Re: Venetian penthouse: Sam & Cris
Whatever had happened in Cris' life, he'd never broke. He reacted, sure. He dragged his baggage along with him like everyone else and, okay, maybe it added weight to him, some headshrinker who called that wouldn't be wrong. He got sad, he got angry, sí, sí, he was nothing but human—but, he'd never done what his dad did, what Sofia did. It wasn't that the thought had never crossed his mind—it had—he just had enough will, hard earned and hard kept, to not go through with it. And, of course, once Teresa was around, it just wasn't an option, if it ever was. So, yeah, no, he didn't break. Not like that. But, not an hour out of the sun, the blood congealed tacky on his shoes, pants, and shirt,—it was still raw, and if he sounded devastated, it was because he was. How could he not be?
He'd put his fingers to Micah's head. Here.
Cris didn't try to stop Sam when she turned. Her tears on his fingertips, and he looked over her head at Abuelita and her enfadado cant of hip. He was a mess and maybe she wouldn't listen, but he would have argued with Sam, even now, until his voice was scratched and lost—this wasn't a prison. He wouldn't let it be.
"No hay más sedantes." Said just as Sam rolled to face him, slow, and his eyes dropped from the old woman to the girl's face in front of him. Alive, blue gaze tracing over him with concern, as she trembled again. Her fingers on his jaw, and Cris wrapped his arms around her, closing the little space between them. The words she said were simple, obvious, but the pressure of her touch, her lips on his cheek, and the true Jersey slant of her voice helped. They were grounding even.—Cris would feel bad in a minute. In a matter of seconds maybe, when he realized she was reassuring him when her brother's heart was out in the other room in a box. But for that brief blessing of obliviousness, he just felt how close she was, how warm.
He shifted his head on the pillow to press his forehead to hers. There was no stench of gunpowder and cordite clinging to him, not even the mint of blood. He was just limn of sweat and the usual petitgrain, thyme, neroli dilution of cologne. He let himself smile something small.
"You haven't called me papi once, impostora." He cleared his throat of salt. He pulled back enough to tap Sam under the chin, hand up between them, reassurance in the touch, a thing somehow made intimate. It fell away quick, and his fingers wound in her hair behind her ear. "Demuéstralo."
It was distraction, and they both knew it. Just for a second. Just for a second, the only heart he wanted to think about was the one that beat beneath Sam's breastbone.