Jonathan shifted a little, leaning into Oliver's touch, not really realising just how instinctive the motion was until he'd already done it. It felt as if, for days now, he'd felt nothing but a desire to withdraw. From Oliver. From everything, really. But to have Oliver's hands against his bare skin again sent something that felt almost like relief melting into Jonathan's veins.
"Sometimes, when you talk," Jonathan began slowly, one of his hands rising up to rest on the back of Oliver's own, fingertips caressing over the ridges of his knuckles, "I feel as if I need an encylcopaedia, simply to decode what it is you are trying to say."
The irony of his statement was completely lost on him.