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“No!” Casey flinches, snatching his hand away. Crimson splatters across Court’s face, but he doesn’t blink.
Casey’s breath hitches. His eyes widen and his eyebrows furrow. Despite the circumstance, Court can’t help but find his expression endearing.
Crouched as small as possible, Court keeps his voice low, in the same tone he used to coax the kitten Ryland and Colt had found underneath their car a few weeks ago. “It’s okay. It’s just me, Case.”
Almost imperceptibly, Casey shakes his head, the movement so small that someone besides Court might mistake it merely as trembling. He holds his gloved hands, still dripping crimson, none of it his, close to his chest, the way a kitten might cradle an injured paw.
So faintly that Court wouldn’t have noticed if he isn’t listening intently—as if he doesn’t live and breathe for every word Casey spoke—Casey whispers, “they’re dirty.”
Court’s heart clenches. Oh, Casey. “Mine have never been clean.” He holds a hand out, hovering in the air between them.
He waits. The creases between Casey’s brows gradually fade.
Making sure to maintain eye contact and keep the rest of his body still, slowly, so very slowly, breath by breath, Court closes the distance between Casey’s hand and his own. The tips of his fingers graze leather. Crimson dyes his fingertips like a heatmap inscribing where he felt the warmth of Casey’s hand against his fingers.
Court’s eyes search Casey’s, twilight blue falling into watery cerulean that sparkled with stardust. He waits until they are breathing in tandem.
His fingertips trace along Casey’s hand like a whisper of a secret just below his wrist, so pale and thin and soft against his calloused fingers.
He pulls the glove buckle undone. The clink echos in the silence between them.
Pinching the leather between slippery fingers, careful not to touch skin, Court gently tugs the leather, inch by inch, until it falls into his hand. Folding the glove carefully in half, he slips it into his chest pocket, leaving crimson fingerprints on the front of it. He pays it no mind.
Once again, he closes the gap between his hand and Casey’s, stopping just short of making contact. Red-tinged fingertips hover a breath away from red-tinged fingertips.
For a few moments, they sit there, suspended in anticipation, like the few seconds between the conductor raising their baton and the first note the orchestra plays. Like the fleeting instant between breathing in and breathing out.
Casey bends his fingers ever so slightly.
Warmth blooms against Court’s fingers where they meet. Casey opens his mouth in a silent gasp.
Court traces his fingers against Casey’s, painting crimson trails down his long, slim fingers. They slip in between the gaps and curl into Casey’s palm, the movement smooth like he’d done it a thousand times before. Court shivers.
It’s coming home to a warm meal. It’s waking up in terror to soothing reassurances. It’s sharing air after the sound of gunshots ringing too close.
Casey closes his own fingers, flexing before resettling in the crimson smears like a lovers’ embrace. Court rubs his thumb against Casey’s, mesmerized by the silver moonlight glistening on red-stained hands.
The sensation of blood sliding between fingers is a familiar one, but it had never felt so warm before.