod, the girl followed Obi into his room. Shortly after that, the moaning started. It was nothing like her soft talking voice – deep and breathless in the beginning, then higher and louder the longer Shirayuki listened to it.
And oh, how she hated herself for listening to it. Thinking back now, Shirayuki is convinced that there was nothing she could do about it. It didn’t at all occur to her that she could simply leave the room, or even the house. She was stuck in her own bedroom, staring at her half-finished painting, brush limp in her hand and mind fixed to the scene in the other bedroom invisible to her. But her brain did a too great job in providing the necessary images.
At first Shirayuki tried her best to ignore them. But as the noises grew louder, so did her breath grow heavy, and slowly but sure, one of her hands sneaked inside her t-shirt. She caressed her breasts, fingers brushing lightly on her taut and sensitive nipples, eliciting a quiet ‘ah’ from her mouth. The other hand found its way into her shorts, digits digging deeper until they reached her fold, already slippery with slick. She moved reluctantly at first, her body still depending too much on barely there muscle memory, but when the neighbouring wall started to thump steadily she eagerly slipped one finger into her hot, waiting cave and she had to bite her lip to prevent any sound from escaping her throat.
Her shorts and panties now lay abandoned on the paint-flecked floor, along with her palette and brushes. Her t-shirt was raised up to her shoulders, baring her breasts. Staring blindly at the ceiling, her breath was coming in short, little puffs and as she heard Obi’s name being called over and over again, she spread her legs even wider and let her fingers move faster following the rapidly growing thumping rhythm.
It was when she heard Obi’s voice joining the girl’s moans in a litany of curses that she felt sudden electric waves coursing through her veins. Her body jolted, involuntarily arching, and she threw her head back, eyes squeezed shut, mouth rounding, as she came with a silent scream.
Her orgasm ended abruptly with a small yelp as she tipped backwards, almost falling from the stool. Still panting hard as she came down, it slowly dawned on Shirayuki what she had just done. She glared angrily sideways at the separating wall, which was now quiet, then down at the mess between her legs. When she had finally caught her breath she stood up and walked stiffly to her dresser, where she kept a box of tissue. After cleaning herself, she crawled to her bed, buried her face into her pillow and let herself cry a little, until sleep came and released her from her own inexplicable emotion.
The next morning she found Obi sipping coffee in the kitchen, as usual wearing nothing but a pair of shorts. The girl was nowhere to be found.
“G’morning, Miss,” he flashed a smile at her.
Shirayuki stared at him, highly irritated. I know how you sound when you come and I don’t know how I feel about it. How could you do that to me last night and show me that innocent smile right now. And for god’s sake, please move your bed far away from the wall. There were other things she’d very much like to say to him but in the end she settled meekly with, “Good morning, Obi.”
Without bothering to eat any breakfast, Shirayuki grabbed her moped key and drove straight downtown to the electronic store to get the best pair of noise-cancelling headphones they had.
***
Of course Shirayuki has eyes. That forever intentionally messy bed hair, those high cheekbones and pointy chin, those warm amber eyes, always twinkling mischievously, that lopsided cheeky grin – all of those handsome features of her roommate didn’t go unnoticed. But Shirayuki didn’t fully realise how attractive he was, until one day, when she spontaneously decided to drop by and watch one of his Gebug performances.
The sun glared down on the open air arena. Despite the heat, the seats were full and the cheerful emcee was already chattering non-stop into the microphone, animating the audience. On one side of the arena the fighters were getting ready, helping each other tying their headpiece.
From where she was seated Shirayuki saw a pretty girl, maybe one of the dancers in the troupe, gave Obi a tri datu bracelet – a simple braided bracelet made of red, black and white threads, worn as a symbol for blessing and protection. Obi smiled charmingly at her and slipped it on his wrist. The girl beamed at him and gave him a little excited wave before going back to her seat.
The show began with a traditional dance performed by the girls. Shirayuki’s hunch was right – that previous girl was one of them. Their hips and shoulders wiggled in sensuous movement, delighting the audience. Then the first pair of fighters was called into the arena, where they first did a warm-up dance. With their legs spread wide and their knees bent by almost ninety degrees, they bounce quickly from side to side while their arms and shoulders twitch along the lively gamelan music in the background.
