1Digging into the Youth that is You
Feeling started there, at the reclining peak of where nose met brow, and it flew up to the itching hairline, the shuddering segment against skin.
The arch of the basin stared back, and he shifted against the towel rail, hardly gasping when it caused his second skin to move. Heat pressed itself against the over-warm fibers of hair that snaked over his own. The gentle lift of it scratching the skin of his neck. Too coarse to ever be real.
At least, while it lasted, the illusion of it held a pretty space in his heart. Nothing else worked. Had ever worked.
He didn't hear the drop of her keys when it crawled past five, the second hand tumbling over twelve. Didn't hear the whisper of her sigh, while he curled against the cheap plaster.
The trails had since dried against his skin, and faintly, had started to sting. His hands remained still; two, limp creatures. They had thought that freedom could be discovered in the escape of liquid lullabies. Had once torn through keys that had sat under a very different arch.
But this. This, this thing that stretched across the lips, encasing the tendons that stretched out, the veins who wrapped their discoloured fingers, over ribs of protruding skin. Raking against the flesh that hid under those swells, and leaving them a blossoming scarlet. The throbbing that grew louder with each moment constrained under that cheap, ceramic mask. The device that gave personhood, a man a body, a heart a soul. Leaving only the unfeeling creature, which received nothing and no-one.
But underneath, underneath, craved that desperate feeling. The one which spindled against his chest, that tried to breathe when all he could do was suffocate it. Because it wasn't for him. Not for this thing that had taken over his brow, seeped into his skull, and stretched thin the hair, the real hair, that sought for light, underneath.
But underneath. Underneath… Yearned.
A rapid pulsation. A hundred flutters of hope. A dialect where feeling was spoken in quick, unrelenting breaths. The endless hunger that breathed between them.
The push-push of his breaths was broken, when her whisper of two pastel socks slipped in front of him.
"Oh baby,"
The socks disappeared into a patch of crosshatched denim, a patch lighter than the rest.
"Baby,"
The winter-bitten fingers pressed, and up his head went. The croon of her whispering into his torso, the cherished rub of her nose against the raised straggle of skin under his chin, that shook horripilation down his chest, tightened skin, and kicked that wounded beast of a heart into gear.
"…have never have left you alone," her scuffed words gave all the compassion that wasn't offered in the breath washing his breastbone.
A clamp around his chords, and his keys had been silenced – until a shaky limb dared to sooth the work-raised fuzz that frizzed against his neck, a gesture that had never failed to calm them both. A sigh left her, and she gently tilted her head, at last, giving her gaze to him.
Filled with the unbearable sensation of love.
Their gazes stayed, as the dipping sun left a beam of dwindling light onto the tiles, making the toilet glow.
Eventually, her hand slipped into his. This he knew.
Then her body was afloat, the pressing warmth whisked away as her fingers drifted to the basin. The layer of soap seeping into them.
"Beans or greens tonight?" her voice fluttered over, bringing back the warmth.
"Greens." he managed.
She nodded, holding a white square. Rolling it over in her hands. The hiss as steam rose under the gentle movement of her fingers, rolling, rubbing, soothing the creases of it, hidden in the cupped basin.
A soft squirt, the claggy sound of liquid running against the towel, the pressure of her fingers moving it around. The hum of acknowledgement.
"You think we'd want the soy sauce, or the sticky chicken one, baby?"
It took another moment, when she padded to him once again, and knelt, that he could find the right word.
"Sticky."
A tilt of the head, her smile.
He was getting good at this game.
"Grill or BBQ?"
"BBQ. Obviously," his breath came out in a whoosh.
Her smile widened, and she shook her head, hand running over the leg of her jean.
"You ready?"
Erik let his eyelashes drift shut, the whisper of them catching against aching skin. The releasing, clenching and unclenching fingers, tight and wound, until her gentle, cool fingers raised them. A kiss placed against every third knuckle.
A sigh.
"Ready."
