In Which I Could Easily Fall Over And Die But He's There To Support Me
Holding hands with Soul was never pleasant.
It usually happened after a long battles where we were just exhausted and couldn't walk straight without the other by their side. Walking back to our apartment or hotel or even park bench, always ended up in a blur of spinning around the block looking for somewhere to collapse and take a breather.
It wasn't romantic what so ever.
We would be drenched in sweat and covered in dirt, sometimes even blood dripping down our arms, but his hand would always grasp mine tightly. His fingers wouldn't be entangled with mine more like 'your lucky I don't have enough energy to grab your wrist' hand holding. I never questioned and he wouldn't say, we had a silent agreement on which lines we could cross and which ones we avoided.
Even though my heart didn't flutter, there was something about the pounding blood in my arms that made me feel safe.
And today wasn't an exception.
"Soul," I spitted, barely managing to say.
He grunted.
"I can't feel my hand," I said, trying to wiggle my hand from his grasp.
He just held it tighter refusing to look at me.
"Please," I cried, shaking his shoulder.
We probably looked drunk. I couldn't think straight with the adrenaline still pumping through my head.
He stopped walking and slowly let go of my hand letting just our fingertips touch.
I refuse.
Refuse.
No.
Nope.
I quickly grabbed a hold of his hand tightly and started walking again, ignoring what had just happened.
I could feel his low chuckle through my arm and I frowned.