Otter Creek I'll [m]ake your timber shiver

Perhaps if he'd been better at reading others, at judging what they were feeling by something as small as a twitch of their lips, he'd have known of the trouble he was causing. He might have understood the complexity of his request, as well as how his words had made the other feel. Xan, however, was oblivious to most things that did not relate directly to his own feelings. He was satisfied by the agreement to keep quiet, honestly believing that things would be better that way. As long as no one saw them, and neither male spoke of their affairs, then the boy would be able to live within his home just as he'd always done before. There would exist no risk of him being banished; there was a chance, also, that he might remain forever unaware of just how wrong his assumptions were if he'd never speak of his activities. If another were to tell of his doings, his newfound interests, then maybe life might turn out better for him in the long run. It was a possibility that he could not bring himself to consider, though, and so silence would continue to be requested until some sort of indirect reassurance was made.

The thoughts of what could be were far from the boy's mind, much preferring that the present be focused on. Yet, when he'd witnessed a smirk morph into a grin, he'd considered allowing for his mind to wander off to a better frame of time. One in which he was not draped over the chest of a male he hardly knew, where he'd not feel an increase in temperature in response to words alone. His demand was forgotten in that very moment, a glare filling out his features. "If you like it, then I don't," the Inuit stated, pulling himself up to his feet. Though he still lingered over him, no direct contact was made. Alexander simply stood there, glaring down at him as if to prove a point—or maybe it was some sort of challenge.