（ he takes a swig of the liquor, and it tastes a little like the ghost of a kiss, goes down with the shitty burn of cheap liquor. figures they wouldn't stock the really good stuff on the station, or maybe it's a 'first come, first serve' situation. either way, it gets set pointedly on the stand beside the bed once he's done with it rather than returned to cain's custody. he doesn't mind the weird, cloudy consent issues that crops up around booze with someone he already knows and has gone a few rounds to the mattress with, but a relative stranger amps up the murk.

the compliment makes him grin, and he chases cain's hand beneath the shirt, pressing his palm flat atop it. the guy's basically billowing steam from that shower, and his hand's warm sandwiched between his own palm and the relatively cool plane of his stomach. ）

Believe it or not, I used to be a farmer. Wheat crop. Shitloads of manual labour. Heavy lifting, threshing, you name it, I probably did it — like, at least five times before sun up. And thirty more after it went down.

（ he laughs, and then reaches up to hook his hand against the collar of his shirt, which gets hauled unceremoniously off over his head and thrown... fuckin' somewhere. beneath it, there are no scars, no blemishes to speak of. just a perfect canvas, and he'll probably need to explain that, or more realistically bullshit his way through explaining that. this kid looks bitey. ）

Plus, （ he adds brightly after a moment. ） I'd count sex as a workout.

（ he makes an obvious joke of it, the sort that sidesteps around the truth without apology. ）