Re: Venetian penthouse: Sam & Cris
"Yeah." It was hard. He didn't know how it coulda been anything different, given the circumstances. And, regardless of the face worn, it should always be hard to watch something like that. The fact that Micah looked like Sam just made it hit that much harder. And maybe that was unfair. Maybe everyone should matter the same. But that wasn't how people were, least of all Cris.—Everyone mattered, sure, but some more than others. It was like he'd said to Neil that one time, what he'd been arguing about. He had a place in Sam's life and she had one in his, and see fond, familiar features waxy, bloodless, skull blitzed and burst like some swollen, rotten fruit—to see all that, even knowing it wasn't actually her—yeah, it was hard. It got close, uncomfortable, itching, to that edge Cris didn't want to go off of, the cliff-face he'd fallen over and scaled back up before, thorny, lined with devil's clubs and worn by Sisyphus and his rock.—Cris cleared his throat of an involuntary cropping chalk of tears. His earnestness met hers. "Yo sabía que era falsa, ...pero se veía real. ¿Cómo es ese dicho...? Ver para creer. Se parecía a ti, mami, ...con toda clase de detalles. Y the gun—le dije donde..."
He left it.
Cris laced a string of kisses, careful, from Sam's ear, down the gentle curve of her jaw, when her voice went throaty. He knew she didn't mean it—and if she did, nothing was gonna happen. He wouldn't let it, because of the sedatives that tatted thick in her blood, yeah, but because that heart, carved out of its body, was right out there. But he liked the pitch of her words all the same, and the lips that skimming skin were affectionate, with a thin scrape of teeth kept in check.
He snorted, another scoff brought with mild amusement, as Sam showed teeth, youth, and a gap against his shoulder. All cling, huh? He squeezed her in his arms, curled inward and nuzzled his nose in beneath her chin, demonstrative and all cling. "Cállate," he told her throat just before he pulled back, the topic of Iris looming large.
Maybe she did have him figured out. It didn't matter. Cris knew he wasn't complicated. He didn't hide how he felt about much of anything. And she was right. He didn't like her sister. The woman was selfish and narcissistic in a way that reminded him of Elena—it was martyr-soft, made worse somehow now that she'd jumped time or whatever it was, and come back as someone thinking they could talk to Cris like she did, too familiar, too critical, like she was trying to banter, but pushing too hard, until he hung up on her.—He listened to Sam, to the telltale pause that strung out over seconds after 'probably that fucker she was seeing,' and he played idly with the floating reeds of black hair in the water.
The up and down of her shoulders against his chest brought his eyes back up. His jaw went tight, like he was thinking about Louis, about Iris hiding from someone, about how the last person she'd been with had been Ian...
"You don't gotta explain, hm? Why her? I get it. You spend the time reassurin' her? 'Cause you do that, mami." Cris blinked black. "I called her. I tell you that? No. Ella telefoneara. No importa. Right after—you and me fought. She got pissy 'cause I didn't go after Louis and she kept pausin', like she wanted me to hear— como si ella hubiera querido... she's older. She's got a kid. She's a nurse. Whatever. Me resulta muy pesada."