Archive of Our Own

10th Fessuran, Evening, Tolman House

Kismet

The only thing stopping the tears spilling over his face is that the streets are still busy with people. He can't afford to stay distracted, can't afford to keep his eyes off the road in front of him. The soft fabric clutched to his chest is his only anchor, and doesn't want to ruin it with salt and sadness.

What is he upset about anyway? Keldrym speaking so plainly of things he only sees in his own mirror? Agatha asking for assurance and Kismet turning it around into some kind of barb? All of this. All of it and more.

He reaches the Tolman's house, and as he steps through the threshold it's like a release. He crouches down, intent on untying his laces, and all the tears he's held back seem to come out at once. His fingers tremble as he undoes his boots, his face blank, letting the catharsis of crying sooth him more than any kind of internalisation could.

It takes him too long to get his shoes off, and he crouches there for another minute longer, quietly wiping at his face with his sleeves. He doesn't mind that his eyes will be red and puffy when he sees Valac. He does want a clear head, though. Too bad.

With a deep breath, he makes his way upstairs, heading to the dining and kitchen area, hoping the tea hasn't gone too cold because of his detour. He hates cold tea.

Valac
There are three booklets in a basket placed by the kitchen windowsill. Several leaves have fallen in from the potted herbs that bask in sunlight there; they all have distinct shapes and smell absolutely incredible, and Valac has no clue what any of them are. But his tea for sure matches the aroma of the pointy one.

Valac picks up the booklet that’s on top, a colourful one, cover displaying a bright-tiled mansion supposedly somewhere in the city. He doesn’t recognize it, unsure if he just hasn’t passed by it or he was too otherwise distracted during his walks. It does seem like it belongs to the pompous part of town, and the small text at the bottom of the page reveals as much - Whitstrider mansion, The Crescents. Ah, The Crescents. So that’s what they called it.

Occasionally, he throws a glance back to the tea kettle to see if it’s still steaming, and warms it with an incantation if the fumes start dwindling down.

He’s mindlessly flipping the pages displaying all manner of fancy coastal buildings when he hears footsteps approaching, and he has to hold back from actually slapping himself when his heart jumps in his throat. Not in distress this time, which is the worst part - just the mere thought that it could be Kismet has him in high spirits already, eager to unwind after the rocky experience with Florian. When a small figure enters his periphery, he turns around with a smile.

“I need you to tell me what this herb is, it’s-“ Kismet’s eyes are red, and the smile dies on his face. “What’s wrong?”

Kismet
Kismet reaches the top of the stairs, a hand on the bannister, the other clutching the fabric. He was meant to hide it somewhere, but his mind has been scattered, and he decides he doesn't care all that much, it's only fabric–

He spots Valac easily enough, lit by the warm candlelight and arcane lanterns from behind, moonlight from the window. But he's wearing something new, something very different. A well-cut shirt, linen by the look of it. Fine embroidery marking the edges. He turns, saying something, but Kismet's mind hasn't caught up yet. Sleeves, with intricate pleating and gold detail. Kismet realises he's standing there, struck silent, his eyes taking in Valac's new clothing from shoulder to toe.

He shakes himself, visibly. What's wrong? That's what he said, wasn't it?

Gods, he'd just been crying. Today had been...eventful.

Slowly, he sets aside his satchel, laying the fabric on top. The kettle is still steaming, and his heart skips at the thought of warm tea. He crosses the space, stopping in front of Valac, trying to settle his thoughts in order. Looking at his eyes, trying to land on some kind of focus. It's impossible.

He huffs a sigh, leaning his forehead with a soft bump against Valac's sternum. "I've been horrible today." His hand comes up, wiping a fresh tear. "And not in the...the charming way. Just..." He sighs. "Just give me a moment."

Valac
He stands completely still as Kismet approaches, a tired hunch in his step. The elf looks exhausted, and not physically. Valac is still holding the booklet in one hand when Kismet just rests on him, and it takes him a moment to realise that he’s being as good as a statue in return. Frantic, he looks back to the small side table, mindful not to topple over his tea cup and the empty one next to it when he puts the magazine down, then brings his arms around the elf.

“Not in the charming way?” He says after a moment. “I’ll believe it when I see it.”

All their days on the coast seemed to be so full of ups and down. He’s not quite sure if the radical change of pace is something he’s missed.

Horrible. He chuckles. “You know, I may have been horrible today, too. I wouldn’t let you steal my spotlight.”

Kismet
"Let's be horrible over tea," he mumbles. He doesn't want to move, not really. Not with Valac's arms around him. But his feet hurt from working the treadle, his fingers are worn from tying off threads, and his heart is threadbare. He notices the necklace just then. It must be the arcane focus Valac said he'd buy. He has the urge to reach out and touch the stone, but figures it would be quite rude to do so.

Instead, he takes in a huge, steadying breath, and lifts up his head. "Let me see these herbs. One of them has to be calming..."

The herbs are behind Valac, and instead of moving away, he just leans over, reaching from within Valac's arms to pluck a few chamomile flowers and mint. "Do you like herbal teas? Oh, perhaps you already had something. I took a little while to get back."

Valac
“Oh, Antonio picked some for me, and made the tea. I’ve just been keeping it warm. Light knows I can’t be trusted to operate a kettle.”

He drops his hold of Kismet, fingers lingering down from his arms from shoulder to elbow, and turns to the side. Both tea cups are made of clay, a warm and earthy brown decorated with black stripes, as if ink dripping from the rim, but the one he reserved for Kismet is also littered with blue dots. He carefully fills it up and brings it between them, inhaling the herb-infused steam.

“I just really like this one, and I don’t even know what it is.” He leans a hip to the table and looks up from the cup to Kismet. “Now, what did happen?”

Kismet 
"Keeping it warm? Ah, you're too good. I despise cold tea." Kismet gratefully accepts the mug, cradling it between his palms and inhaling the scent. He takes a small sip. "Anise, just a little. Maybe some rosehip? There's something citrus...must be locally grown, I don't recognise it."

He holds the mug close, organising his thoughts. "Well, let's start with when Agatha came to visit me at the weaver's guild, and we played chess." He pokes his chin in the direction of the fabric. "You know what we're like. Just...constantly trying to get one up on the other. It delights me, normally, but today..."

With his eyes on the mug in his hands, he breathes it in. Calming. Somewhat. "She was tired. I'm not even sure she slept. Something must have happened yesterday, it shook her so badly. She asked if she really belongs here, if she shouldn't just go back home, and I know she hates it when I talk about fate. So I didn't. Instead I was honest, painfully so."

He takes a shaking sip of tea. "I said her home wouldn't feel the same. That the world would have changed her. Gods, she just wanted a bit of reassurance. I'm supposed to be good at that, after all. I'm the cleric, I'm the oldest, I'm–"

He presses his palm to his forehead. "She walked off, and I was so angry with myself I scattered all the chess pieces about. Like a child throwing a tantrum."

Valac
He makes a note to remember the names, anise, rosehip - neither rings a bell. It’s a bit fascinating to be able to recognize them by the scent alone, and probably a very useful skill all-around. One he’s never ever thought about before, but Kismet does it with such ease that-

He talks about Agatha and Valac’s eyebrows furrow. She was… decent, as decent as one can be after what happened with Keldrym, when Valac last spoke with her. Hells, even seemed in better spirits after, which was an accomplishment of its own considering Valac was involved. He’ll have to catch a word with her later then, see if something else happened that had her losing her sleep.

But now, it seems that Kismet’s worry extends beyond that. Valac takes a sip of tea and he lets him finish before speaking up.

“Let me get this straight - you think that Agatha needed reassurance and went to you of all people? Considering what you just said about how you’re like. What’s next, Asriel hits me up to paint his nails?”, he leans down with a smile, entering Kismet’s field of view. “I think she needed a real response. I think she needed someone to confirm her fears so that she can confront them.”

Kismet
He holds Valac's gaze, worry creasing his brow. What he's saying rings true, but he wasn't there. He couldn't have seen the hurt in Agatha's eyes.

"I...I suppose she can't have wanted reassurance from me. Or conformation of her thoughts. All I do around her is be contrary. But that doesn't mean I don't care about her, I do, I..."

He presses his lips together, gaze falling back to the tea. "I brought up her past life. Told her it wouldn't be the same if she went home, knowing that if she continued on out here she might find the answers she sought." He throws a hand up, frustration drawing lines on his face. "It's like I've forgotten how to speak normally to people. How to place a veil over every word, colour it with flowery language and roundabout sayings. It was all in Elvish, too, which I'm more comfortable with. I delivered that so-called sage advice with all the pomp I could muster."

He takes a sip of tea, still frowning. Perhaps if he knew why she even came to him, he might gain some perspective on the conversation. They'd talked about the Raven Queen, the others. Then she'd brought it back to him and Valac...

His eyes narrow. "There was one subject she kept bringing up. No doubt with the intent on teasing me. But surely, surely, she wouldn't have showed up halfway across town just to mention your name and see how I react!"

Valac
“Lies are meant for people you care little for. Or people you think aren’t ready for the truth. Agatha is neither of those things to you, no?”

Kismet looks like he’s trying to solve an age-old riddle and his time is somehow running out. It’s kind of charming, really, Valac decides, and goes to flick at the star earring as it briefly reflects moonlight from outside. His hand, as of with a mind of its own, simply stays there, where the elf’s neck meets his ear. He tells himself it’s to help ground Kismet and nothing more. Not to calm his own tail swinging silently behind him.

“You can beat yourself over it all you want, it won’t change a thing. Can’t change the past. You said you were honest, so this really isn’t about being contrary, right? If you’d somehow softened the blow, so to speak, that wouldn’t have made an impact at all if the meaning was the same. Some things are hard to hear, no matter how they’re said.”

He chuckles when the last details of what Kismet said catch up to him and leaves his tea to the side, instead using his now free arm to fully prop himself on the table and pull him closer. There’s the most shit-eating grin on his face.

“Also, you can’t tell me that Agatha trying to poke at you over Florian screaming, and I quote, “Are you two fucking somewhere?”, had you in tears of anger just now.”

Kismet 
Valac's wearing that grin, the one that spells trouble. And with his next words, trouble arrives. He buries his face in his teacup, and if Valac asks, the blush is from the hot steam. Not from his hand still resting near his neck. Not from the way the pressure increased only a little, and his first instinct was to lean in as well.

