[ There aren't any words needed. Steinbeck's movements say more than his mouth is willing or able to admit. Yet Kaspar sees no need in forcing things that already feel so naturally understood. A look in someone's eyes, a caress, or the way their shoulders lean, can say so much more. Communicating need or feeling with touch is as simple for Kaspar as the unconditional, undemanding affection he offers those he wishes to envelop within it. The language is Kaspar's second, with all the complexities and nuance he sometimes wishes he could translate into words. Speaking them would still feel hollow when trying to describe why the lean of Steinbeck's head into his hand makes his chest ache for him instinctively.
Kaspar's fingers mirror Steinbeck's, trailing down to the other man's neck only to card back up his nape, clean nails grazing up into his hair. Kaspar's eyelids flutter as the touch to his own neck raises goose bumps and wavers his glow to pulsing slowly. Loving and gentle, Kaspar's touch belies his strength, even in the firmer press of calloused fingers; a reminder that Steinbeck is revered, important. And not fragile or broken. At least to him.
The words too, Kaspar somehow hears over the indulgences of their embrace. They have him humming, a sound felt more than heard in his throat. Some might care about him in the end. Many won't. His own beat of warm silence and caring fingers, before he admits--- ]
... I have, found people to care about.
[ Another, subtler, squeeze has his fingers curling into Steinbeck slightly. So often, people think him an idiot, slow moving at his own pace, strange, or too laid back. The habit of keeping many thoughts to himself usually persists. Especially in the swiftness with which these came on. But the open vulnerability between them while Kaspar holds someone he now cares for is what ultimately eases the words.
These are the softest ones he's spoken all night, simple and undemanding: ]
no subject
Kaspar's fingers mirror Steinbeck's, trailing down to the other man's neck only to card back up his nape, clean nails grazing up into his hair. Kaspar's eyelids flutter as the touch to his own neck raises goose bumps and wavers his glow to pulsing slowly. Loving and gentle, Kaspar's touch belies his strength, even in the firmer press of calloused fingers; a reminder that Steinbeck is revered, important. And not fragile or broken. At least to him.
The words too, Kaspar somehow hears over the indulgences of their embrace. They have him humming, a sound felt more than heard in his throat. Some might care about him in the end. Many won't. His own beat of warm silence and caring fingers, before he admits--- ]
... I have, found people to care about.
[ Another, subtler, squeeze has his fingers curling into Steinbeck slightly. So often, people think him an idiot, slow moving at his own pace, strange, or too laid back. The habit of keeping many thoughts to himself usually persists. Especially in the swiftness with which these came on. But the open vulnerability between them while Kaspar holds someone he now cares for is what ultimately eases the words.
These are the softest ones he's spoken all night, simple and undemanding: ]
Even if they are not always in my cup.