[ Viktor sinks in against him and Emet-Selch gingerly settles back against the stone lip seat, reclining until the two of them can rest comfortably against each other, slotting into place with ginger care. Malms of bare, soft skin pressed against his own, the heat of the bathwater near-perfect, and for a moment he can almost forget where they are. What they must do. For a sliver of an instant, he doesn't think about duty or obligation, he focuses on the simple pleasure of running his hand up and down Viktor's flank, savoring the weight of him.
The moon to Viktor's sun. There's no spitefulness, no jealousy that arises at the echo of what once was, fundamentally changed by thousands of years. Emet-Selch stretches his legs out, adjusts Viktor a little more comfortably where he reclines, and then greedily, selfishly, winds both arms around him and lets his chin rest against Viktor's mussed curls. ]
One would have to be a little mad to consider what you do on a daily basis.
[ Whether that is intimacy like this with a former enemy, or trotting about different shards, attempting to undo the greatest wrong that has ever been perpetuated upon them, it doesn't matter. Madness either way, Emet-Selch thinks, lifting his hand from the bathwater to trace the smattering of freckles upon Viktor's shoulder with damp fingertips, shuddering out a breath at the press of Viktor's lips. ]
I tired of...making myself less than what I was. [ They had needed to when they arrived in the First - he could not distract from the Warrior, had to be careful not to lose Viktor any trust by being his companion. Now, he thinks, they've achieved enough he can walk amongst them as himself and there is no mistrust. There ought to be, maybe. He half-expects them to have some sort of sense-memory with him, aware he was responsible for most of their ills, but it did not happen. Does not happen. ] Foolish as it was, I thought it fitting. Indicative of the past and the present.
[ Embraced, surrounded, Viktor exhales pure pleasure, soft little sing-song sounds drawn out of him each time Emet-Selch shifts the two of them, dithering into a hum when his arms wrap around him. No hesitation, in spite of their earlier argument. No worry, no dread, just the two of them pressed close, the stead beat of Emet-Selch's heart against his back, palms at his stomach coaxing desire ever so slowly, deliciously, toward a crackling bonfire.
Even half a turn ago, it would have been unthinkable - not just this, the two of them tangled up, luxuriating in the largest bath Viktor has ever seen, but, more precisely, the absence of guilt, of anxiety. Short though his life has been, both in the grand scheme of things and even for a viera, Viktor had never known much in the way of security. Has never - not with anyone - been comfortable enough to argue, to resist, and know, without a doubt, that he would still be kept, still be loved, not be punished or cast out.
Never, not with anyone - until now.
Emet-Selch dances fingers over his shoulders, inventing constellations of goosebumps and freckles, and Viktor tips his head to give him space to explore. One hand drifts down to his thigh, running fingers along the length of it, the other leaves the water, reaching up to cup his face, tipping it to get a better look at him. The breath he exhales is hot with want, but when he speaks, it is only gentle, adoring. ]
Good. You should not h-hide yourself. Not for anyone. [ Viktor stares up at him, expression serious. ] And I do not think it foolish. Scars are stories. And that story- well- [ His expression smooths, grin easing across his features, fingers pressing at Emet-Selch's thigh. ] -quite the harrowing tale, but it tells of how you came to be mine. And so, I am f-fond.
[ In the past, when he lounged in a bath to stay away from anyone and everyone, he had music playing on an orchestrion. While he very much enjoyed being alone and not having to deal with anyone's petty grievances, the silence he found less welcome and so he filled it. It isn't until that moment he realizes he hasn't needed one since Viktor planted himself neatly into Emet-Selch's life, his quarters.
He likes how noisy Viktor is when he does nothing more than exist. The absolute opposite of death, embodying light and life and what they were striving to maintain and save. Emet-Selch presses his face into the warm stretch of skin from shoulder to jawline, inhales long and slow and then tips his head in accommodation when Viktor's fingers coax him to move. ]
I find that being myself is - unfamiliar. [ Not an excuse, but a quiet admission, his brows drawing tight before he seems to shake the frustration off as best as he can, instead studying the splash of freckles, the way waterdroplets cling, the dim lighting playing across his skin. He has ever been his duty, but once, he thinks he had known how to maintain duty and sense of self, even if that sense of self had been inextricably twined up in Hythlodaeus and Aepymetes. To their detriment, perhaps. Inhaling, he holds the breath for an instant and then releases, lifting a damp hand to smooth through Viktor's curls. Thoughtlessly, he speaks, turned toward the supplies Viktor had brought in to inspect but not before another pull off the wine bottle and handing that to Viktor once he's done. ]
Get yourself wet, I believe you had a request of me, did you not?
[ Another hum escapes him, feeling the bridge of Emet-Selch's nose pressed to the crook of his neck. Hard not to think of the way he used to flinch; jaw clenching, muscles tensing as though to withstand a blow, stilling under even the lightest touch. Now, he is languid, freely, purposefully seeking out the warmest stretches of skin as though they are sunlit meadows, as though Viktor, himself, is comfort.
More than anything, he wants to be comfort. Wants to be safety for Emet-Selch, the way Emet-Selch is for him. He runs his hand up and down the length of Emet-Selch's thigh, letting his fingers glide along the dips in muscle. ]
'Tis the way of wearing masks, aye? It will take time. But we- we will each find what is beneath.
[ Viktor chases him when he turns his head, pressing lips to the dip of his cheek, and then snorting softly, a laugh breathed against Emet-Selch's skin that he is unable to help. ]
Oh, I promise, I am more than halfway there.
[ A grin, another snicker, he slides forward, leaving Emet-Selch's embrace. Viktor takes a quick drink from the bottle as he gathers up his ears in one hand, pressing them flat against his head. The bottle is set aside again before he slips down into the water. This bath, much like Emet-Selch's bed, is ridiculous - only the ocean would be easier to submerge himself in - and as he lingers for a few seconds, surrounded by warmth, he wonders if maybe, some day, they might have themselves something similar and time aplenty for soaking together.
It would be nice.
He surfaces, blinks water from his eyes, and cards his fingers through the wet tangle of his curls. His soaked ears, weighed down by water, don't quite spring back up into place. He retrieves the bottle again as he slots himself back into place between Emet-Selch's legs, eager to be touched again, to be tended to like something precious. ]
[ He can feel the faint vibration at the hum pressed as close as they are together, and savors the sensation now that he allows himself the indulgence. Every bit of this is an indulgence, he thinks, on par with Vauthry's decadence. ]
For better or worse.
[ What is beneath the mask, he thinks, is not so different than what he presents. He had simply tailored himself to suit the situation, but was largely relying on aspects of his own personality that were coaxed to the surface in the face of a tragedy. He, like anyone else, had the capacity to do no small amount of damage to the people and places around him, though he did not like to think about the ways he was all too similar to the shattered versions of what was.
Viktor's snickered retort jerks him out of that useless train of thought near-instantly, Emet-Selch sinking back against the stone lip to press his face into his hand briefly, only stopping to take the wine bottle back and drink a second, longer time afterward, setting it aside for Viktor once done. The last time he would have done this is...unimaginably long ago. When the world was whole. When he was whole, instead of a bunch of fragmented pieces hastily glued together by duty, obligation and the weight and pressure of Zodiark.
It cannot be so difficult. Washing is not an overly complex skillset and despite the fluffy ears atop Viktor's head, hair washes the same. Viktor surfaces, returning to him without hesitation where Emet-Selch both anticipates and would understand if there was. He doesn't flinch at the press of Viktor's wet skin against him, doesn't jolt when Viktor finds himself right back between Emet-Selch's legs. He sinks back into the cool stone in contrast to the warmth of Viktor's body and forcibly relaxes.
Viktor had brought soap - shampoo, maybe, and rather than using his own Emet-Selch lifts a dripping hand to start pawing through what Viktor's brought that isn't wine, only to pause, lifting various bars of soap up, doing the mental math and looking at Viktor with a particularly pinched expression. ]
No, we will not be using this. Are you a down on your luck street urchin, spending your last gil on soaps sold by the village soapmaker? Stars.
[ Littering the far edge of the stone bath lie his own supplies, far too many bottles for one man alone. He thumbs through the glass bottles with little clinks until he finds the one he is looking for and stretches a little to hook a fingertip around the long neck, dragging it closer. The cap is thumbed off with a flourish, floating in the bathwater and Emet-Selch eyes Viktor, assessing how to position him for this. Easier, he thinks, if he is out of the water and taller than Viktor but he does not relish the idea of wresting himself clear of hot water to linger in the chill. They'll make do. ]
You'll forgive me if I am - unpracticed.
[ A palmful of dark, thick liquid into his hand and then he gently presses fingers against the back of Viktor's skull to urge him to tip his head forward. Once done, he lathers both hands in shampoo and starts with fingers at the nape of Viktor's neck, smoothing shampoo in with brisk, firm movements, very nearly a massage as he works it into a lather from the bottom until he's satisfied. Another palmful and then he repeats, starting from the top of Viktor's head, careful of his ears and where the lilies break through or might. Every so often, a soapy hand tips Viktor's chin, angling it this way or that so he can smooth another finger up along Viktor's hairline to prevent suds from falling into his eyes.
This is more soothing than he had anticipated, in truth. Nothing but the dripping of water, the slosh of it, their breathing as he works diligently, careful not to get any into the dip of Viktor's ears as he works on one, and then the other. He is, ostensibly, done, but his hand doesn't leave where it's buried in Viktor's curls, massaging idly, stroking down to the muscles of his neck where damp curls sit, digging fingers into the muscle there firmly. The other, he uses to grab the wine bottle, taking a sip and then passing it over. ]
Once, I had a wife who cared about precious little that came with the trappings of royalty, except this. Countless colored bottles for all stages of the day, utterly incomprehensible until she forcibly sat me down explained each one's use after tiring of me sending the palace's accountant to inquire.
[ What goes unsaid, is that after that explanation he had adopted no small number of those little bottles - there are far more on that wall than just shampoo, condidtioner, and soap. ]
Better, better, better. [ An insistent little mantra, meant to be a bit of sunlight to burn through Emet-Selch's ever present storm clouds, murmured as he thumbs water from his eyelashes and interrupted by the galling insult to his perfectly practical toiletries... toiletry. Singular.
Fine.
His mouth is against the wine bottle when he scoffs, making the noise half music, low and lushly hollow. ]
Aye, Majesty, I'd've thought you of all people would ap-p-preciate sensible soap choices. [ He complains heatlessly, one hand waving, fingertips flicking water across the room, as Emet-Selch attempts to navigate for soaps around him. ] 'Tis perfectly adequate and saves space when I am-
[ That line of thought abruptly loses importance. Emet-Selch works fingers against Viktor's scalp, surrounding him with a smell that reminds him of having tea at the Bismarck in Limsa Lominsa - citrus sweet, warm and refreshing - and right away Viktor goes pliable in his hands. How silly that Emet-Selch should worry about his skill when it seems to Viktor that he himself is unable to resist melting into that touch. How eagerly he awaits it. Whatever further complaining he'd meant to do becomes little more than mumbled sounds of approval as he leans himself into the offered pressure, readily going where he is directed.
Wryly, he thinks to himself, had Emet-Selch opted to approach him gently upon his arrival on the First, they may've had some real trouble. He is not sure his soul could've resisted that hand extended in love, rather than in challenge. But therein lies the rub, of course- Emet-Selch would not, could not be so tender with a shattered soul, not with Azem, who had left without answers. Not then. Not after everything. With tempering and the Kairos' blank spot making themselves insurmountable weights upon the scales of Emet-Selch's judgment.
The glossy scar now etched into Emet-Selch's chest is proof of that - proof that what had happened had been necessary. Viktor does not yet remember how to pluck potentials from the weave as he had ten thousand years ago, but he is certain that there are few threads where such a cleansing hadn't been necessary - for the both of them.
Maybe Emet-Selch will allow him a closer look, the luxury of pressing his fingers to skin and memorizing the feel, the shape, once they are cleaned and dried and curled up together in bed. In their bed. Stars, hadn't he just been doubting whether he would sleep here tonight? How quickly Hades shakes his resolve.
Just then, Emet-Selch's fingers find a muscle Viktor had not even realized was tense and knotted tight after a day spent learning custom, culture, and gossip, and a little groan escapes him quite without his permission. In that moment, the idea that Viktor could have any resolve at all feels patently ridiculous. He accepts the bottle as it is pushed back in his hands, but lets it dangle from his fingers as he considers Emet-Selch's words.
After a long stretch of silence, enjoying the massage, he asks, ] Did you like her? What was her name?
[ For all that he has hesitated to touch Viktor over the long months since his resurrection, in this moment, all he finds himself thinking about is how ridiculous the hesitation was. He'd hoped, foolishly, that adding the extra barrier between them - no touching, no close contact - would make the eventual, necessary split that much easier. They would not be any more attached than they already were, twined together at the aether as they were.
He ought to have known that lack of touch would not add any meaningful measure of distance. It seems there is no line he could draw in the sand that he would not cross and he cannot lie the blame squarely at Viktor's feet.
He may as well not even have bothered. Stars know he lasted an embarrassingly short amount of time before Viktor was actively in his quarters consistently. By adding that additional barrier of minimized touch, he'd hoped - well. It doesn't really matter what he'd hoped; he cannot find an onze of ungratefulness about this now. Cannot be upset that Viktor melts under the press of his hands, cannot mind that he's using them for something other than destruction, for once. ]
How is one singular bar of soap sensible?
[ He's going to die on this hill, incredulous to the last moment. For now, he keeps his hands busy, pausing every time he feels resistance from a tangled curl, gentling his touch until he manages the tangle and goes back to working shampoo into a lather.
