[ As if Gaelio could be long spared nostalgia with this man. He might have lingered over the steadiness of McGillis, over the preference unabated from childhood, retaining the simplicity of it. No use, no utility, simple pleasure. But that McGillis leaned, smiled, an expression that continues to unfurl, warming with each beat.
Gaelio invites utility, and McGillis deflects.
Difficult to know, to understand, where they stand, where now falls the line between them and how close they are to toeing over. Sand kicked over, further obscuring, on the beach. The lapping there of the tide, and the lapping of their mouths, had been unable to wash away the past. No more than had collapsing metal crushed it, or what he'd wept then, or the blood.
A different path for his blood now. Not spilling into the shattered cockpit, but creeping along his neck, heated by the smolder in McGillis's smile. McGillis lifts and bends away, and Gaelio keeps himself from leaning over the counter to better see his movements, fixing himself still, his arms almost locked together, his hip to casing.
McGillis straightens again with a single item between his fingers, a strawberry coated in cooled chocolate. The insinuation of health is amusing, exacerbating the angle on his stubborn mouth. Chocolate, too, stirring more nostalgia, again tempered by McGillis leaning, now proffering.
Gaelio's eyes drop, first to the fruit, and just past it, to the tips of McGillis's fingers. It will be a touch sloppy to take it directly, however firm the chocolate, it might yet smudge on his fingers. It might.
But McGillis might insinuate a different option. Where do they stand, after blood and salt water, when they daily reassure one another, when McGillis had kissed him with unmistakable satisfaction before pulling away, when he had never been happy then (whatever the assuaging that followed), but smiles like this at him, now. ]
A challenge, huh?
[ His voice distant with it, but thickening, nearing.
Caution is a matter of should, and Gaelio wrestles still, ever, with should. He lifts his right arm, leaning incremental to extend its reach, apparently extending so to take the fruit between his index and thumb as well. Closer to the stem, whether they would brush, or further from stem and accepting the inevitability of chocolate left behind?
Neither, whether that had been his intention when he began the movement, or what he slides into, mapped path offset by gravity's pull. With fractional space between his fingers and what of the stem pokes loose, they continue, and for only just a second, slide along McGillis's index finger. Though his eyes are not closed to better excuse it.
It's an inadvertent memory, sifted from the subconscious, and it shivers at the base of his spine, low and hot. Understanding in the delay of that second its root, he almost jerks away, half-flustered and half too much changed, too disjointed from the younger ghost his mind had provided for that fabrication. He cannot smile so easily, the air will not ripple with it, though he might not resist the drag of an ankle.
But though his wrist twitches, pulling up his fingers, his forearm and elbow keep rigid and determined, set, and ultimately, his fingers flutter then settle on McGillis's wrist. Thumb tips toward the dip in the base of McGillis's palm, less than a stroke, as he lowers enough to capture the strawberry between his teeth.
What else but that had been in those half-lidded eyes?
The chocolate breaks crisp in his mouth, the fruit's flesh bursting with fresh juice. Gaelio chews without straightening. With both leaning, when he looked at McGillis it's directly across.
More than a shade too daring, perhaps. Such that, even with the time granted for thought and composition by chewing and swallowing, once he has, he's unsure. ]
...Not bad.
[ But his neck's hot, and it sounds less cool than deliberately cool, and unmistakably so. He'll remember shortly to release him and stand upright. Shortly. ]
with that [smug] look upon your face
Gaelio invites utility, and McGillis deflects.
Difficult to know, to understand, where they stand, where now falls the line between them and how close they are to toeing over. Sand kicked over, further obscuring, on the beach. The lapping there of the tide, and the lapping of their mouths, had been unable to wash away the past. No more than had collapsing metal crushed it, or what he'd wept then, or the blood.
A different path for his blood now. Not spilling into the shattered cockpit, but creeping along his neck, heated by the smolder in McGillis's smile. McGillis lifts and bends away, and Gaelio keeps himself from leaning over the counter to better see his movements, fixing himself still, his arms almost locked together, his hip to casing.
McGillis straightens again with a single item between his fingers, a strawberry coated in cooled chocolate. The insinuation of health is amusing, exacerbating the angle on his stubborn mouth. Chocolate, too, stirring more nostalgia, again tempered by McGillis leaning, now proffering.
Gaelio's eyes drop, first to the fruit, and just past it, to the tips of McGillis's fingers. It will be a touch sloppy to take it directly, however firm the chocolate, it might yet smudge on his fingers. It might.
But McGillis might insinuate a different option. Where do they stand, after blood and salt water, when they daily reassure one another, when McGillis had kissed him with unmistakable satisfaction before pulling away, when he had never been happy then (whatever the assuaging that followed), but smiles like this at him, now. ]
A challenge, huh?
[ His voice distant with it, but thickening, nearing.
Caution is a matter of should, and Gaelio wrestles still, ever, with should. He lifts his right arm, leaning incremental to extend its reach, apparently extending so to take the fruit between his index and thumb as well. Closer to the stem, whether they would brush, or further from stem and accepting the inevitability of chocolate left behind?
Neither, whether that had been his intention when he began the movement, or what he slides into, mapped path offset by gravity's pull. With fractional space between his fingers and what of the stem pokes loose, they continue, and for only just a second, slide along McGillis's index finger. Though his eyes are not closed to better excuse it.
It's an inadvertent memory, sifted from the subconscious, and it shivers at the base of his spine, low and hot. Understanding in the delay of that second its root, he almost jerks away, half-flustered and half too much changed, too disjointed from the younger ghost his mind had provided for that fabrication. He cannot smile so easily, the air will not ripple with it, though he might not resist the drag of an ankle.
But though his wrist twitches, pulling up his fingers, his forearm and elbow keep rigid and determined, set, and ultimately, his fingers flutter then settle on McGillis's wrist. Thumb tips toward the dip in the base of McGillis's palm, less than a stroke, as he lowers enough to capture the strawberry between his teeth.
What else but that had been in those half-lidded eyes?
The chocolate breaks crisp in his mouth, the fruit's flesh bursting with fresh juice. Gaelio chews without straightening. With both leaning, when he looked at McGillis it's directly across.
More than a shade too daring, perhaps. Such that, even with the time granted for thought and composition by chewing and swallowing, once he has, he's unsure. ]
...Not bad.
[ But his neck's hot, and it sounds less cool than deliberately cool, and unmistakably so. He'll remember shortly to release him and stand upright. Shortly. ]