Out of everything Alcuin had lost in the wreckage of his once beautiful life it was only his compassion that crawled out from beneath the rubble unscathed. Compassion was the only conduit through which he could truly be reached, and he knew his friend well enough to know that people frequently underestimated his capacity for kindness and compassion (among many other things.) Hermes was not always a finely honed blade glinting out of the dark, though he supposed there were many whom would rather that than the tenderness of his fingers at his cheek. It made his heart clench something awful in his chest to know that it wasn't merely the soft skin of his face that his friend navigated, but the scars just beneath.
He couldn't imagine a safer place for his wounded heart to bleed than when he was with Hermes. Hermes' lips represented a safe haven, his sanctuary against those would take his feelings and harm him with them as surely as a knife between his ribs. Alcuin wondered, dimly, if he could taste the love on his lips, or the anguish on his tongue. Perhaps Hermes would know what to do with it all? If anything could be done at all, surely, his friend might know the answer.