This was new also, and save for the glances (of which there were many, of course) during morning showers or routines, Weiler was rarely given the chance to look at Locke's back so openly, largely because they inevitably turned to each other given enough time (which was a good thing in it of itself, too). Locke's back was broader and its muscles well-defined. The spattering of freckles at his shoulders went down a few inches in the back, darker than the front, and a delinquent-slash-soldier's lifestyle had carved a few light scars into his skin.

In this position, Weiler was free to map each one with his mouth, his hand working meanwhile to open Locke up to him and rub diligently, almost too much so, against the spot inside that made the man buck. As he slipped a third finger in, Weiler made note that he'd have to memorize it, like the million other things he knew about this man's body now, one that he knew almost as well as his own. He kissed over the shoulder blade that he remembered the Circle's tattoo was emblazoned on, invisible to the eye. It was that which had connected them first of all.

"I like your back," he commented quietly, sweeping hands across its ridges. The hand slid down to the small of his back and then around, urging Locke to lift his hips up a little so that Weiler could resume stroking. Locke liked seeing his face, but they didn't have to see each other for him to constantly reassure the man that he was right there with him every step of the way.