With the unraveling bruise goes the bird’s-egg knot of pain, the insistent complaining of a bashed skull that makes it so hard to focus. (Drill enough in a spell, though, and you can cast it around the discomfort—Maker be praised, for all the times he’s needed it.) “Just,” Myr replies, ruefully. “It’s no slashed throat; I’ve lots of practice with bruises.” And there’s no way he could botch this one with a forgotten bit of cloth.
It’s not a long process for all his own difficulties with healing magic make a struggle of it. With the last of the damaged tissue well on the mend, Myr looses his hold on the Fade and sits sloshily upright. “That should do—“
His voice trails off into silence as he realizes—much too late—from whence and how close Simon’s voice came. Jabbering instinct wells suddenly up, urging he hide or flee or cover himself, hands drawn of their own accord not down to his lap but up toward his face. How much did you see? he wants to ask—to demand, anguished and scandalized, displacing the bulk of fault onto Simon.
But he doesn’t: That’s unfair. Much as his gut roils and heart sinks (at least it would be a convenient solution for their wonderful, awful mutual attraction; at least if only one of them were still desperately interested in the physical aspect of the relationship, it would be easier to hold out—how great and terrible Your ways, o Maker!), Myr leashes his tongue, sets his hands to searching out where he thinks he left the damned blindfold draped over the edge of the tub in easy reach.
And doesn’t find it, not for tracing the whole perimeter of the tub with his hands. Of course; because there weren’t any more ways to make this worse— He breathes out slowly and clambers from the bath, peripherally aware he could be doing this in full sight of Simon and acting as casual and confident as he can. The rough-spun towel at least is exactly where he left it tossed over the screen.
“Did you happen to see,” the words are level but a note of strain still leaks through his feigned calm, “where my blindfold got to?”
(Piled folded on the rest of his now-damp clothing; a choice divergent from his usual habit, just this once.)
no subject
It’s not a long process for all his own difficulties with healing magic make a struggle of it. With the last of the damaged tissue well on the mend, Myr looses his hold on the Fade and sits sloshily upright. “That should do—“
His voice trails off into silence as he realizes—much too late—from whence and how close Simon’s voice came. Jabbering instinct wells suddenly up, urging he hide or flee or cover himself, hands drawn of their own accord not down to his lap but up toward his face. How much did you see? he wants to ask—to demand, anguished and scandalized, displacing the bulk of fault onto Simon.
But he doesn’t: That’s unfair. Much as his gut roils and heart sinks (at least it would be a convenient solution for their wonderful, awful mutual attraction; at least if only one of them were still desperately interested in the physical aspect of the relationship, it would be easier to hold out—how great and terrible Your ways, o Maker!), Myr leashes his tongue, sets his hands to searching out where he thinks he left the damned blindfold draped over the edge of the tub in easy reach.
And doesn’t find it, not for tracing the whole perimeter of the tub with his hands. Of course; because there weren’t any more ways to make this worse— He breathes out slowly and clambers from the bath, peripherally aware he could be doing this in full sight of Simon and acting as casual and confident as he can. The rough-spun towel at least is exactly where he left it tossed over the screen.
“Did you happen to see,” the words are level but a note of strain still leaks through his feigned calm, “where my blindfold got to?”
(Piled folded on the rest of his now-damp clothing; a choice divergent from his usual habit, just this once.)