[2022.10.19] 19th day || Stripping + Partial nudity
Before sliding into bed, Izzy has this dragging ritual of undressing, taking his time and not bothering to rush his movements, and Frenchie has no voice in the matter and can only tie to his habits. In reality, the lad has no right to complain, considering it gives such a sense of calm and tranquillity rarely attributed to Izzy.
He’s so meticulous in everything he does that Frenchie can’t dart his eyes off his hands, skating preciously on his linen shirt as he lets each button pass through the slit of the eyelets, unties the black laces bracing his sleeves at the elbows or even sits to slip out of his leather boots, briefly massaging his achy feet after a long and tiring day of work, barely getting the time to sit down and rest. Sometimes, Izzy turns to meet Frenchie’s gaze as if he knew the other would be mesmerisingly staring, a thin smile painted on his lips, and slows his motions, a tease for the lad, who’s patient, but not this patient.
Still, Frenchie hasn’t the nerve to interrupt. He doesn't want to, prefers to taste the wait on his tongue, taste with his eyes, enraptured by his rigour while getting undressed.
Next, Izzy undoes his necktie, the silver ring secured on his writing desk, on top of a satin handkerchief, and passes to undoing his trousers. And as he’s watching him, Frenchie starts feeling his eyelids heavy, much heavier than before, one fluttering close gradually and without his notice, the other following, swallowing a big and wide yawn while covering his mouth with the heel of his hand.
“Oi, sleepyhead,” rudely shouts Izzy, stumbling towards the bed with his shirt open, falling loosely from one shoulder, making it look even more billowing than when it’s buttoned up. Frenchie shakes his head, blinking out of that drifting phase quite dopey and smiles dreamily, just getting the tattoo under Izzy’s left eye to twitch huffily in return. Despite knowing he’s anything but truly angered, there’s something in his glare that makes him slowly swallow, another yawn fading before it's even in the back of his mouth. Hence, Izzy grabs Frenchie’s striped shirt, still gentle, and pulls him up, leaning in to make their foreheads almost touch, hazel-grey eyes fixed on his. Now Frenchie’s sure to be fully awake. “You sure you want to fall asleep like this?”
Frenchie’s mouth opens, then quickly closes as he's unsure what to tell him. “Wasn’t my plan, but you were takin’ way too long stripping. You know, it’s kinda late, Iz.”
Izzy snorts, amused, “Fine. Don’t come crying to me later, Frenchie. It won’t work.”
And as he finishes talking, his voice trails off in a soft kiss, first on his lips, second on his chest, over his shirt, and as he tantalises Frenchie with his knee, on purpose nudging between his legs before dropping by his side, tugging Frenchie closer.
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