[ The kiss is met with a tiny smile, another kiss. He feels his face warm, his hands and feet heating with affection, with delight, with the first curlings of giddy, swooping want. The swoop turns to a hairpin turn with the feeling of fingers in his hair. The next sigh is shaky, accompanied by a soft moan. More touching than he needs, not nearly enough of what he wants. He feels both full and ravenous, drifts in the yearning between the two as he listens to Kaveh and dutifully continues to assign words to meaning. The sort of hurt he enjoys. ]

He should spend more time with you painting, if you'd like to paint the concept of being in between. But Mr. Roland's returned, so he spends quite a bit more time back at their place. He does still come by now and then to talk me to sleep, but he's been occupied with the affairs of that library of his.

[ With Miss Angela, and the consequences thereof. He doesn't pretend to understand half of it, but the weight of what he does understand along with the waves of eternal fatigue lapping up his feet, his knees, softens his voice, lowers it. Leaks some of that yearning into the timbre. I miss him, it says, but he isn't mine entirely to have. ]