[Close as they are, there's likely no missing the way Rufus's pupils dilate — just one more involuntary betrayal, a tell he couldn't hope to hide — when his efforts work, and not just work but exceed expectations. It's not just that he can feel the telling evidence of Tseng's interest against his thigh, and it's not just the noise he makes. It's what he does with his hands, like for a second he's somehow forgotten himself and just reached on instinct to...
No. No, it's a ludicrous thought, better left unrealized. There's no credible foundation to the notion that Tseng might've moved as though to hold him.
And as quickly as it had happened, those long-fingered hands move again, and moot the thought altogether with something far more straightforward to comprehend: he shoves him, handling the complication of getting them onto the bed, and the rose petals bounce up and flutter back down again like a strange halo as Rufus goes lax and allows himself to land amongst them.
(They'll stick unpleasantly everywhere, he thinks at first, and then considers fleetingly how the hue of the petals is too bright and oversaturated to be pleasing against the crisp white of the coverlet, and yet how complementary the red would look against Tseng's black hair and warm skin.)
He digs his elbows into the mattress beneath him, propping himself up and using the leverage to both pull his legs up after him and kick out of the remnants of his trousers as he does so. For being hard, bare, and undoubtedly on display, it's strange how he still finds himself less preoccupied with assessment of his own performance than he'd been before he'd managed to get Tseng to be physical with him.
And so it's his turn to look at Tseng, waiting silently, not deigning to chase after that sir with an inquiry of his own, but letting the absence of remark do all the talking in his place.]
no subject
No. No, it's a ludicrous thought, better left unrealized. There's no credible foundation to the notion that Tseng might've moved as though to hold him.
And as quickly as it had happened, those long-fingered hands move again, and moot the thought altogether with something far more straightforward to comprehend: he shoves him, handling the complication of getting them onto the bed, and the rose petals bounce up and flutter back down again like a strange halo as Rufus goes lax and allows himself to land amongst them.
(They'll stick unpleasantly everywhere, he thinks at first, and then considers fleetingly how the hue of the petals is too bright and oversaturated to be pleasing against the crisp white of the coverlet, and yet how complementary the red would look against Tseng's black hair and warm skin.)
He digs his elbows into the mattress beneath him, propping himself up and using the leverage to both pull his legs up after him and kick out of the remnants of his trousers as he does so. For being hard, bare, and undoubtedly on display, it's strange how he still finds himself less preoccupied with assessment of his own performance than he'd been before he'd managed to get Tseng to be physical with him.
And so it's his turn to look at Tseng, waiting silently, not deigning to chase after that sir with an inquiry of his own, but letting the absence of remark do all the talking in his place.]