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[ though he's been bidden to be quick, Viktor does not rush. he climbs out of his boots, unwinds his lengthy scarf and drapes it over the vanity after stealing a glance at his reflection -- wind blown hair, face flush from the cold, a smudge of dirt he wipes off his cheek.
his quarters are less impressive than the ones granted to Emet-Selch. too reluctant, for myriad reasons, to put a name to what they are - partners? consorts? lovers? it is at once deeper than all of those things and still too indefinite to name precisely. the lordling, eager to stake a claim, had assumed viktor the steward, the merchant's valet, and granted the adjoining servant's quarters. which are fine with viktor. if Emet-Selch wants to share a bed, after, well. he will decide whether or not to cross that bridge when he arrives at it.
right now, his heart is thundering, so loud as to be frankly unnecessary. this is not the first man he's seen naked. not the first person he's bathed with. there is no reason for his skin to prickle as he gathers up his few soaps, his robe and pajamas. after another second wasted thinking, he also scoops up the bottle of wine he'd received as thanks for his part in delivering the merchant's dyes -- green and purple and red dyes he'd just happened to have in his pack.
only once his arms are full does he finally return to the door separating them. a steeling breath, and then he passes through. slow, as though he needs to give Emet-Selch more time to change his mind and send him away.
his quarters are warm for the steam already filling the room, a welcome relief. and there he is, unmissable, on the other side from the door. submerged in cloudy, fragrant water, steam wafting around him. his neck is beautiful, bare shoulders moreso. the sight catches viktor's breath and holds it high in his throat. ]
Oh. You are you. [ he allows himself to sound surprised, but hides his relief as best he can. he could admit to himself that the sight of Hades back in that old form had felt...strange. he had prepared himself to be revolted, angry, even frightened. that he had felt none of those things upon looking at him had been the only certain thing he'd allowed himself to feel.
he sorts through his possessions, trying to force his lungs to work. leaves his robes and pajamas on the room's table, rather than Emet-Selch's bed - not ready to think himself welcome there, quite yet. then, with nowhere else to waste time, he finally approaches the impressively large stone tub, sets his soaps and the unopened bottle of wine on the nearby shelf, within reach and kneels, deliberately slow.
viktor undoes two of the toggles holding his robes closed, then lets his fingers drop to toy with the surface of the water. he steals the quickest glance down, but sees nothing for the fog of salts. ]
I've a few c-clasps that need undoing. [ he angles himself, showing off buckles he is perfectly capable of taking care of himself. softly, over the heavy thud of his heartbeat rattling in his ears, he asks, ] Would you?
his quarters are less impressive than the ones granted to Emet-Selch. too reluctant, for myriad reasons, to put a name to what they are - partners? consorts? lovers? it is at once deeper than all of those things and still too indefinite to name precisely. the lordling, eager to stake a claim, had assumed viktor the steward, the merchant's valet, and granted the adjoining servant's quarters. which are fine with viktor. if Emet-Selch wants to share a bed, after, well. he will decide whether or not to cross that bridge when he arrives at it.
right now, his heart is thundering, so loud as to be frankly unnecessary. this is not the first man he's seen naked. not the first person he's bathed with. there is no reason for his skin to prickle as he gathers up his few soaps, his robe and pajamas. after another second wasted thinking, he also scoops up the bottle of wine he'd received as thanks for his part in delivering the merchant's dyes -- green and purple and red dyes he'd just happened to have in his pack.
only once his arms are full does he finally return to the door separating them. a steeling breath, and then he passes through. slow, as though he needs to give Emet-Selch more time to change his mind and send him away.
his quarters are warm for the steam already filling the room, a welcome relief. and there he is, unmissable, on the other side from the door. submerged in cloudy, fragrant water, steam wafting around him. his neck is beautiful, bare shoulders moreso. the sight catches viktor's breath and holds it high in his throat. ]
Oh. You are you. [ he allows himself to sound surprised, but hides his relief as best he can. he could admit to himself that the sight of Hades back in that old form had felt...strange. he had prepared himself to be revolted, angry, even frightened. that he had felt none of those things upon looking at him had been the only certain thing he'd allowed himself to feel.
he sorts through his possessions, trying to force his lungs to work. leaves his robes and pajamas on the room's table, rather than Emet-Selch's bed - not ready to think himself welcome there, quite yet. then, with nowhere else to waste time, he finally approaches the impressively large stone tub, sets his soaps and the unopened bottle of wine on the nearby shelf, within reach and kneels, deliberately slow.
viktor undoes two of the toggles holding his robes closed, then lets his fingers drop to toy with the surface of the water. he steals the quickest glance down, but sees nothing for the fog of salts. ]
I've a few c-clasps that need undoing. [ he angles himself, showing off buckles he is perfectly capable of taking care of himself. softly, over the heavy thud of his heartbeat rattling in his ears, he asks, ] Would you?
[ The tub has been emptied mostly and filled again by the time Viktor deigns to open the adjoining door, so long that Emet-Selch wonders if he's thought better of it. He would understand if so. As convenient as it is to have two different rooms for storing items, Emet-Selch mislikes the misinterpretation. Mislikes even more the fact that he wants to vehemently defend something as fledgling as what they have.
Something in him squirms, pleased that Viktor does not sound disappointed to find him himself. It was not so difficult to wear Solus again. Maybe he would feel less...this if he hadn't found putting that persona on so easy, or the gulch between them so small. ]
I am myself. 'Tis a trifle to make the change as needed.
[ But he would prefer to be himself, here and now. Especially for something as intimate as a bath, as shedding literal layers down to skin. At least already being in the bath makes the process a touch easier; he needn't feel ridiculous about undressing.
The wine is given a brief, appraising glance before Emet-Selch turns a steady gaze on Viktor and looks, intentional, deliberate. Marks the undoing of a few toggles on his robes and how close Viktor lingers, and finds that his earlier irritation has not necessarily waned but neither does it do anything to cool the heat curling in his stomach. At least his hands are dry; it doesn't take effort to reach out and start thumbing them open bit by bit. ]
Of course, your hands haven't warmed enough to manage the rest of the buckles.
[ If his fingers linger against the graceful line of Viktor's throat or drift up a little higher to nudge curls out of the way, well, he does not think Viktor will object, necessarily. When he's finished with the shirt he props his elbow up on the lip and places his chin in his palm, watching, intent unless Viktor tells him not to. There's no disgust to be found, even when he anticipates and searches for it. Burned to cinders by the heat the bath does nothing to stifle.
Reaching for the wine so he does not do something drastically inadvisable like graze a touch over Viktor's trousers, flush with the certainty the touch would be allowed, welcomed, in a way the spoiled princeling's hands would never be, Emet-Selch debates creating glasses. Decides just as quickly as he has the thought not to.
The label is unpeeled with surgical precision, maintaining the brand information and wax stamp, but the cork he thumbs out thoughtlessly, settling the open wine bottle back on the lip for Viktor to taste first once he finishes divesting himself of clothing. ]
Before the bath chills too much. [ a pause as he settles himself into a lazy drape along the lip, chin atop folded arms once again, indulgent. ] Would you prefer I not watch?
Something in him squirms, pleased that Viktor does not sound disappointed to find him himself. It was not so difficult to wear Solus again. Maybe he would feel less...this if he hadn't found putting that persona on so easy, or the gulch between them so small. ]
I am myself. 'Tis a trifle to make the change as needed.
[ But he would prefer to be himself, here and now. Especially for something as intimate as a bath, as shedding literal layers down to skin. At least already being in the bath makes the process a touch easier; he needn't feel ridiculous about undressing.
The wine is given a brief, appraising glance before Emet-Selch turns a steady gaze on Viktor and looks, intentional, deliberate. Marks the undoing of a few toggles on his robes and how close Viktor lingers, and finds that his earlier irritation has not necessarily waned but neither does it do anything to cool the heat curling in his stomach. At least his hands are dry; it doesn't take effort to reach out and start thumbing them open bit by bit. ]
Of course, your hands haven't warmed enough to manage the rest of the buckles.
[ If his fingers linger against the graceful line of Viktor's throat or drift up a little higher to nudge curls out of the way, well, he does not think Viktor will object, necessarily. When he's finished with the shirt he props his elbow up on the lip and places his chin in his palm, watching, intent unless Viktor tells him not to. There's no disgust to be found, even when he anticipates and searches for it. Burned to cinders by the heat the bath does nothing to stifle.
Reaching for the wine so he does not do something drastically inadvisable like graze a touch over Viktor's trousers, flush with the certainty the touch would be allowed, welcomed, in a way the spoiled princeling's hands would never be, Emet-Selch debates creating glasses. Decides just as quickly as he has the thought not to.
The label is unpeeled with surgical precision, maintaining the brand information and wax stamp, but the cork he thumbs out thoughtlessly, settling the open wine bottle back on the lip for Viktor to taste first once he finishes divesting himself of clothing. ]
Before the bath chills too much. [ a pause as he settles himself into a lazy drape along the lip, chin atop folded arms once again, indulgent. ] Would you prefer I not watch?
Edited 2024-10-08 05:48 (UTC)
The change is not n-needed right now.
[ Emet-Selch touches him, fingers flashing against skin as he undoes the little metal bindings holding Viktor's clothes - his composure - together, and he exhales, low, slow. Heat he'd thought chilled out of him by the cold, by their terse exchange earlier, breathed out as though it might burn if allowed to escape too quickly.
Talk is messy, rife with misunderstandings. Too many words, meaning too many things, too easy to talk around honest feeling. Touch, though - he knows touch, and is all too ready to forget hurt and fear and anger if it means he can be warmed by a body he loves, to feel as though he is more than enough, just as he is, for a man who had once known his own version of paradise.
In another wing of the estate, an unfit princeling makes plans to charm his unusual guest. Here, now, Viktor doesn't think of him at all, stares into firefly eyes, lit brighter than he remembers, and shrugs his robes down off his shoulders, exposing clavicles. ]
I would prefer you watch.
[ Before the bath chills too much - as though between the two of them there wasn't talent enough to heat the water with a thought. A faint smile plays across Viktor's face as he wraps his arms around his torso to hold his robes closed and rises. Unrushed, he turns, showing Emet-Selch his back, and allows his robes to fall a little further, to his elbows, skin of his shoulders prickling to gooseflesh from the cold, but flush with excitement.
Yes. They had argued. Yes, it had left him sullen and Emet-Selch surely irritated, but Viktor will not allow them to linger there. This moment, long, long awaited will not be anything less than joyful. With teasing intent, he wriggles out of his trousers, his stockings, hiding the awkward movement behind flourishes of his coattails, tossing each item over the back of the room's lone armchair with an exaggerated fling of his hand -- an improvised little dance for Emet-Selch's amusement.
Lower drop the robes once he is free of his leggings, gathering at his waist, held in place by one arm. He peels himself out of the hempen undershirt, stretches, because he has seen how many pages of Emet-Selch's sketchbook contain quick drawings of flexing shoulder muscles, and finally turns to face him again.
