Time and space and experience have always been forbidden treasures; the implicit certainty that all of them will be torn away by force if they aren't discreet enough is no less deeply ingrained in Simon than it is in Myr, woven into his heart by no less painful experience.

And he's put no less stock in it anyway, yearning with every nerve of his body to be able to share a bed with a lover instead of a broom closet--but failing that, to have them actually naked, fully bared to him instead of half-armored and hastily reclothable, every inch of wanting skin open to be touched and savored and memorized. This, more than anything, is what his irrepressible fantasies about Myr have entailed; this is what he's day-and-night dreamed about, down to the very way Myr wraps those lean and blade-hardened arms around him and devours him with hands like he can't take in enough, the way he anchors his fingers in Simon's hair as if to make sure, really sure, that he's not moving away an inch. Andraste's ashes, but he's ached to have Myr hold him like this.

His head tips back, breath caught as Myr's lips trail fire down his throat, please yes more take it it's yours, and his heart lurches so at that confession that he's positive Myr could have felt it.

"Maker, so have I," he breathes, without a second's pause or thought. Since the forest, perhaps; since Myr so eagerly and handily explained that spell technique as if trusting implicitly that Simon could understand it, but what comes to mind, always, every time, is that sparring match. He's dwelt on that since the night it happened. "Since that time you kicked my arse and then kissed my hand when you were done. I've never been able to get that out of my head--"

He cradles the back of Myr's head, kisses him again, swift and deep. His other hand slips down to loosen the towel.