When Agron first touches Nasir, it’s magic: half-tentative, half-longing and all promise. A brush in passing here, a deliberate direction in training there, and his fingertips prickle as if touched by flame. There’s a moment, early on, when he takes Nasir’s wrist to guide a sword thrust, and he’s useless for the rest of the day, his palm and fingers tingling.
He holds back as long as he can, but they don’t live in times of caution. When he cups his hand around Nasir’s cheek to kiss him for the first time, Agron’s hand is steady, though his heart pounds.
He loves touching Nasir in the secure knowledge that his hands are wanted; craved, even. He loves driving him mad with the deliberate tease of calloused fingertips against his dripping cock; the tight, warm caress of strong palms cupping Nasir’s balls, slick fingers teasing at his entrance. He loves gripping Nasir’s hips while he takes him hard; loves rolling Nasir’s peaked nipples between his fingers; loves fisting his own cock while Nasir fucks him.
More than anything, he loves smoothing his hands down Nasir’s sides afterwards, following the contours of his heaving, breathless body as they hold each other, laughing.
He used to be so angry all the time: at enemies, at friends, at fate.
These days, his enemies and friends are gone, and Agron is angry mostly at his own body: especially his hands that take too long to remember what they are, why they need to be strong.
Some days, he’s angry at Nasir, who refuses to coddle him. “They will heal,” is all he says, kissing one of Agron’s throbbing palms. Growling, Agron tightens his other hand on his lover’s cock despite the pain, and smiles when Nasir moans.
“They will,” he promises, to Nasir and himself.