[ He sleeps, he dreams. Insubstantial, whisps of things he'll never remember in full clarity come morning. They attend the theatre - Hythlodaeus is there, impossibly, within the Crystarium, making little comments in an attempt to get Emet-Selch and Viktor to break and laugh. They walk through Amaurot - it must be Amaurot, but as she was - with Viktor leading him by the hand, ducking them into anywhere that looks interesting. Their bedroom, one body already within the bed, another soon to come, the one within pressing kisses against his face nearly enough to rouse him and a knock heralding the other's arrival except-
The body within the bed shifts, starts to extricate itself and Emet-Selch makes a vaguely disgruntled sound into the pillow. The cold strikes him first, a sharp awareness borne from the lack of thick pajamas from throat to ankles. He tugs at the blankets and nestles closer within them, letting Viktor handle letting in - ah.
The dream crumbles away to nothing but insubstantial impressions, and Emet-Selch slowly wrests his eyes open, taking in the sight of Viktor in his patchwork robe at the door and the person outside, decidedly not Hythlodaeus. The disappointment he expects does not manifest; there's only a lingering grogginess from sleep debt needing repayment. He has, he thinks, slept through the chronometer's alarum. Or, more likely, he simply forgot to schedule it, far too distracted with watching Viktor do absolutely nothing. Mortifying.
Quiet conversation is faintly audible; Emet-Selch trusts Viktor to handle putting a meal together, given how many they've taken together. He ought to get up. Ought to wrest himself from the bed and take care of any number of tasks necessary and yet the weight of his body, or perhaps the weight of the warm blankets, feels insurmountable at this moment.
Viktor swishes his way back from the door, Emet-Selch catching a hint of bruises left along the column of his throat, starker, brighter now both in the dim light of morning and now that the bruises have had time to settle and bloom. If he focuses, he can feel the little disruptions of aether - the tug from fetching his robes, and the silencing charm upon the door, neither of which he recalls teaching. Fondness, or something remarkably close to it, overwrites any irritation he feels at his lack of memory for a simple task, and what dredges remain are easily overwritten as Viktor lifts the blankets to clamber back into bed with him. ]
Absolutely not. [ But neither does he make an effort to rise right away; one hand goes seeking beneath the blankets, finding a thigh, sliding up to trace the line of his hip, up over his belly until he reaches Viktor's chest, pressing firmly to get him to settle near instantly instead of squirming. Until their food arrives, Emet-Selch thinks, and wills away the lethargic fog clouding his mind, weighing his limbs down. One eye cracks open again, surveying what skin he can see after nudging the blankets up and then he tugs them right back down again before the warmth can escape. ] You look like you were mauled. I hope you enjoy being the subject of at least a week of gossip.
no subject
The body within the bed shifts, starts to extricate itself and Emet-Selch makes a vaguely disgruntled sound into the pillow. The cold strikes him first, a sharp awareness borne from the lack of thick pajamas from throat to ankles. He tugs at the blankets and nestles closer within them, letting Viktor handle letting in - ah.
The dream crumbles away to nothing but insubstantial impressions, and Emet-Selch slowly wrests his eyes open, taking in the sight of Viktor in his patchwork robe at the door and the person outside, decidedly not Hythlodaeus. The disappointment he expects does not manifest; there's only a lingering grogginess from sleep debt needing repayment. He has, he thinks, slept through the chronometer's alarum. Or, more likely, he simply forgot to schedule it, far too distracted with watching Viktor do absolutely nothing. Mortifying.
Quiet conversation is faintly audible; Emet-Selch trusts Viktor to handle putting a meal together, given how many they've taken together. He ought to get up. Ought to wrest himself from the bed and take care of any number of tasks necessary and yet the weight of his body, or perhaps the weight of the warm blankets, feels insurmountable at this moment.
Viktor swishes his way back from the door, Emet-Selch catching a hint of bruises left along the column of his throat, starker, brighter now both in the dim light of morning and now that the bruises have had time to settle and bloom. If he focuses, he can feel the little disruptions of aether - the tug from fetching his robes, and the silencing charm upon the door, neither of which he recalls teaching. Fondness, or something remarkably close to it, overwrites any irritation he feels at his lack of memory for a simple task, and what dredges remain are easily overwritten as Viktor lifts the blankets to clamber back into bed with him. ]
Absolutely not. [ But neither does he make an effort to rise right away; one hand goes seeking beneath the blankets, finding a thigh, sliding up to trace the line of his hip, up over his belly until he reaches Viktor's chest, pressing firmly to get him to settle near instantly instead of squirming. Until their food arrives, Emet-Selch thinks, and wills away the lethargic fog clouding his mind, weighing his limbs down. One eye cracks open again, surveying what skin he can see after nudging the blankets up and then he tugs them right back down again before the warmth can escape. ] You look like you were mauled. I hope you enjoy being the subject of at least a week of gossip.