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The thump and rattle against the door startle Emet-Selch from his seat.
He is so newly returned to Amaurot that he is halfway to calling forth his sword before he can think. First comes the realization that he has no space to swing without breaking a lamp and tipping over a bookshelf; then comes the realization that he is in his home, not out in the untamed wilderness, and there is nothing for him to fear.
Sheepishly he lowers his arm. Even knowing there is no threat, he cannot help but be suspicious. It is far too late at night for any ordinary visitor. The noise was strange enough to put him in mind of an attack, and so he errs on the side of caution and gazes out into the hall.
After a moment, Emet-Selch heaves a deep sigh and moves to the door.
He props it open carefully, mindful of the body on the other side. Hythlodaeus is slumped precariously against the doorframe at such an angle that he seems likely to fall on his face at any moment. He lifts his head and beams beatifically at Emet-Selch.
“Oh, good,” he says. The usual teasing lilt to his voice is blurred, turned into something slower and thicker and syrupy sweet. “You heard me.”
“That is not how one knocks on a door,” Emet-Selch says.
“You answered, didn’t you?”
There is often no point arguing with Hythlodaeus, especially when he is in this state. Emet-Selch rolls his eyes and reaches forward. Hythlodaeus obligingly leans against him, and together they stumble back inside.
The moment the door is closed behind them, Hythlodaeus’s mask falls to the floor. He does not seem to notice when he kicks it aside and under a side table on the short journey across the room. His face beneath is flushed, his eyes overbright, but his smile does not falter.
It’s an expression that Emet-Selch is all too familiar with, though it’s been quite some time since he last saw it. He deposits Hythlodaeus on the couch and kneels before him, placing his fingers on Hythlodaeus’s temples, and concentrates.
When nothing happens immediately, Hythlodaeus speaks. “Well?”
Emet-Selch lowers his hands and shakes his head. “Too late. I can’t extract it. It’s well and truly entwined with you.”
Hythlodaeus heaves an overdramatic sigh. Emet-Selch rocks back on his heels, frowning. With an impatient gesture, he calls forth a glass of cold water, the most he can offer right now. Hythlodaeus accepts it and leans back into the cushions.
In a tone that is not quite an accusation, Emet-Selch says, “It’s been years since I’ve seen you aether-drunk.”
“It is exactly as unpleasant as I remember,” Hythlodaeus says, his words at odds with his smile.
To Emet-Selch’s vision, however, the usual serene shine of his soul has become erratic. There are traces of at least three other colors of aether threaded through his, silver and copper and cobalt-blue, none of which Emet-Selch recognizes. Hythlodaeus’s aether is roiling, spilling through his skin and dispersing into the air: his body is trying to rid itself of the foreign aether, and the other types of aether are pushing back against him and each other in turn, and the end result is that they only grow more hopelessly entangled. If Hythlodaeus had found his way here sooner, Emet-Selch might have been able to separate them without harm; now it’s too late, and there’s nothing for it now but to wait for Hythlodaeus’s body to make the aether his own.
In answer to Emet-Selch’s unspoken question—or perhaps his expression of silent disapproval—Hythlodaeus says, “A complex concept. Some… several people worked on it. All had magick in it.”
That much is obvious, given his current state. Emet-Selch does not say as much. Another moment passes in which Hythlodaeus is silent, as if testing Emet-Selch’s patience; then, when Emet-Selch does not offer reaction, it is with some disappointment that Hythlodaeus continues, “It ran out of control during testing. I shut it down.”
There’d been no other option, then. That does little to lessen Emet-Selch’s displeasure. Hythlodaeus’s capacity for and control of aether have always been abysmal. As a result, he has a greater tendency than the average to find himself overwhelmed when handling foreign magicks. It was a more common occurrence when they were younger and Hythlodaeus less cautious, more willing to throw himself wholeheartedly into a problem without consideration for the consequences, but as the Chief of the Bureau of the Architect, he is supposed to be older and wiser and without anything to prove.
Emet-Selch waits until Hythlodaeus sets down the half-empty glass before he moves. He settles himself on the couch next to Hythlodaeus, frown firmly etched on his face—a frown that only deepens when his drunken friend edges closer to him.
“Why did they let you leave?” he asks, voice taut with disapproval. What he really means is, who thought it wise to allow Hythlodaeus to walk the streets alone in this state?
Hythlodaeus laughs breathlessly. He leans in, inspecting Emet-Selch’s expression. Whatever he finds there seems to please him, for he grins broadly.
Emet-Selch glowers at him, for all the good it does. Hythlodaeus remains uncomfortably close; Emet-Selch’s face remains uncomfortably warm.
