[ Kaspar remains quiet, letting the memory of the song reverberate through him in his repose. He'd never sung that out loud for anyone. The few songs he'd learned sounded lovely on the surface, meanings reimagined by current doctrine. What was true and what wasn't, what he'd believed was right or wrong. The compliment has him inhaling again, like the first breath of a new day, of consciousness after a dream.
He doesn't need to see the tears or see the motion to hide them. Not when he hears it in the crack of Steinbeck's voice. It is impulse, rawer emotions that has one strong arm seeking his shoulder to pull him gently in for comfort. Words are difficult. He has no idea what to say as a salve to a wound he feels he's opened somehow. Kaspar keeps his gaze on the fire, for he's sure he'll cry if he looks at him.
Physical affection is what he has most naturally. With no ulterior motives beyond holding him close and blinking back his own tears. Though Kaspar will not wilt or cry if Steinbeck rebuffs the entire effort; a solid warmth at his side either way. ]
no subject
He doesn't need to see the tears or see the motion to hide them. Not when he hears it in the crack of Steinbeck's voice. It is impulse, rawer emotions that has one strong arm seeking his shoulder to pull him gently in for comfort. Words are difficult. He has no idea what to say as a salve to a wound he feels he's opened somehow. Kaspar keeps his gaze on the fire, for he's sure he'll cry if he looks at him.
Physical affection is what he has most naturally. With no ulterior motives beyond holding him close and blinking back his own tears. Though Kaspar will not wilt or cry if Steinbeck rebuffs the entire effort; a solid warmth at his side either way. ]