Fictober day 2!
Prompt: "This is new."
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Elliot had gradually come to notice an increasingly persistent, almost peculiar habit of Chance's: the man's profound and unwavering focus on his hands. It wasn't a casual glance; it was an intense, lingering gaze, a form of visual adhesion that Elliot found both mystifying and, oddly, endearing. The observation wasn't a one-off realization; it was a mosaic of small, recurring instances that, when pieced together, painted a clear picture of Chance's mild, yet palpable, obsession.

The most frequent occurrences happened during their simple, mundane interactions. Take, for instance, the delivery moments. Elliot, ever the dutiful partner, would often bring Chance an order from their favorite local pizza joint, a simple box of cheesy comfort food that represented a small, shared ritual in their lives. Each time Elliot extended the cardboard box, palms slightly flared as he offered the delivery, Chance's eyes would invariably bypass the steaming, pepperoni-laden prize and anchor themselves, instead, on Elliot's outstretched hand. They would remain fixed there, a rapt, silent audience to the simple action of a hand holding a pizza box, until Elliot, slightly unnerved or perhaps just amused, would have to lightly nudge Chance's shin with his foot. A small, often silent, recalibrating tap was necessary to jolt Chance back to the present, prompting a sudden blink and an immediate, sheepish refocus on the task at hand—receiving the pizza. The routine was so established, so reliably repetitive, that it had become a private joke, a tiny, unspoken eccentricity in the comfortable landscape of their relationship.

This fascination wasn't limited to moments of delivery. It extended into the quiet, shared downtime they carved out for themselves after a long, taxing day. Chance, a man usually brimming with restless energy—a trait perhaps amplified by his penchant for risk-taking and gambling, a habit Elliot had learned to accept with a sigh and a watchful eye—would invent pretexts for physical contact. His go-to maneuver was the well-worn excuse of offering a massage.

"Your hands must be exhausted, Elliot," Chance would declare, his voice dripping with feigned concern, "all that work... let me just rub out the tension for you."

Elliot knew, with absolute certainty, that this was simply a thinly veiled ruse. His work was demanding, certainly, but it wasn't manual labor. Nonetheless, he rarely objected. To Elliot, this transparent ploy was part of Chance's charm. It was a peculiar expression of affection, a strange little idiosyncrasy that made the sometimes-erratic, often-charming gambler seem a touch vulnerable, a little sweet. In Elliot's view, there was something undeniably cute about this grown man, this individual who could be so fiercely independent and daring, resorting to such a transparent pretext just to hold and stroke his partner's hand. He saw it as a harmless, almost puppy-dog-like need for simple, tactile connection.

Tonight was no different. The familiar rhythm of their evening had settled upon them like a warm blanket. They were ensconced on the soft, slightly worn sofa, a familiar dip forming where they always sat, engrossed in a movie flickering on the television screen. The dialogue and ambient score provided a gentle soundtrack to their quiet intimacy. And, predictably, Chance had employed his usual pretext.

He was currently holding Elliot's right hand, ostensibly giving it a gentle, deliberate 'massage,' his thumb tracing slow, concentric circles on the back of Elliot's palm. The gesture was tender, almost meditative, and Chance was humming a light, tuneless melody under his breath, completely lost in the quiet enjoyment of the moment.
It was precisely this quiet, focused intensity that prompted Elliot to finally break the silence and the spell. A sudden, playful curiosity bubbled up inside him. He turned his head slightly on the sofa cushion to look at Chance, his eyes alight with a gentle challenge.

"Hey, Chance," Elliot asked softly, his voice cutting through the cinematic drone, "do you... do you really like my hands that much?"
The effect of the simple question was instantaneous and dramatic. Chance, who had been softly humming and gently stroking, flinched as if struck by a lightning bolt. His humming stopped abruptly, a high-pitched note cut off mid-air. His hand, which had been so confidently possessive of Elliot's, retracted immediately and instinctively, pulling back as if the touch had suddenly become radioactive. The casual intimacy of the moment shattered under the weight of the question.

Caught entirely off guard, Chance's initial response was a panicked, inarticulate stammer. "W-what? N-no, not really!" he mumbled, the denial sounding utterly unconvincing even to his own ears. A desperate scramble for a plausible explanation began in his mind, his brain firing wildly in a frantic, losing effort to craft a satisfactory, socially acceptable lie.

