Imagine
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You know he loves it, wouldn't put up with the smell clinging to his clothes and the skin around his fingers being dyed brown if he didn't, but sometimes people aren't made to do what they love for a living. You'd tried to articulate this, but the glossy prints of half-formed faces and sunlight streaming through bare branches were crumpled in his shaking fingers, and through the tears shining behind thick lenses there was nothing short of murderous rage in his eyes.
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- Part 1 of Imagine
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Pulling the thick woolen material around him, he starts to do up the single row of buttons splitting the coat right in half, only to stop, turning his nose down towards the collar and inhaling through his nose. Before you can even begin to panic (did it smell like coffee or maybe whatever your dad had made for dinner last night fuck shit damn) he exhales audibly, the skin under the freckles of his nose dusted pink, and tucks his hands in the spacious pockets.
"Thanks, Sol," he says, and that one clipped syllable makes your heart turn somersaults.
Series
- Part 2 of Imagine