For the first time in so long that she could remember - she felt light. Happy, wonderful, beautiful- and wanted. He did not seem to mind her company, so far. The hope glimmered in her chest, that for once, she would not be such a burden, that she would do her family proud, and make this work. Her smile fixed so intently from the kiss, that it might never leave her face.
The chaste kiss is returned, and the meal continues. The freedom and exertion of dancing, and his appreciation and warm comfort lets her open up a little more. Finding herself able to talk, however stumbling, as different courtiers greet them, doing her best to return conversation when she could. To strike up her own conversation with those sitting near them.
That each time she turns back to find assurance in that small shared smile, giving one of her own. That now, she gives her own gladness, when she finds his hand closest to her, sitting idle, and still nervous, but intent nonetheless, she rests hers on top of his for this new connection between them.
At least until the meal is drawing to a close, and she squeezes his hand softly to gain his attention.
"I am go, now. To make ready for you." The implication clear, with the way her eyes down turn, and the little abashed smile holds. "They say - when time. To go to me."
Sweeney's spent the meal in good humor, following her lead on any detail of custom or culinary palate she looks to share. Between courtiers, he takes his turn, clumsily working his way through idle comments in her own tongue. It's not necessary, of course, but it's important to him that she can feel him meeting her halfway. And it seems like his patience is finally pays off.
His focus bounces between her eyes and lips as she speaks, and it takes him a moment longer to process the meaning. Not because of the disjointed way she says it, but because he's still caught up in the sight of her. Sweeney shakes himself back to his senses and nods once in confirmation.
"I will see you soon."
With a quick smile of reassurance, he watches her depart. Finishing his wine, he politely takes his own leave. Perhaps he should have stayed a while longer; once he's been dressed properly, there's little to do but pace in his room until the time comes. The lack of layers feels somehow more exposing than him being naked.
At last, he's shown mercy, and is led down the hall by her attendants. Sweeney can't help but wonder about what the experience might be like. Sure, he has broad swathes, but that hardly details the picture.
Taken up, she is undressed with the rituals that she'd been denied the night before. The bath had been found that was big enough for them both, filled with scented oils and flower petals. The candles ebb brightly, the fire lit to keep the room warm as sweet scented steam fills it. Her hair brushed out, her skin rubbed into to soften it, and with it all done, and her ladies singing the little bit wicked, little bit loving, little bit mournful, she is ready.
There they fetch him, to be beckoned in the door. But it is hardly sombre, there is laughter, gladness as he is welcome in, and the women give him good wishes and he is left alone at last again, with his bride.
Gilia laid in the bath, her long hair all the way undone as it hung over the edge became a rich gold by firelight. The candle made the water shimmer in beads on her pale skin, the rose petals sticking to her skin as she waited in a different sort of nerves. When she heard the door close at last, she turned to face him, eyes soft, and raised her hand to beckon him to come close.
The unexpected nature of the whole thing has him on his back foot, just trying to keep up while retaining his dignified presence. The brightness in her attendants' welcome and hastiness of their retreat leaves him to stand and blink at what just happened.
It's a fleeting thing, though, and his attention is all too happy to turn to his bride. A soft smile curls his lip, promising tenderness, even as the raise of one brow speaks to the seeds of wickedness the view is planting.
"Wife."
He crosses to her with confident steps. There's an easiness that comes with the unknown, since it's just the two of them at this point, and that makes any err on his part less gossip-worthy.
Sweeney stands before her, both brows lifted in question.
"You undress, yes." She hums, and as he comes closer, she swallows down. The night before had been good and bad, painful and then pleasurable. It left a ball of nerves in her belly of a different sort. She was letting her take some control. Set how this proceeded between them.
So swallowing down, remembering how he seemed to like the sight of her - Gilia rose up out of the water, cascading off her with a splash, petals stuck across her skin as she beckoned him close to reach for the hem of his shirt and go to tug it off. But rather than too eager, there is a care, a reverence to it. He was her husband, and for her to adore and one day, hopefully, love.
Oh, he likes the sight of her. Very much. Sweeney's lips part when he gets caught up in the view; the way the water makes her skin sparkle in the low light, and how the petals cling to her like secrets. When she reaches towards him, he's drawn to meet her without active thought.
