It's his guilty pleasure.
He settles into his bed, arranging long, lean limbs into a sprawl mimicking the unsettlement of sleep. His eyes close, a final shift makes sure that the padded metal will easily fall from his face when pushed.
He breathes, long slow breaths. A perfect pretence of slumber.
Now, he can hear the door and the near silent foot fall of an inhumanly heavy body. He focuses on his breath, on the sinful thrill of the warm fingers that softly caress his cheek, moving to the cheekbone and then gently, so gently in comparison to the brutality that is normal, pushes the metal from his face, up to his hair.
A sigh is hidden by adding light sound, a sleepy mumble to the listening ears. The sudden light on his face, always a shock, makes him wince and roll away, giving his eyes time to adjust behind the closed lids.
He hears a chuckle, it sends a faint tremor through his body. He swings back, wants to feel that ridiculously soft skin against his own calloused fingers. He is rewarded, he feels fingers about his own, tracing over the fine ridges in his hand.
He settles with a sigh, forcing himself back into relaxation. This is what he loves, being able to actually feel the other's gaze on him, his skin crawling under the piercing eyes as they canvass his face and body.
He feels the other hand, feather light against his cheekbones, so close to touching that it might as well be. Heat radiates between them, warming chilled skin.
The hand moves down, across his throat and chest, he feels those eyes as much as he feels the hands. Each and every scar being followed, the hand petting his still gentle, as though to soothe away any lingering pain from the marks.
Finally, the journey stops at his hips, just above the sheet. He wonders if the other knows that he wears nothing on these nights, just in case tonight their obsessions take them a step further.
He feels the fingers tracing the long, neat line over his belly, and he remembers feeling the bite of razor sharp metal penetrating his skin and muscle.
His hand is dropped and the heat over his hips moves away again. He murmurs his disappointment and shifts, hoping the action is not too obvious, to face where he can hear the other's sharp breaths.
Then warmth, breath against his lips, and he wants to hold his breath and savour the moment, but he dare not. For impossibly long moments, they hover a scant inch from another, and he hopes that tonight will be the night.
His lips part in anticipation and a sigh escapes.
The room is empty seconds later, and he pushes his hands to his eyes, disappointment rushing through him.
Not tonight.