Notes: Three 80-word not-a-drabbles. Donna stumbles across Josh and Sam in a private moment.
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You don�t want to watch.
Pale hands on tanned skin, and the practiced movements speak of familiarity. Strong fingers tangle in rumpled curls, as mouths dart together, then apart, then together again. A dance, a fluid sharing of movement and emotions too long restrained. You should have seen, should have known, but somehow this was beyond your grasp. So you watch, transfixed, and two men do not see you. Blue eyes, brown eyes, they are only for each other. Not for you. Never for you.
You don�t want to hear.
There is a sound to passion, and in it is the rasp of late evening stubble. The whisper of a name that catches in the throat, escapes as a low moan. Their bodies move together, and you hear the echo of a clumsy knee against a wall, the involuntary whimper as one pulls back, just for a moment, to catch a gasp of air. Their heat has stolen the oxygen, leaving them breathless, clinging to each other in wordless need.
You don�t want to feel.
So you hide in the shadows, holding your breath. You don�t think, because thinking now would be dangerous. Instead, you watch, and are captured by the beauty. You can feel their heat, even from here, and you shiver because you are left cold on the outside of it. They don�t turn, because they have no reason to, and because the darkness shields you. You cloak yourself in it, and see without feeling, because to feel now would be to hurt.
You don�t want to know.