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After the quick, competitive clash of swords and words and sharp smiles that start off kind and end like sharks circling in the water, this, this is surprisingly soft. Both their lives are defined by other people’s hands, knights, rooks, every moment of every day an evocative picture painted with someone else’s fingertips.
Once you remove your hand from a piece, it stands.
The trick, then, is to not.
He traces the line of a collarbone with delicate fingers and all the other can think is oh... different..., the way it feels so strange to press against another and not feel small. He thinks of towers, of brothers curled in bed, slender arms arrogant enough to attempt to hold back death, but the press of his lips, the heated curl of a tongue, is anything but brotherly.
A world defined by kings and queens, black and white, lies broken and silent in the corner where this began, tiny marble pieces strewn carelessly across the floor, royalty and pawns alike tipped and fallen, ignored, swept aside for something equally undeniable. Forgotten.
Curled in silken sheets and feather pillows, the world is painted in shades of grey.