[ He's awful. He's one of those types who uses snatches of English words to the point of inappropriateness, until it's barely recognizable. He really, really needs practice. It's one of the reasons why he turns to his native-speaking flatmate for answers most of the time.

And here, he's turning to him again, although it's while he's wiping his own emissions from his face before it dries and glues his hair to his skin or anything else. Aoba brushes it over his nose and mouth, wiping the stuff away. ]

Carl is a lot of things, so I'm not sure what he means. [ He uses his off-screen name, the one he knows him by more intimately as a friend, as a roommate. The man who says he'll indulge this 'friends with benefits' relationship but in reality he adores him. They, both of them, approach some uncertain middle ground of desire - neither one of them able to give it a label without it becoming a kind of facade.

The damp washcloth moves up, swiping some cloudy droplets of come from his hair, sweeping them out until his hair clings to his skin with moisture. ]

Carl is daring and sensitive... but I think he's a little shy, too.

[ It should go without saying, considering how he hid his face. Aoba lowers the towel, rubbing it down his neck, over the line of his collarbone... and lower still, sweeping it over his body slowly as he nuzzles in against his nose with his own and speaks softly. ]

I can keep going... but if you're tired...

What would you like to do?