44. Observe
Desmond Miles/Shaun Hastings
Desmond liked to watch Shaun, almost as much as he liked to watch Rebecca (but Rebecca was unpredictable and prone to giving Desmond headaches). Shaun would move slowly and precisely, or quickly and accurately. His arms were too thin in the knit sweater he wore and when he lifted an hand to grab some ridiculously thick tome of information, Desmond had the irrational fear that Shaun's arm would snap beneath the heft of the book, but he never did anything to help, simply watched as the sweater would fall down Shaun's arm, revealing lily-white skin. Desmond wanted to kiss that arm.
He looked emaciated, sort of. Maybe a step above emaciation. It's not like they had a lot of opportunities for shopping or supplies.
Shaun, Desmond learned, liked to adjust his glasses when he was bored. He didn't have long hair to play with like Lucy did, so Desmond understood the desire Shaun had to do something with his hands when he was frustrated. Desmond thumbed his nose when he was bored, frustrated, etcetera. Shaun would trace a thin finger along the top of his spectacles or across his browline, so light and fleeting that Desmond would sigh, almost romantically, at the thought of that finger upon his skin, his lips.
He rested his head on his folded arms and watched Shaun's back as he typed. Desmond went on to imagine the knobs of his spine, the look of his ribs after weeks, months maybe, of living in a warehouse with limited supplies. Desmond thought of holding his hands on Shaun's ribs so they would fit so accurately and holding him still as he licked Shaun's spine gently, lovingly.
He watched as Shaun's back arched as he stretched, and Desmond thought of that lovely image in bed, of Shaun arching on top of him.
He grinned like a fool in Shaun's direction.
Shaun unconsciously sneered.