Robin consistently brushes off Much's attempts to talk until Much goes all commanding and grabs Robin by the wrist with a very quiet "No, Robin."
Robin looks down at the hand wrapped around his. The freckles dusting the pale skin of Much's forearm are the exact colour of the desert, and Robin swallows, feeling the gritty ghost of endless sand storms in his throat.
"Much," he says, trying to pull free, "we don't have time--"
"Then we will make time, Robin." Much doesn't let go, and Robin can't make himself struggle in earnest.
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ninetydegrees
no subject
on 2007-11-24 11:17 pm (UTC)Robin consistently brushes off Much's attempts to talk until Much goes all commanding and grabs Robin by the wrist with a very quiet "No, Robin."
Robin looks down at the hand wrapped around his. The freckles dusting the pale skin of Much's forearm are the exact colour of the desert, and Robin swallows, feeling the gritty ghost of endless sand storms in his throat.
"Much," he says, trying to pull free, "we don't have time--"
"Then we will make time, Robin." Much doesn't let go, and Robin can't make himself struggle in earnest.