Summary: During the election, at Thanksgiving at the Snyders, Noah finds strength in holding hands.
AN: My first foray into Nuke fanfic, just a drabble thing, but these two are way too cute to pass up. Snatched the title from Ze Bard.
Warning(s): Noah's point of view - I don't know why such a thing would need a warning, as I would think a foray into Luke's mind would be much, much more dangerous. Sappy. Sorry. (I lied, totally not sorry.) During the election-fight time.
for saints have hands
that pilgrims' hands do touch
and palm to palm is
holy palmers' kiss.
-juliet, romeo & juliet
Oh god, our hands still fit perfectly together.
I'd always thought it was just something that happened - hands fitting together, I mean. Hands were made for holding, of course they would fit with one another. Holding someone's hand is a natural thing. Palms match up, fingers lace. But from the first moment I ever held Luke's hand, I knew we belonged.
It sounds sappy and stupid and completely untrue, but everything about our hands symbolized what we were to each other.
Luke has sexy hands. That much is obvious. He has long elegant fingers, meant for creating art or playing the piano or something equally graceful and creative. (God knows what would happen if he ever did play the piano, but we won't go there.) He has hands meant to be ink stained, too concerned with creating something beautiful and wonderful out of words than with tidiness. I've dreamt about those hands countless times - tangled with mine, clenched in sheets, all over me.
My hands aren't much to look at. Calloused and rough, they seem unfinished almost. Too wide or large to be seen as graceful, too clumsy for anything like that. Luke always said he liked them though. He'd always said there was something infinitely attractive about rugged hands. He always smiled that sly, sexy smile whenever he said it too - the one that makes me blush every time. (The one that I miss the second most. I miss the shy, sweet, awestruck one he wears when I tell him I love him most of all.)
God, I miss him so much. This stupid election thing and this ugly fight of ours pretty much ruins every single day for me. I can't wake up without thinking about him. I can't work or eat or sleep without seeing him. There's a part of him in everything I do and although it hurts like hell now to think about him, I know I wouldn't have it any other way. I'd rather have pieces of Luke than no Luke at all. I miss him every second, but I can't see a way out of this.
And now, here I am, at a Snyder Family Thanksgiving - holding his hand.
They call it grace, the prayer before dinner. Right now, I know that there could be no other name for it. Luke's palm is warm against mine, and I remember nights of curling around him on the couch and holding his hands in mine. I can remember peace and love and satisfaction. I can remember every perfect breath and every steady beat of his heart. Emma once told me it was called grace because grace can mean forgiveness. It can mean mercy.
With Luke's hand in mine, it only ever meant home.
As our fingers lace together, it feels so incredibly right. Like nothing else I'd ever feel. Emma's voice washes over me, and I hear the warm cadence of it more than anything else - but some words slip through.
Words like love. And share. And God.
Dear God, please fix this. Fix us soon.
AN: Expect much more from me soon. I've been working on a long - pretty adorable - Nuke fic in my every waking moment. Should be fun. Anyway, thanks for checking this out, please let me know what you thought - the good, the bad and the ugly, pleases and thank yous.