Tim's hands relocate to Matt's shoulder again, his grip loose and gentle, thumbs brushing lightly along Matt's collarbones and the blossoming bruises he just left above them. They're pretty, he thinks, against the other's pale skin. And if he's being honest, the ones along his rib cage and chest and stomach are, too. No less concerning, of course, but there's something about blood and cuts and bruises that appeal to him the way artwork in a gallery should.
It's morbid, probably. An inclination towards roughness and injury left over from a childhood of abuse and a decade of war. But they make Matt look like a survivor, and Tim likes that.
He shifts his weight up, repositioning himself to make sure Matt has to exert the least amount of energy possible, pulling his head back to watch Matt's face, his unfocused gaze. And his heart aches in his chest because he wants this — Matt, his gorgeous face, the dinner dates and the wine and the intense, mind-blowing sex — forever, while knowing that it will all end too soon.
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branchandroot
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Date: 2016-01-13 11:20 pm (UTC)It's morbid, probably. An inclination towards roughness and injury left over from a childhood of abuse and a decade of war. But they make Matt look like a survivor, and Tim likes that.
He shifts his weight up, repositioning himself to make sure Matt has to exert the least amount of energy possible, pulling his head back to watch Matt's face, his unfocused gaze. And his heart aches in his chest because he wants this — Matt, his gorgeous face, the dinner dates and the wine and the intense, mind-blowing sex — forever, while knowing that it will all end too soon.