There's a flicker of surprise when she touches his shirt; he thought he was supposed to disrobe by himself. Sweeney is not complaining. He bends down to help her get it over his head. Only when the beads rattle as they settle is he reminded that she's staring at him face-on, able to note the scars he'd tried to deter her from the night before. In the morning, he hadn't had cause to think of it; they were already naked; but in the here and now, he feels left on awkward display.
Sweeney shifts his weight slightly, as if it might help, even though it clearly doesn't. He swallows and busies himself with the laces of his trousers, instead. His fingers are more fussing than actively untying, at the moment. She'd applied a clear purpose to the ritual of the thing, and it's not his place to rush through it.
And like the night before, she does not recoil, her hands place themselves on his shoulders, smoothing across their broad strength. Though as she glances over him, it's even more, she just takes the moment to appreciate him. Her eyes falling down and then back up with a little nervous swallow.
To push up on her toes, the height of the bath giving her that inch more. Her face tilting up, as she flicked between his eyes and then down to his lips. A soft, ready expectation, and invitation that he could do so.
At the closeness of their proximity, she can see the bob of his throat beneath his beard. But when she rises as much as she can, he realizes her intent, and Sweeney's grateful to indulge her, especially if it means she isn't staring at him.
He isn't sure if the kiss is part of the ritual, or if she wants it to be something more heated, so he errs on the side of restraint until he gets more of his bearings. Sweeney may not lift his hand to cup her head or cradle her back, but there is a confidence that leaves the act far from chaste. He does make the effort not to push ahead, wanting to make sure the reins stay in her hands as things continue forward.
Still up on her toes, she leans into the kiss with that new bravery that she knows, now, he likes. Tilting her head to lean with it, her palms smoothing across his shoulders as she goes to the task of truly learning him. Feeling him. Figuring out how to be with one another. Her body warm from the hot water, as her breasts brush his chest with proximity, so there is no mistaking the shiver for anything other than appreciation.
But she knew better now, how he riled quickly, so she stops before it goes further to move on. Her fingers ran down his body with a particular reverence, still new, and shy for it, but the same care as she took him in - then reached for his breeches to slowly undo them. Swallowing, she looked back up, slowly forming the words and how best to translate them.
"... Bride and... Groom... do... do together. Wash each other skin, being... being caring... to know one another. Show... care... care for each other. All parts. Both... in vow... in front of others, and when... private. Take care of you, know you, as only.. us. That my hands will tend you... my... heart... is open to you, am for you vulnerable, and no other."
She had run it over and over with her tutor, to learn it as perfectly as she could. Even so, the nerves made her stumble. But at least she could keep busy as she undid the lace, pulse thudding in her heart.
Sweeney certainly doesn't mind her touch on him, bare-chested or not. It makes his skin flush. When it's clear that she'll be untying things, he lifts his hands out of the way, but leaves them hovering a bit off, in anticipation. He has to make a concerted effort to lift his eyes from her fingers to her face as he swallows and tries to follow her explanation.
"Am I bathin' you too, or 's it meant ta just be you, washin' me?" he whispers, as if the corners of the room held spies that might see him misstep.
He tries to keep his focus on the overarching activity, but by the time she's loosened his trousers, his prick already has the inkling that there might be touching, in short order. Sweeney's not fully erect, but there is plenty of swelling to make him grateful to no longer be trapped in the constriction of the lacings.
"Shared." She answered as he finally came free from his small clothes. "We wash each other."
It was in short, a simple way for a new bride and groom to broach intimacy with less pressure about it all. To take time to get to know each other, especially in the case of nobles who did not know each other.
But with the last of his clothes undone, she encourages him out of them. Sliding them down his legs as far as she can reach with only a little peak down his body. Then once he's fully undressed, she stepped back to invite him to step into the bath with her.
That she had in fact, made sure to get the biggest one they could get. Neither of them were short, after all. Have enough space for them to tuck together comfortably.
One thing that was nice about having the time to prepare for this is that he hadn't been left in boots. It makes undressing easier, and he's happy to help her with the last bit of tugging. Of course, with her in the general proximity, his thoughts keep snagging on the feel of her lips on his prick, no matter how fleeting. Had he been wrong to stop her?
Sweeney doesn't have time to ponder it too deeply, because she's stepping back to give him room. His hand may be in hers, but he's mindful not to hold too tightly, lest things get extra awkward if he slips and pulls her down with him.
