[His mouth opens, a hot exhale against damp skin, before he changes his mind and goes silent for a few seconds. He wants to say this right, and that means not just letting whatever inane thoughts go straight from conception to his mouth without any kind of filter.

Why does he love him? A lot of reasons, really, both big and small. For his determination, his imagination, his ambition and his kindness. For the way he's so bold, so friendly, so endearingly naive and wonderfully enthusiastic. For all the faces he makes, giddily aroused or obviously delighted; condescendingly amused or arrogantly challenging. He loves him for the way he fusses and whines over the least little thing and then puts in his all without complaint when something truly difficult comes up. He loves him for his stupid long hair, his long torso and flexible limbs, his beaming face and pretty smile. And his clothes, his eyes, and another thousand things.

But it seems exhausting and far too vulnerable to say all of that.

His thumb massages Ling's hip.]

Don't get soppy about this.

[Gruffly said. But then:]

. . . you're-- you've got a lot of things I like. But I said it because . . . you're about the only person I want to keep close to me all the time. I like hearing what you think, even if it's about stupid shit. And it's . . . it's easier, it's better, when I've got you next to me.