Summary: It became something that they couldn’t avoid — letting their guard down against their will.
Notes: A series of multi-genre ficlets centered on the growing bond of a mismatched crime-fighting duo. Initiated on 23 January 2014.
[Written on 27/5/2014; 507 words]
For the first time ever, he notices his hands.
Sandor slowly approaches the slouched figure of his dozing companion from behind, copper-brazen eyes studying the form of his hands with a renewed curiosity. He furtively edges forward, sidling right next to him as he gently rests his own fingers upon the glossy surface of the wooden desk.
His own gnarled, calloused, worn-out fingers… inches apart from his.
He stares, fixated, entranced, at the shape, the outline, the texture of Zion’s hands. His eyes consume their detail, marvelling at the surreal exquisiteness that envelops them. They appear to glow beneath the feeble light of Zion’s desk-lamp, shedding clarity upon the true extent of the sanctity of his complexion — a seamless expanse from which remnants of scars have long faded. Fair and radiant, though hardly delicate at all — the sturdiness of his fingers holds the beauty in place, surrounding it with an adequate touch of masculinity.
His eyes drift to the watch that encircles Zion’s left wrist — he’s wearing his black one today, sleek and lined with silver rims. Its dark colours enhance the illusive brightness of his skin.
Sometimes, he wonders if it’s even possible to have such good skin.
He looks back at his own hand, positioned rather closely next to Zion’s limp arm. For once, he is careful not to stir him from slumber, wanting to drag the moment on for as long as he can. He stares at their hands, taking in the vast difference between them…
And suddenly, a spark of longing darts through his nerves.
A longing to touch, to feel, to reach forward and grasp…
Just inches apart.
In another world, he reaches out, fingers clasping firmly around the hand of the friend he’s lived with for at least a year. He imagines caressing it, tracing his thumb over its smoothness, leaving imperceptible marks of his contact all over his skin. He imagines slipping his fingers through the crevices and binding his hand in place, allowing its warmth to seep into his own skin, his own tainted skin…
Reality crashes forth and Sandor stares at his hand, frozen stiff in its static position. He forces the yearning back into oblivion, and bars the electricity buzzing through his fingers.
“H-huh?” Sandor snaps his head to look at his now awakened companion, feigning innocence. “U-uh… what’s up?”
“What were you… agh….,” Zion lifts his forehead from the table, vision obscure as grogginess weighs down his motions. “What were you… do… ing… ”
“H-hey, hey…” At once, Sandor slings an arm around the brunet’s shoulders, hoisting him up… and hoping to evade the subject. “Heesh, Zee… you should really go to bed earlier or something, I mean, you look even worse than a zombie grandma.” He snickers.
Zion grunts irritably in response but leans on Sandor’s weight anyway, allowing the taller boy guide him across the room.
He doesn’t notice at all when Sandor lightly grasps his hand on the way — stroking it a while before letting go again.