Jim sighed, turning away from him entirely—turning his back to him, actually—starting down the hallway instead, arms over his shoulders to lift his t-shirt up over his head. There are marks left there by Adler, tiny wounds that will heal quickly enough, but still physical proof that while Moran was lost in his own mind he’d sought comfort in another body.
It was a sign of his frustration at no longer being able to read what Seb was thinking, proof of his irritation at not being able to fix the man.
Ironically, it was the closest thing to love that he could show for Moran.
And he let him see it, knowing that somewhere in his mind, Seb would understand what it meant.
"We do what we want to do, dance how we want to dance." Sebastian follows, leash pulled by the man baring his soul along with his marked skin. The other man isn’t fond of marks, not at all. They belong on the world, not on his flesh. Only bruises and small cuts, but their meaning shakes him.
His long legs catch him up and he puts a cold hand over a neat set of fingernail marks. These don’t exist any more than his scars. He’ll ignore them, bury them to fester or repair his mind as they will. It’s better these days, to store things without looking too closely.
He remembers it is a habit from his days in uniform, he remembers less the days he spent breaking himself of it. “We need a wash.” A branch of protective comfort for this man, for his man.