[ armand’s presence washes over him, flows through him, summer sea warm. with it, the tension in his broad shoulders eases, spine still curved over the sink, eyes still set upon his hands, his fraying cuticles. ]
I’ll come tomorrow. I’ll stay tomorrow.
[ as long as they let him. perhaps even if they call him elsewhere. he isn’t in the habit of obedience. ]
[ longer each time they’re together, it seems. traces that linger beyond their physical togetherness.
like this: the attic still has armand’s record player, needle hovering in wait.
and when tomorrow comes, bob rises too early, at once exhausted and wired, alert to the new-oldness of his body. he knocks on armand’s door when the light has only just begun blooming outside, sun not yet risen. quick to wrap his arms around armand’s middle, though no longer split-second fast (lacking the oomph of all that strength and energy). he buries his face in armand’s hair and breathes deep. ]
[ Affirmation like a beacon. A long time. Yes. Something to hold onto as the evening draws in and night begins; their captors have discovered the advantages to having a subject who doesn't need to sleep, and there are long hours to fill with content before dawn arrives.
He's freshly showered, bruises faded, when Bob's presence resolves itself outside his door; he's pulling it open before he has a chance to knock, accepting him into his arms. Closing the door again behind him for all the privacy it gives them, so he can hold him close, one arm around his shoulders and the other around his middle, feeling the thud of a mortal heart against his own chest. Warm and strong and precious. He strokes Bob's hair and closes his eyes. Hums soft, tender nonsense for as long as he needs -- as long as they both need it. ]
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
no subject
I’ll come tomorrow. I’ll stay tomorrow.
[ as long as they let him. perhaps even if they call him elsewhere. he isn’t in the habit of obedience. ]
no subject
[ He'll find a way to explain it, or not. There's not much else he cares about as much as this. ]
no subject
[ longer each time they’re together, it seems. traces that linger beyond their physical togetherness.
like this: the attic still has armand’s record player, needle hovering in wait.
and when tomorrow comes, bob rises too early, at once exhausted and wired, alert to the new-oldness of his body. he knocks on armand’s door when the light has only just begun blooming outside, sun not yet risen. quick to wrap his arms around armand’s middle, though no longer split-second fast (lacking the oomph of all that strength and energy). he buries his face in armand’s hair and breathes deep. ]
no subject
He's freshly showered, bruises faded, when Bob's presence resolves itself outside his door; he's pulling it open before he has a chance to knock, accepting him into his arms. Closing the door again behind him for all the privacy it gives them, so he can hold him close, one arm around his shoulders and the other around his middle, feeling the thud of a mortal heart against his own chest. Warm and strong and precious. He strokes Bob's hair and closes his eyes. Hums soft, tender nonsense for as long as he needs -- as long as they both need it. ]