[ He also mirrors her little laugh, less wry and more in condolences. ] What a terrible irony to be around so many well traveled companions yet do little traveling of your own.
[ By now he's finished with one coat on both hands. He gently twists her wrist and raises her hands for a closer look, probably calling to attention his lack of one eye as he seems to accommodate for depth errors by either moving her hands back and forth or craning his neck so. He'd taken his time and he sees no splotches or mispaints on her skin and he's distracted by further exam; noting her hard working hands, the care of her nails, how soft and warm she feels against his own palms and finger tips. He dares to lift his gaze and consider the owner of these hands and looses himself in the glittering constellation that seems to be hidden behind her hazel eyes. Time slips by him, maybe an extra second or two or three.
In a facsimile of his own untruth he realizes he'd distracted himself in his own work to the point he'd neglected the human element, both him and her. He's holding her hands and she is so very pretty, and warm, and nice, and endearing, and and it feels nice and maybe it'd feel nice if he'd just let himself—
A flash of insecurity makes his own hands feel cold and the sound of his oppressive mother's judgmental voice seems to echo in the back of his head like a licking flame. He lets her go smoothly, nary an indication of this self-wrought worry than the briefest bittersweet furrow of his brow, and prepares the top coat. ]
Say if you did find reprieve from your duties and, um, no worry for time or resources... where would you like to go or what would you like most to do, Miss Heartleaf?
no subject
[ By now he's finished with one coat on both hands. He gently twists her wrist and raises her hands for a closer look, probably calling to attention his lack of one eye as he seems to accommodate for depth errors by either moving her hands back and forth or craning his neck so. He'd taken his time and he sees no splotches or mispaints on her skin and he's distracted by further exam; noting her hard working hands, the care of her nails, how soft and warm she feels against his own palms and finger tips. He dares to lift his gaze and consider the owner of these hands and looses himself in the glittering constellation that seems to be hidden behind her hazel eyes. Time slips by him, maybe an extra second or two or three.
In a facsimile of his own untruth he realizes he'd distracted himself in his own work to the point he'd neglected the human element, both him and her. He's holding her hands and she is so very pretty, and warm, and nice, and endearing, and and it feels nice and maybe it'd feel nice if he'd just let himself—
A flash of insecurity makes his own hands feel cold and the sound of his oppressive mother's judgmental voice seems to echo in the back of his head like a licking flame. He lets her go smoothly, nary an indication of this self-wrought worry than the briefest bittersweet furrow of his brow, and prepares the top coat. ]
Say if you did find reprieve from your duties and, um, no worry for time or resources... where would you like to go or what would you like most to do, Miss Heartleaf?