. (afrit) wrote in repose, @ 2015-12-07 21:41:00 |
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Entry tags: | *log, cris martin, sam martin |
Sonrisa: Sam & Cris
Who: Sam & Cris
What: Post fog and conversations
Where: Sonrisa's art room
When: Currentish
Warnings/Rating: Language, at the minimum
The backroom was bare, yeah? Paint mottled, but devoid of anything but stands and chairs, and the blonde in the center of the room, she wasn't using anything but the floor.
She'd lost layers of clothes, and she wasn't talking, non-verbal, and down to underwear and Cris' dress shirt, sleeves rolled and her temple bruised and purpled and puffy, and like anything else against her skin hurt or something. It didn't make any sense, but nothing made sense just then. She didn't know how much time had passed or anything. She barely knew where she was, yeah? She'd had a few written conversations, but her head was just cotton, shoved tight against her skull, jonesing and throbbing at her temple, and she was only just starting to come back to herself or whatever.
She hadn't wanted propped canvas or easel, yeah? Nah, she'd just laid a canvas flat, and she'd knelt on the floor. Magic white, and she got the thing prepared, and she worked her way through three since then. Bent over, hair dragging through palette and thick brushes on a canvas near as big as she was, and she still worked. But she was getting exhausted, yeah? There, on her knees, and she knew Cris was there, yeah? It was a distant kind of knowing, like she knew she was safe, and he was probably as covered in paint as she was. He slept, hand stilling against her spine, and she knew that too.
Guilt was roiling in her belly, and the baby was kicking up a storm, like the kid knew shit was bad, yeah? Sam didn't want to think. She didn't want to think, but clarity was there, at the edges of her mind, and she knew there wouldn't be any avoiding it, not for long or whatever. She dragged the brush harder against the canvas, trying to stave off the reality of how bad she'd screwed up or whatever.