It would never be too hard to reach out. They're always finding themselves in situations where nothing but the sheerest veil of willpower keeps them apart, and perhaps Myr's soft, purring little joke there deserves to be taken in earnest after all--perhaps it would have been better to ward Simon off in advance, ask him if he really does want to tempt his own weak will like this, remind him that he's never been any good at holding himself back from a mistake this mutually desired. (But Myr doesn't know how sorry his record of self-control really is. He wants desperately for his friend to think better of him than that, even now.)

It would be too easy to reach, to lean, to curve his hand around the back of one strong calf and stroke at the back of Myr's knee, to kiss soft and slowly upward from there, to lean him back against the tub and--

Don't dwell on it. Don't imagine it, for the Maker's love. He swallows, fearful in the sudden silence that his breath has audibly hitched, and gets to his feet again. He can't decide if Myr's words constitute a reprieve or not.

"No, you don't," he says, but his sheepishness at that is at least slightly more of the teasing variety than the deadly earnest his own shame had been a moment ago. "But perhaps that's a blessing in disguise. I can't tell if it'd be better or worse if you had me down in your imagination as more handsome than I really am."

It would be worse, he thinks. He can't articulate why, and no more does he want to try to, but it would be far worse to disappoint Myr even in the hypothetical.