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Summary
Wylan is half asleep when he feels the first touch, a gentle pressure on the curve of his shoulder, a light scratch that swoops down over his flesh. He's used to the feeling by now, used to Jesper dragging the ink across his skin, covering him in nonsensical words - the darker boy's fingers brushing over him, smearing the ink in patches, his lips hovering in a breath of a kiss that never quite connects no matter how badly he wants it to. He closes his eyes and tries to breathe, he bites his tongue and tries to keep as still as he can, because sometimes saying nothing at all is better than all the words that could get tangled between them.