He had thought, inasmuch as he had thought in any detail beyond Andraste forgive me, I shouldn't allow it, but please, that Myr would put the blindfold back on before venturing closer. It does give him a moment's pause, fearful of his own response in quite a different way now, afraid of what else his mind might conjure up and throw at him to make him flinch at a crucial moment. He has not yet had to look at those scars so closely, so straight-on, but--
--somehow, the fear seems childish now, equally as trivial as being afraid to cross a bridge lest it buckle in the middle, or walk past an oddly-shaped tree at night. The urge to recoil from the sight feels like something physical enough to be finite, and he's burned through enough of it now to render it small and surmountable. No, Myr's hair doesn't quite cover the red and torn edges of his wounds--neither does the blindfold, and the closer Myr draws to him now, the further away that false and exaggerated image seems, the clearer it is that those empty hollows are still set into a face that appeals to everything Simon has ever found beautiful in his life.
His peace with the scars feels delicate, not quite set in stone, bolstered by a kind of confidence whose boundaries he will have to patrol and maintain--but for now, the truce holds, and when Myr reaches out for him, the trembling in his exhalation is nothing but desire. He closes his eyes and lets himself be learned.
Already, he's too warm in the chill of the room, his skin flushing pink everywhere Myr's steady fingers trace, and though he tries to keep still for the sake of this solemn experiment, he can't help but swallow hard again as Myr's hands caress his throat and cradle his jaw. There is no calling this chaste. The literal definition of the word pales to irrelevance in comparison to the thoughts that touch evokes, the yearning to take and hold and kiss and keep in ways they know are impossible. Myr's fingers rest on his lips, and he kisses them in that mutually-understood way, the deepest gesture of affection they've ever allowed themselves. His breath is warm against them as he laughs, caught off-guard.
"Do it," he urges, his smile audible. "Tell me what she says."
Not that it matters now. She could call him the ugliest cur in the Inquisition (if a Fereldan would ever use such an insult) and he wouldn't care a whit now that Myr's opinion is so unarguably clear. He leans, forehead resting against his friend's (beloved indeed, as clearly as he dares think it) and reaches those few inches across their shared body heat to touch in turn, one hand curving around Myr's muscular side, just above the towel and around to rest on his back. Closer. They need this; they need to be closer.
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--somehow, the fear seems childish now, equally as trivial as being afraid to cross a bridge lest it buckle in the middle, or walk past an oddly-shaped tree at night. The urge to recoil from the sight feels like something physical enough to be finite, and he's burned through enough of it now to render it small and surmountable. No, Myr's hair doesn't quite cover the red and torn edges of his wounds--neither does the blindfold, and the closer Myr draws to him now, the further away that false and exaggerated image seems, the clearer it is that those empty hollows are still set into a face that appeals to everything Simon has ever found beautiful in his life.
His peace with the scars feels delicate, not quite set in stone, bolstered by a kind of confidence whose boundaries he will have to patrol and maintain--but for now, the truce holds, and when Myr reaches out for him, the trembling in his exhalation is nothing but desire. He closes his eyes and lets himself be learned.
Already, he's too warm in the chill of the room, his skin flushing pink everywhere Myr's steady fingers trace, and though he tries to keep still for the sake of this solemn experiment, he can't help but swallow hard again as Myr's hands caress his throat and cradle his jaw. There is no calling this chaste. The literal definition of the word pales to irrelevance in comparison to the thoughts that touch evokes, the yearning to take and hold and kiss and keep in ways they know are impossible. Myr's fingers rest on his lips, and he kisses them in that mutually-understood way, the deepest gesture of affection they've ever allowed themselves. His breath is warm against them as he laughs, caught off-guard.
"Do it," he urges, his smile audible. "Tell me what she says."
Not that it matters now. She could call him the ugliest cur in the Inquisition (if a Fereldan would ever use such an insult) and he wouldn't care a whit now that Myr's opinion is so unarguably clear. He leans, forehead resting against his friend's (beloved indeed, as clearly as he dares think it) and reaches those few inches across their shared body heat to touch in turn, one hand curving around Myr's muscular side, just above the towel and around to rest on his back. Closer. They need this; they need to be closer.