‘I keep – thinking about your hands,’ Beau tells her, staring at them.
It’d be easy for Jester to make a joke of it. Beau thinks she even sees the mischief in her eyes, the lightning spark of playfulness as it occurs to her, even sleepy, even sad. But that’s not what Beau meant, not really, and she’s still really fucking sad so before Jester can make the joke, she continues, forces her tongue to cooperate with the words before her drunken mind can catch up and realize, hang on we’re making a fool of ourself here.
‘I kept thinkin’ – what if – what if, y’know, she wanted your hands like you said but you’re smart so you said just – here, just,’ Beau waves her other hand out like a lordling scattering coin. ‘Take my – my drawing, my music, my mending. Leave the hands, take everything else. Leaving you with empty hands, hollow hands, sad hands. And the more I thought about it, Jessie, the sadder I got and I just –
a commission of my choice of specifics for soft beaujes from a user on the birdsite. thank you so much!