[He lets Hector roll over, surprised he wants to, and more surprised by the quiet hope in his words; words that seem unmeant for him, even if they're only his to hear. I was rather looking forward to the heat, he wants to say; a throwaway answer, any easy one that only skims the surface of who he is and what he believes. But somewhere along the way, it lumps like a stone in his throat, aching with the way Hector is looking at him. Isaac can only look back, lost, searching for the Hector he knows best in those eyes and the shape of his face and wondering where he's gone, and who this man is, pressing a kiss to his mouth, with Hector's lips.
He tenses. His jaw doesn't soften into it, but he doesn't push back either.
It's a slow thing, so gentle it shouldn't be happening at all. A whole other world of touch from teeth and nails, pushing and pulling. But of everything he's ever felt, it's this that hurts most, because it doesn't make sense; because he's done nothing to deserve it. And no one ever told him it could be so sweet.
On a different night, he might've scoffed. Could've laughed in Hector's face, the easiest thing to do. But something in this kindness keeps pulling at him, willing him to stay, to soak up everything Hector can offer, like a dying plant, and he feels sick. There isn't anyone like Hector - there never was and never would be. And god help them both, Hector's either teasing him or, worse, has no idea what he's doing, falling for the idea of making a human connection, or missing love so badly he'll settle for anything, anyone.
Isaac pulls away suddenly, his eyes wide and silvery, darkening as he sits up. His chest heaves. He needs air, needs out. He needs the edge of his knife slicing another scar-to-be into himself to feel right again, or the closest thing to it. But reaching for it means turning and showing his face, and he can't do it, not when it's twisting against his every effort, his breath rattling in his throat. It's his turn to show his back, his effort to end a conversation before it can even happen.]
:']
He tenses. His jaw doesn't soften into it, but he doesn't push back either.
It's a slow thing, so gentle it shouldn't be happening at all. A whole other world of touch from teeth and nails, pushing and pulling. But of everything he's ever felt, it's this that hurts most, because it doesn't make sense; because he's done nothing to deserve it. And no one ever told him it could be so sweet.
On a different night, he might've scoffed. Could've laughed in Hector's face, the easiest thing to do. But something in this kindness keeps pulling at him, willing him to stay, to soak up everything Hector can offer, like a dying plant, and he feels sick. There isn't anyone like Hector - there never was and never would be. And god help them both, Hector's either teasing him or, worse, has no idea what he's doing, falling for the idea of making a human connection, or missing love so badly he'll settle for anything, anyone.
Isaac pulls away suddenly, his eyes wide and silvery, darkening as he sits up. His chest heaves. He needs air, needs out. He needs the edge of his knife slicing another scar-to-be into himself to feel right again, or the closest thing to it. But reaching for it means turning and showing his face, and he can't do it, not when it's twisting against his every effort, his breath rattling in his throat. It's his turn to show his back, his effort to end a conversation before it can even happen.]