He freezes, Simon pulls away, and for a brief horrifying irrational second Myr thinks there it is, it’s over—, whatever temporary madness blinded Simon to his obvious defect has run its course and now he won’t want me either.
There are few things he’s heard sweeter than the way Simon says his name then, worry clear enough to cut right through the fog of anxious terror. It wasn’t that—oh, Maker, thank You that it wasn’t that. Simon still wants him every bit as much as he wants Simon—
But that awful unintended interruption of desire’s sweet upward spiral left room for sobering reality to creep in. Whatever their mutual lapse of self-control had led them to (wonderful and necessary as it felt), nothing about the outside world has changed. Nothing has changed about the factions that would frame them as natural enemies—or charge and guardian, never peers, to be kept apart by law and ethical custom.
“Shh. You thought right.” He dares enough still to lean up and kiss the curve of Simon’s jaw—but it’s gentle, conciliatory. It can’t be more than that. “If it were up to me alone I’d have you right here however you wanted.
“But—“ we can’t, he doesn’t say, knowing by grim instinct that might be the death of this. Whether or not they should, he can’t bear the idea of giving up. “If we’re found out—they’ll blame you for it. They’ll think you abused or seduced me, or you ought to be drummed out of the Order—and I won’t bear them treating you so ill. I won’t.”
The words are intense for all they’re quiet; the thought of Simon traduced that way for something done out of love and mutual loyalty makes him furious to think of it. (And it’s an explanation that neatly elides the initial reason for his terror—but if there’s no way on Thedas for them to be together the way they belong, the way they both need, what’s the point of tearing open that old wound?) The thought chokes him; he swallows against his own grief and helpless anger, continues in a voice low and fervent, "We ought to put this to the Maker. It's His will we found each other."
And what they do with that next might be best left up to Him, though Myr cannot put it to voice. What if He decrees a life of straitened chastity for them, loving friendship permitted but touch impossible? Or what if they're supposed to be found out—if it's for the ultimate good of the Maker's works, any personal shame, any peril should be acceptable. There's no higher glory than martyrdom.
Myr makes a small unhappy noise for the last thought, rests his head against Simon’s chest in a mute request for comfort—for guidance.
no subject
There are few things he’s heard sweeter than the way Simon says his name then, worry clear enough to cut right through the fog of anxious terror. It wasn’t that—oh, Maker, thank You that it wasn’t that. Simon still wants him every bit as much as he wants Simon—
But that awful unintended interruption of desire’s sweet upward spiral left room for sobering reality to creep in. Whatever their mutual lapse of self-control had led them to (wonderful and necessary as it felt), nothing about the outside world has changed. Nothing has changed about the factions that would frame them as natural enemies—or charge and guardian, never peers, to be kept apart by law and ethical custom.
“Shh. You thought right.” He dares enough still to lean up and kiss the curve of Simon’s jaw—but it’s gentle, conciliatory. It can’t be more than that. “If it were up to me alone I’d have you right here however you wanted.
“But—“ we can’t, he doesn’t say, knowing by grim instinct that might be the death of this. Whether or not they should, he can’t bear the idea of giving up. “If we’re found out—they’ll blame you for it. They’ll think you abused or seduced me, or you ought to be drummed out of the Order—and I won’t bear them treating you so ill. I won’t.”
The words are intense for all they’re quiet; the thought of Simon traduced that way for something done out of love and mutual loyalty makes him furious to think of it. (And it’s an explanation that neatly elides the initial reason for his terror—but if there’s no way on Thedas for them to be together the way they belong, the way they both need, what’s the point of tearing open that old wound?) The thought chokes him; he swallows against his own grief and helpless anger, continues in a voice low and fervent, "We ought to put this to the Maker. It's His will we found each other."
And what they do with that next might be best left up to Him, though Myr cannot put it to voice. What if He decrees a life of straitened chastity for them, loving friendship permitted but touch impossible? Or what if they're supposed to be found out—if it's for the ultimate good of the Maker's works, any personal shame, any peril should be acceptable. There's no higher glory than martyrdom.
Myr makes a small unhappy noise for the last thought, rests his head against Simon’s chest in a mute request for comfort—for guidance.
What do they do?