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ESPRIT DE CORPS – Kim carefully navigates around another roadblock, silently cursing the meeting that has him out here well beyond the curfew. The power is out again, blackout curtains drawn against what little light is generated by lanterns and candles, generators and battery-powered torches. His headlight is the only bright thing on the street. Shuttered windows and anonymous wooden and stone walls pass by slowly, passing in and out of the single beam as he avoids another obstacle.
You shake your head to clear it from the lingering sense of foreboding and look over the bedroom. He'll be here soon enough. You have a task to complete. Now – do you have enough candles? It looks like there's enough, but... more is more, right?
RHETORIC – Actually, less is-
SAVOIR FAIRE – More is definitely more, superstar! Make it look like the freaking night sky in here, right now!
Yeah, definitely more. You dig the last few thick, unscented candles from the bag and put them on the only empty spot, the windowsill. Kim deserves everything you've got, right? And he'll be home soon. You heard the siren just a few minutes ago. You try to pretend you're not worried about it, that all it means is he'll be home quicker – that it doesn't mean an aerostatic moving low overhead, or a cluster of planes dropping propaganda leaflets. Worst case scenario they'll drop something else.
ESPRIT DE CORPS – Kim doesn't take chances. He's slowed down to a stop, hugging closer to the nearest wall with the light off. As soon as the hoarse, clanging sound ceases, he grips the handle bars and starts rolling the motorbike along the wall as quickly as possible.
INTERFACING – At least he doesn't have to be nervous for the Kineema. She's safely tucked away in an underground garage, carefully draped in a tarpaulin with all the electrics disconnected. He goes down every two weeks to check her over. He misses her. She misses him. But the motorbike is easier to navigate around obstacles, easier to conceal... and possible to walk a block or two in almost complete darkness, in a pinch.
You stop in the middle of arranging the last comforter on the bed. Maybe you should have tried harder to convince him it's fine that he sleeps at the command centre. It's not worth it just to come home to you, not if there's a risk he'll not come home at all. Maybe you should be there with him. Maybe you should fall asleep side by side on the narrow camping beds, fingers interlaced-
"Harry?"
Fuck. You got lost in your thoughts again. You quickly give everything one last check, then scramble into bed and arrange yourself into something that looks relaxed and cool. There's a little shuffling sound from the other side of the door, like Kim kicking his boots off – and then, it opens.
EMPATHY – He's a little blinded at first.
Slightly too late, you realise why he would be. Outside it's completely dark, but the room is awash in a soft glow. There are lights on every available surface – old revolutionary era lanterns, sturdy candles, a petroleum lamp. Everything you could scrounge up is here. The air is warm and thick with the smell of burning wicks and oil. Every pillow and blanket in the flat are piled up on the bed in a big, comfortable nest, and right in the middle of it is you, stretched out in perfect relaxation – or at least a convincing facsimile.
Kim stops with his hand on the door handle, blinking against the light. The seconds drag on. To break the awkward silence, you wiggle your eyebrows and spread your arms wide in invitation.
His face slams shut like a steel door.
ELECTROCHEMISTRY – It should be everything he needs. Enough to make him pull his jacket off and straddle you, shove that ugly sweater up and cover you in kisses; enough to flip you over, slide into you and fuck the stress out of both of you.
PHYSICAL INSTRUMENT – Months ago it was enough. And now... nothing.
The satisfaction of having surprised him drains in the face of his instant anxiety. He drops the satchel and rubs his eyebrows fretfully, trying to gather enough energy to let you down easy.
"Harry. This is... very nice. But. I'm not..."
EMPATHY – The words refuse to come out. The phrase he wants to say has almost lost its meaning with how many times he's repeated it.
You quickly sit up and wave you hands frantically. "Kim, no, I wasn't- it's good! It's fine. I know things are shit."
"I just-"
"Kim. I know."
I'm not in the mood.
INLAND EMPIRE – Knowing the reason for something isn't necessarily panacea against its effect. If it was, there would be far fewer sad and sick people in the world. Most people in Revachol know perfectly well the reason for the months of protests, trade sanctions and blockades, the continual sabotage and collapse of all civil services and the imminent threat of open armed conflict.
