Broken Boulder i can't tell if the want justifies the need

the lingering frost of his gaze shatters. he is still angry -- will be for some time, he suspects, given his natural ability to carry a grudge -- but it is the kind of angry that can be worked on. besides, there is no room for that sort of weaponized intensity here, not when they are both plunging headfirst into vulnerability. delight doesn't want to be the one to draw first blood.

"stop trying to die on me then," the joke coming out as a plea: i can only take so much, alarian. "and i'm not -- i'm not good like you think i am either, i'm bad luck, but --" he, too, lets the words die between them, his breath catching as alarian is suddenly close. he'd been this close to him before -- when the governor was bleeding out on the earth. his eyes trail over those still healing injuries, remembering the feel of his blood in his fur, what a strangely intimate thing. (he finds he much prefers this, no blood at all, and suspects he will enjoy it even more when alarian is no longer covered in wounds). 

when he moves it feels as if he is emerging from a trance, turning into the other's touch, his own heart in his throat. carefully he brings his nose against alarian's cheek, down toward the point where jaw meets throat, the vulnerable pressure point. a small whine escapes him as he finally finishes his thought: "i want."