Rue leaned forward delicately, and it took a great deal of effort for Shahar not to tense. The space between them compressed until it almost crackled with a feeling Shahar had long since given up trying to define, scorching at him and sending a single, nervous shudder through his body. She put her hands by his sides, his waist, his hips, his ribs, but her fingers ghosted over the cloth without touching it.Look here, she said. Here is respect for self and others.
Shahar looked down. That was where self-respect was?
“The lines here are straight and fitted, not the flare of a gut grown soft with age and disuse.” Fitted to show care for yourself and those under your care.
Those under his care? His stomach showed care for Hope and Slither, too? Being "handsome" was certainly complicated.
She moved to his arms, and he remained stock-still as she took the fabric and rearranged it, every shift on his skin sending jolts of electricity to his very bones. He shuddered again without meaning to.
And here, dedication. “The work you do is hard, and there is pride in the ability to do it.” And more.
Her hands moved still farther upwards, past his shoulders and coming to hover above the small V of exposed flesh at the neckline. His skin was alive with sensation, even though she herself still did not touch; everywhere her fingers hovered, a tingle lingered below, preparing for them to descend until even their absence felt, in itself, like a touch. She was impossibly close now, so close that he was afraid she would be able to hear his heart pounding against his ribcage.
See here, this is pride.
Pride? he barely managed to sign.
Pride in care of oneself. It brings the eyes to masculinity and strength found here.
Her fingers traveled up his neck, bringing with them the fire under his skin and coming to grace past his jaw. His eyes lost their focus on Rue’s face as he lost his grasp on everything save for her hands, hands that were still continuing their journey upwards. Blood roared through his ears. He was getting a bit lightheaded.
Most importantly, she said, fingers resting over his cheekbones. Here.
Shahar didn’t even have enough control of his body to sign.
This is kindness.
Shahar’s eyes fluttered closed. Rue reached to trace the rims of his sockets, but their closeness and difference in size was a disadvantage; something went wrong, she lost her footing, and what little space remained between them was lost. She fell against him, and for a moment Shahar was too surprised to react. But then his baser instincts arose from where he had forced them down, and he slid back a half-step to account for Rue’s sudden and unexpected weight. His hands moved of their own accord, coming up to clasp Rue’s arms in reaction to her fall; it was something like support, something like a defense, or, at least, that was what it had begun as––now Shahar didn’t know what it was, didn’t know what to do or even if he could do anything. Her body was against his, her ear against the crook of his jaw, overwhelming him with the scent of her hair, her skin, her clothes, everything that was her; he was paralyzed and helpless against her, unable to do anything but try desperately to draw in breath as his lungs suddenly refused to work properly. He didn’t jump in fear or shy away from her, but neither did he move to help her or make any more contact than his hands on her arms; he simply stood, breathing softly into her hair, and waited for it to end.
