David's had his fair share of physical contact, he thinks. Touched and been touched by a thousand people. From cold and impersonal to warm and, well, extremely personal.
But in his, admittedly rather hazy catalogue of contact he doesn't recall a single instance where he would describe an encounter as intimate.
The word is somewhat foreign to him. He knows what it means, of course, it's not a hard word to grasp. And any potential onlooker would certainly label some of the things he's done with people as such. But a word like that… it's a feeling.
A feeling he's experiencing for the first time, in soft linen sheets with a business major who wears straight leg, mid range denim:
When Patrick lays a hand on his cheek, not to push or to pull or to manipulate but just to smooth his thumb gently across David's cheek, feeling the stubble scratch at his fingerprint.
When he smooths a hand down David's back, not with his nails to mark or to arouse, but just to feel him, for the sensation alone of having his hands on David.
When he pulls David on top of him, not to get things moving but just to feel him, the span of him pressing into him from shoulder to ankle.
It's a feeling, David thinks. This pressure in his chest and warmth on his skin and tingling under Patrick's hands and tightness behind his tongue. And it feels huge and terrifying and soft in a way that might break him down to nothing. It's the caring and fondness and respect that Patrick is made of, all the way down to his bones.
He's never felt like this before. They're the only two people in the world. Nothing is as important as being as close as possible to this man. His only goal is making sure Patrick knows how much he cares about him with a thousand, a million lighter than air caresses, kisses, thrusts.
When he presses into Patrick he can't look anywhere but his face, and then it's just so much, too much and he closes his eyes to just let the feeling wash through him--until Patrick lays a gentle hand on his jaw and he opens his eyes and everything he sees there makes his heart expand, filling his chest until it's bigger than him.
When he starts to move, he rests his forehead against Patrick's for a moment. He feels the ghost of Patrick's lips pursed against his in a soft kiss, a comfort, sensing or just knowing that David's experiencing something completely unknown.
From there, it's gasps and pants and whispered names and breaths against lips; warm hands through soft hair, tension moving like a current through shoulders to spine to hips in a desperate effort to not let it ever end.
Then it's mouths dropping open and hands clenching tight, exclamations and hot exhales.
When they're clean and recovered, it's the look in Patrick's eyes, like somehow, for some reason, David is the best thing that's ever happened to him. It ripples through David, filling him in an unfamiliar way. Ripples become waves of devotion in his chest, torrents of affection, of pure, undiluted love through him, out of him, filling the bed, the room, the apartment until he wonders if Patrick can't actually see it, this hazy glow surrounding them.
It's a feeling, he thinks as Patrick smiles, brushing his lips tenderly with his own. One he won't ever be without.