He could feel the breath of her, yet another caress against his lips, and his gasp catching when pressure landed. Gasping as if it was the first time hands pressed against such flesh, the unlovable, the unneeded swirls of skin, the lips that never lived until –
Until hers.
Gasping as if the hundreds, the thousands of caresses, were not so easily counted.
"Breathe," her croon was loving, breaking. The hands slipped away, and placed themselves again, a cooling, cool cream, a new barrier between him pressing his lips against her palms. Faint eucalyptus, and that fainter smell of her.
"You're doing so well." her murmur was interlaced with apology as cream ran, the kissing dance of fingertips against skin, a relief to the burn that spread to the crown of his forehead, to the curving arc of his jaw.
A little noise left, as surrender worked against his mouth.
"We've got this." She lifted her fingers away slowly, retreating while Erik lay his head back on the wall.
The hiss as she rubbed off the excess, water gushing around the drain.
"Sloppy joe or Hawaiian?"
The crick of a cap, another squirt, the soft shurk of foam.
"Sloppy."
"Good choice."
The thud of two knees, and her displacement of air.
"Pina colada or margarita?"
His snort came uninvited.
Her answering laugh was breathy.
"Neither," after a moment's silence, she concluded.
"Port." he uttered.
Another breath and Christine dropped two fingers against his palm.
"No."
"Ah," her sigh of knowledge, encasing that small but accepting word.
"We'll do that last," her request left him silent.
A third finger was added.
"Yes."
"Okay. We'll do that then." she murmured, and rose again.
His eyes whipped open as Christine pulled open the draw, and withdrew the clippers.
"Now, or later?"
"Now."
Nodding, the cable was plugged in. Only the persistent shudder-whirr existed for a while. Their breathing grazed the air.
Carefully, Christine leant closer, holding an encouraging look with him, allowing him a chance to back out, to say no.
He said nothing, and tilted his chin up infinitesimally. Eyes meeting hers.
A slight smile, and Christine lowered the clippers, tiny pincers scraping against his chin. The press of her hand holding one side of his head, unflinching as they pressed against the coarse, unbreakable hairs that covered his scalp.
The process repeated, running closer and closer to the abnormalities which bloomed down the contorted part of his face, but lifting away – as Christine concentrated idly on freeing him of the prickly, five o'clock shadow.
Eventually, with a quick, flickering assessment, she clicked off the clippers, half smiling.
"Better?"
Without needing to, his fingers ran against his throat, travelling to the tip of his chin, and revelling in the skin found there. Perhaps the one space rewritten by memories.
A word balanced in Christine's expression, mouth open but unable to say, but as she nestled her lips sweetly against his, he wondered if he knew.
Two fingers pattered against his hand.
Their silence, questioning.
He could say no. But the pull of her. The wondrous, pleasurable softness of her. Want spread needily through him.
Perhaps. Perhaps.
He nodded, eyes focusing on the grout that ran through the tiles.
"Carbs or protein?" a hand rested on his shoulder, a squeeze bringing his attention up.
"Protein." his voice responded, curling as she tugged at the buttons of his shirt. Popping each one, and moving down to the next.
He allowed the shirt to be slipped from his arms, the cuff-links long forgotten.
She went to reach for his belt – but a steadying grip drew away her hand. The curve of his lips when he went for the hair, hands reaching for her messy half-done pony tail. Releasing the unyielding tendrils to the languid care of his fingers, and unwinding when he sees her eyes slide shut with pleasure.
Blinking open, Christine gives him an equally languid smile.
She reattempts the belt, and he lets her slide it away, the flicking of the belt buckle when it sits too near his thigh. His knees part and she pulls herself closer, allowing him to pluck the ribbon of her strap, and the floating sensation as it soon whispers against her bra, and over, onto the floor.
Long socks are pulled from his feet, the sound of her giggle as Erik pretends that he doesn't find himself ever slightly so ticklish.
His cool hands are sliding down her jeans, the faint pressure holding his trousers tighter something to ignore when her gasp is so much more, when he digs his fingers into the belt-loops and tucks her even closer to him. Her smile is more a grin. Something toothy, and childish and erotically innocent.
