['Survivor's guilt' is an apt term, then, because it is his agony over that survival that seems to chew him up, spit him out — and as the metaphor of knives is risen, familiar now, he braces himself. It's almost easier with the distraction of his own body, ministration of both knuckles pushed in and Cy's warm hand on his cock. They are physical hooks that keep him from sinking too deep and low in his mind, rewiring the part of himself that wants to hide away from the experience of emotion, from the wellspring it hollows within him.

Sharing air, he leans closer into the shelter of where they touch, little breathy sounds loose on his lips.]

Cy, [a name that is a mold for the affection that now pours out of him, every crack and seam their togetherness has created.] Knowing you makes me want to... be kind. [To myself.] Even if it's hard. I'll keep trying.

[He's begun to learn that difficulty between them does not mean the end; there's a foundation that will weather and support against failures and mistakes. So he shifts the leg hooked underneath one of Cy's, and lifts his hips, their hands driving another inexorable push against his ass to open it up.]

I know we just spoke about what we were going to do, but — now I want you inside of me.