Author: Daydreamer
Posted: March 11, 2003

His Fingertips Are Addictive

His hands are large and rough. Strong hands. Working hands. Callused palms and callused fingers. Short, square nails. A powerful grip. Hands that can hold a gun or throw a punch or hold a felon immobile. Hands that know labor and have purpose and work for good.

And yet ...

His hands are surprisingly gentle. Large and strong and powerful, yet his touch can be as soft as a kitten's whisker brushing against my face. Hands that comfort when I hurt. Hands that have stroked my cheek and brushed my unruly hair away from my eyes. Hands that have held me tight and helped me fight when it seemed I had no more strength. Hands that have demanded I stay here, that I not die, that I be present at his side for all times.

I love his hands.

But ...

His fingertips are addictive.

Strumming softly on his guitar, pulling music from its battered body, he sings and his fingertips enslave me. Dancing over the strings, nimble shifts from chord to chord, his fingers fly and the songs of his soul echo round me. It is humbling how he bares himself in his music. He keeps no secrets, hides behind no walls. Who he is is right there for me to see.

He feels things so deeply, this partner of mine. Every child who hurts, every misguided youth, every lost soul, they all take a piece of him. He's big, though, tall and broad and strong, and he never lets the battering take him down.

But I see.

I see the way his arms tighten, the muscles bunching hard and firm beneath his shirt. His hands clench, and I see the way he hides his fingertips in the fists that hang by his side.

His soul is there in his fingertips. He covers it with his hands, protecting himself, and I want only to ease his tension so that I can again see his fingertips. Hear the music of his soul. Feel his gentle beauty as he touches me.

Because, you see --

I am addicted to his fingertips.

Bold fingers, drumming endlessly against the dash of my car. The constant sound thrums against my nerves. Relentlessly demanding my attention. Busy hands, active hands. They dart about, they wave in the air, they reach out and touch me, as if I need his touch to capture my attention.

I am already addicted.

I drive, but my eyes seek out his hands, my ears listen to the rhythm of his fingertips. Music I have heard him play, songs I know by heart flow from his fingertips. Steady tapping on my dash -- and he is innocent and has no idea that I need him so. That he is both my need and my fix.

Because ...

I am addicted.

A bust goes wrong and I am down and his hands are there to catch me as I fall. His fingertips graze my lips, shushing the muted animal cries of pain that whimper out. His hands staunch my blood, holding me together as we wait for help. And he never realizes that he is all the help I need. When the others arrive, his fingertips touch my cheek, my hair. They stroll over my shoulders and down my chest and then they rest gently against my heart. Fingertips tapping in rhythm with the beat of my heart. His words are music again calling to me, telling me I must stay, and dimly, in the recesses of my mind, I wonder that he doesn't know that I can never leave.

Because ...

I am addicted.

Then the day comes and he's down, and I am suddenly terrified. He doesn't know how much I need him. Doesn't know I can't live without him. His music, his touch, his presence in my life. Doesn't know that without him, I'll die from an addiction left unfed. There'll be no withdrawal, no pain of loss, because I'm not as strong as he. I can't face a single day without him.

But his hand is in mine, and his fingers squeeze and then his thumb begins to stroke the back of my hand and I realize he is comforting me. He's on a fucking gurney, in a fucking ambulance, with a fucking tube down his throat. On his way to a fucking hospital, with a fucking hole in his neck, and he -- he -- is comforting me.

And, God -- I need it so.

I need the touch of those fingertips -- need the feel of them. Need to know that they can still make music and his simple touch can make me sing. I need the ever-present brush of his hand to calm my speeding heart. I'm weak, and I should be ashamed, but all I know is --

I need him.

I'm addicted.

And he's alive and I'm alive and the sun shines and the seasons turn and my addiction grows stronger and stronger. I wonder if he knows, if he can understand how much I need him.

And then one night those fingertips draw magic strains from the strings of the old guitar. I float on the music of his soul, lost in the high that only he can give. I'm sprawled on his couch, my eyes closed as I let his songs wash over me.

When the music stops, I am too relaxed, too sated to move, and I feel it.

His fingertips.

They brush my cheek, almost hesitantly and I feel an electric spark.

They touch my lips, tracing a lazy outline there, then rest quietly as if requesting entrance.

I'm not sure what to do.

Unbalanced, I wait, and they move again. Gentle fingers, magic fingertips, undoing buttons and burrowing into the fur on my chest.

My heart skips a beat and I long to open my eyes, but I am afraid.

He always was the brave one.

Slow moving fingertips, they stroke and tease and almost without my knowledge, they coax a moan from my lips. Sliding down again, his fingers fumble at my belt and then dip beneath my pants and I can feel every touch, every movement. Coward that I am, I lay back and let him draw his music from me -- let him play my body and make it sing.

And when I have crested and lay panting on the couch, his fingertips are back, touching my face, my hair, stroking my chest and shoulders. Silently asking, 'Are you all right? Was this all right? Are we all right?'

I can't be a coward any longer. I open my eyes and see his soul staring at me through large blue eyes. I reach up and grab his hands, holding them in my own, and then I lift his fingers to my lips. They're still sticky and my tongue slips out and tastes the music he has made me sing. I kiss each finger, watching as the tension seeps from his form.

"I love your fingertips," I whisper and he smiles, relaxed at last. "They're -- magic."

He laughs and pulls his hands away, reaching over to cup my face. His fingers drum gently, almost sensuously against my jaw. "Yours," he whispers back. "They're yours."

"Good," I murmur, nodding. "Because you know ..."

There's a long pause as he stares at me, waiting for me to finish. His patience is astounding. I've just realized -- he'd wait for me forever and I am overcome with joy. I stare into his eyes, wanting to make sure he understands what it is that I am about to say, and I see complete and utter concentration there as he focuses totally on me. I smile and nod again, still high on the music we made together.

"I'm addicted."