Lawrence's Hands

by technical-direction

Kutner's lover ponders his hands very intimately. It's a bit short, but there's a lot of time invested into writing it. Written in second person present tense.

[Insert the inevitable disclaimer that Lawrence Kutner does not belong to me, including his hands]

And before you become confused, this is written in second person. You are about to read this.

You stare into the hand before you as amazed as always. His hand is a little colder than usual for being wrapped around a cool water bottle he got you from the fridge. He'd handed it to you with a grin only a half a minute prior. "Milady," he'd said with that smile. He'd always mixed sweet and corny into a brand of eclecticism that made your heart flutter. He is your favorite dork.

The hand is almost the color of cinnamon, almost the color of graham. The color of his flesh is quiet and subdued, like the parakeet in the black iron cage of your old grandmother's foyer. The color is loud and attention-seeking like a sheet of construction paper amongst the binders of the middle-schoolers within the classroom where you teach. His hand appears as if it should smell of curry or nutmeg or cloves.

You press your own hand into his and feel the smooth edges of his fingers. His hands are dry and you know it is from over washing. You recall the way they can feel like cashmere, like they did when you were on vacation. You recall the way his hands had felt when they were pressed into the small of your back early that spring in Barbados. His calluses had been scrubbed away by the sand and softened from the sun block applications. The entire trip he'd smelled of coconut and oranges.

You take the hand that is in yours and bring it slowly to your nose, suddenly aware, suddenly aroused when the back of his hand grazes carelessly across your mouth. You close your eyes and breathe in deeply, part of you searching for that tropical scent, part of you disappointed that you can't find it. The aroma of his hand is thicker than you anticipated and you find yourself bathing in it, almost drowning. He hated the vanilla-scented soap that was by the sink in the bathroom. You remember the day he told you, "It smells nice; I just don't want to smell like a candle when I go to work." You'd laughed at him and bought a bar of unscented soap, that you think really just smells like whatever factory in which it was made. He used the bar most often, but occasionally you caught him dipping his hand in your vanilla soap.

"You caught me." He whispered then.

You looked up at him, breaking your concentration. Words ran through your lips quite quickly, and you spoke them with little time to think. "Do you not realize how beautiful you are?"