[A small breath, it hitches in his throat and he smooths his thumb over the other man's skin. His eyes open though, he merely looks up. Through branches, through leaves still small...]
Two years. Not long at all. [Closing his eyes again.] Why is it the young always impress me the most? [A laugh.] Or perhaps, it's the wait that makes me long.
no subject
Two years. Not long at all. [Closing his eyes again.] Why is it the young always impress me the most? [A laugh.] Or perhaps, it's the wait that makes me long.