Fives has heard so many stories about Jedao over the years, from Shiro and Laura and even Uncle Miki, but for all the time he's spent in the Vauhan household this is the first time he's ever managed to meet the man who smiles charmingly out from so many pictures scattered all over the house. It's been... an experience. Almost entirely a good one, even if he's had to devote entirely too much focus to not letting himself think about how beautiful he looks in his dress uniform, or how warm his voice is or how elegant and clever his hands are. And he's learned a lot, gotten the kind of first hand information he's been wanting to base a final decision on. Not from a recruiter, whose job it is to sell him on a military career, but from someone who's been there and has no investment in what decision he makes either way.
It's been getting harder, though, as this particular night's worn on, to keep from letting his gaze linger too long, on Jedao's hands when he gestures, or the bob of his adam's apple when he drinks from the flask that he pulled out sometime in the last few hours. To not admit to himself that he's had a crush on the ghost in the Vauhan house for years, now, and that the reality of the man is possibly even better than the fantasy.
But he tries. Tries not to lean too close, not to let their fingers brush when he helps himself to the flask in the older man's hand, not to want, because the last thing he needs is the kind of mayhem that would result if he oversteps and gets called out on it. He wants to make his mother proud, not shame her, especially not in a way too public to be easily covered up.
But they're not in public anymore, it's just the two of them still up, and he knows he's leaning too close but can't quite make himself care in the quiet dimness and almost solitude. He's startled enough by the sudden touch that he almost jerks away, thinking maybe he's pushed his luck too far and been caught out.
Almost, but Jedao's grip is firm, and then nimble fingers are working at his cuff, pushing up his shirt sleeve, and he can't catch his breath. Can't do anything but watch Jedao's fingers, pale against the darkness of his skin, and shudder at the delicate brush of them.
Jedao's voice feels almost like a tangible thing, brushing over his skin along with those long, elegant fingers, and when Fives looks up his jaw is slack, chin tipped up slightly to bare the long line of his throat, and there's barely a ring of whisky-gold around the dark wells of his pupils. He wants to say something clever, or sophisticated, or at least not embarrassing, but all he can do is bite his lip to hold back a moan.
Fives: Halloween Breach Backstory
It's been getting harder, though, as this particular night's worn on, to keep from letting his gaze linger too long, on Jedao's hands when he gestures, or the bob of his adam's apple when he drinks from the flask that he pulled out sometime in the last few hours. To not admit to himself that he's had a crush on the ghost in the Vauhan house for years, now, and that the reality of the man is possibly even better than the fantasy.
But he tries. Tries not to lean too close, not to let their fingers brush when he helps himself to the flask in the older man's hand, not to want, because the last thing he needs is the kind of mayhem that would result if he oversteps and gets called out on it. He wants to make his mother proud, not shame her, especially not in a way too public to be easily covered up.
But they're not in public anymore, it's just the two of them still up, and he knows he's leaning too close but can't quite make himself care in the quiet dimness and almost solitude. He's startled enough by the sudden touch that he almost jerks away, thinking maybe he's pushed his luck too far and been caught out.
Almost, but Jedao's grip is firm, and then nimble fingers are working at his cuff, pushing up his shirt sleeve, and he can't catch his breath. Can't do anything but watch Jedao's fingers, pale against the darkness of his skin, and shudder at the delicate brush of them.
Jedao's voice feels almost like a tangible thing, brushing over his skin along with those long, elegant fingers, and when Fives looks up his jaw is slack, chin tipped up slightly to bare the long line of his throat, and there's barely a ring of whisky-gold around the dark wells of his pupils. He wants to say something clever, or sophisticated, or at least not embarrassing, but all he can do is bite his lip to hold back a moan.