"Would it help," quietly, now, guarded as if the confession were a candle flame to be sheltered in a storm, "if I said you head the list?"
Though it goes so far beyond mere liking, they both know; that's what has his heart in his throat at I couldn’t be. Permission unconditional and clear as daylight—and still there’s a frightened wounded part of Myr that wants to demand further reassurance, even seeing what you’ve seen, you’d let me— Though isn’t the answer obvious, living and breathing and warm within arm’s reach? Even seeing Myr at his most exposed, Simon hasn’t turned aside, recoiled, given up. Trust him in this, the same way he’d trusted his friend (his beloved) with his life, his sleep, his dreams. But oh, how much harder to entrust his scars!
Yet once he’s made that decision it’s irrevocable; there is nothing shy or hesitant in how he takes that last step to meet Simon and reaches out—even if he keeps his head bowed, his hair not quite long enough to hide everything. His questing fingers find Simon's chest and trail upward, touch delicate and curious about the other man's collarbones and the column of his throat. (Bare skin and the heat of an unclothed body next to his suggest what Myr wouldn't let himself consider; he flushes faintly at the realization but doesn't pull away as he should.) If his hands linger a little longer than they ought on their way to Simon's face, it might be put down to inexperience as much as fondness.
For he hasn't often had cause to read an unknown face this way, isn't so easy yet about asking now that his world's made up of people he's never seen instead of those he has. He's learning how to read Simon in the act of reading him, something of tender caution in how he traces the contours of eyes and nose, in the stroke of a thumb over a cheekbone. It takes him a painstaking minute to map all the landmarks he's searching for to his satisfaction--here, Simon's high clear brow, fretted with the memory of worries Myr would wipe away if he could; here, Simon's jaw, firm and faintly rough in that fascinating way shem men often are.
Here, Simon's lips, where Myr's fingers rest a long sweet moment before he draws his hands down to cradle his friend's face in his palms.
It would not be so hard to lean up and kiss him.
"She's undersold you by a point," Myr murmurs, lifting his head enough to make plain his lopsided teasing smile. "I'll have to complain next I speak to her."
no subject
Though it goes so far beyond mere liking, they both know; that's what has his heart in his throat at I couldn’t be. Permission unconditional and clear as daylight—and still there’s a frightened wounded part of Myr that wants to demand further reassurance, even seeing what you’ve seen, you’d let me— Though isn’t the answer obvious, living and breathing and warm within arm’s reach? Even seeing Myr at his most exposed, Simon hasn’t turned aside, recoiled, given up. Trust him in this, the same way he’d trusted his friend (his beloved) with his life, his sleep, his dreams. But oh, how much harder to entrust his scars!
Yet once he’s made that decision it’s irrevocable; there is nothing shy or hesitant in how he takes that last step to meet Simon and reaches out—even if he keeps his head bowed, his hair not quite long enough to hide everything. His questing fingers find Simon's chest and trail upward, touch delicate and curious about the other man's collarbones and the column of his throat. (Bare skin and the heat of an unclothed body next to his suggest what Myr wouldn't let himself consider; he flushes faintly at the realization but doesn't pull away as he should.) If his hands linger a little longer than they ought on their way to Simon's face, it might be put down to inexperience as much as fondness.
For he hasn't often had cause to read an unknown face this way, isn't so easy yet about asking now that his world's made up of people he's never seen instead of those he has. He's learning how to read Simon in the act of reading him, something of tender caution in how he traces the contours of eyes and nose, in the stroke of a thumb over a cheekbone. It takes him a painstaking minute to map all the landmarks he's searching for to his satisfaction--here, Simon's high clear brow, fretted with the memory of worries Myr would wipe away if he could; here, Simon's jaw, firm and faintly rough in that fascinating way shem men often are.
Here, Simon's lips, where Myr's fingers rest a long sweet moment before he draws his hands down to cradle his friend's face in his palms.
It would not be so hard to lean up and kiss him.
"She's undersold you by a point," Myr murmurs, lifting his head enough to make plain his lopsided teasing smile. "I'll have to complain next I speak to her."