Grantaire snorts a laugh and turns around on the stairs to pull Edgar into a kiss by the front of his shirt. "It's always a possibility."
He grins, unable to keep himself deadpan right now, though he finds himself glad that Neil sits. It makes this feel less expectant. "This was all supposed to happen together," he says, half apologetic, finding himself a little nervous as though he hadn't just done the asking part, or more practically, as though the ring choices are going to be all wrong.
Grantaire opens the wardrobe. Deeming the sock drawer too obvious a hiding place, the two little ring boxes -- a soft bluish grey for Neil, and a dark red for Edgar -- are hidden away in the back of the drawer where Grantaire's trousers are folded (and sometimes messily not-quite-refolded).
He turns, drawing each out in the hand nearest that lover, and flips them both open. "I hadn't quite worked out this part."
Grantaire sits down on his knees in front of them. It's not dropping to one knee, exactly: that part's cheesy, and done with, too. But it puts him in front of where they sit on the bed, so he's not hovering. Besides, it feels right to be looking up at them right now, and he does, assessing, soft. "They're fossil, old Darrow hardwoods, metal that rode here from space on a comet. Things that shouldn't be but only exist here anyway."
Trust him to get sentimental about the materials.
"And I thought they suited you both," he adds, with a little self-conscious smile.
no subject
He grins, unable to keep himself deadpan right now, though he finds himself glad that Neil sits. It makes this feel less expectant. "This was all supposed to happen together," he says, half apologetic, finding himself a little nervous as though he hadn't just done the asking part, or more practically, as though the ring choices are going to be all wrong.
Grantaire opens the wardrobe. Deeming the sock drawer too obvious a hiding place, the two little ring boxes -- a soft bluish grey for Neil, and a dark red for Edgar -- are hidden away in the back of the drawer where Grantaire's trousers are folded (and sometimes messily not-quite-refolded).
He turns, drawing each out in the hand nearest that lover, and flips them both open. "I hadn't quite worked out this part."
Grantaire sits down on his knees in front of them. It's not dropping to one knee, exactly: that part's cheesy, and done with, too. But it puts him in front of where they sit on the bed, so he's not hovering. Besides, it feels right to be looking up at them right now, and he does, assessing, soft. "They're fossil, old Darrow hardwoods, metal that rode here from space on a comet. Things that shouldn't be but only exist here anyway."
Trust him to get sentimental about the materials.
"And I thought they suited you both," he adds, with a little self-conscious smile.