He turns his hand subtle at the wrist, just enough to convey something like a touch being returned, reciprocated. Then turns around completely to conform palm to cheek, fingers loosely curled up under jawline.
His other hand finds its way back up to shoulder, then over it, fanning high on Flint's chest. Gentle pressure applied. If Flint capitulates to it, he'll find the ability to lean back and rest against Marcus standing sturdy. If he doesn't, it doesn't cease this lingering, not right away, as thumb feels out half an inch of territory on Flint's cheek.
"I imagine when all of this is over," he says, "and I'll have found myself to've survived it, and the Chantry has finally decided not to trouble itself with corralling its children or writing execution orders," this part, more wry, "I'll have to decide where it is I go after. There was a time where I wouldn't have been at all fussed about where that was, so long as it wasn't the Circles."
He taps a light, thoughtful beat against Flint's chest. "The Anderfels, though."
He does—capitulate. Sinking back, he makes for a heavy shape there in the loosely arranged bracket of Marcus' hands. Cheek willing to defer to the curve of fingers and palm; the wide span of his shoulders a softly blunted square against where Marcus has posted up behind him. It is selfish to do, he thinks. But surely no more so than Marcus' appearance here with the cup of ale as an excuse and his firm commitment to having his guilt assuaged by the act of acknowledging it.
(And who would begrudge him the warmth of that hand and the sturdy support at his back? Except maybe for himself, and only then at his most uncharitable when he is assigning opinions to people who would think him cruel and foolish for doing so.)
Flint makes a low noise, the shape of his summoned scoff murmuring against the gentle press of fingertips under his jaw. A hum that chases the hand on his chest.
"Is that what you've gleaned from all this? An affection for darkspawn and sand."
Marcus' hand flattens where it rests against Flint's chest, the other maintaining its idle fidget, similar to rubbing the velvety corner of an ear of a resting hound, light and obtrusive. If it occurs to him that in his attempt to offer something to Flint for any perceived or true responsibility for the trauma inflicted this day, if he'd have simply handed off the ale and then taken up this post—
Well, it is easy to project meaning onto silent things. In the tipping back of Flint's weight against his middle, the vibration of vocalisations under his fingers.
"I don't know if I'd spurn it in the face of capture and execution," he explains, "but it would be a hard decision."
This is a joke. It's difficult to tell from his tone.
He doesn't laugh, but there is something like humor in the length of his exhale and the faintly flexing shift of his shoulders. Some alteration in the line of muscle that passes through his face under the motion of Marcus' thumb.
"Some time ago, I'd judged it as not so far removed from the southern Chantry's reach as might be preferable. But that was years ago." Lifetimes, even. And maybe Rivain would refuse a second incursion given the violent fall of its Circle. Certainly, an argument might be made—
"But at least the weather is preferable to almost anywhere," at least. Hot and humid and reassuringly rich against the skin.
said after a thoughtful beat. His hand drops that slight distance to come to rest against the side of Flint's neck, fingers curled in to lightly rest knuckles there, one finger offering a light rub of contact.
Even in fantasy, it's a difficult imagining. But he offers, "Depends on if I were on my own or if I weren't. There's more than just me that would try somewhere like that." Somewhere that is ostensibly freer in their opinions of difference, although Marcus has yet to get a sense from the likes of Derrica if such hospitality is limited within those born of the place, or outsiders.
He asks, "And you've your Antivan vineyard, I suppose?"
Is it reassuring to hear someone say, I don't know? Maybe it can be partly so, relief and vexing all in combination. He's never hated Rutyer as much as when the man expressed having some real plan for the future. Meanwhile, it prickles at something raw for Marcus to say the opposite. Though only distantly or in some shape that's too unwieldily to manage a full examination in a narrow space like this one, and so the displeasure and sense of consolation middle together into some tint that is unremarkable in too intimate a space.
(Marcus' hand is very warm, and he can feel his breathing in the gentle movement against the back of his shoulders.)
"Ah, the vineyard." There's some curving shape to it that suggests some rueful, bleakly humorous slant to Flint's mouth in the harsh shadow of his whiskers. "I have some doubts."
"Maybe tomorrow once we've levered this stupid temple out of Venatori hands for good," Marcus says, "you'll feel differently about it."
And Research could consider finding nicer and more temperate locations for them to excavate and murder for. But here, he has summoned back the subject of tomorrow awaiting them, and then shrinking hours that separate this moment from that. He could trick himself into the comfort of this arrangement as being comparable to being in bed, Flint's back to his chest while they speak of
(not nothing, he isn't speaking just to fill a silence, but out of some errant desire to share something of himself in exchange of Flint's, even if that something is the vague notion of a country and no clear image of what he does once he makes it there)
anything but then he can feel his feet begin to ache in his boots and his back start to protest the slouch required not to brush his head on the canvas, and so. Wisdom it is, his hands shifting now to Flint's shoulders, a squeeze to signal, "I should see to that rest."
A lingering beat there under the shape of Marcus' hands. Then, with a low hum of assent, Flint shifts the distribution of his weight forward. There. Agreed. Done. That was decided some minutes ago, and there has been no change in opinion.
