The way that his hair falls in front of his face
as his fingers splayed wide press into his chest. Now he throws his head back and when again he meets the earnest gaze pinned beneath him, he laughs. The same way that he laughs after he accidentally bashes his head on the bedframe and suddenly he’s all worried like this will change something between them and he’ll get up, discreetly pull on his pale blue briefs and cut-off jeans and leave, slipping down the stairs and out the door. But he just laughs, scoots about a bit, and pulls him closer. In this moment, he remembers that he asked him to turn away while he undressed and he unbuttoned his trousers back-to-back. Chaste, cold, timeless in a way. And when he does depart (not now but later, in the morning, after sipping tea and talking with inexhaustible enthusiasm in words he can’t understand), he will again quickly, modestly, pull back on his underwear – the pale blue briefs he’ll wish he’d left behind – bouncing with excitement and exuberance, shaming him in his stupor.