Viens-tu du ciel profond ou sors-tu de l'abîme,
Ô Beauté ? Ton regard, infernal et divin,
Verse confusément le bienfait et le crime,
Et l'on peut pour cela te comparer au vin.
Do you come from Heaven or rise from the abyss,
Beauty? Your gaze, divine and infernal,
Pours out confusedly benevolence and crime,
And one may for that, compare you to wine.
(Charles Baudelaire)
First floor
"That was crazy..."
"Mhm mhm."
Reo and Nagi sat next to each other on one of the many chairs in the room, the former resting on the armrest and the latter on the actual seat.
The former was nervous, strangled, perplexed, shocked. Despite his being part of an affluent, if not rich, world, he had never had the opportunity to get close to such a famous personage as the Italian champion.
And he had to admit that as a first meeting he had never expected such a scene. His brain was still trying to process what his eyes had registered.
The second guy had not uttered a word since the girl had made her entrance. He had remained with his eyes fixed on his cell phone, eyes that were not actually focused at all on the game on which the words "you lost" had still been present since the first round. He was too puzzled and confused to concentrate.
The image of those hideous scars, and blood, and her cold stare were being replicated in his brain like the video introduction of a game you always have to watch every time you lose. And he was losing so many times that he had memorized that video.
In fact, although the event had started quite a while ago, they could all feel that strange tension in the air that prevented them from relaxing completely. A tension so heavy, so disturbing, so oppressive that they were sure that who was next to them could feel their hearts trying to get out of their rib cages.
"You think the blood was real?" whispered Otoya to his friend Karasu, causing the latter to grimace and shudder.
"Dude, don't say shit like that." whispered the second boy, receiving a shrug in response and a "you are the one called assassin, not me."
Otoya ignored the next "bro, what the hell does have to do with it?", aiming his furtive gaze at the room full of famous athletes and celebrities.
He was one of those who knew that Nicklaus Vinciguerra was actually Nicole Vinciguerra, unlike his friend at his side.
Yet even knowing this, the mere sight of the flesh-and-blood girl, and in such a condition, had simply shaken him.
He believed he would be ready, mentally ready, physically ready, psychologically ready. But nothing... nothing would have prepared him for that. Nothing would have prepared anyone for that.
The Nicole Vinciguerra he had seen walk in that night, with what looked like blood dripping from her hair, fury and power in her eyes, a dress that perfectly showed off her every curve and hideous wounds on her back seemed to have nothing in common with the Nicklaus Vinciguerra who always had a menacing smirk on his lips, mockery in his gaze, an oversized shirt that hid his body and the look of someone who was always okay.
And to think this was not only him, but also all those who, like him, knew the secret of the redhead.
Raichi was tense.
More than usual. He was so tense that his grip on the armrest of the chair on which he sat had become exaggeratedly strong, so strong that anyone could notice it.
"Calm down dude, you trynna give us away?" whispered Igarashi (whose presence there was still a mystery) terrified, looking around to check that no one noticed the blond's excessive nervousness.
The sharp-toothed boy did not seem to hear him at all, for his leg began to move up and down as if he had too much caffeine in his system.
He didn't know exactly what he was feeling. Anger? Disappointment? Anxiety? Concern? Confusion? A mixture of all these passions put together?
Perhaps it was a nameless emotion. One that could not be explained and that writers must employ lines and lines of metaphors to delineate.
All he knew was that he was in a cold sweat, that his body was shaking, and that his head hurt like hell.
He revisits that scene back again and again.
Those lines. Those scars. Those cuts. Those wounds. He revises the blood red matching her bronze skin, the crimson liquid sliding down her spine and soiling the back of her dress.
How long had she had those wounds? They didn't look new, they didn't look old.
From the match against U-20 maybe? She looked like a crazy freak that night after all. Maybe that was why she looked so...out of it. But if she had been wounded since then, with cuts that must have been even deeper then they had seen that evening, then she had been playing in perpetual pain.
And not only on that occasion.
But also training with the Ubers, and with Manshine City, and with FC Barcha, and with Bastard München... and no one had ever noticed anything.
He brought his thumbnail between his teeth, biting it nervously.
He hadn't noticed anything. He who knew her true identity and he who had followed her all the time with his eyes trying to understand the reason behind her choices.
And so focused on figuring out why she had hidden some things, he had not realized that she was hiding even more.
Shoei was staring distractedly at the city outside the window. His right thumb absentmindedly stroked the back of his own left hand as his thoughts wandered away from that place.
He was remembering the match between Blue Lock and U-20, more specifically the moment when he had had to approach the girl to get her to her station without letting her pass out in the middle of the field.