Blessedly, no such doom comes to pass, and makes it into the tub unscathed. He steps closer, but not touching, save for her hand. Sweeney swallows purposefully, waiting for further direction as if they are meant to sit or kneel, and if they should be positioned back to front or facing each other. He looks a bit sheepish, standing with nothing on and no charted course of action. Other than fucking her. Sweeney knows it's still a while off, but it doesn't mean it's not on the docket.
Her hand stays steady, giving him the space he wants and needs to get his feet sure. The thin linen sheet over the wooden tub stops splinters from catching on bare skin, the scent wafting as they move the water.
Once he is steady, she drops down into the water briefly to catch a cup that bobs on the surface and fills it. Then up to his right shoulder, she tips it to run down his body. It's done with a nervous, giddy smile. Then repeats it on the other side so there was water mostly covering him.
It's then she settles to the task more seriously of getting the soap, and taking a deep breath, kneeling in front of him in the warm water. Her eyes nervous up, perhaps the idea from last night in her mind but - not right now. She has planned this since she understood as a young woman, beginning to rub soap into the back of his leg. One then the other, around and over from calf to shin, and then up to his knees. Her fingers are soft, but firm, aiming not to tickle but clean and relax him.
With a hand perched on his hip to steady herself, she swallows. Getting the nerve up, to look at him again. Wanted to make sure she hadn't done something wrong or upsetting. Remembering what he said about the kisses being too overwhelming anywhere sensitive, she instead leans to kiss his hip.
When she bends down, Sweeney starts to lower as well, assuming that they're going to submerge for the process. But then she rises again, and so does he. A quick swallow and a searching gaze belies the fact that he's not quite sure what to be doing with himself. The longer she goes on though, the less it matters.
It's soothing and stimulating in equal measure, and she can feel the tension ease in the muscles below her fingers, even as his breath is forced deep to keep rein on his ramping desire. Of course, there's no way for him to keep his prick from swelling, and Sweeney is hyperaware of the fact, given how close it is to her face. There are times he'd swear he can feel her breath on it, even when she's not too near his skin. But then her lips find him.
Not on his cock, but near enough that it twitches in longing, leaving it bobbing a bit as his toes curl and bunch the fabric at the bottom of the tub. His hands had been hovering, unsure of what they were meant to be doing, but standing at the ready. The kiss is fire though, and one shifts to cup the back of her neck.
Sweeney doesn't push her away, or even apply much pressure. It was more instinct than intent, but it hadn't been about steadying himself. Or was it? Either way, his eyes are fixed on her and where they meet, and he fights valiantly not to press her against him. On him. The idea makes him want to swoon.
"Yes--" he whispers, not having enough air for anything louder.
"Nice. Very nice." That seems insufficient somehow, but the words are tricky to find.
It felt... somehow... powerful? He was a man that stood fierce on the battlefield. She had been told every fearsome story on the way to her wedding of his deeds. He would wield sword and spear with equal pride, rode horses like the wind.
Yet her touches made him look starved, somehow, his eyes burning down on her like he could comprehend nothing but her. It made her swallow down, and remember his reaction the night before. His hands grasp her, and she listened to instinct.
Her hands went back to soaping him up again, running it across his hips and stomach, and then gently braced around the base of his cock. Not unlike this morning as she did her best to replicate what he taught her as she stroked his cock down - before she leans her head close.
And lays a line of kisses down the length, a little more sure this time that he'd like it. A lot in fact. But then she lifts up, letting him go free as she continues, now finally straightening up to begin cleaning his chest.
She doesn't shy away or pull back at his touch, so Sweeney just leaves his hand where it is. Truth be told, he's a little nervous to move it, lest he end up urging her towards him, instead of releasing her as he should. He does his best to stand still and take it, enjoying the act while trying not to be consumed with the desire to fuck her.
But then she wraps her fingers around his cock, and a small gasp escapes as he tries not to choke on his tongue. His eyes flicker wide for a moment while the wheels spin. Is this really part of the ritual?
Then she starts to stroke him.
Fucking hell.
At her vantage, she can see the muscles in his thighs tremble as he bites back a whimper, and she can feel the flesh throb in her hand, imploring. Sweeney had thought it a true test; at least, until she starts her path of kisses. Now it's time for him to cough, and his hand falls to her shoulder to catch himself. But he doesn't push her away. Sweeney'd made his comment the night prior; if she still wants to put her mouth on his prick, who is he to deny her?
