thirsted | SALTBURNT

[ Matt's mouth lilts crookedly for darling. ]

City, [ he confirms. ] It's actually the same city where I was supposed to be going to school, before-- [ His turn for a flutter of fingers, this one dismissive. ] --all this. Or at least they have the same name.

[ Matt's expression brightens to a proper smile when Astarion compliments the perfume. ]

Yeah, I go to this really talented guy here in the manor. [ Matt reaches for the remote and presses play. ] If you play your cards right I'll give you his contact info.

[ He's not expecting much from this movie--he just hopes it won't be too weird or traumatizing or maudlin or any number of things Astarion might not like. But Matt's anxieties dissipate in a puff of curiosity as the film starring Tom Hanks and Meg Ryan opens on a goddamn funeral. ]

[ All Astarion gets in before the movie begins is a good-natured, ] Eugh, [ as he decides to let any further nagging go and settle in for the movie. (It's a little unsettling at first, not for any virtue or vice of the movie itself but because of the alien nature of watching a movie at all, but he gets used to it.)

It's a balance, at first, swaying between finding some things maudlin and some things appropriately sharp, and whatever slyness remains in his expression has dissipated within the first fifteen minutes. (Most of the rest of it is relatively familiar, at least, given the months he's had to get used to the mansion, though a few details require context clues to fill out.) Engrossed, he shifts to cross his legs, his posture angling him toward Matt as he hooks one arm over the back of the seat, bending back at the elbow so he can rest his head against the palm of his hand. ]

[ Is that a good noise of disgust? Matt thinks it's a good one. Either way, he can't repress a quirk of a smile in return before his gaze slides to the screen.

He doesn't really grok the language of romantic comedies. He's not even sure this is one; do people's moms usually die in the opening scenes of those? But he knows his poems, prayers, and spells. Repeated motifs are important in all three; so's symmetry. He's pleased by the echoes of this and that--words spoken at the same time, magic and the touch of hands. Matt himself is pretty quiet, speaking mainly to answer a question of Astarion's or to make the very occasional arch remark.

He starts off curled up on his side of the couch, feet tucked under him because as a person, he refuses to respect the Balfours' furniture, and as a bisexual he doesn't know how to sit. As the movie foxtrots on, he starts to unfurl, angling towards Astarion in turn without fully realizing it. It's a natural mirror to make on Matt's end, easy and warm, even without any actual contact. ]

[ Romantic comedy isn't really a genre that instantly appeals to Astarion, either — or rather, it's one thorny topic on top of another, his earlier, more romantic nature made cynical by two hundred years of gleefully inflicted suffering — and yet whatever archness is contained in his own voice gradually diffuses until he's mostly silent, worrying his lower lip as the movie continues. (Only the vague worry that his lot in life might be Walter's sours the air, though it comes and goes easily enough.)

It takes him a moment, as such, to realize the way both of them have shifted. The movie is a blessing in that it keeps Matt's attention even as Astarion looks at him, a sigh, unbidden, filling his chest as he thinks about— connection. Fondness. Care. Things that have been long absent from his life, things he'd initially thought to shirk.

So— he crosses his legs the other way, lets the motion to bring him closer — a test of what they're each willing to allow — so that their shoulders brush. ]

[ 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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