Did he like her? In as much as he liked anyone, which is to say not overly much, but that is not exactly her fault. Thus far, when Viktor has questions about the execution of magical abilities or anything related to their connection, Emet-Selch has answered with minimal fuss and back and forth. Here, he pauses, irrationally unwilling. He can recognize this is related to the fact that they're in the bath, that he's blown past nearly every line he has tried to draw in one fell swoop, but neither can he seem to stop himself from avoiding, futilely trying to draw that line once again. ]
Does it matter? There are countless history books littered with the remnants of lives I led. You could always peruse those.
[ A cup manifests itself from nowhere, scooping water from the bath to start rinsing Viktor's hair, starting with the back. With each cup of water emptied, his other hand works through Viktor's hair from scalp to the ends of the curls, treating ridding him of the suds with the same single-minded attention as he does his work. When the back of his hair is no longer thick with suds he works on one side, then the other, careful each time not to spill water into his ears. ]
It is light. It gets me clean. It leaves room in my pack for other things. No risk of spills.
[ He tics off reasons on slender fingers, pausing between them to steal another drink of wine as Emet-Selch tends to the twists and tangles of his hair, then moves on to rinsing. ]
Of course it m-matters. [ A sullen sigh rushes out of him, sloping his shoulders. Viktor thinks not of lines drawn, of boundaries crossed, of where they once were and find themselves now. No, on his mind are toothless conversations, uncleared air, arguments unresolved because one or the other of them decides to make himself unyielding, impossible.
Then Emet-Selch asks for another soap bottle, and he snorts a laugh. ] Like washing my hair so much you want to do it again, aye?
[ All the same, he reaches for it, grasps the neck and then turns. There is ample room in this tub to do so, to lift himself up, barely clearing the water, and do a half spin. After a second-long moment of dithering spent wondering whether it'd be wholly unwelcome for him to jut his legs around Emet-Selch's torso, Viktor deposits himself before Emet-Selch once more, facing him this time. One curl, slipped loose, near a corkscrew for having finally been nourished with something other than bar soap, sits along the bridge of his nose. His legs, he decides to keep neatly tucked beneath him, lending him a bit of extra height. He mislikes it. The air is far too cold, and even the wine warming his face and shoulders is little help. But it will do for now. ]
Aye, and you could get my whole and true story from Lord Edmont's memoirs, or Alphinaud's letters home, or all the little reports Garlemald surely wrote about the terror stalking the woods beyond Baelsar's Wall, I am sure. [ He clutches the green bottle against his bare chest, not willing to give it up quite yet. ] Were I to visit a history book, 'twould take me two b-bells to read ten pages, and aught I'd learn, I am sure, would have been edited and s-sensationalized to pure fiction by your own hand!
[ He emphasizes that last bit with three taps of the bottom of the wine bottle against Emet-Selch's chest, then holds it out in offering, still keeping the green bottle close, like a dog with a toy. A beat of silence follows, and Viktor settles, expression softening as he studies Emet-Selch's features. ]
[ He utilized the same rationale while on the road, on one of the many roads of conquest, if he's being honest, but they are not on one, they are relatively safe, relatively secure. Now, he likes his little creature comforts as much as Hythlodaeus did back in the day, when Emet-Selch hadn't understood but had supported his lengthy bathing endeavors and desire to go eat at places that grew their food rather than creating it. ]
What?
[ The question jars him so badly he pauses in his careful study of the curl, the itch in his hands to reach out and twirl it around his finger idly. Of course. He just uses soap. Maddening. More maddening- he thinks this is how his ex-wife felt, sitting him down and explaining the use of every single bottle. This, for skin, this for hair, this for nails, a dozen little maintenance needs, all for the perception of others. He understood once explained of course - no different than the different materials and trims to present a perception to the masses, to those they engaged with daily.
Viktor does not have the same needs, and Emet-Selch does not either, but for better or worse he's gotten used to the little comforts. ]
At risk of derailing if you are attempting an actual bath in its full completion, there are other items we use besides - [ Viktor leans, adjusts, and clasp the bottle like he thinks Emet-Selch will abscond with it. ] - soap.
As to the matter of your letters - if you struggle so, we can add that to our morning instruction. 'Tis no different than any other skillset or ability; practice is key.
[ That's not the point, he's willfully ignoring the point with each thud of the bottle against his chest, plucking it away when it's finally offered but frowning at the green bottle being kept from him. ]
Because you are insatiably curious about even the most inconsequential facts of someone's life. [ The observation is not delivered as condemnation or criticism, there is warm, low admiration as he holds the bottle, leaned back against the water-warmed stone to look at Viktor properly where he's settled. ] Because you care about these little inconsequential moments more than any person on this shard or the next. But she is long since passed on, reborn, with a new name, a new life, and the likelihood of our paths ever crossing in any meaningful way is negligible.
[ The wine bottle is settled on the lip and he reaches outward to try and grasp the bottle, but does not fight if Viktor does not allow him it. ]
[ True enough, but beside the point and murmured as such, quiet, off-handed, while Emet-Selch goes on. Though he is, beyond a doubt, a peerless warrior, he is not so deft with his words, and he knows it. Battles, Viktor can win. Debates, not so much. Still, this matters. Ordinarily, one of Emet-Selch's other little dangled threads might've caught him, carried him off, leaving the larger topic to sit unresolved - Emet-Selch made the victor by default - but he does not permit that to happen this time. ]
Aht! [ He juts a finger forward, scolding. Then a second, and a third, as he makes his points. ] Only half right. And near a th-third wrong.
[ Though he does not let the green bottle go, he does allow Emet-Selch to grasp it. Viktor looses one hand, and as he so often does, uses it to help coax his words from his lungs, weaving sound into meaning with a flapping hand and wiggled fingers. ]
I ask, and you think of her, aye? You h-hear her a little, do you not? Perhaps not exact, but the voice that memory serves you. Close enough. [ He touches fingers to his thumb as he speaks, staring at his hand like it's helping him remember what he wishes to say. ] Each bottle, a purpose. Each soap slightly different from the others. The tink and clink of half-used bottles. Color cast by light through glass. The smell of all her tinctures, in sum, left on clothes and skin and- [ A pause, he's getting away from himself. Focus. ] What she said, it mattered to her, and then... it made sense and it mattered to you. Enough that you changed.
[ Grown tired of the cold clinging to his damp skin, Viktor shifts, sinking lower into the water as he unfolds one leg and lets it rest over Emet-Selch's thigh. The other, moved slightly to the side. ]
She is gone. Her soul cycled anew. But, here in this moment, you recall, and the she that she was and the you that you were are real. Remembered. Carried. That is why I ask. And because I want to know the name of the woman willful enough to change your mind. And because...
[ He leans a little closer, eyes on the foggy water now, unwilling to meet Emet-Selch's eye. ]
In the future. Five years, ten, maybe m-more, when we are done and the star is healed and we have friends visiting us at our little s-spring home in... Hm- in Thavnair, let's say. Maybe one happens to need use our facilities and they spy our absurd collection of little bottles and they- they decide to tease me for it. [ Another break, considering, one eye squinted shut. ] In which case it must be Alisaie or Estinien — then I will have a story to tell them, about the woman who changed your mind and then mine, as well. And she will be real again in that moment, too.
[ Viktor hazards tipping his mismatched eyes back up to meet Emet-Selch's gaze and then offers up the green bottle. ]
Here is your soap. Which is definitely not just soap, but the sequel to soap. Soap, p-part two.
[ He files that information into place along with Viktor's other requests - ones he doesn't outright address in the moment, but actively tries to enact when and where it is within his power. Long since used to reading from parchment or tomestone while public speaking, the thought doesn't bother him- the avoidance of the idea of studying does, to an extent, but he can push the subject at another time. ]
Only a third.
[ He does recall.
He'd rather he didn't. The difficulty of memory is not one easily solved; they identified and used crystals to store knowledge, but that did not solve the issue of one's own memory failing. Countless new memories overwriting old ones, the most treasured washed away under the weight of those atop. He could store as much as possible within crystals, but it was only a temporary solution.
Foolish, to be irritated at a woman long since dead, and insult to injury to know she is not really the problem. The problem is an intangible one that can't be solved with time, money, magic. ]
Lucilia.
[ He will not make this a fight, or a discussion, or some sort of attempt at a lesson on why their lives are like a candle, just a flicker of time before the next life replaces them. Wilful ignorance about the point Viktor is making is not the course of action. That, he supposes, is progress. Just like sitting here naked in the middle of a bath with company is progress of a sort. Just like the desire to touch and be touched by someone else is progress.
Gently, he fits his fingers around the line of Viktor's ankle, skimming fingers over the thin layer of skin and then further up, and makes an idle path back and forth from knee to ankle. Or, it would be idle were it not for how focused he seems on the motion, dragging his thumb along Viktor's calf to trace muscle, swirling a glancing touch over the bit of knee bared by the water. ]
Thavnair, is it? Awfully warm there. To say nothing of the dragon, with whom I think you must needs confirm my welcome.
[ The bottle ends up in his hand, but he cannot say victory is his clean and simple. Regretfully he tugs the hand tracing Viktor's leg back so he can thumb down the nozzle once, twice, and then after a considering look at Viktor's curls, a third time. Rosemary and something faintly floral are immediately evident, even if the floral notes are overwhelmed by the former. Gingerly, he rises up until he can get his knees beneath himself and reaches out to start working it through Viktor's curls carefully from roots to end, smoothing unruly curls back when they fall into his eyes. While he mislikes the cold in general, so much time in Garlemald means he bears the chill with minimal complaint, far more focused on the task at hand.
In hand. ]
Do not rinse this right away. Sit. Soak. [ Viktor's hair is countless times shorter than hers had been, and so it is not overly difficult to finish quickly, grimacing as his knees protest. Settled again in his spot, he tugs Viktor's leg back into place. Belatedly, not quite hesitant but not a declaration, foggier as he strains for the memory. ] Hers smelled of mint. Imported in frankly absurd quantities. Dried in a room I orchestrated to be next to my office.
[ Because it covered countless smells he would rather not have smelled by someone walking past. He does not point this out. ]
[ The water sloshes as he shrugs. And the smile he offers up in exchange for the name is bright and pleased, unburdened by the weight of the day. The first genuine show of sunlight since they'd arrived on this icy reflection of home. Wildly gratifying, to have earned his answer. He can admit as much to himself.
Even better, to be touched, explored by calloused fingers. All that scholar's focus devoted to the study of skin and muscle, intoxicating. Emet-Selch's hand skirts up his leg, fingertips finding each slope and curve of sinew, glancing off his thigh as they pass up and over his knee, and Viktor does not bother to stop himself from shivering. He closes his eyes, losing himself in the motion, each pass kindling for the fire Viktor is increasingly disinterested in keeping banked low.
Oh, to know all the little details. All the people who have mattered to Hades. But. More pressing is this: to be the sole focus of all that ages old, heavy attention, to be such a distraction that a man who has seen all life has to offer cannot even pretend he wants to keep his hands to himself. Viktor relishes being as precious, as interesting, as the books and reports and odds and ends Emet-Selch is ever poring over, and tries not to pout too plainly when the study session comes to an end.
He opens one eye when Emet-Selch rises, spies the jagged outline of mottled flesh interrupting otherwise flawless skin, and decides it is his turn to learn. With his own hands now free, he does not hesitate to press greedy fingers to skin. Admiring his own handiwork, he thinks wryly, tracing the outline enjoying the warmth of the body beneath his palms. He resists pressing his mouth to skin as well, but only just. ]
Our spring home. [ He repeats, breathing in herbs and flowers. Familiar. It reminds him of his own clothes, his blankets, the inside of his pack. ] Where we will spend a few weeks when it is still miserably cold across Eorzea. Big, open windows, and a v-view of the sea. A little garden and a workshop for all your projects. Mm. [ His fingertips wander to trace the slope of Emet-Selch's waist, not grasping, just mapping his form. ] As for Vrtra, I think you underestimate how readily the people, even dragons, will forgive one who has d-done right by them.
[ He does not doubt it will be difficult, presenting the truth of things to the star. But, it will be worth it, to fight for Hades's place in this world they will have made. Perhaps, for a time, that will be his cause - illuminating all the ways in which Hades belongs, both to the people, and to the man, himself.
Emet-Selch settles back into the bath, guiding Viktor's leg where he wants it, and Viktor takes a few seconds to consider the feel of so much soap-that-is-not-soap set in his hair. He lifts a hand, lights fingers on the sticky substance run through his curls, and pulls a dubious face. Though it feels odd, the smell is nice, and he would endure the torment of sitting and waiting again if it meant Emet-Selch might slide fingers through his hair, working through tangles with a surgeon's gentle precision and shaping curls like an artist. ]
Mint. [ He murmurs, sliding a little closer, slow, testing the distance. How close can he press, before they find the new line? ] Crisp, cooling, green. Unignorable. A good scent for c-clearing one's head. Lucilia... had some good ideas. But I have better ones.
[ Like how to spend the next few minutes, waiting for this new fragrant gunk in his hair to set. Viktor tangles damp fingers in Emet-Selch's hair. ]
[ He wants to point out that maybe, some of Viktor's life would be easier if he were more cruel, if he did not bend so easily to give grace to those who did not deserve it, including himself.
He doesn't, cognizant enough to recognize that is a losing battle. Why would he, when Viktor has reached out and is touching him like he's something precious, tracing the line where mottled flesh sits upon his chest so gently it is almost difficult to imagine those same hands enacting the (somewhat deserved) violence in the first place. Against his will, his skin prickles, goosebumps rising in response to the chill and Viktor's careful exploration. ]
I think that may be true for those who've committed what they might consider less...contentious crimes. For this... [ This is not the conversation they want to have here, now, Emet-Selch thinks. There is too much to go over. There are too many moving parts, too much to consider. They would want punishment. There would be those who would push for a penalty of some kind - he could pay any bill that came due if they assessed what he 'owed' as a monetary cost, easily. They could put him to death, but it would not take, and he has watched this play out too many times not to know what comes next. Those who realized and understood his nature would fall into two groups, maybe three. Ones who deemed him too powerful to exist, and would seek to add limitations, if not outright lock him up in perpetuity. Those who would attempt to shackle his abilities. And worst: those who would disregard the past and focus only on the fact he is, to them, a godlike being. One immune to illness, to death, who has lived countless lifetimes.
