The weight of Will's head was a comfort that Jem thought, perhaps, he shouldn't take such comfort in at all--the way it slid down from his shoulder, sinking into the curve of his lap, where, if he were a woman, he would feel more content, that Will's head would be pillowed in the comfortable rise of plush thighs and those sorts of feminine comforts that came from a position like the one they had settled into, but all he had to offer was the rumpled cotton of his trousers and the weak muscle underneath. His hands itched to touch him, to brush long fingers through his hair, sort out all the dust and muck and comfort him, and for a moment, he was unsure of what to do at all. Both hands hovered, a minute trembling, before one settled loosely atop Will's shoulder, and the other folded over the top of his head, fingertips touching briefly at the edges of Will's bangs that stuck together against his forehead.

"Well," Jem said at first, thoughtfully, and though he could feel Will's eyes peering up at him, surely warm with amusement, Jem instead cast his gaze out towards the water, as though looking at it would give him the answer to the playfully difficult love story they had concocted. His lips twitched, once, with the threat of a smile, but he swallowed it down, fingers idle now as they brushed along Will's forehead and then, further, across his temple. "You could always just...have a wash. That would solve the problem, wouldn't it?" Unable to keep himself from it, Jem started to smile, glancing down at Will as he tugged at the top of his closest ear. "I am sure that you are charming enough that it's only the smell that's keeping the poet and the translator apart."