I threw it at the floor, not at you. There's a difference.

[ sulkily. finally he sighs, kissing him softly and just lingering that way as long as he can, barely touching. he looks at graves after that, searching his face and memorizing it yet again. there's a brief second where he reaches up to brush his thumb over the worry lines on his brow, more than a little charmed by them.

when graves compliments him it draws him quiet and still; he tips toward him and kisses him soundly, lovingly, hands cupping his face to keep him there. when he finally looks at him his eyes are a little too bright but he's smiling. ] It's your fault. You know that, don't you? That I've been able to do this.