[ The space helps. It doesn't immediately settle his mind or ease his nerves, but it gives some leeway into Gorgug working on the spell. The pain of his hands is still a large reason for that, a distraction that he has to force himself to work over--and it's not like Gorgug doesn't deal with bigger distractions in battles. Real battles, that aren't to do with spars or experiments with a friend he trusts.
But it's probably because this isn't as serious that it makes Gorgug's work slower. Still, the wounds on either palm are beginning to stitch together, muscle closing in, blood no longer having reason to spill. It's tender, and the ache continues to remind Gorgug of where the cuts are without looking, but it's a softer sort than what it started off as; it's an ache that's half-phantom when he finally looks at his hands again and carefully flexes his fingers.
It's not a perfect job, and he winces in the action, but it's bearable for the time being. A reminder that Fandragnor is no joke, and he'll have to think twice before he picks back up his axe from wherever he threw it earlier.
But Gorgug's not thinking about his axe. If it's a thought, it's one that flutters away as he looks over at Fabian, and-- does just that. His eyes fall to where the bite mark sits, or where he can guess fairly well its place underneath Fabian's tank top, and his stomach does a flip that he doesn't know the emotion for. Or, that he thinks he doesn't want to know; because he returns his focus back onto Fabian's face, his lips parted slightly, and he's struggling. He's torn.
He wants to know if he can see anything that would give away that Fabian felt what he did too--that Gorgug wasn't the only one, and that it was okay, it was--mutual. But he doesn't know that he wants to be found out, like the question of what he felt is plastered on his expression, clear as day, and he can be read despite being the only one who sunk into a different kind of state of mind when Fabian moaned with his lips on his skin.
That Fabian will see something he doesn't like, and Gorgug... he doesn't want to put that on his friend. They're friends. He should be acting like a friend.
So he diverts back to his hands again, a familiar excuse. ]
...This is the best I can do, [ he says. ] I-- I think I can still spar, but I might need a while to let my hands heal more. Can we continue later?
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But it's probably because this isn't as serious that it makes Gorgug's work slower. Still, the wounds on either palm are beginning to stitch together, muscle closing in, blood no longer having reason to spill. It's tender, and the ache continues to remind Gorgug of where the cuts are without looking, but it's a softer sort than what it started off as; it's an ache that's half-phantom when he finally looks at his hands again and carefully flexes his fingers.
It's not a perfect job, and he winces in the action, but it's bearable for the time being. A reminder that Fandragnor is no joke, and he'll have to think twice before he picks back up his axe from wherever he threw it earlier.
But Gorgug's not thinking about his axe. If it's a thought, it's one that flutters away as he looks over at Fabian, and-- does just that. His eyes fall to where the bite mark sits, or where he can guess fairly well its place underneath Fabian's tank top, and his stomach does a flip that he doesn't know the emotion for. Or, that he thinks he doesn't want to know; because he returns his focus back onto Fabian's face, his lips parted slightly, and he's struggling. He's torn.
He wants to know if he can see anything that would give away that Fabian felt what he did too--that Gorgug wasn't the only one, and that it was okay, it was--mutual. But he doesn't know that he wants to be found out, like the question of what he felt is plastered on his expression, clear as day, and he can be read despite being the only one who sunk into a different kind of state of mind when Fabian moaned with his lips on his skin.
That Fabian will see something he doesn't like, and Gorgug... he doesn't want to put that on his friend. They're friends. He should be acting like a friend.
So he diverts back to his hands again, a familiar excuse. ]
...This is the best I can do, [ he says. ] I-- I think I can still spar, but I might need a while to let my hands heal more. Can we continue later?
[ A beat. ] We don't have to do that again.