"Shake out your bedroll before you lay down in it," is just sound advice.
Flint leans forwards, and Marcus' hands instinctively follow for a beat before withdrawing.
His reply is exhale-adjacent, only heard by virtue of the close confines of the tent, smothering out the rest of the campsite. Another beat, and then a scuff of boots and the sound of the flap being pushed aside. Chill night air, briefly, presses against Flint's now warmed back, and then he is left to conclude his evening and his tankard of ale.
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no subject
His other hand finds its way back up to shoulder, then over it, fanning high on Flint's chest. Gentle pressure applied. If Flint capitulates to it, he'll find the ability to lean back and rest against Marcus standing sturdy. If he doesn't, it doesn't cease this lingering, not right away, as thumb feels out half an inch of territory on Flint's cheek.
"I imagine when all of this is over," he says, "and I'll have found myself to've survived it, and the Chantry has finally decided not to trouble itself with corralling its children or writing execution orders," this part, more wry, "I'll have to decide where it is I go after. There was a time where I wouldn't have been at all fussed about where that was, so long as it wasn't the Circles."
He taps a light, thoughtful beat against Flint's chest. "The Anderfels, though."
no subject
(And who would begrudge him the warmth of that hand and the sturdy support at his back? Except maybe for himself, and only then at his most uncharitable when he is assigning opinions to people who would think him cruel and foolish for doing so.)
Flint makes a low noise, the shape of his summoned scoff murmuring against the gentle press of fingertips under his jaw. A hum that chases the hand on his chest.
"Is that what you've gleaned from all this? An affection for darkspawn and sand."
no subject
Marcus' hand flattens where it rests against Flint's chest, the other maintaining its idle fidget, similar to rubbing the velvety corner of an ear of a resting hound, light and obtrusive. If it occurs to him that in his attempt to offer something to Flint for any perceived or true responsibility for the trauma inflicted this day, if he'd have simply handed off the ale and then taken up this post—
Well, it is easy to project meaning onto silent things. In the tipping back of Flint's weight against his middle, the vibration of vocalisations under his fingers.
"I don't know if I'd spurn it in the face of capture and execution," he explains, "but it would be a hard decision."
This is a joke. It's difficult to tell from his tone.
"Rivain," he adds. "I'd like Rivain."
no subject
"Some time ago, I'd judged it as not so far removed from the southern Chantry's reach as might be preferable. But that was years ago." Lifetimes, even. And maybe Rivain would refuse a second incursion given the violent fall of its Circle. Certainly, an argument might be made—
"But at least the weather is preferable to almost anywhere," at least. Hot and humid and reassuringly rich against the skin.
"What will you do there?"
no subject
said after a thoughtful beat. His hand drops that slight distance to come to rest against the side of Flint's neck, fingers curled in to lightly rest knuckles there, one finger offering a light rub of contact.
Even in fantasy, it's a difficult imagining. But he offers, "Depends on if I were on my own or if I weren't. There's more than just me that would try somewhere like that." Somewhere that is ostensibly freer in their opinions of difference, although Marcus has yet to get a sense from the likes of Derrica if such hospitality is limited within those born of the place, or outsiders.
He asks, "And you've your Antivan vineyard, I suppose?"
no subject
(Marcus' hand is very warm, and he can feel his breathing in the gentle movement against the back of his shoulders.)
"Ah, the vineyard." There's some curving shape to it that suggests some rueful, bleakly humorous slant to Flint's mouth in the harsh shadow of his whiskers. "I have some doubts."
Shocking news, he knows.
no subject
"Maybe tomorrow once we've levered this stupid temple out of Venatori hands for good," Marcus says, "you'll feel differently about it."
And Research could consider finding nicer and more temperate locations for them to excavate and murder for. But here, he has summoned back the subject of tomorrow awaiting them, and then shrinking hours that separate this moment from that. He could trick himself into the comfort of this arrangement as being comparable to being in bed, Flint's back to his chest while they speak of
(not nothing, he isn't speaking just to fill a silence, but out of some errant desire to share something of himself in exchange of Flint's, even if that something is the vague notion of a country and no clear image of what he does once he makes it there)
anything but then he can feel his feet begin to ache in his boots and his back start to protest the slouch required not to brush his head on the canvas, and so. Wisdom it is, his hands shifting now to Flint's shoulders, a squeeze to signal, "I should see to that rest."
no subject
A lingering beat there under the shape of Marcus' hands. Then, with a low hum of assent, Flint shifts the distribution of his weight forward. There. Agreed. Done. That was decided some minutes ago, and there has been no change in opinion.
"Shake out your bedroll before you lay down in it," is just sound advice.
no subject
His reply is exhale-adjacent, only heard by virtue of the close confines of the tent, smothering out the rest of the campsite. Another beat, and then a scuff of boots and the sound of the flap being pushed aside. Chill night air, briefly, presses against Flint's now warmed back, and then he is left to conclude his evening and his tankard of ale.