Before he can try his drink, Jesper is plucking his hand up and pressing kisses against it. The gesture might lack the depth it would possess in Simon's hands and lips — everything he did to Wilhelm seemed to have the weight of the ocean behind it — but he won't deny that it feels good. He didn't come here to brood over the boy who wrung his heart out, or to feel guilty for enjoying himself while the world burns. He didn't come here to think at all.
Curling his fingers, he traces Jesper's cheek and jaw as those kisses warm his palm.
"I'm not nervous."
His heart, thudding clumsily in his chest, would argue otherwise, but it's the good kind of nervous. After so many days of raw anxiety flaying him open, crushing his lungs and clattering around in his head, the fluttering feeling filling him now is a breath of fresh air.
To prove his point, Wilhelm cranes his neck — he's not used to doing this with someone so damn tall — to press his lips to Jesper's.
no subject
Curling his fingers, he traces Jesper's cheek and jaw as those kisses warm his palm.
"I'm not nervous."
His heart, thudding clumsily in his chest, would argue otherwise, but it's the good kind of nervous. After so many days of raw anxiety flaying him open, crushing his lungs and clattering around in his head, the fluttering feeling filling him now is a breath of fresh air.
To prove his point, Wilhelm cranes his neck — he's not used to doing this with someone so damn tall — to press his lips to Jesper's.