His hands, suddenly detached from Elliot's, began to gesticulate wildly in the air, a frantic, windmilling display that did nothing to support his denial. His mouth became a runaway train, a nonstop engine of mumbled, defensive self-justification. He rambled, trying to over-explain the situation away, his words tumbling over themselves in a clumsy cascade of defensiveness. The harder he tried to sound casual and convincing, the more clearly the truth shone through his obvious panic. All the while, a fiery blush had begun to creep up his neck, engulfing his cheeks, and settling firmly across his nose. His whole demeanor radiated an intense, almost comic distress, the look on his face suggesting that his brain might, quite literally, be on the verge of thermal overload and explosion.

Elliot, far from being concerned, was simply amused. He couldn't help but let a soft, fond chuckle escape his lips at the spectacle of Chance's complete loss of composure. It was a reaction that was pure, genuine, and utterly revealing.

Moving with a gentle grace that always seemed to calm Chance, Elliot reached out. He lifted both of his hands, the very objects of Chance's peculiar fascination, and cupped them tenderly around the sides of Chance's hot, flushed face. The sudden, intimate touch acted like a circuit breaker, instantly short-circuiting Chance's frantic verbal machine. He froze mid-sentence, his eyes wide and fixed on Elliot, the redness in his face only intensifying as he focused entirely on the hands framing his face.

"It's okay," Elliot said, his voice soft and persuasive, stripped of any judgment or mockery. "Come on, just tell me. Why do you like them so much?"

The combination was simply irresistible. Being touched by the very hands he secretly admired, and simultaneously hearing that gentle, soothing voice, was enough to melt any remaining defenses the poor man had erected. Chance was easily, irrevocably disarmed. His resistance evaporated. He stammered again, his hand instinctively going up to scratch nervously at his cheek, but this time his words were laced with an attempt at honesty, a clumsy, heartfelt confession emerging from the emotional wreckage.

"Well... I-I just," he began, struggling to find the right articulation for such an unexpected, tender oddity. "I just really like looking at people's hands, I guess. And especially... yours."

As he spoke the words, a small measure of his composure returned. He reached out and gently took Elliot's left hand, the one that had just been cupping his face. He held it carefully, as if it were something fragile and precious.

"Your hands are genuinely so soft," he confessed, looking down at the simple, connected gesture of their two hands. "They're just... very comfortable. They actually remind me of clouds."

Clouds. Now that was a new one, Elliot thought, a genuine, private smile blooming in his heart. It was a bizarre, sweet, and utterly Chance-like comparison.

He never would have expected the gritty, street-smart gambler to come up with such a poetic, delicate analogy. It was the perfect, ridiculous summation of Chance's complex character.
Elliot's heart swelled with tenderness. He leaned forward, closing the small gap between them, and placed a gentle, affirming kiss on Chance's forehead.

"Well, there's nothing wrong with that," Elliot whispered, his lips brushing the skin. "Next time you want to touch them, just say so. You don't have to invent a fake massage."

Chance's reaction to this simple, generous validation was immediate and heart-melting. His eyes instantly lit up, shining with a brilliant, almost puppy-dog-like relief and pure joy, the equivalent of a small, loyal canine being given a completely unexpected, magnificent treat. He immediately leaned into Elliot's hand, nuzzling his cheek lightly against the back of Elliot's fingers, as if savoring and confirming the softness he had just described. It was a purely instinctive, affectionate gesture, a quiet confirmation of his delight.

The predictable, yet entirely new, result of this heartfelt confession was that for the remainder of the evening, the movie was completely forgotten. Chance, emboldened by the explicit permission, never let go. He grasped Elliot's hand, holding it firmly and gently, refusing to release his newfound, officially sanctioned treasure. The physical connection remained unbroken, a continuous circuit of warmth and affection, even as the movie ended and the time came for them to finally retire for the night.

Okay, now this is maybe pushing it a little, Elliot reflected internally, a mixture of exasperation and deep affection washing over him as he eventually settled his head on his pillow. His hand, still firmly captured in Chance's steadfast grip, was beginning to feel a distinct, dull ache—a mild throbbing sensation—after being held tightly, almost continuously, for close to three solid hours. The man was certainly a little extra in his affections, but as Elliot drifted off to sleep, his last conscious thought was that a slight wrist ache was a small, negligible price to pay for the utterly ridiculous, cloud-obsessed love of his life.