“They did not notice,” Hythlodaeus says, quietly and slowly, as if imparting a secret. “I am good at pretending. I have a… a… ah, what’s it called. To uphold. A respite to uphold.”
“A reputation,” Emet-Selch corrects. Hythlodaeus’s enthusiastic nod sends strands of lavender trailing against Emet-Selch’s cheek, which he tries his best to ignore. “Though you don’t have much of one to begin with, even when you’re capable of remembering the word.”
“That’s rude, Hades,” Hythlodaeus murmurs. He presses his face close, almost nuzzling his nose into Emet-Selch’s hair, and Emet-Selch flinches. “I’m suffering, you know. You could stand to be nicer.”
“Lie down then,” Emet-Selch says.
It’s as much to get some distance from Hythlodaeus as it is honest advice. With an indistinct grumble, Hythlodaeus shuffles away—but no further than is necessary for him to stretch out the length of the couch and drop his head into Emet-Selch’s lap.
Emet-Selch’s eyes go wide with surprise. Hythlodaeus’s are crinkled at the corners with mirth. They stare at each other for one long moment before Hythlodaeus says, “I really am suffering, you know.”
His attempt to evoke pity fails in light of the amusement in his voice.
Aether-drunk or not, Emet-Selch seriously considers dumping him on the floor.
Hythlodaeus closes his eyes, as if by hiding Emet-Selch’s scowl from sight, he can pretend that it doesn’t exist. So too does he manage to avoid seeing the pink painted treacherously across Emet-Selch’s cheeks.
As always, Hythlodaeus gets his way. Emet-Selch groans loudly, just to make his opinion clear, but gives in regardless. That Hythlodaeus’s face is equally flushed and his skin clammy to the touch is what convinces him in the end. No matter how much of a pest he is being, no matter how he makes light of the situation, Hythlodaeus truly is miserable.
…Probably.
Emet-Selch lays a hand on Hythlodaeus’s forehead. Drawing out all of the foreign aether is an impossible proposition, but he does what he can to alleviate its effects, tugging and pulling loose the threads of unfamiliar color that he can reach. Hythlodaeus’s brow creases in response, but he makes no protest, and so Emet-Selch continues his slow, precise work.
He does not like the shape of the silence that falls then. It is a silence that Hythlodaeus would usually fill with levity. That he does not do so now speaks to how poorly he is feeling. It falls to Emet-Selch to speak, and he says the first thing that comes to mind. “Why do you always end up on my doorstep at times like these?”
Hythlodaeus cracks open one eye, squinting in the light. “Because I desire your company.”
Emet-Selch is still debating how to answer that when Hythlodaeus continues ponderously, “And I’m not sure where I live.”
Emet-Selch pulls his hand away, the better to stare disbelievingly at Hythlodaeus. Hythlodaeus stares back. His pupils are dilated; his eyes burn with luminous intensity.
“…The same place you’ve lived for decades,” Emet-Selch says at last. His inflection makes it almost a question. “Over a century, even. Your suite in Achora Heights.”
“I know that,” Hythlodaeus says, with the infuriating patience of one explaining to a particularly distractable small child. “I don’t know how to get there. At least. Not now. Not like this.”
He waves a hand in a complicated flourish. It’s a vague little gesture that somehow manages to convey his meaning perfectly.
“But I know you can help me. You always do.”
Emet-Selch does not quite manage to stifle his smile. “So you are too drunk to find your way to your own home, but you know where to find mine.”
“Of course. Because where you are is where I wish to be. I will always find you wherever you wait; I will follow the color of your soul.”
He sounds so unbearably maudlin that Emet-Selch almost laughs. He only just manages to restrain himself with the knowledge that Hythlodaeus in his current state would certainly take offense. “You’re drunk.”
“I know,” Hythlodaeus says, saccharine-sweet.
Emet-Selch shakes his head. There is no good response to that, and so he does not give one. Instead he lays his hand back on Hythlodaeus’s forehead, and Hythlodaeus closes his eyes, blocking out the painful light as Emet-Selch returns to work.
“Have you eaten?” he murmurs.
“A little,” Hythlodaeus says. “One of the junior researchers fetched us all supper before everything went awry. I should promote her.”
The corner of Emet-Selch’s mouth twists up. “For feeding you?”
“For having the foresight to make us eat when we had the chance.”
Emet-Selch grabs hold of a particularly thick band of aether and pulls. Hythlodaeus hisses, features scrunching together in pain, and Emet-Selch swallows the urge to apologize. From all he has heard, the symptoms of being aether-drunk are not so different from the normal sort of drunkenness. It sounds like a remarkably miserable experience.
