For Stellar Eclipse, following the prompt "hands":
I've always enjoyed your work, and I'm thankful for all the feedback you've sent my way. Hope you enjoy this one as well.
Their day's worth of battle is done, and there they lie upon the dirt road that they stood back to back upon moments ago, the sky of sunset overhead. And they are down in opposing directions, that he can see spikes of golden hair near his knee, just as black fabric of a rumpled waist cape brushes against his raised elbow. Up above, he sees the streaks of brilliant color slowly but surely take their leave, yielding with stoic grace to the night that must come.
The hand he had rested upon his stomach now shifts, and he takes a moment to remove his glove, allowing the material to flop upon the ground carelessly. He reaches to the side, brushing against the warm surface of the other's shirt until he finds and takes hold of yet another leathery glove. Little effort is needed to slip that find closer, until it hovers over his eyes. Within a moment, the deftly removed covering is dropped upon the ground as well.
The hand he looks upon now is as bare and exposed as his own, vulnerable to his scrutiny. Slowly, he starts to take in every little detail that is presented before him. All throughout, the owner of the hand does not betray any resistance - in fact, he does not show even a sign of acknowledgment for what is happening.
His eyes trace the outline of the hand briefly, taking in the squarish shape as much as the individual digits and their lengths. Then he flips the hand over so he now sees the palm, and upon it the many little lines that cross haphazardly here and there. There is much detail by just a simple glance, and with all this detail is the simplest of messages:
Here I am - all that I am - right here before you.
Now his own fingers move, as he feels each little line upon the palm he continues to hold. He touches the life line, following its path from one end to the other, and takes in all the tiny scratch-like grooves that cross that line almost messily. He touches the head line, then he crosses over to the heart line. Each and every line is traced, explored for where it begins to where it ends. Lines of a fate that remains ambiguous to him, with what little spoken truth his ears have been graced with.
There are things I have done that you know nothing about.
And then he moves on, his fingers landing almost carefully upon a very different sort of texture, there on that palm. Calluses - too many calluses. Marks of years into training, into the taking up of a sword and a legacy, into things that were inevitable, as much as into consequences of decisions. These are marks of the past, of things that once caused pride...and of things that caused nothing but regret and self-loathing - things that should never happen to anyone.
My past is filled with darkness. There are sins there that I can never atone for.
His own hand shifts upward, wrapping over chilled fingers in silent gesture. His action is met by a breathy chuckle, and he pauses, uncertain. The hand he still holds moves at last by its master's will, and fingers snake upward to intertwine with his own. Draped upon one another, the hand he holds remains limp within his own for so brief a moment, and then the index finger straightens suddenly to flick him once on the nose. He blinks, and another breathy chuckle echoes beside him.
You worry too much. You know I trust you like this.
He huffs, sending a hot breath up into both hands. The hand moves again, at last gripping his own with some semblance of force. The two hands clasp in the air, still hovering over his head, and digits press slightly under his major knuckles, the motion repeating over and over again methodically. In silent reply, he shifts to recapture those fingers within the center of his palm, and squeezes back once. The thumb - still out in the open - runs down the length of his own once, at last settling at its base.
Thank you for keeping me warm.
The one he holds slips from his grasp easily, as scraping to his side indicates the other shifting his position. Golden spikes are now within his line of vision, and eyes of blue seem to glow with an emerald tint in this darkened place. He does not see the other's expression, but he feels the hand come to rest upon his cheek. A rough thumb moves, brushing against skin as it drifts upward into his hair. Then it moves back down along the shape of his face; the rest of the fingers move as well, sliding until his chin rests between the index finger and thumb with surprising gentleness.
There is nothing else to read here, for in those few movements, he finds understanding. To the logical mind, it is but a universal gesture with multiple meanings. To the irrational heart, there is only one message here, and he knows what the other says to him...purely...and wholly.
I love you.
Their day's worth of battle is done, and there they lie upon the dirt road that they stood back to back upon moments ago, the sky of sunset overhead. And they are down in opposing directions, that he can see bronze locks peeking subtly by their tips at the edge of his knee, just as the metal teeth of a long zipper graze the sleeve over his arm. Up above, he sees the dark purple and black that swirls impatiently, pushing against sluggish streaks of red and orange for its rightful time out in the open.
There is the barest rustling of cloth, and in a moment there is a muted "poof" of something soft landing upon the ground. Then he feels a hand fall upon his own, the warmth passing through the glove's thin material to reach the hand it sheathes. He feels a tug, and he obliges, allowing his hand to be stretched and held near full extension. The momentary position is admittedly uncomfortable, even as he feels the glove slip off his captured hand. Leather teases his fingers for a brief second, and the next time he feels the hand on his, the warmth is more direct, and he welcomes it.
