Hm. [ Viktor echoes the sound, sighs right after. Heatless, he complains, ] Must you 'hm' me when I am being en-t-tirely sincere?
[ More pressing than their brewing debate is fleeing this reflection's relentless, biting cold. Viktor burrows beneath sheets, into blankets, pulling them up over his nose, and then decides that even that is not warm enough. He sits up, finds one of the lingering fire crystals tucked into the bed's corners, only glancingly warm now, and attempts to coax it back to life.
His body interferes halfway through pulling threads. Light insists upon stillness, and the dim red glow goes pearly white. Heat turns to nothing, radiant numbness. Viktor plucks the crystal from where it's tucked with a frown, oozing disappointment, and sets it beside his half-empty teacup, an incandescent beacon in the candlelit room. He glares at the thing until Emet-Selch's next line of questions grabs his attention anew. ]
You say it as though it is a b-bad thing. The unfortunate truth is, I am quite f-fond of you, Emet-Selch, and my preference for less clothing is tied up in th-that.
[ A pause, a pout, he allows himself to consider the question in earnest with a rush of air through his nose. ]
I like our- [ All the hairs of the back of Viktor's neck stand on end, jolted by mortification. ] -your bed in the Crystarium. 'Tis quite big. And soft. Ample room to s-sprawl, but I can still r-reach you. And... it s-smells like you. 'Tis always warm, familiar.
[ Finally Viktor reclines, head settling into a ludicrously soft pillow, attention fixed on Emet-Selch as he tidies his quarters. Easier to watch him dodder about than to think about his own desires, still. It is, he finds, almost painful to consider want too directly. Even something as simple as how he'd prefer to sleep makes his brain, his nerves, his whole body rebel. As though he is aught but scar tissue, stiff and aching when pushed too far. ]
I don't know. [ He pulls the covers up over his head 'til only the tips of his ears stick out. Silence settles for a few heavy seconds before he goes on. From beneath the blankets, surrounded by warmth, Viktor allows: ] I do not l-like when it is too dark. Candles, or ceruleum lanterns, or hearth fire. The light, the sound, the smell - they are a comfort. [ Another pause. Then, soft, quiet: ] These blankets smell n-nice.
no subject
[ More pressing than their brewing debate is fleeing this reflection's relentless, biting cold. Viktor burrows beneath sheets, into blankets, pulling them up over his nose, and then decides that even that is not warm enough. He sits up, finds one of the lingering fire crystals tucked into the bed's corners, only glancingly warm now, and attempts to coax it back to life.
His body interferes halfway through pulling threads. Light insists upon stillness, and the dim red glow goes pearly white. Heat turns to nothing, radiant numbness. Viktor plucks the crystal from where it's tucked with a frown, oozing disappointment, and sets it beside his half-empty teacup, an incandescent beacon in the candlelit room. He glares at the thing until Emet-Selch's next line of questions grabs his attention anew. ]
You say it as though it is a b-bad thing. The unfortunate truth is, I am quite f-fond of you, Emet-Selch, and my preference for less clothing is tied up in th-that.
[ A pause, a pout, he allows himself to consider the question in earnest with a rush of air through his nose. ]
I like our- [ All the hairs of the back of Viktor's neck stand on end, jolted by mortification. ] -your bed in the Crystarium. 'Tis quite big. And soft. Ample room to s-sprawl, but I can still r-reach you. And... it s-smells like you. 'Tis always warm, familiar.
[ Finally Viktor reclines, head settling into a ludicrously soft pillow, attention fixed on Emet-Selch as he tidies his quarters. Easier to watch him dodder about than to think about his own desires, still. It is, he finds, almost painful to consider want too directly. Even something as simple as how he'd prefer to sleep makes his brain, his nerves, his whole body rebel. As though he is aught but scar tissue, stiff and aching when pushed too far. ]
I don't know. [ He pulls the covers up over his head 'til only the tips of his ears stick out. Silence settles for a few heavy seconds before he goes on. From beneath the blankets, surrounded by warmth, Viktor allows: ] I do not l-like when it is too dark. Candles, or ceruleum lanterns, or hearth fire. The light, the sound, the smell - they are a comfort. [ Another pause. Then, soft, quiet: ] These blankets smell n-nice.