Re: Motel 77: Cris & Sam
She got lost in that hiccup, that aftershock, gaze fixed on him. Lost, until he brought his knee to the bed and pressed her fingers against his cheeks with much more pressure that she could hope to muster on that ocean of inexpressive bedding, inoffensive, and yet somehow not. She stared at the way his skin went white beneath her touch, like it was something that required understanding. She looked, and she listened, and her fingers stayed there, mid-air once he released them and pulled away to push bottles around and lean on his elbows with that wet voice that sounded like drowning.
And she looked for fucking words, yeah? She did. She looked. But she knew she wouldn't find the right ones. "I don't think I said you couldn't help. I don't think I said that." She reached out cold fingers to touch his shoulder. "I didn't say that. You help. I swear you help." She swallowed dry, and she wondered why her lips were so fucking chapped when there was water to her ears. "But, Cris, I don't want you here so you can save me. I don't want you here so you can fix me. I just want you here because I want you around. Ok? Yeah? That's all, and if I spiral, it's not anything you did. The way I feel right now, I don't know if you can make it better, and you get all fucked up when you can't. And you- You're making it about you again. About you not being able to do what you want to do for me." She shook her head, clarity tangled in her hair. "The only way I can think of to make that stop is to go and come back better, so you don't have to fucking think it's on you."
At least she was calm. In the wake of that white-powder clarity, the mouths overlapping on the people on the maybe-on-television, she was calm. She was trying really fucking hard, so he didn't go off the deep end, bruise himself more, making himself worse.