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Feelings were hard to explain, he thinks as he lay flat on his back in bed, covers up to his hips.
The revelation popped in his head the day he started paying closer attention to him. From that moment forward, he tried to place a finger on it. Perhaps it was in the way his monitor glowed ever so slightly under the purple starlight, or his antenna bobbing around in the air–suited to his character. Maybe it was the smooth, cold feel of his claws, or how he says gentlemans instead of gentlemen. His ears convert his voice to the distant twinkling of stars, the intensity increasing with each and every murmur that escapes his metallic lips.
All of that is bunched into one figure he's sometimes surprised to call his butler. Just one more look at him and he's a deer in headlights.
Feelings were hard to explain, so that's why he only kisses him in dreams.
Sometimes it's him that pulls him close, sometimes it's the other way around. One day it's long and passionate, the next it's short and chaste. He's wearing different things each time they do it. He's clean, he's messy–he's goddamn beautiful.
They're on the couch, they're in bed. He wants to speak, but he keeps the words in his head. Stalling indefinitely, courage slowly rising then crashing down to the ground the second he tries to open his mouth.
He wonders if he feels the same. His mind flashes back in time in search of evidence. A lingering gaze, or a hitching breath every time their wrists bumped against eachother. An avalanche ensues somewhere inside him at the slight hint of his presence. An avalanche is ensusing in this very moment, from his heart to the bottom of his stomach. It piles up till it reforms and starts all over again from the beginning.
He writhes underneath the sheet as the question rings inside his head: Is it just him?
He wishes he could get off his sorry ass and go to him. But alas. Feelings are fucking hard to explain.