There's a moment where it edges onto too much, when Henry takes his hands and pushes them over his head. Pins them down flat. An echo of an old, ugly memory. Sometimes it hits him strange. Sense memory, things that are harder to bury. Sometimes it just pops up, swinging toward the surface. Old gestures, slow moments that might swing. And sometimes - sometimes - when someone pins his hands. Like now. There's a moment when Gabe's breath hitches in a way that's closer to fear than pleasure. But then Henry twines their fingers and it changes, and that -

That's different enough that it doesn't catch in the same way. And Henry feels good, the drag inside, the way he's pressed so close. Keeping them both anchored to the present. Gabe makes a small sound and doesn't fight the grip on his hands. But he rocks up to meet the pattern, moving with Henry, and shifts to wrap his legs around the man. To urge him on, and on.