Here, Viktor pauses to grasp the wine bottle by the neck, and in so doing, allows his robes to drop to the floor. He grins, knowingly, as he lifts the bottle to his lips for a drink - because today, it just so happens, he is wearing smalls. He is, of course, something of a sculpted work, all lean muscle and gentle lines. Freckle dappled skin free of scar and blemish, save a few places where the veins beneath his skin are not veins but green vines, the threat of sprouting flowers ever present. ]
It's bleeding c-cold. [ He complains, this stutter more a shiver, as though he isn't the one holding himself hostage in the icy air right now. The wine is nice, though. Warming. Sweet. He sets the bottle down and hooks a thumb into the waistband of his perfectly ordinary hempen bloomers. This is nothing Emet-Selch has not seen before, but it has been moons since their first and frenzied "lesson" - it feels like a lifetime ago. Like Emet-Selch, like Hades, looks at him with new eyes, seeing for the first time. And so, Viktor gives the moment the time he thinks it is due, slowly hiking down his smalls and stepping out of them once they've hit the floor.
He elects to sit on the edge of the tub, giving Emet-Selch ample time to observe him as he turns, hissing as he slips his legs into water that feels almost too hot when compared to the frigid cold air. He becomes aware, abruptly, of how heavy the beat of his heart is, how shallow his breathing. Viktor lights his fingers on Emet-Selch's hair, forgetting entirely how to be charming or brave. Afraid, for the briefest moment, that Emet-Selch will see him here at a precipice, toes dangling over the cliff's edge, and decide he is not ready - decide he is still angry, still disgusted, repulsed. ]
[ Emet-Selch touches him, fingers flashing against skin as he undoes the little metal bindings holding Viktor's clothes - his composure - together, and he exhales, low, slow. Heat he'd thought chilled out of him by the cold, by their terse exchange earlier, breathed out as though it might burn if allowed to escape too quickly.
Talk is messy, rife with misunderstandings. Too many words, meaning too many things, too easy to talk around honest feeling. Touch, though - he knows touch, and is all too ready to forget hurt and fear and anger if it means he can be warmed by a body he loves, to feel as though he is more than enough, just as he is, for a man who had once known his own version of paradise.
In another wing of the estate, an unfit princeling makes plans to charm his unusual guest. Here, now, Viktor doesn't think of him at all, stares into firefly eyes, lit brighter than he remembers, and shrugs his robes down off his shoulders, exposing clavicles. ]
I would prefer you watch.
[ Before the bath chills too much - as though between the two of them there wasn't talent enough to heat the water with a thought. A faint smile plays across Viktor's face as he wraps his arms around his torso to hold his robes closed and rises. Unrushed, he turns, showing Emet-Selch his back, and allows his robes to fall a little further, to his elbows, skin of his shoulders prickling to gooseflesh from the cold, but flush with excitement.
Yes. They had argued. Yes, it had left him sullen and Emet-Selch surely irritated, but Viktor will not allow them to linger there. This moment, long, long awaited will not be anything less than joyful. With teasing intent, he wriggles out of his trousers, his stockings, hiding the awkward movement behind flourishes of his coattails, tossing each item over the back of the room's lone armchair with an exaggerated fling of his hand -- an improvised little dance for Emet-Selch's amusement.
Lower drop the robes once he is free of his leggings, gathering at his waist, held in place by one arm. He peels himself out of the hempen undershirt, stretches, because he has seen how many pages of Emet-Selch's sketchbook contain quick drawings of flexing shoulder muscles, and finally turns to face him again.
Here, Viktor pauses to grasp the wine bottle by the neck, and in so doing, allows his robes to drop to the floor. He grins, knowingly, as he lifts the bottle to his lips for a drink - because today, it just so happens, he is wearing smalls. He is, of course, something of a sculpted work, all lean muscle and gentle lines. Freckle dappled skin free of scar and blemish, save a few places where the veins beneath his skin are not veins but green vines, the threat of sprouting flowers ever present. ]
It's bleeding c-cold. [ He complains, this stutter more a shiver, as though he isn't the one holding himself hostage in the icy air right now. The wine is nice, though. Warming. Sweet. He sets the bottle down and hooks a thumb into the waistband of his perfectly ordinary hempen bloomers. This is nothing Emet-Selch has not seen before, but it has been moons since their first and frenzied "lesson" - it feels like a lifetime ago. Like Emet-Selch, like Hades, looks at him with new eyes, seeing for the first time. And so, Viktor gives the moment the time he thinks it is due, slowly hiking down his smalls and stepping out of them once they've hit the floor.
He elects to sit on the edge of the tub, giving Emet-Selch ample time to observe him as he turns, hissing as he slips his legs into water that feels almost too hot when compared to the frigid cold air. He becomes aware, abruptly, of how heavy the beat of his heart is, how shallow his breathing. Viktor lights his fingers on Emet-Selch's hair, forgetting entirely how to be charming or brave. Afraid, for the briefest moment, that Emet-Selch will see him here at a precipice, toes dangling over the cliff's edge, and decide he is not ready - decide he is still angry, still disgusted, repulsed. ]
[ Good, he thinks. He wouldn't want to. Perhaps later that will be a fun subject to play with, the wretched Solus-Emet-Selch and the hero the Warrior of Light, but right now he thinks that subject far too sensitive, like pressing fingers into a purpling bruise, or spreading salt into a wound. Better here and now that they are themselves, as much as they can be.
Viktor makes a show of disrobing and Emet-Selch watches intently, a scene, a play, a skit only meant for his eyes. They are, he thinks, both of them playing a bit of a part, people who know what they are doing in a situation like this. Ridiculous, to have thousands of years of memory at his beck and call and to feel that all of it is insufficient, that he is starting from the first step, attempting to make up for lost time and rusted experience.
There have been countless times he's utilized intimacy - not involving him, necessarily, but orchestrating it between others, to achieve his ends. To avoid a serious discussion and sensitive subject through distractions of the flesh is not healthy, but it is, he thinks useful. Effective. ]
We'll have issues if you decide to make a mess inside my quarters each time you disrobe.
[ Mildly, as he takes the wine Viktor's set back down and carefully tilts a mouthful's worth to taste, thinking at length about the lean muscles of Viktor's shoulders and arms, the narrow line of his waist and how good his hands would look upon all the bare, warm skin within reach. He swallows the wine, realizing only belatedly he hadn't tasted it at all, had been far too distracted watching Viktor sling clothing about willy-nilly. He is, Emet-Selch notes with amusement, wearing smalls. Too cold not to, he supposes, and watches soft cloth make its way down long legs, fully forgetting to breathe until the motion is complete.
He's miscalculated - he's spent too much time studying Viktor, drinking in the sight of him that he hasn't thought about the action, the steps to take to facilitate anything other than ogling him like a youth. Viktor rests fingertips against the crown of his head, settled on the stone that cannot be terribly warm on the outside and Emet-Selch gives into the insane impulse to press his mouth against the malms of bare skin presented to him. Water sloshes as he moves, gliding a hand up Viktor's back to trace the knobs of his spine and he lays a kiss at the swell of a thigh, and another against the faintest imprint where Viktor's smalls had pressed into his skin, lingering. He'd forgotten just how much he enjoys the smell of Viktor despite, or perhaps especially because of a day of tasks, duties. Chores. He wants to wash Viktor's hair. Wants to do what he hadn't allowed himself earlier, to look and touch, and it feels all the more satisfying to do it and know there's someone else here who wants at least half as badly and would never stand a chance.
Emet-Selch tilts his head, resting it upon a folded arm on the lip of the tub once again, the hand attached running lazily up and down Viktor's flank, relaxed despite everything. ]
Did you intend to join at any point, or were you enjoying freezing so much you thought to do it naked?
Viktor makes a show of disrobing and Emet-Selch watches intently, a scene, a play, a skit only meant for his eyes. They are, he thinks, both of them playing a bit of a part, people who know what they are doing in a situation like this. Ridiculous, to have thousands of years of memory at his beck and call and to feel that all of it is insufficient, that he is starting from the first step, attempting to make up for lost time and rusted experience.
There have been countless times he's utilized intimacy - not involving him, necessarily, but orchestrating it between others, to achieve his ends. To avoid a serious discussion and sensitive subject through distractions of the flesh is not healthy, but it is, he thinks useful. Effective. ]
We'll have issues if you decide to make a mess inside my quarters each time you disrobe.
[ Mildly, as he takes the wine Viktor's set back down and carefully tilts a mouthful's worth to taste, thinking at length about the lean muscles of Viktor's shoulders and arms, the narrow line of his waist and how good his hands would look upon all the bare, warm skin within reach. He swallows the wine, realizing only belatedly he hadn't tasted it at all, had been far too distracted watching Viktor sling clothing about willy-nilly. He is, Emet-Selch notes with amusement, wearing smalls. Too cold not to, he supposes, and watches soft cloth make its way down long legs, fully forgetting to breathe until the motion is complete.
He's miscalculated - he's spent too much time studying Viktor, drinking in the sight of him that he hasn't thought about the action, the steps to take to facilitate anything other than ogling him like a youth. Viktor rests fingertips against the crown of his head, settled on the stone that cannot be terribly warm on the outside and Emet-Selch gives into the insane impulse to press his mouth against the malms of bare skin presented to him. Water sloshes as he moves, gliding a hand up Viktor's back to trace the knobs of his spine and he lays a kiss at the swell of a thigh, and another against the faintest imprint where Viktor's smalls had pressed into his skin, lingering. He'd forgotten just how much he enjoys the smell of Viktor despite, or perhaps especially because of a day of tasks, duties. Chores. He wants to wash Viktor's hair. Wants to do what he hadn't allowed himself earlier, to look and touch, and it feels all the more satisfying to do it and know there's someone else here who wants at least half as badly and would never stand a chance.
Emet-Selch tilts his head, resting it upon a folded arm on the lip of the tub once again, the hand attached running lazily up and down Viktor's flank, relaxed despite everything. ]
Did you intend to join at any point, or were you enjoying freezing so much you thought to do it naked?
Actually...
[ Slow, tentative.
How long had he feared this thing between them temporary? For moons, after caution gave way to care, even as it slipped into love, he had doubted. He would not, could not pour his heart into this, would not grasp Emet-Selch with the intention of holding him here when there was love for him, rest for him, elsewhere. Would not impose. Would not take up space.
But- Why? Why keep himself small? Why risk everything but his heart, when this is exactly where his heart belongs?
Emet-Selch's lips taste dizzyingly sensitive skin and Viktor drags his fingernails over his scalp, encouraging. Another kiss draws a bright sigh from his lips, louder than it might have been otherwise, breathed with a grin - the servants will have their gossip. Mayhap it will find their lord, even. Gratifying. Enboldening.
He will take up space. He will grasp, intending to hold. He will leave a mark on Emet-Selch's life. ]
You- you could do with a few more messes in your life, I th-think. Smaller ones. Simpler ones.
[ Viktor moves his hand to the dip at the base of his throat, then lower, pressing gently to ease him back. ] I should make you try and pull me in, f-frankly. [ But he doesn't. Slides off the edge of the tub, slow, so that the steaming water does not splash as it is displaced. Into Emet-Selch's space, straddling one of his legs. He shuts his eyes, welcoming the indulgence as his hand slips down, throat to chest, chest to- something unexpected.