"Gods, if they yelled that, Agatha would have heard it down the street." He shakes his head, laughing despite the frustration still curling in his chest. "No, no. She called us a handful, how could I get angry at such a compliment?"

The tea scalds his lips as he takes a bigger sip than he ought to, but he doesn't flinch, and falls into silence for just a moment. Unconsciously turns, just to close the space more. "Maybe it just bothers me that I care enough to get angry over it. I didn't have to deal with these things before. When you're alone the only one there to be hurt by your thoughts is yourself."

He sighs, finishing the tea, and sets the cup aside. Valac's hand is there, just sitting. Almost shyly, he slides his own hand forward on the table and taps the tips of Valac's fingers, noting the new coating of nail polish. "I'm sorry, I'm dominating the conversation. And I haven't said a thing about your new clothes, which can never be forgiven."

He reaches up, catches his fingers on the fabric with the embroidery. He was right, it's very fine linen. Hardly any slubs in the weave. And the stitching itself is tidy. Incredibly, despite the proximity and his thoughts racing as fast as his heart, he gets distracted for a moment. With both hands, he follows the embroidery up, plucking at the fabric, turning it around to inspect the inside. There's a lose thread, right up by the collar, and he plucks it out, his knuckles brushing soft skin.

It's then he notices what he's doing, and he drops his hands, embarrassed. "Sorry. It's just...it's very fine. It suits you, the cut." He shuts his mouth with a click.

Valac
Valac is waiting for an opening to comment on Kismet's blush when the elf reaches up and the words die on his tongue. So he just sits in silence, letting him curiously tread his sleeves, fingers catching on the fabric and embroidery, turning it this way and that. At some point, he remembers to breathe, manually, but his efforts are quickly forgotten again when the hands go up to his collar and press in to pluck a stray thread.

Kismet is definitely saying something then, he can see that clearly. Valac decides to drop the contact and turn to find his suddenly very interesting tea.

"I just didn't think the outfit was a conversation piece," he finally finds his words. "And Agatha isn't entirely wrong, is she?"

A handful. Well, that's one way to describe them. He takes a sip and uses the opportunity to refill Kismet's cup.

"Is that why you think you were horrible? Because you were brutally honest? You know I won't fault you for that." He sighs and turns to face him again. He has a semi-stupid theory to test, what with the way Kismet easily leans in; after he said to wait, Valac wonders if the elf even realizes he's doing it. So, he cleans up the space on the small table and instead of leaning again, he simply hoists himself to sit atop. He's not doing much, in fact nothing at all, but now all points of contact and proximity between him and Kismet are lost, unless Kismet decides to step in closer, potentially between Valac's knees.

"What if I told you I intentionally asked Florian about their injuries, knowing it would upset them? Would you still think you did bad?" He cocks an eyebrow. "By the way, did you find him a good cuddler?"

Kismet
Kismet watches as Valac sits up on the small table, and all he can do is clutch his warm mug between his hands. Since when has he constantly wanted some point of contact between them? Since when has that been something that settles him? He tilts his head. He believes Valac rarely does anything without intention, especially when it comes to moving himself around another person. Ah. You want me to come to you.

It feels like the dance again. Like the night watch where they painted each other's nails. Testing the water, seeing how the other reacts. Well.

He doesn't move in, not yet. Despite his aching feet, he simply shifts his weight to one foot, sipping his tea and watching Valac over the brim.

"I don't think you want to hurt Florian. I think you want Florian to be angry with you, or upset. I remember what you said about them. What he deserves. So remember what I said about trying to push him away." He takes another sip, examining why all he wants to do is place one hand on either side of Valac, if only to get up in his face. He comes to no clear conclusion.

The last comment makes him smile wryly. "Well, I was crying my eyes out, which isn't exactly unusual, but hardly the right atmosphere for cuddling. To be honest the thing that calmed me more was Florian telling me I didn't have to know why I was crying." He takes another sip, frowning thoughtfully. "They give, and give, and give, don't they? Trust, reassurance, kind words. I want equally to shake him as I want to thank him."

He sighs, somewhat annoyed that Valac moved away from him. Then annoyed again at himself for even thinking that. "And I'm...not a cuddler. Not really. At least, not at the moment. Any cuddle can get overwhelming, after a while." A flush crawls over his neck again, and he meets Valac's eye at last. "Normally."

Valac
Kismet's expression shifts, several times over, and Valac wonders if the gears in his head are turning in the right direction; he mirrors him when he tilts his head, a small smirk on his face. It's oddly fascinating to just watch him like this while sipping his tea.

"I don't think you want to hurt Florian."

He pauses at that, teacup midway to his mouth. Did he not? It sure seemed like it, after what they said. Would Kismet be able to tell better than him if he shared what happened? Not that it mattered now. He almost put both of them in danger over… what.

"Florian said he found you attractive. And that he might seek you out later tonight, just to hit you up. I-" he clasps both hands around the cup, stealing its warmth. His reflection looks back at him, and he almost wishes it would talk back on its own. Reveal secrets to him. "I know he meant it. Just as I know he was trying to get a rise out of me, like Agatha with you. And then I almost made him cry."

He bites his lip at Kismet's last comment, filing that for later. Normally. There's a warm flush through his chest that he attributes to the tea.

Kismet
Florian? Really? He raises his eyebrows at that. "You know...I wouldn't put it past those two to coordinate an assault like that." He holds the mug tight to his chest. "And then I'd be the one putting him out by turning him down. Not that I think it would bother them."

There's more he wishes to say, but the words aren't coming to him. He watches Valac for a reaction, trying to place why he retaliated like that. Then it occurs to him he acted in much the same way after Agatha tried to tease him about Valac. He wasn't himself in that moment. Or perhaps he was more himself than he's been in a while. He shakes his head, the emotions and reasoning too hard to place.

"And not five minutes after I sent you the message about the frog, I ran into the twins at the Cobalt Soul. I wasn't there for anything, just saw them through the window. I think...I think that's what pushed me over the edge somewhat." His ring chimes against the fired clay, and he admires the bright blue spots for a moment. "I know I should value honesty, but those two...well, Keldrym especially, they know how to read people."

He laughs, a little too loud, voice cracking. "Do you know what he said? 'What horrible thing have you done that you're trying to make up for?'" His grip tightens, an unpleasant scraping of metal on porcelain. "Who says that? Who...who but someone who knows–is that what I'm trying to do? Small kindnesses and hollow reassurances, just to make up for–"

The room is too small, the space between them too far. But he stands there, clutching his tea, and waiting. Because he said he would. And it tears him apart.

Valac
His hand goes to Kismet’s cheek and he pulls him in, their foreheads connecting, while his tail slides around them and rests at Kismet’s back. At least that’s what he imagines he does. In reality, he does no more than bring his leg up to rest his head atop his knee, and wrap his tail around that instead.

“Maybe that’s how Agatha felt, after what you said. I don’t- I don’t mean it in an accusatory way,” he shakes his head, aware of how his words have been interpreted before. Not by Kismet, but he wouldn’t bear for that to change now. “I just think it’s an interesting coincidence, to hear something that shakes you so much after doing much of the same. And just as I’d tell Agatha, I’d tell you to accept it. That’s just what Keldrym truly thought.”

He can’t help but think back to yesterday, his own conversation with the twins. Keldrym didn’t try to read him, in fact, he mostly tried to avoid him. But he still is Lens. It makes sense for him to see through facades easily, yet that brings up a train of thought that’s laid hidden until now. Something from weeks ago, and he’s been trying to forget the details ever since. But it was Asriel, alone in the dark, and yes, he knew undercommon, but there was something about the way he spoke it and what he said. “You show anger to me and but it is not for them.” How did he even decide to say that. How did he know?

He shakes his head, blinking away and back at Kismet. He was here, now.

“If you are trying to make up for it,” he speaks with certainty, as if he already knows what Kismet refers to, “Then does it make you feel better, does it ease you? If it does, absolutely keep doing it. No one has the right to tell you otherwise. But if it bothers you and.. if you’re doing it just because you think you have to?”

He looks to the side, feeling his cheeks warm, followed by a whole avalanche of worry, confusion and concern at the realisation. He wants to say something so foolish and selfish.

“You don’t have to. There’s- I will- You don’t have to.”

Kismet

"I don't know. I don't know." He takes a hurried sip of tea, and it tastes bitter on his tongue. "I've made so many mistakes, Valac. So many. Mistakes that have hurt people, mistakes that have hurt me in the end. I just...I want to stop it happening. It's not about some false sense of balancing out sins. That's a foolish thought to track. I just want to move forward, do better. Stop my stupid mistakes hurting people I care about. Stop my stupid mistakes hurting me."

He bites on his lip, hard. "And it...it wasn't that Keldrym was speaking the truth. That part didn't bother me. It was just...realising so viscerally how entrenched in the Lens he is. Was."

He shakes his head, hard, and gives up his foolish game. Setting the tea aside, he closes the distance, placing his palms flat on the table, either side of Valac. Safety, he'd felt. He needs it now. How selfish.

The look he gives him is of desperation, of a man who has been running miles in the desert and just can't bring himself to cross that final dune to find water.

"I have a past there, in Xhorhas. You know this. Not the details, of course, but I...I can't let the twins get too close. The fact their family has effectively dropped them makes me even more sure." He anchors his fingertips in the wood, feeling the rough grain. What in the nine hells is he doing? "Now imagine they dig up pasts that should be long forgotten. What a tasty morsel to hand to mother dearest, to beckon them happily home?"

He's on the edge of tears again, horrified at the words coming from his mouth. "I don't know them. I haven't let myself know them, because I am so scared. I'm walking in fear, and then they talk of buying blankets and reading children's stories?"

A tear finally escapes, his forearms shaking, as if the only thing keeping him from collapsing is the warmth of proximity.

"Does it make me feel better, to do these things? These kindnesses? Yes. Because I know what I have to prevent. But I'm doing a lot of it for me, and now I can't fucking stand myself."

Valac
He has no time to react. Kismet closes the distance and his mind blanks out, all thoughts about Asriel out the window and into the dark night. The rush that goes to his head stems from the fact that Kismet is seeking out his proximity. The not-cuddler. The one who gets overwhelmed by touch, coming to Valac. His heart is pounding. He locks both his legs behind Kismet; if he could envelop him whole, he would.

