When Berdini reaches out his hands, Catch would flinch. Now would be a time to run, for he has been too bold. But the Councilman's palms come to rest gently against his cheeks, and Catch flushes a pale pink, his lips, once grimacing, now spreading into a slow, slow smile, even with the admonishment.
"Th-there are, there are th-those who teach, and th-those who follow. And - and I will be Mister Catch, I promise. I, I have -"
And then, he kissed. And it felt just like Iron Shoes, though Iron Shoes was terribly aggressive about most things. But this was something he could deny. He doesn't. There is not an ounce of sexual tension in this kiss, only a fierce kind of joy, an intimate sharing of skin. Closeness. He adored closeness, and when Berdini was done, the addled man squirmed in a fevered trance, his laugh a nervous, but giddy, thickness.
"M-m-more?" he asks, and Catch is just like every flighty virgin-girl that Berdini has corrupted, a flutter of excitement. Though those girls, likely, had a more firm grasp on what the man was offering. "I. I like you - you b-b-both. I c-c-could - I could watch, th-then?" He stammers through his reasoning, gripping the edge of the table so that he does not spring up and curl himself, like a cat, about Stefan's person. This teahouse was wonderful. It was marvelous. "I watch th-th-the, the alley-cats, ser. B-b-but people are - are n-n-not cats, you see?"
"What if I hurt her, or - or you? WH-wh-what if I d-d-do it wrong, and you won't - you won't help m-m-me be a gentleman?" He admits it, in the wake of that kiss, because his brains have little else to hide.