[ Worse, he thinks, is the fact that Viktor doesn't rise to the easy bait of Emet-Selch's annoyance dangled in front of him, carrot on a string. Everything would be easier if Viktor sunk to the levels Emet-Selch were willing to, but instead, he drags Emet-Selch from the muck every time. ]
There is only so much to find, I fear, though I trust your grasp will remain tight.
[ The silence lingers for a bit, Emet-Selch bracing a hand at his side to better accommodate the weight of Viktor leaned against him, resisting the urge to lean in, press his face into soft curls and breathe him in. Reassure himself that Viktor still smells like a garden, not a graveyard. ]
I - a pickle farm? You've a mistaken idea of the margins on pickle making, I think. You'd be far more profitable traded somewhere else.
[ Freedom has always felt like the greatest gift that might could be given. Once, he had thought it simply part and parcel of his love of wandering. And it is, but it's more than that, too. Freedom to choose, to cut whatever path feels best, to live - he'd wanted that for all else, because it was not something he could claim himself. Not with his soul writ into the braid of time he and Hydaelyn had made, into the Sundering, into the summoning of Zodiark, into the lives of every lingering member of the Convocation.
So, he'd had his rule: never touch with the intent of taking, of grasping. Never hold too tight. Never keep what does not want kept. Let people go, if they wish - to save pain for everyone.
Now, he finds the rule no longer serves. There are things, people, worth grasping, keeping, clinging to. ]
Aye, and 'twill be quite difficult for you to fight.
[ Viktor angles himself, turning to peer up into Emet-Selch's face with the sort of wide-eyed interest that portends mischief. He reaches up, fingers still chilled, but warming steadily, and grasps Emet-Selch's chin, angling his head down so that he needn't cross so considerable a distance when he strains up to deliver a peck to the high point of Emet-Selch's cheek, left quick so he can settle back in, again. ]
I promise that.
[ A soft, pleasant sigh. He shuts his eyes, listens to the sound of nature, feels the thrum of their married aether, two parts of the same song. ]
I am not concerned about m-margins. I am concerned about snacks. To where would you trade me, then?
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There is only so much to find, I fear, though I trust your grasp will remain tight.
[ The silence lingers for a bit, Emet-Selch bracing a hand at his side to better accommodate the weight of Viktor leaned against him, resisting the urge to lean in, press his face into soft curls and breathe him in. Reassure himself that Viktor still smells like a garden, not a graveyard. ]
I - a pickle farm? You've a mistaken idea of the margins on pickle making, I think. You'd be far more profitable traded somewhere else.
no subject
So, he'd had his rule: never touch with the intent of taking, of grasping. Never hold too tight. Never keep what does not want kept. Let people go, if they wish - to save pain for everyone.
Now, he finds the rule no longer serves. There are things, people, worth grasping, keeping, clinging to. ]
Aye, and 'twill be quite difficult for you to fight.
[ Viktor angles himself, turning to peer up into Emet-Selch's face with the sort of wide-eyed interest that portends mischief. He reaches up, fingers still chilled, but warming steadily, and grasps Emet-Selch's chin, angling his head down so that he needn't cross so considerable a distance when he strains up to deliver a peck to the high point of Emet-Selch's cheek, left quick so he can settle back in, again. ]
I promise that.
[ A soft, pleasant sigh. He shuts his eyes, listens to the sound of nature, feels the thrum of their married aether, two parts of the same song. ]
I am not concerned about m-margins. I am concerned about snacks. To where would you trade me, then?