And when the elf looks at him, he realises with an earth shattering certainty that he has twofold the reasons to burn the entire Dynasty down, and he’s willing to do it now if Kismet as much as asks him to.

“You’ve been on the run.” It’s a statement. “Bysaes Tyl is pretty far away, and you didn’t grow up there. Otherwise it would have been the first place they searched, if you’d just returned there.”

He takes Kismet’s chin in his hand and turns him slightly to the left, slightly to the right. The skin is soft, flawless, and it doesn’t make sense. His thumb reaches up to intercept the wet trail of a tear and he wipes it away.

“I talked with them yesterday. They want to return, doesn’t matter when. Keldrym was adamant about it, said it’s the only home they know, both of them did. You can't let them know.” His voice is cold, but not for detachment or lack of care. He’s thinking, calculating, so many things, all at once. So many threads are being tied in a single knot, and he hopes he can one day make a beautiful garment out of them.

Why would they not immediately recognize him, if he was such a prominent bargaining chip? He keeps coming back to the same question.

“Kismet. Is this what you look like?”

Kismet
Legs wrap around him, locking him in place. He breathes hard, pulse ringing in his ears, locking his gaze with Valac's. He needs to see the impact his words had, he needs to be sure.

"You’ve been on the run."

He swallows, hard. Despite the tea, his mouth is dry. It's all coming out. It's all happening at once, and he's equal parts exhilarated and mortified. He licks his lips, and nods, the most miniscule movement. His jaw is caught up, and he's turned this way and that. He keeps his gaze locked, that fresh tear joined by another. Gods, he's afraid. He's been afraid for so long. A century or so, not a breath spilled to soul, and here he is, everything laid bare before a tiefling with a cocky grin and endless depths of subtlety.

"You can't let them know."

He gasps, nodding, more tears. He knows, he knows, Matron he knows! Unfold me, he begs silently. Unfold me, because I'm too frightened to do it myself. His nails marr the polished wood.

"Is this what you look like?"

At last, he squeezes his eyes shut, tears falling down skin that doesn't feel like his. He's done so much with these hands, with his power. Grown life from barren dirt, made tapestries, held close lovers in the night. Marked souls for death. Yet the hardest movement of all, it's the hardest thing he's ever done, because it feels like a betrayal.

He shakes his head, so slowly, as though breaking through rusted hinges, and prepares for Valac to shove him away.

Valac
“Okay. Okay.”

His heart is pounding, even louder. Shit, he was so stupid. That was so stupid of him to ask, here. He can hear Kismet’s nails drawing wounds in the table, and he knows he’s pushed beyond the point he should have stopped, again. The only saving grace is that at least Kismet was smart enough to not answer him verbally.

“I’m going to run a spell, okay? I’m not targeting you, but think about corsets just in case.”

He murmurs the incantation and somehow tears away from Kismet, just to double his chances. At once, his mind is open, as if his psyche is barren atop the Ashkeeper Peaks themselves and every thought carries like string in the wind. To his immense relief, nothing is nearby but the chamber of noise that is Kismet next to him, and a single hawk that flies above the house. He drops the spell immediately.

“There’s no one around, no one heard. But let’s not… let’s not do this here. Come. I think where I slept might be the attic but… it works.”

His legs release Kismet and he pushes off the table, gently sliding around and behind him towards the stairs. When he doesn’t hear movement, he stops to turn around, and Kismet is just… there.

“Kismet?” He extends his arm for him to take, palm open.

Kismet
He could laugh. He could cry. He is crying. His mind is ringing, the spell that goes off washing over him like a cool breeze. Then the proximity is gone, the warmth, the anchor–he stares into the dregs of his tea, his reflection staring back. But it isn't him. Hasn't been, not for a long time.

"Kismet?"

He turns, slowly, lost. Valac stands with his hand open, an invitation. A tether. Kismet's relief is palpable, a rough gasp, and he stumbles forward, catching himself on the hand he never expected to see waiting.

Every muscle in him shakes with a tremor he can't stop, and as Valac guides him upstairs he wants to reassure him. To tell him he doesn't need anything more than this, this contact. This hand in his to keep him from falling up the stairs.

"Thank you," is all he can start with. "Thank you."

Valac
He leads them upstairs, glancing back at Kismet occasionally. Thank you, he hears.

“What for?” He shoots back, genuinely unsure of what’s even happening. It scares him how little he knows, but even more, it scares him that he doesn’t care. That he’s certain, and he’s been certain before and been wrong. He can’t be wrong this time, not after everything.

Before he knows it, they stand before the door to his makeshift room, and he pushes it open. The attic space has low ceilings, a high arch atop and windows on the side that peak out the roof. It is littered in potted plants, different leaves and flowers, some small, some tall, and mostly cluttered where they’d bask in sunlight during the day. It’s warm now, at night, but Valac woke up drenched in sweat in the morning, accompanied by the sound of some stray bees. They’re either asleep or gone now, for the room is silent, safe for both their breathing - surely from the stairs. Surely, Valac repeats to himself. Perhaps it’s too warm now as well, or his hand that hold Kismets is sweating on its own.

He leads the elf inside and turns to lock behind them, then thinks better. That might be a bit much right now, when Kismet seemed so unresponsive. He settles for pushing the old dresser by the door further to the left until it blocks it, then grabs Kismet’s hand again, as if he’d disappear. In the middle of the room is a double mattress, no bed frame, with pillows, covers and duvets in disarray on top. Valac’s pouch lies to the side, a perfume bottle out. When his feet touch the covers, he simply drops, several pillows softening the blow, and drags Kismet down with him.

There’s a moment of pause, in which he wants to ask twenty questions at once, and none. He turns around, face half covered by linen.

“Can you show me?”

Kismet
There's greenery here. It's warm, though. Missing the sound of crickets. And of course, no night blooms. He takes a breath, another. There's a scraping sound, of wood on floorboard. But he still can't bring himself to move. It's as though his mind is simultaneously empty, and full of every thought he's ever had.

Valac grabs his hand again, and he allows himself to be pulled, the bed soft beneath him. He lands on his back, and he could easily close his eyes and just sleep, but once more that would be running.

He turns, fabric shifting, soft on his face. A question catching up to his mind: What for.

"I'm thankful," he starts, his voice so hushed their movement on the blankets would drown him out. "I'm thankful I didn't have to say anything. I'm thankful you're still here."

"Can you show me?"

It would be easy. He pulls his hand to his chest, fingers running over the indents of his ring. Instead, he rolls over, facing Valac. Like this, he can pretend there's nothing else. No Dynasty, no Empire, no home, no family. Just them.

"I'm scared. I've worn this skin so long, I don't...I don't know who I'm supposed to be anymore." He brings his hands between them, fiddles with his ring so it glints in the moonlight. "Like I'm two people. I'm torn between two places that aren't truly home, my mother tongue unfamiliar in my own mouth."

He slips the ring half a centimeter up his finger. There ought to be a band of paler skin beneath it, from days in the sun, but that's now how the spell works.

Valac
He’s scared to move, so he just sinks deeper into the mattress.

“I know it’s selfish to ask.” He might have tried to pry it out of Kismet, pressure him, guilt him into doing it. Tell him it’s for their safety. He would’ve done that with anyone else, it’s only natural. If it was anyone else, he still had that potion he could use. But no, not Kismet. None of that.

“But I am a selfish man, and I want all your secrets, just so I can have them.”

He feels raw. It’s supposed to be Kismet revealing a deep part of himself, but it’s almost like Valac is the one throwing himself at his mercy with every word he chooses not to be a lie.

“And… you’re still the only you I’ve known.” The words almost catch in his throat. How desperately he wants to hear the same in return.

Kismet
Kismet feels a smile tug at his face, despite his eyes rubbed raw from crying. He takes a moment, here, to breathe. To assess. They are so close, hidden from the world. And perhaps he might have held back had Valac pushed him. But instead, there it is. That vulnerability he's realised he chases after, and Valac is offering it to him. Just him.

"If there's anyone who makes me feel like I'm whole, it's you." He twists the ring, and he isn't sure why he's hesitating if he's made his decision. "Never flinching. You're the only one who has seen the surface of the darkest parts of me and wanted to know more."

He flicks his gaze between Valac's eyes, and the illusion suddenly feels like a wall between them. It always was, but now it is more the bars of a cell. He can reach through, Valac can reach in. It feels like a lie.

"I want you to see me. Even though my appearance isn't what makes me. I want you to see..."

His heart hammers in his throat. His fingers, trembling too much to take off the ring. So he reaches for Valac's hands, brings them up. Moves Valac's fingers so he's clasping the ring.

"See me, like I see you."

Valac 

"If there's anyone who makes me feel like I'm whole, it's you.”

He squeezes his eyes shut for a second, then two. Shit, this is bad. He could get addicted to this. Kismet puts his fingers on the ring as if he’s bearing his throat to him, and Valac is holding the blade. No one has done that, no one has looked him in the eye, seen what he’s made of, and stayed.

“I’ve seen the dark, the deepest parts of it. I’ve been to places your mind won’t be able to explain, and I’ve experienced the fabric of reality warp around me. You’re nothing like that, and you’re more.”

He pulls the ring off.

Kismet
Where the ring comes away, colour spreads like ink from his finger. An indefineable colour, like a stone on a riverbed. Almost purple, not quite. He's seen the illusion fade before, it doesn't interest him. All he cares about is Valac's face, the emotion he wears, the words he'd said. The way Kismet just wants to know him.

The spell continues to fade, crawls beneath his clothes, up his neck. Like paper burning, a point of no return. Over his face, the same face, but truly him now. His hair, fading from auburn to white. The last of it is his eyes, that blue, his favourite blue, mixing and shifting to pink.

He feels bare, unsure. As vulnerable as he's ever been.

With fingers no longer trembling, he holds them against Valac's face, the hues closer than before. Kismet's tattoo, the same colours, but the contrast makes it so bright. Just as he wanted.

"Hello," he says. "Here I am."

Valac
He’s aware he should say something, and his mouth is sure trying. Closes and opens several times to no avail. His mind is ablaze. It’s still… Kismet, that’s clear. The same features, the same soft smile. Barely there, tired. But it’s either the way his skin almost blends with Valac’s, the eyes that shine the brightest, or the fact that it’s truly Kismet now, that makes him want to drown in him.

