art by tralalayahoho, writing by sascake
“Your hands are cold,” Sigve mumbles, not hating the idea, but wishing his face wasn’t clutched between two freezing hands. Strange activities with Søren seem to make up most of his Saturdays now, and now, lounging back on the sofa with Søren looming above him, is case in point.
“They’ll warm up,” Søren replies brazenly, thumb rubbing Sigve’s chin as he frowns to himself. Sigve raises his eyebrows, ready to shake him off, before Søren snaps his fingers and exclaims: “Pointed chin! Not as pointed as your jokes and comments, but still.”
Somehow, he’d expected things to go like this, no matter how Søren had whined about 'good intentions' and 'definitely not making fun of you!'.
“Your eyelashes… well, I don’t know. How are you supposed to know if they’re long or not?” The pads of his thumbs brush against Sigve’s eyelids, and he holds back a snigger at the ticklish sensation. His own hands move to clasp Søren’s wrists as he runs his thumbs over the hollows of his eyes, holding him in place and suddenly enjoying this activity.
“They’re long,” Søren decides, pursing his lips. “Definitely long.” He moves to the crease, along the brow bone, and Sigve’s smile grows at Søren’s strokes and hums. “Lidded eyes… arched eyebrows…”
True to his words, Søren’s hands have now warmed up, and Sigve lounges back against the arm of the sofa and closes his eyes once more. Søren’s palm trail down, clumsily but not unwelcome. “Your bone structure is fantastic,” Søren murmurs, palms now cupping either side of Sigve’s face. As he leans into his touch, the hard calluses of his palms contrasting his soft fingertips, Søren traces shapes into his cheekbones. “Your cheekbones feel like knives, and your jaw- my God, Nor! It feels carved!”
Sigve hums, working his jaw and smirking at Søren’s subsequent sound of delight. “I hope that’s a compliment.” He runs his eyes over Søren’s square jaw; the cheekbones not quite as high as his own; his teeth endearing in how they aren’t exactly even. His canines are pointed, one slanted, and bared in a grin as he strokes the contours of Sigve’s face.
“All compliments,” he promises, voice sombre and smile only a little teasing. “Those cheekbones must look fantastic. Remind me why you’re not a model? You’d make all those losers in Milan cry as soon as you got on that stage, I bet.”
“Poor circulation,” Sigve reminds him, as if the cold toes he presses against Søren’s legs to make him shriek aren’t indicator enough. He can hardly help it if he’s freezing, especially at night, and Søren is burning like a furnace. As if remembering, Søren looks sheepishly embarrassed, palms rough now as they massage Sigve’s cheeks in an effort to bring colour to them. He can’t be sure if it’s actually working, but Søren’s automatic effort makes him wriggle with pleasure. Sigve’s aware that he probably looks a fool right now, trying to bite down his smile which has to be bigger than usual- and confirmed when Søren’s thumbs trace his rare dimples, guffawing.
“There they are! These fabled dimples appear at last! Me being idiotic is clearly the key to that beautiful smile, huh?” Pride laces every syllable in his words, and Sigve only shrugs. Søren’s hand moves to his shoulder, thumb tracing his neck and collarbone on the way, and his own smile looks ready to split his face, so delighted is he, until his breath suddenly hitches.
“I bet you’re looking gorgeous,” he mumbles, less excitable and more serious now. His smile fades, now just a regretful quirk of his lips as he musters up what to say next. Sigve swallows, hand moving to cover Søren’s, and he squeezes his hand until his knuckles are white. It makes Søren lower his head, run his tongue over his teeth, and let out his breath in a shuddering sigh. “Absolutely gorgeous. The most beautiful person out there.”
Sigve can’t help himself: he lets out a snort of derision. “You’re biased,” he argues, rolling his eyes as Søren chortles, “biased and obviously thinking I’m the best out there. I’m hardly the vision of beauty you seem to think I am.”
“Course you are,” Søren says breezily, the tense moment forgotten as he musters up another winning smile. “I’m willing to bet people stop and stare at you in the street. Look at him! they’ll say, absolutely astounded at your looks. He must be a model! He’s just gorgeous! And yet, out of the pick of everyone, you went with me.”
Inch by inch, Søren moves until his forehead is against Sigve’s. Automatically, he slides his hands up to tangle them in Søren’s mane of hair, the mane he helps him style each morning with a kiss for every brush stroke. He holds him there, breathing in sync and thumbs stroking his temple, and Søren reaches out to trace his jaw once more.
“So, it’s clear.” Sigve says nothing when Søren’s voice cracks, or when he has to take a deep breath and blink rapidly before pressing on. “Each part of your face feels pretty damn good, which results in you looking pretty damn good yourself. A beautiful face to match your beautiful soul, or however those old romantics say it.”
Sigve’s vision blurs, and he pulls Søren forward to press a kiss to his forehead, burying his face in the Dane’s hair and breathing heavily in an effort to control himself. Hands snake around his waist, and Søren draws him in, humming and kissing Sigve’s collarbone. “I like it when you’re the one who starts the kissing,” he mumbles, and rests his cheek against Sigve’s chest with a contented sigh. “It reminds me that you’re sweet under all that cold and sarcasm and bad puns.”
He knows Sigve is laughing from the vibrations of his chest, even before he cracks into silly giggles himself- and Søren decides, cuddled in Sigve’s arms, that he’d be really quite happy here for the rest of his days.