He remembered the blood on her knuckles, her blind and weary gaze, her aura of death, revenge and victory.
He remembered the way she had ruled over him, making him a tyrant who before a god had no power; he remembered that fire and blood flowing so aggressively in her irises; he remembered that expression of hers that looked for absolutely nothing but for the most crushing of victories.
The Nicole Vinciguerra who had made her entrance was not so different from the one he had seen on that soccer field.
There was the same imposing aura, the same look that terrified and thrilled at the same time, the same royalty and solemnity of a goddess. The same tranquility with which she wore wounds and blood.
He aimed his crimson eyes at the figure of her, at that moment surrounded by everyone. Even than she was the lonely creature he had ever met.
He saw the way she displayed those marks of pain on her back: she showed it proudly, brazenly, narcissistically. Almost as if she liked them, almost as if she had decided that they should be part of her dress that night.
He brought a hand to his face, trying to wake up from his trance.
What a monster...she was simply a monster.
Who the hell would show their weakness and make it look like a strength?
Certainly no one human.
"That Nicole Vinciguerra sure is interesting..." interrupted Blue Lock's silence the blue and blond haired German, making some of the boys grunt, who, unfortunately, could understand his words thanks to Blue Lock's earphones.
His blue eyes, highlighted by the same-colored shirt under his black jacket, seemed to burn with the desire to talk to the mysterious figure who had made such a dramatic entrance.
He had heard about Nicole Vinciguerra. No, he had not just heard of her: he had read about her, listened to her interviews, seen her from afar at one of those gatherings for young prodigies.
And even now he was watching her from afar, as she walked between the bodies of the pink-haired Japanese prodigy and the... whoever that tanned cokehead look alike was.
He saw that proud and triumphant stride of hers, that slow but steady gait, that quiet but heavy gaze, those attractive but dangerous eyes.
He saw that indecent dress that on her looked like the gown of a deity, so tight and transparent in the right and wrong places. He saw the way those lines that seemed to have neither a beginning nor an end adorned her back, their color similar to that of her hair, of her eyes, of the ruby that rested on her ring finger and of the ruby that shone on her companion's bare chest.
She was beautiful.
With that aura of pain, victory, triumph and passion. How much he wanted her. He wanted her at that moment. He wanted her, her ego, her aura.
He wanted her and wanted to prevail over her. He wanted her chained to his side.
He wanted a goddess to kneel in front of him, her ego to bend to his.
He needed her in his story. He was burning with the need to have her for himself.
To try... to have her for himself.
Kunigami, leaning against the wall by the window, unfortunately close to the German, frowned at his words.
His bored, dull gaze shifted to the trio that was parading in the middle of the room, the road ahead of them cleared by the departure of the other guests as they passed.
His orange eyes looked at the girl's majestic, regal profile, then shifted to the feminine groove tracing her back, crisscrossed with messy, meaningless lines.
He was not interested in all this drama. He had no time to waste on such nonsense, particularly when it involved someone who had nothing to do with his world.
He had to admit, however, that this girl who appeared to be the same age as him was unusual. The way she claimed the attention of others, her aura of power, those cruel but menefrecient eyes.
Unusually familiar.
Negatively familiar.
He looked away.
No, he wanted nothing to do with it: a Vinciguerra in his life was also too much.
He was convinced that surname was a synonym of trouble.
Far away from everyone, with his aggressively impassive gaze and glacial eyes burning with hatred, sat the little brother of the Italian champion's escort.
He sat on an armchair in the corner of the big room, his elbows resting on his knees and his back slightly bent.
His narrowed pupils were carefully following the steps of the girl who had attracted the attention of the pink-haired asshole.
The second person to do so.
Actually no, not only Sae's, but also that of that crazy maniac who probably masturbated thinking about the red-haired Italian from Blue Lock.
He let a grimace of disgust escape his control, and he too decided to give his attention to the champion.
Undoubtedly beautiful.
A delineated face, a trained physique, a relatively healthy body, if one excluded those mysterious wounds that traced her skin.
Could that be his brother's type? Tanned, narcissistic, and probably insane?
He honestly doubted it.
Sae had a skincare that was too complex to appreciate those who exposed themselves to the sun to the point of activating the melanocyte's defence mechanism.
He didn't understand; what did they, Nicklaus, Nicole and probably also that maniacal lunatic of Shidou, have that was different from him? Why were they able to have Sae Itoshi's attention, but he, who was his own blood, had been left behind.
Sae wouldn't even look him in the face.
So what did those three have that he didn't?
He stood up suddenly, drawing Isagi's gaze almost as if the latter had a subspecies of alarm signal in his brain that sounded whenever Rin was angry.
