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Evan looks at the backs of Connor's hands; the bumps of his knuckles like marbles under his skin. Black fingernails, trimmed short and freshly painted. His arms and his jaw and the thin, splintery bones of his throat like bird wings. Connor’s chest, Connor’s hips, Connor’s legs, Connor.
And for some reason.
For some stupid reason.
Evan looks down at himself.
He’s never really done that before.
(OR: Connor is beautiful. Evan has a breakdown. Also sex.)
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