He reached out his hand and stretched down, until he reached foot of
the man beside him. The pale skin of the sole caught the moonlight as
it streamed into the room. He didn't touch the soles of his bed
partner's feet, for he was ticklish and would wake instantly and he
didn't want that. He placed just two fingers on the ankle, circling
the joint before he moved up long leg. At the knee he stopped.
Letting one finger trace over, and map out, the mess of thick scar
tissue behind the joint. A souvenir of war, a time they both endured
and could never forget, a time when they only had each other. When
their love was fast and desperate and wild, love that kept them alive
in mind as well as body. He moved on, letting his hand fan out, to
feel the width of the strong thigh muscle, then pulling all but one
finger back, as the graceful curve at the top of the leg led his hand
in.
He wanted to cup the full round balls, but he held back. He wanted to
stroke the flaccid member as it lay in soft repose, but he daren't.
For to do that would wake the owner of the impressive shaft
instantly. So he let his hand hover over it, as if it's innate power,
it's inner strength, could radiate up into his hand. He moved on
reluctantly, to the twin pale globs that faced him. So smooth and
perfect, so wonderfully inviting. Using just one finger, and with a
feather light touch, he ran the digit up and along the valley before
him. As he reached the base of the spine, he let his other fingers
spread out again, delighting in the feel of the warm supple flesh
beneath them.
Next he traced his partners back. With two fingers, barely touching
the pale skin, ghosting over the contours of each vertebra, he worked
his way up. When he reached the neck he began to trace the line of
one shoulder, now just with a single finger. On reaching a familiar
landmark he stopped, a puckered, star shaped scar, slightly indented,
paler than the surrounding skin. His memory drifted back to the day
that mark was gained, a selfless act of foolish bravery, which had
saved his life. He remembered days sitting in a dim room, praying
that the fever raked man in the bed beside him would recover. That
once more those eyes would open and gaze on him with such love, such
devotion and loyalty. Love he did not deserve, devotion he had never
been worthy of, loyalty he did not earn. He dipped his head to brush
a kiss to the scar and moved on.
Now he traced the other shoulder, what he could see of it. These were
broad shoulders, strong and powerful. Strong enough and wide enough
to carry a heavy load, to carry their own troubles and another's. His
finger moved back to the nape of the neck, entwining in the thick,
soft, curls of dark hair that hung down. Absentmindedly noting his
partner needed a haircut. Moving on he ran the tips of his fingers
down one long arm, tracing over the curve of the powerful muscles. He
stopped again as he found a scar, his one was old, no more than a
thin pale line. It was his fault, a drunken shove that resulted in
the arm being pushed through a window. He didn't remember the
incident, he didn't remember anything that went before it, but he
remembered the blood, do much blood and all his fault.
Moving on he came to the hand. Big hands, safe hands, hands that
could kill, hands that became wonderfully animated to illustrate a
story, but were amazingly skillful and tender, hands that comforted
and loved and pleasured. He moved so that he could lift the fingers
kiss each one. There were scars here too. Tiny, so small they were
almost invisible; little parches of smooth, unridged skin on the
fingertips. Burn scars, scars from pulling franticly at chard and
smoldering timbers, heedless of the damage they inflicted, scared
because he didn't stop to tend his wounds, not when he had another to
tend. As he placed the hand back on the mattress his lover stirred.
"'S morning?" he muttered.
"No, my love, not yet."
He moved to kiss his lover's neck, kisses so gentle they were but a
breath. He moved down and around, working his way, kissing his way
toward that inviting mouth. They kissed, not deeply, not
passionately, but softly, gently, easily, a slow rhythm born of
familiarity.
He pulled back and whispered. "Sleep now."
He kissed and nuzzled at his partners back and neck and ear until he
was once more asleep. Then he contented himself with watching,
feasting his eyes as he had his fingers. He watched and memorized -
once more - every curve, every plain, every valley of his beloveds
body, then, and only then, did he pull up the old patchwork quilt to
cover them both. Safe in a warm dark cocoon of love, together for
another few hours, before they once more faced an ugly world.
The End