“Hello,” he finally responds after what feels like eternity. “You’re beautiful.”

He drags his hand down from Kismet’s, where it had stayed near his wrist, until he reaches his elbow, then the tattoo, barely peeking beneath the material of his sleeve. So much color. What a stark contrast.

“I wish I could go back in time and ask myself for some advice on what to say. Back then my mind was occupied with thoughts other than how much I like you. Now it seems that’s all that’s left.”

Kismet

“You’re beautiful.”

Beautiful. He mouths the word, and knows if it came from anyone but Valac, he wouldn't believe it. He flushes, but it's different, it's not a bright red but a subtle darkening of his skin. He wonders if Valac would still want to make him blush with the effect dulled. He wonders why he'd worry about that.

His eyes follow Valac's fingers as they trace his skin, and it's him, it's him–he feels like a weight has lifted, and he huffs a soft laugh, his smile wide.

"Back then my mind was occupied with thoughts other than how much I like you. Now it seems that’s all that’s left."

His smile softens, and he feels light. Like he could lift from the floor, take Valac with him. "I'd been prepared all this time for you to turn from me, or berate me for hiding." He shakes his head, the crisp linen loud in his ear. "I don't know how I could have thought anything else. But you stayed."

Beautiful.

"No-one's called me that before. Beautiful. I don't feel it, with my short hair and thin face." He takes Valac's hand from where it still rests on his tattoo, examines the way his fingers look against the other's. "It's like meeting all over again," he breathes. "Except I have all my memories, all my feelings for you, the trust I have in you."

He blinks, backtracking his last few words. The phrasing might not be ideal, true as he means it, but there's hardly a thought left in his brain. Drunk on finally being himself.

Valac
Why is this room so warm. He cannot stand the thought of leaving the embrace of this bed to open a window, not with Kismet comparing their hands with such wonder right next to him. But there's no air and he's sweating, his breathing getting deeper and deeper. It's only made worse by the elf's flush and, light, it's like he sees him for the first time. Only this time he's no longer painfully aware of the missing part of him, the absence, the loneliness. He hasn't felt it near Kismet, not in a long time.

He can't take his eyes off him.

"You seem happy," he smiles as well, unbidden. "And don't know why you haven't been called beautiful before. Was everyone around you blind?"

Maybe they were truly meant to meet? What mere happenchance would have him worry over someone else, get angry on behalf of someone else, more than he does for himself? If Kismet wanted to abandon them, him now, would he let him go, or would he beg at his feet like he would have begged Amīcus?

At least Kismet would leave him in a better state than Amīcus did. And to think that the elf feared Valac would turn; he almost snorts.

"Turn from you - for what, surviving? You've been in survival mode, Kismet, way longer than me. How could I ever stand to berate you for something I know so bitterly?"

A window behind him flies open with the flick of a wrist, fresh air instantly filling the room. He'd almost forgotten he can cast spells just now.

"The only reason I'm standing before you as I am is because everyone considers me either dead or insignificant enough to play with anymore. If I were to return, if I were to step foot in Asarius– no, I can't show my real face like that."

Kismet

"You seem happy."

He'd thought all his tears were done, but at this another falls. Because he is, in this moment. Utterly content. As Valac talks, he casts a quiet spell, and four glowing lights blossom in the room, a soft blue. This magic is inherent to him, inherent to the drow. He couldn't ever cast in the presence of the others, just in case. It lights them both in a second moonlight.

Valac opens the window, and with the breeze the admissions of his past break Kismet's heart, because he knows the feeling so well. Thought to be dead, or gone, but not important enough to try and contact.

"You and I both," he whispers. "There are limits to this ring...I can only change surface-level detail. I don't think it would hold in Asarius, but I don't plan on showing my face there." He takes Valac's hand again, cradling it between them, the ring inert in his palm. His safety, his lifeline, his protection, in the hands of another. And it doesn't scare him.

"You say 'play with'...Somehow I don't think you mean it in the delightful sense." Anger again, so much anger. He's starting to relish the way it sits so comfortably next to this...elation? Contentment? Something deeper. "How anyone could find you insignificant escapes me, when you shine so brightly."

Valac
Valac watches in awe as Kismet conjures four soft globules of light that paint the room blue.

His mother's spell. Never has it brought him comfort before, hers usually a burning red, deeper than fire. His smile grows larger when Kismet takes his hand and he can't help but pull a little closer. It doesn't escape him that the ring stays in him, and Kismet doesn't seem eager to get it back. Who does that, and why is he so elated because of it? Not even talking about the past can spoil that, not even talking about them.

"Don't growl," he teases, and decides he has to do something to intercept the sure sign of a blush about to crawl on his face - with the heat around his neck, his cheeks will surely follow next. Shine so brightly. Him? "And don't- don't say that," he whispers, although he's still smiling, and hates to admit how much more a compliment weighs when it's coming from the elf. Where Kismet's skin darkens, charming, Valac's saturates, a dead giveaway.

His tail finds purchase around Kismet's thigh and light, how he's wanted to do this again since the pillow fort, the first one. He never thought, back then, that their paths would merge to lead them here. In a strange, new town, outside the Empire, safe. When has he last felt safe?

"No, never in the delightful sense," he answers Kismet's unspoken question. "But I never did anything about it either." He looks down at their hands, clasped together around the ring. "Are you alright with locking the door? You can stay here, without it for a while. If you want to."

Kismet
Valac's tail finds him, and it's a half-remembered moment from a drunken night. He has to keep their hands in his eyeline, just to remind himself that he's here, like this. He wouldn't feel more connected even if they embraced. The thought of embracing brings an immediate flush to his skin, alongside the gentle pressure around his leg.

And Valac is still smiling, and he finds wonder in it, that he'd be able to pull such an expression from the tiefling. And he marvels that he wants to do it again, to make him laugh, over and over. What on Exandria is happening right now?

"No, never in the delightful sense."

Don't growl, he'd said. So he lets the anger simmer behind his eyes, and wonders if it reflects better through the pale pink than from behind calm blue. "I'm sure you did what you could," he whispers, and it's so foolish to think he could understand from just one sentence. But there's no sense mincing words anymore. It seems now, that every thought that enters his head just immediately leaves it in Valac's presence.

"Please, lock the door, if you don't mind." He rubs his thumb over the space the ring occupied, a pale band where sunlight hadn't seen it in months. No, more. "I've taken it off a few times, in the last decade or so. Longer, maybe. When you have the ability to pretend to be someone else in your hands, it's so easy to fall into it."

Those years, those dark years. He doesn't remember them well. He knows he started wearing the ring more often, until he wore it more often than not. It occurs to him he hasn't even looked in a mirror like this, not in a long time.

"I feel raw. Flayed. I'd never wanted to see this side of me, I'd wanted to hide. But hiding it from you is...unbearable, to me." He presses his fingers to Valac's cheek again. "If we lie here long enough, perhaps I'll start to remember who I am."

Valac
"In the last decade"', his surprise comes out unmasked. "Has there been no one? Does no one else know?"

He relishes in the idea he could be the only person to have seen Kismet like this in a long, long time. At the same time, the mere thought of spending that much time without a single soul to find comfort in… Valac hasn't even hit a decade and his desperation, his anger have only grown.

"I tell myself, every day, that I am better off alone. That I am enough. And I might be, in some regard. But when you've been a part of something, ah–", his eyes dart to the window. Stop it. This is ridiculous. "What I mean is, live in the illusion that you matter to people long enough and it becomes hard to accept that you don't."

He leaves the ring on the sheets between them and his face nearly crumples when he has to pry Kismet's hands away. He's shivering with the lack of contact as he crosses the room, albeit the warmth in the air. The door clicks locked, and he leaves the dresser still blocking it, just for additional comfort. If he didn't think it extremely embarrassing to run back to the bed, he certainly would; instead, he just flushes, again when he turns around and Kismet is just there, in his bed. He runs a hand over his face. Pull yourself together.

"We can stay. Even tomorrow," he chuckles. "Who's going to force us out. Except maybe Florian, on his way to hit on you."

Oh, fuck, he was supposed to check up on Florian.

Kismet
He bites his lip at Valac's question. "There was...there was one."

He stops abruptly. This is one topic he won't be pushed to talk about, not yet. "Being alone has been my norm for so long. I've also told myself it's better. That it's comfortable. But I'm...I don't know if I can go back to that. Maybe one or two nights, here and there. But the thought of returning home now? With no one?"

He turns the ring in his fingers while Valac goes to lock the door. Tries not to think about how his absence is like a void next to him. But he's right there, not far–Kismet watches each movement, and realises how much he trusts Valac to keep him safe.

"Perhaps a late dinner, just us. Up here." Oh gods, he'd forgotten about his things, and the fabric. "I might need you to fetch my things, they're all down in the main room." He flushes, fidgeting more the longer is away from his side. "I don't mean to–you don't have to, I just...I don't want to change back, not yet."

He sits up a little, and with deft movements threads the leather of his necklace through the ring, letting it rest against his amulet.

"Except maybe Florian, on his way to hit on you."

He still can't quite believe that Florian was so inclined. He shakes his head, waving offhandedly. "I think they brought up attraction, with me. Not at me. Just...the different ways we experience it. Florian said they don't really understand the romantic aspects, but for me it's almost...almost the opposite. It's rare for me to be attracted to someone without knowing them first. I..I thought it was rare."

He's lying there, propped on his elbow, a hand around his amulet, and looking at Valac when he says this. And it confuses him, endlessly. He's attracted to him, of course. But it's been like that almost since they met. A few conversations...

His heart thuds harder.

Valac
“You know I’m going to go downstairs to get food and fetch your things, and Agatha is just going to be there watching me as I carry them to my room. I just, I can sense it,” he laughs, finally rediscovering the humour in their situation. Maybe they can run a con versus Agatha and Florian, pretend they’re sleeping together or something.

“So you had a deep conversation while crying in close proximity? I thought that was reserved for me,” he drops back to the mattress, knees first, then crawls up until his eyes are level with Kismet’s. Their legs entangle and his tail finds purchase back at the elf’s thigh.

It’s almost silly, how easier it is to talk when they’re like this. And he’s sure he’s choosing to say everything he says. “In all fairness, he brought up attraction towards many others, me and Asriel included. I just… really only drilled him about you, I don’t know why, I-“ the words die on his tongue, not for lack of trying to verbalise his thoughts.

