Luke was glad that Eddy's cat had warmed up to him so much; after four months of his presence, Your Majesty (a very appropriate name for the feline) had grown accustomed to him being around, would purr and rub against his legs or demand pats, and had even commandeered his lap on more than a few occasions.  The boy was happy to pamper her, she was a sweet thing, and while he only really needed Eddy to like him, it was nice to know the rest of the household did as well.<br/><br/>Eddy came around the corner, voice rolling through the air in its deep, rumbling rhythm that made Luke's heart skip beats.  He compliantly stood at the stove and watched the pan, though there was little action just yet, and Luke was finished soon enough with the toaster-- Eddy didn't really need to stand guard, but with the state of his hands, there wasn't much cooking he could do, and Luke wanted to include him as much as possible...<br/><br/>Eddy's hands...  They were beautiful to Luke, who loved the callouses, the roughness of his fingertips and the weathered skin, the broad and short nails, but he also knew they hurt all the time.  It was hard to imagine that kind of constant pain, how difficult it must be to ignore, to swallow down the discomfort, let alone the impediments it presented.  Eddy had an artist's soul and hands that matched, hands that could no longer sculpt, could barely open.  But, he had begun to adapt, and grow-- Luke had seen him with his tablet, and it cheered him immensely whenever Eddy showed him something new he'd created.<br/><br/>Luke turned from the toaster and caught Eddy's intent stare, heat pooling in his face.  He knew that look very well now, knew that Eddy was undressing him with his eyes (and there really wasn't much left to remove); his cheeks burned, and he smiled shyly.  "What are you thinking...?"  Luke had a perfectly good idea, but he loved to hear Eddy tell him anyways-- somehow the filthiest things sounded so delightful when they came off his tongue.