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She found herself stealing glances at him from across the living room, others coming and going just warm shadows, moving trees in the way of a silent, stationary buck.
He was so absorbed in a book from a collection that Lumine had found at a hole-in-the-wall pawn shop, and his lanky body was folded over it, curled comfortably on one of the couches, colorful afghan draped over his sloped shoulders.
There was something about the way he read, silent, but his thoughts were painted across his face in a beautiful gouache, shifting like the canvas was glass instead of skin with every subtle movement.
Something grew taut inside her chest as he lifted his calloused thumb to his mouth, lips parting to wet it – she remembered Venti reciting a line of poetry about the burning desire to be the glove upon a lover's hand, to catch every sigh as their cheek rested on it.
Oh, to be the page, whose only use was to feel that indirect kiss, to give way to his curiosity and nothing less.
He was wearing comfortable clothes, but it was still clear he wanted to look presentable, if not fashionable. A burgundy knit sweater vest hugged his frame snugly, the sleeves of his shirt rolled up to reveal muscle thick forearms that were crisscrossed with scars of dubious nature – whether they were self-inflicted or not was up to the viewer, it seemed. Freckles were scattered between the pearly bands of scar tissue, and with ginger hair nearly reaching his wrists, it was clear he was no longer at the cusp of manhood.
His nails were always bitten short, and his knuckles were boney, the tendons flexing like piano strings over them when his fingers curled to turn another page.
She jumped a bit when he suddenly let out a low, gravely hum, adjusting so he could stretch out all hundred miles of leg across the length of the couch, propping his back up on the arm furthest to her. The warm draft from the roaring fireplace behind him ruffled his ruddy red hair, the shivering tufts flickering and catching the golden glow like flames themselves.
His eyes were still cast downward, those ocean irises shadowed by long, feathered lashes, russet brows drawn like curtains as a small frown crept across his still healing lips.
The foot tapping started up again – like clockwork, an unknown rhythm unique to him keeping time as one of his fur lined moccasins brushed against the other.
It was absurd, how he had the appearance of a man just shy from filling out completely, and yet, at the same time, the clear cut body of someone strained through the blade of the military just a few years too young. His chest was broad, but not necessarily deep, and his stomach, although toned and padded with just enough soft skin and fat to survive a single day in his homeland, still led to slender hips.
He didn't have a thick, seasoned core like Xiao did, or the ursine, warm, complementing fat and well kept muscle of Diluc. No, the remnants of his teenage years clung like ghosts to his torso, and she knew if she had the courage to slide his shirt up, his ribs would be a painfully visible roadmap to his heart, curling ridges meeting at his prominent breastbone.
It was no secret that he was still proud of his body, he was a prideful creature to begin with, and whether that was sincere or not was still up for debate behind closed doors. But she had seen him, seen him strip, the steam rising from his sweat sheened back like smoke from his father's pipe, the frosted windows turning foggy in his presence.
He was strong, and he was muscular, neither of which could be argued, but for all the rounded, model-envying pecs and rock hard biceps, the substance was not that of care, but of desperation. It was necessity that fueled the rolling, chiseled contours of his beautiful, young body.
But, despite what the imagination hid beneath truth, she preferred his face above all else. He had trouble gaining and keeping weight, and it was his face that never lied to her gentle questions. His cheeks were just shy of riding high beneath his arctic blue eyes, and the brushstroke of hunger shone against his will, emphasizing his jaw in ways she wished it wouldn't.
When that line was gone, and his freckles melted so softly into rounded cheeks warm with the flush of post-dinner satisfaction – that was when she loved him most. She loved how he'd let out a low hum, Adam's apple bobbing as he finished off the hot mulled cider, free hand already working to undo his belt for a bit of relief.
She knew it wasn't his fault, but she couldn't help it, he was so young, and he would die just as young in comparison to her. She couldn't help it, seeing him well-fed, stomach distended like a stray puppy – it comforted her. If only he could keep some of it on, then he might be able to cross that finish line, and that lingering youth would slough off like a snakeskin.