Work Text:
there is nothing you can do to make him stay past what you have already done.
he's here, he's hooked, he's entranced by your work. and still it is not enough.
you cannot satisfy yourself with admiring him in silence, not with the sight of strong arms decorated with blood, not if it's only to move bodies; not with his murmured praise, not if it's only towards the inanimate.
it isn't enough, to engrave into your memory the curve of his neck as he watches your arm, the feeling of his fingers lightly tracing over your veins as new color blooms through, how he lets you cling to him through the worst of the muscle spasms and then a few moments longer. you want more, and even you aren't sure what you mean.
he stands in front of the laboratory table, sorting through the chemicals, and you watch his warped figure through the beakers separating you. he pauses to pore over your notes, flipping distractedly through notebooks and loose papers, and you watch his back from the doorway.
these are the scraps you live off of until you find the means to cut yourself a larger portion, until the right knife is in your hands. no matter how thick the blood flows, you will get your fill -- you've never been squeamish before, anyway, and you won't start now, not when every glance whets your appetite further.
and what of those times when he looks back at you? what of those brief moments when your eyes meet through the glass, when he catches you lingering, and an irrational ache seizes your heart?
sometimes he smiles, and you're left to pull your face into a mockery of the expression, only succeeding when his attention is already diverted. there are notes to take, chemicals to mix. you both have better things to focus on.