* ╰ 𝟎𝟎𝟏. : PUTMAN. ALMA !
“that’s true. you gave me my first cigarette,” alma recalls, eyes fixed on her foot as she rubs the antiseptic through her toes, tongue poked out the corner of her mouth in the dull haze of concentration. two kids on a stone bench, her in a boater hat and brogues, him in scuffed converse defaced by scribbled lyrics, sharing puffs of a malboro red. he’d told her to hold the smoke in her throat and she’d coughed so hard it had made her head spin — almost as much as the rum did, kitten sips from a hip flask, her lipgloss sticking to the spout. sometimes she misses the innocence that came with being that girl. “you seem like the kind of person who’d run out of firsts,” alma states, matter-of-fact, eyes lifting to clock him as she replaces the cap on the salve. she means that he does things, that he’s a person who makes things happen. “ever set a dumpster on fire? had your heart broken? broken a bone?”
her thumb swipes across her phone, blood on the touchscreen as she taps in her passcode, scarcely cares if he sees it, and opens up google. “it says…” alma starts, paging through search results, feasting on snippets in quick succession, a hard line marred into the furrow of her brow. “—oh. perhaps ointment and bandage is the best medicine. if you pull it off, it can damage the nerves. shame.” lips pursed, she mutters with contempt, slides the phone across the studio floor and passes nico the ointment. “still, i appreciate your willingness to try. almost as much as i’d appreciate the impression…” she pauses then, cross-legged as she pulls her ankle into her lap and presses the gauze to her nail. a part of her had wanted him to pull off the nail, to take away a physical part of her, to leave a mark. maybe he’d have kept it in a drawer the way she would if it were his, though alma doubted it. “i never ask for anything nicely.” her expression is pointed as she fixes him with a steely gaze. “you should know that by now.”
𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐑𝐄'𝐒 𝐒𝐎𝐌𝐄𝐓𝐇𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐀𝐁𝐎𝐔𝐓 the blonde that is like lightning. the words that spill out of her pretty mouth shocking like a strike, keeping nico quick on his feet for all these years. alma isn’t the kind of breath of air found in the late afternoons of springs, she’s the sharp inhale of a winter morning, reminding nico how truly alive he is in her presence; nerves burned with a lively chill. the male nodded with a nostalgic weariness, reminiscing the afternoon that begun one of many traditions. his grandma and her red malboros, echoing down the hallway as he left / don’t let me catch you with my ciggies, vinico. one of the few promises he managed to keep.
❛ do i ? here i thought i still had time, ❜ he joked. her syllables were like little jolts. limbs curling close to his body as he leaned into alma’s curiosity. ❛ yes, no and no - but it’s on the list of things to do. ❜ he mused, eyes moving to meet hers. stuck on his tongue, do i surprise you alma putman ? he had no reason to lie, but to be oh so truthful about it as well - nico felt like a sinner on a hot sunday morning, witnessing a holy miracle. hands reach for the ointment to shove back into its’ little tin callously. gentleness was something nico had to work at, a boy made of second hand rage and broken stone, but see how desperate he is to be so in front of her. ❛ as you should, once in a lifetime opportunity to see the actor in me. ❜ mused with a warm hum. would she laugh at such a silly performance ?
eyebrows lifted and fell with a sigh, torso leaning back to keep a safe distance. ❛ eh, i should, shouldn’t i ? ❜ hand lazily scratching at his other propped up arm, ❛ old habits tend to die hard, blondie. ❜
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