== (wants) wrote in repose, @ 2016-01-06 09:26:00 |
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Entry tags: | *log, cris martin, sam martin |
Winter Train: Sam A & Cris M
Who: Sam Alexander & Cris Martin
What: the lights come on
Where: the train
When: directly after this
Warnings/Rating: TBD, at least language
Cris wasn't cruel or selfish enough to want the lights to stay off, to want the vulturous terror to continue to metastasize, feed and gorge,—but just then, with the pitch-cloya it all around, he was grateful. Oh, it had his shirt sticking to him, thin as a membrane, like the cell of a leaf split, and it had his hair—hair that had been brushed earlier—a close-curling riot, so dark at the roots it blended seamless with the rocking train's bullet-shaped starlessness. It had the vodka soaking into his tongue curdling already and it had his hands in those smaller and white sticky-palmed. But, he was kinda glad for the veil—'cause even if it hid monsters, it hid and Sam too, huh? It kept them safe, together, and as he kissed her, and she sobbed, broken, he was glad for it. He was glad for it, 'cause he didn't hafta be anybody—not the Sheriff, not nobody, but himself, and he was allowed to grope for Sam, and he could part his lips, open his jaw, and he could move thumbs up her cheeks, where they grated over salt, he could sway with her, hips as against hers as they could be, and now onea those hands scouring down, to throat, fingernails sparking, down to tit, and he could call it dancing, 'cause nobody could see it was anything different. He leaned into her, and it didn't matter—the bile, the slur he could taste on her tongue, 'cause, if nothing else, they were together, and that had to count for something. They were both in a bad way. He got that. Like marrow running molten from sallow bones, the end shattered in calcified constellation under some heel or hammerhead. And even if it was pathetic or too much, just having Sam there made it bearable for him, whatever the pain was.—But he knew she had more things stirring in the darkness than he did, and he knew it prolly wasn't bearable for her, so, nah, he didn't want the lights to stay off. He just wasn't ready when it all came back up. Piecemeal, bulb by blotted bulb, everything a revelation in parts—'til silver silhouettes became pigmented canvas again, and him, he was down to white shirt, unbuttoned deep, drunkenness a wax over black eyes, and anybody could tell the guy'd been crying. Sam's dress was a mess, twisted here and there—not that he pulled back to look at her, 'cause he didn't. He clung to her still, kissed her still if she didn't pull back, and he knew what he was supposed to do. Stop. Leave. Get them home, somewhere where they couldn't be watched, huh? But, he didn't, not 'less she made him. He held her, his mouth still an unyielding slant over hers, and even with the lights, he kept his eyes closed. |