"Well, on it, at the very least." The warmth of Liam's fingers laid upon his own burned with reminiscence; dispersion of their transgressions beneath sheets and sin singed his skin into decay, meat rotten with distant effluvium.
For moments -- innumerable and stark -- there was silence. Envy eyes traced features that had retained their sunken troubles, and a face that worry had not been kind to. Age had percolated Liam's thin skin, and it disclosed all sufferings in the absence of one another's company after a spook had sent the whore running straight back to the familiarity of streets and short shelter.
"What about you?" There was, in their outermost fringes, a cleared throat -- its only attention paid was redlacquer nails tracing lazily down -- across a hollow cheek to rest on a bottom lip in a gesture that could have been mistaken for affection.