[ Matt's conscious thoughts are preoccupied mostly with the travails of Meg Ryan, Tom Hanks, and the poor little boy who's lost his mother. With pattern-spotting, or perhaps pattern-making. As for the subconscious ...
That's the nice thing. In moments like this, Matt doesn't have to think. Ebb and flow is all there is. He imagines he feels eyes on him, but his head doesn't turn; though his lips twitch ever-so-slightly upward. And, at the first brush of their shoulders, Matt exhales: soft, not quite enough weight to count as a sigh. The breath lets a little more of his weight settle against Astarion's.
Matt lets a few moments pass. A couple beats of the movie, a few jaunty bars of score. Then, delicately, he tips his head to the side--really, only enough for the tips of his dark hair to brush Astarion's haloing white. A counter-test, perhaps. He thinks of saying something--it's okay, or maybe just I'm here--but both sentiments sound stupid even in his head. ]
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That's the nice thing. In moments like this, Matt doesn't have to think. Ebb and flow is all there is. He imagines he feels eyes on him, but his head doesn't turn; though his lips twitch ever-so-slightly upward. And, at the first brush of their shoulders, Matt exhales: soft, not quite enough weight to count as a sigh. The breath lets a little more of his weight settle against Astarion's.
Matt lets a few moments pass. A couple beats of the movie, a few jaunty bars of score. Then, delicately, he tips his head to the side--really, only enough for the tips of his dark hair to brush Astarion's haloing white. A counter-test, perhaps. He thinks of saying something--it's okay, or maybe just I'm here--but both sentiments sound stupid even in his head. ]