Human Touch – Sean’s pov
Pairing: Sean/Elijah
Don’t know these people. No offence intended or money made.
Some people, from the moment they're born, know what their
destiny is.
He's mine.
He's lying in my bed, a half smile on his face as he watches me
move around the room, turning off most of the lights, but leaving
the bathroom one on, and the door slightly open, because I want
to see him, plus he's not comfortable with total darkness.
I climb into bed next to him and prop myself up on one elbow,
leaning over him. I see him take a breath to say something but I
shake my head, and the words die before they're spoken. He looks
at me, the smile fading.
I love him so much, so deeply, that sometimes it frightens me. I
have all these feelings inside me, all for him, and I don't have
room for anything else. When we argue and he stamps off, it
scares me so much because one day he might not come back, and if
that happened I don't know what I'd do. Stupid of me, because he
will come back, I know that. He needs me just as much as I need
him; I can see it when I watch him watching me. Sometimes I worry
about nothing. We don't even argue, not really, just get snappy
at each other. Normal, I know, but I can't help myself, trying to
picture my life without him and realising that there wouldn't be
one. There'd be an existence, not a life.
I reach up and stroke my finger slowly across his hairline,
feeling soft strands catch on my skin. His hair grows a slightly
lighter shade of brown at the roots, only darkening as it gets
longer; at the roots it feels like baby hair, fine and delicate.
That's a word I use a lot in my head when I think of him;
delicate. But it's the wrong word really. He has more strength
inside him than somebody twice his size and weight. He is
utterly, utterly beautiful, or at least he is to me, with a
beauty that goes so much deeper than the way he looks, and he has
an inner core of steel that saves me from myself.
I run my finger down his forehead to the bridge of his nose, then
back up again, rubbing at his forehead. He's grown now, almost
all of his boyishness given over to manhood. Sometimes he looks
like the 1,000 year old soul I once alluded to - old and wise
before his time in a business that worships at the altar of
youth. He'll always be young to me; even when we're doddering
along together on our zimmer frames, I'll still see him like
this. And we will be together when we're that old. He's my
destiny.
I need to do this; I have to imprint his face, his features, on
my mind. Oh sure, I know what he looks like; his face is more
familiar to me than my own. But I want to know what each
individual feature is like, what it is that makes up the whole.
He doesn't understand why I'm doing what I'm doing, but he
doesn't ask. He never asks; he'll let me do whatever I want to
him, if it's done with love. And where he's concerned there's
never a choice, there could never be any other way. He goes
deeper than most people realise, all they see is the charming,
chatty boy. I see the other side of him, the quiet, thoughtful
side. The side that lets me touch him and stroke him and hold
him. I've probably even hurt him sometimes, physically and
mentally, but he always forgives me. I can't describe it, not
properly, not even to myself. He's just the other half of me.
Eyebrows next. I lean down and run my tongue over them, imagining
that I can feel each individual hair. Another part that makes the
whole.
As I run the tip of my finger over the ridge of his eye socket,
he closes his eyes, and I can see his lashes trembling against
his skin. He trusts me so much he'll let me do this, not moving
even when I slide my finger under his eyelashes so that I can
trace the shape of his eye.
He has beautiful eyes, of course. Huge and full of laughter. But
more than that, they show me his soul. They show me when he's
hurt or when he's happy or horny. And he has a way of looking at
me from under those long, thick eyelashes that makes me squirm in
my seat, no matter where I am. I could be talking to the Queen of
England and if I caught him giving me that look, I'd be gone. He
can make me do whatever he wants when he looks like that. Some of
the things I've done because of that look make me blush just to
think about them.
As I move my finger away from his eyes and start to trace his
cheek, marvelling at how delicate that high cheekbone feels, his
lashes flutter and he opens his eyes. They're darker now and I
watch, fascinated, as the pupils contract slightly, reacting to
the light from the bathroom. . He's lost the last of his puppy
fat recently, and now he's even more beautiful. His face has lost
the babyish roundness it had and now his cheekbones stand out,
giving me an idea of what he'll look like in 10, 15 years' time.
I envy his looks sometimes; I would love to be as attractive and
as confident as he is. But then when he looks at me I realise
that as far as he's concerned, nobody else exists. And that's
enough for me.
I follow the line of his cheekbone to his ear, tracing the
delicate pattern there, making him squirm slightly. As my finger
catches the hollow just behind his lobe, he flinches a little bit
and I stop. That's a delicate spot for him, probably second only
to his neck.
He reaches up and rests his hand briefly against my cheek,
whispering my name. People would never believe it if they saw
him; hyperactive Elijah, lying still for as long as I want him
to.
He lets his hand drop away from my face and it lies stretched out
next to him. His fingers are curled up slightly, completely
relaxed, and he sighs, content and happy.
I move my hand again and trace the length of his long, straight
nose. He laughs on another sigh, and I smile
When I move my finger to his mouth, I have to pause, just for a
second. He parts his lips for me, and I would love to dip my
finger in there, then follow it with my tongue, tasting him,
joining him. But that's for later.
His lips are soft and full underneath my finger as I trace their
shape. Made for kissing, made for licking and tasting. I lower my
own mouth until it's almost brushing his, and I feel his breath
against my lips. I hear him swallow and watch as his tongue darts
out to lick his lips. I want to kiss him so much, want to drive
him crazy with lust until he's writhing on the bed so far gone
that he can't even kiss me, barely able to even breathe.
But not yet. I raise my head again, smiling as he groans in
disappointment. The last thing I have to do is run my hand down
his chin, then rest it against his throat, feeling his pulse
slowing down again now that he realises I'm not going to kiss
him.
I put my head on his chest and slide my arm around his waist,
pulling him close against me. I love him, I love his body and his
soul, and I love the all the parts that make him what he is.
He laughs at me sometimes, says I feel things too deeply. And I
know he's right. But even though I can feel this right down in
the deep part of me, it's not deep enough. It could never be deep
enough, not for this.
He puts his hand on my head, stroking his fingers through my
hair, and I sigh, but I still don't speak.
It really doesn't get any better than this.
The End
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