And on the outskirts of that lovely little training montage sits Iris, quietly suffering through the full force of a — not so much a queer awakening, as that had already happened many years ago, but rather more something like a queer reaffirming, as the parts of his brain that had shoved things of that nature to the far, far recesses of his mind in order to let pure survival instinct take over and thrive suddenly break down like a dam crumbling under the pressure of a river overrun.

He breaks the tip of his pencil over three times throughout the course of his very valiant attempts to actually do some figure sketching instead of the very, very tempting option of just sitting there and gawking.

When it looks like the pair have finally stopped (equal parts a yes thank god and a noooooo don't put the muscles away moment), Iris stumbles back to his feet. There is color on his cheeks, and yet all he'd done this entire time was sit there.

"I could eat," he agrees, in what he thinks is a rather good job of appearing so very normal about all this, like he was just very normally paying attention to the conversation and not, you know, the flashes of sweat-slick skin that peeks out everytime Wilhelm fans his shirt. Why's his voice so hoarse, though?