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He has a habit, Pellaeon has noticed, of touching his face. When speaking, when thinking, Thrawn’s long fingers are always occupied. He steeples them under his chin; he crosses his fingers, runs his thumb over the seam of his white glove; he rests his forefinger against his temple, traces his bottom lip with his thumb, touches his cheekbone, his jaw line, runs a finger down the line of his nose in a gesture Pellaeon has seldom seen on anyone else but sees so frequently on Thrawn that it becomes commonplace and takes up real estate in his head.
He doesn’t mind it, he decides. He likes listening to the quiet creak of leather, watching the gloves slip up to reveal a glimpse of skin on Thrawn’s bare wrist. He notices Thrawn fiddling absently with his tunic buttons during battle, smoothing down his trouser line, hands lingering unthinkingly on his own thighs as he concentrates.
He doesn’t seem to care if Pellaeon can concentrate. He lifts one hand, rests it in front of his mouth with his wrist against his lips as he thinks. A moment later, Pellaeon sees white teeth flash as Thrawn gently, mindlessly, nips at his own wrist.
His eyes flash up, meet Pellaeon’s widened gaze. Behind his hand, Thrawn’s lips curl into a smile.
That bastard is doing this on purpose.