COMPOSURE – When pressed to reflect over it, it's been all too easy for Kim to connect the state of the world to the state of his own body.
I'm not in the mood. A gentle rebuff that turned more stale and stiff every time it got been repeated. You tried to ignore it in the beginning. It was a reasonable response to everything going on. You were both bone tired after all, everything was shit, you had enough anxiety over leaving the force anyway so why wouldn't this be fucked too?
HALF LIGHT – Then you started to get afraid. Stopped asking, got withdrawn and sullen – what if it wasn't just circumstance? What if it was... you? You'd abandoned them after all, too much of a coward to take it any more. How could he bear to touch someone like that?
SUGGESTION – So you got antsy, clingy, over-compensating. If it was you, then you had to make it right, any way possible.
SAVOIR FAIRE – You brought home things you really couldn't afford from the black market, took too many risks in some misguided attempt at looking heroic. It didn't help.
HALF LIGHT – If that didn't help... was it someone else, then?
AUTHORITY – And then you had the bright idea to visit the impromptu command central in the library, snooping around with an air of jealous over-protectiveness under the guise of delivering propaganda material. That was the last straw. Kim hauled you out of there and into an empty alley.
PAIN THRESHOLD – No, I'm not sleeping away because of you, it's because of the curfew. No, I'm not seeing anyone else. Please, be reasonable. Harry. Harrier, for god's sake, can you just-
You wince and grip the comforter tighter. You'd been belligerent, working yourself further into a frenzied mess with every stiff, tired reply. And after digging his heels in for months, he finally blew up in your face – hissed at you to keep out of his business, to stop hounding him.
COMPOSURE – It's bad enough already without you breaking down on me, just because I can't...
ENDURANCE – ... because I can't... perform.
PHYSICAL INSTRUMENT – You'd been afraid because you weren't able to perform your manly duties. Turns out he was, too.
COMPOSURE – And far too embarrassed to admit what the problem was – or let you touch him to discover it.
You'd talked, then, finally. Properly talked, no shouting. When you explained he was so taken aback that he simply couldn't be angry any more. The only thing he could think to do was to fall back to the old, reliable it's not you, it's me.
RHETORIC – Just because something is a platitude doesn't mean it's not true.
VOLITION – You spent the next few days in silence, thinking. Burrowed and bothered, pried and dug with the tenacity of a terrier to try and get to the bottom of it. You needed to make amends so desperately, even though it wasn't your fault.
LOGIC – Well. The jealousy and unhinged misery were.
As soon as everything was on the table, you made it a mission to new things instead, to help him. It was hit and miss – miss, mostly. Of course Kim finds you handsome, yes, you trust that by now, but perhaps not in a way that is flattered by a striptease. Especially not in the underwear you decided on. In all fairness, Kim said afterwards, laughing until he couldn't breathe did a lot for the stress. It didn't do much else.
So. This thing you have planned now is unlikely to change anything. But it was never meant to.
"Harry," he starts hesitantly. "I know you want to-"
"Hey." You grab his hands. "Yeah, sure. Won't deny that I miss the fucking. Kinda hard not to."
Kim hesitates, hands clenching a little in your grip.
ELECTROCHEMISTRY – Your body stretched out underneath him... laid out on your back, propped up, heels digging into his ass. Your fingers gripping the covers as you moan with every thrust. Your warm mouth and wet tongue hard at work trying to coax out more than the usual choked whimpers from behind his hand. He misses it too, but...
EMPATHY – Nothing. Not even a twitch.
He takes a long, slow breath and releases it just as slowly.
"But, but that wasn't what I meant with this," you stammer, desperate to derail that train of thought before it even leaves the station "I, uh. Took care of that already. I just wanted to see if I can make you relax." You nod at the window. "I heard the sirens. We're probably looking at a few hours sheltering in place, right? So we might as well make the most of it."