He’s finding it hard to think about attraction on that scale when Kismet is involved. It almost goes against everything he’s thought he knew about himself. Yes, he’s definitely very attracted to him, but would he stop thinking about him if anything happened?

“Before,” he begins, unsure where the present him lies. “I was the opposite to you. Am the opposite. I don’t know. I’ve told you, I’ve never been with somebody for anything more than physical release.” Would he really stop thinking about him? Because he doesn’t want to. “And how did you even reach that topic? With Florian?”

He squints, adamant on not letting that detail go unnoticed.

Kismet
The thought of Agatha standing there, watching Valac haul his things upstairs, almost brings a smile to his face. Ah. He still needs to apologise to her. And somehow even the thought of existing in the same house like this sends a crawling sensation up his spine. All the reactions he's had to her past life, to everything. How disappointed she'll be.

Valac's weight hits the mattress, and he lies stock-still as the tiefling crawls closer, the contact a wave of relief. It's like every time he moves away, Kismet is sure it will be the last time they touch, and the thought alone is agony.

"And how did you even reach that topic? With Florian?"

He drops his gaze, fingers tangling with Valac's sleeves, absently playing with the embroidery. How did they get there? There was something about books, the copper box ones. Past partners. And...oh.

Kismet laughs as he remembers. "We were talking about that night in the pillow fort, when we played truth or dare. Florian said something about his dating history–I'll let them expand on that." His stomach curls at the memory. Not his to share. "And the...well, I...I commented on how unbothered they were at the ah..."

He can't help it, he covers his face, and the dancing lights shine blue through his real skin, and he sits there a moment, lost in the sight, before remembering where he is.

Muffled, he continues. "I'd just gotten on my knees for you. And I haven't been able to stop thinking about that, even though I was just about blackout drunk. Florian on the other hand, just carried on." He opens his fingers, peeking over at Valac. This didn't need to be so embarrassing. It wasn't. Really. But his pulse is loud in his ears even talking about it. "Florian said they couldn't remember how many people he'd dated and it...we just carried on from there."

His voice trails off pathetically. He's not sure what it is, but without his ring, every word feels even more true.

“I was the opposite to you. Am the opposite. I don’t know."

The only thing he can cling to is the before. Because it means there's a chance something has changed.

Valac 

“I'd just gotten on my knees for you. And I haven't been able to stop thinking about that, even though I was just about blackout drunk.”

There’s a very, very loud ringing in his ears, and the rest of the sentence just fades out into white noise. He’s been trying his damn hardest to not think about that, not think about what Kismet said, and to now hear that it’s been the same for him? He’s dangerously close to imagining pink eyes kneeling for him instead, just as Kismet peeks between his fingers.

He’s suddenly painfully aware of all the points of contact between them, and how he might have been squeezing with his tail a bit more. He forces his body to relax, torn between pulling back and simply opening his chest for Kismet to crawl into. Finally, he settles on propping himself up on one elbow, several strands of hair falling away from his face with the movement.

“I didn’t think you’d do it,” he pulls closer, casting a shadow on Kismet’s face, and his hand just hovers near his collarbone. Purple, but not quite. Would he look different? Would his eyes shine more or less defiantly? “I thought I had you for sure. But you even went ahead and dared me to draw someone. I did hesitate between you and Florian before deciding I would draw them, but imagine.”

He can’t help but grin as he takes one of Kismet’s hands in his before laying back down and holding it to his lips. And he watches, smitten.

Kismet
His chest is a flame, burning up brighter than any letter he's turned to ash. The way his hair shifts across his face, it's mesmerising. Such a mundane thing. When he leans closer, Kismet's eyes widen, and he wonders how Valac sees him now, the pink instead of blue.

Imagine, he says. Just imagine. There's a grip around his heart, icy and hot all at once. He wants to imagine, he wants to know what Valac might have drawn. But more than that, he wants to know how Valac sees him. Charcoal to paper.

Entranced, his gaze tracks his own fingers, brought to Valac's mouth. Involuntarily, he twitches, feels his soft lips beneath his fingerprints–

His heart is beating so hard he feels sick.

"I–I want to write something. My ink and charcoal is downstairs, so you could..." He swallows, pressing his lips together. It's a simple request, isn't it? He essentially offered already. "You could draw something. Not risque, just..."

Why is it so hard to ask for something?

He can't bring himself to look at him, and his voice is barely above a whisper. "Just to show how you see me."

Valac 
He's just about certain he will open his mouth and bite Kismet's finger when he touches his lips. The fact that he doesn't can only be attributed to a miracle alone, some sort of divine intervention. The image of the Raven Queen holding his mouth shut springs to mind and he has to suppress a chuckle.

If only the gods actually concerned themselves with his existence.

"Yes. I'll go." He can't be more thankful for the prompt. It'll clear his head, and he can channel everything that's happening with his mind and body into that drawing.

He doesn't allow himself a moment to think before getting up again, almost too quickly. Instinctually, he goes for the lock, but freezes halfway. The chances of someone just waiting outside the door are close to zero, but he's not willing to take the risk. He snaps out of the room with a whisper.

Kismet
The silence after Valac leaves presses on him like a blanket. His hands feel cold without the contact, his entire body off-kilter.

After a moment, with a frustrated sigh he gets to his feet and searches out a distraction. He stays away from the open window, and instead begins to inspect the plants crowded along the wall.

Most of his thoughts are occupied by Valac, which comes as a shock considering he's just revealed one of the most important secrets about himself. He doesn't think of the quickest escape route, he thinks of how Valac's hands felt around his own. He doesn't think of how long it will take for the ring's power to take hold, he thinks of Valac's tail around his thigh. And mostly he thinks of the words, you're beautiful.

He's inspecting the leaves of a devil's ivy when he realises he wants to hear that again. And again, and again, and again. And how he wants to return words of similar weight.

It feels as delicate as the leaf between his fingers, and he's terrified that with one wrong move, it could all snap and crumble. So he's ready to hold it, in that fine balance, until he learns the right words.

Valac

He appears on top of the attic stairs. The door doesn’t open and close, and the rusted hinges don’t make a sound; there’s only the soft arcane whoosh of his teleport. Hopefully, it’s enough to pacify alert ears.

He almost tiptoes down the stairs, although without the shoes he barely makes a sound anyway. But the concentration is enough to take his mind off, and hopefully dull some of the redness in his face.

The smell of roasted vegetables hits him when he enters the kitchen, and the fact itself spells trouble. Might be Antonio. His stomach growls. Damn it, he has to get food as well.

Immediately, he spots a beautiful teal laced with gold, carefully folded and placed in an armchair by the entrance of the room. Sure enough, Kismet’s pouch and other belongings are right next to it - when did he manage to place them with such care? Valac barely even noticed he was carrying anything.

He steps further in to get them, and his periphery catches a short figure working on the stove.

Not short enough to be Antonio.

Agatha

After a long, long day of shenanigans, revelations and frankly being a little pissed off, Agatha did what she always did when she needed to calm down: cook!

The current menu was fairly simple, but still was enough smell to draw the ire of hunger. It was one massive bowl being created, a big mixture of beans, rice, roasted vegetables, soy sauce and dozens of other seasonings, as well as what looked like rather strange fish fillets currently being flambéed with a brandy labeled "Devo'ssa's Burn"

Yet, despite the constant sizzling and cooking sounds that surrounded her, it wasn't hard to notice the tiefling as he entered. His attention towards the chair near the entrance, which she had noted held Kismets belongings. 

Interesting. 

Without turning to face him, she speaks: "Evening, loverboy. You hungry? Or, have you already eaten?"

Valac

He fucking knew it. He called it. He just knew it.

And there go all his efforts to keep the redness off his face. He could, theoretically, disguise himself with a spell-

“Evening, ceaseless watcher,” he shoots back. “And I am. Hungry. I came down for that."

He cringes internally. Okay, he can save this. He can do what he planned to anyway. They can totally do this, if Agatha and Florian are so adamant about it. So he leaves Kismet’s belongings back on the chair and enters the kitchen proper, towering over Agatha to peek over her shoulde

“What you cooking? I won’t stay for dinner, I’m afraid, but if it’s not ready I can grab something from the fridge.”

Agatha

She, again, hardly looks away from her work as he strides towards her, examining the food.

"Oh, its mostly done! Give it 5 minutes or so, the fish will be cooked and I'll have mixed the bowl. It's a few dishes I picked up the recipe for while I was out. Tiger shark filets, as there is an overpopulation of those out in the lucidian, and a vegetarian bowl called 'Mezcla', which I believe is just a Ki'nau word for Mixture."

She finally gives him a glance, the slightest of smirks on her face. "And how has your day been? I don't imagine anything of particular interest has happened, hm?"

Valac

“Nope! You know how my days are. Just, nothing happens. Been reading in bed almost all day, only came down to drink some tea. Ran into Florian and Kismet. Nothing unusual.”

Damn her. And damn the wondrous aroma of whatever all those words meant. He won’t say a thing before she does. As if Kismet hasn’t already prepared him for anything she might try. As if Florian hasn’t tried worse. 

“Both of them said you barely slept, by the way. Are you alright?” He wants to nag at her, but the words come out laced with concern on their own.

Agatha

"Mmm. Boring day. Can't complain though, I'd rather a bore than the chaos that has been hounding us the past couple of days." 

She slows a bit as he addresses the lack of sleep. Good to hear that others are talking about her when she isn't around, can only imagine the wonders that those topics bring...

"I... ugh. No, I'm not fine. Too much going on. Too hard to focus on one thing, so my mind attempts to focus on all of them. Makes it rather hard to find the comfort of sleep, when you cannot close your eyes for more than a moment without fearing for an attack in the night." Her gaze fixes down at the pan for a moment or two, before she shakes herself out of it and begins to plate the fish.

"I'll be fine. I'm pretty much over it, I addressed some concerns late last night and today... on a completely unrelated note, when did you run into Kismet? I saw him out and about today, was wondering if he had finished his work. He has been keeping his hands awfully busy today." A beat. "At the weavers guild, of course is what I meant."

Valac

“Fearing for an attack in- No. You know what.” He covers his face with his palms and takes a deep breath. “Unless you think we will all die in our sleeps tonight, I’m not going to think about that, if you say you’ll be fine. My mind has been full as well, on its own.”

