ext_119307 ([identity profile] tezcatl-ipoca.livejournal.com) wrote in [personal profile] al_shairan 2010-10-21 09:10 pm (UTC)

"I am sorry if I offended." His voice and his face are stiff. "Truly your friendship means more to me than any - fleeting pleasure."

"Never offended, dear friend," I say, disturbed that he would think so, and I touch his leg, reassuring. I would not have him think I am disgusted with him. Not ever that.

He sits up and draws me to him. His hand is strong on the back of my neck: no, no softness to him. It makes my heart thump strangely hard, once, like a shock. His lips are against mine, and no, it is nothing like it was when I was his lover, not even after the rough scrape of stubble was long established.

I recognise the sound he makes then. I have heard similar from him before, and now as then it plucks at my gut, and lower. I am startled - my lips soften under his, begin to part - and that is wrong, quite wrong.

I am taken by surprise by my own response, and in that moment for all my hardness I am wholly unmanned by him. Gods help me, I am. But if I push him away he will truly think that I am disgusted, he will be shamed. It is I who should be ashamed. It has been a long time since I have felt such confusion.

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