Re: Sonrisa: Sam A & Cris M
When Cris was a kid and for years, stupid, young, he'd heat up the headsa nails—lighter underneath 'til he could feel the heat on his fingertips, and he'd press scorched steel to his skin. Usually, it'd be on the insidea his elbow, behind his knees, maybe where toes met sole—places where skin rubbed on itself, joints, to get more friction over that burn—so he wouldn't forget, and, places he could hide pretty easy. And even though it fucking hurt, scarred even a few times, though they were faded now, he got how it could feel good, doing that kinda stuff to yourself. Your body sent out endorphins, huh? To block the pain or try. And not just that, sometimes it just felt good to make yourself hurt—just yourself, punishment or whatever it was. It was grounding. So, yeah, he got why she did it. He'd hit his head in frustration plentya times. But, that didn't make it something good, and it didn't make him wanna let her hand go.
It was a strange grapple, huh? Listen to me, so I can help, but don't argue. I want you to hear my words and take them my way. Selfish in a weird way, maybe, but not bad and he felt like that too. Only, right now, he didn't see it as arguing or nothing. She'd said what she wanted, thought, felt, with him listening, now he'd say what he wanted, thought, felt. This was more expression in expulsion than conversation, but maybe Cris was alone in seeing it that way. He didn't mean to crush her truths, huh? It wasn't like that.—She stilled, her hair's spray outward slowing, stopping, when he blotted her cheeks, and Sam looked at the guy so sad. He inhaled shaky and started working.
No picture was borna his touch. Nothing rose outta pigment, no streets or buildings in boiling red. It was just a smeara colors slathering skin, thick on her chin, thinner where he spread it up her jaw in soft, repetitive lil strokes. And he talked, leaning forward every lil bit to get more paint and keep going.
"I love you so much." He started there, not looking up as he went. "Nothin' you do is gonna make me not. Nothin' you do is gonna make me tireda you. And I know, if I needed you, if I was scared, you'd want me to tell you, and you'd tell me, nonea that is gonna make you not like me, no matter how many times I call or cry, huh? It's the same for me. If you think somethin's off with the baby, nena, tell me. A lotta the time, it's just normal stuff, huh? Development stuff, and I could tell you, and you wouldn't needta be scared no more." Blue slid down her throat in a swipe, too dark, her eyes when they fuck—, lightening to midnight near Adam's apple.—Finally, he let go-a her other hand, so he could have botha his, peeling back starchy white from clavicles. "You ain't gonna b'lieve me, but I... I never felt the way I feel 'bout you 'bout anybody else. It's... I..." A swallow. "So, if you wanna use Elena as an example, I'm gonna tell you, it don't work." There was the tracea a small smile, however quick it was subsumed in seriousness. He scooched back a bit, taking his touch to the insidesa her thighs in blue-over-green. It wasn't a pretty color. "Iris has her damage. You got yours. I got mine. Nonea us did too good today. You think you ain't okay for a kid, I'm not much better. But, you don't gotta make me okay. We are okay." Cris finally looked up, smearing paint too close to where her thigh met pelvis. He took it back, blended the color toward her hip. "It don't feel like it. Especially not now. And that's okay. But, baby, think about it—we're here, huh? Together. Whatever happens with anybody else, that's what I care about. You're less selfish, so you think 'bout all those other people, but me, florecita. I'm glad to be here with you. We fucked up, yeah. You called your guy. I was as destructive as Elena said I was. But, aquí estamos." He touched sticky fingers to her belly. "Her too." He knew it was sappy, but it was earnest, and he didn't care if she thought he was stupid just then, huh? He prolly was, focusing on the wrong thing or something. But, it was what he felt.