"Harry. You don't have to-"
"Yes, no, I know," you interrupt. "But we can't do anything anyway, right? What were you planning anyway, drawing up routes again? Another crossword?"
Kim shuffles a little to hide the satchel behind his legs. You're pretty sure that it contains, among other things, a few weeks-old newspapers and a map of northern Revachol. Nothing incriminating or important, of course, but having been caught out with carrying intel would probably have been less embarrassing than this. He folds his arms and gives the satchel a little surreptitious shove to the side.
"Fine," he says levelly. "What do you want me to do?"
Then again, embarrassing him a little is easily worth the relief. You need to be needed, to be useful. You squeeze his hands back, then scramble up and start to pull on his jacket.
"Just lay here right now."
He rolls his eyes but allows you to wrangle him out of his clothes, then onto the bed. The sheets are freshly laundered, still smelling faintly of detergent and the little pouches of dried lavender your neighbour gave you and insisted you squirrel away in the linen drawer. He sinks down into the nest while you arrange it around him, fussing with the blankets. When you're finally pleased with the arrangement you sit down across his hips and press two thumbs into his lower back.
"Ooof."
"Mhm. Knew it."
He's just as stiff as you imagined he would be. The ropey muscles are wooden with stress, twitching irritably under your insistent pressure. After a little initial exploration you cover your hands in oil and start to work in earnest, moving from his lower back all the way up his spine. Your own shoulders relax in time with his, with the relief that he is here, safe, that he allows you to serve him.
VOLITION – You don't need to do this to be useful, you know. Just because you've exchanged the gun and the badge for the brush and the easel doesn't mean you're not doing your part for the resistance. All these long months you've been volunteering your skills wherever you can.
CONCEPTUALISATION – Weaving camouflage netting in the shelter as the sirens blare overhead... painting slogans on walls, rousing posters to plaster across Coalition placards.
SAVOIR FAIRE – And the supplies! All the instincts of the Jamrock shuffle turned into a single-minded hunt for anything that can give you an edge and help you survive. All the usual little things, of course, but the main thing is the sought-after goods – coffee in big military issue bags, slabs of chocolate with no logo, medical supplies and drugs. You have your ways. Kim doesn't ask. You keep some of it, exchange some of it on the black market, and distribute the rest.
EMPATHY – Still... all that is just... survival. Above all else you try to hold the weight of the world off Kim's shoulders. Especially after the talk.
Kim groans again as your fingers find that stubborn knot right under his left shoulder blade. That whole side freezes up again and again no matter how much he stretches and how many hot water bottles you bring. You apply a little more pressure, work the tension from the trapezius slowly but surely. The oil has warmed to a pleasant body temperature. It sinks into his dry skin and leaves a sheen for you to work through.
"All right, turn over."
He acquiesces with a little grunt, then lounges luxuriously in the blanket nest, watching you dutifully start to massage his feet. Less tension here, but more calluses and aching tendons to look out for. You work slower. He hisses a little when you find a particularly sore spot.
PHYSICAL INSTRUMENT – Changing the Kineema for the bike has done a far bigger number on his legs than he'd realised. That's a whole new group of muscles he's had to learn how to use.
God, he's beautiful. Your concentration slips as you watch him relax back into the pillows and into your grip. The massage become lighter the further up his calves you get, until you're stroking his thighs with just the barest hint of pressure. He watches you in silence with a small smile.
EMPATHY – He doesn't mind that you're getting distracted. In fact, it's rather endearing.
COMPOSURE – The massage helped. He's warm and relaxed, far more than he's been in ages. Why not let you feel him up a little?
With calm, soothing strokes you make your way up his thighs. Your rough fingertips tickle the sensitive skin, and he lets out a little amused huff. You grin up at him and grip harder, push into the muscle.
"Fuck, I love this."
"Love what," Kim mumbles.
"This. Right here." You slowly slide your hand up. "Your hips."
Your fingers ghosts over the bumps, following the shape of the bones under the skin. They're more prominent than when you first met. He's more sharp angles now, dark circles under the eyes, worry lines on the forehead.
