They really are mirrors. Moments after John's hand withdraws from his pocket, one of Harry's is pulled from his own. He'd planned to crook a finger at the Baron, to encourage him just a little closer - but John defies expectations, and stands so close that Harry has to look down at him. They'll collide one way or another: through brief touches or eye contact. "Maeve says you pine," the amusement in his voice is clear, though Harry continues on pointedly: "She says the same about me, though."
When he'd opened his eyes to the Winter Court, he'd found out that being the Knight was a lot like being in another foster home. As he learned his ropes, he was better able to accord himself among his new "siblings" - particularly the Winter Lady, who had become as much an elder-younger sister as she had a gal pal. Maeve had been less subtle about the way Harry pined after the Baron, especially after the brief glimpse he'd caught before being assigned to those "roses".
The hand he'd yanked from his pocket brushes against the front of the peacoat Harry had bundled John into, palm smoothing across the tailored waist, thumb flicking a button open boldly. "If you'll have me," he reminds John, dedicated and infatuated with threes until the last, "I'd like to invite you to my quarters. Drinks. Dry clothes. A fireplace to languish before." Harry's hand wraps around the scarf, tugging it far enough from John's neck so that he can lean in (every inch of him is tense because he just wants a nibble--) and take a chance, by kissing the man's jaw. "And me, of course."
no subject
When he'd opened his eyes to the Winter Court, he'd found out that being the Knight was a lot like being in another foster home. As he learned his ropes, he was better able to accord himself among his new "siblings" - particularly the Winter Lady, who had become as much an elder-younger sister as she had a gal pal. Maeve had been less subtle about the way Harry pined after the Baron, especially after the brief glimpse he'd caught before being assigned to those "roses".
The hand he'd yanked from his pocket brushes against the front of the peacoat Harry had bundled John into, palm smoothing across the tailored waist, thumb flicking a button open boldly. "If you'll have me," he reminds John, dedicated and infatuated with threes until the last, "I'd like to invite you to my quarters. Drinks. Dry clothes. A fireplace to languish before." Harry's hand wraps around the scarf, tugging it far enough from John's neck so that he can lean in (every inch of him is tense because he just wants a nibble--) and take a chance, by kissing the man's jaw. "And me, of course."