by Francois

Tattoos draw paths, mimicked with fingertip touches, and Francois would not write his name next to the eagle or the chess piece. It's not how he operates, and his touches remain random and exploratory. There are few things in the world he would try to claim, and Teodoro isn't an exception, even if the world tries to draw parallels between love and possession.

He mutters something against the nape of Teo's neck, and it's French for you flatter me, though Teo hasn't said a thing, nor yet woken up.

Youth is wasted on the young, in most cases. Not his.

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