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Too many drinks in, Mehen had started to ply his lord with food. At some point he must've gone up to the veritable buffet and selected for both of them (subtly checking each portion with one of the artifacts kept on him, out of well-founded habit), his motives to get himself blackout drunk and Valer debilitatingly hungover taking a backseat.
His liege needlessly splits what he picks at, leaving half for Mehen.
They're not in the comfort of the the estate. Regardless: they quietly share their timeless intimacies while watching over Arelyn, tipsily in the same space.
Hm. Had they ever shared a drink before? On the occasions they indulged, it's usually one of them inebriated and the other sober. As they aged, Mehen's position was the former more often than Valer. He's not sure how much his lord drank at the fortress with the Saren Knights, but his gut feeling figures not often, considering how on edge and unsociable the man tends to be (...and how disciplined he is, reinforced by the most recent dump of information).
He thinks about the older street kids who'd pilfer alcohol, in stark contrast to the surrounding opulence.
It made it easier to fall asleep, though there was a chance you'd never wake up for one reason or another. He had abused that effect, when death was a natural accompaniment to rest. Then again, when death wasn't a concern at all.
If they were different people, they might've snuck some while growing up together, too. Wouldn't have been hard. But—no matter how sucessful Lady Sione was at shielding her brother from the worst of it—Valer had to stay sharp in that household and Mehen was naturally wary. It followed the both of them preferred to be clear minded.
Though this, now, isn't bad either.
Knee-down, their legs were closely fitted. He tilts his head, slow blinking.
…Early on in their friendship, they had figured out how to slot their shoes perfectly together while sitting across from each other. The vamp of their footwear placed between the start of their counterpart's quarters, where the shoe slims inward—their heels left sticking out in an offset-alternating pattern.
It suited extended sessions of study or work, while juggling Valer's want for contact and tendency to stare. Which he hasn't grown out of, confirmed by the man's eyes crinkling at the corners when Mehen glances up, only to meet his line of sight—having had his fill and more in the ambiguous duration before he was caught. Mehen only huffs, primly stabbing the last morsel, and returns to monitoring their daughter.
"…Are your favorites still the same?" It feels like Valer is inquiring about more than the food. He wants to turn the question back on its asker.
"Pretty much," he responds, refusing to look his way.
Likely a thought shared: some things never change. Tastes and habits, a kind of time capsule. His lord gets up and leaves with an affectionate tap on the foot.
Mehen looks up belatedly. Valer had walked a decent distance away, but paused at some point to stare again.
The blonde hums happily with upturned eyes at having caught his gaze—enthusiastically waving with a childish glee Mehen can't help but soak in. He can't chide him for behavior, this bright. Waving back with begrudging fondness on his lips, he hazily watches the figure slip from from the pillar's shadow into the crowd.
The plates are stacked and taken away by the time his liege comes back triumphant with a second round of spoils: chocolate, pecans, and figs. His favorites indeed.
Valer slides next to him while he unwinds the napkin he wrapped around his fork during the interim and digs in.
After some time of alternating between watching him eat and Arelyn play with her friends—apropos of nothing: "Your hands are nice."
On the tail end of his chewing, Mehen can only raise his brow. "Thank you? I do take care to maintain them," bemused but in a good enough mood to play along. "They're the one part of my body that gets properly stretched, and I have a hand lotion somewhere. Not that it'll save me from getting writer's callus." Valer closed around his hand sometime inbetween his words, slowly tracing from the inside of his wrist out to his knuckles.
Skewering another halved fig, Mehen lets him do as he pleases—partly appeased by the food, drink, and fact that most of the people around them are too distracted to look at whatever Valer is pulling in the nook they've claimed; mostly past caring.
"..…Help me eat the rest of this," he directs Valer once the other reaches the joint of his littlest finger, wiggling out his hand and placing it on top of his lord's, down-turned. The rascal instead stacks his hand over Mehen's, who unthinkingly mirrors the motion in retaliation—pinching Valer's hand when he moves again to trap them into the pattern. Brat. His liege throws up his hands in surrender, chuckling under his lacklustre glare.
