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Matt's fingers are soft leather against silk threads. Jeremy wonders if his own will lose their prints, identity smeared over on a decade of reed woven strings. He wonders if those fingers can feel his shaking, if he can feel the discord of his heartbeat through spine and flesh and sternum.

"Like this."

Handholding innocence and a whisper in his ember ear.

The years stretch like barbed wire between them, the leather traces his pulse. Hair tickles his cheek. Their fingers are dancing on tightropes, tripping over choreography. So many sweeping, shuffling footsteps. A post primal echo.

"Just like this."