The Word of Emet-Selch could be exhausting enough. He did not like to think about what a cult would look like. ]
We shall see, I suppose. No sense borrowing trouble where there is not any yet.
[ If they survive, and if the dragons and those they've left have survived, it would be worthwhile for him to make a visit to Vrtra at the very least. Largely, he'd left the dragons alone out of respect for them, but there were plenty of pies with his fingers in them that had caused them no small bit of hardship. Emet-Selch would understand if the dragons' long memory was not so easily sated with an apology.
Distracted, he nearly misses the shift of Viktor inching closer, the slosh of the water drawing his attention back to the present, focusing on Viktor rather than a thousand malms away, trying to plot and plan. Obedient, Emet-Selch leans in just enough to press a lingering kiss against the inside of Viktor's wrist where his pulse beats beneath thin, soft skin. Another, careful not to jostle Viktor's hand from his damp hair, cheek pressed against Viktor's arm as he obeys the command, looking up at him through the fringe of displaced hair with a little smirk. ]
Would you care to be more specific in your instruction?
[ Wargames, plots, and plans - how busy that mind, making maps of every potential. Had Aepymetes helped him, once upon a time? Run his fingers along the threads that Viktor is still too frightened to touch, guiding his hand toward the best outcomes? He hasn't a clue, and only wishes he were braver, cleverer, so that he might help in some real way - might relieve Emet-Selch of the constant cranking of gears in his head, if only for a little while.
But then, in the end, it seems that he's the one caught needing coaxing out of his own head. Emet-Selch manages it with little more than a brush of lips, a kiss that arcs levin up every nerve in Viktor's body. For a few seconds, he's incandescent He shifts, squirms, breathes a faint huff of laughter. ]
You've trouble enough h-here.
[ Mischief plays across Emet-Selch's features, deliciously, boyishly arrogant, and it might as well be a hurricane the way it hits him. Makes maple seeds of Viktor's insides, unsettled, scattered, and spinning. High in his throat, Viktor's breath catches. His fingers flex in Emet-Selch's hair, thumb easing slow circles against his scalp.
No, he thinks to say. No, do with me what you will. Love me as much as you care to. Use me as you'd like. Except-
Except he needn't pretend to be the people's perfect hero, the servant, the steward. He needn't shrink himself to nothing to please someone else. He needn't fear 'no'.
It still takes him a moment, though. His mind all hot fog, a mess of buzzing bees and embers, little ideas, hot to the touch. He spends those seconds staring, admiring the brilliant firefly gleam of Emet-Selch's eyes, the unbearable bend of his mouth. The gods are lost, if they ever existed at all, but stars, that mouth could coax a real prayer from Viktor's lips. Could make him devoted to something, again.
That's what he wants. To worship. To be worshipped. ]
I want you to... press closer. [ Careful, quiet, he speaks, not wanting to stutter. Viktor slides back until his shoulders meet cool stone. And he thinks it's a wonder the ceaseless pounding of his heart does not send ripples across the surface of the water. ] Touch me. Hand starting on my hip. Explore. Kiss me, slow. In a line, up my arm. To my neck. L-linger there- [ Ludicrous, how his voice threatens to crack as he creeps closer to his want, like he's some spring violet, some too eager boy. Emet-Selch asks so little of him. If he wants instruction, it can at least be clear. He stops, takes a breath, and swallows, wetting a mouth gone impossibly dry, grasping the certainty of his hunger.
Fire flickers in his gaze as he looks, considers. Then, low, firm, he adds, ] Linger, 'til you've left a mark.
[ Emet-Selch tilts his head into the press of Viktor's hand, thinking for a moment the action is not too unlike a dog attempting to incentivize further pets, but he discards that thought just as quickly. Does it matter? Is he not allowed the indulgence here, of all places?
For a long, syrupy slow moment, they simply look at each other. Viktor stares like he sees something worth studying at length, and Emet-Selch finds that he is not so inclined to recoil back from being perceived. A shard dares to look at him with anything other than deferential awe, and instead of irritation, he basks in the warmth like the sun's rays. ]
One of these days, when we are back on the First, I will make a proper mess of you.
[ Viktor slides back, gives him a full canvas to work from as he stretches out in the bath and slowly, careful of sloshing water over the edges of the bath, Emet-Selch prowls after him and obeys instruction. He settles on his knees between Viktor's parted thighs, curving a hand around Viktor's wrist to bring his hand close, brushing a cursory kiss over damp knuckles while his other hand plants itself upon Viktor's hip.
A laugh steals from him at the way Viktor's voice goes unsteady with want, but it is not mean, it is low, satisfied. Smug, that he wrests this much of a reaction from the other man at the barest hint of attention, unbearably pleased. He lavishes too much attention on Viktor's hand, perhaps, finally moving onward to brush a kiss where he had earlier against the inside of his wrist. Higher, until he is forced to scoot forward a little gracelessly to continue obeying, kissing slowly along the swell of lean muscle to his shoulder, pressing his face into the curve of Viktor's throat for a moment with a sigh. His other hand strokes up and down his flank gently, making a map of him once again, skimming down to graze the jut of a hip and then up over his belly with enough firm intent he hopes it does not threaten to tickle. Viktor takes an intentional breath, and Emet-Selch pauses to allow him it, caught up in the scent of soap and conditioner and, underneath everything, the familiar scent of him. ]
An impermanent one, regrettably. [ Emet-Selch murmurs, and presses lingering kisses until he reaches roughly where his collar sits. A pause, and then he retreats briefly to eye the graceful line of Viktor's throat, where he can remember the collar of most of his clothing sitting, and then leans in to smear a line of kisses up to the right spot. Gentle at first, and then intent, raising blood up with teeth and tongue until when he leans back to admire his work there is an undeniable mark there, where anyone could see regardless of nearly any shirt Viktor has brought.
There are jackets they wear, of course, which will hide most of his attentions, but they do not wear thick, heavy jackets within the court and something awful and possessive stirs in him to think of those wandering eyes settled upon Viktor, knowing the marks left there are not their own. He repeats the process once satisfied with the sight, the hand at his waist dipping down to the small of his back to adjust him incrementally, fitting his thighs beneath Viktor's so he's tilted back against the wall, boxed in. A haphazard series of flushing bruises dot Viktor's throat by the time he's finally satisfied, pulling back with a smug little tilt to his lips. ]
Nothing but what you ask for, hero. What would you have of me next?
One of these days... [ He echoes, watching hungrily as Hades climbs closer, working from wrist to shoulder with devoted focus. Slow, reverent, as instructed, coaxing more heat to already bath-warmed skin. Viktor welcomes him in with an outstretched arm, grasping his waist, fingers tapping an urgent, meandering rhythm. ]
We will find the time. And the means-
[ His muscles twitch, palm at Hades waist squeezing. A sharp hitch of breath, then a softer laugh, as Hades presses fingers to his stomach. It is indeed ticklish, gone too long without touch, made newly sensitive. But he does not let it interrupt their work. Hades has a task to complete, after all, and Viktor laces fingers back into his hair, guiding, encouraging. He smiles. ]
-And a place for you to rob me of sense on every reflection. Oh.
[ Viktor lets his head loll back, shuts his eyes as Emet-Selch's teeth graze the point where his pulse roars. ]
G-good. Like that. [ He whispers, dragging fingers through his hair, the movement insistent, and not quite gentle. A match for the sweet prickle of bruising skin.
An impermanent mark, perhaps, but hadn't Hades staked his claim more than a year ago? He may not have had a direct hand in filling Viktor with Light, may not have cultivated the flowers that now sprout from his skin, but it was he who made them permanent. Dark brought to bear against Light, preserving his soul, pressing it to right shape, the way he now presses lilies between the pages of his books. Claimed and kept. And now, while they are here, all who care to look will see what Viktor knows, feels: that he belongs to Emet-Selch, is his, has always been.
A soft hum of pleasure hikes to a wanting whine when Hades pulls him up and into his lap. Heedless of the mess they might make, Viktor wraps his legs around Hades's waist. Water sloshes up and over the sides of the tub, splattering on the stone floor, and Viktor chuckles again, low and pleased. Another bruise, and another — always above and beyond with Hades. Ever eager.
Viktor does not open his eyes until Hades had pulled away, squeezing hair and hip in protest, but even then it takes him a moment, breath shallow and face flushed. He embraces the high, hot, heady feeling that arcs up from the dip between his thighs to every nerve in his body. The roar of his pulse somehow grows fiercer when he opens his eyes, realizes that he's surrounded. ]
Closer. [ He breathes, almost pleading. ] Press against me. I want to f-feel how I excite you.
[ Dimly, he's always been aware of how much taller, broader, bigger Hades is, but sat in his lap, with nothing separating slick skin save soapy water, the difference is newly intoxicating. Made near unbearable, knowing that Hades intends not to fight, to wrestle for control, but to obey.
Viktor licks his lips, stealing composure between thundering thumps of his heartbeat. He stares, lips parted, wisteria eyes fixed with hungry, animal focus. ]
You are fond of my hands, aren't you?
[ Voice dark, sweet and slow as pomegranate molasses, Viktor puts to words what he has known for quite some time. Proof glimpsed in sketchbook pages, in the fall of Hades's gaze when Viktor works Creation, in how his attention lingers on knuckles, on palms, on wrists. ]
And I do l-love that gorgeous mouth.
[ Viktor lifts a hand, not quite touching fingertips to the soft swell of Hades's lower lip. Wanting to indulge, but holding himself back. Wanting, more, for Hades to indulge, himself. He waits, one second, two, listening to the rhythm of their matched breaths, realizing that Hades truly does intend to make him ask, to coax his want, always so hidden away as to nearly go forgotten, from him. Water beads at his wrist, falls in a fat drop, and the sound as it hits the bath beneath feels almost deafening. ]
Lick them. Kiss them. Sh-show me- show me how much you like them.
[ They are prohibited from creating creatures with souls, to say nothing of how functionally difficult such a task would be. He thinks he could. His unintentional act of creating Hythlodaeus- shade or not - was a bit of creation that had sprouted a little too much, a little too far. Maybe his heart hadn't been truly in it, or the guilt had been too strong, though, because Hythlodaeus had been insubstantial compared to the rest of the city, smoke and mirrors; Emet-Selch tried, tries not to think of that, too, as another on the list of his many failures.
Why it was not allowed doesn't matter; in this moment Emet-Selch is painfully aware he could not hope to adequately recreate this: the way Viktor's breath hitches, the exact curve of his smile, the crinkle at the corners of his eyes, the exact warmth of his skin. All of it would be inadequate, no matter how precisely he tried to recreate.
Viktor's hand works through his hair, firm and insistent, and Emet-Selch swallows against the visualization of Viktor winding it around his hand, tugging him firmly where he'd like Emet-Selch to go. Water sloshes and Emet-Selch pauses an instant before reminding himself they're not somewhere that he has to care about the mess they make, necessarily. There's no wooden floorboards of a loft to leak through, threatening to ruin books. There's nothing but cold stone beneath the warmth of the bath.
Viktor requests; Emet-Selch obeys. He brackets Viktor in against the wall of the bath, dares to press as much of himself against the other man as he is able, and thinks ridiculously of wishing to consume him, to keep him safe the same way Zodiark had their people for millennia.
Perhaps the most frustrating part is that his body does not wish to cooperate fully even here; he's hard, has been partially hard since Viktor first stepped in the room and began disrobing, since potentiality became reality. He doesn't expect the unpleasant addition of nerves, though, the flicker of guilt at distraction, at not being able to fulfill Viktor's simple ask. The sensation of bare, wet skin against equally bare, wet skin is not, could not be unpleasant, and he savors it, pressing a hand against the spot between Viktor's shoulderblades to prevent him from scraping his back when Emet-Selch hefts him and adjusts the both of them more comfortably. ]
Is it so obvious?
[ Mortification isn't quite the right word, but there's the faintest hint of embarrassment at being so painfully transparent. He is fond of Viktor's hands, terribly so, but he'd hoped that would be something he'd keep to himself, foolishly. Now, Viktor's given word to the sensation, made it more real and Emet-Selch does not deny the observation.
Worse, better, he doesn't know, is the fact that Viktor gives instructions after the long, stretched out moment of silence between them. A dog, he thinks, and then amends the thought. A worshiper, at an altar. Neither thought does anything to quell the heat pooling in his belly; instead, he finds it acts as breath to a fledgling flame, coaxing it hotter.
With the same attention he'd spent lavishing on Viktor's throat, Emet-Selch takes the outstretched hand with an almost courtly gesture and presses a kiss against his palm, lingering. Another to each fingertip, chasing soapy droplets with his tongue, not overly minding the faintly salty bath tinged sour with soaps and shampoo. Feeling only faintly ridiculous, he presses his face into the outstretched hand, another kiss against the palm and then laves his tongue across index and middle finger, thinking again about consumption, about winding, weaving Viktor into himself so inextricably no one could hope to part them. He licks water droplets from his fingers and then sucks, eyes sliding shut, the hand not grasping Viktor's wrist plotting an idle path up his belly, sweeping up over his chest to graze a thumb against a nipple, nipping at the fingers lightly on the withdraw to catch a breath, to look at Viktor again. ]
I could do naught but watch them while you work and be remarkably close to content.
