[Old bastard, he hisses hotly around the corners of his grinning eyeteeth, voice already lost in roughness of their scuffling segue— a flurry of shoves and snapping limbs— paved over and buried just thereafter; his heartbeat's still thrumming, but his eyes are locked on shadowed glints of green and gold, and with them pulling in the same shared inches of air (back and forth, back and forth— one inhale before the next) only to feel it pour against the other's lips, he can't stay that wild, or repulsed, or distracted, as it were.

A few stands of pale braidwork already hanging loose, scratching at his cheek for closeness.

(Somewhere nearby, Talindra sighs to herself as she treads past the sound of muffled laughter through a shuttered door.

Somewhere, not so long after, the other servants don't even question having the rest of the day off).]

You're think it's weird we don't want to spend all day groaning in agony because even our food wants to kill us? [Asked while the upwards angling of his chin slides the bridges of their noses together. A curious sort of crowding.

At odds with the tension in their hips.]

No wonder you're all such prickly bastards. Can't even eat without hurting yourselves.