（ he. sighs. claps both hands against his face and drags his palms down over his eyes. he stares a moment determinedly through the blinds of his fingers, and then blows out another longer, deeper sigh than the first. ）

I don't fucking care if you're bad at being in a relationship. That's not the kind of shit I'm talking about. I just need you to understand that if I'm letting you touch me it's because I want you to.

（ god he does not want to fucking talk about this, but he knows, in a way, it's like. setting a bone. putting a dislocation back into place. you have to do those fucking things you don't want to do to move forward. he takes another breath that shivers a bit, because of course he's fucking stressed out in the dream, and of course that makes him feel cold. anxiety attacks mean poor circulation, because your body's fighting to supply blood to your organs. ）

Whatever else is fucking — going on under the hood. No one fucking gets close to me unless I'm okay with it. Okay? I'm probably still going to make you feel like fucking shit, and if you don't think you can handle it that's fine. I won't hold it against you.