[ 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. ]
no subject
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.