He’s got his own demons to worry about, coming in the night. If there’s others, they’ll have form a queue. Besides, his priorities have recently expanded enough.

“As for Kismet,” he clears his throat. Awfully busy, huh. “Just, a couple of hours ago. And I don’t know. You can always check up on him, I know you two love to chit-chat.”

Agatha

"Mhmm." 

Her gaze fixes on valac for a solid 5 seconds, before she fills a rather large bowl with the mixture of foods, with still plenty left over in the initial container and sets it aside, along with two plates of the fish.

"No, I don't think I will. Check up on him, I mean. We had a lovely conversation earlier over a game of chess. Didn't get to finish, unfortunately." She gestures to the plated food beside her, however.

"Why don't you go find him, hm? Maybe bring him dinner? I'm not so sure if he ate lunch, and I'm sure he would enjoy food being brought to him. I would myself, but I need to clean up here and all..."

Valac

He latches onto that.

“You know what, that’s a wonderful idea! In fact, I will also bring him his stuff.” He easily stacks the two plates on his arm, supporting them from below, and marches to the armchair with a slight spring in his step. 

“I’m so glad to hear about your lovely conversation. The way you two get along so well is the one constant in this group.” He’s trying to contain the smile before it becomes too sarcastic, and then a full on chuckle, as he grabs the fabric with his free hand. Light, he’s never been more grateful that misty step requires no somatics.

Agatha

"Right. That, and florians antics are certainly the only constants." She begins wiping down the counter, moving the food to begin plating for the rest of them.

She hums a bit to herself, having turned her attention away from the other as he grabbed all the others belongings... before pausing, and fully turning to face him "Oh, and before you go: Valac?"

She grabs the bottle of brandy that she had been using for cooking, along with a shotglass she had already prepared, pouring herself a shot.

"Dont play with your food, Ja?"

Valac

Theeere it is.

He’d just made a step to the stairs and he has to pause, considering his options. He could just answer normally. Or he could just ignore it. Or.

He cocks an eyebrow, even looks down at his hands for added effect. Steaming fish in one, spotless fabric in the other. “You know how much tastier it is when you do though.” 

He only hears Agatha down the shot, already turning the corner, when he remembers one last thing.

“I will let you know how I liked it though! The food, of course. I can send messages no matter how far away you are now. Good luck getting rid of me.”

Agatha

She can't help but laugh aloud at his last little quip there, before a thought pops into her head. She sets her glass down, and she casually pulls a small stone she had picked up, just for this. Her eyes close for a brief moment, and the stone is wrapped in a purplish energy.

Then, she hurls the stone around the corner and against the wall opposite of Valac. There is a sound like tearing, and a twisting energy that forms in front of him, before half a second later Agatha appears, said stone still in hand, tossing it casually.

"And good luck to you, getting rid of me."

Valac

He freezes, barely managing not to drop the plates when Agatha apparates in front of him in a smoke of purple energy. Arcane, but that’s about all he can tell. Has he even seen her cast a spell before, what was that?

He shakes his head, determined to take things one at a time today.

“Copycat.” He huffs and carries on, playfully bumping her shoulder on the way up.

He struggles to walk at a normal pace up the stairs, he realizes, and it's both excitement and worry. Realistically, no one could have entered the room, and he hopes he would've heard any disturbance anyway. Light, he could have connected to Kismet before going off, but he was so gripped by-

Ah. Maybe don't think about that yet.

And maybe don't think about the deep worry over... Kismet. That was new. Interesting. He stops midway. He was worrying about Kismet, for a while now. As if he hadn't seen him cast black ichor on a man who barely struggled to walk after. As if he wasn't perfectly capable of draining someone's life to keep himself going. As if he needed Valac to worry over him at all.

"Gods, but if you can try, that's more than I'd ever done. You're stronger than I."

He takes another tentative step up, then pauses again. Why did that make no sense?

At least with Agatha, he could tell when he started trusting her more, when he sat down and really thought about her.

But this?

He rushes, barely keeping balance on his mind to not tip over the plates. And as soon as he sees the dark oak of the door, he teleports inside.

"Tell me every spell you know."

Kismet
The soft arcane noise and the sound of plates clattering is enough to startle Kismet, and he barely suppresses a squeak, his fingers clamping onto the leaf and tearing it as he turns. He presses a hand to his heart, pulse racing.

"Matron, you scared me!" But he has a smile on his face. Valac has two plates on one arm, held with skill and familiarity. Kismet cocks his head, but files it away for later. The smell is amazing, and he accepts the plate gratefully, carefully taking his other things and setting them aside, neatly organised. "Thank you, I hadn't realised how hungry I was. I'll have to give my thanks to Agatha tomorrow."

He takes a seat, cross-legged, on the end of the mattress, and ponders Valac's question while he eats. "Every spell I know?" He smiles, amused. "What brought this on?"

But he pats the space next to him, his eyes catching on his own skin, again. His own request at the forefront of his mind. "I know quite a lot of spells. Well, I have the potential to use a lot. Every morning I need to meditate, to do a kind of ritual, which allows me to tap into a select few for the day. But I'll try and describe them."

He takes a bite. It's annoyingly good. While they eat, he describes the spells he can remember, skimming over most of the minor ones. Some he describes animatedly, his eyes alight, like the spell that can purify food of poisons, or one that allows him to find a particular object. Then there are the more recent, more powerful ones. He speaks with reverence of the spell that will allow him to coax a corpse to just enough life to speak to him. Another that will surround him in a whirling barrier of violent spirits. One where he can allow some of his life essence to leave him in order to heal another. The ability to animate a recently slain foe, puppetting the corpse to fight for him.

His plate empty, scraped completely clean, he mentions another. "This one interests me, so much so I've often prepared it, but never used it. It creates an area around me, and those inside can only speak truths. It can be resisted, like a lot of spells, but the potential..."

He doesn't say what he's thinking, about how he wished he'd known this spell all those years ago. For a moment he falls into silence, then with a start realises how much he'd been talking. "I'm sorry, I went on, didn't I?" He smiles, looks across at Valac. "Why don't you tell me what you can do while I get my writing things out?"

A pause, a blush. He has to look away. "And the ah...the charcoals."

Valac
He doesn't speak a word. He barely dares to move, but Kismet beckons him in, and his feet lead him to the mattress. He waits, patiently, head bowed down, as the elf lists every single spell he knows, not even bothering to sound like he's hiding anything. Of course, there could be nothing to hide. Valac's jumbled mess of thoughts may have led him to the wrong conclusions. If he could just say what he's looking for - but if there was nothing and he asked?

When Kismet describes the spell that lets him puppeteer a corpse, he thinks of the Sorrowseep waters.

When Kismet describes the spell that lets him paralyze another, the same he used in front of Valac's own eyes back in Rexxentrum - he thinks of the Sorrowseep waters again.

But it's not enough. It doesn't mean anything, not when Valac can recognize his heart is pounding, his head is ringing, and his limbs are trembling. It's not enough reason to overthink just yet.

Until he describes the spell that lets him will others, bind them to him, living, breathing, thinking people, for hours. People like Valac.

Kismet probably keeps talking after. The food in his plate probably keeps getting colder. The waves of the Lucidian probably keep crashing on the shore. For a while, he just sits, hands idly resting by his side. At some point, he can tell he's being addressed, something is expected of him. Just barely, he looks up behind his bangs, and Kismet is... smiling at him?

His things. Yes, that's what he asked for. Slowly, as if he's made of wax and his skin will crack, Valac turns around, extends an arm to grab the parchment. This can't be happening.

"Have you ever-" his voice is hoarse, cracks, and he realizes his mouth is completely dry. And he hates the way his hands are shaking. "Have you ever used any of those on me?"

Kismet
Kismet's head is full of cotton, full of the words you're beautiful, full of the warmth of contact and the budding promise of connection. He's so full of it that he doesn't notice Valac's demeanour, doesn't notice that his food is growing cold on his plate, doesn't notice a fucking thing until he turns, his voice thin and cracked as old parchment, and asks a question that sends chills down Kismet's bones.

Why would he react in such a way now, when Kismet's spells have only ever caused him to show interest? The conflict, the confusion, it's clear behind his eyes. Kismet just about throws his plate aside, the cutlery clattering, his mind a flood of the spells he could use on a person that they wouldn't notice.

There are only two or three.

His eyes widen, head already shaking dissent, and he turns fully to Valac, suppressing the curling tendril of rage that threatens to slither up his throat. Rage, not at Valac, never at Valac. At whatever happened to him, to force him to sit there, hiding his terror behind a visage of stillness.

He wants to touch him, to reach out, and he doesn't know if that would make things worse, but his hand moves on its own. A featherlight brush of knuckles over Valac's soft cheek.

"Never, never. Never." He's on the verge of his own tears. "Read my mind, delve if you must, read my mind, Valac, I'll let you–" A frustrated gasp, his fingers trembling of Valac's face. "I would never. Whatever made you think...whoever made you fear these spells–"

He's rambling, he's not making sense. He lets the rage build behind his eyes, opens his mind bare and willing. "That spell that would force me to tell the truth, I'd cast it on myself if it would help you. Whatever is haunting you, whatever you look over your shoulder for, I would tear them with my teeth, if it's what brought this on."

Valac
It's not them. It's not them. It's not them.

It's not

them.

Kismet speaks the truth. Or maybe he just wants to believe him so much, he's willing to die and be reborn three times over. Yet the mere thought that Kismet never bent his will, that it was all Valac–

"Then why am I so bound to you?" He sobs, but his face is dry. Only the trembling fingers feel like raindrops on his cheek, but he can feel them now.

"I use them, every day. Those same spells. Yet the thought of being the one that-" His hand flies to his mouth, muffling. Only a dagger etched in his throat would explain the searing pain of trying to hold back a scream. Why now?

They were supposed to draw. To talk. What has he done? What was he thinking?

I know. You wouldn't- I don't know what I- He shuts his eyes closed, hand separating from his mouth and waving in the air, as if in disagreement with himself. In disappointment. Think, think, for once. "I know you. I know you. I'm sorry."

You're nothing alike. Nothing.

Unsure if he should lean in or away from the touch, he simply stays, suspended in time.

Kismet
Valac shatters, and Kismet goes with him, the pieces of their psyche falling into each other. Tiny granules of black glass, too small to be found again, left in the grain of the other.

