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False gets off the bed the moment she hears Cleo’s footsteps come out of the portal. She’s had hope for a little rest in the shade before she continues the grueling work underneath the scorching sun.
She braces herself for the full impact of whatever it is that Cleo has come to do here. Lately it’s been nothing particularly malicious or even useful for them. False guesses—they do it out of pure boredom sometimes, just to talk; it’s not like it’s unwelcome, False has been itching to talk to Cleo for a long time, even during season 10. She might even say she misses her, but that doesn’t quite make sense to miss someone you see almost every other day.
Their footsteps descend down the stairs quickly into the more shaded area of False’s base. Cleo beams the moment they see her in the storage area, pretending to not have heard call-outs for her name a couple seconds ago. They give her a really tight hug, which False tries to return, but fails as her bones make a weird kind of crunching noise. Laughter and light small talk about everything erupt.
Cleo seemingly does not allow herself to let go of False, keeping their hand on her shoulder, patting it once in a while as they chatter on about Joe and Pearl and lobsters, for a reason that False doesn’t quite remember. She notices the touch, though, and the way Cleo tries to keep her eyes peeled anywhere but False’s face, as inadvertently their stare just trickles down.
She sees it when their gaze dips a bit lower than her face, towards her neck and open collarbones.
“What’s with the tattoos?” They ask, looking over, checking.
They allow their hands to pat her down at her sides, False squirms a little at the touch instinctively. Cleo pretends to not pay attention to that. Before False can muster up a somewhat proper explanation, she takes her hand and lifts it to take a closer look.
“I honestly don’t really know.”
Cleo hums in response, letting their gentle fingers circle the jagged scars along False’s calloused ones, looking over the slightly shifting snake silhouette. She can practically feel her skin getting redder, False hopes it’s the heat; there is a stinging thought in the back of her head that it probably isn’t.
“I don’t remember the last time I saw your hands without gloves.” Cleo says, mesmerized by the movement of patterns on False’s skin or the cuts and stars, some of them going up to her shoulders.
And it’s a simple statement really. False doesn’t like being uncovered. She thinks there’s nothing to be proud of to not hide. Cleo has always disagreed but never pushed, no matter how much she’s wanted to.
“Well… There was a bird on my skin one day, and it was moving, and I thought that that was weird. And then there was, like, another animal, and now there is a whole zoo down there…” False waves her hands in the air desperately, trying to come up with something appropriate, more appropriate than “down there,” but she really struggles. Cleo lets out a quiet laugh, which makes False smile slightly.
“They’re really cool.”
They move their hands slowly, checking in for a moment to see if False will show any kind of protest, but the only thing that False does is murmur an awkward “woa” and smile sheepishly, wrapping her arms around their waist, pulling her a little closer. She doesn’t even remember the last time she did protest against Cleo’s touch. In fact, Cleo may be the only person on the whole server who False never refused physical touch, not in private at least. They don’t really show affection in public. False doesn’t like to think about that.
Cleo grips the hem of the shirt and stretches it to expose more of False’s skin, bending down slightly to take a much, much better look at False’s moving tattoos and consequently the cluster of scar tissue that has accumulated over her heart.
They’ve seen them before. False winces. Cleo runs her hand over it affectionately.
It’s really embarrassing how hot and red False’s body gets, how she can’t help but let her eyes trail Cleo’s hands as they, for the lack of a better word, palm at her muscles right above the chest. You’d think that after a decade of this kind of intimacy it would get more normal, mundane, but the only difference is that False doesn’t feel the special need to cover her eyes and instead just lets everything blow over her, getting away with just stirring her gaze away, onto the floor, or somewhere to the side, sometimes to Cleo’s barely controlled expression of glee, though she doesn’t let herself stare at their face for too long either.
As with most things between the two of them, False doesn’t understand this affection or this intimacy or these feelings, but she’s willing to power through, because it feels good. She doesn’t like to think about it though; the sensation of good, it makes her feel shameful, like she’s late for something. It’s no secret to both of them that they are indeed late for it, and yet they still do whatever this is. Not like anyone other than them questions it. False wonders if anyone touches their friends’ chests when no one else is there…
Probably not.
“We look weird.” She says and grabs Cleo’s wrists, which they immediately draw back, tearing their eyes away from the tattoos. Their expression doesn’t get offended or particularly disappointed, but she purses her lips tighter and kind of looks down like always when she’s upset at something not particularly definable. False knows they aren’t upset at her, but she still feels a little guilty about it.
It feels too good, and it’s too late.
An awful thought to keep in mind constantly, but it's not like False can allow herself more than that.
“Yeah, you’re right, sorry.”
False looks at Cleo, their face in the dim light of torches. The way they grimace and wince when the word "sorry" slips out of their mouth. The way the wrinkles deepen a little. She crosses her arms, puts a little more distance, avoids eye contact. False can feel her heart practically swelling, her lungs tightening with some awful mishmash of contradictory sentiments she couldn’t even begin to comprehend.
False looks at the bright sky and the vibrant green landscape stretching behind ancient broken pillars. The sunbeams barely reaching the surface of cold stone floors.
“They look really good on you.” They say with a strained kind of tone to their voice.
The mild panic in between her ribs settles immediately and is replaced with something much less mature and emotionally straining. It’s always so comical.
False looks at Cleo again. She can’t help it. They stand more relaxed, ready to leave, but still waiting for an answer. She feels a soft smile creep up on her face. False tries to hide it, pushes her palm into her face, hair accidentally sticking along, lips peeking through the fingers, tilts her head to the side. She feels giddy, and a giggle gets stuck in her throat, as she mumbles a quiet “Thank You”.