The hand beneath Isaac's doesn't move first; it's the other that lifts to meet it, two fingers reaching between hand and cloth to draw out that glowing bit of glass, lower it to tuck back into a pocket. Defining a positive with a negative. Not this.
(The first time he'd let anyone else touch him, it'd been like trying to scrape off his own skin, raking other people's hands over every bit of him that had learned to want just one, as if the only way to disentangle himself was to shed what he'd been before. Become something new.)
(He doesn't feel disentangled now. He feels like the thing doing the entangling, vines reaching for bricks to twist into against the wind. That's probably not important.)
Isaac doesn't need directions, but Ilias's eyes light at the prospect of giving them, curious in turn what exactly he expects. Shyness? Politeness? Fingers beneath fingers lead up to the collar of his robes, always so tightly buttoned, and unfasten the clasp at the very top -- and the next, and the next, a shaky breath pulled in or released between each, until there's room to slide his hand in around ribs, skin against skin.
(There's a scar, thin white and too clean from the hollow of his throat down, that he tries not to touch at all.) ]
[ If not shyness, perhaps reserve — whatever it is that inspires such earnest attempts at distance —
One unraveled with suspicious ease, along the length of a seam: Pale and deliberate as the path that Ilias cuts around it, and still threatening to snare the eye. Isaac stalls to catch the curve of a rib, fingers splayed to pin Ilias' hand in place. The press of his weight forward, the shift to grip a handful of thigh, betrays more eagerness than he'd care. It's been a while.
(Longer, since there were any secrets worth stealing.)
Stubble grazes under his lips, pressed in again to whisper at a jaw. ]
Like this? [ A huff of breath, amused; another moment to decide that: ] Not like this.
[ It's a shit angle. His neck is going to kill him. ]
Edited (word repetition, my mortal foe) 2019-01-03 06:42 (UTC)
[ A low laugh hums in his throat, even as his head tilts back to bare that vulnerability too. It is a shit angle. The accommodating bend of his knee does nothing to help matters, either — but they're not apprentices relegated to balancing acts in awkward alcoves any longer.
A decision is made; a heated murmur near his ear, and a touch sliding greedily round the back of his neck to the midline, to keep Isaac near as he takes a reluctant step back, ] Follow me?
[ Convenient, that there isn't more furniture in this room after all: a destination, and not much to trip over along the way. ]
[ He shoves, playful, frees hand from hand. It's not the convenient grip to relinquish, that one's still hitching Ilias’ step up the side of his leg.
It makes for a strange, hobbled gait: Four feet and two heads of some Imperial chimera; motion entangled and enumerated by each point of contact — five fingers on his neck, eight teeth in Ilias' — the drum of pulse. They aren’t moving quickly, wouldn’t win a race, but tell that to the blood in his head (lower).
Fumbles at a button, caught in momentary indecision, his or his. But fuck, if robes aren’t the worst for this, and he doesn’t know the Nevarran style to wrangle it blind. Shakes his own loose just enough to stumble, lean into it. What good are arms like that if you can't, occasionally, fall into them. ]
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The hand beneath Isaac's doesn't move first; it's the other that lifts to meet it, two fingers reaching between hand and cloth to draw out that glowing bit of glass, lower it to tuck back into a pocket. Defining a positive with a negative. Not this.
(The first time he'd let anyone else touch him, it'd been like trying to scrape off his own skin, raking other people's hands over every bit of him that had learned to want just one, as if the only way to disentangle himself was to shed what he'd been before. Become something new.)
(He doesn't feel disentangled now. He feels like the thing doing the entangling, vines reaching for bricks to twist into against the wind. That's probably not important.)
Isaac doesn't need directions, but Ilias's eyes light at the prospect of giving them, curious in turn what exactly he expects. Shyness? Politeness? Fingers beneath fingers lead up to the collar of his robes, always so tightly buttoned, and unfasten the clasp at the very top -- and the next, and the next, a shaky breath pulled in or released between each, until there's room to slide his hand in around ribs, skin against skin.
(There's a scar, thin white and too clean from the hollow of his throat down, that he tries not to touch at all.) ]
no subject
One unraveled with suspicious ease, along the length of a seam: Pale and deliberate as the path that Ilias cuts around it, and still threatening to snare the eye. Isaac stalls to catch the curve of a rib, fingers splayed to pin Ilias' hand in place. The press of his weight forward, the shift to grip a handful of thigh, betrays more eagerness than he'd care. It's been a while.
(Longer, since there were any secrets worth stealing.)
Stubble grazes under his lips, pressed in again to whisper at a jaw. ]
Like this? [ A huff of breath, amused; another moment to decide that: ] Not like this.
[ It's a shit angle. His neck is going to kill him. ]
no subject
A decision is made; a heated murmur near his ear, and a touch sliding greedily round the back of his neck to the midline, to keep Isaac near as he takes a reluctant step back, ] Follow me?
[ Convenient, that there isn't more furniture in this room after all: a destination, and not much to trip over along the way. ]
no subject
Anywhere.
[ He shoves, playful, frees hand from hand. It's not the convenient grip to relinquish, that one's still hitching Ilias’ step up the side of his leg.
It makes for a strange, hobbled gait: Four feet and two heads of some Imperial chimera; motion entangled and enumerated by each point of contact — five fingers on his neck, eight teeth in Ilias' — the drum of pulse. They aren’t moving quickly, wouldn’t win a race, but tell that to the blood in his head (lower).
Fumbles at a button, caught in momentary indecision, his or his. But fuck, if robes aren’t the worst for this, and he doesn’t know the Nevarran style to wrangle it blind. Shakes his own loose just enough to stumble, lean into it. What good are arms like that if you can't, occasionally, fall into them. ]