It’s a matter of language, Chloe reasons. If he and Ken don’t find any understanding when they speak, how could they, when their mouths are otherwise occupied.
Ken complains german is rough and unforgiving. The sounds blur together and clash violently against the speaker’s tongue; it’s spiteful, and mean, just like Chloe himself. And Chloe doesn’t
the japanese, but he cannot differentiate when Ken groans and when he speaks, couldn’t, for the life of him, figure out when he’s cussing from when he’s simply being agitated (later, he learns,
Ken’s always cussing).
Their middle ground is far from Ken’s comfort zone. English rolls from his tongue in stuttered stops that don’t suit a man who sees no problem in screaming his feelings.
He finds more pause than meaning amongst his words, so Chloe finds himself pushing Ken, and the problem, however, is that Ken
It’s no surprise that he finds fingers tangled in his hair when he presses for a kiss. Ken’s made of sharp edges and aborted gestures.
Chloe’s quite certain he’s never felt teeth puncturing his lips, but this is Ken, he kisses as if he’s going to war.
When Ken gives him respite, eagerness turning to self consciousness, turning to embarrassment that feels prideful as anger,
Chloe can’t help but wonder if Ken makes love as if he’s accomplishing a mission (and Ken finds pleasure in missions, that’s the whole point about him, now, isn’t it?
), or if he pushes himself to separate, if this wanton abandon he threw himself into would disappear, buried under layers of shame and guilt, to be pried apart from him together with his clothes.
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