He can feel you watching him, but he doesn't look up. He doesn't know what would happen if he saw your face, what he would see. There's a part of him that can't believe you offered this. It must be a mistake. But he doesn't want to give you the chance to take it back. He didn't force you. He didn't. And if you're only doing it because it's a sacrifice you feel obligated to make . . . there's nothing at this point that says he doesn't deserve it. He's always been willing to take on your battles as if they were his own. Your purposes become his purposes. You owe him. At worse, you're doing this from a sense of obligation; at best, from a sense of genuine kindness and—friendship. He remembers the night with the brothel, when you introduced him to the concept of last nights. That was friendship, in a strange form. You cared about his experiences, and whether or not he would die fulfilled.
Sex wasn't fulfilling to him, then. But this—is. This night with you is.
Keeping his hand on your thigh, he leans forward to snag the box of tapes onto his lap, rummaging through them for ones he might recognise. He knows your music by sound, but not by name. "What's the song that goes . . . " There is no way to finish that statement; he knows the sound but he can't reproduce it or think of a way to describe it. "It mentions birds. And freedom." He's thinking of Free Bird. "I like that band." He wants to listen to them.
He waits for your help to select the tape, and then turns it down low, so he can talk over it. Even with the snow and ice, the field off CR 18 isn't far. There are some things they should clarify before they get there. He watches his fingers pick at the creases in your jeans, smoothing them out over the top of your thigh and then plucking them up again. It could be read as a nervous gesture. He enjoys the sensation of the rough fabric against his fingertips, your thigh warm and solid beneath it, muscular. He wants them squeezed around his ribs, and your fingers digging into his shoulders, as his hips pound into yours.
Not that he plans to mention that.
"You've, uh—you've never done this before." Kissed him. They've never had sex here. "With—me. I died an angel." He sneaks a glance at you out of the corner of his eyes. "Any sexual desire I felt towards you I still confused as something else." Right? He never made sexual advances to you here? He pauses for a long moment, fingers trailing mindlessly up and down your thigh while he tries to think how he wants to phrase it. "It was—a mistake. The first time I kissed you. I don't, uh. I know this is—pretend. But I don't want to make a mistake this time."
And hurt you. He's not sure why it hurt you before, why this hurts you. But he knows that it does. He doesn't want to hurt you. If there's something you want out of it, that you can get out of it, kissing him, then he wants to give that to you.
no subject
Sex wasn't fulfilling to him, then. But this—is. This night with you is.
Keeping his hand on your thigh, he leans forward to snag the box of tapes onto his lap, rummaging through them for ones he might recognise. He knows your music by sound, but not by name. "What's the song that goes . . . " There is no way to finish that statement; he knows the sound but he can't reproduce it or think of a way to describe it. "It mentions birds. And freedom." He's thinking of Free Bird. "I like that band." He wants to listen to them.
He waits for your help to select the tape, and then turns it down low, so he can talk over it. Even with the snow and ice, the field off CR 18 isn't far. There are some things they should clarify before they get there. He watches his fingers pick at the creases in your jeans, smoothing them out over the top of your thigh and then plucking them up again. It could be read as a nervous gesture. He enjoys the sensation of the rough fabric against his fingertips, your thigh warm and solid beneath it, muscular. He wants them squeezed around his ribs, and your fingers digging into his shoulders, as his hips pound into yours.
Not that he plans to mention that.
"You've, uh—you've never done this before." Kissed him. They've never had sex here. "With—me. I died an angel." He sneaks a glance at you out of the corner of his eyes. "Any sexual desire I felt towards you I still confused as something else." Right? He never made sexual advances to you here? He pauses for a long moment, fingers trailing mindlessly up and down your thigh while he tries to think how he wants to phrase it. "It was—a mistake. The first time I kissed you. I don't, uh. I know this is—pretend. But I don't want to make a mistake this time."
And hurt you. He's not sure why it hurt you before, why this hurts you. But he knows that it does. He doesn't want to hurt you. If there's something you want out of it, that you can get out of it, kissing him, then he wants to give that to you.