To be bound. It feels like being swept away, upwards, in a dark river that inevitably falls into the sea. Where freshwater and salt mix, and forget what they are supposed to be. If it were simply fate, why does Kismet feel the same? There's no compulsion, no strings pulling him, no Matron of Ravens whispering in his ear to go to him, again and again.

I know you know me. I know you wouldn't think I–not really–

He can't form his mouth around the words, even if he could think of them to say. So he does all he knows how, the only thing that has brought confusing comfort. His fingers trail back, sweep away Valac's hair, resting on the back of his neck. His other hand, guiding Valac's arm around him, and he pulls him in, presses a kiss to his forehead.

He stays there, and he sends, I'm tethered to you, as you are to me. You don't need to explain a thing.

Valac

"I'm tethered to you, as you are to me."

He stills, one arm around Kismet, face cradled by him. Pliable, but allowing it. I'm tethered to you. There's an overwhelming sense of relief that washes over him, at the only right words he could've heard. He doesn't know why they fit in all the right places, but if his purpose was a puzzle, he felt one step closer to solving it.

Kismet keeps them unmoving, and for a while, Valac just breathes. The release of tears never comes, so it's a moment more before he can lift his arms without trembling. At last, he grips harder, his hand sliding down to the elf's waist, pushing him in. Closer. It feels more real. He barely shifts to the side, pushing their plates away and almost with the same somatic movement, slamming the windows shut. It's irrational, but the outside world is not allowed this, what they have in this room. Then, he lets his body fall to the side, Kismet with him in his grasp, and his hands join at his back.

"You wanted to write," he whispers at some point, head buried in dark purple skin. The crescent earring tickles his nose. "I promise I'll let you go in a bit." He really doesn't want to.

"I can't explain the…" He trails off. He knows he owes Kismet an explanation, anything at all, but it's so hard put it into solid words, form actual, tangible sentences. "Sometimes I don't know what's real and not, when it comes to other people."

Kismet
After a while, Valac's arms come up, draw them closer together, and Kismet finally breathes. The gentle breeze is stifled, and he allows Valac to pull him down. His hand is still on Valac's neck, and he absently smooths his hair, just like the night on the beach.

"We can stay like this as long as you need," he murmurs into his hair. "Writing can wait."

He listens, and wants to press Valac closer to him, to entwine so thoroughly that no-one else could get to him. But he doesn't want to push too much, or move too quickly. Just being here is enough, for the moment.

"Before, did you think it wasn't me?" He squeezes his eyes shut–all he wants is to help him, but he can't see a path forward. Not yet. "If we...if there was some signal we had, that just we knew, would it ease your worries? Something to latch onto when...when you aren't sure what you're seeing."

He struggles to find the right words to use, working off guesses and drawing conclusions. It's all he can do. He breathes out, a calming sigh, Valac's hair moving with the air.

"What I'm saying is, I'm here, and I have you. And I want to be able to tell you so at any moment."

Valac
He wants to shrivel up, curl into a tight ball and disappear.

“No, not like that, I… I feared it was you, and you’ve hidden your true intentions. I’m not- I’m not seeing things wrong, physically, I just-“

If he’d kept himself away, this would have never happened. If he’d just stayed away from this group, from these people, they wouldn’t have found their way to him, made him vulnerable again. He squeezes his eyes shut. What’s worse, not having this, or having it only to ruin it? Their legs entwine, and his tail finds its place again; he needs this.

“And it’s stupid because… why would you do that, right?” He pries his head away from Kismet’s neck to meet his gaze and immediately misses the faint sandalwood of his skin. “But I couldn’t explain why I felt-“

He stops, berates himself internally for his loose tongue. How to put the raging fire into words? All he knows is that the thought of doing so brings another flush to his face, and he has to look down, break the eye contact, although he lingers on Kismet’s lips.

A signal, then.

“I don’t know what to use. I’ve never used one.” He can’t help but wonder if it would even make a difference, if it comes to it. “But we can have one, just in case, in case you ever need it as well.”

Kismet
Lilacs, all lilacs. He brushes aside stray strands of hair from Valac's face. "How could I possibly fault you for reacting in a way you've lived for so long? You're talking to someone who hasn't had the luxury of trusting, not in a century." He shakes his head slowly, as much as their position allows. "This is like...like finally being able to breathe. Our pasts live in us, and as much as I wish I could scrub away some of it..."

He almost fears to voice it. How different his life would be. How they may not have met. How they could have met.

Valac's eyes flick to his lips, and the proximity is simultaneously unbearable, and all he ever wants. His heart is thundering loud enough that Valac must hear it, close as they are. He swallows, roughly. Right, a signal. That he suggested they use.

A whistle from memory chimes in his ear, a trilling bird call. Fuzzy and muffled, heard through the distance of decades. His heart clenches with pain. His mind relentlessly barrels onward, flickers of hand gestures, a language in itself, made with small hands.

He doesn't want to go back there. He wants to be here, in this moment. Almost hurriedly, he reaches behind, careful to only brush Valac's wrist with his fingers, then gently draws one of hands between them.

His voice is shaking. Stay, stay, stay here. "Well, if we can get to each other, it could be something as simple as this." He brushes his thumb over Valac's index finger, as if running over a ring that doesn't exist. "You can do the same, over my ring, or on the other hand. 'I'm here', it can mean." The movement is intentional enough.

Valac
He nods along, following the movement of Kismet’s thumb over his index. Then repeats it, his own finger going to the spot where skin traces the outline of a missing ring, lighter below.

“Did you not trust the person who saw you?” He repeats the movement, as if taking the time to learn it. It’s simple enough to memorise, so he doesn’t know why he needs to do it again. “The one you said knows.”

His tail shifts up, then down, the rustling of fabric a comfort of its own. There’s a spot right above Kismet’s ear that he’s not quite seeing.

“And you could, you should fault me. Everything I fear, I do. I tell myself it’s only what I’ve had to learn, only what I’ve been shown, only what I’ve been used for. But is that enough? Why should I question you for it?” He shakes his head, focusing back to pink eyes.

Kismet
A century. No, fifty years. No...everything has blurred together. So many before's and after's. Valac's finger running over his is calming, grounding. He flicks his tongue over his dry lips, but his mind refuses to break down that barrier. Not today.

"I don't know. Maybe." He shakes his head. "I won't talk about it." It's easy to voice the boundary, so easy he wonders if he actually should be talking about it. But he already hears white noise, so he focuses on their small signal.

"I'm not here to try and change you." What are you here for, then? His heart aches at Valac's words. Fault, fear, used. "But maybe I can show you new things. Things that haven't come from fear, or from being used."

His own thumb traces Valac's finger. Is it possible to overuse the sign? He supposes he'll find out. "Maybe one day we'll face our fears, be brave enough to turn from them, or use them in our own way." His smile is slight. "But for tonight, why don't we write, and draw, and create things from where there was once nothing? It's certainly a start."

Valac

"I won't talk about it."

"I'm not here to try and change you."

Grateful. That's the only word that comes up. For being told in no uncertain terms where he should back off, and for being allowed to just… exist.

His hands are at Kismet's sides, cupping his jaw, tips of his fingers finding purchase below each ear. How can he. How can he stop. He needs to stop. They're so close, he can feel every breath, he can count the eyelashes over bright eyes.

"Stop me. I- I should- You do it. You stop me, if you want, or I-"

He's not willing Valac to do anything. Whatever he says, Valac will do it, because he wants to do nothing else.

Kismet
Valac's hands encompass the sides of his face, and his head is full of the smell of lilac. The room is warm, too warm, but Valac's skin is cold, burning cold against the heat rushing to his face. He looks down at Valac–looking down, for the first time–and he considers it, for a moment. Considers clutching hard to his hair, drawing him in. How it would feel to tip his head back, expose his throat, to kiss the blush from his face. It would be almost too easy.

But the skin Kismet wears, so old, so him, too new and unfamiliar all at once. He'd watch his fingers spider over grey skin and wouldn't be able to believe it was him doing it. It almost makes him want to cry.

So he takes a calming breath, his hands coming up to cover Valac's. The smile he gives him is full of grief, and want, and deep, unabiding sadness.

"Stop," he breathes, and it tears him in pieces, because he doesn't know if he'll be allowed to ask again, later. His thumbs run across Valac's knuckles. Telling Valac he'd like nothing more than to kiss him would confuse him to no end, so he doesn't say it.

"Right now, all I want..." He has to take a breath, as if he's been running miles. "All I want right now is a drawing."

Valac
Valac takes a shuddering breath, and his hands immediately disconnect from warm skin.

A drawing.

He’d have to do that, certainly. It’s the only thing that will help. It almost pains him that he has to get away, it’s a surprise that can, but after his hands, his legs come free, then his tail, and then there is not a single point of contact between them. Nothing but the steady gaze, wordless, expressionless, locked to pink eyes. He blinks once, twice, before he breaks it, props himself on one elbow to reach the parchment.

He’ll have to draw Kismet from memory. He cannot bear to look at him again, his heart is hammering.

“Have you tried your hand at drawing?”

He sits up, cross legged, very carefully leaving enough space between them to fit some pieces of paper, enough for both of them to use. It’s cold, as much as the room is humid, and it’s excruciating to miss something in front of him, but he persists. And he takes the charcoal in hand.

Kismet
Kismet lets Valac extract himself, each point of lost contact like tearing parts of himself. How is he supposed to keep this distance, when he can hardly stand to not be in contact? The empty space between them, scattered with papers. He imagines them all burning, ash filtering through the window, all the things stopping him from taking what he wants in cinders.

But it's what he asked for. He knows it's the right thing to do. And it feels almost like grief.

He pushes himself to sitting, his arms still weak. Valac is still here, it's ridiculous to think as though he's already lost him. Kismet casts his dancing lights again, setting one right above him, letting the blue light play on his skin. Propping one knee up, he takes his journal from the small satchel he carries on him at all times, and sets it on his thigh.

The sound of charcoal over parchment draws his gaze up. He pauses his pen over the ink pot, and watches. Maybe there's one last favour he can ask.

"Just because I said to stop, doesn't mean I never want to touch you again." His voice is an uncertain hush. He dips into the ink, begins to write, if only to steal his gaze from Valac's direction. "So if your tail happens to wrap around me, I won't say no." He lets the blush cross his face this time. There's so much to try to explain, and he hopes Valac will be patient with him. Or at least, humour him.

