Inspired by "To His Coy Mistress" by Andrew Marvell
Quote in summary taken from the first line of the aforementioned poem.
He wanted to spend forever telling him everything that was wonderful about him. For each decade, he would discuss his physical traits.
His hair: longer now, and somehow always shining, even without the sun to beam down upon it or if tainted with blood or mud.
His eyes: the purest and lightest shade of blue he'd ever seen, like the vast and open midsummer sky just after the rain.
His body: lean and trim, his muscle tone hidden behind loose clothing and a presumption of weakness.
His face: round eyes and cheeks, innocent-looking and youthful with that perfect button nose.
His skin: pale and soft, with hidden scars and calloused hands.
The more vague qualities he adored were difficult to find words to describe, but he had to try. At least to himself, he wanted to name every little reason for the attraction. For these details, he could spend a century apiece.
His strength: hidden and subtle, but more vast than the river that stretched across the land; enough to move mountains.
His courage: the source of said strength, though the two were so interconnected, separating them would split him apart; far greater than that of the lion.
His determination: infallible and unshakable, no matter the situation or circumstances; resolute like the wolf stalking its prey.
His compassion: not a weakness, but something to be admired in every way; found little in this world of hell they occupied; as persistent as a tree of support and sustenance.
His fear: brought about caution, inspired brilliance, ensured survival for not only himself; it made him human.
Material objects could not compare to his desire for just one touch, one kiss. Not gold, silver, or diamonds. The ages of man could pass without recognition until he reached his ultimate goal.
Rubies paled in comparison to his flushed cheeks: pink with laughter, embarrassment, or exertion.
Sapphires were dull next to his tears when they fell: shed only ever for good reason, and rarely, if ever, for himself.
Opals were rough, jagged stones held in his gentle hands: marred with invisible stains of blood.
Emeralds held no appeal.
Amethysts did not shine or glitter.
Time was the one thing he had precious little of. Despite all odds, they'd lived this long. Tomorrow was never sure; the next breath could be his last. To put away his confessions for a later date was a death sentence. He could receive no answer from the grave.
While the sun was cresting the horizon; before the dew vanished from the tall grass; as they sat together at the birth of the new day: he must try.
Halting sentences, fumbled phrases, and stuttered words dribbling from his mouth like an unpleasant mixture of the worst slop, he admitted his attraction.
Tense, cringing, baited breath, he waited. Anxiety burned holes in his stomach. His heart thundered away in his ears, almost drowning out the reply.
"Oh."
Despair and dread overwhelmed him. Turning away with jerking, unsteady movements, he aimed to make for the outcropping of tents in the distance. Of course, he'd expected this, but it failed to stem the ache of rejection.
"Jean?" A hand on his shoulder, light and glancing, was enough to stop him.
A fresh surge of hope ripped through his chest, leaving a hot wake of breathlessness. Those crystal eyes peered up at him, skewed at an awkward angle from the tilt of his head. Tulip pink cheeks became visible in the first rays of light.
"Why didn't you say anything sooner?"
His breath exploded out of his lungs; his shoulders fell; his worry vanished. A nervous grin and an errant scratch at the back of his head. He stuttered and mumbled, unable to form coherent words.
His reply was a soft laugh, not teasing or mocking, but adoring. He threw his arms around Jean's neck and, with a quick, almost unnoticeable brushing of their lips, Armin whispered, "Me too."
