[Breathing seems like an impossible task for a moment. The only thing that makes it possible, when that moment passes, is that all he can smell is Joseph, his skin and his sweat. All he can feel is Joseph, the pleasant weight of him, the warmth of him, the feeling of marks dug into his back under Caesar's fingers. It makes him shudder, startled at how much such simple things are affecting him, have been affecting him. If he could see Joseph's face right now, he thinks he might lose his mind entirely.]
[He's got the strangest urge to apologize. For making it weird, for moving too fast, for wanting Joseph too much or in the wrong way, somehow. For not being good enough, for ruining things. But he doesn't. It's not that he can't, but he feels that he shouldn't, because every single time Joseph has said I love you he's meant it from the top of his head to the tips of his toes. That seems like a sacred thing. Caesar can't contradict it; he can't and shouldn't ask for more than that.]
[So he doesn't. He turns his head and kisses under Joseph's jaw instead, slow and shivery but not at all hesitant. Joseph tastes like sweat, in a good way. It's going to be a problem, he's pretty sure, if they ever train together again. He's not going to be able to focus, thinking about the slope and taste of Joseph's neck.]
[His fingers relax gradually, fingertips running over the marks dug in Joseph's back. They're kind of nice. They make Joseph his, don't they? That's got to be what they mean.]
. . . Hope I didn't hurt you.
[He mouths at Joseph's Adam's apple, humming low and thoughtful, then lets his fingers trail down to tug at Joseph's belt loops in uncertain request.]
no subject
[He's got the strangest urge to apologize. For making it weird, for moving too fast, for wanting Joseph too much or in the wrong way, somehow. For not being good enough, for ruining things. But he doesn't. It's not that he can't, but he feels that he shouldn't, because every single time Joseph has said I love you he's meant it from the top of his head to the tips of his toes. That seems like a sacred thing. Caesar can't contradict it; he can't and shouldn't ask for more than that.]
[So he doesn't. He turns his head and kisses under Joseph's jaw instead, slow and shivery but not at all hesitant. Joseph tastes like sweat, in a good way. It's going to be a problem, he's pretty sure, if they ever train together again. He's not going to be able to focus, thinking about the slope and taste of Joseph's neck.]
[His fingers relax gradually, fingertips running over the marks dug in Joseph's back. They're kind of nice. They make Joseph his, don't they? That's got to be what they mean.]
. . . Hope I didn't hurt you.
[He mouths at Joseph's Adam's apple, humming low and thoughtful, then lets his fingers trail down to tug at Joseph's belt loops in uncertain request.]
Can Iā?