Work Text:
He doesn't sleep much, but for him, he tries.
He tries not to think about the barely audible sounds of contentment when he gently skims his fingers through his hair, a faint smile tugging at his lips, the corners creasing slightly.
He tries not to notice the way his moustache curves when he smiles in his sleep, dreaming peacefully against his chest in these stolen moments.
He tries not to listen to the sound of his breathing -- slow, deep -- as they gaze at each other, awestruck, in comfortable silence.
He tries not to think about their clothes and various knickknacks stored in each other's rooms. "It's just practical!" He might say, never daring to think about it too much.
He tries not to wonder if he notices that some of his books have been... borrowed. It's mere curiosity about the subject matter, of course, and absolutely a coincidence that they were almost all written by him.
He tries to urge his heart to not flutter towards his throat, every time he makes him laugh. He tries to suppress the stupid grin from his face at his reaction, but he never succeeds. One of the few times he enjoys failing.
He tries not to be enraptured by the sound of his voice; when he enthuses about flowers, or spirits, or the joy of sharing their magics together. Or even something as mundane as asking what he's preparing for dinner. It's never mundane. Not if it's him.
He tries, again and again, to perfect his sketches. They're never good enough. Everyone else's are fine. But there's something about his that doesn't feel quite right. A still image on paper will never compare to the real thing.
He tries not to lose himself in him every time they kiss, they touch, they tease. Sex is fun, for both of them. But that's all it is. Isn't it?
He tries not to think that his head resting on his lap as they read silently in the library together is the most comfortable he's been in a very long time. He tries not to ruin the moment by shifting to his werewolf form, gazing up at him with his tongue lolling out of his mouth like an oversized lapdog. He tries. But it makes him laugh, so it's worth it.
He tries not to be around too much, to be with him too much, to be too much. He doesn't want to be too clingy, too devoted, to follow him like a lost pup. Doesn't want to scare him away. This, too, he fails at; he's never far behind, never far away. If it bothers him at all, he never shows it.
He tries not to think too hard about the surprise and adoration etched on his face when he calls him “Varla” for the first time. “My guiding star. None burn so brightly as you.”
He tries to be strong for him when his ward is ripped away from him. There's a chance that he will be brought back, but it's a difficult place to be, caught between grief and hope. He feels his loss, too, but it isn't about him.
He tries not to weep after they argue before the end. Tries to keep himself calm, collected, ready to fight, to win; this will pass. It always does. Won't it?
He tries not to think too hard about the fact he always sleeps better with him around. He barely slept at all during the week they were separated by the eldest of the sun.
He tries not to wonder if he misses him at all, after what happened. He tries not to miss him. He has no claim to him anymore.
He tries to swallow any emotions when he returns with their fallen companion. They glance at each other, smiling politely, unsure what to do with themselves. He tries not to cry himself dry when he's finally alone.
He tries not to get too hopeful when he shows up at the door to his room. He doesn't dare hope that this civil, amicable chat would end any way but disastrously.
He tries not to hug him too hard when they reconcile; he weeps into his shoulder, and he holds him tight. Is it to help keep him grounded, or to help him believe it's real? This isn't a dream. He won't disappear when I wake up... will he? I don't want to wake up.
He tries not to wonder how he managed to sleep for so long in the sarcophagus after they spent the night together. He usually doesn't sleep much, but somehow he was up an hour before him and only reluctantly roused him to ask about breakfast.
He tries not to get too anxious, before the final battle. He knows he can do this, he doesn't need a guard dog. But whatever they face, they face together.
He tries not to think about a future. The future. Somehow, he cannot imagine one without him.
He doesn't think much about love, beyond trying to push it away. He has never been worthy of it, after so many years alone. But for him, he will try.