When she abandons it to wash further up, it's left flexing, begging for more attention.
Compared to that brief touch, the rest is rather mundane, in so far as she roams over him. Her hands brushing over his body with the soap. Over his hips, his stomach, up to his chest. Give him time to breath and ease off that immediate contact. Until she is reach up to his shoulders. Carding away his red locks back so she can map across his clavicals to the base of his neck with even swipes. Cleaning him from top to bottom, and all the places her fingers could dance curiously between. In comparison to the rush of the night before, she can do as she fondly imagined she would - learn him, see all of him, begin to appreciate this man she has been thrust into marriage with.
Then, she finally stops, and short as her breathe feels, nervous and yet eager she brings up the soap to offer him.
"Now.. you.. me?" And she gestures down her body to indicate he was to do the same for her.
It may be mundane, but that doesn't mean Sweeney isn't awash with more than soap and water. His skin is alive, anticipating every touch, and yet, he does his very best to be patient.
All that waiting only makes the moment when she stops stand stark. It takes Sweeney a second more to follow along, but with a tight nod, he bends to chase the bowl. At his height, it's awkward at best, so he takes another approach. While it's uncomfortable to fill the bowl from standing, doing so from kneeling is much easier.
So he drops down on both, filling the bowl before he looks up at her, savoring the opportunity to do so at this angle. Then he follows suit; wetting her skin, even though there's no need, and starting the soaped washing at her legs. Sweeney does his best to make it meaningful, hoping he's doing it mostly right, at least. When he glides his hand over the swell of one hip, his eyes lift again in soft question.
Her breathe catches as he kneels in front of her. Sticking in her lungs at the sight of him that way, something so without guile between them, all her day dreams made true for a moment.
And Spirits, he was so tall, even like this.
"Good, yes." Gilia answers with a shakey nod of her head. Her skin felt alive all over again, warm under his touch in a way different to the steam of hot water.
"Am... am glad to do, with you. Like... like imagined... when... when girl. Handsome husband to... to share with." She encourages, letting her fingers drift to brush his red hair back over his shoulder as he moved.
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no subject
The chaste kiss is returned, and the meal continues. The freedom and exertion of dancing, and his appreciation and warm comfort lets her open up a little more. Finding herself able to talk, however stumbling, as different courtiers greet them, doing her best to return conversation when she could. To strike up her own conversation with those sitting near them.
That each time she turns back to find assurance in that small shared smile, giving one of her own. That now, she gives her own gladness, when she finds his hand closest to her, sitting idle, and still nervous, but intent nonetheless, she rests hers on top of his for this new connection between them.
At least until the meal is drawing to a close, and she squeezes his hand softly to gain his attention.
"I am go, now. To make ready for you." The implication clear, with the way her eyes down turn, and the little abashed smile holds. "They say - when time. To go to me."
no subject
His focus bounces between her eyes and lips as she speaks, and it takes him a moment longer to process the meaning. Not because of the disjointed way she says it, but because he's still caught up in the sight of her. Sweeney shakes himself back to his senses and nods once in confirmation.
"I will see you soon."
With a quick smile of reassurance, he watches her depart. Finishing his wine, he politely takes his own leave. Perhaps he should have stayed a while longer; once he's been dressed properly, there's little to do but pace in his room until the time comes. The lack of layers feels somehow more exposing than him being naked.
At last, he's shown mercy, and is led down the hall by her attendants. Sweeney can't help but wonder about what the experience might be like. Sure, he has broad swathes, but that hardly details the picture.
no subject
There they fetch him, to be beckoned in the door. But it is hardly sombre, there is laughter, gladness as he is welcome in, and the women give him good wishes and he is left alone at last again, with his bride.
Gilia laid in the bath, her long hair all the way undone as it hung over the edge became a rich gold by firelight. The candle made the water shimmer in beads on her pale skin, the rose petals sticking to her skin as she waited in a different sort of nerves. When she heard the door close at last, she turned to face him, eyes soft, and raised her hand to beckon him to come close.
"Husband."
no subject
It's a fleeting thing, though, and his attention is all too happy to turn to his bride. A soft smile curls his lip, promising tenderness, even as the raise of one brow speaks to the seeds of wickedness the view is planting.