When it was his turn Obi stepped gracefully into the arena. After the warm-up he started to swing his rattan stick while yelling and whooping in a menacing way at his opponent, who did the same. By now Shirayuki had already gotten completely used to seeing Obi shirtless and barefooted – he does that all the time at home – but it was the first time she saw him in all his vigorous glory – light-footed, muscles rippling and glistening with sweat, a playful snarl on his lips.
The fight itself only lasted a couple of minutes, with Obi as the winner, and then they were replaced by the next fighter pair. As Obi left the arena there was immediately a group of girls flocking around him. One handed him a bottle of water, another one a towel, yet another one touched his arms and abs, probably checking for injuries. The other fighters snickered and jerked their thumbs at him, but Obi snuck an arm around one of the girls and shouted something at them, wagging his eyebrows, which made the guys erupt in laughter and the girls gleefully giggle.
It was then that Obi looked up and saw Shirayuki in the audience. His eyes went wide and his grin dropped from his face. He took his arm off the girl and was about to open his mouth to call her when Shirayuki’s legs just moved on their own. She stood up and walked briskly toward the exit. If Obi had called after her she didn’t hear him.
Later that day at home he asked her why she didn’t tell him she was going to watch his show. He also asked why she ran away when he saw her – he didn’t phrase it that way but he might as well have. Shirayuki didn’t have an answer to any of the questions – not to him, not even to herself. So she just lamely apologised and told him the only thing she could say for sure.
She had enjoyed his performance very much. Maybe even too much, but she kept the latter to herself.
***
It’s been a couple of weeks since then. The night is quiet. Shirayuki’s Bose lies unused on her desk. Obi has yet to bring another girl home, which is highly unusual. Shirayuki has been enjoying peaceful nights without any disturbance, but the change in her roommate’s behaviour bothers her. It’s not that she feels responsible. In any case, it’s not like she could simply confront him about it. What on earth should she say? Feel free to continue fucking your pretty girls, don’t mind me– ?
Shirayuki sighs and pinches the bridge of her nose. Yeah, right. As if she could tell him that. Besides, he’s probably just fucking them elsewhere, that’s a plausible explanation. There’s no need for her to worry about his sexual life.
Her eyes wander to her own reflection in the mirror across the room. With that sallow complexion and dark circles under her eyes she could show up without make-up at a Halloween party. The amount of grease in her limp hair could lubricate all the doors in the place. If she was good enough in marketing she might be able to sell her paint-soiled clothes as the latest fashion trend among artists.
It’s nothing unusual, really, just her daily tired appearance – only tonight for some reason it bothers her to the point of wanting to break the mirror.
Shirayuki shakes her head and forces her attention back to the work in front of her.
In the painting, a man is walking down the streets. In his arms he’s holding a bunch of flowers in all kinds of colour. There are so many of them that some even spill out of his embrace onto the pavement. The man’s skin is heavily tanned and his hair is dark and cut short, not unlike Obi’s. His eyes are closed and his mouth is hidden behind the flowers. In the background, from a crack on the sideway, a wild flower blooms on a thin stem – simple, plain, without any distinct traits, only its petals are vibrant red, the colour just a tad too similar to Shirayuki’s hair.
But the man in the painting is not Obi, the flower in the painting is not Shirayuki, and the story in the painting is not their story.
***
The full moon hangs low in the cloudless sky, surrounded by clearly visible stars. The air was warm, with no wind to ease the stickiness clinging to her skin. Shirayuki drapes herself on the wooden bench on the veranda, listening absentmindedly to the chirping of crickets, when she hears Obi’s pleasant voice drifting from inside the house.
“Oh, I thought this one’s finished already.”
Shirayuki’s blood runs cold. Scrambling to her feet, almost skidding on the smooth tiles, she hurries into her room, where she finds her roommate standing over her unfinished painting, one hand lifting up its cloth cover.
“Obi! It’s not finished yet!” She tries to yank the cover from him but his damn long arm holds it further up, far away from her reach.
“You don’t say,” came the cheeky reply. “So why aren’t you working on it?”
Shirayuki huffs. “Can’t an artist have a break?!”
