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The first thing he feels as he is waking up, is warmth. A rare sense of peace accompanies it, sneaking its way along every one of his sharp edges. Like moss gently growing atop a broken pillar. The image only cements itself further in Roland’s mind as more of his senses return.
He finds his face buried into green hair. This is no uncommon occurrence. More of a fun perk of their. uh. whatever this is. Words like ‘friendship’ haven’t been a fitting description for a while now. Not when he’s happily waking up with the other man in his arms. And that is not to mention all the other activities they’ve been up to..
Well, either way he’s grown very familiar with their Patron Librarian of Arts. What he likes, what he keeps putting off, what makes him stare unblinking at the nearest wall for an hour. He might as well be fluent in the language of Netzach.
The scent gracing his senses. All of the other man’s clothes have some vague hint of alcohol wafting off them. But his bodily scent is much harder to pinpoint, or even describe. It has the same acidic vibe as his taste. It’s Netzach smell.
He breathes in more of it while feeling his arms wrapped around the other man’s waist. The artist has a rather average build, very little muscle definition contrasting well against the body of an experienced Fixer. Not to say he hasn’t lived through a lot though. The countless scars stretching across his skin are their own proof of struggle. Roland’s hands carefully trace along the other man’s abdomen through his shirt, recalling a few by muscle memory.
There’s one solid line near the liver area, ancient and clearly made with surgical precision. Then a few more recent scratches from battle. And the same stray pricks from needles as on most parts of the green haired man, like someone desperately trying to figure out how injection works. He’s not exactly happy about the causes, but every mark is still part of who Netzach is. He wouldn’t want to change any of it.
..Well, maybe except for a few. He could’ve lived without the marks of one particular sword. Roland’s hands and eyes tend to linger there more often than not, being the one at fault for even more visible pain. He did this. Plain and simple. But the man currently in his arms casts that same veil over his eyes, gently nudging them closed. It’s okay, he hears, It’s over.
Does he deserve this kind of treatment? No. But what is Roland if not incredibly greedy.
So he pulls himself even closer, relishing in the feeling of a relaxed Netzach in his hands. He sleeps better like this, fully wrapped around the artist. Feeling that same calm presence he’s now used to. There’s some deep-rooted need to hold. Maybe protect, even knowing full well there’s no real danger within the library.
Nothing physical, at least. His musings are interrupted with a long sigh, the other man barely waking up as his body is quicker to communicate, slumping under an invisible weight. He doesn’t need to hear a word to know it’s going to be.. one of those days. Netzach gets them less often now, but it’s not something that ever really goes away. Despite everyone’s collective displeasure.
There’s a building tension in the artists shoulders, and he meets it with ready hands. “Morning”, Roland whispers against messy hair.
“..Morning.” The reply is raspy, more with exhaustion than the remains of sleep. He kneads careful circles into Netzach’s shoulders, punctuated with the smallest press of lips against his nape.
“You okay?” He’s not going to get a straight answer. And the Fixer himself wouldn’t give one either, if asked. The two men tend to be similar in even the least fun ways.
As expected, his only response is a noncommittal hum. Both a blessing and a curse, as they say. But he is not deterred at all, moving to sit up on his elbows just so he can reach the artist’s face, tilting his chin towards him.
There’s a moment where nothing happens. Two broken men simply staring at each other before he leans in to close the gap. And this time, the reaction is near immediate, familiar hands pulling him closer as Netzach meets him in return. Of all the things they’ve done together, he’s found that the other man really, really likes kissing. Maybe for romantic reasons, maybe because it reminds him of something or other. Roland doesn’t really care as long as the eyes meeting his look even a little less dead than before.
And there it is, some modicum of softness returning to Netzach’s face even as they part. The Fixer makes sure to plant himself within line of sight this time, shuffling along the sheets until they’re facing each other. And he listens to the artists breathing as it slows back down.
He’s not alone anymore, whether he likes it or not. And neither is Netzach.