[ He waits for the flick of an eye, the betrayal of a scowl, a flinch. But there's none of that. Just intense, approving, wanting observation. But Sylvain has good control. This could be habit, could be calculating for something else, could be --
The space between them is gone, and Sylvain directs his gaze, hand roving just as wanting as it had before. His eyes widen as the man speaks, every word hitting that same tender, raw space that has been buried under scar tissue for so long. Does he mean that? That the appeal is someone of strength offering to bend, not wielding power over a man who ought to be powerful?
But he's wary. Balthier showed him how words could be twisted to lure in wanting onlookers, and he'd been victim to it before himself. This was a game. This was a game.
So why was his heart beating so fast? Why is Balthier's same voice echoing that he's a right idiot who can't see what's in front of him?
Sylvain steps back abruptly, and this time Basch is glad for the moment of space. His gaze holds just as steady, just as hungry as Sylvain's had, but a strange wave of hot and cold rolls through him, his blood roaring in his ears as he takes in the figure before him.
Scarred. Muscled. A solider.
He understands. He--
Basch's fists clench, and he waits obediently, but the moment Sylvain stills he closes the space between them, kissing the man hard, teeth scraping his lip as his hands rove unabashedly over that skin, one on the torso and one splayed across his back. He's not sure for a moment if he's going to cry, which is odd, because he also feels like he hasn't felt so light in years. This is going to come crashing down, somehow, soon, but right now he doesn't care. ]
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The space between them is gone, and Sylvain directs his gaze, hand roving just as wanting as it had before. His eyes widen as the man speaks, every word hitting that same tender, raw space that has been buried under scar tissue for so long. Does he mean that? That the appeal is someone of strength offering to bend, not wielding power over a man who ought to be powerful?
But he's wary. Balthier showed him how words could be twisted to lure in wanting onlookers, and he'd been victim to it before himself. This was a game. This was a game.
So why was his heart beating so fast? Why is Balthier's same voice echoing that he's a right idiot who can't see what's in front of him?
Sylvain steps back abruptly, and this time Basch is glad for the moment of space. His gaze holds just as steady, just as hungry as Sylvain's had, but a strange wave of hot and cold rolls through him, his blood roaring in his ears as he takes in the figure before him.
Scarred. Muscled. A solider.
He understands. He--
Basch's fists clench, and he waits obediently, but the moment Sylvain stills he closes the space between them, kissing the man hard, teeth scraping his lip as his hands rove unabashedly over that skin, one on the torso and one splayed across his back. He's not sure for a moment if he's going to cry, which is odd, because he also feels like he hasn't felt so light in years. This is going to come crashing down, somehow, soon, but right now he doesn't care. ]