Atticus wasn’t sure why Master Ryan had moved himself so far away, or had stopped looking at him all together. Maybe it was his way of unwinding after sex so he could re-discover his calm. Maybe it was something he, Atticus, had done.<br/><br/>He swung his legs off the bed, then stood up, his eyes narrowing a little and his jaw clenching at the fresh, raw ache pounded. It wasn’t too much, but he had grown out of practice with handling such intimate hurts. He bit his lip and walked to the cabinet where Master Ryan was leaning, his steps shorter than usual, but he kept his eye on Master Ryan, his goal, trying to read some signal in his body that told him to back off.<br/><br/>He moved so that the man was forced to look at him. If Master Ryan wanted him to fuck off, he would, but only after he had been listened to. He lifts his hand and tugged his eye patch, dragging it off his head. He knew the tangle of scars were ugly, but the eye looked health. He could see with it, but only in smears of colour and light and shadow. It made him feel dizzy and made it impossible to fight, but he was making a point.<br/><br/>“Thank you, Master Ryan. Thank you for giving me what I needed, though I was too proud to ask it, and giving me what I wanted when I was finally brave enough to voice it.”<br/>