carrillo at his most tense is the only version cristina has ever truly known. being his default setting whenever he is in her presence, it is above her knowledge to assume that her existence is the reason for the knots in his back and that stern furrow ever present between his brows. as a child it had always been a trait for her to make fun of ; she would often lump him with the tradition obsessed maid that cleaned her quarters and had been around the mansion since a time LONG before the war. now his rigidness has become something she can’t picture her life without. so ingrained into her perception of him it is that when he moves on away from her in the least conspicuous way cristina isn’t surprised or ashamed but playfully indignant, a glow igniting behind her eyes & a brief grin appearing.
“— you’ve missed a spot.”
it is a feeble attempt to break the unbearable barrier of silence between them while refusing to acknowledge the physical boundaries she’s taken the liberty of disregarding. she reaches her arm forward, brushing him in the process of pointing, and her manicured nail taps against a dusty spot on the vase’s cool surface. when she pulls back against she wipes her moist palms on the white fabrics covering her knees so as to keep hidden the thin layer of perspiration that has developed there. where carrillo flounders in the heated she normally thrives ; the SUN has always been an element on her side. the strands of her hair that fall out of her bun now, the tint of red coloring her sun kissed skin, & the sudden need to wet her lips must not be the heat’s fault then, but his own.
cristina might be worried about the unease of her parents by this time were it not for her own selfish absorption with the issue at hand. she’s ignorant to the current presence of the estrada family in the entertaining parlor of the house ; the mentions of her name without a even thought given to her whereabouts & the polite laughs exerted into her parents’ many crystal champagne glasses.
On his knees, next to Cristina between the worn down walls of the storage rooms, Aaron notices how strong the scent of oranges has become. He knows better than anyone that they’ve become nothing short of her signature scent, the images of blossoms and peels following her at every footstep and rustle of skirt. His mother washes her laundry with orange oil, the small brown bottles she’s used over the years piled up to the ceiling. He takes in a breath, the orchards she wears ripening in his nose. The scent causes a tightening in his stomach, the cloth of his innards wringing with anxiety.
She tells him he’s missed a spot, something he hadn’t noticed until she’d pointed it out. The corners of his mouth twist with a wounded sense of pride, one that shouldn’t matter or even make an appearance around a superior like her. He and his peers know their places; they’ve all seen servants fired and put out of work for forgetting their role.
Maybe it’s the relative closeness in age they share (he’s three years her senior, eighteen to her fifteen, although his inner maturity dips to her level when he’s in her presence), since Aaron doesn’t feel the same sense of stiffness he does with the other members of her family. He’s aware of their difference in status, but it isn’t as pronounced when they’re together, more flexible and easily bent than his relationship with the rest of her family.
“I’m not done yet,” he says, always too quick to hop on the defense.
In spite of his pride, he moves to polish the untouched part of the vase, the milky blue portion near her knee. He circles slowly, counting again, this time focusing on the number of breaths that come out of his system than the twists of his wrists as he polishes. He feels a heated blush creep into his neck, silently hoping it won’t pass his jaw into his face.