Which happened very often.
His blue eyes watched the green-haired, teal-eyed boy walk toward the trio from which all the others were moving away, and a sigh escaped his lips.
First Bachira. Now Rin.
Had they heard what Ego had said about staying away from that girl?
Rin walked in the crowd of fallen ones, ignoring the fact that he was the only one going against the current, like a fish trying to swim up a river in vain.
His eyes dared not move from the three, from him, his brother.
He looked at the close distance between their bodies, the way the girl had the boys arm in arm, their skins of different shades next to each other like a color scale.
"Ohi, you shitty asshole."
Shidou's shock-pink eyes flicked to the newcomer's voice, and one of his creepy, petulant smiles soon appeared on his lips.
"Rin-Rin, looking disgusting and useless as ever." sang the blond with dyed locks, receiving in response a look of, indeed, disgust.
"Shut the fuck up. I wasn't talking to you, fix the fucking antennas on your head." replied the greenette in a low but aggressive tone, thankfully ignored by the rest of the guests.
His eyes of aimed at the red-haired girl for a moment, not long enough to notice her gaze on him, and then immediately shifted to his relative.
But this one, unlike Shidou, or Nicole, did not even give him the slightest bit of attention. Instead he kept his gaze fixed ahead, his arm still anchored to that of the girl at his side.
Rin gritted his teeth, trying to ignore his heart once again falling apart and the child hidden deep in his soul rocking, his head tucked between his legs.
His wide pupils, filled with the black hatred, shifted to the one who had kidnapped his brother's interest, almost as if to accuse her.
But as soon as his gems of crystal-clear water, like that of a river in the deep forest, met those drops of blood, like that of a vein that has been opened by a sharp knife, he forgot what his intentions were.
And it seemed almost as if the hatred that filled the pupils of his eyes was afraid, for he fled, withdrew, and with him those big black circles also shrank.
He remained silent as those empty but full eyes, cruel but mild, impassive but passionate, mindless but too sharp, looked at him almost as if they were watching that neglected child he tried so hard to hide.
As if his mask, the person he had so painstakingly constructed in those years ... she did not even see it, too weak to act as a wall to the lonely innocent child inside him.
He took a step back, not finding pleasant the way he felt so exposed under that gaze.
He took a step back, not finding pleasant the way the child inside him trembled at the knowledge that he was being seen by her.
He took a step back.
Just like everyone else did.
Skip time
Third floor
Time continued to flow, as water in a river flows to reach the outlet for the sea.
Not too slowly, not too fast.
It just flowed.
For five endless hours since the words "dopo facciamo i conti, troietta" had first resounded in her mind.
Nicole leaned on the third-floor balustrade, soulless, watching the people below her move in the soft, muted atmosphere of the evening.
Five hours in which no one had dared to enter her personal space. No one had dared to approach her, to confront her, to follow in the wake of her footsteps.
Five hours in which everyone had talked. Not with her. But about her. Everyone's conversations centered on her presence, her figure, her person, her character, her dress, her bearing, her wounds, her eyes. About her.
Five hours in which no one had dared to ask her what had happened. No one had dared to try to understand. No one had gone beyond the appearance of her mask.
Five hours in which everyone had watched her, observed her, scrutinized her, studied her, examined her, judged her, stared at her, squared off, ogled her, surveilled her.
People.
So many people.
So many people that you could lose yourselves within them. Among their looks, their touches, their voices, their judgments.
For five hours.
And still they had not stopped.
Even then they were watching her from down there.
Nicole brought the goblet to her lips as her soul quivered at the perception of all those pairs of eyes on her.
She held back a laugh.
Looks of hatred, looks of envy, looks of admiration, looks of disbelief, looks of horror.
All of them.
She wanted them all.
She wanted them to look at her.
She wanted them to hate her, to envy her, to admire her, to love her, to believe she could not be real.
She wanted them all to perish because of her, under her triumphant stride, behind her trail of victory.
The alcohol entered her throat, burning first at the level of her windpipe, and then at the level of her chest.
She loved alcohol: the way it inflamed the body in which her soul resided was so beautiful. It inflamed her with a fire that she possessed but was always too cold for her; it warmed her insides until she wanted to burn alive. It made her feel something. It caused a sensation in a soul that rarely felt something.
A lost and empty smile made its way across her tinged red lips as her eyes, now clouded with ethanol flowing through her system in large quantities, closed.
She didn't know how much she had drunk since leaving Bachira. She did not even know what she had drunk. She had failed to have any sense of measure, or time, or direction: alone in her mind, lost in her thoughts, with only those words that should have scared her so much but could only make her bitterly laugh.
