Alan’s heart beats steadily, a trusty old machine bringing him back to lucidity, letting it wash over him like a warm blanket. His hands seem to shake a little less. Maybe it’s the drugs, maybe it’s the vulnerability the drugs afford him, but Alan let’s her touch him without protest. The space he carefully protects is finally open to her and all he can do is sigh. No fuss is made. His spine shifts and his back bunches like his insides are looking for a place to settle but soon his body quiets. He’s quiet when they pull off, almost unable to speak. Letting the moment pass puts his mind at ease and he shuffles around in his seat, cradling his head to one side. “Hard,” he says clearly, as if to explain himself, “it’s huuuuhard sometimes.” She’s right, it’s just a bit of grass, he tells himself, rubbing his knuckles against his forehead. Alan’s thankful Edith is a tolerant woman. Seeking out her gaze, Alan confesses, “I thought-thought this cou-cuh-cuh-could make it better-better.” Something like mirth colors his tone. “Uh-Uh-mmmmmm, not my-my finest hour.”
@folkangel - CONTINUED FROM HERE