“Shall we sit,” One gestures to the two purple sofas.
In her mind Ashe forms the politely measured words ‘oh, yes, thank you, and it’s nice to meet you too.’ Unfortunately this comes out of her strangled through as something more like “Mhfm!”
One smiles again, that perfect, perfect smile.
Ashe realises she hasn’t sat down, and does so all at once on shaking legs. She only just manages not to land on the floor, sitting straight as a pole, desperately trying to will all her previous movements out of existence.
One strolls over, sitting neatly on her own sofa, two arms resting on the seat, two over the back, two holding a silver cylinder before her chest. She offers it, “You look like you could use a drink?”
Ashe laughs, the sound coming out hysterically loud and sharp. She shuts her mouth firmly, nods.
One unscrews the cylinder with a hiss of steam, pouring out an opaque golden liquid. “Air rose nectar,” she offers the glass to Ashe, “a pleasant distraction from nerves. I was nervous too, when meeting your United Nations.”
“You, nervous?” Ashe thinks, then realises she said it out loud.
“Very,” One sets down the opened flask with a neat clink on the table, next to her empty cup. “There was a lot riding on making an excellent impression, leaving your leaders pleasantly surprised with how well we could speak your languages and honour your civilities, helping show the similarities instead of the,” she raises six hands, “differences.”
‘I see you,’ Ashe manages not to say by taking a swig of the viscous golden liquid. It's cool and very sweet, a little citrusy, maybe a tiny bit spicy in the rich aftertaste, the shifting palate delightful long after she swallows, seeming to turn from cool to warm as it travels deeper inside her.
She notices One watching her, almost expectantly.
“It’s nice,” exclaims, taking another swig for emphasis.
One smiles, the sight lighting an even greater warmth in Ashe’s chest than the one settling into her stomach.
“And I think,” Ashe breathes, focusses on her voice not squeaking, “I think you made an excellent impression.”
“Thank you,” One touches her heart, or where a human heart would be, “that’s lovely to hear. It’s always nice to know you’re admired. Why, to read the stories people write about me - are you okay?”
“Yes,” Ashe manages, having thankfully spit the drink back into the glass instead of all over herself, “I’m fine. What were you saying?”
“Stories, that journalists write about me, about us, about all of this and everything we’re doing.”
“And,” Ashe steadies her breathing, “what, what are you doing?” She had meant it as small-talk, but now worries it came across too direct.
But One just smiles, “Well, right now I’m having a lovely conversation with a charming young lady. More?” she offers the flask, refilling Ashe’s meekly proffered drink as she wonders how hard she’s blushing. Charming, me? She feels hot, but that could just be the nerves, or the sight of One sitting right across from her, violet lips slightly parted. And for the second time that day, Ashe feels stifled by her clothes, and by the imminent feeling between her - oh fuck!
Two of One’s hands fly to hers, catching the glass in Ashe’s own hands before she realized she was dropping it. One holds her hands there, steady. “Is everything okay?” One’s face feels so much closer now, close enough to see the tiny facets in those dark eyes that are looking right at her, so close Ashe can see her own reflection. She looks down, instead seeing One’s hands holding hers, warm and impossibly smooth against her skin.
“Y-yes,” she hears someone say, realising it's her, “I’m, I’m fine.” Reluctantly she pulls her hands from One’s touch. She can still feel it, the back of her palms tingling as she takes another swig of the refilled drink, then tries to nonchalantly plant the glass and her hands firmly in her lap, holding them there firmly against the firmness pushing back. What the fuck, not now, not fucking now!
One half stands, moving round the table to sit on the other sofa, right next to a wide eyed Ashe, who isn’t breathing, isn’t moving against the warm contact against her side, and somehow doesn’t explode as One returns that tingling touch to Ashe’s skin by resting one hand on her leg.
“How’s your drink?”
“Mmhm,” Ashe says, taking another brisk swig one handed before returning both hands to her lap, pushing down hard against the radiant well of potential sensation, as if her whole tensing body is pulled into that one point of focus, feeling only that and the delicate tingling of One’s hand idly stroking her thigh.
“Please tell me if I'm making you uncomfortable?” One asks, close enough she can feel her breath.
“N-n-no.” Ashe manages, “No I’m, I’m comfortable.”
“Good,” One’s whispers in her ear. “It can be hard to tell what people really want. We have a saying,” One leans a little back, letting Ashe breathe again, “Ask someone what they want when they have nothing to gain by telling you. It’s a little clunky translated, but the meaning is simple enough: it can be hard to get a real sense of people when they have an agenda, a political motive, a story to sell to readers. But words written for their own enjoyment - I believe you call it ‘fanfiction’?”
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