Re: Sonrisa: Sam A & Cris M
The grab for her hand was unexpected, stupid as that was, because she should have seen it coming a mile away, yeah? She should have, but she didn't, and it made her hush and stop, her inky and red-rimmed gaze focused over on his hand on hers, on the stick of pigment palm to palm. Her fingers were paler, smaller, and she watched as he tugged both their hands down, strong, and she tried to yank back, just as an instinctive thing, yeah? Testing his grip or something, though she got why he wasn't letting her have that hand back, yeah? She wasn't stupid, even if it felt good, the bang of starburst pain against her skull. It was like the rocking, yeah? Like the painting. Soothing, which was maybe fucked up.
But she breathed, and he said he understood, and she let him part thighs. She was staring, yeah? At that Main Street landscape on his chest and belly, and she looked up when he leaned back and wet his fingers. She didn't want to agree to listen, because he'd argue, yeah? He'd tell her what she said wasn't true, and she shook head and hair, paint flecking ends and sticking them together messy against the white of his ruined shirt that she wore.
But he touched cool pigment to her chin, and she stilled, like the paint was some fucking panacea. Or maybe it was his touch that was the remedy to all ills. Either way, she blinked damp and drowning blue at him, but she didn't stop him from talking, despite paint-coated fingers that raised, yeah? Like she was going to silence him with interrupted fingers to his lips.