[As Cy stands to undress, he peruses the supplies, quick to begin cleaning the mess of sticky-dried lubricant on his hand and between his legs. Soiled wipes are discarded in the small corner trash can with a practiced toss without looking—his eyes are tilted up through a veil of dark lashes, instead, to watch Cy reveal himself in a display of warm-toned skin.
It isn't surprising to find no scar or mark on that body, given what he knows of Cy's immortality, his ability to heal the most fatal injury before the damage has even took. Sasuke can see the fluidity and grace in him, the evidence of ease in a body he's had for thousands upon thousands of years, that utter lack of self-consciousness bred from a place of extreme familiarity. He sheds clothes as if going back to a natural state. He moves as if knowing every possible movement his body can make. It reminds Sasuke, a little, of a warrior whose armor is their skin—except this possesses more sensuality than cold economy of presence. There's really no word for it that he can find, but it's difficult not to watch, to admire.
Sasuke has already pulled the towel from beneath his body and also tossed it into a laundry hamper (his suite of a closet is truly standing-room-only at this point, except for the bed). His shirt follows. Then Cy is on the mattress with him, a comfortable distance, gently cleaning the residue from a flat abdomen. He rolls onto his side at the initiation of this contact, so that they face each other.]
Then I was lucky, [after a period of thoughtful quiet,] to find you here. I don't know how this would have gone with someone else.
[Badly, is the assumption. If he hadn't completely succumbed to petrification first—he could have truly hurt someone. Or sent himself down a confusing spiral of autonomy, intimacy, and poor emotional reactions.]
Can I touch you? Not with the intent for... anything.
no subject
It isn't surprising to find no scar or mark on that body, given what he knows of Cy's immortality, his ability to heal the most fatal injury before the damage has even took. Sasuke can see the fluidity and grace in him, the evidence of ease in a body he's had for thousands upon thousands of years, that utter lack of self-consciousness bred from a place of extreme familiarity. He sheds clothes as if going back to a natural state. He moves as if knowing every possible movement his body can make. It reminds Sasuke, a little, of a warrior whose armor is their skin—except this possesses more sensuality than cold economy of presence. There's really no word for it that he can find, but it's difficult not to watch, to admire.
Sasuke has already pulled the towel from beneath his body and also tossed it into a laundry hamper (his suite of a closet is truly standing-room-only at this point, except for the bed). His shirt follows. Then Cy is on the mattress with him, a comfortable distance, gently cleaning the residue from a flat abdomen. He rolls onto his side at the initiation of this contact, so that they face each other.]
Then I was lucky, [after a period of thoughtful quiet,] to find you here. I don't know how this would have gone with someone else.
[Badly, is the assumption. If he hadn't completely succumbed to petrification first—he could have truly hurt someone. Or sent himself down a confusing spiral of autonomy, intimacy, and poor emotional reactions.]
Can I touch you? Not with the intent for... anything.