Notes:

So... I wanted to experiment with this chapter. Hope you like it.

Chapter Text

Hands are things that usually say more than words if you really look at them. Sometimes hands don't have a specific place to be. They feel look odd in jeans pockets, but warm in hoodies. The way they wave as the owner speaks can say a lot about the sincerity or excitement about the subject. If the gestures are big, so is the meaning behind them.

Some hands are just clumsy and big, so they are used to making small and precise movements, being told since childhood to be careful and to avoid breaking things. Big hands are usually kept in pockets, or clasped together to stop abruptness. If the gestures are meticulously calculated, they can be helpful when cooking or disposing of jars on shelves.

Big hands required sharp eyes.

Small hands with long slim fingers are perfect for holding champagne glasses. They look elegant and the fine traces exposes tenderness even when they don't mean to. Small hands fidget nervously faster than other hands, making it hard to keep track of the invisible patterns they draw on the napkins.

Fingernails usually kept short were what caught his attention first. Most of the time they had a whimsical color thanks to Girls' Night, but at that moment they were polished, carefully adorned with a white stripe on the edges. A colorful bracelet clinked every time the hand moved and the noise was so entrancing that it required a great effort to pay attention to anything else.

Fingers played with long pink hair as they were guided to the right table. They had waited a long time to get that table. He didn't mind waiting for he didn't want any other. When the slim fingers stopped brushing the hair and closed into a heartfelt fist over her chest, he knew he had impressed her.

Her hands touched the tree trunk right before taking the seat that he was holding for her. She gave that laughter he liked, with that little noise that he still had to decipher how it was done. Her blue dress seemed to contrast perfectly with the outdoor dinner he had planned.

Hands picked up the water glass, right before picking up the champagne. She knew exactly which silverware to use for salad. Hands touched her hair again, tucking it behind her ears and brushing the bangs out of her eyes.

He watched her when they finished the salad and she rested her hands across the table, palms turned upright, as if ready to start a meditation under the moonlight. Something inside him screamed to reach out and take those hands in his.

But his hands were too big. They looked like they didn't fit together. If he reached out, his hands would most likely cover hers entirely and he would miss the sight of them. His calloused fingers would brush against hers and she'd notice they were rough from adjusting the car engine all day long.

His hands fit perfectly on wheels, though. The gears, the speed, the wind. Cars - The Dune Huggy - were precise, mechanical things that could be expected to always act the same way when he drove them, either gaining speed or slowing down. Cars wouldn't care if scarred skin felt bumpy and they would still work the same way if he held the wheel tighter. Through nervous and relieved gasps from the queen, he had managed to drive to the new restaurant by the lagoon.

Still, his hands were eager to squeeze hers in gratitude. He didn't know how else to thank her, but to take her out to dinner.

He gave up trying to search for any clue of right doings in her eyes. They seemed to be eternally happy. He could pinpoint when they went from happy to even more pleased, just the way they were doing at the moment she set her eyes on their table under the lemon tree.

So he searched for any indication of her thoughts in her hands. The way she squeezed her dress in excitement, the way she gave one happy clap when the lanterns lightened up and the sky darkened.

He felt incredibly pleased to be able to make her act like that, almost like a child when walking into a water park for the first time.

It was when he realized she wasn't delighted with the food, or with the amount of champagne that was continuously being poured into her glass. She was happy because she could dine with her feet buried in the sand, her toes drawing small circles under the table so discreetly that he only noticed what she was doing because her anklet was making a clicking sound.

She was radiant with the colors of the lanterns and the lemons; with the way the orange sky faded on the horizon, revealing the purple and the stars above their heads. She contemplated the sound of the water as the waves broke down in white bubbles only a few meters away.

He watched the way she walked next to him when they had finished dinner and decided to stroll by the water.

Her hands had gone behind her, clasped on her back as she let the warm water wet her feet. He wanted to warn her that jellyfish usually showed up at the shore at night and they burned quite painfully, but she looked so happy he let it go.

For a second he thought they had walked far around the lagoon. A tree was full of birds perched on the branches, curled down, and sleeping soundly.

They were in silence for more than an hour and it was so deliciously joyful to feel free from the obligation of speech. They could stay right there having their individual experiences, but enjoying them together.

A few instruments played a rock ballad in a gathering of trolls around a fire. He liked that one. It reminded him of when he worked with his earplugs on so he wouldn't need to socialize. She turned around with a big grin, placing her hands on his shoulders, swinging softly with the beat. It took him a while to understand that she wanted to dance. The music was faint and they were in the middle of nowhere.

But she looked so lovely, with her eyes closed, moving around lazily, letting the song overflow her. Her tiny hands burned his shoulders, reminding him that he still hadn't moved. Awkwardly, he moved back and forth, not knowing what he was doing, but just following her not to ruin the mood.

She must have realized he was uncomfortable because she offered him a small smile and stopped dancing. He noticed how her nail polish seemed to be the same color as her lip gloss. He hadn't realized she was wearing lipgloss until that moment. She turned her back to him and resumed her walk along the shore, leaving him a few steps behind.

He wondered if he should tell her that he wanted to understand what was happening. How was it possible that their hearts would just nod agreeably to one another when his lips couldn't mutter a single word to explain what it was? At that moment he could believe that it was the big L that was coming up in a swelling feeling that almost drowned him in helpless whims.

The impossibility of their differences coexisting, in the long run, made the agitation subside. He was a good mathematician, he knew that positive and negative numbers reduced themselves to zero, eventually. They were too different to get along. If that intriguing feeling she had towards him faded, if that exciting rush of passion left, there would be nothing to hold them together.

Words escaped him like fish through nets. Somehow, he needed her closer, even if it was for a few minutes of his day, just to breathe life into his lips and he couldn't think of words to say it in a way that didn't sound plain weird.

Her hands unclasped and fell on her sides. Her steps slowed down, allowing him to catch up with her. The back of her middle finger almost imperceptibly brushed against his. Tentatively, he touched his small finger with her pinky. His heart almost skipped a beat when she hooked them playfully, giving him the boldness he needed to intertwine their hands firmly together.

In public.

His hands were so big next to hers. And yet, they fit perfectly.