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Follo could probably spend the rest of his life thinking about nothing but Gris’ hands.
They are rough and timeworn, full of creases and cracks. He likes the bumps of his knuckles, the shapes of the calluses on his finger tips, the way they feel both soft and rough at the same time, how big they are comparatively when he presses his own up against them.
He often tries to pry out the stories and experiences that shaped them. Make Gris recount all the years at HQ when he worked there and Follo didn’t. Sometimes he can get him talking for hours about the stupidest little things, other times the stories are short and not so sweet. Regardless, he tries his best to remember each one.
Gris wears gloves often. It’s all part of the uniform, Follo knows, because he has his own set as well, but there’s something about poking his fingers under the edge to bother the skin hiding there or pulling them off so he can expose them that feels enticing in a way few other things do. Gris almost never tells him to stop, even if Follo thinks he might want to sometimes. That alone feels almost like a unique type of privilege.
But then again he almost never tells Gris to stop, either.
There is this way Gris’ hands touch him that is so incredibly different from any other way he’s ever been touched before.
Sometimes they check for injuries, prodding and pulling and patting to make sure nothing is bruised or bent or broken on any part of his person after they demolish a trash beast before they return to headquarters.
Sometimes they fix things that are unknowingly out of place, a piece of hair that’s settled wrong, the edge of his vest folded in on itself, food still stuck to the corner of his face after he left the cafeteria too hastily.
Sometimes they are so gentle and intimate it makes him feel like he might literally explode.
Follo grew up attempting to hold hands that always slipped out of his grip and only ever shoved the affection he tried to offer to them back in his face. He never thought he would manage to find a pair that would want to willingly reach out and hold onto his.
It feels fond, in a way. Follo doesn’t think he’s ever had anyone be fond of him before.
“Why do you touch me like that?”
The question slips out without meaning to. Something about being too lost in the moment between them to have the normal mental walls and verbal filters up.
“Like what?”
Gris’ voice is deep and low. Not quite a whisper but softer than speech.
“The way you always–with your hands, I–I don’t know.”
He tries to backtrack, defensively, suddenly feeling a bit juvenile and foolish for even trying to ask what feels like a stupid question.
“Mmm… like this?”
Fingers trail down his arm until they reach one of his hands, move over his palm with a gentleness that’s so light it almost borders on ticklish. These hands could crush him instantaneously if they wanted, they do it all the time to dangerous, life ending threats. But here, in this moment, all they do is trace along the edges of Follo’s skin in a way that makes all the unneeded tension inside of him dissipate.
“You always gave me the impression that you liked it.”
Gris’ fingers fold, fitting in between Follo’s own, pressing their hands together. Follo’s heart flutters. He’s never felt more comfortable. More assured that
“Well, I mean, yeah.”
It’s an honest reply, because there’s no reason to even try to lie. He grips Gris’ hand back then feels a tug as Gris pulls him over, up and on top of him, so he’s resting against his chest. Their hands remain clasped as Gris’ free hand comes up to run through his hair. Follo closes his eyes and leans into it. It really does feel nice.
“I like doing things you like. Especially when I like them too.”