The mark he's left on Emet-Selch's life.
Viktor opens his eyes and stares down at his fingertips, skirting the glossy edges of scarred skin. Though his lips part, his breath catches, and he thinks to pull away - as though touching the healed wound might hurt one or both of them - but he stops himself. He doesn't want to. ]
Hades. [ Soft, little more than a whisper, his ears twitch and then ease back. Where he expects guilt, shame, all the unwelcome feelings that come with remembering what had brought them to that point, he finds relief, curiosity, and a strange, gilded sort of fire coming to life in his chest. ] This- this is...
[ Slow, tentative.
How long had he feared this thing between them temporary? For moons, after caution gave way to care, even as it slipped into love, he had doubted. He would not, could not pour his heart into this, would not grasp Emet-Selch with the intention of holding him here when there was love for him, rest for him, elsewhere. Would not impose. Would not take up space.
But- Why? Why keep himself small? Why risk everything but his heart, when this is exactly where his heart belongs?
Emet-Selch's lips taste dizzyingly sensitive skin and Viktor drags his fingernails over his scalp, encouraging. Another kiss draws a bright sigh from his lips, louder than it might have been otherwise, breathed with a grin - the servants will have their gossip. Mayhap it will find their lord, even. Gratifying. Enboldening.
He will take up space. He will grasp, intending to hold. He will leave a mark on Emet-Selch's life. ]
You- you could do with a few more messes in your life, I th-think. Smaller ones. Simpler ones.
[ Viktor moves his hand to the dip at the base of his throat, then lower, pressing gently to ease him back. ] I should make you try and pull me in, f-frankly. [ But he doesn't. Slides off the edge of the tub, slow, so that the steaming water does not splash as it is displaced. Into Emet-Selch's space, straddling one of his legs. He shuts his eyes, welcoming the indulgence as his hand slips down, throat to chest, chest to- something unexpected.
The mark he's left on Emet-Selch's life.
Viktor opens his eyes and stares down at his fingertips, skirting the glossy edges of scarred skin. Though his lips part, his breath catches, and he thinks to pull away - as though touching the healed wound might hurt one or both of them - but he stops himself. He doesn't want to. ]
Hades. [ Soft, little more than a whisper, his ears twitch and then ease back. Where he expects guilt, shame, all the unwelcome feelings that come with remembering what had brought them to that point, he finds relief, curiosity, and a strange, gilded sort of fire coming to life in his chest. ] This- this is...
Do not even think about it.
[ Grumbling, but toothless, his head tilting thoughtlessly into the warm press of Viktor's fingers against his scalp. Emet-Selch shifts to accommodate Viktor as he finally slips into the bathwater and feels instantly foolish for the mistake of not warning him, for not remembering how he had chosen to recreate his form. Hiding the mark felt disingenuous and foolish once he'd made the offer and he had not considered wanting as badly as he did, despite having a baseline to operate off of.
At least Viktor is not upset at the sight. He seems rather the opposite of upset, if Emet-Selch is any good at reading him, which he thinks at this point he should be proficient in and is much easier when one is naked in every sense of the word. ]
Do you take issue? [ He doesn't quite squirm under the pressure of Viktor's hand but it is a close thing. Would that Viktor could reach into his chest and grasp his heart; he sometimes thinks it would be easier to have a physical manifestation to look at, to parade about to other people. To himself, when he thinks too long and too hard about how much everything has changed and is left wondering if this is really the way forward.
He'd added the salts to make the water cloudier, which only upon Viktor's weight settling more fully on him does he realize was useless. Feeling so much bare skin pressed against his own is countless times more intimate than the simple act of seeing. Gently, to steady Viktor and because now that he has Viktor so close the idea of not touching him is unthinkable, Emet-Selch curves both hands over his hips, fingers rubbing idle circles against warm skin. ]
You're - [ he pauses, mulling over a dozen different options and finds all of them insufficient, settling for the one that will prevent the silence from being long, uncomfortable. declaration, quiet, certain, not a question: ] - lovely. So there is no doubt.
[ Grumbling, but toothless, his head tilting thoughtlessly into the warm press of Viktor's fingers against his scalp. Emet-Selch shifts to accommodate Viktor as he finally slips into the bathwater and feels instantly foolish for the mistake of not warning him, for not remembering how he had chosen to recreate his form. Hiding the mark felt disingenuous and foolish once he'd made the offer and he had not considered wanting as badly as he did, despite having a baseline to operate off of.
At least Viktor is not upset at the sight. He seems rather the opposite of upset, if Emet-Selch is any good at reading him, which he thinks at this point he should be proficient in and is much easier when one is naked in every sense of the word. ]
Do you take issue? [ He doesn't quite squirm under the pressure of Viktor's hand but it is a close thing. Would that Viktor could reach into his chest and grasp his heart; he sometimes thinks it would be easier to have a physical manifestation to look at, to parade about to other people. To himself, when he thinks too long and too hard about how much everything has changed and is left wondering if this is really the way forward.
He'd added the salts to make the water cloudier, which only upon Viktor's weight settling more fully on him does he realize was useless. Feeling so much bare skin pressed against his own is countless times more intimate than the simple act of seeing. Gently, to steady Viktor and because now that he has Viktor so close the idea of not touching him is unthinkable, Emet-Selch curves both hands over his hips, fingers rubbing idle circles against warm skin. ]
You're - [ he pauses, mulling over a dozen different options and finds all of them insufficient, settling for the one that will prevent the silence from being long, uncomfortable. declaration, quiet, certain, not a question: ] - lovely. So there is no doubt.
[ Viktor shifts, not quite wanting to lose this contact. Afraid, ridiculously, that if he loses track of Emet-Selch's hands now, all that permeating cold will escape him, as well. It is not that he fears coming undone again - no, he is stitched into place once more. The sun of his soul burns deathly cold into Light even now. What he fears is losing the utter certainty, the inviolate proof of Hades's love.
Viktor repositions Emet-Selch's hand to cup his cheek, shuts his eyes and leans into the contact. ]
I would not complain if- if you decided I s-seemed so weak- [ He musters enough energy for a bit of theatrics, but he needn't. His voice is reedy enough. ] -that you thought it best to feed me your fancy cheeses yourself.
[ He flashes a grin, which serves only to make him look more tired for how much dimmer it is than usual. His strength is steadily returning, though, and his head clear enough to consider what's just transpired. His gaze falls, finally, thoughtful. ] N-not my favorite way to get closer to you. But. 'Tis... nice, this feel of your aether within me. You are- alright? It did not c-cost you much to knit me into place?
Viktor repositions Emet-Selch's hand to cup his cheek, shuts his eyes and leans into the contact. ]
I would not complain if- if you decided I s-seemed so weak- [ He musters enough energy for a bit of theatrics, but he needn't. His voice is reedy enough. ] -that you thought it best to feed me your fancy cheeses yourself.
[ He flashes a grin, which serves only to make him look more tired for how much dimmer it is than usual. His strength is steadily returning, though, and his head clear enough to consider what's just transpired. His gaze falls, finally, thoughtful. ] N-not my favorite way to get closer to you. But. 'Tis... nice, this feel of your aether within me. You are- alright? It did not c-cost you much to knit me into place?
I needn't struggle with the decision.
[ Were Viktor upright Emet-Selch thinks a stiff wind would blow him over. It has been a long time since he thought that Viktor was weak; he was disabused of that notion very quickly. To see him now, like this - weak is not the word he wants to use but it is accurate.
Uncomfortable. There is no one around to know if he indulges. He'd know, but is indulgence not the point when engaging in any sort of relationship? Is not that not part of the benefit?
Patting once, twice at Viktor's chest, he stretches and grasps for one of the cheeses and knives, starting to cut pieces at the very least. The fruit he'd managed to bring are what he pulls out next, along with the honey, giving Viktor a dubious look. ]
You're going to get crumbs all over yourself if you continue to lie down.
[ He hands Viktor a little cracker with cheese, a blackberry and a drizzle of honey all the same, frowning as if he is not a willing, active participant in making a mess of crumbs. ]
[ Were Viktor upright Emet-Selch thinks a stiff wind would blow him over. It has been a long time since he thought that Viktor was weak; he was disabused of that notion very quickly. To see him now, like this - weak is not the word he wants to use but it is accurate.
Uncomfortable. There is no one around to know if he indulges. He'd know, but is indulgence not the point when engaging in any sort of relationship? Is not that not part of the benefit?
Patting once, twice at Viktor's chest, he stretches and grasps for one of the cheeses and knives, starting to cut pieces at the very least. The fruit he'd managed to bring are what he pulls out next, along with the honey, giving Viktor a dubious look. ]
You're going to get crumbs all over yourself if you continue to lie down.
[ He hands Viktor a little cracker with cheese, a blackberry and a drizzle of honey all the same, frowning as if he is not a willing, active participant in making a mess of crumbs. ]
Edited 2024-10-09 06:48 (UTC)
No. No I do not.
[ Such certainty in him, so much so that he does not feel even a flicker of guilt, even though he thinks that perhaps he would be justified if he did. His mind races, trying to pinpoint meaning and sense as he delicately traces the upper outline of the incredible wound he'd inflicted, once upon a time.
Then, abruptly, his mind stills.
Emet-Selch's palms settle against the curve of his body, and for a few seconds Viktor can think of nothing but hands large enough to near wreath him where his body dips outward, holding him steady, coaxing his breath shallow with simple, rhythmic movement. This body has waited moons - the soul, literal ages for this much closeness, this much contact. He calls him lovely, and Viktor wonders whether he can feel, beneath his fingers, the way his stomach seems to tighten with want. ]
I am lovely. [ He agrees with a crooked grin, inching closer. ] And you are- you are the moon. Something to write poetry about, to study for lifetimes. [ Viktor settles his hands over Emet-Selch's, not to move them or to stop that hypnotic little motion, but to hold him in place as he says, ] Rumored to drive certain men absolutely mad.
[ It feels a safe thing to allude to his sulking, stormy mood after their argument in so light a way. Especially when he chases it with movement, letting Emet-Selch's hands glide over his body as he turns between them, then settling in, sinking into the water and gingerly pressing his back to Emet-Selch's chest. For a brief, heart-fluttering moment, he feels almost faint for how close they are, skin to skin, without barriers.
Eventually, he realizes he isn't breathing, and steals a gulp of air as he leands the back of his head against Emet-Selch's shoulder, one ear lazily flopping into the water. He stares up at him, mismatched eyes tracing his unbearably handsome profile, trying to pinpoint all the places he wants to kiss and in what order he'd like to accomplish those tasks. ]
I do not- I've not got the right words, but. The scar - 'tis proof of what set us on even footing once more. 'Tis the beginning our new start, aye? [ Viktor dips in, brushing his lips against the point where Emet-Selch's jaw and neck meet. ] Was it always there? I mean- since I c-called you back. I only- I noticed your hands are more calloused, and your eyes... the glow.
[ Such certainty in him, so much so that he does not feel even a flicker of guilt, even though he thinks that perhaps he would be justified if he did. His mind races, trying to pinpoint meaning and sense as he delicately traces the upper outline of the incredible wound he'd inflicted, once upon a time.
