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Contrasted to his leisure, lush-lazy, she’s a livewire sparking, movement ticking against the edges of his peripheral. In a moment of unusual energy, she perches on the edge of the bed adjacent, legs back-and-forth swinging off the sides. Roles reversed.
He earns a ‘hm’ at first and nothing more. If he’s a brick wall barring sentiment, she’s a fortress, steel-plated. The wealth of her affection is row-planted miles beneath his feet, burst blooming through cement cracks, easily overlooked or brushed aside as weeds. Confessions bleed between the lines of mocking banter, barbed, words wielded like weapons.
“What, you don’t think I’m capable?” If there weren’t evidence of the contrary, she’d wonder too; she’s very much plagued by love, eaten up with the weight of it and all the consequences it shelters. Her feet drag through the muck of it, heavy and hopeless.
His idle-drunk slurring sneaks under her skin, chips her lips upwards in mischief - as always he’s trampled right onto the landmines of her impishness. “The way you say that makes it sound like you have been in love before, Pocko-chan - do tell! I wanna know everything. What kinda girl could steal your heart and walk away to tell the tale, huh?”
@gnalliard