The edge dissolves gently with that smile.
Mehen figures it's a good time to call it in once they finish the tray. He already interacted with the people he needed to, Valer has been tapped out since they parted with Arelyn, and she is likely swallowing yawns between the late hour and mass of socializing.
"Home?" he softly prods.
They get up together—Valer: impeccably steady, him.. not so much. He knocks into the other's back, having to take a moment. Valer reaches behind himself, petting Mehen with the back of his hand, arm poised like a guard rail.
On an exhale, Mehen pushes upright.
Valer shifts his arm to offer escort—there's.. a pause of contemplation, but it's ultimately taken up. Better to rely on the archduke's freakish motor control than eat shit.
Giving in with a sigh, he slots into the etiquette's form, resting his hand on Valer's forearm. Restraining the slur of his words, he manages to stay articulate—"We.. should freshen up before getting Arelyn. Lead us to the restroom?"
"Yes, honey." Mehen saves himself the trouble of stringing together a verbal reprimand and stomps on his foot, keeping an expression revealing nothing to errant spectators.
They reunite with Arelyn smoothly, piling into Ether (recently retrieved), loosening up once enclosed by opaque windows.
"We probably still smell of alcohol…" Mehen cautions, feeling the deadweight of his lord's head on his shoulder and strands of the man's hair brushing against his collar. Their arms are kept entangled.
Arelyn takes off her shoes and stretches over to settle in Mehen's lap despite his fretting. The sleepy conviction in "You smell like you," settles the matter.
He shuffles a bit to slip off a shoe so he can bring up a leg, cross it over, and keep her from rolling off without dirtying her dress. She curls her arm around the leg.
…Trapped on all sides…
Once she's gotten herself comfortable, the engine starts.
Arelyn inquires, "How was the party for you?"
"The seat Empress Azeni gave was.. baffling, but I appreciated the good view." He praises, cupping her cheek, making sure to enunciate properly, "You've grown up well, baby." His daughter gives a petulant look, but presses into the touch.
He checks: "Did you eat?"
"Pession made sure I did, you?"
Valer chimes in, "Mom and I ate after drinking."
"..Hah, better if you keep away from alcohol entirely. Don't be like us."
His lord hums, amused. Then, after a beat—Mehen sensing the air turn mischievous—he starts humming a melody from one of Arelyn's songs, altered for the depth of his voice and all legato like a lullaby. She untangles her hands to make a canopy over her eyes and groan, inexplicably annoyed.
"Our little lady," Mehen coos warmly, nudging her arms back, rubbing circles into her temple and forehead, "It's been a long day. Go ahead and rest, we'll wake you once we're there."
"..You two are totally ganging up on me," she whines, limp under the soothing sound and ministrations.
(Mehen ends up flickering in and out of dozing, laying his head on Valer's. Arelyn wakes up on her own, blinking awake at the last turn.)
Without incident, they return to the estate.
(There's a momentary fumble for shoes. Mehen nearly forgets the one he shucked off. Valer jokes about carrying both of them in, but helps a yawning Arelyn put her heels back on after a swat.)
"Goodnight, sweetheart."
"Sleep well, Arel."
With their daughter off to bed and a message for staff to expect the two of them to be hungover passed along, it's just Mehen and Valer left in the foyer.
"..Stay with me?"
Clingy. It's not like he's against it. After the simultaneous closure and shock of the evening, there's nearly an ache to stay near a while longer. He's a touch wobbly on his feet, still.
Mehen nods. And then thinks on it more. He doesn't bother augmenting the unrefined words in mind. "—Could we stop by my room actually? I do not want to do a walk of shame in the morning."
Having undone clasps and pins on the way, Mehen drapes his outer jacket on a chair and disappears into his bathroom. Valer flops onto his bed in the meantime, resting his eyes.