Then, abruptly, his mind stills.
Emet-Selch's palms settle against the curve of his body, and for a few seconds Viktor can think of nothing but hands large enough to near wreath him where his body dips outward, holding him steady, coaxing his breath shallow with simple, rhythmic movement. This body has waited moons - the soul, literal ages for this much closeness, this much contact. He calls him lovely, and Viktor wonders whether he can feel, beneath his fingers, the way his stomach seems to tighten with want. ]
I am lovely. [ He agrees with a crooked grin, inching closer. ] And you are- you are the moon. Something to write poetry about, to study for lifetimes. [ Viktor settles his hands over Emet-Selch's, not to move them or to stop that hypnotic little motion, but to hold him in place as he says, ] Rumored to drive certain men absolutely mad.
[ It feels a safe thing to allude to his sulking, stormy mood after their argument in so light a way. Especially when he chases it with movement, letting Emet-Selch's hands glide over his body as he turns between them, then settling in, sinking into the water and gingerly pressing his back to Emet-Selch's chest. For a brief, heart-fluttering moment, he feels almost faint for how close they are, skin to skin, without barriers.
Eventually, he realizes he isn't breathing, and steals a gulp of air as he leands the back of his head against Emet-Selch's shoulder, one ear lazily flopping into the water. He stares up at him, mismatched eyes tracing his unbearably handsome profile, trying to pinpoint all the places he wants to kiss and in what order he'd like to accomplish those tasks. ]
I do not- I've not got the right words, but. The scar - 'tis proof of what set us on even footing once more. 'Tis the beginning our new start, aye? [ Viktor dips in, brushing his lips against the point where Emet-Selch's jaw and neck meet. ] Was it always there? I mean- since I c-called you back. I only- I noticed your hands are more calloused, and your eyes... the glow.
[ Viktor sinks in against him and Emet-Selch gingerly settles back against the stone lip seat, reclining until the two of them can rest comfortably against each other, slotting into place with ginger care. Malms of bare, soft skin pressed against his own, the heat of the bathwater near-perfect, and for a moment he can almost forget where they are. What they must do. For a sliver of an instant, he doesn't think about duty or obligation, he focuses on the simple pleasure of running his hand up and down Viktor's flank, savoring the weight of him.
The moon to Viktor's sun. There's no spitefulness, no jealousy that arises at the echo of what once was, fundamentally changed by thousands of years. Emet-Selch stretches his legs out, adjusts Viktor a little more comfortably where he reclines, and then greedily, selfishly, winds both arms around him and lets his chin rest against Viktor's mussed curls. ]
One would have to be a little mad to consider what you do on a daily basis.
[ Whether that is intimacy like this with a former enemy, or trotting about different shards, attempting to undo the greatest wrong that has ever been perpetuated upon them, it doesn't matter. Madness either way, Emet-Selch thinks, lifting his hand from the bathwater to trace the smattering of freckles upon Viktor's shoulder with damp fingertips, shuddering out a breath at the press of Viktor's lips. ]
I tired of...making myself less than what I was. [ They had needed to when they arrived in the First - he could not distract from the Warrior, had to be careful not to lose Viktor any trust by being his companion. Now, he thinks, they've achieved enough he can walk amongst them as himself and there is no mistrust. There ought to be, maybe. He half-expects them to have some sort of sense-memory with him, aware he was responsible for most of their ills, but it did not happen. Does not happen. ] Foolish as it was, I thought it fitting. Indicative of the past and the present.
The moon to Viktor's sun. There's no spitefulness, no jealousy that arises at the echo of what once was, fundamentally changed by thousands of years. Emet-Selch stretches his legs out, adjusts Viktor a little more comfortably where he reclines, and then greedily, selfishly, winds both arms around him and lets his chin rest against Viktor's mussed curls. ]
One would have to be a little mad to consider what you do on a daily basis.
[ Whether that is intimacy like this with a former enemy, or trotting about different shards, attempting to undo the greatest wrong that has ever been perpetuated upon them, it doesn't matter. Madness either way, Emet-Selch thinks, lifting his hand from the bathwater to trace the smattering of freckles upon Viktor's shoulder with damp fingertips, shuddering out a breath at the press of Viktor's lips. ]
I tired of...making myself less than what I was. [ They had needed to when they arrived in the First - he could not distract from the Warrior, had to be careful not to lose Viktor any trust by being his companion. Now, he thinks, they've achieved enough he can walk amongst them as himself and there is no mistrust. There ought to be, maybe. He half-expects them to have some sort of sense-memory with him, aware he was responsible for most of their ills, but it did not happen. Does not happen. ] Foolish as it was, I thought it fitting. Indicative of the past and the present.
[ Embraced, surrounded, Viktor exhales pure pleasure, soft little sing-song sounds drawn out of him each time Emet-Selch shifts the two of them, dithering into a hum when his arms wrap around him. No hesitation, in spite of their earlier argument. No worry, no dread, just the two of them pressed close, the stead beat of Emet-Selch's heart against his back, palms at his stomach coaxing desire ever so slowly, deliciously, toward a crackling bonfire.
Even half a turn ago, it would have been unthinkable - not just this, the two of them tangled up, luxuriating in the largest bath Viktor has ever seen, but, more precisely, the absence of guilt, of anxiety. Short though his life has been, both in the grand scheme of things and even for a viera, Viktor had never known much in the way of security. Has never - not with anyone - been comfortable enough to argue, to resist, and know, without a doubt, that he would still be kept, still be loved, not be punished or cast out.
Never, not with anyone - until now.
Emet-Selch dances fingers over his shoulders, inventing constellations of goosebumps and freckles, and Viktor tips his head to give him space to explore. One hand drifts down to his thigh, running fingers along the length of it, the other leaves the water, reaching up to cup his face, tipping it to get a better look at him. The breath he exhales is hot with want, but when he speaks, it is only gentle, adoring. ]
Good. You should not h-hide yourself. Not for anyone. [ Viktor stares up at him, expression serious. ] And I do not think it foolish. Scars are stories. And that story- well- [ His expression smooths, grin easing across his features, fingers pressing at Emet-Selch's thigh. ] -quite the harrowing tale, but it tells of how you came to be mine. And so, I am f-fond.
Even half a turn ago, it would have been unthinkable - not just this, the two of them tangled up, luxuriating in the largest bath Viktor has ever seen, but, more precisely, the absence of guilt, of anxiety. Short though his life has been, both in the grand scheme of things and even for a viera, Viktor had never known much in the way of security. Has never - not with anyone - been comfortable enough to argue, to resist, and know, without a doubt, that he would still be kept, still be loved, not be punished or cast out.
Never, not with anyone - until now.
Emet-Selch dances fingers over his shoulders, inventing constellations of goosebumps and freckles, and Viktor tips his head to give him space to explore. One hand drifts down to his thigh, running fingers along the length of it, the other leaves the water, reaching up to cup his face, tipping it to get a better look at him. The breath he exhales is hot with want, but when he speaks, it is only gentle, adoring. ]
Good. You should not h-hide yourself. Not for anyone. [ Viktor stares up at him, expression serious. ] And I do not think it foolish. Scars are stories. And that story- well- [ His expression smooths, grin easing across his features, fingers pressing at Emet-Selch's thigh. ] -quite the harrowing tale, but it tells of how you came to be mine. And so, I am f-fond.
Heavens forfend. [ A little shaky, Viktor rises first to his elbows and then up to sitting properly - still leaning against Emet-Selch as much as he can, greedy - before finally taking the offered morsel between his fingers. ] That the Warrior might - ugh - get a little messy. The s-scandal.
[ An overwrought gasp, fingers of his free hand splayed across his chest, over the heart that now beats again. Already, he looks less like a soul wound back from the Underworld, more like one roused from a nap, eyes tired and hair wild, but the color returned to his face.
He spares a second examining the assembled snack, appreciating the layers of color, the way it seems like the sort of thing that'd be served at a fancy dinner party in Ishgard or Ul'Dah or, he supposes, Garlemald. Viktor has eaten his own weight in hard cheeses and tack many times over. It's a little fun to see travel food reprised into a luxurious single bite. His gaze lifts to Emet-Selch, wondering at how he indulges him, how readily he shares all his comfortable little delights.
On impulse, Viktor dips his pinky into the drizzle of honey, dots the sticky sweet gold onto his tongue as though to sample just that, and then leans in, strains upward, to press his parted lips to Emet-Selch's mouth, sharing sugar, sharing sunlight, sharing breath. ]
Th-thank you. [ He whispers as he draws away, popping the assembled cracker into his mouth. He chews twice, and, as ever, heedless of manners, adds, ] D'you mind- may I ask about what I s-saw, what you thought of, when you let me in?
[ An overwrought gasp, fingers of his free hand splayed across his chest, over the heart that now beats again. Already, he looks less like a soul wound back from the Underworld, more like one roused from a nap, eyes tired and hair wild, but the color returned to his face.
He spares a second examining the assembled snack, appreciating the layers of color, the way it seems like the sort of thing that'd be served at a fancy dinner party in Ishgard or Ul'Dah or, he supposes, Garlemald. Viktor has eaten his own weight in hard cheeses and tack many times over. It's a little fun to see travel food reprised into a luxurious single bite. His gaze lifts to Emet-Selch, wondering at how he indulges him, how readily he shares all his comfortable little delights.
On impulse, Viktor dips his pinky into the drizzle of honey, dots the sticky sweet gold onto his tongue as though to sample just that, and then leans in, strains upward, to press his parted lips to Emet-Selch's mouth, sharing sugar, sharing sunlight, sharing breath. ]
Th-thank you. [ He whispers as he draws away, popping the assembled cracker into his mouth. He chews twice, and, as ever, heedless of manners, adds, ] D'you mind- may I ask about what I s-saw, what you thought of, when you let me in?
You needn't worry about a scandal, the worry you ought to have is whether or not I will allow your crumb-laden body into my pristine bed.
[ He will. Emet-Selch is not certain if they both know that he will allow Viktor into his bed in very nearly any state, but Emet-Selch knows this is all performative irritation. He finds himself wondering at how easy it is. It shouldn't be, probably. He shouldn't be able to backslide into old habits made new when they have so much yet left to do but Viktor makes it upsettingly difficult not to.
It is not, he thinks wryly, Viktor's fault. Too easily does he lie the blame down at Viktor's feet, when Emet-Selch is the one bending, breaking, instead of standing firm like he ought to. As if Viktor hears him, there's a rasp of cloth and then Viktor is in front of him, pressing a kiss against his mouth, lingering just long enough for Emet-Selch to taste the sugar on his tongue and start to lean forward for more. Then, he's gone, a heathen in his place, chewing happily.
Emet-Selch swallows against a dry mouth and does his level best to look like he's incomprehensibly old and well-used to this sort of thing because he is and it is, frankly, mortifying that anyone could fluster him in any capacity. He ought to have outgrown that several thousand years ago. Head ducked forward, hair falling into his face as he fixes his own cracker and holds a hand carefully beneath to prevent spills, he pauses before popping it in his mouth. This question he expected, at the very least. An inevitability. ]
You may not like the answers you get. [ Emet-Selch pops the morsel into his mouth, chews, swallows, and doesn't dare think about how the flavor is lessened when not kissed from Viktor's mouth. ] And I may decline to answer. But you may ask.
