( Timothy Laughlin looks a lot younger up close. It's the glasses, or the librarian fit, like he's always a half second away from sternly telling you to shush. Past the glare of his lenses, with Danny looking a quick inch down at him, he's soft all over, dimpling in his cheeks, discreetly screwing his wrist against Danny's wrist until Danny takes him by the hand and threads their fingers together, knuckle to knuckle.
Earnestly, he asks, Do you want to try and find the pumpkin? Danny's earnest, too, when he thinks back, No. He'd rather find a quiet corner to box Tim up into like a little doll, fork his thigh between his legs and watch him ride it.
What he says instead, while mutually dimpling, soft in the face but never in the eyes, is: ) Sure, Tim. How about we start there?
( Pointing with their joined hands, across the yard to the maze. )
no subject
Earnestly, he asks, Do you want to try and find the pumpkin? Danny's earnest, too, when he thinks back, No. He'd rather find a quiet corner to box Tim up into like a little doll, fork his thigh between his legs and watch him ride it.
What he says instead, while mutually dimpling, soft in the face but never in the eyes, is: ) Sure, Tim. How about we start there?
( Pointing with their joined hands, across the yard to the maze. )
I got a good instinct for this kind of shit.