Darling, you're the one I want
Flora settles more fully against him as he shifts beside her, her fingers sliding easily between his the moment his hand finds hers, the fit of it so natural she doesn’t even think about it. She nudges her foot against his, then again more deliberately until they’re lined up, pressed together not like they're about to be cut apart, but stitched together.
Her head tips lazily to the side, bringing him into that soft, blurred edge of her vision where proximity and low light turn everything into impression rather than detail, and she laughs quietly as his imagination spins outward, her free hand lifting so he can sketch his ridiculous, wonderful ideas against it. "Why stop there?" she murmurs, the suggestion slipping easily from her as she watches the shapes he draws in the air. "We could each channel and have Safrin turn us into starlight for a few moments, or maybe Frey could turn us into birds or wind."
The idea is absurd, and she knows it, but there’s something about it that catches anyway, something soft and strange that settles just beneath the surface of her thoughts. The notion of becoming something that doesn’t have edges, something that could blur and fold and slip seamlessly into him, where there’s no distance at all, no space left to bridge, lingers there for a beat longer than it should before she lets it drift.
Her fingers squeeze his lightly as he ducks his head against her shoulder, and she giggles, the sound softening into a playful, indignant huff as she presses the camera back into his hand. "Okay then," she says, nudging it firmly into his grip, "let's see what you can find."
Her head tips lazily to the side, bringing him into that soft, blurred edge of her vision where proximity and low light turn everything into impression rather than detail, and she laughs quietly as his imagination spins outward, her free hand lifting so he can sketch his ridiculous, wonderful ideas against it. "Why stop there?" she murmurs, the suggestion slipping easily from her as she watches the shapes he draws in the air. "We could each channel and have Safrin turn us into starlight for a few moments, or maybe Frey could turn us into birds or wind."
The idea is absurd, and she knows it, but there’s something about it that catches anyway, something soft and strange that settles just beneath the surface of her thoughts. The notion of becoming something that doesn’t have edges, something that could blur and fold and slip seamlessly into him, where there’s no distance at all, no space left to bridge, lingers there for a beat longer than it should before she lets it drift.
Her fingers squeeze his lightly as he ducks his head against her shoulder, and she giggles, the sound softening into a playful, indignant huff as she presses the camera back into his hand. "Okay then," she says, nudging it firmly into his grip, "let's see what you can find."
in paper rings, in picture frames, in dirty dreams