[ He will. Emet-Selch is not certain if they both know that he will allow Viktor into his bed in very nearly any state, but Emet-Selch knows this is all performative irritation. He finds himself wondering at how easy it is. It shouldn't be, probably. He shouldn't be able to backslide into old habits made new when they have so much yet left to do but Viktor makes it upsettingly difficult not to.
It is not, he thinks wryly, Viktor's fault. Too easily does he lie the blame down at Viktor's feet, when Emet-Selch is the one bending, breaking, instead of standing firm like he ought to. As if Viktor hears him, there's a rasp of cloth and then Viktor is in front of him, pressing a kiss against his mouth, lingering just long enough for Emet-Selch to taste the sugar on his tongue and start to lean forward for more. Then, he's gone, a heathen in his place, chewing happily.
Emet-Selch swallows against a dry mouth and does his level best to look like he's incomprehensibly old and well-used to this sort of thing because he is and it is, frankly, mortifying that anyone could fluster him in any capacity. He ought to have outgrown that several thousand years ago. Head ducked forward, hair falling into his face as he fixes his own cracker and holds a hand carefully beneath to prevent spills, he pauses before popping it in his mouth. This question he expected, at the very least. An inevitability. ]
You may not like the answers you get. [ Emet-Selch pops the morsel into his mouth, chews, swallows, and doesn't dare think about how the flavor is lessened when not kissed from Viktor's mouth. ] And I may decline to answer. But you may ask.
[ In the past, when he lounged in a bath to stay away from anyone and everyone, he had music playing on an orchestrion. While he very much enjoyed being alone and not having to deal with anyone's petty grievances, the silence he found less welcome and so he filled it. It isn't until that moment he realizes he hasn't needed one since Viktor planted himself neatly into Emet-Selch's life, his quarters.
He likes how noisy Viktor is when he does nothing more than exist. The absolute opposite of death, embodying light and life and what they were striving to maintain and save. Emet-Selch presses his face into the warm stretch of skin from shoulder to jawline, inhales long and slow and then tips his head in accommodation when Viktor's fingers coax him to move. ]
I find that being myself is - unfamiliar. [ Not an excuse, but a quiet admission, his brows drawing tight before he seems to shake the frustration off as best as he can, instead studying the splash of freckles, the way waterdroplets cling, the dim lighting playing across his skin. He has ever been his duty, but once, he thinks he had known how to maintain duty and sense of self, even if that sense of self had been inextricably twined up in Hythlodaeus and Aepymetes. To their detriment, perhaps. Inhaling, he holds the breath for an instant and then releases, lifting a damp hand to smooth through Viktor's curls. Thoughtlessly, he speaks, turned toward the supplies Viktor had brought in to inspect but not before another pull off the wine bottle and handing that to Viktor once he's done. ]
Get yourself wet, I believe you had a request of me, did you not?
He likes how noisy Viktor is when he does nothing more than exist. The absolute opposite of death, embodying light and life and what they were striving to maintain and save. Emet-Selch presses his face into the warm stretch of skin from shoulder to jawline, inhales long and slow and then tips his head in accommodation when Viktor's fingers coax him to move. ]
I find that being myself is - unfamiliar. [ Not an excuse, but a quiet admission, his brows drawing tight before he seems to shake the frustration off as best as he can, instead studying the splash of freckles, the way waterdroplets cling, the dim lighting playing across his skin. He has ever been his duty, but once, he thinks he had known how to maintain duty and sense of self, even if that sense of self had been inextricably twined up in Hythlodaeus and Aepymetes. To their detriment, perhaps. Inhaling, he holds the breath for an instant and then releases, lifting a damp hand to smooth through Viktor's curls. Thoughtlessly, he speaks, turned toward the supplies Viktor had brought in to inspect but not before another pull off the wine bottle and handing that to Viktor once he's done. ]
Get yourself wet, I believe you had a request of me, did you not?
Edited (INDECISIVE ) 2024-10-10 21:15 (UTC)
[ Sweet and savory, the little treat is far more complex than Viktor expects. His head angles as he considers the flavor, eyes brightening with delight. Oh, they should have little lunches more often. Each sharing foods the other has never had before; Emet-Selch explaining the history and aquisition of every ingredient in fine detail. Something to look forward to, once they've begun to rebuild in earnest. ]
Cruel of you to deny me access to my favorite place!
[ He clucks and pouts exaggeratedly, shaking his head as he licks honey from his fingers.
Viktor does not know. Not in full, at least. Were he to guess, he would miss by malms just how much he is adored, how easily he could wrest near anything he might desire from Emet-Selch. Knowing isn't necessary, though. He would press, either way - wants to be here with him. Will fight for closeness, for their arguments, for the closest thing either of them can possibly have to a normal life.
He reaches forward to brush a few loose strands of hair out of Emet-Selch's face, tucking them back behind his ear with a triumphant grin, pleased at having ruffled him. ]
Aye, you needn't answer if you do not w-want. [ Viktor leans against him, still seeking warmth. ] You thought of- you tried to s-save someone else, once, aye? When you were young. Who...?
Cruel of you to deny me access to my favorite place!
[ He clucks and pouts exaggeratedly, shaking his head as he licks honey from his fingers.
Viktor does not know. Not in full, at least. Were he to guess, he would miss by malms just how much he is adored, how easily he could wrest near anything he might desire from Emet-Selch. Knowing isn't necessary, though. He would press, either way - wants to be here with him. Will fight for closeness, for their arguments, for the closest thing either of them can possibly have to a normal life.
He reaches forward to brush a few loose strands of hair out of Emet-Selch's face, tucking them back behind his ear with a triumphant grin, pleased at having ruffled him. ]
Aye, you needn't answer if you do not w-want. [ Viktor leans against him, still seeking warmth. ] You thought of- you tried to s-save someone else, once, aye? When you were young. Who...?
[ He does not watch Viktor lick honey from his fingers, he cannot watch that, and allow his mind to run rampant. Instead, he takes to unpacking cheeses and crackers and bread with militant efficiency, settling items out on plates and platters, slicing cheese into neat chunks, mulling over the answer he wants to give. ]
I do not recall their name or who they were.
[ Should he? He had to have been told their name originally; that had to be a part of the process where he was censured and educated on why he had made a foolish decision, but he doesn't recall the name itself. It hadn't been important. The color of their soul had been a muted tawny brown, and that memory stuck with him, useless. ]
There were occasions where those studying for one position or another were expected to create something outside of their baseline capability. One could grow into the ability, one they learned how to manage themselves and their aether. But every so often there would be someone - a student, a member of one of the Words - who pushed too hard without someone there to assist and supplement and they would drain themselves.
[ Emet-Selch plucks a piece of bread free once he's cut enough slices, and begins layering honey, goat cheese, thinly sliced meat and only once it's finished does he hand it thoughtlessly off to Viktor before doing it again for himself. ]
They did, and I was the fool who attempted to grasp their soul, to keep them here long enough to supplement their aether with my own reserves, without knowing how or understanding what I'd done. I was young. Foolish.
I do not recall their name or who they were.
[ Should he? He had to have been told their name originally; that had to be a part of the process where he was censured and educated on why he had made a foolish decision, but he doesn't recall the name itself. It hadn't been important. The color of their soul had been a muted tawny brown, and that memory stuck with him, useless. ]
There were occasions where those studying for one position or another were expected to create something outside of their baseline capability. One could grow into the ability, one they learned how to manage themselves and their aether. But every so often there would be someone - a student, a member of one of the Words - who pushed too hard without someone there to assist and supplement and they would drain themselves.
[ Emet-Selch plucks a piece of bread free once he's cut enough slices, and begins layering honey, goat cheese, thinly sliced meat and only once it's finished does he hand it thoughtlessly off to Viktor before doing it again for himself. ]
They did, and I was the fool who attempted to grasp their soul, to keep them here long enough to supplement their aether with my own reserves, without knowing how or understanding what I'd done. I was young. Foolish.
[ Another hum escapes him, feeling the bridge of Emet-Selch's nose pressed to the crook of his neck. Hard not to think of the way he used to flinch; jaw clenching, muscles tensing as though to withstand a blow, stilling under even the lightest touch. Now, he is languid, freely, purposefully seeking out the warmest stretches of skin as though they are sunlit meadows, as though Viktor, himself, is comfort.
More than anything, he wants to be comfort. Wants to be safety for Emet-Selch, the way Emet-Selch is for him. He runs his hand up and down the length of Emet-Selch's thigh, letting his fingers glide along the dips in muscle. ]
'Tis the way of wearing masks, aye? It will take time. But we- we will each find what is beneath.
[ Viktor chases him when he turns his head, pressing lips to the dip of his cheek, and then snorting softly, a laugh breathed against Emet-Selch's skin that he is unable to help. ]
Oh, I promise, I am more than halfway there.
[ A grin, another snicker, he slides forward, leaving Emet-Selch's embrace. Viktor takes a quick drink from the bottle as he gathers up his ears in one hand, pressing them flat against his head. The bottle is set aside again before he slips down into the water. This bath, much like Emet-Selch's bed, is ridiculous - only the ocean would be easier to submerge himself in - and as he lingers for a few seconds, surrounded by warmth, he wonders if maybe, some day, they might have themselves something similar and time aplenty for soaking together.
It would be nice.
He surfaces, blinks water from his eyes, and cards his fingers through the wet tangle of his curls. His soaked ears, weighed down by water, don't quite spring back up into place. He retrieves the bottle again as he slots himself back into place between Emet-Selch's legs, eager to be touched again, to be tended to like something precious. ]
More than anything, he wants to be comfort. Wants to be safety for Emet-Selch, the way Emet-Selch is for him. He runs his hand up and down the length of Emet-Selch's thigh, letting his fingers glide along the dips in muscle. ]
'Tis the way of wearing masks, aye? It will take time. But we- we will each find what is beneath.
[ Viktor chases him when he turns his head, pressing lips to the dip of his cheek, and then snorting softly, a laugh breathed against Emet-Selch's skin that he is unable to help. ]
Oh, I promise, I am more than halfway there.
[ A grin, another snicker, he slides forward, leaving Emet-Selch's embrace. Viktor takes a quick drink from the bottle as he gathers up his ears in one hand, pressing them flat against his head. The bottle is set aside again before he slips down into the water. This bath, much like Emet-Selch's bed, is ridiculous - only the ocean would be easier to submerge himself in - and as he lingers for a few seconds, surrounded by warmth, he wonders if maybe, some day, they might have themselves something similar and time aplenty for soaking together.
It would be nice.
He surfaces, blinks water from his eyes, and cards his fingers through the wet tangle of his curls. His soaked ears, weighed down by water, don't quite spring back up into place. He retrieves the bottle again as he slots himself back into place between Emet-Selch's legs, eager to be touched again, to be tended to like something precious. ]
[ He can feel the faint vibration at the hum pressed as close as they are together, and savors the sensation now that he allows himself the indulgence. Every bit of this is an indulgence, he thinks, on par with Vauthry's decadence. ]
For better or worse.