Emet-Selch is glad all over again that he has never been aether-drunk and likely never will be. His capacity to hold and control aether is near-unlimited, and so it is almost impossible for him to be overwhelmed in such a manner. He can offer no understanding, only sympathy and his best attempts to help.
Hythlodaeus is not wrong there. Emet-Selch will always help, or at least, he will always try.
Without prompting, Hythlodaeus begins to explain the failure of today’s concept. Emet-Selch understands only the broad strokes: He does not know all the technical terms, and he suspects that Hythlodaeus confuses no few of them, if the slowness of his speech and the frequent pauses are anything to go by. Nevertheless, he lends a willing ear. Hythlodaeus is only too glad of the distraction from his misery, and drunk or not, Emet-Selch is glad to listen to the rise and fall of his voice.
When there is another sudden thud on Emet-Selch’s door, both of them jump. This time it is something more closely approximating a knock, albeit a knock from someone with too much in the way of enthusiasm and too little in the way of patience. Before they can even straighten up to look, the person in the hall shouts, “Emet-Selch?”
Emet-Selch sighs. Hythlodaeus chuckles. With an exaggerated groan, Emet-Selch lifts his hand and snaps his fingers.
The door swings open. Azem’s hand, raised to knock again, does not meet the expected resistance, and he stumbles a step forward. He straightens up, every line of his posture radiating indignation, but it is a mark of his worry that he does not immediately start on a protest. “Have you seen Hythlodaeus? He isn’t home yet, and the researchers at Architect—”
Azem’s voice dies in his throat when he spots them on the couch.
Emet-Selch does not like the shape of Azem’s silence either, one that is cataloging the sight of Hythlodaeus with his head in Emet-Selch’s lap.
Blissfully ignorant to the turn of Emet-Selch’s thoughts, Hythlodaeus lifts one hand and gives a nonchalant wave. “Hythlodaeus is here.”
“Aether-drunk,” Emet-Selch says, by way of explanation.
“Ah. I should have known. It did seem there had been something of a disaster at Architect.”
Azem lowers his mask, making his amusement plain for all to see. Emet-Selch’s glare dares him to comment; Azem’s grin broadens, but he says nothing. Instead he crosses the room, perching on the arm of the couch by Hythlodaeus’s feet. His eyes shift to a fond, pale violet as he looks down at his lover.
“You always do run to Emet-Selch when you need help,” he murmurs, an unknowing echo of Emet-Selch’s earlier words.
“In my distress, you are often too far away to run to,” Hythlodaeus says.
“You run to me for help too,” Emet-Selch says at the same time.
“Because you grumble and complain and then provide the very best assistance,” Azem says cheerfully. “As I trust you’re doing in this instance?”
“He’s trying,” Hythlodaeus says.
“He arrived too late for me to do much good,” Emet-Selch says, again at the same time.
“He’s trying,” Hythlodaeus repeats. “No need to be demure, Hades.”
Azem chuckles. Emet-Selch looks down, giving another token tug at the unfamiliar threads of aether.
Now that Azem is here, he need not care for Hythlodaeus any longer.
He does not want to ask. Still, he must.
With great reluctance, as if the words are being pulled forcibly from his throat, Emet-Selch says, “Will you be taking him home?”
“Hmm.” Azem regards Hythlodaeus, lips ever so slightly downturned. “…No, I don’t think so. I think it unwise to drag him across the city in this state.”
“If even Azem says it’s unwise, why, then it must not be wise at all.”
“Quiet, you. You’re drunk.” Then Azem glances to Emet-Selch, and his eyes grow bright with his smile. “He sought you out rather than coming home. This is where he wants to be.”
Hythlodaeus hums agreement. He lifts a hand, knocking against Emet-Selch’s shoulder as he reaches out. Azem enfolds it in both of his own and presses a kiss to his knuckles.
As he watches, Emet-Selch feels the crease of his brow lessen. He releases a sigh, leaning back further into the couch cushions. “…Very well. The two of you may stay until morning.”
Azem glances at him in some surprise. Hythlodaeus turns his head to stare. Hastily Emet-Selch adds, “But just this once. Do not make a habit of this. You cannot expect me to come to your rescue every time you make a foolish mistake.”
Already he knows he is lying, as do they. These are exactly the same words he spoke last time, and the time before that, and the time before that.
Heat rises on his ears and the back of his neck at the thought. Mercifully, for once they do not tease.
“Thank you, Hades,” Hythlodaeus slurs, just as Azem says, “Thank you, Emet-Selch.”
They say no more, and neither does he.
For now…
For now they sit in quiet companionship and enjoy the comfort of each other’s presence.