"Wife."
He crosses to her with confident steps. There's an easiness that comes with the unknown, since it's just the two of them at this point, and that makes any err on his part less gossip-worthy.
Sweeney stands before her, both brows lifted in question.
"I undress or you?"
no subject
So swallowing down, remembering how he seemed to like the sight of her - Gilia rose up out of the water, cascading off her with a splash, petals stuck across her skin as she beckoned him close to reach for the hem of his shirt and go to tug it off. But rather than too eager, there is a care, a reverence to it. He was her husband, and for her to adore and one day, hopefully, love.
no subject
There's a flicker of surprise when she touches his shirt; he thought he was supposed to disrobe by himself. Sweeney is not complaining. He bends down to help her get it over his head. Only when the beads rattle as they settle is he reminded that she's staring at him face-on, able to note the scars he'd tried to deter her from the night before. In the morning, he hadn't had cause to think of it; they were already naked; but in the here and now, he feels left on awkward display.
Sweeney shifts his weight slightly, as if it might help, even though it clearly doesn't. He swallows and busies himself with the laces of his trousers, instead. His fingers are more fussing than actively untying, at the moment. She'd applied a clear purpose to the ritual of the thing, and it's not his place to rush through it.
He just rather not be bare-chested for it.
no subject
To push up on her toes, the height of the bath giving her that inch more. Her face tilting up, as she flicked between his eyes and then down to his lips. A soft, ready expectation, and invitation that he could do so.
no subject
He isn't sure if the kiss is part of the ritual, or if she wants it to be something more heated, so he errs on the side of restraint until he gets more of his bearings. Sweeney may not lift his hand to cup her head or cradle her back, but there is a confidence that leaves the act far from chaste. He does make the effort not to push ahead, wanting to make sure the reins stay in her hands as things continue forward.
no subject
But she knew better now, how he riled quickly, so she stops before it goes further to move on. Her fingers ran down his body with a particular reverence, still new, and shy for it, but the same care as she took him in - then reached for his breeches to slowly undo them. Swallowing, she looked back up, slowly forming the words and how best to translate them.
"... Bride and... Groom... do... do together. Wash each other skin, being... being caring... to know one another. Show... care... care for each other. All parts. Both... in vow... in front of others, and when... private. Take care of you, know you, as only.. us. That my hands will tend you... my... heart... is open to you, am for you vulnerable, and no other."
She had run it over and over with her tutor, to learn it as perfectly as she could. Even so, the nerves made her stumble. But at least she could keep busy as she undid the lace, pulse thudding in her heart.
no subject
"Am I bathin' you too, or 's it meant ta just be you, washin' me?" he whispers, as if the corners of the room held spies that might see him misstep.
He tries to keep his focus on the overarching activity, but by the time she's loosened his trousers, his prick already has the inkling that there might be touching, in short order. Sweeney's not fully erect, but there is plenty of swelling to make him grateful to no longer be trapped in the constriction of the lacings.
no subject
It was in short, a simple way for a new bride and groom to broach intimacy with less pressure about it all. To take time to get to know each other, especially in the case of nobles who did not know each other.
But with the last of his clothes undone, she encourages him out of them. Sliding them down his legs as far as she can reach with only a little peak down his body. Then once he's fully undressed, she stepped back to invite him to step into the bath with her.
That she had in fact, made sure to get the biggest one they could get. Neither of them were short, after all. Have enough space for them to tuck together comfortably.
no subject
Sweeney doesn't have time to ponder it too deeply, because she's stepping back to give him room. His hand may be in hers, but he's mindful not to hold too tightly, lest things get extra awkward if he slips and pulls her down with him.
Blessedly, no such doom comes to pass, and makes it into the tub unscathed. He steps closer, but not touching, save for her hand. Sweeney swallows purposefully, waiting for further direction as if they are meant to sit or kneel, and if they should be positioned back to front or facing each other. He looks a bit sheepish, standing with nothing on and no charted course of action. Other than fucking her. Sweeney knows it's still a while off, but it doesn't mean it's not on the docket.
no subject
Once he is steady, she drops down into the water briefly to catch a cup that bobs on the surface and fills it. Then up to his right shoulder, she tips it to run down his body. It's done with a nervous, giddy smile. Then repeats it on the other side so there was water mostly covering him.