[ Water whispers protest as Hades moves. Closer, closer, skin meeting skin, and Viktor feels a little ridiculous for thinking of nothing so romantic as puzzle pieces or the sun spilling light over its much loved earth, but of a dislocated shoulder slotted neatly back into place. A feeling of sharply aching rightness.
He welcomes Hades with an open palm. The hand not grasped slips back to flatten over vertebrae, fingers pressing firm enough to mold clay as they slide down the shape of him, finding the exit scar carved into his back. Surrounded by Hades, his body, his smell, his aether, there is still this: a signature. His signature, his soul - as it is now, not some older, better model - writ across skin, across blood and organ, bone and marrow. A through and through, staking claim, not so entirely different from the 'gGg' embroidered into so many of the little things Emet-Selch has made him over these last moons - a secret for just the two of them, you are mine, mine, mine.
Viktor sighs as he studies, bright, hungry sound, lets fingernails scrape shallow lines into pale flesh as Hades adjusts them both once more. Stars, pressed this close even the barrier between them feels gossamer thin. Like he could look through and glimpse, grasp every thought, every feeling. Like he could dig fingers into the soil of Hades's soul to set roots, to fill the fissures time and torment have left in him with flowers, to build a home and make the both of them more whole.
It's a frightening feeling, but for the first time, he refuses to let it go. ]
Mayhap I have only noticed because I cannot keep my eyes off of you. [ Murmured, soft, sensing the twinge of embarrassment.
Viktor watches, transfixed, as Hades pays each finger a reverence that he would not allow from anyone else, and has to stop himself from miming the motion when Emet-Selch's mouth closes around his fingertips. Small blessings that the bath has already left his skin flushed, because as that tongue curls around each finger, he can feel a newer, hungrier heat creeping up, making every shallow, panted breath hot.
Hades swipes a hand over his chest, catches a nipple as his teeth graze fingertips, and a quiet moan slips past Viktor's lips. From worshiped idol to Emet-Selch's needy creature in mere seconds. Embarrassing. He laughs, again. Likes that he feels safe, exhaling some measure of that still building heat. ]
I suppose I can accept close to con-t-tent.
[ His flushed and flustered features bend into a cocky grin. Viktor leans in, draping his other arm over Hades's shoulder, meaning to press in for a kiss but stopping short. First, he indulges in a bit of simple softness, brushing the bridges of their noses together, and then abruptly he angles his head. Presses his mouth to the sharp corner of Hades's jaw. He makes his way up from there, leaving a line of kisses from cheek to ear, murmuring in-between each one. ]
'Twould by my pleasure to put them to work for you, however you might need.
[ Viktor catches Hades's earlobe between his teeth, nibbling before he tips his chin up and whispers, ] I hope, someday, you will permit me to make a proper mess of you.
[ Briefly, he regrets. Foolish as it is, there is a part of him that thinks this cannot last and he is horrifically torn between two options: end it now before it has the potential to destroy both of them, or let it continue, and know that losing, failing, would shatter him as easily as another sundering.
But is that not the point of what they do? Savoring the small moments, the impossibility of being alive. They do not have time for indulgences, but they must make time. That lesson, at least, he has internalized. They spent so much time in Amaurot thinking they had forever, and then in the wake of everything Emet-Selch could only think about how much time they had wasted, taken for granted. He did not wish to make the same mistake here. ]
Surely you've more important tasks to attend to than watching me.
[ Said, as though the thought of being watched so intently does not act as supplemental kindling to the fire already built in his belly. Emet-Selch hides a smile against Viktor's palm at the noise he manages to wrest from the other man, inordinately pleased, and then tips his head back up in anticipation of the kiss he thinks is imminent only to find Viktor distracted with dropping kisses anywhere but. He cannot truly protest, not when he hadn't realized that his earlobes were so sensitive, a direct line from where Viktor's mouth lingers straight to his half-hard cock, stealing nothing so uncontrolled as a moan from him but there is a sharp, soft intake of breath, the flex of Emet-Selch's hands briefly against Viktor. ]
Oh, I think you've succeeded in that several times over.
[ If Viktor will not close the distance, Emet-Selch will, heedless of the fact it was not a command Viktor had made; he doesn't think Viktor would hold this want against him. Tilting his head, he chases Viktor until he can drop a kiss against his lips, missing the first time and tasting water, conditioner, very nearly snickering as he pulls back before the action can be anything other than a graze. ]
Rinse. There is a perfectly serviceable bed not three yalms away and I would greatly enjoy seeing you spread out upon its sheets.
From time to time I do indulge in what I want, rather than what needs must be done. [ The cheeky grin he puts on is intercepted by a press of lips. The urgency of it sends a burst of warm frisson rushing up Viktor's spine, the clumsiness touching that heat with a sweetness that makes him wriggle his shoulders. Soap and soaking salts are not necessarily pleasant tastes, but they will be filed neatly, forever more, among his favorite things, his most well-savored memories. A mote of bright light in the dark, like dandelions peeking up through cracks in Crystarium streets. ] H-hard to believe, I know.
[ He chases, just an ilm, before he is the one given orders. Viktor stops short of stealing another kiss, derailing their whole conversation again, and does not bother to mask how pleased he is to be directed; smile broad and hungry, as much hot chili in it as as sugar. ]
It is quite cold, you know. You best be prepared to keep me warm.
[ Still lingering in Emet-Selch's space, Viktor reaches back, haphazardly groping for the stone stopper plugging the tub drain. With a rattle, groan, and gurgle, the water level begins to drop. Viktor fumbles next for the faucet without looking, grin still pointed Emet-Selch's way as he turns knobs behind him. Fresh water spills from the tap, and he bends back without waiting for it to warm, ducking his head beneath the stream, gripping his ears with one hand to protect them from water, and wringing conditioner from his hair with the other until the water runs clean.
He sits back up, reluctant to leave the warmth of the tub just yet, even as the water level continues to fall. Viktor wastes a few seconds squeezing excess water from his hair, gentle waves springing up into tight curls for the first time in longer than he can remember.
Perhaps there is something to all these silly little bottles after all. Perhaps there is something to a bit of luxury. Perhaps Lucilia was right.
Only once he's girded himself against the cold does he rise, performatively slow, even if he mislikes the cold air. He fetches a towel, hip jutting out at an angle as he dries his ears, then his shoulders and torso and tail, before slinging it around his waist and climbing finally from the tub.
Here, he stops in spite of the chilly air. Turns to watch Emet-Selch with the sort of interest of someone whose paid to see a show, and takes two steps back toward the bed -- their bed. ]
[ He infuses every bit of dubiousness he can into repeating Viktor's words, but leaves it alone afterward, unwilling to unintentionally strike a chord when he only means to poke fun. His reward is Viktor's smile, just the sight of it twisting something in his stomach. It's not arousal - or well, it's not just arousal he feels, but a vicious greedy sort of satisfaction for being any bit of why Viktor looks like that - looks at him like that. ]
Rest assured I've no intention of freezing to death or losing any limbs to the chill.
[ Nor does he have any desire to wrest himself from the warmth of the bath even as it drains, too focused on chasing waterdroplets with his eyes as they bead and roll down Viktor's skin once he's done rinsing his hair clean. A shame, to muss it when the curls are almost neat but there is nothing that prevents them from taking a second bath. Leaning against the bathwater-warmed stone to watch Viktor's little show, Emet-Selch grabs for the wine and, after a beat of hesitation - of weighing need, necessity, and the simple desire to show off - snaps.
Where candlelight used to give off nothing but a vague, wobbling light, it feels as if each one has doubled or tripled in size. The fireplace coughs ash upward through the chimney and fresh logs appear, already blazing within the hearth. As Viktor approaches the bed, he'll notice it, too, radiates a low, warm heat; fire crystals have appeared tucked in the corners of the duvet, ensuring the bed is as warm as the room is soon to be.
Only then does he rise, a towel snapped into position around his hips. He doesn't need modesty where he's going - where they're going, but old habits die hard. Goldenrod had called him a prude with witch-cackling delight and irritatingly, he found it wasn't a wholly inaccurate summation. Even all these years later he hasn't fully shaken off the desire to be clad head to toe in shapeless, formless robes. For now, a towel will have to do. ]
What would be your general disposition if I stated I was far more interested in indulging in you this evening? As opposed to a more - [ he pauses, stepping out of the bath, trying to find a less clinical set of words. ] - mutual agreement.
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. ]
[ Silly is not a word often used to describe him, but there is, he supposes, a first time for everything. A far more suitable word for Viktor, who seems not just to delight in the levity but actively relish it. Blessedly, there is no comment about the use of magic, no inquiries about why, if he had the power to make the room a little less cold and miserable, he had not adjusted the temperature until Viktor had arrived.
But then, Viktor seems awfully distracted by him. He was, and is, relatively attractive for a given meaning of the word. Enough so that he'd had no shortage of people seeking courtships until he had been firmly off the table and even then, found himself complaining to Aepymetes or Hythlodaeus about those who were unsatisfied with a rejection - as if they could ever hope to match the two of them in any meaningful capacity. It is, he thinks, not wholly unpleasant to be wanted so viscerally, so obviously. Certainly less disagreeable than he had anticipated.
I've never, I usually-. Emet-Selch lets him work through the response he wants to give on his slow prowl from bath to bed once he's considered the room and snapped into place a rug, massive enough to provide ample warmth instead of bare feet on cold stone to the bathroom later. Only then does he pad across the distance to the other man, considering the warm flush to his skin, the scatter of freckles and the insane desire to ensure he doesn't leave this room without kissing each of them. ]
I had assumed. [ Mildly, not judgmental, exactly, but there is a tone there; judgmental of those who came before, maybe.
Of course, others had not cared for Viktor in the same way. Of course, they were more concerned with the petty day-to-day or even pettier wants than Viktor's own. Emet-Selch leans in close enough to graze a kiss against the furrowed brow, rewarded with the warmth of Viktor's smile, far eclipsing any magical heat he could muster. Mine, as gods have worshippers. Mine, as a hound's master.. It is, he thinks, not so horrible to be kept, to belong to someone so inextricably that it has lasted countless lifetimes and souls. ] I was clear that night, was I not?
[ Gingerly, he hooks two fingers into the front of Viktor's towel, not pulling but there is a tension, the threat, or maybe promise of removing it. ]
You give until you've nothing left to give. What I desire is for you to reach out with both hands and to take.
[ There are a few incontrovertible truths about their star. Or there should be. Or, people take comfort in saying that there are. And so there are. Until too many folks find out that even the incontrovertible is exactly the thing it claims not to be - perfectly wrong in a few interesting instances and probably wrong in some boring ones, too - and then there's trouble.
(And while trouble is certainly something Viktor bumps into on the regular, his preference is to avoid that particular sort. Toying with status quo of common wisdom is a bit below his pay grade at this point, if he's honest.)
But, incontrovertible truths - like the notion that a soul is stripped of all it was upon its return to the Sea; memories dismantled as the soul sinks, as it dreams, flaking away like so much paint, 'til only the blank canvas remains. Unless-
Unless you are two souls who so love to lie in sunlight together that you find each other across ten thousand years, from an island in the sky to a more conventional one set in the sea, to nap. Unless you are a brilliant, too soft-hearted scientist, overseeing the creation of new life upon a vast, flying research center, over and over, in search of meaning. Unless you are the split threads of the same beleaguered smith, the same gallant knight, the same cutthroat merchant, the same stern scholar, dancing the same dance across time, across worlds.
Then, the incontrovertible starts courting controversy. And that's not Viktor's business. He can enjoy the quiet satisfaction of knowing without ruining anyone else's day.
Anyway, the point is, twelve thousand years ago, AzemAepymetes Viktor made a game of reaching out, of grasping and plucking threads to make the music that most pleased his ear, of choosing and taking. Of chasing what he wanted, even if it meant leaving what he loved in the dark. And for that grave sin - or perhaps for no reason at all - he and all he loved was made blood, burned to ash, and split fourteen ways.
He does not remember any of this, precisely - and he shouldn't imprecisely, either, if the incontrovertible is truly thus - but it is all there. For ages upon ages, across eras and bodies, he felt it, did his best to show the star he'd learnt a lesson. He did not want. He walked. He did not take. He gave and gave and gave. And the star responded by burning up again and again and again, each time putting the match in the hand of the man he'd loved most. Until he forgot how to want, how to take, entirely. Until this, too, seemed to become incontrovertible.
It's a good thing that forests sometimes need fires to grow. It's a good thing that, in the span between ashes and new sprouts, one can see the incontrovertible for what it is - something that's only waiting to be controverted in just the right way. Souls are not always wiped clean, and penance does not always mean healing.
Sometimes, a love is too fierce to be blanched away. Sometimes, wanting, taking, and giving are all the same, and have no bearing on whether the world turns to ash.
Viktor reaches up, pressing palms to the line of Hades's jaw and taking his face gently in both hands. He leans in, until the fingers curled around his towel press to the bare skin beneath. He stares up, a hound adoring, a god embracing its most devoted. He needn't reforge himself into something new. He needn't set himself aflame or flee.
He needs only to be here, in this steadily warming room, enjoying the feeling of being enjoyed for exactly what he is - enough, and worth keeping. ]
Is the rug not a little excessive? [ Leveled with teasing glee, smile noon sun bright. ] Come here.
[ He props himself up partway on tip toe and pulls Emet-Selch down the rest of the distance to plant that grin against his mouth. There, he lingers, tipping his head to deepen the kiss, to taste as though he hasn't already sampled this a dozen (a hundred? a thousand?) times already. Because he wants to.
With the ease of one well acquainted with both dances and duels, Viktor turns the both of them until Hades is the one with his back to the bed. One hand drags down, fingers tracing every dip and curve, pressing to skin, until he flattens his palm upon the scar marking Hades's chest. There, he pushes, urging Hades down to the bed with a firm hand, and if the towel around Viktor's waist slips away with him, well- that's just getting their work done faster. ]
Tonight, you are going to imp-p-press me with all the things I know you've been trying not to let yourself think about doing to me. [ Still wearing a smile that is all playful warmth, excitement, he chases, slotting himself into place on Hades's lap, draping arms over his broad shoulders. ] First, though, perhaps a practical exam. Let's see how well you recall my first lesson.
