And then things were moving, shifting. They were an anxious tangle of fumbling limbs, mouth touching or almost touching. Neil slips his fingers into Gabriel's underwear and almost sobs; he's flush and hot-skin and slick tip, and Neil's not sure if he's nervous of grateful or both.

He strokes him, gently, slowly, inside the soft cotton of Gabriel's underwear. Even sitting in the dark of the bedroom, it seems somehow too real just yet if he draws him out. There's no rush.