[Fanfiction] "It's that ache in your jaw that you can't name, when you want to touch something."
Title: "It's that ache in your jaw that you can't name, when you want to touch something."
Characters: England/Portugal
Rating: PG
They’re not pretty hands by any stretch of the imagination.
The fingers are almost awkwardly long and thin with the nails bitten short, callouses showing on the undersides whenever he turns his hand. They’re a bit awkwardly shaped, spindly fingers with knobby joints and a narrow, feminine palm. The tendons show prominently when he extends his fingers outward to tap against side of the teapot lightly with his ring finger, checking the temperature to make sure the contents aren’t too hot to be palatable.
For all their unwieldy form, they move gracefully through arranging the table settings and cutlery to some pleasing aesthetic. They’re steady as they lift the pot from the kitchen to set it just so in the centre of the table placed in the back garden, dappled and burnished bronze by the golden twilight shimmering through the trees.
They form a pretty cup as England lifts them to cover his mouth and excuse himself for his tardiness in serving tea because really, how uncouth of me to call you at such late hour. Portugal isn’t show much listening as observing how England’s awkward, bony, scarred, and unbeautiful hands, when held up to his lips, are a perfect support for the weight of England’s gaze.
Characters: England/Portugal
Rating: PG
They’re not pretty hands by any stretch of the imagination.
The fingers are almost awkwardly long and thin with the nails bitten short, callouses showing on the undersides whenever he turns his hand. They’re a bit awkwardly shaped, spindly fingers with knobby joints and a narrow, feminine palm. The tendons show prominently when he extends his fingers outward to tap against side of the teapot lightly with his ring finger, checking the temperature to make sure the contents aren’t too hot to be palatable.
For all their unwieldy form, they move gracefully through arranging the table settings and cutlery to some pleasing aesthetic. They’re steady as they lift the pot from the kitchen to set it just so in the centre of the table placed in the back garden, dappled and burnished bronze by the golden twilight shimmering through the trees.
They form a pretty cup as England lifts them to cover his mouth and excuse himself for his tardiness in serving tea because really, how uncouth of me to call you at such late hour. Portugal isn’t show much listening as observing how England’s awkward, bony, scarred, and unbeautiful hands, when held up to his lips, are a perfect support for the weight of England’s gaze.