Hearing the door click open some time after, the archduke raises his arms to be pulled up. His other releases long-suffering sigh but nonetheless takes his hands.
Valer's core puts in the most work. Mehen rolls his eyes and strokes the underside of the arms now wrapped around him, coaxing them loose enough to slink away and rummage for the outfit he wants.
"Don't bother with sleepwear..." his liege trails behind, insistent: "You can just wear mine…"
Mehen tosses a pair of socks at him in response. Valer simply drapes them over one of his arms, accepting the part of clothing rack without protest. He catches an eggshell-blue suit jacket and matching dress pants before Mehen trots over with a white button-up, undergarments probably folded in. Handing it off to Valer, he surveys the items and heads off to another section of the closet. Procuring gloves, a belt, a tie, then—cufflinks, and two brooches. (Emerald and peridot are the centerpiece gems. His lord nods approvingly at the former and softens at the coincidental similarities in the latter, peering over his shoulder.)
Stowing the jewelry into a little box and letting Valer take the other items, Mehen murmurs, "I'm forgetting something…"
Bringing them out to the main bedroom, he snaps his fingers: "Glasses."
He grabs the case from his bedside, stacks it on top of the small box, and links their arms together, deeming himself ready.
Valer resists the urge to nuzzle into him at the action. It's a critical point. Mehen could so easily get fed up and decide to stay here instead... and if he pushed, there's the risk of getting barred from this room entirely—thus: he stays his hand, mournfully.
It's warm, the fact his witness gives into his begging at all. The same old and transparently overdone tricks. Mehen accepted the heft of a burdensome story full of sin and suffering, earlier, too. He contents himself with the weight hanging from his elbow, already more than he expected to be humored tonight.
The water in Valer's room was run beforehand. No attendants linger, but this suits Valer (borderline misanthropic) and Mehen (prefers to go without help for personal upkeep when and where he can) just fine.
He sits his companion into a chair, placing the clothes for tomorrow nearby, and does the favor of taking off Mehen's shoes while the other unties the ribbon in his hair. In return, Mehen helps unravel the layers of ornamentation Valer has for outerwear, removing chains and loosening his cravat.
Freed, Valer chugs a glass of water before refilling the cup and pressing it into Mehen's grasp, keeping a cautious eye on the artifact concealed inside the brunette's sleeve. Seeing nothing amiss, he loses his undershirt and slips away to check on the bath.
Just a bit off lukewarm. Submerging his hand, he warms it by a few notches—moving a couple of the soaps and whatever else closer for easy access with the one out of water.
Flicking off droplets when he judges the temperature satisfactory, Valer finds Mehen tucking gloves into a neatened stack, vest unbuttoned and belt taken off at some point along the way. Seems like he took the prerogative to tidy up.
"All good?"
"..Mhm."
Blearily stepping into tile from carpet, Mehen eventually skims his fingers over the water.
His lord has seen his body ill and healthy alike. Neither of them blink at undressing in front of the other. Valer is quicker about it—the water displacing around him by the time the other is taking off his garters.
There's something relieving about seeing Mehen's body, slanted into the porcelain for support. No mark of major injuries, only faded old wounds he wouldn't be able to notice without being entrusted the other's exposed skin and formative history.
Leaning forward to ease his counterpart into the bathtub, Mehen ends up relaxed against his chest, arms folded atop the loose encirclement Valer has around his midsection. He tangles sienna strands into a loose spiral, letting it fall across his shoulder as well. It's not a wash day, nor would it be good to let Mehen go to sleep with his hair wet. The man in his embrace simply sags into him further, trusting he'll be caught if his senses lapse.
"It's been a while since I've soaked like this. Usually I take showers. Quicker."
Valer pours some water on Mehen's neck, massaging behind his ear and kneading his trapezius, watching the remaining stiffness dissipate. "That's a shame. Should I work harder?"
Twisting around, very empathetically, "Yes. Never going to complain about a lighter load." His lord only laughs, feeling up the ridge of his spine.
