Caught woolgathering after his own fashion, it took a sharp pinch from the boyfriend and a nod in Loras’ direction before Jon picked up loose threads of the conversation. They’d been asked a question, apparently, and no sex-addled eye flutter or fingertips staggering drunk on their way home from the pub - nevermind “the pub” happened to be Robb’s inseam just at the moment - could manage to oust Scotsman’s languidness. Arm slung across settee back and consequently round gladiatorial shoulders, ankle to knee and lounging like some ancient lanista sipping exotic chilled bevvie suggested he’d no intention of responding on their behalf.
Too busy wally-wagging with Renly, Jon noted. Difficult to miss laser-locked focus between chosen brothers, but for once, it didn’t bother him.
Recent trip abroad and the week’s bedroom confessions still felt round ankles and wrists form of fading bruises might have been enough tonight to boost his confidence had it not been for their location; feel secure budged up in the space against his lover. Added to that, the alcohol chipping away all his usual defense mechanisms now initial balking was over and done, the weekend ahead promised clearer paths.
And if all that failed like fraying rope line, the rule of three would break their fall. Matching Maori pendants gifted by Dalla earlier in the day hung close to hearts entwined, left Jon feeling rather smug indeed.
He left his hand exactly where it had been found, palm against trouser leg and fingers tracing hemlines.
“You’re well informed,” directed at question asker who stared back unblinkingly. Normally unnerving gaze blurred by atmosphere, Loras all but blended in with his backdrop; a venomous chameleon waiting to snatch up unsuspecting prey as they fluttered past. “We leave next Thursday. Taking Friday off and returning Sunday night.”
“Neither of us have ever been and we’re due a joint holiday, aren’t we love? Before filming starts and scheduling gets hectic.”