[And he allows it, doesn't try to snatch his hand away or react with startled violence, sees the movement coming before it connects and as such is ready for it. Then the feel of Sion's hand over his, light but firm, and there's a vague sense of relief in him, to know that he's not quite doing this alone. That there is a certain level of guidance.
That Sion is stronger than he looks is something Giovanni already knows, and even here, like this, demonstrated in this small way, it leaves him wondering why such a man left the thick of it for what amounts to a desk job. It's a hard thing to understand, for something like him.
No matter.
For now he focuses all of his attention on the task at hand, and beneath the pass of Sion's fingers there is the unsteady beating of his own pulse, a quickness there, a small indication of his own concern over getting this right. And then comes that moment when everything finds realignment, the sound of it, the bone-thrum felt beneath the press of his palm and there's a hot twinge of excitement in him, something unsteady and feral, something that wants more than this, to break and tear and shatter and--
--he pushes it back. Holds on to it, even as once again his blood-coloured eyes search the lines of Sion's expression, as he tries to hone down his attention to the thing he's being asked to do. To mend, not to break.
Sion gives the command (calm as a request) for him to hold the position, and Giovanni does exactly that as the other man's hand slides away, as he reaches for the splint. And it's done, almost. He didn't ruin this, didn't mess it up or lose himself to the urge for something altogether darker.
Almost imperceptibly, he lets out a quiet breath.
Still, when he speaks, it's with the same old wryness.]
no subject
That Sion is stronger than he looks is something Giovanni already knows, and even here, like this, demonstrated in this small way, it leaves him wondering why such a man left the thick of it for what amounts to a desk job. It's a hard thing to understand, for something like him.
No matter.
For now he focuses all of his attention on the task at hand, and beneath the pass of Sion's fingers there is the unsteady beating of his own pulse, a quickness there, a small indication of his own concern over getting this right. And then comes that moment when everything finds realignment, the sound of it, the bone-thrum felt beneath the press of his palm and there's a hot twinge of excitement in him, something unsteady and feral, something that wants more than this, to break and tear and shatter and--
--he pushes it back. Holds on to it, even as once again his blood-coloured eyes search the lines of Sion's expression, as he tries to hone down his attention to the thing he's being asked to do. To mend, not to break.
Sion gives the command (calm as a request) for him to hold the position, and Giovanni does exactly that as the other man's hand slides away, as he reaches for the splint. And it's done, almost. He didn't ruin this, didn't mess it up or lose himself to the urge for something altogether darker.
Almost imperceptibly, he lets out a quiet breath.
Still, when he speaks, it's with the same old wryness.]
Only because you're holding the leash.