On the willows there, we hung up our lyres

"Also sharp," Magnus laughs. He brings his hands up, gesturing, first moving them in an outline of the overall shape of Alex's face -- what he can remember, from touching it when they're, like, making out or whatever, or from the considerable hours he's put into staring at it when Alex is otherwise occupied and less likely to tease him for it. "Kind of... long and narrow? A little delicate. Pointy at the tip." He outlines this with his hands, too, a swoop of his fingers and then a little flick, as if booping a nose that isn't there.