my green

015: those eyes, that mouth

art creds: blustock_ on ig/twt

i became enamored with the idea that where i end, you begin. that when every version of me died, you resuscitated them. and that with every breath i released, you captured.

before

he ponders. amazed.

he watches you with a pureness in his eyes, your reflection living in the gloss that coats his emerald irises. his hand held up in the air, your fingertip tracing the lines on his palm and leaving behind your essence.

the luminance of the moon is what peaks through the blinds and lightens the darkened bedroom. ivory bedsheets, a thick comforter, and throw pillows that are marked and outline your bodies. shadows casted by the wrinkles that have risen under movements you both committed to.

you're retracing his crooked lines. outlining their beginning points and ends, following the peaks and dips, engraving your nail across his palm to paint the center white and have it vanish the next.

by the calluses, you can tell that he's used his hands to mechanize. that he has used them to unscrew tight caps off of water bottles or sodas. that he's used them to open doors, to mold clay as a child, to play in sand, to pick flowers out of the cracks in sidewalks.

you can tell that he's done an abundant amount of tasks with them. some gruesome, sickening, vile acts out of pure agony.

when he wears a short sleeve tonight, the lines on his arms tell you part of his story. with his hands, he's hurt himself. he's done permanent damage to his skin, he's hated himself too rough–too soon.

eren has hated himself too early on. and part of it makes him angry, it makes him upset to think that if he had waited just a while more, he'd have no reason to hurt. now he is indefinitely lined by silver edges, left with scars to remind him of the nights he'd spent drying away his own tears, and at fault for carla's motherly antics.

lemon glow — beach house

you begin again, from the commence of his fingers, down the length of them, and stop at the joints where they connect with his palm. you're furrowing your eyebrows, a crease in between them, and a gap in your lips saved for him if he felt the urge to lean over and taste your thoughts.

"what are you doing?" he asks, he dips his head closer towards you, voice in your ear.

you swallow at the warmth of his breath scattering the skin of your neck, "hm?"

he crookedly smiles, later deadpanning as you concentrate further on the jagged lines on his hand, "what are you doing?" he repeats.

you shrug, the bedsheets rustling under your loose movements, "trying to understand you," you utter out.

the calluses at his metacarpals are next. they're rough. and he shuts his eyes at the subtle trace over each and every one of them. eren settles, drifts into a state that of comfort and dwells into the mattress and sheets and pillow underneath his head.

the music buzzes beneath you both, sending vibrations through the walls and up to the ceiling until you're encapsulated by the symphonies of instruments and voices. it's an upbeat song, nothing melancholic, but the lyrics seem like they'd belong better in a slow love song.

his other hand is flat against his abdomen, below his navel, and a finger taps to the beat of the song.

your eyes are drawn to it, how consistently he drums along with no pause or break or confusion.