[ There are ways in which Caelus is naive, and then there are ways in which he isn't. Truthfully, he's never really expected Sampo to act like a boyfriend. He's not dense; he knows full well that March and Dan Heng would look at him like he sprouted three heads if he announced to anybody for any reason that Sampo Koski is his boyfriend.
But a quick fuck; friends with benefits; love 'em and leave 'em. He figures it's like that. Never fall asleep with a trick in the house probably applies to some degree, too, though Caelus wouldn't use that language, and Sampo isn't a whore. Still, it's true. He probably shouldn't trust Sampo enough to fall asleep around him, or let him on the Express unsupervised. He's aware that mostly everything the man does is with an assessment of the costs and benefits.
Still — even if it's like that, Caelus thinks he's entitled to just a little bit of affection.
He can't stand it. The thought of just being a body.
(Discarded, thrown away, useless, trash. Sometimes in his nightmares no one ever loved him enough to give him a name, and "Receptacle Y" was all that anyone ever called him.)
He's cleaned up most of the stranger elements of his room by the time Sampo arrives; now, if anything, it's slightly too plain, almost sterile in how much it seems like no one's lived in it. His sheets are comfortably rumpled, though, that's a good start. Caelus gets up when he sees Sampo enter, walking over and rubbing the man's cold forearms without really thinking about it. It's not like he's that frisky; it's just an instinctive reaction. Poor baby. Come in from the cold. He's just been sitting in his bed gaming; his hands are warm by comparison. ]
Yeah, she's not happy unless she takes, like, a hundred photos per day. [ A light scoff. ] But maybe you need to wear more clothes.
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But a quick fuck; friends with benefits; love 'em and leave 'em. He figures it's like that. Never fall asleep with a trick in the house probably applies to some degree, too, though Caelus wouldn't use that language, and Sampo isn't a whore. Still, it's true. He probably shouldn't trust Sampo enough to fall asleep around him, or let him on the Express unsupervised. He's aware that mostly everything the man does is with an assessment of the costs and benefits.
Still — even if it's like that, Caelus thinks he's entitled to just a little bit of affection.
He can't stand it. The thought of just being a body.
(Discarded, thrown away, useless, trash. Sometimes in his nightmares no one ever loved him enough to give him a name, and "Receptacle Y" was all that anyone ever called him.)
He's cleaned up most of the stranger elements of his room by the time Sampo arrives; now, if anything, it's slightly too plain, almost sterile in how much it seems like no one's lived in it. His sheets are comfortably rumpled, though, that's a good start. Caelus gets up when he sees Sampo enter, walking over and rubbing the man's cold forearms without really thinking about it. It's not like he's that frisky; it's just an instinctive reaction. Poor baby. Come in from the cold. He's just been sitting in his bed gaming; his hands are warm by comparison. ]
Yeah, she's not happy unless she takes, like, a hundred photos per day. [ A light scoff. ] But maybe you need to wear more clothes.