It's then she settles to the task more seriously of getting the soap, and taking a deep breath, kneeling in front of him in the warm water. Her eyes nervous up, perhaps the idea from last night in her mind but - not right now. She has planned this since she understood as a young woman, beginning to rub soap into the back of his leg. One then the other, around and over from calf to shin, and then up to his knees. Her fingers are soft, but firm, aiming not to tickle but clean and relax him.
With a hand perched on his hip to steady herself, she swallows. Getting the nerve up, to look at him again. Wanted to make sure she hadn't done something wrong or upsetting. Remembering what he said about the kisses being too overwhelming anywhere sensitive, she instead leans to kiss his hip.
"Good? Feel nice?"
no subject
It's soothing and stimulating in equal measure, and she can feel the tension ease in the muscles below her fingers, even as his breath is forced deep to keep rein on his ramping desire. Of course, there's no way for him to keep his prick from swelling, and Sweeney is hyperaware of the fact, given how close it is to her face. There are times he'd swear he can feel her breath on it, even when she's not too near his skin. But then her lips find him.
Not on his cock, but near enough that it twitches in longing, leaving it bobbing a bit as his toes curl and bunch the fabric at the bottom of the tub. His hands had been hovering, unsure of what they were meant to be doing, but standing at the ready. The kiss is fire though, and one shifts to cup the back of her neck.
Sweeney doesn't push her away, or even apply much pressure. It was more instinct than intent, but it hadn't been about steadying himself. Or was it? Either way, his eyes are fixed on her and where they meet, and he fights valiantly not to press her against him. On him. The idea makes him want to swoon.
"Yes--" he whispers, not having enough air for anything louder.
"Nice. Very nice." That seems insufficient somehow, but the words are tricky to find.
"Very very. Very nice."
no subject
Yet her touches made him look starved, somehow, his eyes burning down on her like he could comprehend nothing but her. It made her swallow down, and remember his reaction the night before. His hands grasp her, and she listened to instinct.
Her hands went back to soaping him up again, running it across his hips and stomach, and then gently braced around the base of his cock. Not unlike this morning as she did her best to replicate what he taught her as she stroked his cock down - before she leans her head close.
And lays a line of kisses down the length, a little more sure this time that he'd like it. A lot in fact. But then she lifts up, letting him go free as she continues, now finally straightening up to begin cleaning his chest.
no subject
But then she wraps her fingers around his cock, and a small gasp escapes as he tries not to choke on his tongue. His eyes flicker wide for a moment while the wheels spin. Is this really part of the ritual?
Then she starts to stroke him.
Fucking hell.
At her vantage, she can see the muscles in his thighs tremble as he bites back a whimper, and she can feel the flesh throb in her hand, imploring. Sweeney had thought it a true test; at least, until she starts her path of kisses. Now it's time for him to cough, and his hand falls to her shoulder to catch himself. But he doesn't push her away. Sweeney'd made his comment the night prior; if she still wants to put her mouth on his prick, who is he to deny her?
When she abandons it to wash further up, it's left flexing, begging for more attention.
no subject
Then, she finally stops, and short as her breathe feels, nervous and yet eager she brings up the soap to offer him.
"Now.. you.. me?" And she gestures down her body to indicate he was to do the same for her.
no subject
All that waiting only makes the moment when she stops stand stark. It takes Sweeney a second more to follow along, but with a tight nod, he bends to chase the bowl. At his height, it's awkward at best, so he takes another approach. While it's uncomfortable to fill the bowl from standing, doing so from kneeling is much easier.
So he drops down on both, filling the bowl before he looks up at her, savoring the opportunity to do so at this angle. Then he follows suit; wetting her skin, even though there's no need, and starting the soaped washing at her legs. Sweeney does his best to make it meaningful, hoping he's doing it mostly right, at least. When he glides his hand over the swell of one hip, his eyes lift again in soft question.
"Good?" He's cautiously optimistic.
"Correct?"
no subject
And Spirits, he was so tall, even like this.
"Good, yes." Gilia answers with a shakey nod of her head. Her skin felt alive all over again, warm under his touch in a way different to the steam of hot water.
"Am... am glad to do, with you. Like... like imagined... when... when girl. Handsome husband to... to share with." She encourages, letting her fingers drift to brush his red hair back over his shoulder as he moved.