#bobbie writes

Carson can’t really say that though, so she tries to shift her grimace into something that looks like a smile as she nods her head and accepts her fate like the polite lady she pretends to be. Catching Greta’s eye is impossible in that moment, if Carson lets herself glance up she might not be able to hold herself together. There are already words of protest starting to creep up her throat. The effort used to swallow them back is worse than squatting behind the plate for innings on end. Carson retreats because it’s the only thing she knows how to do in a situation that is a bust from the beginning. Carson doesn’t even try to make any excuses, either. Her chair makes a loud screech when she pushes away from the table and hastily leaves the room.

There’s peace and quiet in her own space for about five minutes before a knock on the door breaks through the serenity. Carson is fuming but with it enough not to let it show. There’s only one person that can be standing there waiting for permission to enter. It’s not Greta’s fault, she knows that the redhead isn’t keen on being near a man any more than Carson wants her to be. Expressing her frustration in any way towards Greta would be stupid – there’s nothing either of them can do about the situation. So, Carson wipes under her eyes and sits up on her bed. “Come in,” Carson says. She’s happy to note her voice isn’t strained – it’s nice to know there’s something going right for her.

“You okay, Shaw?” Greta asks. Her long legs carry her quickly over to Carson’s bed where she sits down without waiting to be asked. They’re comfortable with each other now, sharing space is like breathing. Carson can’t help but smile at that thought. Regardless of what the world demands of them, no one can take away the closeness that exists when they rotate around the same axis. With Greta close, Carson feels strong and able to take on anything – even a night filled with fake laughter and a random man looking at her woman. At the end of the date, Carson gets to take Greta home.

It's with that reassurance in mind that Carson nods. “Yeah, yeah – I’m fine. Bev just caught me off guard.” Carson sticks with the bare minimum knowing Greta understands the things she isn’t and can’t say. There’s no need to talk about how unfair it is, how intolerable the farce will be. Out of the two of them, Carson is sure that Greta is more than familiar with the slights people like them are dealt. The frustration of the situation is clearly felt by both women in the room.

Greta makes a soft sound at the back of her throat, then moves a little closer to Carson on the bed. They can’t be all that outright with their affection but Greta doesn’t hesitate to slide her hand across the mattress and wrap it around Carson’s. She gives it an affectionate squeeze and holds on. “I don’t want to go, you know that,” Greta needlessly admits. Her fingers tangle with Carson’s before continuing. “I wish more than anything it could just be you and me. That’s what I’ll be thinking about all night.” She drops her voice a little, using the pitch that makes Carson’s skin pebble with want. It does the trick because Carson immediately relaxes. The problem isn’t solved and nothing has changed but Greta’s good and her words are enough to calm Carson right down.

Despite it being a risky move, Carson reaches over to cup Greta’s face. Her thumb possessively traces the arch of Greta’s defined cheekbone. The rouge she wears isn’t enough to make up the blush that blossoms along Greta’s porcelain skin. Carson grins at the easy way Greta opens up to her. Her fingertip moves to trace the bridge of her nose and the arch of her lip. Carson claims her with the barest hint of a touch. When their lips finally meet, Greta openly moans. It’s a delight to collect the sound and kiss it away. They try not to give up the handle of control in open spaces but it’s too easy to press in a little harder, to slip their tongues together in a now all too familiar dance. Carson forces herself to pull back but not before Greta is making happy little noises into the shared space between them.

Leaning her forehead against Greta’s, Carson closes her eyes and allows herself to take everything in. The flowery scent of Greta’s perfume, the huff of gasped breath against her lips, even the satiny feel of Greta’s dress beneath her fingers. It’s the last time they’ll get to be close like this for the rest of the day. Between practice and the date, it’ll be hours before they can even think about being alone. Carson can feel Greta getting a little worried about their proximity, so she pulls away after another moment of reveling in just being near the other woman. When they part, Carson scoots over another inch on the bed to curb the temptation to reach out and keep a hold of Greta.

Like Carson predicted, the rest of the day is a chaotic rush of practicing cut offs and hitting until their arms are close to falling off. She’s so intent on ignoring what’s going to happen later that night that Carson keeps them a little later than usual. Everyone is glaring at her by the time practice is over but they’re ready to play the Blue Sox over the next couple of days. In her attempt to continue to stall, Carson takes a stupid amount of time in the locker room. She uses her game cards as an excuse and makes them all more than ten minutes late for supper. The rest of the girls are forgiving when they walk into a house that smells like something delightful – Carson’s folly isn’t enough to take away the joy of being embraced by fresh food.

