kisses ! ( forehead kisses ) * / accepting
“ HANAYAUKU, ” softly, the sound of her voice barely raises above that of the waves. the spring weather ought to not facilitate walks on the beach, but she had dragged him away from the party, both overwhelmed and underwhelmed by the crowd. her heels remain, stark and crimson against the pallor of the sand, thrown somewhere a few steps back and she buried her toes in the sand, watches the border where the water kisses the shore. it’s quieter here, somehow, despite the winds and the ocean. more peaceful than in a room full of strangers who look at them as if they are concepts and not people, the awe and reverence reserved for something otherworldly and odd and not human. she feels younger now than ever, a reminder that at twenty three she has already seen genocide unfold, lost so much, faced almost certain death.
“ the act of walking on tiptoes across warm sand. it’s kwangali, i think. ” his hand is heavy in hers, where she refuses to release the vise of her grip on him, because to do so feels too akin to letting go completely, to spiralling out of control, and nyota loves being in control. it’s warm too, far warmer than the coolness of her skin and she takes a step closer to him, presses her shoulder and head to his arm. they lost so many people. could have lost many more, could have died themselves but they didn’t so here they are, away from a party held in their honour, together on a deserted beach, a moment of respite in the middle of paperwork and hearings and repeating the same thing over and over again to very important people. he does not dignify her with a reply, but she feels the tension in his shoulder loosen, and when she finally starts crying, when her breathing becomes irregular and she has to gasp for air, his arms come around her and she hides her face against his chest, lets the sound of the waves and the steady drum of his heartbeat wash over her.
“ cafuné — the act of running your fingers through someone’s hair. ” she says later, when her eyes have thankfully dried and his fingers are closed around the glass of wine she had given him, the one that’s slightly chipped and which always causes him to frown. ( ‘ someone’s gonna get cut on this, ny, ’ he says, every time, like clockwork, and the ritualistic nature of it brings her more comfort than she’ll ever admit. ) her fingers are, indeed, carding through his hair, at a rare advantage with him sitting and her standing, and his hair is softer than one would expect, curls around long digits and tickles at her palm. but leonard is softer than one might expect, beyond the rough exterior, and he cares so much sometimes she wonders how he manages to keep going, how the weight of it all does not crush him.
it’s simple, when they’re like this, for her to bend down and press her lips to his forehead. instinctive, even, in a way that makes her smile against his skin, because his hand wraps around her forearm to squeeze once, and breathing gets a little easier, the beat of her heart a little less jagged. outside her window, fireworks explode into the ink - black sky, bathing san francisco in reds and blues and yellows. inside, they’re curled up on her couch with her padd on his thighs, and the sound of the mindless comedy they have picked together lulls her to sleep.
