Was it wrong that seeing him tremble maybe turned James on just a little? He would never admit it, of course. If anyone ever thought to accuse him of being the least little bit gay, he would punch their face in, but that didn't stop him from having thoughts from time to time. When that happened, however, he usually just went and fucked some random girl to make those thoughts meaningless. That worked, right?
James scooted up onto the edge of the couch so that Fisher would have some room to work, curving his back as he rested his elbows against his thighs and his forehead against his upturned palms, eyes closed. He was silent and still at first, a small shiver running up his spine in light of that initial touch, but then he exhaled a breath, slow and soft, falling into silence for a moment longer before he unexpectedly sat up straight just so he could tug his shirt up and off over his head.
His back was still a little red and bruised from the fight the day before, a few scratches here and there, but what really stood out when someone saw him without his shirt on was the fact that he had so many scars. For someone who looked like they came from money, and he had, and who took such great care of their appearance, which he did, he was quite marred. But that was what a childhood with his father would do to a person, and he could attribute pretty much every mark to an altercation with dear old dad.