Greta’s eyes follow her, though – Carson’s been wanting to have that gaze on her for so long that the particular feeling of being watched is something she’s come to look forward to. While she usually tries to be stealthy and look over her shoulder, Carson stares straight ahead. There’s no use in flirting when the need to wrap it up tight is approaching. Her feelings for Greta are so strong that Carson can’t stop once she gets going. The man that’s salivating at the thought of taking Greta out probably wouldn’t appreciate Carson’s brand of flirting. It’s easier to just ignore the entire situation until it’s right in her face – Carson has learned she’s relatively good under pressure.

Except she’s not and the whole evening’s activities are a terrible idea. Greta comes down the stairs in a red dress that highlights her hair and lips. Carson feels her jaw drop at the sight. She’s probably drooling, too, though she lacks the available brain bytes to check. All of her effort goes into stopping the gasp that so desperately wants to fall from her lips. Greta looks beautiful and Carson wants to eat her alive. She’s stripped Greta out of that particular dress before – Carson knows what it looks like as the fabric moves across pale skin (and what it looks like in a crumple on the old car’s floor, too). Her fingers ache with the need to grip the small maroon zipper and pull it down. Carson doesn’t have to think too hard to recall the glorious view that is Greta’s naked back. Creamy skin and freckles and signs of life drag Carson in each and every time. It’s silly how much time she spends mapping Greta’s flesh.

It's imperative to look away, so Carson forces her gaze towards the floor. She takes a couple of deep breaths to lessen the bubbling heat in her stomach. Between the residual anger and sudden arousal, Carson’s already so strung out. The prospect of making it through on the other side seems like a miracle. Her body physically does not want to move when it’s time to go. Carson is reluctant to admit that petulance is creeping in, but there’s no other explanation. She feels like a child that’s not getting her way. Regardless of the emotional upheaval happening, Carson gets it together and follows Greta out the door. Their walk to the bar the team usually frequents is silent and heavy. The tension is hard to swallow after being so open with each other, though Carson is somewhat glad for it. At least she has something consuming to focus on.

Instead, Carson watches Greta closely. Her date, Matt or Mark, is a solider home because of some sort of arm injury. He’s still in a sling, even. It’s obvious that the man is confident and smooth – if this were a normal situation, Carson’s sure he’d be bagging the dame before him. Greta, however, is only giving the interaction half of her effort. Carson recognizes the forced smile Greta uses when talking to one of the league’s board members or a jerky fan. Though it shouldn’t be relief that floods through her, Carson recognizes the heavy weight lifting off of her back. Understanding starts to settle in – suddenly the date isn’t so bad.

That’s not exactly true, though. Carson still hates the way Greta reaches across the table to run a finger teasingly up the back of her date’s hand. Carson’s felt that same move done to her, she knows how wild it makes her. Recognizing the same look in Matt/Mark’s face is infuriating. Her fingers curl into a fist on their own accord. While Carson knows she’ll never actually swing, the desire to sock a man has never been more consuming. Luckily, Greta’s the only one who notices. They share a look before Greta goes back to pretending to pay attention to some half-baked, probably made up story. Carson stopped listening a while ago, so she quietly seethes in her chair. Despite her initial outlook on the evening, Carson finds this date to be akin to torture, too. Especially when the night ends with Greta’s lips pressed against someone else’s cheek.

Carson sees a new shade of red in her vision. It completely overtakes her for a moment. Blinking it away, Carson is happy to see that she didn’t lash out in that brief lapse of control. It takes everything in her not to grab Greta by the arm and guide her home like a naughty little child. Another part of her wants to slam the taller woman up against the brick wall separating the bar and the theater to show her who her lips truly belong to. There are so many thoughts flying across the forefront of Carson’s mind that it’s hard to process Greta’s words when she says “let’s go home, Shaw.”