[ He wishes, foolishly, to have had a robe on for all of this. Some sort of barrier even after the bath, perhaps especially after the bath; at least there they had a purpose to distract.
The purpose of coming to the bed is not to sleep, but Emet-Selch is called and so shall he answer, feet moving before his brain has time to even process the gentle command he's given. Only when he's physically pulled does he give some manner of resistance - a moment, can't make it too easy can he? - and then he gives in, gratefully accepting what Viktor offers, heedless of whether or not it is deserved. He'd never admit it, but the kiss serves to ease some of the discomfort of being bare; maybe it's the distraction, maybe it's the want. He doesn't particularly care about the reason so much as the fact that it allows him to be guided, shepherded, he thinks wryly, to sit. ]
And you expect me to recall with perfect clarity while you're - [ There goes the towel, just as Emet-Selch reaches the word you're, abruptly aware of the fact that the only thing Viktor's wearing is that smile. His own - wonderfully plush, thank you - stays set upon his hips through sheer luck but does very little to hide the half-hard swell beneath. This feels a stark contrast to the moment Viktor refers to; where Emet-Selch had the barrier of layers of clothes, a little room and the certainty that he had resisted for thousands of years so he could resist this too. ] Which part would you have me recall first? Your alleged propensity for not wearing smalls during negotiations?
[ Even if he feigns ignorance, the memory is not so old he has forgotten it. Emet-Selch had avoided his ears where possible when washing Viktor's hair; less out of disgust and more out of a desire not to accidentally injure. Now, with a brow furrowed in concentration as if he is magicking a particularly complex item instead of mimicking how Viktor'd touched himself earlier, Emet-Selch traces fingers along Viktor's ear, remapping the path his hands had taken, slower, lighter at first and then he seems to shake himself out. Ridiculous.
His heels plant against the ground, scooting back against the bed ilms and then fitting both hands beneath Viktor's thighs to ensure he brings Viktor with him, giving his knees more purchase upon the bed. Then, it seems a waste not to at least attempt to fulfill the other request, greedily exploring the yalms of bare skin, tracing constellations of freckles on his shoulders, pressing intermittent kisses against them with quiet reverence. ]
There was a question I wished to ask then, but did not. You mentioned we were close to one of your favorite imaginings. [ His fingers trace each knob of Viktor's spine on the path down to his tail, seemingly languid were it not for the intent way Emet-Selch looks up at him. ] I would know what it was.
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The moon to Viktor's sun. There's no spitefulness, no jealousy that arises at the echo of what once was, fundamentally changed by thousands of years. Emet-Selch stretches his legs out, adjusts Viktor a little more comfortably where he reclines, and then greedily, selfishly, winds both arms around him and lets his chin rest against Viktor's mussed curls. ]
One would have to be a little mad to consider what you do on a daily basis.
[ Whether that is intimacy like this with a former enemy, or trotting about different shards, attempting to undo the greatest wrong that has ever been perpetuated upon them, it doesn't matter. Madness either way, Emet-Selch thinks, lifting his hand from the bathwater to trace the smattering of freckles upon Viktor's shoulder with damp fingertips, shuddering out a breath at the press of Viktor's lips. ]
I tired of...making myself less than what I was. [ They had needed to when they arrived in the First - he could not distract from the Warrior, had to be careful not to lose Viktor any trust by being his companion. Now, he thinks, they've achieved enough he can walk amongst them as himself and there is no mistrust. There ought to be, maybe. He half-expects them to have some sort of sense-memory with him, aware he was responsible for most of their ills, but it did not happen. Does not happen. ] Foolish as it was, I thought it fitting. Indicative of the past and the present.
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Even half a turn ago, it would have been unthinkable - not just this, the two of them tangled up, luxuriating in the largest bath Viktor has ever seen, but, more precisely, the absence of guilt, of anxiety. Short though his life has been, both in the grand scheme of things and even for a viera, Viktor had never known much in the way of security. Has never - not with anyone - been comfortable enough to argue, to resist, and know, without a doubt, that he would still be kept, still be loved, not be punished or cast out.
Never, not with anyone - until now.
Emet-Selch dances fingers over his shoulders, inventing constellations of goosebumps and freckles, and Viktor tips his head to give him space to explore. One hand drifts down to his thigh, running fingers along the length of it, the other leaves the water, reaching up to cup his face, tipping it to get a better look at him. The breath he exhales is hot with want, but when he speaks, it is only gentle, adoring. ]
Good. You should not h-hide yourself. Not for anyone. [ Viktor stares up at him, expression serious. ] And I do not think it foolish. Scars are stories. And that story- well- [ His expression smooths, grin easing across his features, fingers pressing at Emet-Selch's thigh. ] -quite the harrowing tale, but it tells of how you came to be mine. And so, I am f-fond.
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He likes how noisy Viktor is when he does nothing more than exist. The absolute opposite of death, embodying light and life and what they were striving to maintain and save. Emet-Selch presses his face into the warm stretch of skin from shoulder to jawline, inhales long and slow and then tips his head in accommodation when Viktor's fingers coax him to move. ]
I find that being myself is - unfamiliar. [ Not an excuse, but a quiet admission, his brows drawing tight before he seems to shake the frustration off as best as he can, instead studying the splash of freckles, the way waterdroplets cling, the dim lighting playing across his skin. He has ever been his duty, but once, he thinks he had known how to maintain duty and sense of self, even if that sense of self had been inextricably twined up in Hythlodaeus and Aepymetes. To their detriment, perhaps. Inhaling, he holds the breath for an instant and then releases, lifting a damp hand to smooth through Viktor's curls. Thoughtlessly, he speaks, turned toward the supplies Viktor had brought in to inspect but not before another pull off the wine bottle and handing that to Viktor once he's done. ]
Get yourself wet, I believe you had a request of me, did you not?
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More than anything, he wants to be comfort. Wants to be safety for Emet-Selch, the way Emet-Selch is for him. He runs his hand up and down the length of Emet-Selch's thigh, letting his fingers glide along the dips in muscle. ]
'Tis the way of wearing masks, aye? It will take time. But we- we will each find what is beneath.
[ Viktor chases him when he turns his head, pressing lips to the dip of his cheek, and then snorting softly, a laugh breathed against Emet-Selch's skin that he is unable to help. ]
Oh, I promise, I am more than halfway there.
[ A grin, another snicker, he slides forward, leaving Emet-Selch's embrace. Viktor takes a quick drink from the bottle as he gathers up his ears in one hand, pressing them flat against his head. The bottle is set aside again before he slips down into the water. This bath, much like Emet-Selch's bed, is ridiculous - only the ocean would be easier to submerge himself in - and as he lingers for a few seconds, surrounded by warmth, he wonders if maybe, some day, they might have themselves something similar and time aplenty for soaking together.
It would be nice.
He surfaces, blinks water from his eyes, and cards his fingers through the wet tangle of his curls. His soaked ears, weighed down by water, don't quite spring back up into place. He retrieves the bottle again as he slots himself back into place between Emet-Selch's legs, eager to be touched again, to be tended to like something precious. ]
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For better or worse.
[ What is beneath the mask, he thinks, is not so different than what he presents. He had simply tailored himself to suit the situation, but was largely relying on aspects of his own personality that were coaxed to the surface in the face of a tragedy. He, like anyone else, had the capacity to do no small amount of damage to the people and places around him, though he did not like to think about the ways he was all too similar to the shattered versions of what was.
Viktor's snickered retort jerks him out of that useless train of thought near-instantly, Emet-Selch sinking back against the stone lip to press his face into his hand briefly, only stopping to take the wine bottle back and drink a second, longer time afterward, setting it aside for Viktor once done. The last time he would have done this is...unimaginably long ago. When the world was whole. When he was whole, instead of a bunch of fragmented pieces hastily glued together by duty, obligation and the weight and pressure of Zodiark.
It cannot be so difficult. Washing is not an overly complex skillset and despite the fluffy ears atop Viktor's head, hair washes the same. Viktor surfaces, returning to him without hesitation where Emet-Selch both anticipates and would understand if there was. He doesn't flinch at the press of Viktor's wet skin against him, doesn't jolt when Viktor finds himself right back between Emet-Selch's legs. He sinks back into the cool stone in contrast to the warmth of Viktor's body and forcibly relaxes.
Viktor had brought soap - shampoo, maybe, and rather than using his own Emet-Selch lifts a dripping hand to start pawing through what Viktor's brought that isn't wine, only to pause, lifting various bars of soap up, doing the mental math and looking at Viktor with a particularly pinched expression. ]
No, we will not be using this. Are you a down on your luck street urchin, spending your last gil on soaps sold by the village soapmaker? Stars.
[ Littering the far edge of the stone bath lie his own supplies, far too many bottles for one man alone. He thumbs through the glass bottles with little clinks until he finds the one he is looking for and stretches a little to hook a fingertip around the long neck, dragging it closer. The cap is thumbed off with a flourish, floating in the bathwater and Emet-Selch eyes Viktor, assessing how to position him for this. Easier, he thinks, if he is out of the water and taller than Viktor but he does not relish the idea of wresting himself clear of hot water to linger in the chill. They'll make do. ]
You'll forgive me if I am - unpracticed.
[ A palmful of dark, thick liquid into his hand and then he gently presses fingers against the back of Viktor's skull to urge him to tip his head forward. Once done, he lathers both hands in shampoo and starts with fingers at the nape of Viktor's neck, smoothing shampoo in with brisk, firm movements, very nearly a massage as he works it into a lather from the bottom until he's satisfied. Another palmful and then he repeats, starting from the top of Viktor's head, careful of his ears and where the lilies break through or might. Every so often, a soapy hand tips Viktor's chin, angling it this way or that so he can smooth another finger up along Viktor's hairline to prevent suds from falling into his eyes.
This is more soothing than he had anticipated, in truth. Nothing but the dripping of water, the slosh of it, their breathing as he works diligently, careful not to get any into the dip of Viktor's ears as he works on one, and then the other. He is, ostensibly, done, but his hand doesn't leave where it's buried in Viktor's curls, massaging idly, stroking down to the muscles of his neck where damp curls sit, digging fingers into the muscle there firmly. The other, he uses to grab the wine bottle, taking a sip and then passing it over. ]
Once, I had a wife who cared about precious little that came with the trappings of royalty, except this. Countless colored bottles for all stages of the day, utterly incomprehensible until she forcibly sat me down explained each one's use after tiring of me sending the palace's accountant to inquire.
[ What goes unsaid, is that after that explanation he had adopted no small number of those little bottles - there are far more on that wall than just shampoo, condidtioner, and soap. ]
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Fine.
His mouth is against the wine bottle when he scoffs, making the noise half music, low and lushly hollow. ]
Aye, Majesty, I'd've thought you of all people would ap-p-preciate sensible soap choices. [ He complains heatlessly, one hand waving, fingertips flicking water across the room, as Emet-Selch attempts to navigate for soaps around him. ] 'Tis perfectly adequate and saves space when I am-
[ That line of thought abruptly loses importance. Emet-Selch works fingers against Viktor's scalp, surrounding him with a smell that reminds him of having tea at the Bismarck in Limsa Lominsa - citrus sweet, warm and refreshing - and right away Viktor goes pliable in his hands. How silly that Emet-Selch should worry about his skill when it seems to Viktor that he himself is unable to resist melting into that touch. How eagerly he awaits it. Whatever further complaining he'd meant to do becomes little more than mumbled sounds of approval as he leans himself into the offered pressure, readily going where he is directed.
Wryly, he thinks to himself, had Emet-Selch opted to approach him gently upon his arrival on the First, they may've had some real trouble. He is not sure his soul could've resisted that hand extended in love, rather than in challenge. But therein lies the rub, of course- Emet-Selch would not, could not be so tender with a shattered soul, not with Azem, who had left without answers. Not then. Not after everything. With tempering and the Kairos' blank spot making themselves insurmountable weights upon the scales of Emet-Selch's judgment.
The glossy scar now etched into Emet-Selch's chest is proof of that - proof that what had happened had been necessary. Viktor does not yet remember how to pluck potentials from the weave as he had ten thousand years ago, but he is certain that there are few threads where such a cleansing hadn't been necessary - for the both of them.
Maybe Emet-Selch will allow him a closer look, the luxury of pressing his fingers to skin and memorizing the feel, the shape, once they are cleaned and dried and curled up together in bed. In their bed. Stars, hadn't he just been doubting whether he would sleep here tonight? How quickly Hades shakes his resolve.
Just then, Emet-Selch's fingers find a muscle Viktor had not even realized was tense and knotted tight after a day spent learning custom, culture, and gossip, and a little groan escapes him quite without his permission. In that moment, the idea that Viktor could have any resolve at all feels patently ridiculous. He accepts the bottle as it is pushed back in his hands, but lets it dangle from his fingers as he considers Emet-Selch's words.
After a long stretch of silence, enjoying the massage, he asks, ] Did you like her? What was her name?
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He ought to have known that lack of touch would not add any meaningful measure of distance. It seems there is no line he could draw in the sand that he would not cross and he cannot lie the blame squarely at Viktor's feet.
He may as well not even have bothered. Stars know he lasted an embarrassingly short amount of time before Viktor was actively in his quarters consistently. By adding that additional barrier of minimized touch, he'd hoped - well. It doesn't really matter what he'd hoped; he cannot find an onze of ungratefulness about this now. Cannot be upset that Viktor melts under the press of his hands, cannot mind that he's using them for something other than destruction, for once. ]
How is one singular bar of soap sensible?
