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“Your hands look pretty dainty for a champion duelist.”
Clorinde shoots a glare at the duke and Wriotheseley follows suit with rumbling laughter. “Now, what do you mean by that, your grace?” she huffs oh-so-lightly, turning her gaze away to look at her gloved palms. She feels his presence approaching her, she needn't turn back to see him. “No, I genuinely did think they’d be larger or wider,” he answers with honesty. His body is now closer, behind hers, steel blue eyes peering over her shoulders. She hums flatly, tracing her fingers with her own, tugging on the ends to pull it off, whilst she only needs to twist her head a few degrees to see him in the corner of her eyes. “Would you like to see it yourself?”
“If you allow me, then I am honoured,” he says in a fake courteous tone that makes her scoff playfully. So, she discards the gloves and puts it on the duke’s counter that was conveniently close by and puts out a hand for him to see. “I’m surprised they’re pale,” he comments, and she chuckles. “Not as pale as yours, I’d say.” He huffs, “Thank you for reminding me that I am lacking severe vitamin D.” Her chuckles grow louder at the sarcasm. Then, he pulls out his hand too, gloveless, and mirrors the position she has put her hand in. Her eyes widen shortly— it’s nothing too surprising, it was obvious he had big hands.
Curious, she reaches out and places her fingers atop his palm. He holds his breath for a moment, then releases, as she traces along the lines she can find. “Fortune telling with my hand now, I see.” tilting his head, he looks past the back of his hand to her and watches her turn her eyes to his in a deadpan manner. She rolls her eyes and proceeds to press her entire palm on his, which takes him by shock more than he anticipated. “They’re rough,” she finally speaks, and he thought she had gone speechless by how enamoured she is. That would’ve been flattering.
“Of course, they are.”
“Of course,” she parrots in a slight all-knowing tone that makes her smirk. Silence falls between the two, nothing but the warmth of the other’s hand that keeps them tethered. There was no need to speak anyway, and both of them knew. “Is your left just as calloused?” he asks, voiced more hushed than expected, but neither minded. She shakes her head. “Not to the same extent as my right.” And he nods in understanding. He slips his fingers between hers, the difference between their hand’s width is rather comical, and he subconsciously prays she doesn’t mind. Well. No need for prayers, she handles him quite fine.
He curls up his hand and holds hers, the warmth seemingly increasing as he soon as he did that. She doesn’t say anything and returns the gesture—curling her fingers and holding his hand. they focus on their hands, then to each other’s eyes. not a word was said, a smile was all it took for both to understand a campfire’s warmth.