Mindlessly, Carson nods and follows Greta back to the house on autopilot. Her brain is whirring at an alarming pace, if she says or does anything now, it’ll all blow up in Carson’s face. By the time they’re walking up the driveway, Carson knows they’re back well before curfew, so showing their faces right away isn’t exactly necessary. She unsubtly uses her shoulder to guide Greta towards the garage where they can have a few minutes of peace and privacy. The redhead goes without any further prompting. Her hand even reaches out to grab Carson’s – Greta doesn’t let go until they’re both working to get the dust cover up enough to get into the car. Carson ushers Greta in first. Once the door closes, Carson knows there’s going to be no way to justify her actions.

She doesn’t let Greta say a word; Carson is on her so quickly that they topple back against the seat in a hectic tangle of limbs. Stopping or drawing back or even thinking isn’t really an option, though, so Carson readjusts and continues with her attack. Both hands are buried in the silky strands of Greta’s hair, gripping there to deepen and control the kiss. Greta’s hands are passively on Carson’s hips, simply holding on for the ride. That’s a tantalizing thought that makes Carson pull away and look down. She’s taken off guard by how done in Greta looks already – her hazy eyes look up at Carson with curiosity and impatience. It’s obvious that Greta is enjoying the take charge attitude Carson can’t help. The knot in her stomach tightens – it’s moments like these where Carson realizes that Greta is the sexiest woman alive – and she’s all Carson’s.

Desperate to remind herself of that, Carson drags her lips away from Greta’s to kiss and nip at the skin of the redhead’s neck, instead. She’s tall everywhere, including the long slope between shoulder and head. It’s all pale complexion and traceable surface area that Carson will never be able to get enough of. The greedy want to mark Greta’s skin steamrolls her. Carson is certain the shape of her lips on Greta’s skin would be the most beautiful thing. Too bad propriety calls for an image that doesn’t coincide with possessive sex. Maybe one day.

Carson doesn’t stop herself from littering kisses on the skin there, though. Her tongue and lips make paths up and down a neck that Greta stretches to its full length to give Carson more room. It’s satisfying to hear Greta already breathing heavy, despite Carson only getting started. Impatient hands reach up to trace Carson’s hips and cup both her breasts, but she’s immovable. Greta doesn’t realize how terrible it was for Carson to see Greta’s lips on someone else. Claiming Greta’s skin back is the only way to purge the memory. Though an explanation of that would be simple and better for them both, Carson is stubborn and wants to put the other woman back on her heels. At the end of the day, it’s Carson’s way of showing Greta how much she truly means. If the stolen moments are all they’re ever going to have, Carson intends to make them good.

Soon, Carson’s moved her attention to small buttons that come undone after a couple of fumbles. Carson is so spun up that coordination is becoming tougher by the second. Finally, there’s enough bare skin to dive into Greta’s dress, the rest of the buttons and zipper be damned. Eager palms cup both of Greta’s breasts through the brazier she’s wearing. The weight of them is familiar and exhilarating in a way that almost makes Carson forget her objective. She’s gluttonous in her exploration for an extra second or two before moving on. By the time Greta’s dress hits the floor, Carson’s patience is close to running out.

Thankfully, Greta is selfish, too. She works to rid Carson of her clothes until they’re both in just their underthings. There’s a special delight Carson takes in watching Greta take off her armor. With nothing but a bra on, her strong lover is just a woman with a great rack and gorgeous curves. She’s vulnerable in a way that makes her reachable and man does Carson want to touch and grip and never let go. In these intimate moments, Carson meets a piece of Greta that she’s not sure anyone else has ever seen before. At least, Carson hopes that’s the case. The fondness in Greta’s eyes as she stares up at Carson is too good a thing to ever want to share.

Leaning forward to kiss Greta on the lips again, Carson brushes that thought aside. She’s better off thinking about sliding her hand into the waistband of Greta’s skirt slip. Carson gets much more satisfaction from discovering how wet Greta is. Her fingers brush through Greta’s excitement, collecting some of it to ease the way as her fingertips start to make small teasing circles over Greta’s clit. Though they aren’t in total privacy, Greta feels comfortable enough to moan when the going gets good. Carson soaks up the noises, hoarding them in a special spot in her brain for moments when they can’t be together. Greta’s usually so bottled up that Carson delights in the fact that her actions are good enough to drag out groans of pleasure. Now’s not any different, either. Greta’s got her bottom lip between her teeth, but it’s of no help. The gasps and chopped up mumbles of Carson’s name are tangible despite the effort.

