Re: Sonrisa: Sam A & Cris M
She wouldn't have been so distracted by the kicking, yeah? If it wasn't for how he looked, like it was something amazing. For her, it was just something she'd been ignoring scared for a fucking week, and she was slow and sluggish and having trouble turning it around, making it something good, even when he laughed and good tears collected on his impossibly dark fucking lashes. She just dragged in breath, after glancing down at her belly once more, and then she was looking back up at him.
She didn't say anything else about the baby, yeah? Not yet, even though she wasn't calming the fuck down, not quieting, like maybe the kid knew all the tension that was cotton muted and dulled or something. But maybe that was stupid, and Sam had no idea if shit worked like that.
His tears spilled over, and she watched them, yeah? Like they were more impressive than anything happening in her belly, and she was quiet in that hungry way that made her fucking stare too long. It was that uncomfortable perusal, yeah? The unfocused intensity that came with her being THISCLOSE to spiraling in a way that would make her head smack against the walls again.
And it was good, yeah? Him yanking the shirt over his head and pulling her close like that, because it focused her. And she didn't argue about painting him. She didn't argue, but she didn't pick up brush or anything. Nah, she just took her hands and fingers and dragged them through thick and wet paint on canvas. It made the layers of pain there messier, but fuck if she cared. She just took her hands, blue and green and yellow, and she brought them to his bare chest and splayed her fingers wide against tan skin.
"Listen to me. You got to listen, ok? You don't listen. You try to make me feel better, and I just want you to listen." All run together, and without pause for breath, and her pushing herself up on her knees to get at him better.