Eyes closed, Gilbert knows his lover.
A soft earthiness clings to him, subtle, like moss and soil after a rain. Beads of musky sweat roll down his brow when he works in the garden and sunshine beats a warm perfume into bronzed skin. Loose curls and wavy hair weave a playful crown upon his head.
His fingers are long, slender. Gilbert knows the power of these hands. He is fascinated in the way that they can form and bend clay in the same way he can form and bend Gilbert's flesh, exciting curves and steep arches into his body—squeezing, smoothing, shaping—in complete control.
His voice, so often abrasive, can caress the silence with graceful melodies. Words. Songs. Murmured "I love yous" pressed into Gilbert's neck. Words tumble from his lips like the ebbing and flowing of a river, tinged with an honesty that Lovino can never quite hide.
His heart beats with the passion of hot blood, but his breath is soft with dozy sighs in midmorning slumber. His head fits perfectly in the nook at Gilbert's neck, so that the Prussian can lock his arms around his waist, pull him close, and just breathe him in.
And in these ways, Gilbert falls in love over again.
