He was of two (three, if he wanted to be perfectly honest but nobody wants to be perfectly honest when you have the Christian God staring down at you all day) warring states of thought.
It was the end of the long day working and of course it was entirely possible that people wanted to shuck off their sweat-saturated clothing as soon as possible. Borikén himself didn't even wait until he was in the privacy of his own "home" to pull off his shirt. And if a man wanted to pull off his shirt in front of God and everybody, that was fine.
At the same time, everything in him protested seeing Cuba's bared back, spine stretching and shoulder blades shifting beneath dark skin. Because this was something he wasn't supposed to see, and the bishops had said something about this once—lust and hellfire and plain humandecency.
But he couldn't look away either and he couldn't help marking where Caobana ended and Cuba began, from longer legs to narrow hips, proud back into slowly broadening shoulders. He also wondered, just then, if he had known her as well as he thought he did. After all, the questioning sideways glance over Cuba's uncovered shoulder and the sardonic lift to his eyebrow weren't familiar because they weren't…things Caobana would have done.
Ironically, Caobana also had never learnt feminine modesty. So maybe that had stayed the same.
Borikén smiled wryly to himself and stripped his own shirt off to hide the burning in his cheeks.
There was nothing sacred about a man's body anyway.