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He catches himself staring again. He curses himself for it, squeezing his eyes shut as if to reset himself, but when he opens them again he finds them trained once more on Favaro’s hands as his fingers tap on the desk. Kaisar snorts, insisting to himself it’s just because of the noise they’re making, but his eyes betray him once again.
Favaro’s hands are so well kept, his nails filed neatly and the skin free of cracks or filth, despite how much time he spends running around in dirty towns hunting rewards. When does he find time to take such good care of them? Kaisar’s own hands are cracked and callused, striped with thick red tracks that betray too many mishandled battles.
There are scars on Favaro’s hands too, a faint web of elegant little lines, bridges that span the hills formed by his knuckles. He’s had his fair share of failures in battle, too, but his hands are nimble and skilled and...Kaisar shakes his head.
And then there’s the back of Favaro’s neck, just a sliver of skin exposed between his collar and locks of copper.
There’s just a bit of sweat there – Favaro’s been hunched over whatever he’s tinkering with for a while now, and from the low curses he keeps muttering, he seems tense – and his skin glistens a little in the sunlight that streams through the window. Favaro is often sweaty (it’s somewhat of an inevitability for such an active bounty hunter), this is nothing new for him, and yet Kaisar feels in that moment compelled to get up from his seat, so much so that his leg twitches before his hand stills it. What was he going to get up for, anyway? What would he do once he got over there? He cursed himself again.
But some voice in the back of his head tells Kaisar what he already knows, and he digs his nails into his thigh in a futile effort to shut it up.
Kiss him, you dolt.
Kaisar’s brow is furrowed.
Well, Kaisar’s brow is always furrowed, that’s nothing special, except when it is, like right now, because Kaisar’s brow is furrowed at Favaro and his lips are a little parted and he’s looking at Favaro with a look on his face that’s hard to describe but definitely isn’t angry.
Favaro’s hand moves on its own, his fingers gently pushing up underneath Kaisar’s chin. He grits his teeth but not before “Y’know, you look real pretty when you’re mad. Do girls ever tell ya that?” comes tumbling out of his mouth and he bites his tongue, punishing the traitorous bastard for playing dirty like that.
He stammers, a thousand retractions rushing forward at once that all meet a sharp end between Favaro’s teeth as he clamps his jaw shut.
Kaisar says nothing, but he meets Favaro’s eyes now. His expression...softens? Is that what it is? Favaro swears there are fewer lines between his eyebrows, and maybe his lips are pursed a little bit more than before, and Favaro’s hand is still resting on his chin and he’s never noticed it before but Kaisar has a jawline you could almost cut yourself on. Favaro pretends he doesn’t want to shift his hand just a little bit, to trace with the lightest touch of his fingernail the hard line that connects Kaisar’s chin to his ear and he’s never noticed this before either but the little jagged sideburns there are so cute and he’ll never ever say it but he loves his stupid hair.
Little strands fall onto Kaisar’s forehead because no matter what he does he can never get them to behave and Favaro always laughs at his frustration but the truth is he just wants to reach out and brush them to the side and oh God his hand is moving without permission again and Kaisar is...Kaisar is…
His head is bowed forward just a little bit, his forehead a light pressure against Favaro’s hands, and he’s frowning again and there’s pink on his cheeks but it’s nothing like the patchy red that comes with his anger.
And he says, “Favaro…” and Favaro thinks it might be the quietest he’s ever said his name and it almost sounds like a question and before he can even think his lips are forming “Yes” and Kaisar is closer to him than he’s maybe ever been before and Favaro can smell dinner on his breath and he wants to laugh but he really wants to kiss him, actually, and his breath catches in his throat on something that might have been “I love you” because maybe it’s not time for that just yet but that’s okay because Kaisar’s hand is on his cheek, rugged and warm, and Favaro thinks maybe he never wants to leave this spot.