And she had decided to drink. Maybe she could have counted all the times she brought the glass to her lips, or the number of new flavors her taste buds sensed.
But now she no longer knew what the number was, and she was sure that if someone had put water in her hand she would not have noticed.
She moved away from the balustrade, backing away from it without looking behind her. Maybe she was limping, maybe she couldn't keep her balance. Or maybe she could, maybe she was normally walking.
The room was not spinning; it was her thoughts that were doing that.
Of this she was certain.
She closed her eyelids, bringing her head back and opening her lips to take in the poisonous but so addicting liquid, never stopping walking backwards.
Her back made contact with a wall, or a column in the middle of the room. Those wounds begged her for mercy, burning. Unfortunately, they did not burn enough, because the alcohol in her throat was definitely hotter.
She sighed quietly and contentedly, resting the back of her head against the surface behind her and remaining still for a few moments.
Perhaps, thinking better about it, it was the room spinning.
A presence in her personal space constricted her to force herself not to let the sudden wave of drowsiness overcome her.
Her eyelids opened slowly, with such a sluggishness that the person in front of her almost thought they were too heavy for her.
The two looked at each other for a few moments. Nicole's view was blurred, his view quite clear. But she smiled, pulling away with difficulty from the column that at that moment was the only thing holding her up. Her fingers rested on his cheekbone, her body pressed against his.
"Oliver..."
The boy stiffened imperceptibly, not expecting to hear her speak in such conditions.
Fuck, he had never heard such a voice. Perhaps the most sinful tone he had and would ever hear in his life.
Not even the most beautiful of songs, the most sentimental of confessions, the most compelling of orations would ever have such an effect on his body and mind.
The hand on his cheek was like fire, a gentle but violent fire that threatened to burn him. He still did not know whether from passion or simply because it was too much for him to perceive.
Her eyes shone, lost in who knows what thoughts, in who knows what secrets, in who knows what desires. Eyes that penetrated him like a feline's nails penetrate the skin of a prey; eyes that crushed him like the tentacles of an octopus crush a shark; eyes that petrified him like Medusa petrifies anyone who looks at her.
"...what are you thinking, my dear lover..." whispered the girl in his ear, her warm breath on his skin was like the caress of the personification of lust.
The boy tried to hold her upright, feeling her body begin to weaken against his. His hands encircled her waist, his gaze sought hers.
Blind. A blind persons's gaze was hers. A blind person who could not see what the hell she was doing.
The boy dared not speak, merely observing her with his careful gaze. He looked at her face, her lips, her eyes, her neck. He sighed, shifting his stare from her and changing his grip.
He brought one arm under her shoulders, one under her knees, and without too much effort lifted her up. Nicole hid her face in his neck, inhaling his perfume, her eyes still closed. Her red lips tickled his skin, and the boy almost dropped her because of the hot shivers that ran through his entire body.
They went through a door, and he closed it behind him so that they would not be disturbed. He made her sit on the ceramic sink in the bathroom, letting the fierce wounds on her back face the mirror.
Nicole looked at him.
She did not not look at him.
She looked at him without looking at him.
She just saw him. She saw his movements, too slow according to her alcohol-dulled mind.
She saw him take a towel, wet it with water, wring it out so that it would not leak drops.
She saw him head toward her, stand between her legs that dangled in the gap between the sink and the floor, bring the cloth closer to her face.
She gave no thought to the sudden freshness that had started to fight the burning that inflamed the skin her soul was wearing. She gave no thought to the gentleness, the care with which he ran that cloth over her tanned face.
Care...gentleness...freshness.
His eyes opened wide, his body became as rigid as that of a statue, frost took possession of his body.
His pupils focused on her closed eyelids, his lips felt the others, his chest trembled under the heaviness of her hands.
And, almost like a magic spell, his eyes closed and his unconscious took command of his own body.
He dropped the cloth he held in his hands, bringing his fingers to her spread thighs and squeezing them, first gently, then forcefully.
His face pushed towards hers, his lips collided more violently against hers, his shirt-covered chest caressed her light gown-covered one.
Care was soon replaced by negligence, gentleness by violence, coolness by ardor.
Nicole slid her arms from his muscular chest to under his shoulders, then clung to the black jacket that covered his imposing back.
His hands moved from above her knees to the junction between her thigh and hips as his pelvis pressed against hers.
Suddenly her tiredness, confusion, and exhaustion disappeared, and a new exuberance and brio was awakened by that powerful, impetuous kiss.
Their lips parted, their tongues intersecting in a fight for supremacy where neither of them really cared to prevail.