He feels the other's scrutiny, studying the back of his hand with such sincerity, one would think it were a historical artifact of power. At last, his arm is turned around - much to his relief - and again he feels that quiet gaze now falling upon his palm. The gaze of one who has seen much already, but will never tire of seeing. The gaze he knows is taking sincere effort to not miss a single thing, that speaks of a singular, honest intention.
I want to acknowledge you, for all that you are.
The warm fingers on his are moving, and he feels them brush over his palm. In his mind, he gives names to each line he feels the other's touch upon, and he wonders what the other is trying to find out of them; neither of the warriors are palmists - if it were not for passing acquaintances, perhaps they would never have learned how those lines actually had names. Still are those fingers exploring over and over, refusing to let up for a single second in their earnestness.
There is so much you have yet to speak of, and I want to be the one who hears every word.
And then he feels those fingers touch the rest of his palm, roaming over parts that are rough and hardened from learning and practice with weaponry. He had earned many of those experiences the hard way - in ways he would have preferred to live life not knowing about. There were marks there, on that palm that the other studies so, that were branded in shame - too many things he failed to do, and too many wrong choices. Too many friends that were sacrificed for all those...
The other hand moves, fingers sliding over the top of his own, before he at last finds his knuckles encased in a comforting hold. He feels them as well - the other's hand, and the calluses that are upon it. They are there, brushing against his skin, so intentional in both messages - direct as well as indirect:
Too many things have happened, even before we met in this place. I am as much a sinner as you are.
A careless chuckle escapes him at last, and the hand pauses its administration. In that moment, he feels the hesitation within the hand that still does not let him go. He moves now, shifting to realign his fingers with the other's, and each digit fits into a designated groove like a puzzle piece to its mate. For a little while, he keeps his hand lax in the other's, awaiting any further intention - nothing happens, the other still pausing with such uncertainty.
Amused at how the other is - how he is able to predict this reaction so easily now - he is once more the first the move, and as his finger straightens, he finds and makes contact with the other's nose. Surprise seems to radiate from the other's very person, and this time, nothing stops him from chuckling again. At last, the other answers with a quiet huff, and a warm wave of air caresses his fingers in a fleeting second.
I don't worry enough. I know how fragile trust can truly be - it's only a matter of time before I break it.
If there is something he has - something that they both share time and time again - it is this self-deprecation. He sees again why he needs the other about him, and why the other needs him just as much - they need each other to remind them that they are not as fallen as they see themselves. They mirror each other perhaps a little too well, and as he reads those familiar actions, he responds by taking hold at last, squeezing gently in hope of reassurance.
Again and again, he presses his fingers into the other's hand, sending the same reassurance over and over. At last - at long last - he gets his answer from the other. Movement resumes, and he finds four of his fingers encased in a warm hold. Still does his thumb remain in the open, and now it feels cold in comparison; he makes for it by rubbing against the warm digit directly above. He finds the base - where the knuckle is - and stays there.
He likes to think, in a strange way, that their hands are embracing as a substitute - a symbolic action momentarily denied to their bodies: one is wrapped so protectively and possessively around the other, speaking of so much need...and so much gratitude.
Thank you for keeping me close.
Now he shifts more bodily, assuming a semi-supine position as he turns his upper torso toward the other. His hand shifts - is allowed to - and he takes it back. As he props himself upon his elbow, he gazes down at the one still lying there beside him, and he takes in once more - in those unguarded eyes - the soft blue light that seeps through unexplainable gray shadow. He is curious about the facial expression that he is unable to truly see - their place a little too dark for anything clear - but there is no sign of resistance as he reaches forward once more.
The other's cheek radiates a warmth rivaling that of his hands, and he lets himself linger there, playing with the smoother skin on this area. He reacquaints himself with features he knows by heart - the cheekbone the first and easiest to find; the curve that is the rim of an eye socket, just the barest distance above. His exploration slips over the hairline that is even further up, and then he moves downward once more, the rest of his fingers soon to follow his thumb's lead. He traces the angled line that is the other's jawbone, and reaches at last the place he knows most - favors the most.
Index finger propping the underside of the chin, and the thumb placed reverently under the lower lip. It is a move that he has used - and has been on the receiving end of - with enough frequency to know in depth. With an assertive following move, it would guide the whole head to tilt upward. Without that move, it is but a greeting. Either way, it is an acknowledgment - it is an announcement of seeing the other, and wanting the other to see him just as much.
It is a gesture that seeks to be looked upon with the same devotion that has always been, and as he continues to stare into blue with gray tint, he feels he could stay like this forever.
At last, the light is cut off as eyelids slide over those bright orbs, and his hand is caught up once more by the other's. The hand that holds his keeps it close, and it is drawn closer still. He feels pressed upon his knuckles first the lips, then the tip of the nose he had played with but a moment ago. The warmth increases as a soft exhalation leaves the depths of the one who holds his hand with such fondness, and in that moment, he gets his answer.
An answer that is his for beholding, for interpreting, for receiving...all his, and his alone.
I love you, too.