@armsdealing: i saw the way you looked at me.
the subsequent exhale is too sharp to pass as casual, the shift in expression dramatic but careful, features rearranged into something not quite callus, but still cold; an art long-since perfected, years of practice culminating in this: a complete withdrawal, silence stifling as griff assesses the situation --- or attempts to, the heavy rush of his pulse in his ears refusing to cooperate, quiet and still so that he can think. there is an earnestness in charles’ voice that causes pause, no trace of any malice that griff can detect, but a sense of danger persists, prickling the scruff of his neck.
he’s supposed to deny it; griff knows this. he’s intended to laugh, maybe roll his eyes and sarcastically remark that it’s funny, then pretend it was never said. he’s not supposed to think about the unsteadiness of his heart, the heat that seems to be consuming him from within. these aren’t things he should give any attention.
it’s the way charles’ voice is so soft but sure that gives griff the courage to look up, meet his eyes; griff’s fingers curling into loose fists against his lap, feeling twenty years younger, another man entirely, not so jagged-edged and jaded, a fierce glint of hope in his eyes he swore he’d lost back then. “and how’s that?” he asks, with surprising strength, though neither challenging nor spiteful. it’s a genuine curiosity, because he’d believed he’d been so --- safe. “how do i look at you?”
