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?
no subject
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?