[ 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. ]
no subject
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. ]