Re: Sonrisa: Sam A & Cris M
She hadn't eaten anything since the day before, and he was probably right, yeah? About needing to eat and drink or whatever, but she wasn't clear enough to articulate that. Just like she wasn't clear enough to articulate how that pallor on already pale skin made her FEEL. Woozy, yeah? Like the art room was spinning, and the colors on the canvases all swirled together in something psychedelic and amazing. She'd been hella into stamps for a while, recreational or whatever, and this was like that. It was like some weird out-of-body thing, as hippie as that sounded, and if she hadn't been so messed up, she would have tried to make him see. It was pretty, yeah?
But, nah, this wasn't about the cacophony of color around them. Because, yeah, she completely fucking thought he was going to bail on her. Walk out, whatever, and her sob held nervous laughter and relief as he wrapped his arms around her.
She knew he was crying, and she wanted to soothe him, to not be a complete fucking FAILURE about that all the time. Because she knew he needed someone, yeah? Someone who could handle the stuff he had going on. He did that for her, but he didn't have anyone who could be straight and deal with his shit. She didn't even know who to ask, yeah? Because Lou sucked at people, and D was the only person who might get it, but she knew D wasn't unbiased or whatever, and she was going to stay clean, yeah? Get her head on straight. Panic less. She was going to. She WAS. She was going to be better for him, so he wasn't always dealing with his own stuff.
Stupid girl, she didn't get that panic just wasn't that way, yeah? PTSD wasn't that way, and she couldn't just will herself better, however fucking much she wanted to.
He rocked her, and that helped. Stupid, maybe, but it did. It was better than when she wrapped her arms around herself and did the same thing, yeah? That was dependency or whatever, but she didn't have the word for it, and she didn't really fucking care WHAT it was called just then. He was saying things that made her cry, and she fucking WEPT. Emotion poured all over them, salty wet and they were mostly shades of grey now. She didn't feel any of that hurt when he landed them on the floor, because the impact was all his, and she just curled against him, knees between his thighs, and her cheek getting painted grey by his chest, head tucked under his chin. And she didn't feel suffocated, yeah? Not like back in New York, when hearing him say those words would have sent her running for the fucking door. Nah, man, she just clung tighter, MORE, rocked up into him spent and filthy and exhausted, her fingers twining paint thick into the black whorls of his hair at the base of his skull.
"See?" She sniffled damp against his chest. "That's why I got to get better. To be better. I want to be better for you. I want to be good for you, yeah?" She rocked against him harder, even though it wasn't easy, yeah? Positioned like they were, and the floor hard beneath them. "I fucking hate you." Sniffle. "Before, I wasn't scared, yeah? Of losing you. Not like now."