Their breaths mingled, and he almost became drunk with the taste of alcohol, lust and gluttony that came from her mouth.
He moved one hand from her thigh to her neck, squeezing it and feeling under his fingers the warmth of the blood coursing through her jugular veins. The girl reacted to the contact by leaning back with her upper body, laying her shoulders on the surface of the mirror behind her and taking the boy with her.
She didn't care if the contact with the cold surface hurt his signature, his abuse, his mark. For the first time that night, she finally did not care about the old man.
Their tongues searched desperately and wantonly each other, seeking distraction, pleasure, satisfaction.
Anything to replace their pain.
He released a silent groan as soon as he sensed his own intimacy brushing against hers, both way too covered to their likings. His grip on her neck tightened, yet between the two of them he thought he was the one losing oxygen.
He was losing his mind.
Their bodies pressed against each other, not stopping for a moment, to study and savor the sensation of their shapes coming together like pieces of a puzzle too complicated to complete.
He became intoxicated by those perfect lips, by that contact filled with aggression and dynamism, by that tongue that felt like a flame in contact with his.
What the hell were they doing?
His eyes suddenly opened wide, his muscular body became rigid.
What the hell was he doing?
He broke away immediately, almost as if someone had punched his face or stomach or soul. His restless, tired eyes looked scandalized at the girl he had actually never spoken to in his life.
Nicole grunted, bringing a hand to her head and feeling it spin even more than before.
She had drunk too much.
She had definitely drunk too much that time.
She could not open her eyes. She kept them closed, tight, sure that if she opened them wide she would see the whole room spinning like one of those children's merry-go-rounds.
And when she found the strength to slightly ajar them, Oliver was no longer in front of her.
And away from her gaze, away from her body sitting on the sink of an empty bathroom on the third floor, away from something too hard to understand for him, he was walking away.
Letting who to him was a total stranger close her eyelids, surrendering to the sweet but spicy feeling left by Oliver's arms.
Too bad those arms that had held her, those lips that had tasted her, that breath that had mingled with hers, did not belong to Oliver.
For Oliver had never left the first floor of that building.
But this, no one would ever know. No one but the one who was descending those steps at that moment. No one but the one who was as lost as the stranger girl in that bathroom that was now falling asleep.
No one but Kunigami Rensuke.
_________________________
Nicole and the old man suffer from an addiction to alcoholism (lol you noticed). Nicole is always more or less in control of herself and the amount of alcohol she drinks because she learned how to drink when she was young. The only reason she lost control is because she wanted to lose it to forget her old man.
Oliver is recognized by Nicole as a lover (I don't mean lover as the love of her life). He is the person who has been with her in different difficult moments after all.
The fact that Rin took a step back has a meaning: it symbolises the fact that not everyone is able or want to stay with the girl. As Barou noticed, she's lonely and alone even when surrounded.
French literature fact:
Charles Pierre Baudelaire was a Symbolist writer/poet/philosopher/whatever you wanna call him. His thought and poetics inspired those who in Literature are called scapigliati and cursed poets or bohemians: his thoughts falls into the irrational, symbolism, and especially artificial paradises (substances or experiences that provide temporary relief or escape from the torment or suffering they may feel. It can vary from person to person, but examples could include alcohol, drugs, or even immersive artistic experiences that transport them to another world)
________________________
Author
Aoh- jump scare (or maybe it was expected, don't know)
Anyway... SEX TOPIC
Some comments reminded me that I never talked about such a subject as an author.
I totally understand that for some cultures or countries "early sex" can be strange or amoral; even in Italy, where the age of consent is 14, a lot of people prefer waiting 18 or later.
I just wanna say that scientifically speaking, a person starts to have sexual interest during puberty. So I personally think that such a subject should be normalised (I'M NOT PROMOTING EARLY SEX, I'M PROMOTING EDUCATION AND NORMALISATION OF IT SINCE IT'S CONSIDERED A TABU)
⬆️This is a comment I wrote to a reader and I thought it was a good idea to repost it < to the reader who is re-reading it: remember it is not a criticism, it is a message to everyone because you are not the only one who has asked these questions)
Nicole is a character who has an unusual and at times incorrect approach to sex. It is a particular and sensitive theme as are several other themes in this fanfic (abuse, alcoholism, hints of not insignificant age gaps, relationship difficulties, etc...)
So yes, within this fanfic there are elements that may be morally unacceptable to many, but they are part of Nicole's character.
Of course I'm open to talk and civilly argue about this (I like to argue and I like hearing others opinion)
Just that... oh and tell me your thoughts on this chapter I guess
See ya beautifuls