Yeah

He hums to himself, softly. Where has he known that scent from? Perhaps he should ponder it further, but there are other plants to tend to in the garden — and, though he may be an Awakener now, Salvador's knees do still somewhat ache with age. Best to get off the ground. He goes about the watering and checking various plants — other flowers, bushes, and shrubs are all carefully tended to. It's not particularly hard, but it is calming. A steadiness, a gentle sigh of an afternoon. He thanks the Father for these moments of calm — they are much-appreciated, and Salvador is always grateful for times when he can simply be.

Clicking, muffled through walls. The soft creaking of the garden door as it opens, and the sound of footsteps — soft tramping upon the earth — growing louder. There's an accompanying noise of the soft rustle of fabric, and a noise that Salvador has learned is that of long hair, swaying in motion.

"My dear Bishop." A familiar voice purrs, cultured and even. Ah, it's Doresain. The voice alone would have given the other man away, but the brilliant pearlescent soul makes his presence unmistakable.

"Lord Doresain." Salvador acknowledges, turning to face the king as he tucks his hands into the wide fabric of his sleeves. (Best not to let the man see his scars, quiet yet. Salvador would not want to upset him.) "Did you have need of me?"

"Nothing so grand, I assure you." Doresain moves closer, enough that Salvador is achingly aware of how short the distance between the two of them is. "I merely wished to enjoy your company."

"Is that so?" Salvador replies, evenly. Beneath the heavy fabric of his cassock, his tail curls around his leg, gripping almost tightly. (He would not want Doresain to trip on the limb, after all, with the way the man seems to walk on his. . . toes? Salvador is not entirely certain of the shape of the man's legs, only that they seem to have holes, and are long and tapered. Heels, perhaps?)

"It is." Voice curling in what Salvador would call affection were he brave enough to dare — Doresain's voice is low, and quiet. Fitting, for the space they are in, and matching Salvador's own. "Shall we sit? I ensured there would be food — tell me, Bishop Salvador, have you yet eaten?"

Salvador allows Doresain to gently grasp him by the arm and guide him towards the table nestled further within the garden. It is. . . comforting, that Doresain would guide but not force — that Doresain, aware of the limitations of Salvador's gift from the All-Father (for, though his sight of souls is strong, it cannot capture everything that Salvador's vision had held, when he was living stil), is considerate enough to allow Salvador the choice of when to rely on outside aid. "I have not eaten in some time." He admits, tail curling just a bit tighter.

Doresain hums, clearly displeased, but no admonishments spill from his lips, nor any sighs of upset. He merely reaches, pulls something from the basket he had taken with him. "I had planned for such." He says lightly, setting a plate and some pleasantly-scented meal upon the table. "The choices of food will be kind to your stomach, my dear Salvador, so please do eat." The man leans forwards, just slightly, and though Salvador cannot see, he still feels the weight of Doresain's gaze upon him. "I do so enjoy seeing others partaking in meals I've made for them."

". . . If you insist, Lord Doresain." Salvador does not give voice to the apprehension within him (though the man had denied it, surely there was something he wished from Salvador? Was it truly so simple as watching him eat and enjoying his company?) and instead reaches forward. It's a simple sandwich, he discovers with some light exploration, and Salvador will admit . . . he does enjoy the flavor of it, simple as it may be.

The mist swirling around Doresain thickens, waxing and waning like a strange tide. Never enough to overpower Salvador's sences, or be unpleasant, but present nonetheless. He pauses, in the midst of eating. Ah. That is why the forget-me-nots had been so familiar — it is that very same scent that is held within the mist made from Doresain's soul. (How fitting.)

"Bishop Salvador?" A note of concern in Doresain's voice. "Is aught amiss?"

"My apologies." Salvador shakes his head, slightly. "I merely recalled something." He resumes his meal, and Doresain resumes his watching. (It would feel off-putting, for any other to rest their gaze upon him for such length — but somehow, with Doresain, it merely feels peaceful.)

It is only after Salvador has finished eating that he recalls that his hands have been ungloved this entire time — scars on display. Ashamed, he moves to return his hands to within the cassock sleeves, so as not to burden Doresain with the sight any further — but Doresain's hands reach out, one grasping each of Salvador's. Lightly, but the cold is enough to bring Salvador pause.

"May I?" Doresain asks, low and quiet, almost hushed. "Forgive me, but I find your scars to be rather beautiful."

It takes moments to find the words, choke down the blood and memory of smoke filling his lungs. "I am. . . grateful that you would be kind with your words." He makes no move to pull away. If Doresain believes such — if he truly believes such — then Salvador. . . well. It is not being selfish, to allow the other man to look, to let his hands rest within that cool embrace. It is a kindness, to allow Doresain that sight, to grant his request. (It is Salvador's duty to alleviate the suffering of others, under the All-Father's teachings, and if allowing Doresain to hold his hands will aid the other man, then any comfort it brings Salvador is merely a secondary aspect of such a thing.)

Though he cannot see it clearly, Salvador imagines that Doresain is smiling when next he speaks. "Thank you for your kindness, my dear Salvador."

his second error: approaching a little autistic freak with what he intended to be an uncomfortable sex question that would make me feel weird and gross. Friends, Romans, Countrymen, I Have Never Misjudged A Man’s Intentions So Incredibly In My Life. because i did not realize he was trying to harass me. because i love talking about sex facts, albeit not usually at work. unless. someone prompts me. my coworkers are the kind of people who are generally online enough to know terms, but not exactly what they mean, and they realized they could ask me a while back and get good answers without the resulting awkwardness because i do not experience shame. i am primed to answer questions like the one he has proposed.

So I Answered It.

and well, really, what happened is that I began answering it, then realized the answer required a bit more context. I mean, you can’t just say “oh, well, the term first appears in writing in the 1940s” without first explaining that ‘blow’ by itself already had sexual connotations for centuries, and then, really, are we talking about the origin of the term or the origin of the act. and well we have a ton of literature and art depicting fellatio throughout human history, did you know a lot of it was men performing it on other men? oh, that reminds me, there are a multitude of latin words for oral sex performed on penises, and hold on let me quote you the entirety of catullus 16 from memory and explain it’s fascinating insights into the roman world of homosexuality-

i do not know how to turn any of this ^ off, by the way. i’m sure some people out there have a switch that disables their infodumping mid-speech. i do not. and i also didn’t realize he wasn’t looking for a real answer until my other coworker explained so hours later. he could not excuse himself from the conversation he started, and i made a conservative man at least 30 years older than me to listen to my catullus recitation. i will sodomize and facefuck you, indeed.