Handmates she says with a serious nod upon his declaration. Very rare; who knew we'd be so lucky?
And he's not sure if he believes that, not like she does. But he's not sure if he believes anything the way she believes-full on, unabashed faith.
Life's too short for hesitation she tells him, out of the blue one day. Whatsoever you find true, hold it to your chest-guard it obsessively. Wouldn't want the wrackspurts to have at it.
But the fact of the matter is, they do fit, quite seamlessly, one right into the other. Her hand, small and dainty, (softer skin for sure) and his hand, larger and calloused, (an oaf of a hand, really) fit together perfectly. Their palms align just so and their fingers entwine with no difficulty. His thumb can easily skim over her knuckles and when they're pressed together, faint scars proclaim that both 'must not tell lies'.
It's impossible not to tell lies she laments on some random summer day, stretched out on her stomach, hands folded to create a rest for her chin as she gazes out across fields of grass. No one can be completely honest. How ever would we avoid hurting people's feelings? Or ever have surprises? It'd be a dreary sort of world with no surprises.
But perhaps this handmate concept has some truth to it, for he knows his is ever gravitating towards hers. He'll be sitting with his friends, having lunch and chatting, and never realize until he stands up that the two hands had found each other again. There's never a question when they do, though, because it seems a shame to separate a pair that seem so committed to each other.
Have you ever seen a heartbroken hand? It just hangs from your wrist, full of despair and breathy sighs. It's a pitiful sight.
He doesn't know if his would ever sigh, oh but it would twitch and tremble so when it sees its mate in the company of another.
Jealous hands? she asks with an arched eyebrow, corner of her lips struggling not to curve upwards. That seems so contrary to their nature. Are you sure you aren't projecting a tad bit?
He's fairly certain the poor thing would go mad if it never touched its mate again. The thought of a crazy hand, driven mad with longing and bitterness, is quite frightening.
Yes, it does sound terrifying, she sighs, shivering while his lips commence an exploration of her collarbone. It would be such a tragic hand-my heart breaks at the thought.
One day, entirely of its own accord (he'll insist on it if she asks), his hand reaches out, an circular object wielded firmly in its fingers. It slips it onto her hand quietly, smoothly, so that the fingers have no indication of what is coming until it is already there. A silver and gold band, the metals entwined together as the handmates usually are.
Well, it's a persistent hand, isn't it? she laughs, large silver-grey eyes blinking rapidly, as if to ward off tears. It's awfully romatic for just a hand.
He admits then, under the spell of her smile and flushed cheeks, that he might have helped pick out the ring.
Aahh . . . That explains everything.
Their hands join quickly, fingers gripping the other in joy and the slightest traces of anxiety. He can spare them no thoughts, not a worry, because her lips are on his and her scent is in his nose, and his arms can never be full enough of her.
Handmates For Certain
Handmates she says with a serious nod upon his declaration. Very rare; who knew we'd be so lucky?
And he's not sure if he believes that, not like she does. But he's not sure if he believes anything the way she believes-full on, unabashed faith.
Life's too short for hesitation she tells him, out of the blue one day. Whatsoever you find true, hold it to your chest-guard it obsessively. Wouldn't want the wrackspurts to have at it.
But the fact of the matter is, they do fit, quite seamlessly, one right into the other. Her hand, small and dainty, (softer skin for sure) and his hand, larger and calloused, (an oaf of a hand, really) fit together perfectly. Their palms align just so and their fingers entwine with no difficulty. His thumb can easily skim over her knuckles and when they're pressed together, faint scars proclaim that both 'must not tell lies'.
It's impossible not to tell lies she laments on some random summer day, stretched out on her stomach, hands folded to create a rest for her chin as she gazes out across fields of grass. No one can be completely honest. How ever would we avoid hurting people's feelings? Or ever have surprises? It'd be a dreary sort of world with no surprises.
But perhaps this handmate concept has some truth to it, for he knows his is ever gravitating towards hers. He'll be sitting with his friends, having lunch and chatting, and never realize until he stands up that the two hands had found each other again. There's never a question when they do, though, because it seems a shame to separate a pair that seem so committed to each other.
Have you ever seen a heartbroken hand? It just hangs from your wrist, full of despair and breathy sighs. It's a pitiful sight.
He doesn't know if his would ever sigh, oh but it would twitch and tremble so when it sees its mate in the company of another.
Jealous hands? she asks with an arched eyebrow, corner of her lips struggling not to curve upwards. That seems so contrary to their nature. Are you sure you aren't projecting a tad bit?
He's fairly certain the poor thing would go mad if it never touched its mate again. The thought of a crazy hand, driven mad with longing and bitterness, is quite frightening.
Yes, it does sound terrifying, she sighs, shivering while his lips commence an exploration of her collarbone. It would be such a tragic hand-my heart breaks at the thought.
One day, entirely of its own accord (he'll insist on it if she asks), his hand reaches out, an circular object wielded firmly in its fingers. It slips it onto her hand quietly, smoothly, so that the fingers have no indication of what is coming until it is already there. A silver and gold band, the metals entwined together as the handmates usually are.
Well, it's a persistent hand, isn't it? she laughs, large silver-grey eyes blinking rapidly, as if to ward off tears. It's awfully romatic for just a hand.
He admits then, under the spell of her smile and flushed cheeks, that he might have helped pick out the ring.
Aahh . . . That explains everything.
Their hands join quickly, fingers gripping the other in joy and the slightest traces of anxiety. He can spare them no thoughts, not a worry, because her lips are on his and her scent is in his nose, and his arms can never be full enough of her.