cake oneshots || book one

Hands

Credit: flameretardant123

Okay so I was trying to make this like really cool shirt (it's really not that cool) and so I got a tye dye kit and transfer paper to put an image on the shirt right?

So the tye dying part was great, it looks good but then I tried to do the image (the tally on the front in the top corner and hemmings 96 on the back)

so I ironed it and peeled the paper back and THE IMAGE CAME OUT CLEAR! LIKE THE FÜCK?

So now I'm gonna have to paint it with fabric paint or something *sigh*

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Hands.

Big hands. Pale and strong with calloused palms and long, gracefully tapered fingers, the tips rough from years of pulling steel guitar strings. Hands that have written some of their most beautiful lyrics in not-so-beautiful penmanship. They look rightstained with ink and indented with the mark of a pen held for hours together. It's what they were always meant to do, just like they were always meant to play guitars with so much ease.

He was used to seeing those hands in certain contexts. Used to slapping exhilarated high-fives against them after they signed their contract, finished writing their first album, played some of their performances.

But those hands asked for more.

Hands that one day grabbed one of his own and lifted it up to a pair of thin pink lips as he stared bewildered into possessive blue eyes. They reached around his waist, pulled him close to a frame that had somehow grown so much more solid, so much more self-assured without him ever noticing. Tipped his face up when he tried to hide his eyes underneath his lashes, elegant fingers tracing over the curve of his lips. His tanner, smaller hand entangled with one of those big, pale ones on the pillow beside his head as their owner made love to him for the first time.

Now he wants to wring his own hands together in nervous tension.

Because those hands are no longer content to simply count up the hills across the sheets between their naked bodies in the safe privacy of hotels and back-stage dressing rooms. They try to intertwine with his in broad daylight, out in public, in front of the long-lens wielding paparazzi and eagle-eyed fans.

Hands that are trying to make a declaration, one Calum isn't sure he is ready for.

But he knows those hands. They're persistent, tireless. Never gave up their dream of playing music. Never gave up trying to draw him closer even when he initially pushed them away.

He's fighting a losing battle.

Those hands are used to getting what they want.