He watches the lean. The need. There's barely a flicker of warmth before the coldness settles in again. This is... part of him is just hoping like hell that this isn't going to ruin things.

But it feels right.

He reaches over to the table without looking and his hand finds the handle of the knife. The blade shines redly in the candlelight, like he hasn't cleaned it since its last use. But he has. It's pristine.

He reaches down with his other hand and pulls Tom's wrists up, sliding the knife under them and between his forearms. Held like that the point of the blade just pricks the skin of Tom's sternum. And he holds it there, not quite breaking the skin.

But close. God, so close. His mouth almost waters at it.