They need to be closer--and how dearly Myr yearns to take that implicit invitation, step in, embrace Simon as he has before (through armor, through robes) and pretend it means no more than friendship even in bare skin. The warmth alone is temptation enough; for all Simon's fingers are cold on his back the rest of him feels welcome as a hearth-fire in the frost. It need only be a moment.

He knows himself well enough to know it wouldn't be.

His hands still steal out to rest lightly on Simon's hips, possessive all the same.

"I will." The words are scarcely above a murmur and answer far more than whether he'll bring word back of Melys. Give him leave--let the world be other than it is--and he would, whatever Simon asks of him, for as long as he might ask. The touch of Simon's head against his own prompts a shift, a half-conscious twitch as if he could meet his friend's gaze. Is he looking? a part of him wonders, with awe and stinging fear alike.

Give him a reason not to, something else prompts, and it seems so eminently sensible idea that Myr can do no less. It's only a little further he has to lean in and up, a little further to turn his head and press his lips against Simon's. For all they've been so careful, so slow in coming to it, there's nothing hesitant about the kiss now that Myr's committed.

(Not so hard at all.)