It's the way the other licks his lips, the way the other says that one singular word that causes Silver to actually growl, noise low in his throat as he takes the other's waist and forcefully pulls him closer and in a better position with one sharp, swift tug.

Benedict is light despite his frame, easy to maneuver, much to Silver's delight--he looks down at him, pleased with how pale and untouched the other is. It's rare he sees a man without scars.

He licks his lips, spitting quickly onto his fingers, his dry hand gripping Benedict's shoulder to steady himself.

"Legs up," he orders. And it is an order.