Re: Sonrisa: Sam A & Cris M
Too pale. And they prolly needed to sit, huh? They prolly needed to sit and she needed to eat. He needed to eat. Needed water. But, those necessities all seemed secondary just then, secondary to their need for each other, however pathetic that was, huh? Cris would get them on the floor, closer, so, if she passed out or got dizzy, she wouldn't fall. That determination worked from the backa his brain, slow, as the resta him bumped up against Sam, as she screamed and shoved, and he yelled right back.—It was good she wasn't scareda him. He'd never hurt her. Nunca. And if she'd winced, right then, when everything felt so thin and stuck in his throat, he'd never fucking forgive himself. It'd be some kinda proof that he was his dad, after hurting Iris, after alla that. So it was good she came right back at him, his surliness crashing right into her defiance.
But, she went white, stricken, when the guy pulled her in by the waist, and it was only belatedly that Cris got she thought he was going. That sob—the second one he'd heard that day—wracking him with grief and guilt. He should feel bad for the dealer too. Worse. Lo hizo él mismo. Young, he'd dealt. Truth be told, he did pity the kid. He felt at fault, as he oughta, huh? But, more than alla that, he was glad too. It wasn't a lossa humanity, he didn't think. It was just how the heart worked, least how his had always worked. The people he cared about superseded everything and everybody else.
Sam shook her head, apologized like frenzied fingers over rosary beads, a litany. Cris held her, wrapped his arms around her full now, his nose tucked to her head, his own tears falling, searing from already-raw eyes. He didn't think 'bout the paint that they were working together with their bodies, but maybe it was its own kinda art, huh? That. Maybe it was some expression, something meaningful in all that gray and blue, his chest against her gaping shirt, her bare legs against his cityscape sweats. Somebody smarter could find a metaphor in it.—He rocked her, side to side, slow.
"Te necesito." His voice was watery, thick-throated. "Te necesito, amor. No puedo vivir sin ti." Prolly too much pressure. Too needy. Too codependent. But, it was true. It was true, heart-rucked and bloody on his tongue. "Honestamente no sé lo que haría sin ti. No quiero. No quiero perderte." Cris tried to get her in his arms, tried to lift her if she let him. And if she did, he sat, a lil too heavy, hurting his tailbone on the too-thin blankets over the floor, but he didn't care. And if she let him get that far, he tried to lie on his side with her, curl around her, still facing her, nose-to-nose. Stuttered breathing followed. The guy tried to reel it back, in case it was suffocating, too little, too late, but he tried. "Lo siento."