His hand is amenable to being encouraged, settling flat where its offered.
"Go on."
That's warm at skin, not laughing now but certainly made of some warmer timbre. Yes, sometimes he's very lonely in this place. But not in this moment; nevermind the things waiting outside the cabin's door for them.
The slung bunk itself is narrow, precariously so. The ordeal of repositioning only moments ago prohibits John's first impulse to turn over again, so he might deliver his opinions more directly.
But he must content himself with the all-encompassing warmth of Flint draped across his back and his mouth at his neck and the obliging splay of fingers where John has arranged them. It is not nothing, even if it is not the whole of what John would have.
He has grown very attached to the study of Flint's face, the expressions that play across it so clearly. Delivering any measure of conversation to the side of the Walrus' cabin makes a man all the more aware of what he is missing.
"Exempting my appreciation of more tangible attributes," comes as John's fingers draw lightly over Flint's wrist, slide down again over the back of his hand, lightly over his knuckles and back again. "I would say first that I've always enjoyed your sense of humor, however ignored it may be otherwise."
By design or otherwise, Flint is not exactly known for being funny.
"Well," he says, the edge of the syllable at the shell of John's ear curling with the familiar tell tell tenor of having a crack prepared to make him regret saying so. "That's because you're a shit. I'm not sure it qualifies for other people."
But sure. Attractive and witty. Let's go with it for the time being.
"I cannot account for the poor taste of other people."
Except that John does. What else is his work in Hightown, long visits in parlors too opulent to admit him in any other capacity but as an oddity from the island off the coast with stories enough to pass the time?
But this moment is not about how they bend themselves into shapes most pleasing to those on the each respective shoreline.
"Listen to me," affection, colored by a laugh held at the back of his mouth, the shudder of reaction to the proximity of Flint's mouth. "If you are not content being only a man of fine humor, consider that there is some attraction in being a man of considerable intelligence."
Here, a more true thing split open: all that is fascinating and frustrating about this man can be traced back to this trait. What does John love more than someone as sharp as him, who sees the world through a different lens because of it? Who John must strive to keep up with, rather than outstrip at every turn?
That prompts a lower, more placated hum of acknowledgement. Yes, well. There is technically that. Though were he the type to demure over this point—
But he isn't, so he doesn't. Anyway, there is that warm slant to John's timbre bounced back at him by the cabin bulkhead; it would be petty to argue with that when this has all been a something of a joke to begin with.
"I could bring myself to settle for those two," he says, after some moment of faux consideration.
It's just as well, in a way, because all things John finds most attractive continue to spin off this simple fact: Flint's mind and all the ways in which it fires have had John hooked in one form or another since the earliest days of their acquaintance.
"Well, if you find yourself content..."
A trailing statement, quieting as John's fingers lace back through Flint's, draw them closer, up to the center of his chest. They are satisfactorily close, but the impulse for more is still there, rising lazily to the surface and indulged without any reason to abstain.
"Two seem sufficient to content your co-owners with in Wycome in any case," he says, not unopposed to having his hand drawn up. His palm settles easily there in its revised position, warm at the flat of John's sternum.
Which was the point of this, obviously—devising plans to placate the contents of the private box they might find there. A fine distraction the muddy road John bad come scraping in from, and whatever persistent lingering uncertainty hangs about the company he'd been traveling with sitting behind Flint's teeth like a sour taste in the mouth. Or Starkhaven, or the Divine's posturing. Or, or, or.
Settled in close behind him, Flint breaths out a warm huff of air against John's neck.
"Next time," he says, though obviously they would all prefer there be no repeat of this. "You might send word directly rather than have Julius deliver the message."
Beneath his palm, the steady rise and fall of breath, the distant thud of heartbeat. John's thumb sweeps over and over across the back of Flint's palm.
Next time.
Between them, there is a track record of delays upon the road. (To say nothing of presumed death, or near-death.)
"I shattered my crystal when it became clear we had no means of evading them."
Maybe he should see to keep his hidden, as Petrana does. Something to consider in the morning, even as the admission carries some minor, self-conscious fluctuation of reaction alongside it.
"It was our hope that we wouldn't distract from the work at hand," is truthful, of course. It still carries some probing quality to it, measuring, seeking the edges of the sentiment rebounding between them.
Which is fine and reasonable. There is a reason he'd made some measure of assurance to Julius, and instigated no effort to send a griffon and rider along to be certain of their security. See—he had done his part in continuing along as if there were no background concern tugging at the underside of his attentions whatsoever.
"Be that as it may, I would prefer to hear it from you. Consider briefly borrowing the crystal off Petrana in the future."
Easy enough to promise, without any pretense of pretending there is no chance they find themselves in this position sometime in the future. Their combined track record signals some inevitable disruptions in travel, perhaps less easily rectified. (Not so long ago, Flint's long absence, the stretch of days in which no one was certain he and Yseult hadn't been killed.)
A breath of a pause, in which it seems John might say something further. But he settles instead for drawing Flint's palm up from it's newly-arranged position, where John might duck his head and kiss his fingertips briefly. Apology, promise.
