Prompt 57: Hands
Lewis really considered himself a romantic at heart. He always loved bright, colorful things. He looked at things in a more artistic kind of way, like how a cloud would look so much prettier if angled this way, or wouldn't that house seem cozier if it was a darker color?
But the icing on the cake really was that he was in love. And said love had helped him to be much more thoughtful about various things. He could take Wilbur and break apart the so many different things he loved about him. Sometimes when on his own, bored, he'd idly write lists of what they were. Often times he even drew pictures.
The vibrant amber shade of his softly-shaped eyes, his dark hair that was always so smooth between his fingers, his lean, agile figure,
But more than anything, Lewis loved his hands. He sometimes joked to himself that he could quite possibly be more in love with Wilbur's hands than Wilbur himself, but that was, of course, impossible.
But oh, did he adore them. How surprisingly soft they were when touching his face, how big they were compared to his own when the two intertwined their fingers together, how intense and quick Wilbur ran them all over his body, a flush always created in their wake. Everything.
He once shared with Wilbur that he'd always found his hands to be his best feature. But the older boy had laughed. "They're the same as anyone else's hands, Lewis."
Lewis smiled, but firmly disagreed. They weren't the same. They were his. Wilbur's. And no one else's would ever fit so well with his own ever again.