[ He's going to die on this hill, incredulous to the last moment. For now, he keeps his hands busy, pausing every time he feels resistance from a tangled curl, gentling his touch until he manages the tangle and goes back to working shampoo into a lather.
Did he like her? In as much as he liked anyone, which is to say not overly much, but that is not exactly her fault. Thus far, when Viktor has questions about the execution of magical abilities or anything related to their connection, Emet-Selch has answered with minimal fuss and back and forth. Here, he pauses, irrationally unwilling. He can recognize this is related to the fact that they're in the bath, that he's blown past nearly every line he has tried to draw in one fell swoop, but neither can he seem to stop himself from avoiding, futilely trying to draw that line once again. ]
Does it matter? There are countless history books littered with the remnants of lives I led. You could always peruse those.
[ A cup manifests itself from nowhere, scooping water from the bath to start rinsing Viktor's hair, starting with the back. With each cup of water emptied, his other hand works through Viktor's hair from scalp to the ends of the curls, treating ridding him of the suds with the same single-minded attention as he does his work. When the back of his hair is no longer thick with suds he works on one side, then the other, careful each time not to spill water into his ears. ]
Hand me the large dark green bottle.
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[ He tics off reasons on slender fingers, pausing between them to steal another drink of wine as Emet-Selch tends to the twists and tangles of his hair, then moves on to rinsing. ]
Of course it m-matters. [ A sullen sigh rushes out of him, sloping his shoulders. Viktor thinks not of lines drawn, of boundaries crossed, of where they once were and find themselves now. No, on his mind are toothless conversations, uncleared air, arguments unresolved because one or the other of them decides to make himself unyielding, impossible.
Then Emet-Selch asks for another soap bottle, and he snorts a laugh. ] Like washing my hair so much you want to do it again, aye?
[ All the same, he reaches for it, grasps the neck and then turns. There is ample room in this tub to do so, to lift himself up, barely clearing the water, and do a half spin. After a second-long moment of dithering spent wondering whether it'd be wholly unwelcome for him to jut his legs around Emet-Selch's torso, Viktor deposits himself before Emet-Selch once more, facing him this time. One curl, slipped loose, near a corkscrew for having finally been nourished with something other than bar soap, sits along the bridge of his nose. His legs, he decides to keep neatly tucked beneath him, lending him a bit of extra height. He mislikes it. The air is far too cold, and even the wine warming his face and shoulders is little help. But it will do for now. ]
Aye, and you could get my whole and true story from Lord Edmont's memoirs, or Alphinaud's letters home, or all the little reports Garlemald surely wrote about the terror stalking the woods beyond Baelsar's Wall, I am sure. [ He clutches the green bottle against his bare chest, not willing to give it up quite yet. ] Were I to visit a history book, 'twould take me two b-bells to read ten pages, and aught I'd learn, I am sure, would have been edited and s-sensationalized to pure fiction by your own hand!
[ He emphasizes that last bit with three taps of the bottom of the wine bottle against Emet-Selch's chest, then holds it out in offering, still keeping the green bottle close, like a dog with a toy. A beat of silence follows, and Viktor settles, expression softening as he studies Emet-Selch's features. ]
Why d'you think I asked, to begin with?
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What?
[ The question jars him so badly he pauses in his careful study of the curl, the itch in his hands to reach out and twirl it around his finger idly. Of course. He just uses soap. Maddening. More maddening- he thinks this is how his ex-wife felt, sitting him down and explaining the use of every single bottle. This, for skin, this for hair, this for nails, a dozen little maintenance needs, all for the perception of others. He understood once explained of course - no different than the different materials and trims to present a perception to the masses, to those they engaged with daily.
Viktor does not have the same needs, and Emet-Selch does not either, but for better or worse he's gotten used to the little comforts. ]
At risk of derailing if you are attempting an actual bath in its full completion, there are other items we use besides - [ Viktor leans, adjusts, and clasp the bottle like he thinks Emet-Selch will abscond with it. ] - soap.
As to the matter of your letters - if you struggle so, we can add that to our morning instruction. 'Tis no different than any other skillset or ability; practice is key.
[ That's not the point, he's willfully ignoring the point with each thud of the bottle against his chest, plucking it away when it's finally offered but frowning at the green bottle being kept from him. ]
Because you are insatiably curious about even the most inconsequential facts of someone's life. [ The observation is not delivered as condemnation or criticism, there is warm, low admiration as he holds the bottle, leaned back against the water-warmed stone to look at Viktor properly where he's settled. ] Because you care about these little inconsequential moments more than any person on this shard or the next. But she is long since passed on, reborn, with a new name, a new life, and the likelihood of our paths ever crossing in any meaningful way is negligible.
[ The wine bottle is settled on the lip and he reaches outward to try and grasp the bottle, but does not fight if Viktor does not allow him it. ]
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[ True enough, but beside the point and murmured as such, quiet, off-handed, while Emet-Selch goes on. Though he is, beyond a doubt, a peerless warrior, he is not so deft with his words, and he knows it. Battles, Viktor can win. Debates, not so much. Still, this matters. Ordinarily, one of Emet-Selch's other little dangled threads might've caught him, carried him off, leaving the larger topic to sit unresolved - Emet-Selch made the victor by default - but he does not permit that to happen this time. ]
Aht! [ He juts a finger forward, scolding. Then a second, and a third, as he makes his points. ] Only half right. And near a th-third wrong.
[ Though he does not let the green bottle go, he does allow Emet-Selch to grasp it. Viktor looses one hand, and as he so often does, uses it to help coax his words from his lungs, weaving sound into meaning with a flapping hand and wiggled fingers. ]
I ask, and you think of her, aye? You h-hear her a little, do you not? Perhaps not exact, but the voice that memory serves you. Close enough. [ He touches fingers to his thumb as he speaks, staring at his hand like it's helping him remember what he wishes to say. ] Each bottle, a purpose. Each soap slightly different from the others. The tink and clink of half-used bottles. Color cast by light through glass. The smell of all her tinctures, in sum, left on clothes and skin and- [ A pause, he's getting away from himself. Focus. ] What she said, it mattered to her, and then... it made sense and it mattered to you. Enough that you changed.
[ Grown tired of the cold clinging to his damp skin, Viktor shifts, sinking lower into the water as he unfolds one leg and lets it rest over Emet-Selch's thigh. The other, moved slightly to the side. ]
She is gone. Her soul cycled anew. But, here in this moment, you recall, and the she that she was and the you that you were are real. Remembered. Carried. That is why I ask. And because I want to know the name of the woman willful enough to change your mind. And because...
[ He leans a little closer, eyes on the foggy water now, unwilling to meet Emet-Selch's eye. ]
In the future. Five years, ten, maybe m-more, when we are done and the star is healed and we have friends visiting us at our little s-spring home in... Hm- in Thavnair, let's say. Maybe one happens to need use our facilities and they spy our absurd collection of little bottles and they- they decide to tease me for it. [ Another break, considering, one eye squinted shut. ] In which case it must be Alisaie or Estinien — then I will have a story to tell them, about the woman who changed your mind and then mine, as well. And she will be real again in that moment, too.
[ Viktor hazards tipping his mismatched eyes back up to meet Emet-Selch's gaze and then offers up the green bottle. ]
Here is your soap. Which is definitely not just soap, but the sequel to soap. Soap, p-part two.
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Only a third.
[ He does recall.
He'd rather he didn't. The difficulty of memory is not one easily solved; they identified and used crystals to store knowledge, but that did not solve the issue of one's own memory failing. Countless new memories overwriting old ones, the most treasured washed away under the weight of those atop. He could store as much as possible within crystals, but it was only a temporary solution.
Foolish, to be irritated at a woman long since dead, and insult to injury to know she is not really the problem. The problem is an intangible one that can't be solved with time, money, magic. ]
Lucilia.
[ He will not make this a fight, or a discussion, or some sort of attempt at a lesson on why their lives are like a candle, just a flicker of time before the next life replaces them. Wilful ignorance about the point Viktor is making is not the course of action. That, he supposes, is progress. Just like sitting here naked in the middle of a bath with company is progress of a sort. Just like the desire to touch and be touched by someone else is progress.
Gently, he fits his fingers around the line of Viktor's ankle, skimming fingers over the thin layer of skin and then further up, and makes an idle path back and forth from knee to ankle. Or, it would be idle were it not for how focused he seems on the motion, dragging his thumb along Viktor's calf to trace muscle, swirling a glancing touch over the bit of knee bared by the water. ]
Thavnair, is it? Awfully warm there. To say nothing of the dragon, with whom I think you must needs confirm my welcome.
[ The bottle ends up in his hand, but he cannot say victory is his clean and simple. Regretfully he tugs the hand tracing Viktor's leg back so he can thumb down the nozzle once, twice, and then after a considering look at Viktor's curls, a third time. Rosemary and something faintly floral are immediately evident, even if the floral notes are overwhelmed by the former. Gingerly, he rises up until he can get his knees beneath himself and reaches out to start working it through Viktor's curls carefully from roots to end, smoothing unruly curls back when they fall into his eyes. While he mislikes the cold in general, so much time in Garlemald means he bears the chill with minimal complaint, far more focused on the task at hand.
In hand. ]
Do not rinse this right away. Sit. Soak. [ Viktor's hair is countless times shorter than hers had been, and so it is not overly difficult to finish quickly, grimacing as his knees protest. Settled again in his spot, he tugs Viktor's leg back into place. Belatedly, not quite hesitant but not a declaration, foggier as he strains for the memory. ] Hers smelled of mint. Imported in frankly absurd quantities. Dried in a room I orchestrated to be next to my office.
[ Because it covered countless smells he would rather not have smelled by someone walking past. He does not point this out. ]
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[ The water sloshes as he shrugs. And the smile he offers up in exchange for the name is bright and pleased, unburdened by the weight of the day. The first genuine show of sunlight since they'd arrived on this icy reflection of home. Wildly gratifying, to have earned his answer. He can admit as much to himself.
Even better, to be touched, explored by calloused fingers. All that scholar's focus devoted to the study of skin and muscle, intoxicating. Emet-Selch's hand skirts up his leg, fingertips finding each slope and curve of sinew, glancing off his thigh as they pass up and over his knee, and Viktor does not bother to stop himself from shivering. He closes his eyes, losing himself in the motion, each pass kindling for the fire Viktor is increasingly disinterested in keeping banked low.
Oh, to know all the little details. All the people who have mattered to Hades. But. More pressing is this: to be the sole focus of all that ages old, heavy attention, to be such a distraction that a man who has seen all life has to offer cannot even pretend he wants to keep his hands to himself. Viktor relishes being as precious, as interesting, as the books and reports and odds and ends Emet-Selch is ever poring over, and tries not to pout too plainly when the study session comes to an end.
He opens one eye when Emet-Selch rises, spies the jagged outline of mottled flesh interrupting otherwise flawless skin, and decides it is his turn to learn. With his own hands now free, he does not hesitate to press greedy fingers to skin. Admiring his own handiwork, he thinks wryly, tracing the outline enjoying the warmth of the body beneath his palms. He resists pressing his mouth to skin as well, but only just. ]
Our spring home. [ He repeats, breathing in herbs and flowers. Familiar. It reminds him of his own clothes, his blankets, the inside of his pack. ] Where we will spend a few weeks when it is still miserably cold across Eorzea. Big, open windows, and a v-view of the sea. A little garden and a workshop for all your projects. Mm. [ His fingertips wander to trace the slope of Emet-Selch's waist, not grasping, just mapping his form. ] As for Vrtra, I think you underestimate how readily the people, even dragons, will forgive one who has d-done right by them.
[ He does not doubt it will be difficult, presenting the truth of things to the star. But, it will be worth it, to fight for Hades's place in this world they will have made. Perhaps, for a time, that will be his cause - illuminating all the ways in which Hades belongs, both to the people, and to the man, himself.
Emet-Selch settles back into the bath, guiding Viktor's leg where he wants it, and Viktor takes a few seconds to consider the feel of so much soap-that-is-not-soap set in his hair. He lifts a hand, lights fingers on the sticky substance run through his curls, and pulls a dubious face. Though it feels odd, the smell is nice, and he would endure the torment of sitting and waiting again if it meant Emet-Selch might slide fingers through his hair, working through tangles with a surgeon's gentle precision and shaping curls like an artist. ]
Mint. [ He murmurs, sliding a little closer, slow, testing the distance. How close can he press, before they find the new line? ] Crisp, cooling, green. Unignorable. A good scent for c-clearing one's head. Lucilia... had some good ideas. But I have better ones.
[ Like how to spend the next few minutes, waiting for this new fragrant gunk in his hair to set. Viktor tangles damp fingers in Emet-Selch's hair. ]
Kiss me.
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He doesn't, cognizant enough to recognize that is a losing battle. Why would he, when Viktor has reached out and is touching him like he's something precious, tracing the line where mottled flesh sits upon his chest so gently it is almost difficult to imagine those same hands enacting the (somewhat deserved) violence in the first place. Against his will, his skin prickles, goosebumps rising in response to the chill and Viktor's careful exploration. ]
I think that may be true for those who've committed what they might consider less...contentious crimes. For this... [ This is not the conversation they want to have here, now, Emet-Selch thinks. There is too much to go over. There are too many moving parts, too much to consider. They would want punishment. There would be those who would push for a penalty of some kind - he could pay any bill that came due if they assessed what he 'owed' as a monetary cost, easily. They could put him to death, but it would not take, and he has watched this play out too many times not to know what comes next. Those who realized and understood his nature would fall into two groups, maybe three. Ones who deemed him too powerful to exist, and would seek to add limitations, if not outright lock him up in perpetuity. Those who would attempt to shackle his abilities. And worst: those who would disregard the past and focus only on the fact he is, to them, a godlike being. One immune to illness, to death, who has lived countless lifetimes.