Valac
Kismet’s words light him aflame, like putting a match to dry shrubbery. A wave passes through him, ripe with opportunity, reinvigorating. He even finds it in him to smile, already knowing what he’ll say, still not looking up. Hm, perhaps he will draw him in a corset after all.

“I am stopping because you asked,” a harsh black line makes a loud noise on his paper, and his tail thuds twice. He keeps the pause a bit longer before his eyes find Kismet’s. “But I’m not touching you for me, because you’re addicting.”

He could adorn this drawing in color, from an illusion, he thinks. The black is not enough on its own to convey it.

Kismet
His hand jerks, a line of ink ruining the sentence he was halfway through, and he swallows back a squeak. Just like that, Valac has the upper hand, the vibrations of his tail nearly upsetting his ink bottle. Kismet gently sets down his pen and crumples up the parchment, picking up a fresh piece.

While he writes, his mind finally calms. This first one he intends to burn–it's all his confusing jumble of thoughts, scratched out into a stream of consciousness. Valac's name appears far too often for his liking. Along with words like skin, lips, tail, hair. He fills the entire page with it, then folds it up, looking about him for a candle, but there is none. If he recalls correctly, he's seen Valac warm his hands and keep tea at the right temperature.

He holds the paper out, all his innermost thoughts hidden in the folds. He smiles, the irony of handing Valac a physical representation of his thoughts not lost on him.

"Can you burn this?" Once he asks, he realises how personal it is. Normally he's the one turning his thoughts to ash, the catharsis so important. But here, Valac could do it for him. He's helped him today already, so much. He has as much right to burn these thoughts as Kismet does.

Valac
He looks up from the drawing, head cocking to the side. His focus shifts between the outstretched parchment and the elf. Burn what Kismet just wrote?

Just like he said he does, Valac remembers. Write your thoughts out, and burn them. Was there a point if someone else does it? Still, he goes for his pouch, taking out the one component he still had a use for - the clear diamond, half size of his pinky. He holds it beneath the paper and watches as a ray of light hits it, all colours shifting, alternating and at once, and then it slowly engulfs in flame.

When the flames get dangerously close to licking Kismet’s hand, he pulls the paper away from him and keeps it in his open palms until it becomes ash.

“Fire doesn’t hurt me much,” he clarifies before the elf has a chance to stop him. “When it’s this small, it’s mostly a sting. Better than burning a dark spot on the Tolmans’ wooden floor. They’ve been welcoming enough.”

Occasionally, the flame shifts colors with residue arcane energy, and then finally it dies down. Valac closes his palms, and when he opens them again, the ash is also gone. He catches himself smiling at the symphony of color, lingering a bit longer where it’s just disappeared, before he turns to take his drawing.

“Do you want to see?”

Kismet
Kismet watches the flame take to the parchment, his mouth slack at the chromatic shattering of colour. He does release a small "Oh!" as Valac takes the burning paper from him, almost snatching it back, but it's clear it doesn't hurt him. Kismet leans forward, fists on his knees, watching the last of it disappear. His shoulders relax, exhaustion beginning to make itself known. Perhaps an early night for him.

“Do you want to see?”

He's trepidatious. What if he looks at the drawing, and it's not him at all? Perhaps he's overthinking it. Perhaps Valac drew him in a corset. He crosses his legs, takes a deep breath.

"Alright, yes."

Valac
He flips the paper around before he has a chance to overthink it. It’s him, in a way, although Valac’s lines tend to be more straight, more certain than a realistic portrait would imply. But still, it’s Kismet - the nose, the fire in his eyes, the chipped ear. The aura of power that Valac has seen and felt, he’s displayed with color, a small illusion painting bright pink energy around Kismet’s form, and the same color matches his eyes. He looks like he’s casting, and it’s coming from within him. The background itself is completely black with charcoal, safe for a moon that outlines him, almost like a halo, bigger than both Catha and Ruidus. He had no time for details, but he has still scratched white lines in the dark background, lines that form the vague outline of two black, raven wings at his back, almost merging with the darkness of the night.

“It’s sketchy but. Maybe next time I’ll draw you in a corset.” He chuckles.

Oh, Florian. In a corset. He had do check on Florian, damn it.

“Shit. Sorry, I have to-“

He leaves the drawing between them and his hand immediately traces the somatic component of a spell.

“Florian. It’s very late and you better be alive. Are you coming back or are you... busy?”

Kismet
Kismet is entranced. As Valac diverts his attention to cast a sending spell, the contents of which Kismet can barely take in, he reaches forward, touching the paper. The illusion of bright energy, so different from the aura that normally surrounds him when he's casting, sparks something in him. And the wings, oh, the wings–

He picks it up, carefully, as though his clumsy hands might accidentally tear it, and looks at himself. It's with great difficulty he doesn't touch the charcoal, knowing it will smudge. His eyes take it all in, ravenous. This is what Valac sees.

Before he can stop it, a tear drops from his nose, landing with a pat on the drawing. It blooms like a star, right over his heart.

"Shit!"

He holds the drawing up, unwilling to stop looking at it, and dabs at his damp cheeks with his sleeves.

"It's..." He has no other word, and with a smile, he says, "It's beautiful."

Valac
There’s an onslaught of what can only be described as post-haze explanations, mixed with responses obviously not aimed at Valac, and he can picture the scene almost too clearly. With the way Florian ends his message, Valac can only stand stunned at the audacity.

He wants to smile, think, good for them, but he knows what they’re doing. He knows what Florian is trying to quench, and what he won’t be able to. The pit in the stomach, the one that only grows when you think you’ve fed it enough, and then it consumes you instead.

And he hasn’t felt the mindless hunger in a while.

He looks at Kismet, and he’s crying. His heart immediately drops, until the elf smiles. Oh. It’s because he likes it.

“You can keep it. I’ll keep the next one. And, Florian said he’s alright by the way.”

He would have shared more details, but the moment doesn’t seem right. So he simply untangles his legs and lays back down, facing Kismet’s direction. “Are you tired?”

Kismet
He drops the drawing to his lap. "Are you certain? I uh...I did mess it up a little, this bit here. Sorry about that." But he looks down at it again, and he can't stop smiling. Then he shakes himself. "Florian? What?" It takes a moment for his mind to catch up with the sending spell, and he nods. "Right, that's good. Such a handy spell."

He isn't sure where to put the drawing. He wants to be able to look at it, often, but there's enough to hint at his drow-ness that it might not be a good idea to keep it in his pocket. So he slots it inside his battered journal, next to the letter.

At Valac's question, he reflexively yawns. "I am, actually. Today has been...a lot. I think I'm more mentally exhausted than physically."

His gaze falls to the bed, and he can't stop the flush crawling up to his ears. It's different from the beach, somehow. Every moment with Valac is different. He almost can't look at Valac as he takes off his tunic and belt, leaving his loose shirt and breeches. In a neat pile they go, and almost awkwardly he arranges the pillows into less disarray.

"I won't trance. If someone bursts in the door just cover me with the blankets." Lying there, next to Valac, surrounded by greenery is equal parts comfortable and nervewracking. "If you sleep, by the time you wake up I'll be back to normal. I mean, not normal but...you understand."

He looks over at Valac, at his hands resting in the space between them. The nightmares. He'll need contact to prevent the nightmares.

Still laying on his back, Kismet holds his arm out, a silent invitation to move as close as he likes. Already his eyes are heavy, and one by one his dancing lights blink out. He refuses to fall asleep until he's sure Valac is close enough.

Valac
He follows Kismet's movement through his eyelashes, feeling the weight of his eyelids when the elf yawns. Perhaps if they could have a normal evening tomorrow, he would not be as exhausted. He's barely even done anything today — besides spiral in his own mania. He curses himself again, in disbelief that the other is still here after that.

There weren't people like him before, anywhere. And he's tired of always waiting for the other shoe to drop.

As Kismet undresses, Valac keeps his face impassive, and at some point focuses on taking off all the useless jewelry; the large earrings, then the ones adorning his ears to the tips, the eyebrow, and finally the nose, and stashes them all in his pouch. He unfastens his belt and the sleeves, throwing them haphazardly to the side while the elf carefully folds his clothes. Lastly, he runs his hands over his face, leaving it completely bare of makeup. He hasn't had a proper rest like this in a long while.

By the time he's done and turns around again, Kismet is laying down, settling with his arm outstretched. An invitation.

Valac bites his lip, face falling a little. If only it were possible to do this, as easy as it was with Florian. He shakes his head as an answer, barely. It is just his outstretched arm that reaches up and twines their fingers before he finally succumbs to dreamless sleep.

Kismet
Kismet slowly comes to concioussness, blinking the sleep from his eyes. It's dark, still a little before dawn. The first thing he sees is Valac, curled toward him, his face relaxed into sleep. Not a dream, then.

He reaches his hand out, and catches sight of his skin. His heart siezes, adrenaline coursing through, waking him up more thoroughly than a bucket of ice water could. One hand, still entwined with Valac's, involuntarily clenches. His ring, his ring, where's his ring–

Valac stirs, and Kismet holds his breath, his pulse a war drum in his ears. Valac knows. He's seen him like this. Calm down, you're safe. Calm down. With a shaking sigh, he turns onto his back, thumb absently caressing Valac's knuckles. It's more to calm himself than to ease Valac into a deeper sleep. He tells himself that.

The night around them is quiet, the house below silent. It's warm, a little too warm, but nothing could convince him to extract his hand from Valac's. His eyes rove over the plants, taking in the greenery. With the view of the starlit sky through the window, it reminds him almost painfully of home. Both homes. He wonders if he soaked up the stars upon his real skin, it would be enough to feel like himself again.

With one hand, he unclasps his amulet, and unthreads the ring, slipping it on awkwardly. He gives up on putting the amulet back on, instead laying it between them. Tomorrow, he'll go to the temple. They will.

He curls back toward Valac, cradles his hand in both of his own. As the sky outside slowly lightens, he focuses on his ring, on the disguise, feels the magic take hold. An hour later, give or take, it's like the effect in reverse. The ring sucks away his colour like rinsing fresh dye from fabric, and he feels both a sense of relief and loss. His hands around Valac's look right, but a pale shadow of what they ought to be.

He wonders how long he can walk in this dream.