Don't mind if I do. [ Harry retorts lazily, watching the way his things wind up all over the place. His hiking boots too, because he's bent over to wrestle them off his feet and roll them each towards the wall and out of the way. Unlike John, he keeps his socks on out of unconscious habit, even though the floor is carpeted and that is a luxury he likes. Soft, fuzzy carpet - like the hodgepodge of rugs he's thrown about the stone floors of his apartment. He barely resists the urge to shuffle across the carpet and pop John in the nose with a finger of static electricity, if only because by the time he's straightened up, the man is back and in his space.
John's hands are warm on his hips, and so's the rest of him - what little has brushed up against Harry's shoulderblades, and the heat of his body. The contact, the warmth - it's nice. Whatever retort had been on the width of his tongue fades when thumb meets his skin. He turns a little more, knowing it might break contact for a moment, because he wants to raise a hand of his own, reaching out. Then rethinking it. Quietly, he curls his fingers to his palm, bringing the fist to his mouth. A whisper of faux-Latin that brings a spark into his eyes, locked on the other man's.
Harry's fist then makes contact with John's torso, over the spot where the old scar is - the one he's seen with his own eyes, the one that hurt from the cold. Gradually, he spreads his fingers out over it, releasing the cupped heat across skin and into muscle, and holds it there. ]
I get cramps when I run sometimes. [ Suddenly overcome by hesitance, he looks to his hand, rather than John's eyes. ] Can't use a heating pad, so...
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timeasmymeasure
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Date: 2012-11-22 07:21 am (UTC)John's hands are warm on his hips, and so's the rest of him - what little has brushed up against Harry's shoulderblades, and the heat of his body. The contact, the warmth - it's nice. Whatever retort had been on the width of his tongue fades when thumb meets his skin. He turns a little more, knowing it might break contact for a moment, because he wants to raise a hand of his own, reaching out. Then rethinking it. Quietly, he curls his fingers to his palm, bringing the fist to his mouth. A whisper of faux-Latin that brings a spark into his eyes, locked on the other man's.
Harry's fist then makes contact with John's torso, over the spot where the old scar is - the one he's seen with his own eyes, the one that hurt from the cold. Gradually, he spreads his fingers out over it, releasing the cupped heat across skin and into muscle, and holds it there. ]
I get cramps when I run sometimes. [ Suddenly overcome by hesitance, he looks to his hand, rather than John's eyes. ] Can't use a heating pad, so...