Obi gives her a deadpan, rightfully earned. When was the last time she had an actual break from painting? She should’ve known that he’d notice and find it strange.
“I’m not sure whether I want to finish it. It’s kinda gloomy.”
Obi uncovers the painting fully and stands before it, chin propped in hand, scrutinizing every brush stroke as if he was an art curator before a Van Gogh’s piece. Then his features relax as he turns around and raises a thin eyebrow at her. “What’s so gloomy about it?”
Shirayuki gapes. “Um, uh, isn’t it obvious?” she asks incredulously.
Obi blinks and turns back at the painting. “The way I see it, that red flower must be a very strong one, to be able to grow from that crack. Like, there’s hardly any soil there, but still it blooms beautifully in a vivid colour like that.” He pauses and glances at her, but as she says nothing he continues.
“Now, apparently that guy likes that flower very much. He would love to pick it and keep it for himself, but, you know, that would mean killing it.” He takes a step away from the painting and turns to look at her. “So instead, he bought himself tons of other flowers from a shop, to compensate.”
Shirayuki swallows. For some reason she’s suddenly having trouble breathing. Obi takes a small step closer towards her. His eyes on hers are intense, and when he speaks again his voice drops a notch. “He’s a greedy one, that guy. He bought so many he can’t even hold them all.” He takes another small step. “But you see, none of them is red. Red would remind him too much of the one he can’t have.”
Shirayuki’s heart was beating wildly in her chest. “I thought he didn’t even notice the red flower. Look, his eyes are closed,” she says shakily.
Obi hums. “Isn’t it so he won’t be tempted to pluck it?” He’s now standing merely one step away from her. She can feel the heat radiating from his body. “I don’t see why it’s gloomy. Well, I guess it kinda sucks for the guy, but I’m sure he doesn’t mind as long as his favourite flower is safe. It’s not gloomy, it’s...hopeful.”
“N-no,” Shirayuki stammers. “You got it all wrong. The guy– the guy has a bunch of pretty flowers already, why should he even notice that puny one on the ground?”
“But I told you those are just a distraction, a compensation–”
“–and the red flower is not strong or beautiful. It’s pitiful, plain, and not at all attractive–”
“I think,” Obi interrupts her with a voice so low it rumbles from his chest, “that the little flower is quite spunky and that’s what makes her so attractive...”
He trails off, as his hand reaches out and tucks a stray strand of hair behind her ear. Shirayuki shivers at the touch, her eyelids flutter. “Are...are we still talking about flowers?” she almost whispers.
“I don’t know,” he whispers back. “Are we?”
The pale ray of moonlight catches his eyes, glowing almost in golden despite the darkness of her room. They gaze at her steadily, unusually tender, as if conveying something undecipherable to her. His hand moves to the nape of her neck, fingers grazing her scalp along the way. He gradually gravitates towards her, and Shirayuki closes her eyes, parting her lips, surrendering to whatever comes next–
–and his forehead presses gently onto hers, followed by a small nudge with his nose tip on her own. Shirayuki’s eyes fly open. “M’ sorry,” Obi murmurs, eyes still closed, breath hot on her lips. “Forget what I said, I just–” But his words die on his tongue as Shirayuki shifts forward and closes their gap.
It takes him a few seconds before he kisses her back, and when he does it’s sweet and chaste, lips moving languidly against hers. The chasteness doesn’t last long for Shirayuki, for after only two heartbeats she’s already burning. Her breath grows heavy, while Obi carries on with his slow pace, though one finger is teasing her skin along the inside of her waistband.
Whimpering, Shirayuki licks his bottom lip, wordlessly asking for access, and she sighs in relief as he grants it to her. Obi moans softly when her tongue meets his and the throbbing between her legs intensifies.
She pulls away and he chases blindly after her, but she places both her hands on each side of his head and waits until his eyes slowly slit open. He looks good like that – wrecked, panting, lips swollen from kissing.
“You can have the flower. It’s yours,” she whispers breathlessly.
His eyes widen. “Are you sure about this?” he asks, voice thick but insecure. Shirayuki nods. “Are you really, really sure?” There’s no playfulness in his full-blown pupils, no teasing, just earnest worry and concern. Once again she nods and his lips are immediately back on hers before her world suddenly spins.
