[ His awareness of the journey of Takeshi's hand takes on a strange intensity, like his agreement has attuned them somehow— like the words he couldn't find are simmering just under Stephen's skin, called to the surface by touch, heart hammering. Takeshi draws his hand up, places his fingertips over the little scar he must by now have seen a hundred times: always wondered, never asked. Left it, waiting for the answer to come to him should the time ever be right.
His thumb shifts, cards up into the hair at Takeshi's nape, strokes there. An unvoiced I'm here as his gaze flits over his face. Words sink in. The helpless leap of professional fascination is smothered by the fierce urge to keep it safe keep it safe keep him safe— and then it lands. Resleeved.
His breath catches in his throat. Eyes widen, bright with understanding. ]
[Here, Stephen surprises him. Takeshi's concern had been in the alien of it, that he came from a world where it was a known variable that any lover or partner could be wearing a body different from the one they were born with. Could be wearing a different body tomorrow. Stephen, like most of the others here, didn't have that experience, and Takeshi had expected some alarm over the concept, doubts raised over their intimacy, the validity of it.
Perhaps that was still to come. But the immediate was instead something rooted in concern for his deaths, and the dip of Takeshi's expression is tinged almost rueful in the face of that care.]
I was a soldier, Stephen. [Context Stephen already had, but now had to pair with the rest, the reality of a place where bodies were disposable, replaceable, the one true infinite resource to the human race.] More times than I can count.
[ Stephen's hold on the back of Takeshi's neck tightens, a squeeze. His gaze is briefly searching, watchful— and then something shifts, some displeased downward tug around the mouth, and he folds around Takeshi. Palm spreading upwards to cradle his head, other arm curling around his waist. Head turning, lips a lingering press to the skin of his cheek.
He knows how that goes. Different worlds, different contexts, but that same too-great number. That same thankless cycle.
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His thumb shifts, cards up into the hair at Takeshi's nape, strokes there. An unvoiced I'm here as his gaze flits over his face. Words sink in. The helpless leap of professional fascination is smothered by the fierce urge to keep it safe keep it safe keep him safe— and then it lands. Resleeved.
His breath catches in his throat. Eyes widen, bright with understanding. ]
... How many times?
no subject
Perhaps that was still to come. But the immediate was instead something rooted in concern for his deaths, and the dip of Takeshi's expression is tinged almost rueful in the face of that care.]
I was a soldier, Stephen. [Context Stephen already had, but now had to pair with the rest, the reality of a place where bodies were disposable, replaceable, the one true infinite resource to the human race.] More times than I can count.
no subject
He knows how that goes. Different worlds, different contexts, but that same too-great number. That same thankless cycle.
It's lonely. It's really fucking lonely.
He's not going anywhere. ]