You heard me, silly man. [ Light, bright, he answers that bit of teasing with an exaggerated wink and smile, delivered with a flourish, pressing his pointer finger to his cheek, every bit the clown.
It has been an age, it seems, since he could indulge in the simple joy of silliness. Shocking, how easily he slides back into it, but perhaps it shouldn't be. Though his heart sits cracked and fissured by loss and lack, what holds it together - the one who holds it together - is stronger than the darkness around it. Viktor has only ever burned as bright as the love afforded to him might allow, and the love presently afforded to him is fuel enough for whole stars.
He delights in the simple show of magic - is not sure he will ever be bored of watching Emet-Selch coax aether for the sheer pleasure of it. The air warms, and his grip on his towel loosens ever so slightly. Viktor's mismatched eyes drink in every ilm of Hades presented as he steps from the tub, fair skin flush with warmth and gilded by firelight. So gorgeous, Viktor only half hears the question asked.
But half is more than enough. He blinks, eyes darting up to meet Emet-Selch's gaze.
It is not fear, exactly, that plays across Viktor's features at that question, though the pace of his heart does speed to a gallop, thundering in his throat and catching all the air before it can escape his lungs. Caution and curiosity take equal credit for the widening of Viktor's eyes as he beholds Hades with renewed interest, but the way his lips part, the way his tongue darts out to wet them as he studies the perfect lines of Hades form - his form, the one that feels most like him, starburst scar and all - is all hunger. ]
Good. [ Viktor finds his voice somehow, and it arrives sturdier than he expects. Calm and certain, for a moment, at least. ] I'd say good. But- are you sure? It's just that... I've never- no. I usually-
[ Malleable. He makes himself malleable. Reforges himself to fit his partner's desire. The worshipful healer for Relle. The relentless fighter for Estinien. A fearless adventurer for G'raha, for the Exarch. Conquering hero or tamed monster for every random body inbetween.
But here, now, Viktor finds that he can think of nothing he could remake himself into that might best please Hades. Even were his soul rejoined again, to try and make himself any more Aepymetes than he is now would, he knows, be a step backward. And if he brushes aside the noise of worry and doubt, he is not entirely sure that more Aepymetes is even what Hades wants. What does it mean if he cannot make himself into something better than what he is? If he cannot offer something for what is given? If Hades seeks to indulge without taking in turn?
Stars, he suddenly feels every ilm of his own nakedness. The room warms, and Viktor's skin with it, rosy blush left by the bath insisting upon lingering, on growing hotter the longer he stands there.
Viktor's brows do a funny little dance on his forehead, flattening over his eyes. The absurdity of it all, of the Warrior of Light finding himself mortified, shy as the flowers that peek up beneath the boughs of the Everschade, makes his expression crack into an incredulous smile. ]
-I usually give.
[ And he cannot fathom receiving, taking, being loved without promising something, without providing worth, in return. But worse than that uncertainty is the idea that Hades might decide not to touch him, to taste him, to savor him at all. ]
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It has been an age, it seems, since he could indulge in the simple joy of silliness. Shocking, how easily he slides back into it, but perhaps it shouldn't be. Though his heart sits cracked and fissured by loss and lack, what holds it together - the one who holds it together - is stronger than the darkness around it. Viktor has only ever burned as bright as the love afforded to him might allow, and the love presently afforded to him is fuel enough for whole stars.
He delights in the simple show of magic - is not sure he will ever be bored of watching Emet-Selch coax aether for the sheer pleasure of it. The air warms, and his grip on his towel loosens ever so slightly. Viktor's mismatched eyes drink in every ilm of Hades presented as he steps from the tub, fair skin flush with warmth and gilded by firelight. So gorgeous, Viktor only half hears the question asked.
But half is more than enough. He blinks, eyes darting up to meet Emet-Selch's gaze.
It is not fear, exactly, that plays across Viktor's features at that question, though the pace of his heart does speed to a gallop, thundering in his throat and catching all the air before it can escape his lungs. Caution and curiosity take equal credit for the widening of Viktor's eyes as he beholds Hades with renewed interest, but the way his lips part, the way his tongue darts out to wet them as he studies the perfect lines of Hades form - his form, the one that feels most like him, starburst scar and all - is all hunger. ]
Good. [ Viktor finds his voice somehow, and it arrives sturdier than he expects. Calm and certain, for a moment, at least. ] I'd say good. But- are you sure? It's just that... I've never- no. I usually-
[ Malleable. He makes himself malleable. Reforges himself to fit his partner's desire. The worshipful healer for Relle. The relentless fighter for Estinien. A fearless adventurer for G'raha, for the Exarch. Conquering hero or tamed monster for every random body inbetween.
But here, now, Viktor finds that he can think of nothing he could remake himself into that might best please Hades. Even were his soul rejoined again, to try and make himself any more Aepymetes than he is now would, he knows, be a step backward. And if he brushes aside the noise of worry and doubt, he is not entirely sure that more Aepymetes is even what Hades wants. What does it mean if he cannot make himself into something better than what he is? If he cannot offer something for what is given? If Hades seeks to indulge without taking in turn?
Stars, he suddenly feels every ilm of his own nakedness. The room warms, and Viktor's skin with it, rosy blush left by the bath insisting upon lingering, on growing hotter the longer he stands there.
Viktor's brows do a funny little dance on his forehead, flattening over his eyes. The absurdity of it all, of the Warrior of Light finding himself mortified, shy as the flowers that peek up beneath the boughs of the Everschade, makes his expression crack into an incredulous smile. ]
-I usually give.
[ And he cannot fathom receiving, taking, being loved without promising something, without providing worth, in return. But worse than that uncertainty is the idea that Hades might decide not to touch him, to taste him, to savor him at all. ]