[ What is beneath the mask, he thinks, is not so different than what he presents. He had simply tailored himself to suit the situation, but was largely relying on aspects of his own personality that were coaxed to the surface in the face of a tragedy. He, like anyone else, had the capacity to do no small amount of damage to the people and places around him, though he did not like to think about the ways he was all too similar to the shattered versions of what was.
Viktor's snickered retort jerks him out of that useless train of thought near-instantly, Emet-Selch sinking back against the stone lip to press his face into his hand briefly, only stopping to take the wine bottle back and drink a second, longer time afterward, setting it aside for Viktor once done. The last time he would have done this is...unimaginably long ago. When the world was whole. When he was whole, instead of a bunch of fragmented pieces hastily glued together by duty, obligation and the weight and pressure of Zodiark.
It cannot be so difficult. Washing is not an overly complex skillset and despite the fluffy ears atop Viktor's head, hair washes the same. Viktor surfaces, returning to him without hesitation where Emet-Selch both anticipates and would understand if there was. He doesn't flinch at the press of Viktor's wet skin against him, doesn't jolt when Viktor finds himself right back between Emet-Selch's legs. He sinks back into the cool stone in contrast to the warmth of Viktor's body and forcibly relaxes.
Viktor had brought soap - shampoo, maybe, and rather than using his own Emet-Selch lifts a dripping hand to start pawing through what Viktor's brought that isn't wine, only to pause, lifting various bars of soap up, doing the mental math and looking at Viktor with a particularly pinched expression. ]
No, we will not be using this. Are you a down on your luck street urchin, spending your last gil on soaps sold by the village soapmaker? Stars.
[ Littering the far edge of the stone bath lie his own supplies, far too many bottles for one man alone. He thumbs through the glass bottles with little clinks until he finds the one he is looking for and stretches a little to hook a fingertip around the long neck, dragging it closer. The cap is thumbed off with a flourish, floating in the bathwater and Emet-Selch eyes Viktor, assessing how to position him for this. Easier, he thinks, if he is out of the water and taller than Viktor but he does not relish the idea of wresting himself clear of hot water to linger in the chill. They'll make do. ]
You'll forgive me if I am - unpracticed.
[ A palmful of dark, thick liquid into his hand and then he gently presses fingers against the back of Viktor's skull to urge him to tip his head forward. Once done, he lathers both hands in shampoo and starts with fingers at the nape of Viktor's neck, smoothing shampoo in with brisk, firm movements, very nearly a massage as he works it into a lather from the bottom until he's satisfied. Another palmful and then he repeats, starting from the top of Viktor's head, careful of his ears and where the lilies break through or might. Every so often, a soapy hand tips Viktor's chin, angling it this way or that so he can smooth another finger up along Viktor's hairline to prevent suds from falling into his eyes.
This is more soothing than he had anticipated, in truth. Nothing but the dripping of water, the slosh of it, their breathing as he works diligently, careful not to get any into the dip of Viktor's ears as he works on one, and then the other. He is, ostensibly, done, but his hand doesn't leave where it's buried in Viktor's curls, massaging idly, stroking down to the muscles of his neck where damp curls sit, digging fingers into the muscle there firmly. The other, he uses to grab the wine bottle, taking a sip and then passing it over. ]
Once, I had a wife who cared about precious little that came with the trappings of royalty, except this. Countless colored bottles for all stages of the day, utterly incomprehensible until she forcibly sat me down explained each one's use after tiring of me sending the palace's accountant to inquire.
[ What goes unsaid, is that after that explanation he had adopted no small number of those little bottles - there are far more on that wall than just shampoo, condidtioner, and soap. ]
For better or worse.
[ What is beneath the mask, he thinks, is not so different than what he presents. He had simply tailored himself to suit the situation, but was largely relying on aspects of his own personality that were coaxed to the surface in the face of a tragedy. He, like anyone else, had the capacity to do no small amount of damage to the people and places around him, though he did not like to think about the ways he was all too similar to the shattered versions of what was.
Viktor's snickered retort jerks him out of that useless train of thought near-instantly, Emet-Selch sinking back against the stone lip to press his face into his hand briefly, only stopping to take the wine bottle back and drink a second, longer time afterward, setting it aside for Viktor once done. The last time he would have done this is...unimaginably long ago. When the world was whole. When he was whole, instead of a bunch of fragmented pieces hastily glued together by duty, obligation and the weight and pressure of Zodiark.
It cannot be so difficult. Washing is not an overly complex skillset and despite the fluffy ears atop Viktor's head, hair washes the same. Viktor surfaces, returning to him without hesitation where Emet-Selch both anticipates and would understand if there was. He doesn't flinch at the press of Viktor's wet skin against him, doesn't jolt when Viktor finds himself right back between Emet-Selch's legs. He sinks back into the cool stone in contrast to the warmth of Viktor's body and forcibly relaxes.
Viktor had brought soap - shampoo, maybe, and rather than using his own Emet-Selch lifts a dripping hand to start pawing through what Viktor's brought that isn't wine, only to pause, lifting various bars of soap up, doing the mental math and looking at Viktor with a particularly pinched expression. ]
No, we will not be using this. Are you a down on your luck street urchin, spending your last gil on soaps sold by the village soapmaker? Stars.
[ Littering the far edge of the stone bath lie his own supplies, far too many bottles for one man alone. He thumbs through the glass bottles with little clinks until he finds the one he is looking for and stretches a little to hook a fingertip around the long neck, dragging it closer. The cap is thumbed off with a flourish, floating in the bathwater and Emet-Selch eyes Viktor, assessing how to position him for this. Easier, he thinks, if he is out of the water and taller than Viktor but he does not relish the idea of wresting himself clear of hot water to linger in the chill. They'll make do. ]
You'll forgive me if I am - unpracticed.
[ A palmful of dark, thick liquid into his hand and then he gently presses fingers against the back of Viktor's skull to urge him to tip his head forward. Once done, he lathers both hands in shampoo and starts with fingers at the nape of Viktor's neck, smoothing shampoo in with brisk, firm movements, very nearly a massage as he works it into a lather from the bottom until he's satisfied. Another palmful and then he repeats, starting from the top of Viktor's head, careful of his ears and where the lilies break through or might. Every so often, a soapy hand tips Viktor's chin, angling it this way or that so he can smooth another finger up along Viktor's hairline to prevent suds from falling into his eyes.
This is more soothing than he had anticipated, in truth. Nothing but the dripping of water, the slosh of it, their breathing as he works diligently, careful not to get any into the dip of Viktor's ears as he works on one, and then the other. He is, ostensibly, done, but his hand doesn't leave where it's buried in Viktor's curls, massaging idly, stroking down to the muscles of his neck where damp curls sit, digging fingers into the muscle there firmly. The other, he uses to grab the wine bottle, taking a sip and then passing it over. ]
Once, I had a wife who cared about precious little that came with the trappings of royalty, except this. Countless colored bottles for all stages of the day, utterly incomprehensible until she forcibly sat me down explained each one's use after tiring of me sending the palace's accountant to inquire.
[ What goes unsaid, is that after that explanation he had adopted no small number of those little bottles - there are far more on that wall than just shampoo, condidtioner, and soap. ]
[ Very abruptly, the many long months of watching Emet-Selch dodder about his room, tending to this or that, looking everywhere but him, make perfect sense. Not disinterest, not disgust. He's simply flustered. How ridiculous of both of them - that Viktor hadn't seen it sooner, that someone like Emet-Selch could be thrown off kilter by someone like him. The most dignified, collected man Viktor has ever known besotted by a silly adventurer. How delightful.
More surprising, even, than this realization, is the one he has right after. Relief, obligation, discomfort, all the things he usually feels when faced with someone so smitten are absent. And in their place, excitement - the desire to draw out more, to linger in this feeling. An impish grin climbs across Viktor's features, as wide as it is troublesome. Emet-Selch slicing little rounds of bread might as well be the most fascinating activity in the world for how intently Viktor watches him.
He listens, struck by how readily Emet-Selch answers him, too used to probing questions being gently swerved around, turned into lectures. This, though, feels raw, especially for how plainly it is relayed. That wicked smile on his face shrinks by measures, and as Emet-Selch pushes the assembled amuse-bouche into his hand, Viktor reaches out the other to light fingers on his forearm. ]
You were brave. [ He closes his fingers around his sleeve, squeezes lightly. ] 'Twas a bad end, aye, but your intent, your willingness to act- there is nothing f-foolish about wishing to preserve life, no matter what rules or duty tell us. [ He hangs, just a moment, and then his serious expression fades with a soft laugh. ] It p-probably does not mean much coming from me. I doubt you have known a version of me that cared much for laws or regulations.
[ What little he'd come to know of Azem before calling Hades back, subversive behavior seemed to number among his most defining traits. Viktor takes a careful bite of the assembled tidbit, chews twice, and hums his approval, his earlier seriousness swallowed up in sunshine-y joy. Mouth still full, he picks at the salty slice of meat to get a look at everything assembled beneath. ]
This is so good?
More surprising, even, than this realization, is the one he has right after. Relief, obligation, discomfort, all the things he usually feels when faced with someone so smitten are absent. And in their place, excitement - the desire to draw out more, to linger in this feeling. An impish grin climbs across Viktor's features, as wide as it is troublesome. Emet-Selch slicing little rounds of bread might as well be the most fascinating activity in the world for how intently Viktor watches him.
He listens, struck by how readily Emet-Selch answers him, too used to probing questions being gently swerved around, turned into lectures. This, though, feels raw, especially for how plainly it is relayed. That wicked smile on his face shrinks by measures, and as Emet-Selch pushes the assembled amuse-bouche into his hand, Viktor reaches out the other to light fingers on his forearm. ]
You were brave. [ He closes his fingers around his sleeve, squeezes lightly. ] 'Twas a bad end, aye, but your intent, your willingness to act- there is nothing f-foolish about wishing to preserve life, no matter what rules or duty tell us. [ He hangs, just a moment, and then his serious expression fades with a soft laugh. ] It p-probably does not mean much coming from me. I doubt you have known a version of me that cared much for laws or regulations.
[ What little he'd come to know of Azem before calling Hades back, subversive behavior seemed to number among his most defining traits. Viktor takes a careful bite of the assembled tidbit, chews twice, and hums his approval, his earlier seriousness swallowed up in sunshine-y joy. Mouth still full, he picks at the salty slice of meat to get a look at everything assembled beneath. ]
This is so good?
[ After making himself another bite he goes about assembling piece after piece with a speed and ease that comes from countless nights entertaining, having tired of incompetence in the kitchen in one way or another, opting to handle the tasks himself. Or, in certain not-infrequently situations, needing to make sure a meal proceeded without any of the poisoning save for the ones he orchestrated. ]
Do not mistake the point of the lesson. [ Emet-Selch lifts his gaze to meet Viktor's, the busy movement of his hands pausing. ] There is a natural order we exist within and are meant to uphold. It is not on us to decide who stays and who remains when they have passed beyond the care of a healer.
