[No one else Liem knows would appear without warning in his own bed, to wrap themselves around him as though it was a normal thing for them to do, but that is not why he identifies the god so easily. It is the smell of him, that barely-there desert scent of a man who lives, but does not sweat or stink of humanity. He is desert made flesh, and no one else Liem knows smells anything like him, not even Quetzalcoatl.
Perhaps he should be more unsettled. His home, which he prefers to think of as his private place, has been suddenly invaded by someone who does not know — has never known, he thinks — the meaning of personal space. But the warm drape of Set’s arm around him and the solidity of the other man at his back are a balm to the quiet violence his solitude wages against him. Even though he didn’t invite him in, he doesn’t want him to leave.
He dares to breathe again, subsiding against the other man just a little.]
Is that the only reason you’re here?
[Boredom? A lack of anyone else convenient on whom to inflict his company?]
no subject
Perhaps he should be more unsettled. His home, which he prefers to think of as his private place, has been suddenly invaded by someone who does not know — has never known, he thinks — the meaning of personal space. But the warm drape of Set’s arm around him and the solidity of the other man at his back are a balm to the quiet violence his solitude wages against him. Even though he didn’t invite him in, he doesn’t want him to leave.
He dares to breathe again, subsiding against the other man just a little.]
Is that the only reason you’re here?
[Boredom? A lack of anyone else convenient on whom to inflict his company?]
A change of ambience?