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Bloom can still feel the warmth of Bensai's palm on his skin, the gentle pressure of his fingers on his arm.
Touch never came naturally to Bloom like it did to others. He often found himself watching them with their friends, strangers even. How during light conversation they would brush shoulders, use touch to emphasize a point or simply show affection. Would touch when making small talk, laughing, crying. He could never read the rhythm of conversation with that necessary ease. He could never tell when it was appropriate or wanted. Or he realised too late and missed the cue.
So he didn't touch. And others interpreted that as him not wanting to and responded in kind.
He was fine with that. He even preferred it. Honest.
But then Bensai came along. He paid sincere, meaningful compliments as easy as breathing and accompanied them with casual warm touch.
The first time he did it he must have seen something in Bloom's face. He never commented on it but from that point forward friendly words always came with a brush of the hand, a touch to the arm, shoulder, back. Easy as breathing. He wasn't deterred by the fact that Bloom rarely reciprocated. And if Bloom leaned into the contact too much he never said anything about it. A constant. Quiet understanding. Without judgement. Easy as breathing.
He still hasn't gotten used to it. Perhaps he never will.
When they sit down at the fire and Bensai lets his knee fall against Bloom's it still sends him reeling in the best way. When Bensai puts his arm around him while pointing something out to him, Bloom still feels it hours later and wonders how he is allowed to have this. He doesn't know. But he wants to hold on to it.