[Joseph loves him. And Joseph is holding his hand.]
[Which is not new. Not really. They've done this for a while now. Since Joseph got here, actually, that first night when closeness born of fear slipped seamlessly into a desperate need for touch. He's never been so insistent on it since then, but that's just because he's known it was possible, accessible, that he didn't have to fight for it.]
[To lay his hand over Joseph's and twine their fingers together. He doesn't have to fight for that.]
[He doesn't, it's just . . . there. Like he deserves that. Like it's obvious, somehow. But it never has been to him.]
[His breath catches in his throat. He looks up from Joseph's hand to his eyes and gets caught there, looking at him looking back, the absolute unfathomable depths of his eyes, the way his whole body is angled to welcome him close, if that's what he wants — and it is; it always has been, maybe. Or—]
[Does it matter, when and why and how, or should he not care? Should he pick everything apart and analyze, or fly into this uncaring? He doesn't know how to find the middle ground.]
. . . What happens if I say it. If I say I love you. What happens after that?
no subject
[Joseph loves him. And Joseph is holding his hand.]
[Which is not new. Not really. They've done this for a while now. Since Joseph got here, actually, that first night when closeness born of fear slipped seamlessly into a desperate need for touch. He's never been so insistent on it since then, but that's just because he's known it was possible, accessible, that he didn't have to fight for it.]
[To lay his hand over Joseph's and twine their fingers together. He doesn't have to fight for that.]
[He doesn't, it's just . . . there. Like he deserves that. Like it's obvious, somehow. But it never has been to him.]
[His breath catches in his throat. He looks up from Joseph's hand to his eyes and gets caught there, looking at him looking back, the absolute unfathomable depths of his eyes, the way his whole body is angled to welcome him close, if that's what he wants — and it is; it always has been, maybe. Or—]
[Does it matter, when and why and how, or should he not care? Should he pick everything apart and analyze, or fly into this uncaring? He doesn't know how to find the middle ground.]
. . . What happens if I say it. If I say I love you. What happens after that?
[But he can at least try.]