accepting

“it’s midnight, um. we should get to sleep.”

estelle doesn’t hear him the first time. the second time, she finally looks up from the old sketchbook splayed out on her lap. her gaze shifts from hurley to the lit-up screen of his phone on his nightstand, all while her fingers still gently trail over a drawing a younger version of hurley had made, like the indentations on the paper would tell her a story of who he was before they met. 

“right.” her shoulders droop, but she hands him his sketchbook back, uncrossing her legs and letting them dangle over the side of his bed. their gazes linger longer than usual lately, hanging in the midst of a gentle silence they’ve gotten to know like a dear friend. blue hues shift, then, to the subtle pink that colors his cheeks and probably mirror her own, and then the subtle curl at the corner of his lips. she’s already halfway in before she’s aware she’s leaning, and it’s only when he reciprocates that she falls back into step with reality. the softness of it doesn’t diminish the way her chest tightens, how her breath stutters in her lungs for a moment. and it’s usually for a moment. but the kiss lingers, and she leans further into it, and she’s pressing her hands into her lap to keep them from framing his face and tugging him closer. to keep herself from wanting to stay so badly. 

not accepting

“i don’t-- i’m not--” estelle’s brows are furrowed, lips tugged down into focus. hurley stares at her from the side, lips pursed, gaze switching between her frown and the blank canvas in front of her.

“what?”

“i don’t know where to start.” she looks at the canvas, then at the bowl of fruit hurley had arranged for her sitting atop their little dining table. she shifts in her chair, sighs. “i mean, not the background or the fruit because-- well, i’d need the bowl first. so i should... paint the bowl. but do i start with the bottom or the top, or...” a brief moment of silence passes before she turns to him, frown slowly morphing into a pout. “am i overthinking this?”

he’s resting his face against his hand, his palm hiding his amused half-smile. but he’s sweet and gentle, and he thinks before responding, “uh, a little bit. you just need to... um, here.” he brings his chair, one of the chairs from the dining table, beside hers. and his movements, ever hesitant-- like he’s still not sure how to act around her-- lead him closer as he places one hand over one of hers, the one holding the brush, and guides it up to the canvas, swiping a streak of paint across the center. his eyes are laser-focused on the canvas, just like estelle’s, so neither sees the pink warmth creeping onto their cheeks.

“start there, and just... don’t overthink it. just, um, go with what feels right.”

estelle nods resolutely, though his hand in still enveloping hers, fingers half-threaded, and he doesn’t pull it back, and she doesn’t pull away, and she wonders when they’ll be able to touch and her mind won’t just become a nervous, giddy, empty void. it still feels foreign-- this thing they’re becoming, blooming into. but it’s comforting, in a way, like he always has been.

so, she starts painting, and his hand joins her in her careful and calculated movements across the canvas. at one point, the heat in her face subsides as concentration takes over, and his hold on her hands softens but follows her nonetheless-- a captive audience. every now and then, she asks something and he guides her hand, helping her shade or showing how to depict the light bouncing off the fruit. after a while, she feels the soft weight of his head as he props his chin on her shoulder, his breaths calm and even.

i found this in my drafts and decided to finish it | @anklebitxrs

the one where you don’t know your soulmate until you touch them.

not accepting | @anklebitxrs

a sparse melody echoes off the apartment walls and, tucked into a corner of her living room, jackie hunches over her piano, hugging a knee to her chest while her other leg dangles off the bench. her fingers drift over the keys, sometimes sliding into familiar patterns that she hums to knowingly, other times bouncing off of foreign sounds that she lingers on, most of the times just going back and forth between two notes again and again and again and again--

“ah!” arms wrap around her middle and pick her up from the piano (almost knocking it over in the process, mind you). she hears and feels another melody she has recently gotten reacquainted with behind her, and a smile betrays her. she wrestles halfheartedly against his grasp and he puts her down, but his hold still lingers around her frame, his chin finding a resting on the crown of her head.

“today’s your break day,” he mumbles into her hair, turning both of them away from the piano. out of sight, out of mind, is probably his thought process, “you have a writing session tomorrow, right?”

“yeah, but i had something just then, if you just let me finish it--”

“did you, really?” his hold on her loosens, his voice wavers on apologetic and suspicious.

“yep.” she had absolutely nothing.

and then he asks her to show him, and she does, in essence. she sits at the bench with him pressed to her side, and she plays one key. and then the other. and then she goes back to the first key. and back to the other one, and back to the first. she stops. she looks at him. he looks back. she grins. he nods his head in acceptance. it’s really not that bad of a melody if you think about it--

and she’s back up again, wriggling in his arms, and their joint laughter is enough to make her forget about the damn piano altogether. they’re still rebuilding what they had before, making something new out of the crumbled pieces; it’s been a while since they’ve touched each other without hesitating, without having to ask just to grab the other’s hand. it feels strange, in a good way. in a great way. even when she tugs too hard and they tumble down, even when he wheezes because she lands right on top of him, even when she asks him if he’s okay through giggles. it feels like another puzzle piece.

usually, the sound of the treats bouncing against the bowl on the kitchenette floor brings a small white cat sprinting (or sometimes lazily strolling, depending on the mood) towards the food. that said, when estelle shakes the bag of treats into the bowl, there is no sign of luna; no pitter patter of her tiny claws against the floor. it’s not normal, and she immediately becomes suspicious. she straightens and looks, padding lightly across the kitchen, along the living room, in the bathroom. 

“luna.” she whispers as she makes her way around the apartment. she tends to be quiet when hurley’s home. ever since the museum incident, anyway. they’ve barely talked since then, except for tiny, awkward little interactions every now and then. she just feels odd... the air in the apartment feels weird, wrong, stuffy since that night. either way, her search for luna ends up with her in front of hurley’s door. she stands there for about five minutes, pursing her lips and furrowing her brows until she gathers the courage to knock on the door. “hey, hurley...” she calls out. “is, um, is luna in there with you?”

when estelle steps into the exhibition hall, it’s all suits and gowns, wine glasses and idle chatter. her anxiety spikes for a moment, makes her shoulders hunch forward and her hands smooth over the skirt of her dress before she forces her muscles to relax and her back to straighten. it’s only when she remembers who she’s here for (and when she fins a glass of wine of her own) that the excitement clouds over her nerves.

is this what it feels like to step into someone else’s dream? it must be, estelle thinks as she makes her way past art piece after art piece. it makes her feel giddy, pulling at the edges of her lips and making butterflies settle in her stomach; hurley deserves this. she’s pressing down on her lips to try and hold back the grin that threatens to break through when her eyes catch him-- blue suit against faded blue hair, back to her as he stares at a painting belonging to the runner-up. the scene in front of her makes her skin feel warm, the buzzing in her stomach turn to a whirlwind. she stands there for a minute or two, looking at him and thinking of what to say. after another sip of wine, she quietly steps up beside him, a shy smile finding its way to her lips. “hi, do you know where i can find hurley mason’s section?”

[ to : teddy ] hey