Iris' weight settles onto his back, and Wilhelm curls his arms around his thighs to cup their underside. His palms soak in the bare skin he'd imagined spanning just moments ago. His neck prickles as warm breath caresses the shell of his ear. Like this, the world beyond the ethereal glow of this cavern ebbs to a distant point.
"Yeehaw," he answers through a laugh as he straightens up. "Damn, you weigh practically nothing."
As he wades through the magma, Wilhelm carefully plots his route to cleave to the shelf of the rock basin. He avoids the places where the rock gives way to deeper chasms. Any deeper than his knees, pushing through the thick magma would turn into a Sisyphean struggle. As it is, the going is slow. But they're not in any rush to get there.
When this thing with feathers came to perch in his chest, he can't say. It alights on him suddenly in the smallest moments. Like when Iris labors over his sketchbook, and the concentration is so complete it's like he's in his own world. Or when they've settled into their fortress of pillows and blankets by the fire at the conclusion of the day, and he realizes that it doesn't matter what they talk about, he just wants to keep listening. He wants to keep being beside him.
Impulse would have him seizing a kiss a dozen times a day, but a history of heartache has bound him to hesitation. Wilhelm has unlearned the boy who kissed Simon on the windowsill without fully understanding the enormity of his feelings. His friendship with Iris, though new, is already too dear to wreck. And if he has to choose between never fully having Iris, and not having him at all, the choice is obvious.
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"Yeehaw," he answers through a laugh as he straightens up. "Damn, you weigh practically nothing."
As he wades through the magma, Wilhelm carefully plots his route to cleave to the shelf of the rock basin. He avoids the places where the rock gives way to deeper chasms. Any deeper than his knees, pushing through the thick magma would turn into a Sisyphean struggle. As it is, the going is slow. But they're not in any rush to get there.
When this thing with feathers came to perch in his chest, he can't say. It alights on him suddenly in the smallest moments. Like when Iris labors over his sketchbook, and the concentration is so complete it's like he's in his own world. Or when they've settled into their fortress of pillows and blankets by the fire at the conclusion of the day, and he realizes that it doesn't matter what they talk about, he just wants to keep listening. He wants to keep being beside him.
Impulse would have him seizing a kiss a dozen times a day, but a history of heartache has bound him to hesitation. Wilhelm has unlearned the boy who kissed Simon on the windowsill without fully understanding the enormity of his feelings. His friendship with Iris, though new, is already too dear to wreck. And if he has to choose between never fully having Iris, and not having him at all, the choice is obvious.