She keeps circling her finger until Greta’s thighs start to tremble. Carson recognizes she’s close and pulls away. Her hand, still wet from Greta’s arousal, reaches to undo the clasp on the bra keeping the rest of Greta’s skin hostage. Carson wastes no time getting her lips around a nipple she licks cleverly with her tongue. Her fingers gently tease at the other one until they’re both hard. As Carson moves to cup Greta’s breast, she feels goose flesh rush across Greta’s skin. The reality of how much Carson’s touch does to Greta amps up the pleasure. Carson hasn’t so much as touched herself, yet she knows she’s sopping wet. Her clit aches for friction and attention but there’s something sweet about denying herself, too. She’s all about Greta at the moment, anyway.

There’s a little fumbling to get Greta out of the rest of her clothes but they take it in stride. It’s fun to laugh during a time that sometimes can get tense. They share kisses and make each other smile to push through the awkwardness. Greta naked is something that can stop any negative thought, anyway. Carson never deprives herself of the opportunity to trace her eyes over long legs that give way to hourglass hips and a stomach Carson always wants to stuff her face into. Greta is a gorgeous woman that makes Carson appreciate what it means to be feminine, to have curves, to be well endowed with perfectly shaped breasts. She doesn’t shy away from the fact that the things she likes about her own body are qualities she finds attractive in Greta, too.

“You’re gorgeous,” Carson mumbles as she places kisses down the valley between Greta’s breasts. Her hands trace down Greta’s sides until they’re on hips and thighs and then between them. Greta doesn’t take any prompting to open her legs and make room for Carson. Despite the small space in the car’s back seat, they make it work. Sure, Carson’s knees will be sore by the time she’s done but it’s well worth it. Watching Greta bite her fist and buck her hips off of the sticky leather seat is more than enough to make up for the muggy air and shoebox feeling. Carson’s pretty sure she’s willing to do anything to be this way with Greta, though that truth is still one she’s trying to navigate and understand. For now, she focuses on finding Greta’s entrance to tease at with two of her fingers.

Greta doesn’t say anything until Carson’s face level with Greta’s clit. The tips of two fingers have been teasing around Greta’s hole, incessantly teasing. Carson never slips them fully inside but uses most of her fingertips to make their presence known. She pushes just enough to feel Greta clench around her. Her “fuck Shaw” lingers in the thick air, echoing in Carson’s ears. She looks up, catching Greta’s eye as she leans forward and starts to lick lightly over Greta’s clit. It’s swollen and Carson feels it pulse under her tongue. Greta even tightens up around her fingers. Despite not knowing what the hell she was doing when things started, Carson is a quick study. She knows all of Greta’s tells and signs because the redhead has learned to speak just as loudly with her body as she does with her words.

Besides, Carson has always been the type of person to wants to do things to the best of her ability, so she pays attention. She knows that when Greta throws her head back, Carson is sucking at the perfect intensity. Greta’s fingers in her hair mean more, though she’s not afraid to ask for it, too. Magic things start to happen when Greta lets go and gives herself over to Carson completely. Despite being on fire and aroused out of her brain, Carson still has enough thought to revel in the fact that Greta deems her worthy. Losing the fight to passion in its entirety is a vulnerable thing. Other than Jo, who’s been a lifelong friend, Carson’s positive Greta hasn’t given up any piece of herself to another human being. It’s an honor to watch Greta fall apart all because Carson can use her mouth for more than just blathering words and inspirational speeches.

The concept of being special to such a jaw dropping person gives Carson the confidence to start moving her fingers and mouth in tandem. Both fingers are deep inside of Greta, thrusting and stroking upward with each draw back. As her hand fucks Greta with precision, Carson’s tongue works to tell a story around Greta’s clit. She can feel the other woman’s juices dripping down her chin. Between spit and excitement, Greta’s so wet it’s mindboggling. Every one of Carson’s motions is eased by restless hips and slick. Carson’s never been more turned on in her entire life, though every new encounter with Greta makes her feel that way. Her own cunt is throbbing with the sort of want that makes it a lot less shameful to run a hand down the middle of her chest to slip under the waistband of drenched panties. It heightens the experience, touching herself while Carson goes down on Greta with passionate enthusiasm.