VOLITION – You fretted over that as well. Said he worked too hard, that he should think about himself more. He said there was no time to think about himself. You felt guilty, greedy.
ELECTROCHEMISTRY – You're greedy now too, aren't you? You want him all for yourself, all of him. Fuck the revolution. He's yours.
Kim hums. He doesn't pull back or say anything, just lets you touch him. It makes you bolder and bolder with each second he gives you.
"Your stomach." You continue across, gently caressing the soft, unprotected skin, the little trail of hair. "All of you."
PERCEPTION – Touching, touching, always touching everything. Experiencing the world with every sense, hollowing it out to crawl inside. Like you've never seen him before.
When you lean in and kiss his lower belly, you feel his fingers in your hair, slowly petting you. You nuzzle your nose in, enjoy the warmth of him against your face. Another kiss, another, another. He shifts, pushing himself up against you.
EMPATHY – Harry...
One last kiss. Then you slide your hands back down all the way to his knees, stop, wait for permission. He draws them up a little, and you freeze. Is he pulling back? Did you misunderstand?
No. All it takes is the lightest pressure, and he parts his legs for you. The insides of his thighs are open to your touch. You take the opportunity with the greedy frustration of months of denial. Just because you have the opportunity, and because you know how it feels to sit on a saddle when you're not used to it, you dig your thumbs into the back of his thighs and into his ass cheeks.
PAIN THRESHOLD – He jumps a little. He doesn't have much in the way of padding there, and what he has is sore.
You grin up at him, then dial it back a bit. Careful, teasing pinches instead, that's the ticket, keep him occupied while you concentrate on his inner thighs.
You kiss him again and again, skirting carefully around the perimeter of his crotch. Your lips always get a little chapped and dry this time of year, no matter how you try to rub them with vaseline. The slight irregularity catches on the little hairs, pulling slightly as you move. He doesn't seem to mind. In fact, within seconds you feel the weight of his hand on the back of your head, directing you. Higher up, further in – all the way to his crotch.
Your heart beats faster. It's been months since you were allowed this. Months since he felt the urge, and now you're centimetres away from his prick, urged there by him.
ELECTROCHEMISTRY – Who cares if he's not hard! You're salivating over being allowed here anyway, big boy. Anything he gives you you'll take with a please and a thank you.
A little more pressure on the back of your head gives you the courage to continue. You press your lips to his dick, lick the silky skin. Your tongue adores the perfect shape of it, plump and mouthwatering. It's just like the rest of him, laying in complete repose – a little to the side, resting on his balls. You kiss to the very tip. Something bitter and salty smears on your dry lips and you hear that little hum again, a wounded sound, somewhere between a sigh and a moan.
If you don't look at something else, you might do something that breaks his peace. So you stroke him instead, calming, gentle, and kiss his thigh again before looking up at him.
"You're perfect."
He gives an exasperated sigh and looks away.
EMPATHY – ... at the peeling wallpaper, at the warm lights, at the supply boxes stored along the wall. Anything not to have to meet your eyes.
PAIN THRESHOLD – He's always wary of the halo, when you adorn him with it. He knows where it could lead.
PHYSICAL INSTRUMENT – It's not just that. It's his own body, too. Nothing is like it used to be. It's become alien to him – thin, unresponsive, unworthy of your attention.
"It's just a body," he mutters.
"It's your body. It's a fucking masterpiece. If I could paint you like you actually look..."
CONCEPTUALISATION – You could. You can. Look at him. Has he ever been more perfect than now? Show him that he's still who he's always been.
"Actually," you say, scrambling to your hands and knees. "Wait. Are you comfortable like that?"
"Ah, well." Kim looks down, around, a little confused at the question. You did just spend half an hour making him the most comfortable he's been in months, after all. "Yes?"
"Not cold, or...?"
"Harry. You just wrapped me in most of the bedding we own. I'm fine."
"Excellent."
You kiss his knee, then get off the bed and start pulling out an easel and one of the big sketchbooks while he watches with a bemused look on his face.
PERCEPTION – A little twitch in the corner of his mouth. He rubs his upper lip, presses a finger to it while he watches you.
