Word count: 454
Summary: When you love someone, every detail of them gets magnified
Author’s notes: I tried not to base this on Anthony Kiedis, but RHCP are my favourite band....
My thumb carefully traced the shy wrinkles at the corner of his left eye, brushing past a few of his dark eyelashes that would always flutter in that cute way whenever he was surprised or confused. Touching his face like that within the silent atmosphere of the room made me feel like I was falling for him all over again. My heart rippled and my skin burst into cool flames: love’s physical form. His eyes would reflect everything that I loved about him: his uncanny ability to turn anything serious into a joke; how he would always insist that I had the last bite of food, even if it was that fudge cake that reminded him of his mum; the pleasure that he took in staring at me and crossing his eyes just to make me laugh.
His face and all that it encapsulated was great, but it was his hands that I loved the most. They were the shell to my oyster, the ribcage to my lungs... Never before had I seen such power manifest itself in one place. If I ever cried, one gentle touch on my cheek was enough to calm the harsh sea that erupted out of me like an active volcano. Any time that he performed onstage, my focus was on his hands gripping the microphone as if it would disintegrate if he let it go. He would always sing into his hands as he held the head of the mic, it was like he was kissing me the entire time, eyes closed in delight. He’d always wanted to be a singer.
A sharp pull on my hand snapped me out of my hand-induced daydream as he rushed towards the tube station with me. Over ten years in the industry and he was still late for band rehearsals nine times out of ten. All I could see as we ducked and weaved through the crowd was the tattoo on his upper arm, something to do with a tribe he visited on his travels in the Far East. He had a few more, but that one was my favourite. Anytime I held onto his arm, I’d stroke it lightly with my index finger; the centre of the tattoo was the bold outline of a heart, so sometimes I housed my invisible initials inside of it.
He was a bit of a dork at times, hogged the covers, and he was usually late for dates, but there was nothing about him I’d change.
“Hey, what you thinkin’ about?” he asked, panting heavily once we’d gotten on a train at Piccadilly Circus.
I smiled as I looked at him: his dark hairline, prominent collarbones, the veins under his tanned skin... “Something beautiful.”
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