Though it’s getting harder to breath by the second, Carson doesn’t let up or think to draw away. Greta’s thighs have started to tighten around Carson’s head as her orgasm grows near. The telling quivering of Greta’s stomach adds to the irritable shifting of hips and gasping breaths. Carson loves the few moments right before Greta is thrown off the edge of the cliff. What her tongue and hands and dedication has done is spread out before her. This is raw Greta Gill that Carson is lucky enough to witness in all of her glory. Never mind the fact that Carson’s name sounds so pretty coming from Greta’s mouth in that deliciously breathy way. Greta loses all words other than Carson and it’s a glorious thing. Though she has no real claim to the women sweating with pleasure under her, Carson enjoys the little things that are just for them that reminder her that Greta is hers. At the end of the day, Greta’s legs are wrapped around Carson’s neck as she fights to hang on to those last seconds of carnal pleasure before bliss finally comes about.

Carson’s eyes fly up to Greta as her orgasm hits. The taste on her tongue is almost as divine as the look on Greta’s face – it’s twisted and contorted into the physical manifestation of unthinkable pleasure. Her eyes are closed, clenched up tightly, even. The red of her lips is smeared from kisses and rough bites in a hopeless attempt to stop unruly moans. Flush on Great’s skin matches the lipstick Carson made imperfect. It’s a glorious sight, way more than enough to yank Carson over the edge, too. She shudders in the best of ways, kissing the soft skin of the inside of Greta’s thigh while her body works its way through it. Carson’s mindlessly lipping at Greta’s skin when a hand is yanking her up and into kissing range. The fact that Greta doesn’t give a shit about Carson’s messy face is another reason why Greta is the sexiest person on the planet. She simply presses her lips to Carson’s like there isn’t cum and spit and slick all over.

They don’t need to say anything as their deep kisses taper off until Carson is simply resting her head against Greta’s cheek. It’s hot in the car and the minutes in which they’re free are dwindling down – dawdling in any matter is always a risk. Somehow, Carson figures it’s worth it to have Greta petting a hand through her hair while their heart rates decrease and the world becomes something that doesn’t just revolve around them. One day, they won’t have to endure a fake date before taking each other apart. Carson will be able to ask Greta out on her own without any pretense. Until then, laying in arms that swing bats and take on the weight of the world for the seconds she can is more than enough for Carson.

There often comes times where Five can’t catch his breath.

Sometimes, on the rare occasion, he can identify the reasons, and therefore overcome the irrational sensations of smog dusting his lungs, of phantom fingertips picking at his throat, of pipes puncturing his airways where he has been completely succumbed to the depths of suffocation.

Other times, not so much.

Other times, it’s a trigger out of nowhere, a blurred line that can’t decipher the distinctions between reality and make-believe, a cross junction with roads leading to nowhere but the sour stems of his hurt. And then it becomes so loud and overbearing and the thrums of his heart and the beats of the corrupted sun become the symphony of his soul and he can’t hear the real world anymore.

It happens more now than it did before. He isn’t so sure if it’s because he has more time to fall apart like this, the lack of focus towards an impending apocalyptic future catering to his spare schedule to stop and consider the destruction of his own mind.

It could be that. It could be his brain rotting and eating the leftover flesh of his sanity, pulling apart the thinnest of strings that ties the box of stability together. His own justification for his madness sounds almost as absurd as the experience itself, and yet there isn’t an alternative that exists sensibly even within the coherency of his intellect. Nothing of what else he can come up with rationalises these ridiculous episodes, and so dedicating the root of his issues to the matter of simply having too much time on his hands, will have to suffice.

Except, now is one of those times. One of the other times. The kitchen, where shards of glass have scrambled out of his twitching fingertips and scattered across the floor, has become the new host of his latest delusion, sharpening the edges of the table to carve out the illusion of burning rubber and flesh. He’s standing, he thinks, amidst the flaming chaos, the once intact cereal bowl translated into glinting green-bottle waste at his feet.

Five can’t see past the ash-filled fog and everything smells like death. He’s moving—should be moving—or is he standing still in place, breath caught in his lungs and heart gasping for a slower motion, thrusting against his chest from where it begs for redemption.

“Five?” A voice sings in the air, a faraway echo just distinct enough to be understood.

Something touches Five’s arm, something solid; warm.

“Five,” the voice calls again, urgently this time. “Hey, buddy, you listening to me?”

Five chokes on his own spit in a feeble attempt to respond, swaying softly on his toes from where they’re buried in the soils of his siblings’ putrid corpses. “Wh—go’way.”