[ This cannot, he thinks, turn into some inspirational moment. He had erred gravely, specifically, and his mentor had always been sparing with her praise but blunt with her critique, her instruction, and her expectation. Certain information she would withhold until she had deemed him or his efforts worthy, but anything related to the seat of Emet-Selch, she imparted without hesitation. He had to do the same; the worst would be for Viktor to make the same mistakes. ]
You are much more likely to cause irreparable harm to a soul than to save it. This is not an indictment of your abilities or being whole. The only reason I was able to wrest you back so neatly, so cleanly is because of how inextricably we have wound our souls. Even then - [ There was a chance, but he hadn't allowed himself to consider it. Emet-Selch snaps, and a dozen little side plates appear. Pickled vegetables, candied nuts, honeycomb, a platter of greens for Del. He returns to the arduous task of assembling finger food, remaining steadfast even in the face of the sun as Viktor looks at him, handsome, easily pleased. Like he hadn't almost - ]
Do not give so much of yourself again, and certainly not to a creation.
[ Emet-Selch steals a look over at Viktor, feeling the thousands of years like a physical weight. He's had variations of this snack countless times. Meat and cheese and a bread option are not overly complex, but Viktor's easy pleasure makes him take a more considering bite, makes him taste instead of mechanically chewing and swallowing to eat and be done. It is, unsurprisingly, good when he lets himself taste. ]
Do not mistake the point of the lesson. [ Emet-Selch lifts his gaze to meet Viktor's, the busy movement of his hands pausing. ] There is a natural order we exist within and are meant to uphold. It is not on us to decide who stays and who remains when they have passed beyond the care of a healer.
[ This cannot, he thinks, turn into some inspirational moment. He had erred gravely, specifically, and his mentor had always been sparing with her praise but blunt with her critique, her instruction, and her expectation. Certain information she would withhold until she had deemed him or his efforts worthy, but anything related to the seat of Emet-Selch, she imparted without hesitation. He had to do the same; the worst would be for Viktor to make the same mistakes. ]
You are much more likely to cause irreparable harm to a soul than to save it. This is not an indictment of your abilities or being whole. The only reason I was able to wrest you back so neatly, so cleanly is because of how inextricably we have wound our souls. Even then - [ There was a chance, but he hadn't allowed himself to consider it. Emet-Selch snaps, and a dozen little side plates appear. Pickled vegetables, candied nuts, honeycomb, a platter of greens for Del. He returns to the arduous task of assembling finger food, remaining steadfast even in the face of the sun as Viktor looks at him, handsome, easily pleased. Like he hadn't almost - ]
Do not give so much of yourself again, and certainly not to a creation.
[ Emet-Selch steals a look over at Viktor, feeling the thousands of years like a physical weight. He's had variations of this snack countless times. Meat and cheese and a bread option are not overly complex, but Viktor's easy pleasure makes him take a more considering bite, makes him taste instead of mechanically chewing and swallowing to eat and be done. It is, unsurprisingly, good when he lets himself taste. ]
Better, better, better. [ An insistent little mantra, meant to be a bit of sunlight to burn through Emet-Selch's ever present storm clouds, murmured as he thumbs water from his eyelashes and interrupted by the galling insult to his perfectly practical toiletries... toiletry. Singular.
Fine.
His mouth is against the wine bottle when he scoffs, making the noise half music, low and lushly hollow. ]
Aye, Majesty, I'd've thought you of all people would ap-p-preciate sensible soap choices. [ He complains heatlessly, one hand waving, fingertips flicking water across the room, as Emet-Selch attempts to navigate for soaps around him. ] 'Tis perfectly adequate and saves space when I am-
[ That line of thought abruptly loses importance. Emet-Selch works fingers against Viktor's scalp, surrounding him with a smell that reminds him of having tea at the Bismarck in Limsa Lominsa - citrus sweet, warm and refreshing - and right away Viktor goes pliable in his hands. How silly that Emet-Selch should worry about his skill when it seems to Viktor that he himself is unable to resist melting into that touch. How eagerly he awaits it. Whatever further complaining he'd meant to do becomes little more than mumbled sounds of approval as he leans himself into the offered pressure, readily going where he is directed.
Wryly, he thinks to himself, had Emet-Selch opted to approach him gently upon his arrival on the First, they may've had some real trouble. He is not sure his soul could've resisted that hand extended in love, rather than in challenge. But therein lies the rub, of course- Emet-Selch would not, could not be so tender with a shattered soul, not with Azem, who had left without answers. Not then. Not after everything. With tempering and the Kairos' blank spot making themselves insurmountable weights upon the scales of Emet-Selch's judgment.
The glossy scar now etched into Emet-Selch's chest is proof of that - proof that what had happened had been necessary. Viktor does not yet remember how to pluck potentials from the weave as he had ten thousand years ago, but he is certain that there are few threads where such a cleansing hadn't been necessary - for the both of them.
Maybe Emet-Selch will allow him a closer look, the luxury of pressing his fingers to skin and memorizing the feel, the shape, once they are cleaned and dried and curled up together in bed. In their bed. Stars, hadn't he just been doubting whether he would sleep here tonight? How quickly Hades shakes his resolve.
Just then, Emet-Selch's fingers find a muscle Viktor had not even realized was tense and knotted tight after a day spent learning custom, culture, and gossip, and a little groan escapes him quite without his permission. In that moment, the idea that Viktor could have any resolve at all feels patently ridiculous. He accepts the bottle as it is pushed back in his hands, but lets it dangle from his fingers as he considers Emet-Selch's words.
After a long stretch of silence, enjoying the massage, he asks, ] Did you like her? What was her name?
Fine.
His mouth is against the wine bottle when he scoffs, making the noise half music, low and lushly hollow. ]
Aye, Majesty, I'd've thought you of all people would ap-p-preciate sensible soap choices. [ He complains heatlessly, one hand waving, fingertips flicking water across the room, as Emet-Selch attempts to navigate for soaps around him. ] 'Tis perfectly adequate and saves space when I am-
[ That line of thought abruptly loses importance. Emet-Selch works fingers against Viktor's scalp, surrounding him with a smell that reminds him of having tea at the Bismarck in Limsa Lominsa - citrus sweet, warm and refreshing - and right away Viktor goes pliable in his hands. How silly that Emet-Selch should worry about his skill when it seems to Viktor that he himself is unable to resist melting into that touch. How eagerly he awaits it. Whatever further complaining he'd meant to do becomes little more than mumbled sounds of approval as he leans himself into the offered pressure, readily going where he is directed.
Wryly, he thinks to himself, had Emet-Selch opted to approach him gently upon his arrival on the First, they may've had some real trouble. He is not sure his soul could've resisted that hand extended in love, rather than in challenge. But therein lies the rub, of course- Emet-Selch would not, could not be so tender with a shattered soul, not with Azem, who had left without answers. Not then. Not after everything. With tempering and the Kairos' blank spot making themselves insurmountable weights upon the scales of Emet-Selch's judgment.
The glossy scar now etched into Emet-Selch's chest is proof of that - proof that what had happened had been necessary. Viktor does not yet remember how to pluck potentials from the weave as he had ten thousand years ago, but he is certain that there are few threads where such a cleansing hadn't been necessary - for the both of them.
Maybe Emet-Selch will allow him a closer look, the luxury of pressing his fingers to skin and memorizing the feel, the shape, once they are cleaned and dried and curled up together in bed. In their bed. Stars, hadn't he just been doubting whether he would sleep here tonight? How quickly Hades shakes his resolve.
Just then, Emet-Selch's fingers find a muscle Viktor had not even realized was tense and knotted tight after a day spent learning custom, culture, and gossip, and a little groan escapes him quite without his permission. In that moment, the idea that Viktor could have any resolve at all feels patently ridiculous. He accepts the bottle as it is pushed back in his hands, but lets it dangle from his fingers as he considers Emet-Selch's words.
After a long stretch of silence, enjoying the massage, he asks, ] Did you like her? What was her name?
[ Almost hypnotising, watching him craft so many little snacks without thought. There is delight to be found in the way his fingers move, deft and certain, over so repetitious and mundane a task. Not complicated magic or alchemy, not Creation, just pleasant little snacks and sandwiches, set out for them both to sample. The sort of thing meant purely for enjoyment. The sort of thing Viktor imagines ordinary people in extraordinary love get up to, because they've got the time to spend on each other.
He pops the second half of the little crostini in his mouth and selects a different, pretty little snack to begin inspecting. When Emet-Selch's hands still, Viktor's brows raise. And he listens, for what else would he do? Even the little condiments snapped into being go ignored, so focused is Viktor on Emet-Selch's words.
Inextricably, he says. And isn't that the truth? Even before their ritual. Before the world ended. Before Viktor was Viktor, and mayhap even before Hades was Hades and Aepymetes, Aepymetes. Bound up, they are, two pieces of a three part set. And Viktor had very nearly removed himself from the chessboard once more.
He sets the cracker between his fingers back down and reaches out, closes slender fingers around Emet-Selch's wrist. ]
Everything ends. I know. Life needs death.
[ Every slaughtered scion at the Waking Sands, Haurchefant, Papalymo, Tesleen, the Exarch, his own flesh and blood mother, others beyond counting - lives cut short, lost in no small part due to his own failings, and yet, he would not call a one of them back, not at the risk of harm deeper than flesh and bone. ]
I have seen too many die in my name not to give death the gravity it is due. 'Tis not my desire to ch-cheapen what others have s-sacrificed, to risk them by upsetting the cycle. I will have a care, Hades. I promise.
[ What he does not say feels obvious to him - that there are times where the laws of both men and nature needs must be challenged, that men like him, men like Hades, do not exist without some measure of rebellion, chaos, for better or worse. He certainly does not say that he would give his life readily and without regret a thousand times over if it'd meant peace, happiness, safety for their star.
He doesn't say it, because it isn't entirely true. Not anymore. There would be regret in cutting his own life short.
Viktor lifts his hand to brush his fingers along the line of Emet-Selch's cheek, up and over his ear, lingering in his hair. ]
I will not readily allow myself to be wrested from this star. From you. I will ever return when you call.
He pops the second half of the little crostini in his mouth and selects a different, pretty little snack to begin inspecting. When Emet-Selch's hands still, Viktor's brows raise. And he listens, for what else would he do? Even the little condiments snapped into being go ignored, so focused is Viktor on Emet-Selch's words.
Inextricably, he says. And isn't that the truth? Even before their ritual. Before the world ended. Before Viktor was Viktor, and mayhap even before Hades was Hades and Aepymetes, Aepymetes. Bound up, they are, two pieces of a three part set. And Viktor had very nearly removed himself from the chessboard once more.
He sets the cracker between his fingers back down and reaches out, closes slender fingers around Emet-Selch's wrist. ]
Everything ends. I know. Life needs death.
