[Something in his world stops. The moment stills like a picture in frame, his surroundings limited to the immediacy of his sister beside him, slipping in close, her voice changed to that playful lilting frequency he recalls from a long ago childhood. He feels only in that moment the touch of her hand on his chin, angling his head. He catches the scent of her soft floral perfume, lulling him into a spellbound haze. Her mouth is rouged with a bright cherry lipstick. He does not breathe. He does not think. He —
The door opens, and Sunday is aware of a voice though he has no comprehension of the words, only that it goes away, and the door clicks shut again, leaving him to the paralysis of what has happened. His sister plays her part so well that it's seamless; her lips never touch his skin. Yet the impression of it lingers, almost burned in place by the swipe of wet lipstick at the corner of his mouth, at his collared shirt. A stain that mars the perfect exterior he strives to present.
Perhaps telling is that he doesn't swipe it away, or react at all, even once she's withdrawn and shared those words of wisdom. There is a darker question in his mind, wondering maddeningly, where did she learn this? Yet he only clears his throat and looks down at his shoes.
This is clearly an act, and she's helped him perform it. He cannot leave the room looking anything less than this — a man with a sweet, stolen kiss from a pretty waitress, wearing that impropriety on his skin.
He's grateful that his voice doesn't waver when he finally speaks.]
I'll... endeavor to remember that. Thank you, miss.
[Without providing an opportunity for her reaction, Sunday goes to the door. He cannot look at her any longer when his mouth feels like it's on fire, and his heart is a loud drum in his ears, as if she might divine his thoughts, his broiling emotions, should he stay.]
cw: just incest now i guess π₯Ή
The door opens, and Sunday is aware of a voice though he has no comprehension of the words, only that it goes away, and the door clicks shut again, leaving him to the paralysis of what has happened. His sister plays her part so well that it's seamless; her lips never touch his skin. Yet the impression of it lingers, almost burned in place by the swipe of wet lipstick at the corner of his mouth, at his collared shirt. A stain that mars the perfect exterior he strives to present.
Perhaps telling is that he doesn't swipe it away, or react at all, even once she's withdrawn and shared those words of wisdom. There is a darker question in his mind, wondering maddeningly, where did she learn this? Yet he only clears his throat and looks down at his shoes.
This is clearly an act, and she's helped him perform it. He cannot leave the room looking anything less than this — a man with a sweet, stolen kiss from a pretty waitress, wearing that impropriety on his skin.
He's grateful that his voice doesn't waver when he finally speaks.]
I'll... endeavor to remember that. Thank you, miss.
[Without providing an opportunity for her reaction, Sunday goes to the door. He cannot look at her any longer when his mouth feels like it's on fire, and his heart is a loud drum in his ears, as if she might divine his thoughts, his broiling emotions, should he stay.]