[There's sure to be no denying that the younger of the two first looks alarmed to hear this.
You be careful, too. What does this insinuate? He feels nervous, and doubtful, and distrustful in a similar way to whenever Hannah's entered the room. It's not her terrifying warmth, motherly and well-meaning and better than he deserves, but it's solicitous of his well-being. He evaporates in his own eyes, which don't quite look at Miyuki or small curve of his lips, outside of that initial, wary surprise.
He's sinking to the floor to carry on with their ordered task, and part way down it dawns on him that he didn't react as he ought to, and so, cast toward the floor, he gives Miyuki a belated, moth-at-a-lamp light of a smile. From here, pulling boxer-briefs up, he's like a small robot. He has to be, see, the truth is that Miyuki's terribly attractive.
The things they've done up until now are not the sort of things he thinks about on his own, he can't be bothered, but he'd claim, since he's ruined, when presented with someone sculpted this nicely, he's struck by annoying, sinful flickers. If their hands weren't being forced, if Miyuki hadn't already made his disinterest obvious, Alois would turn himself to bait and try to tempt and tempt him. He'd know how far down or up to make his eyelashes go, and would find every excuse to touch him, and sigh too much; all the miniature nuances that make men wonder about the falsely-innocent in a different way. He's already tried this, intending to feel on even ground with him, a hopeless effort to help them both make-believe, which is a sanctuary that makes the worst things bearable.
It's not as if he needs to do anymore outside of getting the boxer-briefs on, but he knows he'll have to touch him, and he knows Miyuki will feel like his stomach is eating itself. This kind of feeling makes him think of Trancy or any of the men he shared him with hovering above him. It makes him think of the time before Jim found Claude, and sat under the house, with the driest eyes, amid a collection of boys who wept on each other. Alois only has to get underwear on, and he knows just that amount of touching, even if it's quick, will put Miyuki closer to feeling like those other children (who, when the house came to be his own, he let free), to feeling like himself. And if all of this keeps up, Alois will ruin Miyuki, will send him back home to harbor the same kind of incurable self-loathing he himself does now.
A malfunctioning robot, might be a better way to put it. Since he does intend to carry it all out soullessly and without feeling, but this awareness haunts him, and he does get the boxer-briefs up to hips, but he's shaking badly, and it's such a simple thing: get him nicely tucked and situated. It's simple, but still his hands are clumsy, still he isn't sure what he's looking at, his own hands, or Claude on a spiderweb, or another boy weeping with a kind of anguish at one point he never thought himself capable of again. This is why coming onto people is safest. He gets to control everything that's happening, but this is different: having to avoid it, knowing he hates it, this closeness, knowing how an unwanted closeness kills a person forever.
It's over. The boxer-briefs are on. Somehow he's able to tell. He means to ask, if he thinks it wants him to help him get trousers back on, too, but he erupts into gasping sobs.]
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You be careful, too. What does this insinuate? He feels nervous, and doubtful, and distrustful in a similar way to whenever Hannah's entered the room. It's not her terrifying warmth, motherly and well-meaning and better than he deserves, but it's solicitous of his well-being. He evaporates in his own eyes, which don't quite look at Miyuki or small curve of his lips, outside of that initial, wary surprise.
He's sinking to the floor to carry on with their ordered task, and part way down it dawns on him that he didn't react as he ought to, and so, cast toward the floor, he gives Miyuki a belated, moth-at-a-lamp light of a smile. From here, pulling boxer-briefs up, he's like a small robot. He has to be, see, the truth is that Miyuki's terribly attractive.
The things they've done up until now are not the sort of things he thinks about on his own, he can't be bothered, but he'd claim, since he's ruined, when presented with someone sculpted this nicely, he's struck by annoying, sinful flickers. If their hands weren't being forced, if Miyuki hadn't already made his disinterest obvious, Alois would turn himself to bait and try to tempt and tempt him. He'd know how far down or up to make his eyelashes go, and would find every excuse to touch him, and sigh too much; all the miniature nuances that make men wonder about the falsely-innocent in a different way. He's already tried this, intending to feel on even ground with him, a hopeless effort to help them both make-believe, which is a sanctuary that makes the worst things bearable.
It's not as if he needs to do anymore outside of getting the boxer-briefs on, but he knows he'll have to touch him, and he knows Miyuki will feel like his stomach is eating itself. This kind of feeling makes him think of Trancy or any of the men he shared him with hovering above him. It makes him think of the time before Jim found Claude, and sat under the house, with the driest eyes, amid a collection of boys who wept on each other. Alois only has to get underwear on, and he knows just that amount of touching, even if it's quick, will put Miyuki closer to feeling like those other children (who, when the house came to be his own, he let free), to feeling like himself. And if all of this keeps up, Alois will ruin Miyuki, will send him back home to harbor the same kind of incurable self-loathing he himself does now.
A malfunctioning robot, might be a better way to put it. Since he does intend to carry it all out soullessly and without feeling, but this awareness haunts him, and he does get the boxer-briefs up to hips, but he's shaking badly, and it's such a simple thing: get him nicely tucked and situated. It's simple, but still his hands are clumsy, still he isn't sure what he's looking at, his own hands, or Claude on a spiderweb, or another boy weeping with a kind of anguish at one point he never thought himself capable of again. This is why coming onto people is safest. He gets to control everything that's happening, but this is different: having to avoid it, knowing he hates it, this closeness, knowing how an unwanted closeness kills a person forever.
It's over. The boxer-briefs are on. Somehow he's able to tell. He means to ask, if he thinks it wants him to help him get trousers back on, too, but he erupts into gasping sobs.]
I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry.