Evan gives a little laugh at their respective encouragements. Having not expected to find himself in the spotlight as such, he suffers a spike of embarrassment at the eyes on him. Mel's little purr sends heat up his spine just as well as his fingers had, but what brings him out of his momentary mortification is the oddest realization that Laedo and Mel's eyes are more similar to each other than they are to his own. A quartet of golden eyes, belonging to some very attractive people, trained on him and waiting for him to get naked. It's enough to buff even the most uncertain ego a little.
The closest Evan gets to giving a proper show, however, is to take his time a little more than he otherwise would. He wriggles out of his pants, slacks from home that have grown a little tight around the muscle he'd put on after all that walking on Zeta-12, folds them, puts them aside with his shirt. His boxers are blue (and bless the luck that sent him in brand-new shorts when he'd first been spirited off here) and would have been just fine for swimming trunks, but he hooks his thumbs in the waistband there and slides them down, steps out of them.
He's no longer entirely the weedy thing he was when he'd arrived at Oska for the first time, some muscle filling out his frame, but it's utilitarian rather than the kind of sculpted topography the other two sport. Shoulders to lift, legs fit for months'-worth of hauling ass, a core built up by modest combat training and all the swimming he's done here. He's still more solid than lovely, but he's proud of what he's gained. His body hair is sparse and light enough to be hard to see, and the carpet is the same bright red as the drapes.
He turns to fold his shorts and stack them with the rest, brilliantly aware of the eyes on him. He's flushed all the way to his chest, he's sure of it, and when he turns he's grinning a little, eyes on the spring rather than either of them, though his gaze slides to Mel as he steps into the pool himself.
There's warmth in his gaze, and sheepish entreaty; is he doing this right? Was his little not-quite-a-show sufficient?
"Your turn," he suggests, to Mel but really to the both of them.
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timeasmymeasure
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Date: 2016-12-21 06:37 pm (UTC)The closest Evan gets to giving a proper show, however, is to take his time a little more than he otherwise would. He wriggles out of his pants, slacks from home that have grown a little tight around the muscle he'd put on after all that walking on Zeta-12, folds them, puts them aside with his shirt. His boxers are blue (and bless the luck that sent him in brand-new shorts when he'd first been spirited off here) and would have been just fine for swimming trunks, but he hooks his thumbs in the waistband there and slides them down, steps out of them.
He's no longer entirely the weedy thing he was when he'd arrived at Oska for the first time, some muscle filling out his frame, but it's utilitarian rather than the kind of sculpted topography the other two sport. Shoulders to lift, legs fit for months'-worth of hauling ass, a core built up by modest combat training and all the swimming he's done here. He's still more solid than lovely, but he's proud of what he's gained. His body hair is sparse and light enough to be hard to see, and the carpet is the same bright red as the drapes.
He turns to fold his shorts and stack them with the rest, brilliantly aware of the eyes on him. He's flushed all the way to his chest, he's sure of it, and when he turns he's grinning a little, eyes on the spring rather than either of them, though his gaze slides to Mel as he steps into the pool himself.
There's warmth in his gaze, and sheepish entreaty; is he doing this right? Was his little not-quite-a-show sufficient?
"Your turn," he suggests, to Mel but really to the both of them.