[ Stephen's not new. He's spent enough years avoiding conversations to know what that looks like when it's playing out right in front of him. But knowledge doesn't do anything to offset the thrill down his spine at Takeshi's words, the ticking of his pulse with his advance.
He wants him. It's too late for that to be anything other than true. But in that wanting is more than just the desire to touch, and Takeshi's close now. Close enough to look into his eyes and remember the warm pressure of the cradle of his hand, the reassuring murmur of his voice. Remember how those eyes had looked as he'd pushed the knife in. Gaze holding him. Keep your eyes on me.
It's the kindest death he's ever had. The kindest amongst millions.
It must have cost Takeshi dearly.
A shadow passes across Stephen's face only briefly. It tips into the early twist of a fond, wry smile, all breath, all life— and then he's bridging the barely-there gap. One hand makes a home of Takeshi's neck, his jaw, the curve of his skull, the other pressing firm against his belly to slide up the line of his torso, curl around his side, summon him closer. The kiss he means to saturate with all the sharp want that Takeshi's conjured in him burns a little different when lips meet, an urgency too personal for simple lust catching light. The man whose hands had held his heart barely a day before stands under Stephen's palms now. And they are alive. They are alive.
pay no mind to the date, we do not see it,
He wants him. It's too late for that to be anything other than true. But in that wanting is more than just the desire to touch, and Takeshi's close now. Close enough to look into his eyes and remember the warm pressure of the cradle of his hand, the reassuring murmur of his voice. Remember how those eyes had looked as he'd pushed the knife in. Gaze holding him. Keep your eyes on me.
It's the kindest death he's ever had. The kindest amongst millions.
It must have cost Takeshi dearly.
A shadow passes across Stephen's face only briefly. It tips into the early twist of a fond, wry smile, all breath, all life— and then he's bridging the barely-there gap. One hand makes a home of Takeshi's neck, his jaw, the curve of his skull, the other pressing firm against his belly to slide up the line of his torso, curl around his side, summon him closer. The kiss he means to saturate with all the sharp want that Takeshi's conjured in him burns a little different when lips meet, an urgency too personal for simple lust catching light. The man whose hands had held his heart barely a day before stands under Stephen's palms now. And they are alive. They are alive.
He is so grateful. ]