Mehen unmelds from him fully to browse the sundries at arm's length, asking as he froths up a cleanser: "...How's your condition?"
"Better," Valer coyly responds as it's worked into his clavicle and up, "but my skin's all heated up and my heart's going crazy."
In a way, his partner plays along. Squishing his head in sudsy hands, "..Maybe the alcohol's still affecting you. Should the doctor check for arrhythmia?"
Valer doesn't do much more than stay put as Mehen's fingers sweep over his face. There's a small smile he can't take his eyes off of.
With suppressed mirth, he's prompted: "Dunk."
He does just that. Wiping away the excess water, he sees Mehen push some exfoliant scrub towards him, pooling more cleanser into his hands to wash himself after. Taking the cue, he opens the jar and scrapes it out.
They don't stay in the bath for long, all things considered. Mehen's yawn while washing away some product served as their timer going off. The two of them rinsed off and bundled into robes.
As Valer picks out sleepwear for both of them, his companion sits in the same chair, squeezing moisture from the ends of his hair—a comb on the tabletop at his request.
The blonde throws the clothes on the back of another seat, dragging it right next to the one Mehen is in, picking up the brush and making an inviting motion. Mehen leans accordingly.
"Do you stretch your back?" He starts at the bottom of the locks, making his way slowly up (like his sister taught him, and the grief doesn't devour him whole this time).
"A little. Less than my hands. I tend to neglect it."
"Should I run you through a regimen? Routine exercise would fix that and more."
"..Is the Crown Prince growing on you or something? I'm willing to try if you take on more of the duchy affairs," Mehen lightly teases with a squint—then asserts, "My posture is fine as is."
"Your stamina's not though. You get winded too easily."
The locks he has in hand gain some extra slack as Mehen sighs, acquiescing to that truth.
Slotted together on his bed, changed into his clothes—Valer plays with Mehen's hair.
The slight dampness and comb's teeth left its ends ridged, reminiscent of tilled dirt in rows. Mehen had fallen asleep before him, but Valer keeps staring—looking at his prosperity condensed, until he too, drifts off.
Valer wakes with the sunrise and a merciless pain pervading his body. It's already too bright. He expends some energy to draw the curtains closed with his ability. Worth it.
He snuggles in again, ignoring the pulsing throb, taking the chance to observe Mehen. The warmth is so seeped into their blankets, it emanates back.
A time later, Mehen's eyes snap open like clockwork when the sun's supposed to be high in the sky. It's quiet and dim.
Making eye contact with Valer, stuck to his side, he croaks out, "...Good morning. Were you able to sleep?"
He feels Valer's gravelly voice—throat next to heart, "Don't worry, I rested plenty."
...Mehen takes his word for it.
Blessedly, he's free from a headache under the molasses of hypnopompia. Unfortunately, he's still parched, and by the look of his dried lips, Valer likely is as well. Groggily stretching over to the pitcher with sluggish limbs, he pours a cup and rests the jug between his legs on the bed while he—tapping Valer's mouth open—carefully hydrates the other before refilling and quickly drinking, himself. It gets his cogs moving.
He has work to do. They have got to deal with the basement. Cleaning is a must. Disposal will likely mean absolute evisceration. He'll have to figure out how to lock up anything they decide to keep, though more likely, Valer will step in on his own to handle it. After that... assembling a proper ceremony to respectfully send off the previous head's victims shouldn't pose a problem. Halbern's priests are paid enough to not question, and if Valer is the one to conduct it all, everything remains under wraps.
—Then renovations.
One thing at a time. Returning the vessels to the nightstand and turning to Valer...
He stays in bed.
Moments like this are precious. The duchy can survive starting the day without them. It'll manage being hands-off for a while—as it largely has been for the past 15 years, give or take.
He curls back into his counterpart, who breaks out into a grin.
"You're being so sweet on me, darling," he croons. Mehen pinches him—though, he doesn't move away from the affection Valer laves. Closing his eyes, he soaks in the mellow comfort of the way they're set flush against each other a little longer.