[Felix has been here all of, like, five minutes, but as Marianne squeezes his hand, it feels as though he's been by her side for far longer? He's just... comfortable, here. Comfortable with her, all while the dragons continue softly singing around them. This is much better than choir practice back at the Academy. No pressure; just peace.
And, you know. Marianne. The person looking him dead in the eye, which is normally the sort of thing he hates—but while his stomach does twist a bit? While warmth creeps up the back of his neck? He finds that he doesn't mind looking into her eyes, which are such a nice shade of brown. Soft, he thinks. Warm. Just like her hands.
(It's all very cheesy, okay, and it's entirely the dragons' fault.)
Another thing the dragons are responsible for: the current state of her hair. Flyaways everywhere! Damn! He normally neither notices nor cares about such things, but as he soaks in the sight of her—]
I don't, [he says, somewhat stiltedly, because he is so outside of his wheelhouse.] I'm not... busy. And you're—
[A weak huff, then, before he leans a smidge closer, bringing his free hand to her face—and then hesitating? Allowing it to (awkwardly) hover by her temple for a moment, before he swallows his misgivings and gently, carefully, smooths a frazzled lock of her hair back behind her ear.]
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And, you know. Marianne. The person looking him dead in the eye, which is normally the sort of thing he hates—but while his stomach does twist a bit? While warmth creeps up the back of his neck? He finds that he doesn't mind looking into her eyes, which are such a nice shade of brown. Soft, he thinks. Warm. Just like her hands.
(It's all very cheesy, okay, and it's entirely the dragons' fault.)
Another thing the dragons are responsible for: the current state of her hair. Flyaways everywhere! Damn! He normally neither notices nor cares about such things, but as he soaks in the sight of her—]
I don't, [he says, somewhat stiltedly, because he is so outside of his wheelhouse.] I'm not... busy. And you're—
[A weak huff, then, before he leans a smidge closer, bringing his free hand to her face—and then hesitating? Allowing it to (awkwardly) hover by her temple for a moment, before he swallows his misgivings and gently, carefully, smooths a frazzled lock of her hair back behind her ear.]
You're alone, aren't you?