It would be unlucky to count the number of times they've done this to one another. Start keeping a record of near misses, and eventually whatever thing waits for them on the other side of the Fade will start to take notice of the accounting. Still—the practice is regular enough that there it would be irresponsible to let it go without some measure of strategy. This, John's short kiss to his fingertips included, seems to placate the small measure of restlessness present in Flint at his back.
There is something which might be said there in that space which follows. The shape of it lingers warm against John's neck, heavy on Flint's tongue. Instead, it makes its presence known in the settling weight of his arm. It's only a few degrees, but distinctly so—some ease in the hold of his elbow. A gentling of the wrist.
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no subject
"Go on."
That's warm at skin, not laughing now but certainly made of some warmer timbre. Yes, sometimes he's very lonely in this place. But not in this moment; nevermind the things waiting outside the cabin's door for them.
no subject
But he must content himself with the all-encompassing warmth of Flint draped across his back and his mouth at his neck and the obliging splay of fingers where John has arranged them. It is not nothing, even if it is not the whole of what John would have.
He has grown very attached to the study of Flint's face, the expressions that play across it so clearly. Delivering any measure of conversation to the side of the Walrus' cabin makes a man all the more aware of what he is missing.
"Exempting my appreciation of more tangible attributes," comes as John's fingers draw lightly over Flint's wrist, slide down again over the back of his hand, lightly over his knuckles and back again. "I would say first that I've always enjoyed your sense of humor, however ignored it may be otherwise."
By design or otherwise, Flint is not exactly known for being funny.
no subject
But sure. Attractive and witty. Let's go with it for the time being.
no subject
Except that John does. What else is his work in Hightown, long visits in parlors too opulent to admit him in any other capacity but as an oddity from the island off the coast with stories enough to pass the time?
But this moment is not about how they bend themselves into shapes most pleasing to those on the each respective shoreline.
"Listen to me," affection, colored by a laugh held at the back of his mouth, the shudder of reaction to the proximity of Flint's mouth. "If you are not content being only a man of fine humor, consider that there is some attraction in being a man of considerable intelligence."
Here, a more true thing split open: all that is fascinating and frustrating about this man can be traced back to this trait. What does John love more than someone as sharp as him, who sees the world through a different lens because of it? Who John must strive to keep up with, rather than outstrip at every turn?
no subject
But he isn't, so he doesn't. Anyway, there is that warm slant to John's timbre bounced back at him by the cabin bulkhead; it would be petty to argue with that when this has all been a something of a joke to begin with.
"I could bring myself to settle for those two," he says, after some moment of faux consideration.
no subject
It's just as well, in a way, because all things John finds most attractive continue to spin off this simple fact: Flint's mind and all the ways in which it fires have had John hooked in one form or another since the earliest days of their acquaintance.
"Well, if you find yourself content..."
A trailing statement, quieting as John's fingers lace back through Flint's, draw them closer, up to the center of his chest. They are satisfactorily close, but the impulse for more is still there, rising lazily to the surface and indulged without any reason to abstain.
no subject
Which was the point of this, obviously—devising plans to placate the contents of the private box they might find there. A fine distraction the muddy road John bad come scraping in from, and whatever persistent lingering uncertainty hangs about the company he'd been traveling with sitting behind Flint's teeth like a sour taste in the mouth. Or Starkhaven, or the Divine's posturing. Or, or, or.
Settled in close behind him, Flint breaths out a warm huff of air against John's neck.
"Next time," he says, though obviously they would all prefer there be no repeat of this. "You might send word directly rather than have Julius deliver the message."
no subject
Next time.
Between them, there is a track record of delays upon the road. (To say nothing of presumed death, or near-death.)
"I shattered my crystal when it became clear we had no means of evading them."
Maybe he should see to keep his hidden, as Petrana does. Something to consider in the morning, even as the admission carries some minor, self-conscious fluctuation of reaction alongside it.
"It was our hope that we wouldn't distract from the work at hand," is truthful, of course. It still carries some probing quality to it, measuring, seeking the edges of the sentiment rebounding between them.
no subject
"Be that as it may, I would prefer to hear it from you. Consider briefly borrowing the crystal off Petrana in the future."
no subject
"Alright."
Easy enough to promise, without any pretense of pretending there is no chance they find themselves in this position sometime in the future. Their combined track record signals some inevitable disruptions in travel, perhaps less easily rectified. (Not so long ago, Flint's long absence, the stretch of days in which no one was certain he and Yseult hadn't been killed.)
A breath of a pause, in which it seems John might say something further. But he settles instead for drawing Flint's palm up from it's newly-arranged position, where John might duck his head and kiss his fingertips briefly. Apology, promise.
no subject
There is something which might be said there in that space which follows. The shape of it lingers warm against John's neck, heavy on Flint's tongue. Instead, it makes its presence known in the settling weight of his arm. It's only a few degrees, but distinctly so—some ease in the hold of his elbow. A gentling of the wrist.
Alright. Easy enough.