[ Viktor slips his hand free of Emet-Selch's grasp, gapes up at him, brows knit up in disbelief. Near as Viktor can tell, not one iota of contrition marks his features. There's just his lovely mouth flattened into a dissatisfied line, exhaustion seeming to weigh on him even more than usual. Again, Viktor finds himself feeling like a misbehaved pet, barking at nothing and wearing his master's nerves thin. Impossible not to let his mind wander to every stilted moment that should've been softer, every deft swerve away from a question asked, every escalation to stubborn argument. He thinks of Hades, clutching him vice tight, asking whether what he felt was love... and only seeming pained by the response. It is awful. He feels awful. And yet more dreadful is the idea that it will ever be like this, a mountain road of condescension and exhausted dismissal, dotted with twinkling glimpses of the man Viktor knows Hades can be.
And that, well- a good fuck isn't ever going to fix the hurt he feels each time he's looked at like he's wasting time. Nor will it change the fact that Viktor needed someone else to remind him that he shouldn't bear the thunk of every arrow like the brick wall the nightmare upon the First fashioned him into. They have a world to save, yes. And this is hardly important when set against that, of course(, of course, of course... right?). But- but. It would be a great deal easier if he- if they both remembered how to be proper people.
Viktor ruffles his fingers through his curls, fluffing them, and takes two paces back. In a voice that brokers no argument, he says, ] Aye. You head back. Get warmed up. I will make my way on foot. Ensure nothing's s-stirred in our stomping down here and see to getting the root cellar back in order.
[ He needs the time to cool off. Too close to percolating with unproductive hurt and anger, too tired of arguing to do this down here before an audience of half-sleeping mirror images of souls he knows better. But that isn't the only reason.
It isn't easy, going on, but Viktor has ever had a knack for scraping up the will to do things he didn't want to do. ]
That should give you ample time to decide how you intend to apologize to me for minimizing my f-feelings. A proper apology. And after, if you wish, we can discuss why I thought it more peaceful to allow Sea-bound souls to decide on their own terms whether and how they will bind together. On that, I s-spoke from a place of ignorance, not understanding what might occur.
[ He pauses, flat expression hiding his hurt, ears flopped back, showing it plainly. ]
I will see you in our room.
[ Viktor turns, anger clamped in the pit of his gut, and makes for the newly formed doorway. Rather than try the door itself, which he knows is locked, he flattens his palm against one of the massive stone slabs that make up the wall around it. Fingers press against Emet-Selch's spellwork. It is unyielding, set in place, but Viktor isn't in the mood to be stopped - this aether is as much his as Emet-Selch's by right.
He threads a little bit of his anger in when he pushes again, and this time, the stone gives way. Once it's gone slack, it's nothing to slip his fingers between aetheric stitches and unravel a gap large enough for him to step through. On the other side, he weaves it back together, leaving a section of Thanalan sandstone, red as the burning wall, amid the black, and Emet-Selch alone at the mouth of the Underworld. ]
no subject
[ Viktor slips his hand free of Emet-Selch's grasp, gapes up at him, brows knit up in disbelief. Near as Viktor can tell, not one iota of contrition marks his features. There's just his lovely mouth flattened into a dissatisfied line, exhaustion seeming to weigh on him even more than usual. Again, Viktor finds himself feeling like a misbehaved pet, barking at nothing and wearing his master's nerves thin. Impossible not to let his mind wander to every stilted moment that should've been softer, every deft swerve away from a question asked, every escalation to stubborn argument. He thinks of Hades, clutching him vice tight, asking whether what he felt was love... and only seeming pained by the response. It is awful. He feels awful. And yet more dreadful is the idea that it will ever be like this, a mountain road of condescension and exhausted dismissal, dotted with twinkling glimpses of the man Viktor knows Hades can be.
And that, well- a good fuck isn't ever going to fix the hurt he feels each time he's looked at like he's wasting time. Nor will it change the fact that Viktor needed someone else to remind him that he shouldn't bear the thunk of every arrow like the brick wall the nightmare upon the First fashioned him into. They have a world to save, yes. And this is hardly important when set against that, of course(, of course, of course... right?). But- but. It would be a great deal easier if he- if they both remembered how to be proper people.
Viktor ruffles his fingers through his curls, fluffing them, and takes two paces back. In a voice that brokers no argument, he says, ] Aye. You head back. Get warmed up. I will make my way on foot. Ensure nothing's s-stirred in our stomping down here and see to getting the root cellar back in order.
[ He needs the time to cool off. Too close to percolating with unproductive hurt and anger, too tired of arguing to do this down here before an audience of half-sleeping mirror images of souls he knows better. But that isn't the only reason.
It isn't easy, going on, but Viktor has ever had a knack for scraping up the will to do things he didn't want to do. ]
That should give you ample time to decide how you intend to apologize to me for minimizing my f-feelings. A proper apology. And after, if you wish, we can discuss why I thought it more peaceful to allow Sea-bound souls to decide on their own terms whether and how they will bind together. On that, I s-spoke from a place of ignorance, not understanding what might occur.
[ He pauses, flat expression hiding his hurt, ears flopped back, showing it plainly. ]
I will see you in our room.
[ Viktor turns, anger clamped in the pit of his gut, and makes for the newly formed doorway. Rather than try the door itself, which he knows is locked, he flattens his palm against one of the massive stone slabs that make up the wall around it. Fingers press against Emet-Selch's spellwork. It is unyielding, set in place, but Viktor isn't in the mood to be stopped - this aether is as much his as Emet-Selch's by right.
He threads a little bit of his anger in when he pushes again, and this time, the stone gives way. Once it's gone slack, it's nothing to slip his fingers between aetheric stitches and unravel a gap large enough for him to step through. On the other side, he weaves it back together, leaving a section of Thanalan sandstone, red as the burning wall, amid the black, and Emet-Selch alone at the mouth of the Underworld. ]