[ Upon his first and most early examinations of himself shortly after arrival in Duplicity, Irving had been most surprised and grateful to discover an absence of the bruising and patches of rash that had been mottling his skin from early scurvy -- a minor miracle, in other words -- so much to the point that the vaguely wasted quality his body still retains from countless months of diminishing food rations and strength has been of somewhat less concern, though strangely his face has still not lost much of its boyish aspect even for the malnutrition, round-cheeked rather than gaunt and large eyes lacking the sunken quality of most starving men.
Overall, nothing a couple months of fully balanced, nutritious meals shouldn't put to right, surely.
Irving's eyes can't stop themselves either, now, from taking in whatever they can of Jack's body wherever the skin exposes itself, the wiry muscle and angular points of bone that stand out from below his flesh, the network of scars-- gaze lingering in particular on what almost appears to be the remains of a Navy tattoo, which Irving only just stops himself from brushing his thumb over. He would never be able to speak to "type," himself, Irving still lacking in both the experience and the self-perception to have even accepted his want for men at all, let alone any kind of specific types of men. There may be no others; obviously, Irving doesn't take for given that this won't simply be the first and still only time he's ever intimate with one.
Maybe any other man's touch would also threaten to undo him, much like Jack's touch is doing now, but Jack's touch is also all he has.
Suppressing a shiver, Irving bends down to step, first, out his shoes, then his pants, nearly nude now but for the threadbare long johns he's got on underneath. He reaches for Jack's belt with shaking hands, fumbling it open, though hesitating before he can do the same with Jack's pants, the last defense between Irving and the point of no return.
Quietly, as his eyes flick upward to Jack's: ]
Have you ever done anything like this before either, Rackham?
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Overall, nothing a couple months of fully balanced, nutritious meals shouldn't put to right, surely.
Irving's eyes can't stop themselves either, now, from taking in whatever they can of Jack's body wherever the skin exposes itself, the wiry muscle and angular points of bone that stand out from below his flesh, the network of scars-- gaze lingering in particular on what almost appears to be the remains of a Navy tattoo, which Irving only just stops himself from brushing his thumb over. He would never be able to speak to "type," himself, Irving still lacking in both the experience and the self-perception to have even accepted his want for men at all, let alone any kind of specific types of men. There may be no others; obviously, Irving doesn't take for given that this won't simply be the first and still only time he's ever intimate with one.
Maybe any other man's touch would also threaten to undo him, much like Jack's touch is doing now, but Jack's touch is also all he has.
Suppressing a shiver, Irving bends down to step, first, out his shoes, then his pants, nearly nude now but for the threadbare long johns he's got on underneath. He reaches for Jack's belt with shaking hands, fumbling it open, though hesitating before he can do the same with Jack's pants, the last defense between Irving and the point of no return.
Quietly, as his eyes flick upward to Jack's: ]
Have you ever done anything like this before either, Rackham?