Is that so.

[he doesn't remove his hand from Andersen's mouth, still keeping it there. not moving, not running. still looking at him.

kissing him. how he wants it, how it burns in his skin, how it makes him slowly, slowly bring his hand down, so his fingertips might rest on Andersen's pulse point instead. how he'd do much, to keep this man here. to keep honesty between them.]

...I've kissed statues in the church, you know, when I dearly wanted to touch you. I thought I could pretend, but every time the stone was so cold.

[should he tell him this? his words are as hushed as confession.]

I thought that at least like this, I am committing no crime. I am injuring no one. I can look, and wonder, and give myself the bleakest substitute.