DRAMA – A smile, sire. If you were endearing in being unable to keep your paws off him, you're doubly so now.
CONCEPTUALISATION – He's no stranger to the sudden urge to perform a task. It's just that in his case it's mostly technical, abstract, structured. The sensitive whirlwind of creativity that is your mind is dear but unfathomable.
You pull on your painting robe, choose a stick of graphite and get to work. It's like your hand has a life of its own, working without much input. It's not that strange. Kim has been your biggest subject for as song as you've lived together. You know the planes of his face by heart – the shape of his nose, chin, eyes. How the hairs lie on the top of his head and around the ears, the slope of his shoulders, the shapes that make his ribcage and arms. The rest is wrapped in blankets.
You scribble furiously. He moves after a while, pulls a few of the blankets off, allowing himself to still lounge in the little nest but enjoy the flickering warmth of the lanterns. You rip the half-finished page off and start a new one.
"Harry."
"Mhm?"
He pulls a finger across his upper lip, smooths down his moustache. "You can take your clothes off, if you want."
The tone is casual, but with a theatrical hint. Playful. Familiar. It makes you perk up, but you pretend otherwise.
"Yeah? You think so?"
"I do."
"Well." You put the graphite down with a little click. "Guess I should do what my muse desires."
"I'm a muse now, am I?"
"Always."
He watches you undress with half-lidded eyes. You could have mistaken him for disinterested if it wasn't for his fingers – they keep moving, touching his upper lip, the covers, play along the seam of a pillow. He's fully focused. You make sure to stretch out as you pull the knitted sweater off, drag it out so that he can enjoy the long line of your back and the curve of your belly, then undo the knot on your pyjama trousers slowly.
ELECTROCHEMISTRY – Whatever this is, it's much more sensual than any striptease you've attempted. He's not laughing. Just enjoying your body being revealed piece by piece.
The trousers fall to the floor. Then the underwear. You pick them up, fold it all neatly like he prefers.
EMPATHY – You can see yourself through his eyes. The flames casting light from all angles, painting you in multiple hues of orange, your pale skin awash in a warm, rich glow. All rounded shapes, deep shadows in the corners of your eyes, the hollow between your legs a dusky, enticing mystery.
"Mhm." He stretches out on the bed with a pleased little smirk. "Keep the socks."
You obey. The black socks stay on your feet, soon accompanied by the paint-stained robe. For some reason that makes it far more erotic than if you'd been entirely naked. Artistic, somehow. You sit down with as much nonchalance you can muster, then pick the stick up and get back to work.
EMPATHY – This is you again, perched on the stool: relaxed, lost in the art of creating. Casually wrapped in a robe that hides nothing of what he wants to see – a flexing muscle as you reach for another pen. The skin and flesh on your torso settling into soft folds when you hunch over, one finger dragging along the edge of a line to create a shadow. Your legs, parted for balance, and the thick hair between them.
A little bead of sweat runs down your brow, threatening to fall on the paper. You flick your hair back with a little bit of intent, careful not to look at him. There's no need. The quiet hum is enough, the subtle rustle of him changing positions. He's enjoying it, this little fantasy that you've created – this bubble of perfection.
Despite the distraction of his focus on you, you lose yourself in the flow of drawing – in your hands moving over the canvas and your eyes moving over your subject, stretched out on the bed. Time passes. The room is warm and comfortable. The lights flicker occasionally when there's a draft or when you move the pages.
PERCEPTION – You hear another sound. A soft snoring.
You pull the graphite from the paper and stretch out, wincing at the pop in your back. One of the lanterns has gone out, and the candles are all much shorter than you remember. The floor around the easel is covered in paper.
"Kim?"
The room is silent apart from another snore. He always denies it when you tell him about the sounds he makes at night, but he does snore as well as talk in his sleep. You had a full conversation with him once that remembered nothing of the next day. You've done other things to him, and he to you.
Your mind is still buzzing with energy. The creative flow is broken, but your subject is still there in all his glory. The little session you had is all but forgotten at the sight of him. The way he let you touch him before...