The Word of Emet-Selch could be exhausting enough. He did not like to think about what a cult would look like. ]
We shall see, I suppose. No sense borrowing trouble where there is not any yet.
[ If they survive, and if the dragons and those they've left have survived, it would be worthwhile for him to make a visit to Vrtra at the very least. Largely, he'd left the dragons alone out of respect for them, but there were plenty of pies with his fingers in them that had caused them no small bit of hardship. Emet-Selch would understand if the dragons' long memory was not so easily sated with an apology.
Distracted, he nearly misses the shift of Viktor inching closer, the slosh of the water drawing his attention back to the present, focusing on Viktor rather than a thousand malms away, trying to plot and plan. Obedient, Emet-Selch leans in just enough to press a lingering kiss against the inside of Viktor's wrist where his pulse beats beneath thin, soft skin. Another, careful not to jostle Viktor's hand from his damp hair, cheek pressed against Viktor's arm as he obeys the command, looking up at him through the fringe of displaced hair with a little smirk. ]
Would you care to be more specific in your instruction?
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But then, in the end, it seems that he's the one caught needing coaxing out of his own head. Emet-Selch manages it with little more than a brush of lips, a kiss that arcs levin up every nerve in Viktor's body. For a few seconds, he's incandescent He shifts, squirms, breathes a faint huff of laughter. ]
You've trouble enough h-here.
[ Mischief plays across Emet-Selch's features, deliciously, boyishly arrogant, and it might as well be a hurricane the way it hits him. Makes maple seeds of Viktor's insides, unsettled, scattered, and spinning. High in his throat, Viktor's breath catches. His fingers flex in Emet-Selch's hair, thumb easing slow circles against his scalp.
No, he thinks to say. No, do with me what you will. Love me as much as you care to. Use me as you'd like. Except-
Except he needn't pretend to be the people's perfect hero, the servant, the steward. He needn't shrink himself to nothing to please someone else. He needn't fear 'no'.
It still takes him a moment, though. His mind all hot fog, a mess of buzzing bees and embers, little ideas, hot to the touch. He spends those seconds staring, admiring the brilliant firefly gleam of Emet-Selch's eyes, the unbearable bend of his mouth. The gods are lost, if they ever existed at all, but stars, that mouth could coax a real prayer from Viktor's lips. Could make him devoted to something, again.
That's what he wants. To worship. To be worshipped. ]
I want you to... press closer. [ Careful, quiet, he speaks, not wanting to stutter. Viktor slides back until his shoulders meet cool stone. And he thinks it's a wonder the ceaseless pounding of his heart does not send ripples across the surface of the water. ] Touch me. Hand starting on my hip. Explore. Kiss me, slow. In a line, up my arm. To my neck. L-linger there- [ Ludicrous, how his voice threatens to crack as he creeps closer to his want, like he's some spring violet, some too eager boy. Emet-Selch asks so little of him. If he wants instruction, it can at least be clear. He stops, takes a breath, and swallows, wetting a mouth gone impossibly dry, grasping the certainty of his hunger.
Fire flickers in his gaze as he looks, considers. Then, low, firm, he adds, ] Linger, 'til you've left a mark.
[ A brand for a brand. ]
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[ Emet-Selch tilts his head into the press of Viktor's hand, thinking for a moment the action is not too unlike a dog attempting to incentivize further pets, but he discards that thought just as quickly. Does it matter? Is he not allowed the indulgence here, of all places?
For a long, syrupy slow moment, they simply look at each other. Viktor stares like he sees something worth studying at length, and Emet-Selch finds that he is not so inclined to recoil back from being perceived. A shard dares to look at him with anything other than deferential awe, and instead of irritation, he basks in the warmth like the sun's rays. ]
One of these days, when we are back on the First, I will make a proper mess of you.
[ Viktor slides back, gives him a full canvas to work from as he stretches out in the bath and slowly, careful of sloshing water over the edges of the bath, Emet-Selch prowls after him and obeys instruction. He settles on his knees between Viktor's parted thighs, curving a hand around Viktor's wrist to bring his hand close, brushing a cursory kiss over damp knuckles while his other hand plants itself upon Viktor's hip.
A laugh steals from him at the way Viktor's voice goes unsteady with want, but it is not mean, it is low, satisfied. Smug, that he wrests this much of a reaction from the other man at the barest hint of attention, unbearably pleased. He lavishes too much attention on Viktor's hand, perhaps, finally moving onward to brush a kiss where he had earlier against the inside of his wrist. Higher, until he is forced to scoot forward a little gracelessly to continue obeying, kissing slowly along the swell of lean muscle to his shoulder, pressing his face into the curve of Viktor's throat for a moment with a sigh. His other hand strokes up and down his flank gently, making a map of him once again, skimming down to graze the jut of a hip and then up over his belly with enough firm intent he hopes it does not threaten to tickle. Viktor takes an intentional breath, and Emet-Selch pauses to allow him it, caught up in the scent of soap and conditioner and, underneath everything, the familiar scent of him. ]
An impermanent one, regrettably. [ Emet-Selch murmurs, and presses lingering kisses until he reaches roughly where his collar sits. A pause, and then he retreats briefly to eye the graceful line of Viktor's throat, where he can remember the collar of most of his clothing sitting, and then leans in to smear a line of kisses up to the right spot. Gentle at first, and then intent, raising blood up with teeth and tongue until when he leans back to admire his work there is an undeniable mark there, where anyone could see regardless of nearly any shirt Viktor has brought.
There are jackets they wear, of course, which will hide most of his attentions, but they do not wear thick, heavy jackets within the court and something awful and possessive stirs in him to think of those wandering eyes settled upon Viktor, knowing the marks left there are not their own. He repeats the process once satisfied with the sight, the hand at his waist dipping down to the small of his back to adjust him incrementally, fitting his thighs beneath Viktor's so he's tilted back against the wall, boxed in. A haphazard series of flushing bruises dot Viktor's throat by the time he's finally satisfied, pulling back with a smug little tilt to his lips. ]
Nothing but what you ask for, hero. What would you have of me next?
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We will find the time. And the means-
[ His muscles twitch, palm at Hades waist squeezing. A sharp hitch of breath, then a softer laugh, as Hades presses fingers to his stomach. It is indeed ticklish, gone too long without touch, made newly sensitive. But he does not let it interrupt their work. Hades has a task to complete, after all, and Viktor laces fingers back into his hair, guiding, encouraging. He smiles. ]
-And a place for you to rob me of sense on every reflection. Oh.
[ Viktor lets his head loll back, shuts his eyes as Emet-Selch's teeth graze the point where his pulse roars. ]
G-good. Like that. [ He whispers, dragging fingers through his hair, the movement insistent, and not quite gentle. A match for the sweet prickle of bruising skin.
An impermanent mark, perhaps, but hadn't Hades staked his claim more than a year ago? He may not have had a direct hand in filling Viktor with Light, may not have cultivated the flowers that now sprout from his skin, but it was he who made them permanent. Dark brought to bear against Light, preserving his soul, pressing it to right shape, the way he now presses lilies between the pages of his books. Claimed and kept. And now, while they are here, all who care to look will see what Viktor knows, feels: that he belongs to Emet-Selch, is his, has always been.
A soft hum of pleasure hikes to a wanting whine when Hades pulls him up and into his lap. Heedless of the mess they might make, Viktor wraps his legs around Hades's waist. Water sloshes up and over the sides of the tub, splattering on the stone floor, and Viktor chuckles again, low and pleased. Another bruise, and another — always above and beyond with Hades. Ever eager.
Viktor does not open his eyes until Hades had pulled away, squeezing hair and hip in protest, but even then it takes him a moment, breath shallow and face flushed. He embraces the high, hot, heady feeling that arcs up from the dip between his thighs to every nerve in his body. The roar of his pulse somehow grows fiercer when he opens his eyes, realizes that he's surrounded. ]
Closer. [ He breathes, almost pleading. ] Press against me. I want to f-feel how I excite you.
[ Dimly, he's always been aware of how much taller, broader, bigger Hades is, but sat in his lap, with nothing separating slick skin save soapy water, the difference is newly intoxicating. Made near unbearable, knowing that Hades intends not to fight, to wrestle for control, but to obey.
Viktor licks his lips, stealing composure between thundering thumps of his heartbeat. He stares, lips parted, wisteria eyes fixed with hungry, animal focus. ]
You are fond of my hands, aren't you?
[ Voice dark, sweet and slow as pomegranate molasses, Viktor puts to words what he has known for quite some time. Proof glimpsed in sketchbook pages, in the fall of Hades's gaze when Viktor works Creation, in how his attention lingers on knuckles, on palms, on wrists. ]
And I do l-love that gorgeous mouth.
[ Viktor lifts a hand, not quite touching fingertips to the soft swell of Hades's lower lip. Wanting to indulge, but holding himself back. Wanting, more, for Hades to indulge, himself. He waits, one second, two, listening to the rhythm of their matched breaths, realizing that Hades truly does intend to make him ask, to coax his want, always so hidden away as to nearly go forgotten, from him. Water beads at his wrist, falls in a fat drop, and the sound as it hits the bath beneath feels almost deafening. ]
Lick them. Kiss them. Sh-show me- show me how much you like them.
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Why it was not allowed doesn't matter; in this moment Emet-Selch is painfully aware he could not hope to adequately recreate this: the way Viktor's breath hitches, the exact curve of his smile, the crinkle at the corners of his eyes, the exact warmth of his skin. All of it would be inadequate, no matter how precisely he tried to recreate.
Viktor's hand works through his hair, firm and insistent, and Emet-Selch swallows against the visualization of Viktor winding it around his hand, tugging him firmly where he'd like Emet-Selch to go. Water sloshes and Emet-Selch pauses an instant before reminding himself they're not somewhere that he has to care about the mess they make, necessarily. There's no wooden floorboards of a loft to leak through, threatening to ruin books. There's nothing but cold stone beneath the warmth of the bath.
Viktor requests; Emet-Selch obeys. He brackets Viktor in against the wall of the bath, dares to press as much of himself against the other man as he is able, and thinks ridiculously of wishing to consume him, to keep him safe the same way Zodiark had their people for millennia.
Perhaps the most frustrating part is that his body does not wish to cooperate fully even here; he's hard, has been partially hard since Viktor first stepped in the room and began disrobing, since potentiality became reality. He doesn't expect the unpleasant addition of nerves, though, the flicker of guilt at distraction, at not being able to fulfill Viktor's simple ask. The sensation of bare, wet skin against equally bare, wet skin is not, could not be unpleasant, and he savors it, pressing a hand against the spot between Viktor's shoulderblades to prevent him from scraping his back when Emet-Selch hefts him and adjusts the both of them more comfortably. ]
Is it so obvious?
[ Mortification isn't quite the right word, but there's the faintest hint of embarrassment at being so painfully transparent. He is fond of Viktor's hands, terribly so, but he'd hoped that would be something he'd keep to himself, foolishly. Now, Viktor's given word to the sensation, made it more real and Emet-Selch does not deny the observation.
Worse, better, he doesn't know, is the fact that Viktor gives instructions after the long, stretched out moment of silence between them. A dog, he thinks, and then amends the thought. A worshiper, at an altar. Neither thought does anything to quell the heat pooling in his belly; instead, he finds it acts as breath to a fledgling flame, coaxing it hotter.
With the same attention he'd spent lavishing on Viktor's throat, Emet-Selch takes the outstretched hand with an almost courtly gesture and presses a kiss against his palm, lingering. Another to each fingertip, chasing soapy droplets with his tongue, not overly minding the faintly salty bath tinged sour with soaps and shampoo. Feeling only faintly ridiculous, he presses his face into the outstretched hand, another kiss against the palm and then laves his tongue across index and middle finger, thinking again about consumption, about winding, weaving Viktor into himself so inextricably no one could hope to part them. He licks water droplets from his fingers and then sucks, eyes sliding shut, the hand not grasping Viktor's wrist plotting an idle path up his belly, sweeping up over his chest to graze a thumb against a nipple, nipping at the fingers lightly on the withdraw to catch a breath, to look at Viktor again. ]
I could do naught but watch them while you work and be remarkably close to content.
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He welcomes Hades with an open palm. The hand not grasped slips back to flatten over vertebrae, fingers pressing firm enough to mold clay as they slide down the shape of him, finding the exit scar carved into his back. Surrounded by Hades, his body, his smell, his aether, there is still this: a signature. His signature, his soul - as it is now, not some older, better model - writ across skin, across blood and organ, bone and marrow. A through and through, staking claim, not so entirely different from the 'gGg' embroidered into so many of the little things Emet-Selch has made him over these last moons - a secret for just the two of them, you are mine, mine, mine.
Viktor sighs as he studies, bright, hungry sound, lets fingernails scrape shallow lines into pale flesh as Hades adjusts them both once more. Stars, pressed this close even the barrier between them feels gossamer thin. Like he could look through and glimpse, grasp every thought, every feeling. Like he could dig fingers into the soil of Hades's soul to set roots, to fill the fissures time and torment have left in him with flowers, to build a home and make the both of them more whole.
It's a frightening feeling, but for the first time, he refuses to let it go. ]
Mayhap I have only noticed because I cannot keep my eyes off of you. [ Murmured, soft, sensing the twinge of embarrassment.
Viktor watches, transfixed, as Hades pays each finger a reverence that he would not allow from anyone else, and has to stop himself from miming the motion when Emet-Selch's mouth closes around his fingertips. Small blessings that the bath has already left his skin flushed, because as that tongue curls around each finger, he can feel a newer, hungrier heat creeping up, making every shallow, panted breath hot.
Hades swipes a hand over his chest, catches a nipple as his teeth graze fingertips, and a quiet moan slips past Viktor's lips. From worshiped idol to Emet-Selch's needy creature in mere seconds. Embarrassing. He laughs, again. Likes that he feels safe, exhaling some measure of that still building heat. ]
I suppose I can accept close to con-t-tent.
