[ It might be the dream, the air of which colors with what they share. Suffused in it, Gaelio has not yet recognized the fabrication of it, a moment invented and stolen from a past long dashed against rocks, long crushed in scorching, screeching metal.
But, it might be the dream that makes nostalgia contagious, or his own disposition toward savoring proximity to McGillis, mind brimming with his collection of every like moment past. It might be both that provides so readily the reel in his mind: the first time McGillis did not step away, did not shrug loose, let him lean. Regularity thereafter, mapping years and growth less by lines against the wall, more by the expanse of those shoulders. The muscle-corded strength of that arm so quick but firm in tugging him close, perceptive of his weakness and encouraging. Flushes of gratitude, born only, had to be only, of blood still rapid from exertion.
No, nothing quite like this. They tended to be more pungent with sweat in the more recent memories, slung against, tanks sticking. If he were to drop his head low, straining his neck but not too far, he could tuck his face between shoulder and neck and inhale, and it's only as his chin begins to tip, as though ceding to magnetism's pull, that Gaelio realizes both the thought and the movement and halts them.
If crimson keeps, even darkens, it must be due to embarrassment alone. After all, as he mutters, voice low and oddly husky, ]
As if anyone wouldn't see you.
[ McGillis Fareed, as much Adonis as Apollo, between spectacle and authority it's laughable to think every eye wouldn't turn and hold. Gaelio does drop his chin, but toward his own chest, curling in -- at which point he realizes the placement of his hand.
Heart thunders in bright red ears as he looks for a second that stretches, and stretches, too conscious of the sturdiness below both hands. Muscle and strength and the effort of years he alone witnessed. A man of Gaelio's size can't realistically fantasize about a truly enveloping embrace, but --
he jerks his hand back, tucks it below his chin. Focus on the sinking, not the blood. ]
...you don't have to trouble yourself. They already think what they think.
[ It must range. Bauduin commands respect, but Gaelio's not oblivious, Carta didn't need to call him a perpetual loser for him to understand. With McGillis, there were some that saw the Fareed heir as humoring the Bauduin. At worst, he was ridiculous. Gaelio rarely minded, at times amused, even smug.
Even if ridiculous, he stood at his side. Jealousy was so unattractive.
Even if ridiculous, McGillis lends him his legs. ]
But, geeze. I'm some bodyguard. You're always looking after me. You'll get tired of it someday, and then what will I do?
[ Don't lean, don't breathe too deeply. His fingers adjust on farther shoulder, shaping deltoid. ]
no subject
But, it might be the dream that makes nostalgia contagious, or his own disposition toward savoring proximity to McGillis, mind brimming with his collection of every like moment past. It might be both that provides so readily the reel in his mind: the first time McGillis did not step away, did not shrug loose, let him lean. Regularity thereafter, mapping years and growth less by lines against the wall, more by the expanse of those shoulders. The muscle-corded strength of that arm so quick but firm in tugging him close, perceptive of his weakness and encouraging. Flushes of gratitude, born only, had to be only, of blood still rapid from exertion.
No, nothing quite like this. They tended to be more pungent with sweat in the more recent memories, slung against, tanks sticking. If he were to drop his head low, straining his neck but not too far, he could tuck his face between shoulder and neck and inhale, and it's only as his chin begins to tip, as though ceding to magnetism's pull, that Gaelio realizes both the thought and the movement and halts them.
If crimson keeps, even darkens, it must be due to embarrassment alone. After all, as he mutters, voice low and oddly husky, ]
As if anyone wouldn't see you.
[ McGillis Fareed, as much Adonis as Apollo, between spectacle and authority it's laughable to think every eye wouldn't turn and hold. Gaelio does drop his chin, but toward his own chest, curling in -- at which point he realizes the placement of his hand.
Heart thunders in bright red ears as he looks for a second that stretches, and stretches, too conscious of the sturdiness below both hands. Muscle and strength and the effort of years he alone witnessed. A man of Gaelio's size can't realistically fantasize about a truly enveloping embrace, but --
he jerks his hand back, tucks it below his chin. Focus on the sinking, not the blood. ]
...you don't have to trouble yourself. They already think what they think.
[ It must range. Bauduin commands respect, but Gaelio's not oblivious, Carta didn't need to call him a perpetual loser for him to understand. With McGillis, there were some that saw the Fareed heir as humoring the Bauduin. At worst, he was ridiculous. Gaelio rarely minded, at times amused, even smug.
Even if ridiculous, he stood at his side. Jealousy was so unattractive.
Even if ridiculous, McGillis lends him his legs. ]
But, geeze. I'm some bodyguard. You're always looking after me. You'll get tired of it someday, and then what will I do?
[ Don't lean, don't breathe too deeply. His fingers adjust on farther shoulder, shaping deltoid. ]