You shrug out of the robe and kneel at the foot of the bed. His legs are still parted, one drawn up to the side. His chest rises and falls evenly, eyes closed. When you reach out and touch his foot, he doesn't twitch.
HALF LIGHT – You'll wake him.
INLAND EMPIRE – You won't. He's deep down, swimming in the black ocean.
You need to be closer, so much closer than this. Up on the bed, between his parted legs, moving as slow and careful as a thief in the night until you're flush with him, body to body. Warm, breathing – living.
You slide your hands down his sides again, just like before, infinitely gently, caress the slim lines of his waist. You linger there for a moment – you're not even close to getting them to meet, but the mere suggestion of it has your cock pounding between your legs. His breathing is regular, deep, undisturbed. His face is slack, the mouth a little open, weak chin relaxed. You see a hint of his uneven teeth. Perfect. Your perfectly imperfect muse.
You paw at him with one hand and push a couple of fingers between your legs to stroke your throbbing cock. His own shows no hint of movement, just rests soft and unprotected on his balls. Somehow, here, now, it's fitting, much more so than if he was erect. It reminds you of old paintings and sculptures.
CONCEPTUALISATION – Like pre-Dolorian marble statues, lounging in Arcadian bliss – or a mannerism painting, models stretched out, loaded with meaning in every serpentine line.
ELECTROCHEMISTRY – Please. Please, you need him. You crave him. The cravings you get from sobriety are nothing to this. You need to taste him, smell him, devour him. It's been so long.
He wants it. He wanted it before, this way. You're allowed.
You lean down and drag the tip of your tongue through his pubic hair, pull the scent of him deep into your lungs. Usually he's so particular about his hygiene. But the taps have been unreliable lately, and drawing water from the pump in the yard then lugging it upstairs and boiling it means you mostly take care of the essentials on a regular day. Your weekly soak is two days out. He smells of motorcycle leathers, massage oil and sweat.
You open up as far as your crooked jaw allows, reach your tongue out and slide it under his flaccid dick. It rests perfectly in your mouth. The limp weight of it is wonderful but unfamiliar. His preference is to get himself hard, then let you take him as far as you can – to taste him soft is novel, titillating. How long would it take to get him hard if he could?
You settle down a little and test it out. You mould your lips around the malleable flesh, all of him fitting easily. Suck it gently first, then push your tongue under the foreskin. He exhales slowly. There's a dribble, just a few drops – a salty, musky taste. You moan around him. It's been so long.
PHYSICAL INSTRUMENT – There's no stirring, no twitching. Not even in deep sleep. Whatever's afflicting him will take more than a little massage to work out.
It doesn't matter. What matters is that you're here, tasting him, close to his body. You feels his pulse on the inside of his thigh, in his dick; you feel his breath moving in his stomach, against your face. It's unbearable. You wish you'd never have to stop. You rest the side of your face against this thigh and suck him harder, fingers sliding over your own cock. A little more precum mixes with with your spit. You pull him closer with your free hand, push him as deep as he can go like this.
You lay like that for a while, filling your mouth with him, stroke his skinny torso and yourself in tandem until you can't take it any more.
ELECTROCHEMISTRY – You need to ride something – if not him, then something else.
Careful not to jostle him, you fumble under the bed for the toy box. Anything will do. Your questing fingers close around Kim's favourite, the thick one he loves seeing you use on yourself and sometimes, on adventurous occasions, on him. Perfect. That and a little lube, and you're kneeling above him. He's deep in sleep still, barely moved other than his hand so that the fingers rest on his lips. It looks like he's hiding a smile again, like he was when he watched you undress. You sob and slide the dildo inside yourself.
He loved having you like this – your body towering above him, all of you in reach of his hands. That way he could lay back and direct you. He'd grab and position you, make you ride him harder, pull you down on top of him and squeeze your sides to spur you on. Always loved seeing you without conceits, stripped of all your roles, naked in every way. Like you want to see him.
VOLITION – You never wanted to make him into something he's not. Not that road, not again. What is this then?