[ His flushed and flustered features bend into a cocky grin. Viktor leans in, draping his other arm over Hades's shoulder, meaning to press in for a kiss but stopping short. First, he indulges in a bit of simple softness, brushing the bridges of their noses together, and then abruptly he angles his head. Presses his mouth to the sharp corner of Hades's jaw. He makes his way up from there, leaving a line of kisses from cheek to ear, murmuring in-between each one. ]
'Twould by my pleasure to put them to work for you, however you might need.
[ Viktor catches Hades's earlobe between his teeth, nibbling before he tips his chin up and whispers, ] I hope, someday, you will permit me to make a proper mess of you.
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But is that not the point of what they do? Savoring the small moments, the impossibility of being alive. They do not have time for indulgences, but they must make time. That lesson, at least, he has internalized. They spent so much time in Amaurot thinking they had forever, and then in the wake of everything Emet-Selch could only think about how much time they had wasted, taken for granted. He did not wish to make the same mistake here. ]
Surely you've more important tasks to attend to than watching me.
[ Said, as though the thought of being watched so intently does not act as supplemental kindling to the fire already built in his belly. Emet-Selch hides a smile against Viktor's palm at the noise he manages to wrest from the other man, inordinately pleased, and then tips his head back up in anticipation of the kiss he thinks is imminent only to find Viktor distracted with dropping kisses anywhere but. He cannot truly protest, not when he hadn't realized that his earlobes were so sensitive, a direct line from where Viktor's mouth lingers straight to his half-hard cock, stealing nothing so uncontrolled as a moan from him but there is a sharp, soft intake of breath, the flex of Emet-Selch's hands briefly against Viktor. ]
Oh, I think you've succeeded in that several times over.
[ If Viktor will not close the distance, Emet-Selch will, heedless of the fact it was not a command Viktor had made; he doesn't think Viktor would hold this want against him. Tilting his head, he chases Viktor until he can drop a kiss against his lips, missing the first time and tasting water, conditioner, very nearly snickering as he pulls back before the action can be anything other than a graze. ]
Rinse. There is a perfectly serviceable bed not three yalms away and I would greatly enjoy seeing you spread out upon its sheets.
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[ He chases, just an ilm, before he is the one given orders. Viktor stops short of stealing another kiss, derailing their whole conversation again, and does not bother to mask how pleased he is to be directed; smile broad and hungry, as much hot chili in it as as sugar. ]
It is quite cold, you know. You best be prepared to keep me warm.
[ Still lingering in Emet-Selch's space, Viktor reaches back, haphazardly groping for the stone stopper plugging the tub drain. With a rattle, groan, and gurgle, the water level begins to drop. Viktor fumbles next for the faucet without looking, grin still pointed Emet-Selch's way as he turns knobs behind him. Fresh water spills from the tap, and he bends back without waiting for it to warm, ducking his head beneath the stream, gripping his ears with one hand to protect them from water, and wringing conditioner from his hair with the other until the water runs clean.
He sits back up, reluctant to leave the warmth of the tub just yet, even as the water level continues to fall. Viktor wastes a few seconds squeezing excess water from his hair, gentle waves springing up into tight curls for the first time in longer than he can remember.
Perhaps there is something to all these silly little bottles after all. Perhaps there is something to a bit of luxury. Perhaps Lucilia was right.
Only once he's girded himself against the cold does he rise, performatively slow, even if he mislikes the cold air. He fetches a towel, hip jutting out at an angle as he dries his ears, then his shoulders and torso and tail, before slinging it around his waist and climbing finally from the tub.
Here, he stops in spite of the chilly air. Turns to watch Emet-Selch with the sort of interest of someone whose paid to see a show, and takes two steps back toward the bed -- their bed. ]
Bring the wine with you?
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[ He infuses every bit of dubiousness he can into repeating Viktor's words, but leaves it alone afterward, unwilling to unintentionally strike a chord when he only means to poke fun. His reward is Viktor's smile, just the sight of it twisting something in his stomach. It's not arousal - or well, it's not just arousal he feels, but a vicious greedy sort of satisfaction for being any bit of why Viktor looks like that - looks at him like that. ]
Rest assured I've no intention of freezing to death or losing any limbs to the chill.
[ Nor does he have any desire to wrest himself from the warmth of the bath even as it drains, too focused on chasing waterdroplets with his eyes as they bead and roll down Viktor's skin once he's done rinsing his hair clean. A shame, to muss it when the curls are almost neat but there is nothing that prevents them from taking a second bath. Leaning against the bathwater-warmed stone to watch Viktor's little show, Emet-Selch grabs for the wine and, after a beat of hesitation - of weighing need, necessity, and the simple desire to show off - snaps.
Where candlelight used to give off nothing but a vague, wobbling light, it feels as if each one has doubled or tripled in size. The fireplace coughs ash upward through the chimney and fresh logs appear, already blazing within the hearth. As Viktor approaches the bed, he'll notice it, too, radiates a low, warm heat; fire crystals have appeared tucked in the corners of the duvet, ensuring the bed is as warm as the room is soon to be.
Only then does he rise, a towel snapped into position around his hips. He doesn't need modesty where he's going - where they're going, but old habits die hard. Goldenrod had called him a prude with witch-cackling delight and irritatingly, he found it wasn't a wholly inaccurate summation. Even all these years later he hasn't fully shaken off the desire to be clad head to toe in shapeless, formless robes. For now, a towel will have to do. ]
What would be your general disposition if I stated I was far more interested in indulging in you this evening? As opposed to a more - [ he pauses, stepping out of the bath, trying to find a less clinical set of words. ] - mutual agreement.
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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. ]
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But then, Viktor seems awfully distracted by him. He was, and is, relatively attractive for a given meaning of the word. Enough so that he'd had no shortage of people seeking courtships until he had been firmly off the table and even then, found himself complaining to Aepymetes or Hythlodaeus about those who were unsatisfied with a rejection - as if they could ever hope to match the two of them in any meaningful capacity. It is, he thinks, not wholly unpleasant to be wanted so viscerally, so obviously. Certainly less disagreeable than he had anticipated.
I've never, I usually-. Emet-Selch lets him work through the response he wants to give on his slow prowl from bath to bed once he's considered the room and snapped into place a rug, massive enough to provide ample warmth instead of bare feet on cold stone to the bathroom later. Only then does he pad across the distance to the other man, considering the warm flush to his skin, the scatter of freckles and the insane desire to ensure he doesn't leave this room without kissing each of them. ]
I had assumed. [ Mildly, not judgmental, exactly, but there is a tone there; judgmental of those who came before, maybe.
Of course, others had not cared for Viktor in the same way. Of course, they were more concerned with the petty day-to-day or even pettier wants than Viktor's own. Emet-Selch leans in close enough to graze a kiss against the furrowed brow, rewarded with the warmth of Viktor's smile, far eclipsing any magical heat he could muster. Mine, as gods have worshippers. Mine, as a hound's master.. It is, he thinks, not so horrible to be kept, to belong to someone so inextricably that it has lasted countless lifetimes and souls. ] I was clear that night, was I not?
[ Gingerly, he hooks two fingers into the front of Viktor's towel, not pulling but there is a tension, the threat, or maybe promise of removing it. ]
You give until you've nothing left to give. What I desire is for you to reach out with both hands and to take.
sorry. this tag is fadsjld absolutely insane.
(And while trouble is certainly something Viktor bumps into on the regular, his preference is to avoid that particular sort. Toying with status quo of common wisdom is a bit below his pay grade at this point, if he's honest.)
But, incontrovertible truths - like the notion that a soul is stripped of all it was upon its return to the Sea; memories dismantled as the soul sinks, as it dreams, flaking away like so much paint, 'til only the blank canvas remains. Unless-
Unless you are two souls who so love to lie in sunlight together that you find each other across ten thousand years, from an island in the sky to a more conventional one set in the sea, to nap. Unless you are a brilliant, too soft-hearted scientist, overseeing the creation of new life upon a vast, flying research center, over and over, in search of meaning. Unless you are the split threads of the same beleaguered smith, the same gallant knight, the same cutthroat merchant, the same stern scholar, dancing the same dance across time, across worlds.
Then, the incontrovertible starts courting controversy. And that's not Viktor's business. He can enjoy the quiet satisfaction of knowing without ruining anyone else's day.
Anyway, the point is, twelve thousand years ago,
AzemAepymetesViktor made a game of reaching out, of grasping and plucking threads to make the music that most pleased his ear, of choosing and taking. Of chasing what he wanted, even if it meant leaving what he loved in the dark. And for that grave sin - or perhaps for no reason at all - he and all he loved was made blood, burned to ash, and split fourteen ways.He does not remember any of this, precisely - and he shouldn't imprecisely, either, if the incontrovertible is truly thus - but it is all there. For ages upon ages, across eras and bodies, he felt it, did his best to show the star he'd learnt a lesson. He did not want. He walked. He did not take. He gave and gave and gave. And the star responded by burning up again and again and again, each time putting the match in the hand of the man he'd loved most. Until he forgot how to want, how to take, entirely. Until this, too, seemed to become incontrovertible.
It's a good thing that forests sometimes need fires to grow. It's a good thing that, in the span between ashes and new sprouts, one can see the incontrovertible for what it is - something that's only waiting to be controverted in just the right way. Souls are not always wiped clean, and penance does not always mean healing.
Sometimes, a love is too fierce to be blanched away. Sometimes, wanting, taking, and giving are all the same, and have no bearing on whether the world turns to ash.
Viktor reaches up, pressing palms to the line of Hades's jaw and taking his face gently in both hands. He leans in, until the fingers curled around his towel press to the bare skin beneath. He stares up, a hound adoring, a god embracing its most devoted. He needn't reforge himself into something new. He needn't set himself aflame or flee.
He needs only to be here, in this steadily warming room, enjoying the feeling of being enjoyed for exactly what he is - enough, and worth keeping. ]
Is the rug not a little excessive? [ Leveled with teasing glee, smile noon sun bright. ] Come here.
[ He props himself up partway on tip toe and pulls Emet-Selch down the rest of the distance to plant that grin against his mouth. There, he lingers, tipping his head to deepen the kiss, to taste as though he hasn't already sampled this a dozen (a hundred? a thousand?) times already. Because he wants to.
With the ease of one well acquainted with both dances and duels, Viktor turns the both of them until Hades is the one with his back to the bed. One hand drags down, fingers tracing every dip and curve, pressing to skin, until he flattens his palm upon the scar marking Hades's chest. There, he pushes, urging Hades down to the bed with a firm hand, and if the towel around Viktor's waist slips away with him, well- that's just getting their work done faster. ]
Tonight, you are going to imp-p-press me with all the things I know you've been trying not to let yourself think about doing to me. [ Still wearing a smile that is all playful warmth, excitement, he chases, slotting himself into place on Hades's lap, draping arms over his broad shoulders. ] First, though, perhaps a practical exam. Let's see how well you recall my first lesson.
EATS IT EATS IT
The purpose of coming to the bed is not to sleep, but Emet-Selch is called and so shall he answer, feet moving before his brain has time to even process the gentle command he's given. Only when he's physically pulled does he give some manner of resistance - a moment, can't make it too easy can he? - and then he gives in, gratefully accepting what Viktor offers, heedless of whether or not it is deserved. He'd never admit it, but the kiss serves to ease some of the discomfort of being bare; maybe it's the distraction, maybe it's the want. He doesn't particularly care about the reason so much as the fact that it allows him to be guided, shepherded, he thinks wryly, to sit. ]
And you expect me to recall with perfect clarity while you're - [ There goes the towel, just as Emet-Selch reaches the word you're, abruptly aware of the fact that the only thing Viktor's wearing is that smile. His own - wonderfully plush, thank you - stays set upon his hips through sheer luck but does very little to hide the half-hard swell beneath. This feels a stark contrast to the moment Viktor refers to; where Emet-Selch had the barrier of layers of clothes, a little room and the certainty that he had resisted for thousands of years so he could resist this too. ] Which part would you have me recall first? Your alleged propensity for not wearing smalls during negotiations?
[ Even if he feigns ignorance, the memory is not so old he has forgotten it. Emet-Selch had avoided his ears where possible when washing Viktor's hair; less out of disgust and more out of a desire not to accidentally injure. Now, with a brow furrowed in concentration as if he is magicking a particularly complex item instead of mimicking how Viktor'd touched himself earlier, Emet-Selch traces fingers along Viktor's ear, remapping the path his hands had taken, slower, lighter at first and then he seems to shake himself out. Ridiculous.
His heels plant against the ground, scooting back against the bed ilms and then fitting both hands beneath Viktor's thighs to ensure he brings Viktor with him, giving his knees more purchase upon the bed. Then, it seems a waste not to at least attempt to fulfill the other request, greedily exploring the yalms of bare skin, tracing constellations of freckles on his shoulders, pressing intermittent kisses against them with quiet reverence. ]
There was a question I wished to ask then, but did not. You mentioned we were close to one of your favorite imaginings. [ His fingers trace each knob of Viktor's spine on the path down to his tail, seemingly languid were it not for the intent way Emet-Selch looks up at him. ] I would know what it was.
adventures in i do not have an icon for this
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grgfgfgk i gotta renew my sub surprise peepaw
peepaw icon kinda appropriate at least shsjshs
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that should read to *NOT allow fuck
LMAO I knew what you meant at least sob
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oh my god
EATS IT
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your bf just wants to turn himself into a quantum computer emet-selch nbd
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lmao for some reason it replied as a whole new top level??
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forgot the rest of the caps UGHHH
this is so long sobdhshhsh
FOOD FOR ME THO also sorry viktor you're dating a dick
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