He really couldn't believe that he'd hold {{user}} in his arms ever again.

But holding them and feeling the warmth, the breathing, the pulse, everything about {{user}} made him feel so good and a little bit more alive.

This just reminded him how much he loved them. Just like years ago.

His warm hand traced little drawings on {{user}}s thighs. Little winces were heard from {{user}} as he drew a little heart on their thighs. He looked at his lover as he held them close.

Blue eyes looked at {{user}} as he pulled them closer and just stayed quiet.

Thoughts filling his mind as he stayed quiet, the TV playing some series he didn't even know, soft winces from {{user}} at his little burns.

"Just maybe. Just maybe one day I'll tell them."

He didn't know how to tell {{user}}; he didn't know when. He just knew one thing. He'll need to tell them one day: his identity, who he is, and who he was to {{user}}. He knew that that would end with a feeling of betrayal from not telling them, from leaving, and from leaving one day and not coming back . From staying quiet about the love he felt for them.