INLAND EMPIRE – Reality. Pure, searing, raw. Worse than anything, inescapable. Glorious.
It doesn't take long. The dildo is thick and you've been on the edge for hours. You bite your lip and lean your sweaty forehead on his chest as you come, whimpering quietly, determined not to wake him. When the twitching in your hips subsides and the euphoria has passed, you lay down alongside him. For a minute or two, all you do is breathe in tandem.
Either you made too much noise, or he wasn't as deep as you thought. Either way, he stirs, then opens his eyes. You reach out and caress his cheek again.
"Hey, sleepy."
"Harry. How long did I...?"
VISUAL CALCULUS – Judging from the candles and the amount of oil in the extinguished lantern – somewhere between two and a half and three hours.
"A couple hours, maybe?"
He sits up and stretches, rubs his eyes. His thin body looks so much more vulnerable, suddenly. Your chest contracts with an emotion far more violent than any heart attack.
"Have you been working all this time?"
"Uh. Um. I, uh... took a break."
He frowns in a moment of confusion, then adjusts his glasses and looks you over. You lick your lips and shrug. The frown is replaced by an exasperated smile as he takes in the unmistakeable traces of exertion: the deep flush over your cheeks and chest, a sheen of sweat you can't blame on the candles. And most incriminating: the traces of your cooling spit on his crotch, and the still-slick dildo thrown on the covers.
AUTHORITY – You're a dog caught digging up the flower beds of a particularly nasty neighbour: you probably shouldn't have done that, but he can't deny that he likes the result.
"Well," he says and arcs an eyebrow in your direction. "You seem to have been enjoying yourself."
"I got distracted."
"I thought you said you'd taken care of that?"
"Didn't help," you say and nod at the easel. "Come on. Not when you look like this."
He conceals a laugh in his fists, turns it into a little cough. You hold the robe out, wrap him in it so that he can look at your drawings.
CONCEPTUALISATION – Now that you take a step back, there's a distinctive, shall we say... progression.
Kim's shoulders shake with silent laughter as he looks at your work. There are a number of sketches, and several more or less finished drawings. The first few have him wrapped in the duvet still, then one where he's naked, sitting up and looking off in the distance with a pensive expression. The largest and most fully rendered depicts him fully reclined, eyes closed, one arm draped across his middle and the other with his hand curled underneath his chin.
CONCEPTUALISATION – You spent a lot of time on that one, trying to catch the depth of the shadows and the complex interplay between light and darkness.
EMPATHY – There's something vulnerable in it that's hard to look at, something that makes your chest seize again.
After the big drawing you took an artistic turn. There are several sketches of his soft dick. The last one is half done, abandoned in the middle of a stroke.
ELECTROCHEMISTRY – That's when you decided to go for the real thing instead.
Kim is grinning openly now. He carefully gathers the loose pages littering the floor, then holds them out with a firm shake of the head.
"You're not taking those to the gallery."
"But Kim...!" you protest. "This is some of my best work!"
"I'm not denying that. Still no. You have several of me that won't risk my reputation that are just as good."
"People need to know what they're fighting for!"
"My flaccid penis? I think not." He snorts and presses the drawings into your hands.
"Au contraire. I am. Every day." You put the drawings away, glance at him. "Until I fucking die, Kim."
He stops, stares at you silently. It's an absurd notion, and he won't ever entertain the vision of himself as some sort of spirit of the revolution, standing half naked on a barricade, rifle held aloft. But the fact that you would fight for him? That anyone would fight for him, in this of all conflicts...
The power comes back with a buzzing sound. Reality floods in. You both blink in the sudden, harsh light.
Before you can start putting the candles out, Kim lays a hand on your arm.
"Harry? Thank you. This was nice." He takes a step forward, wraps his arms around your thick waist, pulls you close. "And... I want you to do whatever you did again. Tomorrow. When I'm awake."
You hug him back. For just a few seconds more you can smell the scent of warm wicks, of massage oil and sweat. For a few seconds more you both exist in the perfection of this moment of repose, in the hope that there'll be another.