[ Quick and broken, the meeting of their eyes. That McGillis ensures both keeps the blood from continuing to flood and burn, though it lingers, though it has not fully emptied when the door opens before them. Gaelio noticed on the way. The looks, the imperfection in McGillis's stride, the sound that vibrates close. Gaelio almost believes he can feel it against his arm against his side, carried through the chest against him.
Against farther shoulder, his fingers never still, but shift slow. Enough to pass for idle adjustments, but for kneading. But for curling there, and there, and dragging his thumb into that dip.
That may contribute to what lingers.
He shouldn't. He does not look at his hand, as though by being blind to it, he could be oblivious to it and had no responsibility for it, no need to stop. Only shifting his hold, rather than mapping the muscles of shoulder and neck. Like that he's carried, his eyes downcast, his face flushed, one hand curled low and the other searching, and his legs dead.
And his face itching. Only the right side in a jagged pattern, and he resists the compulsion to rub against McGillis's chest, or to scratch. Whatever prompts it, he knows with a heavy roiling in his gut that if he acknowledges it, scraping fingenails against the suggested line of it, more will break.
Distraction from the discomfort by the door, by McGillis's answer, so smooth as to be slippery, slipping toward insincere.
Gaelio's lips part, but he slants them closed with a prohibitive inhale.
Properly guarded. You can't with me, but I'll do better. I'll do better.
Too much like a plea, too desperate and crafting of excuses.
The table is metal, cold, hard beneath him. The room very bright, very white but for the slates of sleek grey metal, very sterile.
His arm around McGillis necessarily shifted when set down, but he has not loosed and dropped it, not with McGillis's hand, the warmth of his near chest. Gaelio keeps his eyes on McGillis's chin, rather than his eyes, huffing out a breath, struggling against a rush of solemn petulance. ]
If I lie back, I'll feel like a corpse.
[ With his discomfort beaten back, he manages instead to thread a jest through it, and it isn't as easy as it sounds.
Not when it really does feel like that. The metal would swallow him, or water. Why water?
But, he shouldn't prolong this inconvenience for McGillis, shouldn't keep him. His fingers still, palm begins to slide back, over McGillis's shoulder blade. Daring too much before breaking contact. ]
Hurry back.
[ Lightly, lightly, and it's safer not to expose his eyes when he adds, blithely, but quietly, ]
no subject
Against farther shoulder, his fingers never still, but shift slow. Enough to pass for idle adjustments, but for kneading. But for curling there, and there, and dragging his thumb into that dip.
That may contribute to what lingers.
He shouldn't. He does not look at his hand, as though by being blind to it, he could be oblivious to it and had no responsibility for it, no need to stop. Only shifting his hold, rather than mapping the muscles of shoulder and neck. Like that he's carried, his eyes downcast, his face flushed, one hand curled low and the other searching, and his legs dead.
And his face itching. Only the right side in a jagged pattern, and he resists the compulsion to rub against McGillis's chest, or to scratch. Whatever prompts it, he knows with a heavy roiling in his gut that if he acknowledges it, scraping fingenails against the suggested line of it, more will break.
Distraction from the discomfort by the door, by McGillis's answer, so smooth as to be slippery, slipping toward insincere.
Gaelio's lips part, but he slants them closed with a prohibitive inhale.
Properly guarded. You can't with me, but I'll do better. I'll do better.
Too much like a plea, too desperate and crafting of excuses.
The table is metal, cold, hard beneath him. The room very bright, very white but for the slates of sleek grey metal, very sterile.
His arm around McGillis necessarily shifted when set down, but he has not loosed and dropped it, not with McGillis's hand, the warmth of his near chest. Gaelio keeps his eyes on McGillis's chin, rather than his eyes, huffing out a breath, struggling against a rush of solemn petulance. ]
If I lie back, I'll feel like a corpse.
[ With his discomfort beaten back, he manages instead to thread a jest through it, and it isn't as easy as it sounds.
Not when it really does feel like that. The metal would swallow him, or water. Why water?
But, he shouldn't prolong this inconvenience for McGillis, shouldn't keep him. His fingers still, palm begins to slide back, over McGillis's shoulder blade. Daring too much before breaking contact. ]
Hurry back.
[ Lightly, lightly, and it's safer not to expose his eyes when he adds, blithely, but quietly, ]
I'll be lonely without you.