Amos looks down with mild surprise, almost amused that this is what's caught Gideon's eye. "Shit," he says, a little triedly, "knew you were into that, would'a taken the thing off."
Gideon snorts, then shrugs--considering just how quickly the entire encounter happened, it hardly matters whether Amos disrobed or not. But he can hardly deny the fact that Amos' figure is one he's spent more time thinking about than he'd prefer to admit. Splaying his hand over even a fraction of that broad expanse is a quiet pleasure.
(And he can't remember the last time he touched someone else's bare skin.)
And Amos can tell what Gideon likes, it's pretty fucking obvious. He takes Gideon's hand and lays it on his chest while he nuzzles into Gideon's too-long, too-soft hair.
He'd like to think he's a fairly subtle man on the whole--but there's little to guard against in this moment. Amos knows what he needs to about Gideon Thraxios; the things Gideon doesn't want him to know, he won't learn from lying in silence together on a bunk barely built for one man, let alone two. And to be given this moment, the weight of Amos' bulk beside him, under his fingertips, his nose in Gideon's hair, is a gift he hadn't expected. A silent sigh escapes him as he stares at the ceiling.
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(And he can't remember the last time he touched someone else's bare skin.)
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