Day 1 : Holding Hands
Rating: K+
It's cold.
Under all of my layers, it is cold. The wind is gentle, as gentle as it could be as it crawled through the shutters and under my sleeves, onto the back of my neck.
It's cold and the hairs on my arm are standing up.
I cough into my sleeve, wincing at the clot forming in my throat. The cold felt like fire on my skin, and I wanted nothing more than to leave, to go to my own room and hide beneath warm blankets and plush pillows.
But now, I wait.
He looks pained.
He winces in his sleep, and his breathe comes out in short breathes and tiny, whimpers. There are tears that run down his cheek and a broken sob in his throat that never fully lets free.
It is for his hand that I reach.
It is hard and blistered, cold, so very cold to touch, and I wonder what that must say about him.
Judal stills, if just for a moment. His face relaxes and his hand is warm around mine, his fingers entwining together with my own. My heart jumps and I exhale sharply, eyes widening.
A moment passes, and then another, before I let myself relax. I give a small smile and rub my thumb along the tip of his pinky finger, and his hand clasps around mine.
I gasp, and my eyes flicker to his; they were small, squinty little things, lined too deeply with kohl and insomnia. And when they open, they look right at me, right past me. For a bare second, his eyes look soft, weak, like a child's. His bottom lip quivers and his breathing halts as he looks at me (he was looking through me).
And then his eyes harden into a glare and his jaw snaps shut. He rips his hand from mine and sits up in a swift motion, his face suddenly far too close to mine.
"Don't touch me, hag."
His voice is dripping with venom, and my mouth drops open, to tell him I'm not a hag, to tell that I'm young and beautiful, to tell him that he should pick me. But no words come out and a smirk touches his lips as he stands up and leaves.
And when he is gone, I am left where I was, a dying whine on my lips and tears pricking my eyes.
