#t___t

Alex glances up at him when he's through, like he's surprised George is waiting for him, as if George doesn't spend slow mornings waiting by the door for Alex to tie his shoes so they can go on a run together. Alright? His eyes seem to ask. He switches the strap of his bag to the right, and then -- his left hand, now free, extends, only an inch to the world, but a familiar gesture to George. Reminiscent of endless nights where Alex gives his hand, and George takes it, mindless, an instinctual closeness.

The moment passes. Alex walks, sets the pace, runs off his mouth about his breakfast at the hotel like they didn't sleep in the same bed, how much George hates Thursday media days. Places pass by in a weird way when you're constantly traveling. It's absurd that it's only last night he held Alex's hand without hesitation. Today, it's unthinkable. George tries to recall the sensation, the warmth of each of Alex's fingers between his, a weight he already desperately misses -- so close, yet so far.

Alex is a vision under the Italian sun, skin glowing golden, perpetually kissed by the sun. George wonders if anyone is as struck at him by the sight, then feels irrationally jealous, all of a sudden, that in minutes they have to part. That Alex will not be by his side for the next three days, his hands touching every surface but his own.