Acatl is under the impression that he isn’t beautiful. He’s been heard to describe himself as—and this is a direct quote Teomitl still can’t believe he heard come out of that man’s mouth—as alright-looking. As though that could even remotely capture the experience! It’s true that he’s neither tall nor especially muscular, tending more towards wiry slenderness than anything else. It’s true that he lacks the intrinsic arrogance of warriors or noblemen, the sort that makes them fill the room with sheer force of personality.
But that doesn’t matter, not to Teomitl. Acatl’s eyes are dark and warm and serious; his hair, unbound, flows like a waterfall. He doesn’t need arrogance when his quiet devotion and certainty reshape the world around them. He might get huffy over his lack of strength, but he’s still an incredible fighter and his legs are fantastic. Plus, Teomitl would be lying if he said there isn’t something incredibly appealing about being able to wrap his hands around his lover’s wrists or lift him as though he weighs nothing, all the more so when Acatl blushes so brightly every time.
“Teomitl!” A spluttering, disbelieving laugh—and then he smiles. Always. His face is already handsome as far as Teomitl’s concerned—narrow, high cheekbones, straight nose a bit too big for it, full lips—but his smile transforms it into something heartstoppingly radiant.
(Teomitl’s tried shoving Acatl in front of a mirror to show him. It hasn’t worked. “I do indeed have a face,” his lover had said drily, and Teomitl had only been able to bury his own face in his hands.)
“You’re ridiculous,” he’s saying now, but it’s endlessly fond and his arms are wrapped around Teomitl’s shoulders, so the words don’t sting.
Obsidian & Blood, Acatl/Teomitl
Acatl is under the impression that he isn’t beautiful. He’s been heard to describe himself as—and this is a direct quote Teomitl still can’t believe he heard come out of that man’s mouth—as alright-looking. As though that could even remotely capture the experience! It’s true that he’s neither tall nor especially muscular, tending more towards wiry slenderness than anything else. It’s true that he lacks the intrinsic arrogance of warriors or noblemen, the sort that makes them fill the room with sheer force of personality.
But that doesn’t matter, not to Teomitl. Acatl’s eyes are dark and warm and serious; his hair, unbound, flows like a waterfall. He doesn’t need arrogance when his quiet devotion and certainty reshape the world around them. He might get huffy over his lack of strength, but he’s still an incredible fighter and his legs are fantastic. Plus, Teomitl would be lying if he said there isn’t something incredibly appealing about being able to wrap his hands around his lover’s wrists or lift him as though he weighs nothing, all the more so when Acatl blushes so brightly every time.
“Teomitl!” A spluttering, disbelieving laugh—and then he smiles. Always. His face is already handsome as far as Teomitl’s concerned—narrow, high cheekbones, straight nose a bit too big for it, full lips—but his smile transforms it into something heartstoppingly radiant.
(Teomitl’s tried shoving Acatl in front of a mirror to show him. It hasn’t worked. “I do indeed have a face,” his lover had said drily, and Teomitl had only been able to bury his own face in his hands.)
“You’re ridiculous,” he’s saying now, but it’s endlessly fond and his arms are wrapped around Teomitl’s shoulders, so the words don’t sting.
And he is the perfect height to kiss.