“What’s that?” The voice, the body, the warmth is nearer, closer, bigger. “Hey, hey, you’re hyperventilating, alright? Can you hear me at all, Five?”

“Buh—hel—h’lp.”

“Five, bud, you gotta look at me,” darker, huskier tone. Croaky, sort of. “See my face? Can you—fuck, okay, I’m gonna touch you, okay? ‘Cause I don’t think I’m getting through to that big brain, alright?”

Something—something—soft, solid, warm—hands, on his face. Large and kind, gentle pads scrubbing the tender flesh of his cheeks. The haze begins to fade, the scent begins to wane, the wilt of his body enriching with the sag of his bones, and he is exhausted. Oh, god, he’s exhausted.

“Can you breathe with me, Five? In and out, count with me, okay? One . . . two . . . ”

In and out, slower, slower, slow, slow down. Slow down. Slow down.

“That’s it, buddy, slow it down, easy, easy . . .”

“M’,” Five burbles, reaching out suddenly to latch onto the soft-warm-safety in front of him. “M’Sorry, I can’t—I can’t—”

“Of course you can,” Diego, Diego, whispers. “Of course you can, Five. You can do anything.”

I can do anything.

“Gentle, gentle, easy,” Diego instructs, calmly, quietly. Five blinks his vision back to reality, the materials of his make-believe evaporating into the mists of oblivion as he refocuses on his brother—authentic, alive, big brown eyes and hands on his face, on his hair.

“F-fuck,” he gasps, a choked baby-wheeze that whispers rows of his woes, decades of devastation and grief uttered through the face of a boy who has seen too-little, too-much.

“You’re okay,” Diego murmurs, so close, so warm. “I’ve got you, I’ve got you.”

“Nuh—” Five pants, and then he howls.

“Five,” Diego’s voice cracks, eyes flashing with the kind of heartbrokenness that is too big to disguise, his entire face twisting into an expression that no amount of pain could ever describe.

Five’s wails are loud and unforgiving, sailing beyond the seven seas of his suffering, where the ship that sails him home lies in a sunken wreck down in the depths of the green-blue Atlantic. His heart is descending to the pit of the oceans, finding a disastrous habitat amidst the rotting ship-wood—accepting his new home upon the remains with the once-upon-a-time wind filled pillows of white anchoring his heart to the seabed.

“Five,” Diego whispers, the slightest tightening of grip manifesting through his fingers. “Five, it’s okay, it’s okay buddy, you’re okay.”

“M’not,” Five mumbles, through a series of choked breaths as he desperately attempts to collect himself. “M’not.”

Diego adjusts a hand cradling his cheek to cup the back of his neck, bringing their foreheads together. “Maybe not,” his voice stays low, gentle. “But you’re gonna be, okay? We’ve got you. I’ve got you. And I’m not gonna let you go, alright?”

Slumping into the hands of his brother, Five’s knees buckle as he gives away to the floor, fully permitting Diego to catch and steady him as he lowers the two of them to rest on the kitchen tiles. He’s propped doll-like in his brothers lap with a vision too blurred to really care, head positioned securely beneath Diego’s chin to fit into place above his heart, where Five can hear it thump-thump-thump.

“Alive,” Diego murmurs, once he grasps the notion of what his brother is doing. He cards his fingers through Five’s hair, simultaneously shocked and a little disorientated at the fact he’s allowing himself to be held like this, to be vulnerable like this. To be comforted, like this.

“Mhm,” Five says, opting to close his eyes, soothed from the steady, soft breaths withdrawing from Diego’s mouth. “Alive,” he repeats, as a confirmation for himself.

“That’s right,” Diego says, slowly starting up a gentle, rocking motion from where he’s flat out against the counter, swaying them side-to-side. “Right here, kid.”

Five nods again, drifting off to the kind strums of sunshine spurting from Diego’s soul, engulfing him in a striking warmth that he certainly hasn’t felt for a while.

“Got you,” Diego repeats, to his mop of hair. He presses his mouth against the crown of Five’s head, a tendered kiss left to linger long after he’s gone, a phantom touch of mellow comfort to be remembered during these times, where hopefully, Five can wrap this moment to store away for later. A touch of the simplest form of love, to be reminisced and recognised and understood.

“I love you, Five,” Diego says, then, just in case he forgets.

And the words hang in the air, skinless and delicate and openly raw, left to process by the littlest Hargreeves in a memory Diego hopes he keeps forever.