Mm, [Myr breathes, and no more for a moment, instead slipping a hand up to find and cradle the curve of his Witch's jaw.
Strange as a Circle upbringing had been, he had not himself ever been neglected--though the prohibitions on certain kinds of contact between mages had left him with more than enough affection to lavish on those in need of it. (Illicitly or not.) Which is the seductive danger for him in being Bonded to someone so in need--to demonstrate his own unreserved, unguarded love in excessive action, to burn himself through by being whatever and whoever L needed in the moment.
Except he at least knows himself, and the world, well enough to know that would do no good for either of them. If only just, and it is head-knowledge only and not the heart-knowledge that could stand proof against Myr's own abiding sense he is not doing enough for his beloved.
As now. There is not, the faun is sure, a storybook solution to this situation--because there is no tidy storybook solution to any of what they've gotten themselves into. There is only the way the Maker's left available to all mortals: To carry on through this step by plodding, agonizing step with each other to lean on.
He buries his face a moment against L's hair, marshaling his ideas for that next step.]
And if I go out by day instead, while you've ought to occupy you, and bring my stories home tonight? [A quiet, hair-ruffling huff of breath; a not-laugh.] With whatever amount of revelry you'd enjoy.
[It's difficult not to simply curl and nuzzle into that tender touch; the temptation exists to do so, and then hold the Faun here even longer. It would be impractical and selfish; L might even succeed at what he hasn't managed so far, and finally make Myr frustrated enough to want to leave him. It probably helps that he couldn't cling now, as he is; his blunted, maimed hands remain in his lap, hidden beneath the edge of the table.]
By day?
[A different environment, surely. Parties by day and night just aren't the same, and L suspects that fauns in particular will prefer the unique pleasures evening brings with it.
He opts to leave that open-ended, to keep his desire for Myr's company as chaste and unpresuming as possible.]
If you choose to come back to this particular cottage, tonight, I'll be here, and happy to see you and hear stories. If someone else invites you back to a different one, though, don't disappoint them on my account. I'll keep; so will the stories.
[Well, and. That is so gracious an acknowledgment of the vicissitudes of a faun's nature that Myr cannot protest L's phrasing, even if there's a part of him that aches to promise he would be back tonight, without doubt.
It's too near the full moons, and L too dear to him, to make promises he cannot be utterly certain he'll keep.
(Though he's fairly confident in this one; going out by day to take in the side of the carnival meant for all ages would be the perfect hedge on any overt faunishness, from long experience.)
He rubs his thumb over one of L's too-fine cheekbones and at last lets his Witch go with a final brush of lips to shaggy hair.]
Then I'll plan for that, [he says, finding warmth to color his voice again,] though we've breakfast to eat before I go anywhere.
[It's something he intends to linger about, from his tone.]
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Strange as a Circle upbringing had been, he had not himself ever been neglected--though the prohibitions on certain kinds of contact between mages had left him with more than enough affection to lavish on those in need of it. (Illicitly or not.) Which is the seductive danger for him in being Bonded to someone so in need--to demonstrate his own unreserved, unguarded love in excessive action, to burn himself through by being whatever and whoever L needed in the moment.
Except he at least knows himself, and the world, well enough to know that would do no good for either of them. If only just, and it is head-knowledge only and not the heart-knowledge that could stand proof against Myr's own abiding sense he is not doing enough for his beloved.
As now. There is not, the faun is sure, a storybook solution to this situation--because there is no tidy storybook solution to any of what they've gotten themselves into. There is only the way the Maker's left available to all mortals: To carry on through this step by plodding, agonizing step with each other to lean on.
He buries his face a moment against L's hair, marshaling his ideas for that next step.]
And if I go out by day instead, while you've ought to occupy you, and bring my stories home tonight? [A quiet, hair-ruffling huff of breath; a not-laugh.] With whatever amount of revelry you'd enjoy.
no subject
By day?
[A different environment, surely. Parties by day and night just aren't the same, and L suspects that fauns in particular will prefer the unique pleasures evening brings with it.
He opts to leave that open-ended, to keep his desire for Myr's company as chaste and unpresuming as possible.]
If you choose to come back to this particular cottage, tonight, I'll be here, and happy to see you and hear stories. If someone else invites you back to a different one, though, don't disappoint them on my account. I'll keep; so will the stories.
no subject
It's too near the full moons, and L too dear to him, to make promises he cannot be utterly certain he'll keep.
(Though he's fairly confident in this one; going out by day to take in the side of the carnival meant for all ages would be the perfect hedge on any overt faunishness, from long experience.)
He rubs his thumb over one of L's too-fine cheekbones and at last lets his Witch go with a final brush of lips to shaggy hair.]
Then I'll plan for that, [he says, finding warmth to color his voice again,] though we've breakfast to eat before I go anywhere.
[It's something he intends to linger about, from his tone.]