"You think I need to be liquored-up to enjoy your company? If that were the case, I wouldn't have come and found you again."
"Hey," he chides, smiling, "there's no accounting for taste in some people, you know?" It's a self-deprecating dig, but it's a fairly harmless one, as they go. And it doesn't stop him from stepping into Vandelin's arms when he reaches forward; one hand delves into his hair, the other splaying warm against the small of his back. Kit rests his face against the crook of his neck and breathes in the clean scent of his skin. He's hungry for this closeness, this intimacy--but for a moment what he craves more than that is this, just standing still with Vandelin's arms around him, listening to his breathing.
After a moment, he admits softly, "I did miss you, salroka." His fingers curl gently in Vandelin's hair.
"You know my taste better than that." It isn't even the terrible pun it could be; it's just a reminder that Kit knows how phenomenally attractive Vandelin has always found him. He hadn't quite succeeded, despite his best and most disciplined efforts, in convincing himself he didn't want this back.
Kit can afford honesty, while it's always been second-nature for Vandelin to obfuscate and hide. Even in his attempts to disentangle himself from all of this and drive Vandelin away, Kit had never for a second been anything but maddeningly, admirably straightforward. And to say something like that, so simple and open and bare and tender, as if it's nothing at all--how? How does anyone?
He tilts his head into a kiss, soft against the corner of Kit's lips. "I'd have come back anytime, you know."
Kit would be charmed--humbled, maybe--to know that's how Vandelin sees him, as a man for whom honesty comes easily and is second nature. In truth he hides in plain sight, and is still hiding; the secret he can't bear to share with Vandelin isn't one he's going to come clean about anytime soon. That secret isn't the only reason that this tender honesty is so hard, so terrifying to commit to, but it's definitely a large part of it.
"I'd have come back anytime, you know." Those words, the soft kiss against the corner of his mouth--Kit closes his eyes and turns his face to return that kiss warmly; already he can feel his body responding to their intimacy, and finds himself unexpectedly self-conscious in the face of it.
Vandelin has no intention of letting him be self-conscious. He'll give Kit all the more reason to respond, catching his lover's lower lip between his teeth and giving it a slow, heated suck, encouraging with a soft deliberate noise of yes, more.
His hands slide down to grasp Kit's ass and pull him in close and tight, hungry for him, making him own that mutual need. It'll be a long time before he stops marveling at how they have all the time and freedom in the world to do this now--but right now, he has no compunctions about indulging in this urgency. They can take it slow later on. They have all the time in the world. (If he doesn't run again, his mind whispers and then he won't.)
He sits on the bed and pulls Kit along, tangling his legs around behind Kit's knees, and trailing warm kisses down his chest with every undone shirt button as his lover stands in front of him.
In the face of Vandelin's evident desire for him, Kit's self-consciousness does indeed begin to slip away, and with a subdued sigh he feels more freedom to indulge in his own. He answers that kiss hungrily and buries his fingers in Vandelin's hair, following him willingly as he's led to the bed.
No; he won't run again. Perhaps it's only his desire that gives him this conviction right now, but the shared heat and need created by their intimacy holds more in it than lust. Kit wants this closeness--even as it frightens him.
It quickly becomes clear to him what Vandelin has in mind as he loosens all the buttons on his shirt and kisses a warm path down his chest and stomach. Breath catching, he drops one hand from his lover's hair to work at the clasps on his trousers.
He isn't used to this craving, this insatiate memory of the taste of someone else's skin, this need for more and more and more of another person. Nobody in Hasmal had been worth that kind of space in his mind. Even Travis had been an acquired taste. But he remembers Kit's scars already, remembers the dusting of silverblack hair under his fingertips, remembers the weight of him in his hand and against his tongue, and the reality is so very much better.
He reaches forward to help Kit work, his own hands uncharacteristically hurried, and forces patience as he takes him in hand to stroke him.
That's Kit's intelligent response when Vandelin takes hold of him, fingers reflexively tightening in his hair before he remembers himself and loosens them. He can't stop the subtle shift forward his hips make--and why should he? This is what they both want.
He shrugs his shirt from his broad shoulders and abandons it to fall to the floor. His hand, now free, shifts to his lover's cheek to trace his high cheek bones, follow his jaw, stroke across his lower lip. "I'm crap with words, salroka," he manages with a breathless smile, a winded laugh that catches on a soft moan. Oh. "I just wanted to hold you--"
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"Hey," he chides, smiling, "there's no accounting for taste in some people, you know?" It's a self-deprecating dig, but it's a fairly harmless one, as they go. And it doesn't stop him from stepping into Vandelin's arms when he reaches forward; one hand delves into his hair, the other splaying warm against the small of his back. Kit rests his face against the crook of his neck and breathes in the clean scent of his skin. He's hungry for this closeness, this intimacy--but for a moment what he craves more than that is this, just standing still with Vandelin's arms around him, listening to his breathing.
After a moment, he admits softly, "I did miss you, salroka." His fingers curl gently in Vandelin's hair.
no subject
Kit can afford honesty, while it's always been second-nature for Vandelin to obfuscate and hide. Even in his attempts to disentangle himself from all of this and drive Vandelin away, Kit had never for a second been anything but maddeningly, admirably straightforward. And to say something like that, so simple and open and bare and tender, as if it's nothing at all--how? How does anyone?
He tilts his head into a kiss, soft against the corner of Kit's lips. "I'd have come back anytime, you know."
no subject
"I'd have come back anytime, you know." Those words, the soft kiss against the corner of his mouth--Kit closes his eyes and turns his face to return that kiss warmly; already he can feel his body responding to their intimacy, and finds himself unexpectedly self-conscious in the face of it.
no subject
His hands slide down to grasp Kit's ass and pull him in close and tight, hungry for him, making him own that mutual need. It'll be a long time before he stops marveling at how they have all the time and freedom in the world to do this now--but right now, he has no compunctions about indulging in this urgency. They can take it slow later on. They have all the time in the world. (If he doesn't run again, his mind whispers and then he won't.)
He sits on the bed and pulls Kit along, tangling his legs around behind Kit's knees, and trailing warm kisses down his chest with every undone shirt button as his lover stands in front of him.
no subject
No; he won't run again. Perhaps it's only his desire that gives him this conviction right now, but the shared heat and need created by their intimacy holds more in it than lust. Kit wants this closeness--even as it frightens him.
It quickly becomes clear to him what Vandelin has in mind as he loosens all the buttons on his shirt and kisses a warm path down his chest and stomach. Breath catching, he drops one hand from his lover's hair to work at the clasps on his trousers.
no subject
He reaches forward to help Kit work, his own hands uncharacteristically hurried, and forces patience as he takes him in hand to stroke him.
"Tell me," he murmurs, "how you missed me."
no subject
That's Kit's intelligent response when Vandelin takes hold of him, fingers reflexively tightening in his hair before he remembers himself and loosens them. He can't stop the subtle shift forward his hips make--and why should he? This is what they both want.
He shrugs his shirt from his broad shoulders and abandons it to fall to the floor. His hand, now free, shifts to his lover's cheek to trace his high cheek bones, follow his jaw, stroke across his lower lip. "I'm crap with words, salroka," he manages with a breathless smile, a winded laugh that catches on a soft moan. Oh. "I just wanted to hold you--"
Well. Maybe a little more than just hold.