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Nat and Misty sit cross-legged and face-to-face, hunched over in their tattered blankets and furs. Their hands work in shaking, silent tandem.
Nat makes a hm in the back of her throat as Misty’s frigid fingers brush hers, tugging the shoelace loose to twine it back around. It’s the first noise they’ve made since they started the cat’s cradle and Misty looks up, startled, like she’s shocked that she made Nat react, made her break the blanket of quiet.
Nat glances up sharply, eyes dark, daring Misty to speak, to shatter this fragile thing.
Misty doesn’t. Nat nods.
Their fingers spread and twist, dry skin and callouses rasping against fraying red nylon. They started simple but are heading towards something more complex, their hands further apart, creating an intricate web.
Misty almost loses the shape, making a tiny squeak in her throat, but she catches it with her thumb, the cradle taut once more.
“Good,” Nat whispers.
Misty glows, cheeks red, smile tucked down in her scarf.
“Red string of fate,” Lottie murmurs from her spot by the fireplace. Her dark eyes haven’t left the joined space between Misty and Nat since they started. “Pull them tighter.”
Nat swallows, looking down and away from Misty. She wants to roll her eyes, brush off Lottie’s ramblings.
But this thing between them took time. Effort. Concentration. Dirty string, frozen hands.
Nat’s eyes find Misty’s, and they silently continue, palms drifting closer and closer. Neither of them are ready to let it go.