[ Every slaughtered scion at the Waking Sands, Haurchefant, Papalymo, Tesleen, the Exarch, his own flesh and blood mother, others beyond counting - lives cut short, lost in no small part due to his own failings, and yet, he would not call a one of them back, not at the risk of harm deeper than flesh and bone. ]
I have seen too many die in my name not to give death the gravity it is due. 'Tis not my desire to ch-cheapen what others have s-sacrificed, to risk them by upsetting the cycle. I will have a care, Hades. I promise.
[ What he does not say feels obvious to him - that there are times where the laws of both men and nature needs must be challenged, that men like him, men like Hades, do not exist without some measure of rebellion, chaos, for better or worse. He certainly does not say that he would give his life readily and without regret a thousand times over if it'd meant peace, happiness, safety for their star.
He doesn't say it, because it isn't entirely true. Not anymore. There would be regret in cutting his own life short.
Viktor lifts his hand to brush his fingers along the line of Emet-Selch's cheek, up and over his ear, lingering in his hair. ]
I will not readily allow myself to be wrested from this star. From you. I will ever return when you call.
[ For all that he has hesitated to touch Viktor over the long months since his resurrection, in this moment, all he finds himself thinking about is how ridiculous the hesitation was. He'd hoped, foolishly, that adding the extra barrier between them - no touching, no close contact - would make the eventual, necessary split that much easier. They would not be any more attached than they already were, twined together at the aether as they were.
He ought to have known that lack of touch would not add any meaningful measure of distance. It seems there is no line he could draw in the sand that he would not cross and he cannot lie the blame squarely at Viktor's feet.
He may as well not even have bothered. Stars know he lasted an embarrassingly short amount of time before Viktor was actively in his quarters consistently. By adding that additional barrier of minimized touch, he'd hoped - well. It doesn't really matter what he'd hoped; he cannot find an onze of ungratefulness about this now. Cannot be upset that Viktor melts under the press of his hands, cannot mind that he's using them for something other than destruction, for once. ]
How is one singular bar of soap sensible?
[ He's going to die on this hill, incredulous to the last moment. For now, he keeps his hands busy, pausing every time he feels resistance from a tangled curl, gentling his touch until he manages the tangle and goes back to working shampoo into a lather.
Did he like her? In as much as he liked anyone, which is to say not overly much, but that is not exactly her fault. Thus far, when Viktor has questions about the execution of magical abilities or anything related to their connection, Emet-Selch has answered with minimal fuss and back and forth. Here, he pauses, irrationally unwilling. He can recognize this is related to the fact that they're in the bath, that he's blown past nearly every line he has tried to draw in one fell swoop, but neither can he seem to stop himself from avoiding, futilely trying to draw that line once again. ]
Does it matter? There are countless history books littered with the remnants of lives I led. You could always peruse those.
[ A cup manifests itself from nowhere, scooping water from the bath to start rinsing Viktor's hair, starting with the back. With each cup of water emptied, his other hand works through Viktor's hair from scalp to the ends of the curls, treating ridding him of the suds with the same single-minded attention as he does his work. When the back of his hair is no longer thick with suds he works on one side, then the other, careful each time not to spill water into his ears. ]
Hand me the large dark green bottle.
He ought to have known that lack of touch would not add any meaningful measure of distance. It seems there is no line he could draw in the sand that he would not cross and he cannot lie the blame squarely at Viktor's feet.
He may as well not even have bothered. Stars know he lasted an embarrassingly short amount of time before Viktor was actively in his quarters consistently. By adding that additional barrier of minimized touch, he'd hoped - well. It doesn't really matter what he'd hoped; he cannot find an onze of ungratefulness about this now. Cannot be upset that Viktor melts under the press of his hands, cannot mind that he's using them for something other than destruction, for once. ]
How is one singular bar of soap sensible?
[ He's going to die on this hill, incredulous to the last moment. For now, he keeps his hands busy, pausing every time he feels resistance from a tangled curl, gentling his touch until he manages the tangle and goes back to working shampoo into a lather.
Did he like her? In as much as he liked anyone, which is to say not overly much, but that is not exactly her fault. Thus far, when Viktor has questions about the execution of magical abilities or anything related to their connection, Emet-Selch has answered with minimal fuss and back and forth. Here, he pauses, irrationally unwilling. He can recognize this is related to the fact that they're in the bath, that he's blown past nearly every line he has tried to draw in one fell swoop, but neither can he seem to stop himself from avoiding, futilely trying to draw that line once again. ]
Does it matter? There are countless history books littered with the remnants of lives I led. You could always peruse those.
[ A cup manifests itself from nowhere, scooping water from the bath to start rinsing Viktor's hair, starting with the back. With each cup of water emptied, his other hand works through Viktor's hair from scalp to the ends of the curls, treating ridding him of the suds with the same single-minded attention as he does his work. When the back of his hair is no longer thick with suds he works on one side, then the other, careful each time not to spill water into his ears. ]
Hand me the large dark green bottle.
It is light. It gets me clean. It leaves room in my pack for other things. No risk of spills.
[ He tics off reasons on slender fingers, pausing between them to steal another drink of wine as Emet-Selch tends to the twists and tangles of his hair, then moves on to rinsing. ]
Of course it m-matters. [ A sullen sigh rushes out of him, sloping his shoulders. Viktor thinks not of lines drawn, of boundaries crossed, of where they once were and find themselves now. No, on his mind are toothless conversations, uncleared air, arguments unresolved because one or the other of them decides to make himself unyielding, impossible.
Then Emet-Selch asks for another soap bottle, and he snorts a laugh. ] Like washing my hair so much you want to do it again, aye?
[ All the same, he reaches for it, grasps the neck and then turns. There is ample room in this tub to do so, to lift himself up, barely clearing the water, and do a half spin. After a second-long moment of dithering spent wondering whether it'd be wholly unwelcome for him to jut his legs around Emet-Selch's torso, Viktor deposits himself before Emet-Selch once more, facing him this time. One curl, slipped loose, near a corkscrew for having finally been nourished with something other than bar soap, sits along the bridge of his nose. His legs, he decides to keep neatly tucked beneath him, lending him a bit of extra height. He mislikes it. The air is far too cold, and even the wine warming his face and shoulders is little help. But it will do for now. ]
Aye, and you could get my whole and true story from Lord Edmont's memoirs, or Alphinaud's letters home, or all the little reports Garlemald surely wrote about the terror stalking the woods beyond Baelsar's Wall, I am sure. [ He clutches the green bottle against his bare chest, not willing to give it up quite yet. ] Were I to visit a history book, 'twould take me two b-bells to read ten pages, and aught I'd learn, I am sure, would have been edited and s-sensationalized to pure fiction by your own hand!
[ He emphasizes that last bit with three taps of the bottom of the wine bottle against Emet-Selch's chest, then holds it out in offering, still keeping the green bottle close, like a dog with a toy. A beat of silence follows, and Viktor settles, expression softening as he studies Emet-Selch's features. ]
Why d'you think I asked, to begin with?
[ He tics off reasons on slender fingers, pausing between them to steal another drink of wine as Emet-Selch tends to the twists and tangles of his hair, then moves on to rinsing. ]
Of course it m-matters. [ A sullen sigh rushes out of him, sloping his shoulders. Viktor thinks not of lines drawn, of boundaries crossed, of where they once were and find themselves now. No, on his mind are toothless conversations, uncleared air, arguments unresolved because one or the other of them decides to make himself unyielding, impossible.
Then Emet-Selch asks for another soap bottle, and he snorts a laugh. ] Like washing my hair so much you want to do it again, aye?
[ All the same, he reaches for it, grasps the neck and then turns. There is ample room in this tub to do so, to lift himself up, barely clearing the water, and do a half spin. After a second-long moment of dithering spent wondering whether it'd be wholly unwelcome for him to jut his legs around Emet-Selch's torso, Viktor deposits himself before Emet-Selch once more, facing him this time. One curl, slipped loose, near a corkscrew for having finally been nourished with something other than bar soap, sits along the bridge of his nose. His legs, he decides to keep neatly tucked beneath him, lending him a bit of extra height. He mislikes it. The air is far too cold, and even the wine warming his face and shoulders is little help. But it will do for now. ]
Aye, and you could get my whole and true story from Lord Edmont's memoirs, or Alphinaud's letters home, or all the little reports Garlemald surely wrote about the terror stalking the woods beyond Baelsar's Wall, I am sure. [ He clutches the green bottle against his bare chest, not willing to give it up quite yet. ] Were I to visit a history book, 'twould take me two b-bells to read ten pages, and aught I'd learn, I am sure, would have been edited and s-sensationalized to pure fiction by your own hand!
[ He emphasizes that last bit with three taps of the bottom of the wine bottle against Emet-Selch's chest, then holds it out in offering, still keeping the green bottle close, like a dog with a toy. A beat of silence follows, and Viktor settles, expression softening as he studies Emet-Selch's features. ]
Why d'you think I asked, to begin with?
[ Life needs death, and what is Viktor if not life? Regardless of the ties he holds to the Underworld, to death, he is not of death in the same way that Emet-Selch is. He is far more cyclical - death and rebirth, reformed into a new shape with each life, where Emet-Selch has for better worse but mostly worse, stayed very near stagnant until recently.
While he wishes to belabor the point, there is no reason to. To drag multiple reassurances out of him would not make Emet-Selch feel better, nor would it solve the issue at hand because it has been solved. The horse is quite dead, he needn't beat it further. Busying himself with plating the next set of fingerfood, he's very nearly started when Viktor reaches out, winding fingers around his wrist to still him. ]
I shall hold you to that promise.
[ There's an inherent worry that comes with what he attempts to do by linking Viktor; Viktor is unpredictable. This is often not in a bad way; he'd found Aepymetes' unpredictable nature charming, if slightly irritating at times where it conflicted with what Emet-Selch thought needed done in a specific way according to specific rules. Viktor is not about to reverse the process of life and death to suit his needs. If he's being truthful, the worry is not and would never be Viktor but instead Emet-Selch, refusing to accept the death of Viktor if it weren't of old age. The thought sits, uncomfortable, Viktor's gentle touch a slight balm. ]
Eat, instead of gazing at me. I refuse to carry you back to the Crystarium nor do I wish to find out how much bribery your bird would take to assist in the process.
While he wishes to belabor the point, there is no reason to. To drag multiple reassurances out of him would not make Emet-Selch feel better, nor would it solve the issue at hand because it has been solved. The horse is quite dead, he needn't beat it further. Busying himself with plating the next set of fingerfood, he's very nearly started when Viktor reaches out, winding fingers around his wrist to still him. ]
I shall hold you to that promise.
[ There's an inherent worry that comes with what he attempts to do by linking Viktor; Viktor is unpredictable. This is often not in a bad way; he'd found Aepymetes' unpredictable nature charming, if slightly irritating at times where it conflicted with what Emet-Selch thought needed done in a specific way according to specific rules. Viktor is not about to reverse the process of life and death to suit his needs. If he's being truthful, the worry is not and would never be Viktor but instead Emet-Selch, refusing to accept the death of Viktor if it weren't of old age. The thought sits, uncomfortable, Viktor's gentle touch a slight balm. ]
Eat, instead of gazing at me. I refuse to carry you back to the Crystarium nor do I wish to find out how much bribery your bird would take to assist in the process.
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