A carnivore always wanting more—
Jigano's skin was smooth and warm beneath his flighty touch. And oh, it would be so easy to brush his fingers across his cheek, up behind his ear, tangle them in the white mane and pull him close—
For a single, blinding moment, it was all that he could think of as his breath stuttered in his chest. There was no thought attached to it, no visual idea of it, just that need to be closer, closer, closer, the urgent want only intensifying when Jigano's eyes closed.
It was like it had taken Fiat Lux to make him truly realize and internalize that it was reciprocated, that it was more than just a very physical and affectionate language of friendship; it was that near-kiss before Rexanna had found them, the way in which the arm wrapped around his waist claimed him.
It was every encounter leading up to this one, compounded and suddenly set ablaze.
It was the growl he wanted to let out at the counter-challenge.
His fingers closed around Jigano's and he let himself be led away, pressing through bodies, his gaze darting this way and that, but always returning to the white fall of hair over lean shoulders, the shape of his back (he wanted to run his hands along his spine, to feel the muscles beneath the skin, to trail his fingertips along it and raise goosebumps), the glimpse of his face as he changed directions.
What he wanted, so fiercely and so abstractly, couldn't be found here, and it was like Jigano had realized that when they found themselves at the outskirts of the festival. His body and his heart craved the fast beat of the music they had left behind, wanted the wildness to sing in his blood, the steady rhythm of a drum to spur him on—but he wanted Jigano and only Jigano, and they would've had no place at such a dance.
But as the fox hesitated on the outskirts of a slow dance, Rory's gaze swept over what it offered. Closeness, but none of the fervor he felt; it was too tame but what else was available, other than pushing Jigano into the grasses beyond the edge of the light?
He was not a slave to his desires; he was not a base creature. He tugged in a breath through his teeth, letting the cool night air expand his lungs, fire meeting ice. He looked back to Jigano's face, wanted to answer that silent question by dragging him back home, where they could be alone—
—but he was stalling, stalling, his blood cooling to the slow rhythm of the offered music.
Fiat Lux couldn't give him what he wanted, unless he wanted to stoop to the level of a teenager, making out behind some abandoned stall and hoping no one would stumble in on them.
So he'd take what he could have, beating back his frustration, banking the fires of it as best as he could; it was still almost bull-like, the way he advanced upon Jigano, using his body to try and force him a few steps closer to where the music was.
Rory had so very rarely and so deliberately been invited to touch him, and never in this way: it was not the flash-fire his body had howled for, but it was something else. He freed his fingers and brought his hands up, but he didn't touch him, not yet—
A shiver went through him. There was space between them, a habit, and Rory's gaze was on his own hands hovering over the rich fabric of Jigano's tunic.
There was a body beneath all of that.
He let the excitement simmer in his veins still, and placed his hands on Jigano's waist.
Jigano's skin was smooth and warm beneath his flighty touch. And oh, it would be so easy to brush his fingers across his cheek, up behind his ear, tangle them in the white mane and pull him close—
For a single, blinding moment, it was all that he could think of as his breath stuttered in his chest. There was no thought attached to it, no visual idea of it, just that need to be closer, closer, closer, the urgent want only intensifying when Jigano's eyes closed.
It was like it had taken Fiat Lux to make him truly realize and internalize that it was reciprocated, that it was more than just a very physical and affectionate language of friendship; it was that near-kiss before Rexanna had found them, the way in which the arm wrapped around his waist claimed him.
It was every encounter leading up to this one, compounded and suddenly set ablaze.
It was the growl he wanted to let out at the counter-challenge.
His fingers closed around Jigano's and he let himself be led away, pressing through bodies, his gaze darting this way and that, but always returning to the white fall of hair over lean shoulders, the shape of his back (he wanted to run his hands along his spine, to feel the muscles beneath the skin, to trail his fingertips along it and raise goosebumps), the glimpse of his face as he changed directions.
What he wanted, so fiercely and so abstractly, couldn't be found here, and it was like Jigano had realized that when they found themselves at the outskirts of the festival. His body and his heart craved the fast beat of the music they had left behind, wanted the wildness to sing in his blood, the steady rhythm of a drum to spur him on—but he wanted Jigano and only Jigano, and they would've had no place at such a dance.
But as the fox hesitated on the outskirts of a slow dance, Rory's gaze swept over what it offered. Closeness, but none of the fervor he felt; it was too tame but what else was available, other than pushing Jigano into the grasses beyond the edge of the light?
He was not a slave to his desires; he was not a base creature. He tugged in a breath through his teeth, letting the cool night air expand his lungs, fire meeting ice. He looked back to Jigano's face, wanted to answer that silent question by dragging him back home, where they could be alone—
—but he was stalling, stalling, his blood cooling to the slow rhythm of the offered music.
Fiat Lux couldn't give him what he wanted, unless he wanted to stoop to the level of a teenager, making out behind some abandoned stall and hoping no one would stumble in on them.
So he'd take what he could have, beating back his frustration, banking the fires of it as best as he could; it was still almost bull-like, the way he advanced upon Jigano, using his body to try and force him a few steps closer to where the music was.
Rory had so very rarely and so deliberately been invited to touch him, and never in this way: it was not the flash-fire his body had howled for, but it was something else. He freed his fingers and brought his hands up, but he didn't touch him, not yet—
A shiver went through him. There was space between them, a habit, and Rory's gaze was on his own hands hovering over the rich fabric of Jigano's tunic.
There was a body beneath all of that.
He let the excitement simmer in his veins still, and placed his hands on Jigano's waist.
