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Fifield’s exploring Millburn with fingers and mouth, memorizing every detail of his body so he’ll have something to dream about in cryostasis. He starts at his face and his throat, sucks bruises on his collarbone, then noses down his sternum and presses an ear to his chest to catch the bound of his heart. He counts his ribs as they expand and contract, leaves sharp bites and wet kisses and dark marks on pale skin. When he reaches his abdomen he gazes at the crisscrossing scars that split the surface.
“What are these?” he murmurs, running fingers over soft lines of pink that curl over his hipbones, make a path toward his navel.
“Stretch marks,” Milburn replies, and his hands fist the bedsheets as he feels Fifield’s warm breath on this sensitive part of him, this secret. “I was a fat kid. I… I hate them.”
“Why?”
“Reminds me of being bullied.”
“Well that’s a stupid reason. The only person bullying you now is me, and I think these are fucking gorgeous.”
Millburn’s breath catches in his throat as Fifield traces the scars with his tongue, scrapes his teeth over his belly and sends shivers up his spine. He twists his fingers in Fifield’s red hair and feels beautiful.