Part of him wished Rory would say something, but... words had never been the largest part of their friendship. Expression and touch and action had filled their encounters, with words - and silly songs - important but... less so. Not least because the human had to do all the talking for both of them. It had created an imbalance that itched at the fox's heart; he knew more of Rory than the hunter did of him, and it made for a wistful sort of sadness when he thought of how much he didn't dare to share if he was to keep their relationship as sweet and carefree as it had been.
As it could no longer be, or at least, not in the same way.
But still Rory didn't shy away from his touch, or from touching him. The hunter's palm was warm against Jigano's cheek, his callused fingers feeling different against bare skin than thick fur. If he had just allowed the lorekeeper to share his warmth for a few moments the pale-haired man could have found contentment in that, but the brush of a callused thumb over his cheek offered an acceptance - a welcome - he hadn't dared to hope for, even back when he'd had dreams.
His breath shook as he exhaled, soft and slow, as he strove with every sense and all the strength he could muster to imprint the moment indelibly into his memory, painfully aware of how fragile it was, and how desperately fleeting. His eyes fluttered open again at last, blue gaze partly veiled behind silver lashes as his own thumb slid gently over the back of Rory's hand in echo of his friend's touch.
"I..." he started, and then paused, feeling the weight of the moment, the terrifying chance for disaster and the faint, irrepressible spark of hope balancing on his words. Everything about what was happening was so new and unfamiliar to him. He had done and experienced so much on his world... and none of it had prepare him for so personal, so intimate, so precarious a choice. "Would you prefer it... if I went back?" he asked, voice still soft enough to be between them alone, wistful and worried for his friend, and for what any answer at all might mean for him - for them. "To the fox again?"
As it could no longer be, or at least, not in the same way.
But still Rory didn't shy away from his touch, or from touching him. The hunter's palm was warm against Jigano's cheek, his callused fingers feeling different against bare skin than thick fur. If he had just allowed the lorekeeper to share his warmth for a few moments the pale-haired man could have found contentment in that, but the brush of a callused thumb over his cheek offered an acceptance - a welcome - he hadn't dared to hope for, even back when he'd had dreams.
His breath shook as he exhaled, soft and slow, as he strove with every sense and all the strength he could muster to imprint the moment indelibly into his memory, painfully aware of how fragile it was, and how desperately fleeting. His eyes fluttered open again at last, blue gaze partly veiled behind silver lashes as his own thumb slid gently over the back of Rory's hand in echo of his friend's touch.
"I..." he started, and then paused, feeling the weight of the moment, the terrifying chance for disaster and the faint, irrepressible spark of hope balancing on his words. Everything about what was happening was so new and unfamiliar to him. He had done and experienced so much on his world... and none of it had prepare him for so personal, so intimate, so precarious a choice. "Would you prefer it... if I went back?" he asked, voice still soft enough to be between them alone, wistful and worried for his friend, and for what any answer at all might mean for him - for them. "To the fox again?"
