in this tiny car, arms brushing up against each other, lars reaches over and he kisses you; oh god he kisses you. his breath exposes his indulgence—he’s been eating the cherry pie that you made for the lindstroms as a nicety. his fingers are frost bitten under your ear, and his mustache tickles your lip just right. it’s just enough for you to let out a small giggle, and lars pulls away ever so slightly—needing more, but curious of your amusement.
there’s a crease between his brows as he explores your visage. “is this okay?”
more than. the words aren’t home right now so you manage a wimpy nod. a pleased okay slips from lars’ lips as he leans over the middle console, thumbing your chin—already warm and a little damp from the water you’ve been drinking.
“what makes you wanna kiss me like this?” your voice is barely a whisper.
lars hesitates. there’s one thing on his mind.
“‘cause I like you and I think you’re pretty.”
“you think i’m pretty?”
lars’ mouth curls up into a sweetie smile, eyes twinkling as he nods. he seems so sure of himself, spilling made-up truths out his mouth like he might actually mean them.
lars doesn’t seem to mind it anymore when you touch him. this is so good. this means that he can relax in his own skin and feel the burn in the weaning winter air light up his lungs and singe the hairs on his lip. he can focus on other feelings—like how he’s so desperate daydreaming about what your cheeks feel like in his palms, or how the map of lines under your eyes might mesh with his lips.
it’s so much of a jump—soft pokes on the arm when he’s being a little silly, you stretching out his fingers when they’re gripped together, open, open, open those palms! on bouncy knees so he can say what he’s really thinking a little easier.
it’s new to him, the openness, the sepia, sitting sticky in his stomach. lars thinks he’s gonna—? vomit? scream? beg God to let him live a little longer cause he can’t take the way your skin sticks together in the summer heat? it’s a different kind of good for the first time, and it makes him sick and sour. lars thinks he can’t take it anymore. he wants to live right under your skin just so he knows what he’s feeling isn’t an accident and that he can, in fact, handle it. that it’s not the worst of his past watered down in loneliness. that it’s so good for him—so good that his stomach learns how to settle into something a little less stupid. he can look at you for longer than a few seconds and squeeze his eyes open and shut and open cause the sun’s a little warmer this time.
“honey, you okay?” lars is zoomed in and spaced out all at the same time, trying to suck back in the breaths he’s been puffing over your skin. “we can try again another time.”
“no,” he whispers, too quickly, too quietly, clearing his throat as he speaks. “touch me—?”
it takes so much of you not to kiss him tender. lars takes in your smile, holds it, and stores it for later. it gives him a little boost knowing he’s got something good in store for him.
“i want you to touch me.”
and you do. slowly, lightly across his cheek with the back of your hand, down the sleeves of his acrylic sweater, and finally finding solace in his hands. lars’ hands are big and warm around yours and you squeeze them just enough to bring him to. he gazes down at your junction, and a small smile plays on his lips as he curves toward you.
