middle bit of some wip
Mar. 9th, 2011 07:01 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
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skylarksoriginal fiction. premise involves a constantly terrified artist and the guy who tries to get her to do more than pencil drawings. started as a fandom AU, became something i wanted to do for real.
word count: 299.
"I don't," she says, and stops and starts again like she always does, that stalled motor mouth warming to its little bursts of life. "I don't know why you took me here."
Nathanael has his hands comfortably in his pockets while wheat brushes up against his trousers, and Anna looks at his shoes and his ankles and wonders whether they were even made to touch down on fields like these. Probably not. As his hands are in pockets, hers twist together. He knows it without looking at her: her fingers are worried. It's a habit he's considered having her break, because they've both imagined her hands doing precisely that. He despairs over it, and she just squeezes her fingers harder, and Nathanael thinks sometimes that her panicking is going to give him a heart attack. That always makes him frown a little more; You'll be the death of me is simply a lamenting cliché by now, and We'll end up dying together is too romantic a notion.
Somehow.
He's gone too long without answering her, and he knows she doesn't want to say anything about it. He can probably pin down her exact thought processes, in fact. He knows her like gloves, he suits her hands very well, and he looks out at the rustling wheat field they've come to. "You don't like it?" he asks.
Anna looks at him, draws her eyebrows together, and frankly looks perplexed. She tells him, "Nathanael, you're a person who doesn't make a lot of sense," and it isn't that violin string tone from earlier. Why, he might have just been scolded.
"Paint me some wheat," he says, and knows she's immediately terrified. "I have oils you can use."
"Colors," she protests.
"Paint it in grey," is his flippant reply, and he figures that he'll give her golds later on.
word count: 299.
"I don't," she says, and stops and starts again like she always does, that stalled motor mouth warming to its little bursts of life. "I don't know why you took me here."
Nathanael has his hands comfortably in his pockets while wheat brushes up against his trousers, and Anna looks at his shoes and his ankles and wonders whether they were even made to touch down on fields like these. Probably not. As his hands are in pockets, hers twist together. He knows it without looking at her: her fingers are worried. It's a habit he's considered having her break, because they've both imagined her hands doing precisely that. He despairs over it, and she just squeezes her fingers harder, and Nathanael thinks sometimes that her panicking is going to give him a heart attack. That always makes him frown a little more; You'll be the death of me is simply a lamenting cliché by now, and We'll end up dying together is too romantic a notion.
Somehow.
He's gone too long without answering her, and he knows she doesn't want to say anything about it. He can probably pin down her exact thought processes, in fact. He knows her like gloves, he suits her hands very well, and he looks out at the rustling wheat field they've come to. "You don't like it?" he asks.
Anna looks at him, draws her eyebrows together, and frankly looks perplexed. She tells him, "Nathanael, you're a person who doesn't make a lot of sense," and it isn't that violin string tone from earlier. Why, he might have just been scolded.
"Paint me some wheat," he says, and knows she's immediately terrified. "I have oils you can use."
"Colors," she protests.
"Paint it in grey," is his flippant reply, and he figures that he'll give her golds later on.
