Samekichi is sandpaper against her skin, needles in her mouth, but there is a softness in every bite. Like he's wrapped himself in cotton balls, bubble wrap, slow and careful movements when they touch. Wada can feel his fear, the hesitancy in his hands, scared to move too fast or too hard. Cartilage and teeth were not made for comfort, but he tries so hard, forces himself to be softer, softer. Like the beds of sand that lie right before the shore, the tickling feathers of seaweed.
Wadanohara kisses his cheek, feels his cool skin in her hands. She cups his face and holds it, just looking at him. He only has one eye now, but he's the same as he's always been, the same soul that she reached out to all those years ago. Her familiar. Her Samekichi.
The bed is like a nest, and they sink deeper into its quicksand blankets, burrowing into its softness, trying to make it their own. Samekichi holds her, Wadanohara holds him, and they lay there, quiet, cotton balls. They are like snails, moving an inch in an hour, sliding ever so carefully down the side of the hourglass, but that is fine. This is how she likes it. To lie in his arms and let the world pass them by. They have forever, now, and she's not letting a moment of it slip away.