Blackmail Bachata

Jean's smile is warm, a clever twist of an artist. He feels the stiff plastery tightness where his cheek muscles are weak. Whatever Ceci is doing, its pressing his face, folding new lines onto it, stretching him into a charm and handsomeness he was a decade yet from growing into. His glance gestures to the book. A hungry, raw taste lingers on his tongue. Ceci smooths the edges of Jeans movements, though her curiousity thrums through him.

He takes the wine like they have shared many cups before, and takes a swig.

Thank you, he hands it back in an indulgent manner.

Have you really only ever watched? he then asks, his brows furrowing, the careful articulation of his words implying the promise he could keep a secret. They are close enough to consistently only hear each other. Jean wants to touch Kieran suddenly, but it is just one more emotion in an overwhelming bowl of them that Ceci is mixing.

For Ceci paints over the anxiety that tinges his short question. She shoves a stiff and heavy corpse back into a closet, and sprays perfume on the bitter taste of poison the game leaves in his mouth. And she swats away his sister's voice scolding and hurt, as she's always trying to teach him the rules like their lives depend upon it.