[A belt, tie up the sleeves, stud chain, right, right. Matt hesitates before taking his hand away, getting ready quickly, rolling up the too-long cuffs, cinching the belt around his waist and rummaging around in the mess of straps and harnesses and bits of leather until he finds the chain. It's bright, heavy in his hands, and he spends longer than he should looking down, thinking about what it means, wondering how many times Shiro's worn it. Had to wear it. Chosen to wear it?
He swallows, tightly, looks up at the question.] Yes.
[It is what it is. It and the teasing and the unwanted attention and what happens when he gets caught. Another shaky exhale, and Matt holds up the chain.] Where does...how do I...here? [He can't do the crop. Not when old wounds from the arena are scarred white-furred all over Shiro's flanks.]
no subject
He swallows, tightly, looks up at the question.] Yes.
[It is what it is. It and the teasing and the unwanted attention and what happens when he gets caught. Another shaky exhale, and Matt holds up the chain.] Where does...how do I...here? [He can't do the crop. Not when old wounds from the arena are scarred white-furred all over Shiro's flanks.]