And then, she's allowing him to grasp her hands, rising together in that fluid motion, and practically stumbling into the shower.
Her gasp is swallowed by the water, and with a push, the shower door slides shut.
Inside, steam cloaked them, a rosemary shampoo that wasn't his. He knew the artificial way the hair clung to his head, the oil dripping off and the steam, was destroying a masterpiece. A fakery.
But she didn't look up. Not at that – at least. Because then, her fingers were trailing, counting. They counted together. And it wasn't fear that made those simple tears slip again. No. It was that needling sensation of his chest that he couldn't quite breathe through. It was that simple look in her eyes that explained everything and nothing. Of why, she didn't ask, and would simply stand, naked, and told him with tears that she knew, too. And she pressed closer to him, the wrapping of souls, and wrapping of tears that blew the edge all away.
In that steam, they pressed together, holding each other.
Sighing as one.
Later, there is steam, wafting from the bathroom to the crowded colours of her bed. Not the simple blues and browns he'd last seen here, but the swirls of a sunrise. A dawn, and two pink birds soaring over the sun.
Then, he laid there, as a patch of skin loosed two seeping drops. They disappeared down the side of his chest. Sinking into the duvet below.
"Rose or red?"
"White."
Her laugh, still breathy – but lighter, relieved – retreated once more. Only to return and plunk down a bottle.
"Move."
Grudgingly, he shuffled, a smile playing at his lips.
"Hogger."
She didn't mean it. Even as she propped herself on one elbow, a streaking drop crossing the curve and dip of the valley between her breasts. The eyebrow raise, as her eyes drew love across his chest, and circled him, back up to his lips, and slowly, to his hairline.
Her fingers drew against him, the canvas with too many stripes of paint. Not unwritten. Not unknown to man.
But yet, she still found places to love.
Her fingers gradually circled a nipple, but not enough to tease, before they drew a swirl up his throat, and allowed his lips to pillow them in a kiss. They rested there, savouring the exhale from his shallow nose. From there, they separated. Parallel, one rose against the struggles of flesh, and the other travelled over unblemished skin. Both met in the centre of his forehead. And here, her lips pressed.
This time, no question arose, and her lips pressed again, tenderly to the tip of his hairline.
A sigh.
And then a gentle weave of fingers through the newly growing tufts, that had been born into winter-grey.
"They're beautiful. Ange," her breath hushed, an eternal praise that never seemed to ring true enough.
He says nothing.
"One day, we'll see a whole new world." Another caress that let him shudder, down to the curl of his toes, the press of wrinkled skin at the corners of his eyes, "One day, you'll see the beauty too."
He says nothing, but smiles.
There was nothing more beautiful than her warmth.
But one day, he could hope the fear felt less than the world outside.
I found that I was really craving some comfort. And this guy has been living in my head all week, giving my conversations at all times of the day. I had to give Erik some credit. Credit, where credit's due.
Also. I feel proud that this is truly a hurt/comfort fic, that doesn't have a dark twist! I hope it's one that people can come back to, just when they need something like this. I've never read something like this scenario before, but what actually made me crave this was the phic, After The Storm! (an incredibly amazing phic by mildlyholmes – so please read!). T0T if I could write as well as them one day, I'll be over the moon. I just felt Christine and Erik's interactions flow with a spark, a natural, electric flow that makes me want to laugh and cry with joy, and I wanted to see if I could work on some elements in this to see if I could push my skills further!
If you enjoyed, a little comment would really help! But feel free just to enjoy too XD It's just lovely to be able to post a piece (I may have kept in the darkness of my drafts if I have any sense) while I'm proud and it hasn't seen the light of day yet.
I'm putting it as an M because people are nakey nakey :') Still, I think it'd be a hard T – if you squint ? I don't know.
Ha.
Anyway! (for those of you who are interested, I am working on a draft for Chapt 35 for Falling Petals, so don't worry ;) I'm not intending to go AWOL).
Have a great – month? Start of the year? Life during these trying times? Take your pick!
Your humble authoress,
Enigma.