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George didn't get much out of sex with John. Not physically anyways. He didn't *not* like sex, it was just, he didn't get a whole lot of pleasure from it. Sure, it was *nice*, but not because it felt good, because it allowed him to actually look at John. It was the way John would reach out and touch him, gently, like he was afraid his fingertips would smudge the fine art of his skin and turn him back into a glob of paint. It was the way his eyes would meet George's, and there would be shyness, vulnerability. John was smart, cocky, detached, but when he was stripped down, he was soft, loving, a broken boy, an unhealed man. His wounds were wet and angry, oozing pus and blood. George saw it in his eyes, in the soft whimpers and gasps, never a moan. George felt it in the way John's tongue worshipped his skin, in the way his hands grasped at his body, begging him not to leave.
When it was over, they were left with a cold, aching silence. George would lay back, staring at the ceiling. He wanted to look at John, he wanted to hold him, but he knew John couldn't. John would slip out without a word, leaving George to his wandering thoughts. Every night George would whisper into the air, long after John was gone.
"I love you."