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The Floor of Art has quite a few regulars. Whether it’s other patrons, or their assistant librarians stopping by for a drink. Maybe even admire the work of the artists. It’s a place ripe for indulgence of any kind.
And somehow, despite every other possible attraction on said floor, Roland never fails to pick him.
The man doesn’t even bother excusing himself with beer now, simply joining his buddy while he’s doing whatever. Right now they’re both lying on the floor, Netzach’s back against it as he tries to look busy. The book in his hands is at least helping a little. His shirt is loose enough to leave some exposed skin towards his abdomen. And naturally, the other man is on the case. Kneading lightly at Netzach’s side with his fingers.
“..Yer soft.” And well. Yeah. Tends to happen when someone hasn’t fought at all in any of their previous lives. There’s little to no muscle definition on his entire body. The words slurr similarly to when the other man is drunk, but half-asleep would be more likely in this moment. Head planted towards the other man’s lap.
“Not your usual type, huh.” His eyes flick away from the pages to look down at the head of black hair. Strong hands still massaging his skin. It feels.. nice? A little weird. But nice. Like he’s being admired. Do friends usually do this..?
..Not that he would know. Being stuck in a torture facility for ten thousand years does not land you with good social skills. He doesn’t remember the first thing about relationships, platonic or otherwise. They don’t really talk about it. And this.. whatever it is, he doesn’t mind.
“Mm. Kinda.” There’s a bit of movement now, fingers tracing a specific line across his stomach. If his memory serves, Roland just found an ancient surgical scar. Back from when they picked Giovanni apart in that lab. Most of the associated memories are mercifully gone from his mind. Maybe by design. Or his own brain trying to block them out. He doesn’t really care as long as they don’t keep him up at night.
“..You don’t have to uh. touch it.” The shorter man tries not to squirm from the odd feeling. There’s many parts of this body he’d rather not think about. It’s scrawny. And damaged. He can barely consider it his with all the evidence of his helplessness etched into every inch of skin. “I know it’s kinda gross.”
“You’re not gross.” is the immediate reply, mumbled into the bottom of his shirt. Netzach stares back.
“..Thanks?”
He watches as his fellow patron is not at all deterred, tracing yet another scar with his hand. It looks oddly sensual.
Well, not like he actually cared about reading anyway. So the artist finally puts his book down, stretching one hesitant hand towards his companion. It lands in the other man’s hair, rubbing along the black strands carefully in a way that mimics Roland’s touch on him. The action gains him a satisfied sigh.
And maybe he feels a little less alien in his skin, touched with affectionate intent.