This is not how she’s imagined it to be. This is not what her ears have been delivering her, not what her mind has been feeding her. This is not her sexy roommate, senselessly pounding a girl into the mattress. This is– this is– who is this guy?
Every single touch from him is gentle, every caress tender. Even as he enters her he does it gingerly, almost too slow, but without pausing until he’s buried to the hilt, throwing his head back with a satisfied sigh. And then he’s leisurely grinding into her, pulling only a little before thrusting back in, each time hitting a spot she’s almost forgotten exists.
It’s not how she thought it would be but as she lies on her bed, panting, Shirayuki closes her eyes and lets all her other senses roam – the dampness where their bodies join, the sweet nothings he’s whispering in her ear, the earthy smell of his skin, the taste of him still notable on her tongue – she’s feeling all of him and it’s so good, so surprisingly intimate , and she doesn’t know how long she’s been lying there when all of a sudden her body convulses violently as she comes hard without warning.
“Oh– oh , Obi– Obi... ”
Only when the ringing in her ears has stopped does she realise that he’s still moving inside her, now faster, chasing his own release. Drops of sweat trickle down his body, glistening in the moonlight, each of his outbreath a soft and broken moan. With a few last thrusts he follows her, body trembling and her name a sigh on his lips.
Shirayuki watches as the amber eyes slowly opens and refocused on her. He’s still breathing heavily but there’s a happy smile on his face. He pulls out, drops himself beside her, then shifts to drape an arm protectively around her.
“Thank you for the flower,” he purrs into her ear. “I’ll treasure it forever.”
“I didn’t know you can be so cheesy– ah!” She yelps as his fingers tickle her.
“I mean it,” he says earnestly, after her giggle died down.
Shirayuki nods and plants a kiss on the tip of his nose. “I know.”
***
The whirring of the hairdryer drowns all the other sounds around her. Perched on a stool, Shirayuki closes her eyes, enjoying the way Obi’s slender fingers comb through the strands of her hair, carefully shaking them to let the hot air reach to the bottom layers. Her tongue itches with a question at its tip but she retains her calm and opts to wait until the noise dies down. Still, her heart flips with worry and excitement in her ribcage.
When the noisy thing finally stops harassing her eardrums she turns her head slightly and looks up to her roommate– no. Her boyfriend? Obviously, they still need to talk, but first things first.
“Say, Obi…”
“Mmm?” He presses a gentle kiss onto her hair while his hands coil up the cord around the plastic handle. A blush creeps up to her cheeks, tinting them rosy. “Um, you know, next time we– we–, um,” she falters miserably. The request sounded much better in her head.
“Have sex?” Ever so helpful, he finishes her sentence. Shirayuki flinches a little. “That. Um, do you think we could– ah, I mean, I really enjoyed it last night, but um, I happen to know that you could do, uh, m-more?” She forces the words out of her mouth before she loses all of her hard-collected courage. Fidgeting on her butt and playing nervously with the edge of her towel, she bites her lower lip and holds her breath.
Behind her, Obi goes very still. “I don’t mean that you’re– you’re– lacking , in any way,” she adds hastily, “it’s quite the opposite! I’m just– I want to– I mean–”
“Shirayuki…” His breath tickling her ear pulls all her attention to the sudden hoarseness of his voice. One long finger glides lazily on her skin, from her shoulder, still damp from the shower, down into the gap between her breasts, held sloppily by a terry knot. “Are you suggesting what I think you’re suggesting?” The finger has found a nipple and is now circling it teasingly, seemingly oblivious to the gradual loosening of the knot.
Shirayuki’s breath hitches and she leans back on him, vaguely noticing the hardness pressing back at her spine. Obi starts to nibble on her earlobe, just a little, just enough to make her writhe and tilt her head unwittingly to give him more access. He plants a hot kiss just below her ear as his other arm circles around her middle, pulling her closer. The terry cloth has long slid down and pooled around her waist.
“I could shake your walls if you want me to...” he murmurs onto her skin.
Shirayuki’s swallows audibly between her heavy breaths. “O-oh? T-then– tonight?”
She feels his lips stretching into a smile. “Why not now?”
