#morimenswritefic

"Please, sit." Doresain motions to the chair at the kitchen table. It's a small thing, the table, but it will suffice. He does not let his attention linger on Salvador overlong — already turning to the cabinets, searching for cookware and ingredients to use. He'll need to make something relatively simple, and light on the stomach. The other man has likely not had anything approaching Doresain's normal level of meal quality — Doresain is a chef, and he can acknowledge that his style of meal is one that is oft very heavy, decadent, and elegant. It would be a losing battle to attempt to serve a meal such as that to this man whose piety apparently forbids he grant any kindness to himself.

"Have you eaten yet today, Bishop?" He asks, conversationally, as he looks at the ingredients he's been able to find and considers. Rice, courgettes, a few eggs, some carrots, a handful of apples and some dried oats. My, this kitchen is rather understocked, Doresain will certainly have to fix that.

"I have." Salvador's low voice rumbles through the space between them.

Doresain pauses. (Hm, something light for sensitive stomachs. . . rice and steamed courgettes, perhaps carrots as well, could work.) "Have you?" The question is asked, but Doresain expects no answer. He's rather irked at the lack of any real protein — perhaps he will scramble an egg, to add to the meal. It won't be his best work, and he will have to constrain himself to smaller portions than his usual routine, but the point of this is to create a meal that the Bishop Salvador will enjoy and be able to fully eat, so Doresain shall just have to adjust. What a poor chef he would be, if he couldn't.

Nodding to himself decisively, Doresain pulls out a pot and fills it with water, setting that to boil. While that's being done, he pulls out a cutting board and begins peeling and cutting the carrots and courgettes both. He's loath to waste food, so he will use two carrots and a whole courgette, and whatever is left that's too much for Salvador's plate he will eat himself. Doresain is no stranger to eating his own meals (he had, after all, first learned to cook by cooking for himself, even if the castle had had chefs to do the preparation of meals for him).

When the vegetables are chopped, and the water is boiling enough to add the rice in, Doresain does so. Then, it's a matter of waiting — he won't steam the vegetables until the rice is mostly done, and scrambling the singular egg won't take much time. (He isn't in need of the protein, after all.)

While he waits, Doresain stands by the kitchen counter, and simply . . . observes. Salvador sits at the table still, head bowed, hands clasped before his face in prayer. Whatever words he speaks are too quiet for Doresain to make out (an impressive feat to be sure, with a ghoul's hearing). The heavy fabric of his cassock pools heavy around the man's shoulders, in sharp contrast against the white dress shirt and Salvador's own long curls, a faint blue iridescence among the otherwise plain white coloring.

His attention is drawn, then, to the tail, so carefully hidden among those same robes. The scales are faded, and look dry. A dull shade, to be sure, and cracked around the edges. Doresain's heart (whatever is left of it) sinks at the sight — that is dreadful malnourishment on display. There are patches of scales that haven't quite shed, and Doresain forces his breath to stay steady. He was aware of the Bishop Salvador's poor eating habits when he took the man to this tucked-away kitchen on Mythag's campus. He simply. . . has a more complete understanding of what a challenge this self-assigned task will be, now.

(He wonders, briefly, what those scales would look like if fully taken care of. If they would still be that matte gray, or if they would shift in different colors. If those scales would gleam glossily in the light, or if the colors would have only the faintest reflections.)

Doresain forces his attention back onto the meal. The rice is just about done, so he can begin steaming the vegetables, and then scrambling that egg. He will have plenty of opportunities for examining and interrogating the Bishop later. (He will, of course, be submitting a complaint to the staff at Mythag — this kitchen being a smaller one is no excuse for it being so poorly stocked. Absolutely dreadful.)

When the food is finished, Doresain carefully plates it. Salvador's plate is of course smaller than Doresain's own, with the scrambled egg being the biggest difference between the two plates. He sets the Bishop's plate down first, and then his own, before he, too, sits. "Do eat." He says, lightly. "It would be a shame to waste this meal that I made for you, no?"

Salvador bows his head. ". . .you are indeed correct, Lord Doresain." The faintest downtick of his lips, before the man begins eating.

Doresain takes it as his cue to begin eating as well — never sparing his attention from Salvador, of course. He's under no rush to finish his meal, and indeed, Doresain prefers to savor all his meals no matter how simply they may be made — which allows for the time to watch, and ensure that Salvador finishes his plate. They eat in silence, the two of them, but it is not an unpleasant silence.

With his meal finished, Salvador sets down his utensils and clasps his hands together before him, head bowing once again. "I thank you for the meal." He says, calmly. "Your generosity is appreciated."

Doresain does not scoff, though barely. "I find it an insult to be told that one does not allow themself good meals." His tone is light, as the mists that swirls around him ever-presently, but there is a very real steel within it. "If you have no love for eating, then I shall make it my mission to teach you to savor meals." His eyes close in a satisfied smile, his intent made known. Whether Salvador knows it, he has become a new fixation — he may not be a ghoul, but what kind of king would Doresain be if he did not help those who needed it, part of his kingdom by blood or not?

Salvador is incredibly still, where he sits. Then, he stands, slowly. "I thank you for your kindness," he repeats, "but I am sure your efforts would be best suited to your people. Pray, turn your mind from myself — the All-Father provides for me as it is needed. Others are more deserving of your efforts than I. Good day, Lord Doresain." He turns, and leaves the kitchen just slightly quicker than his normal walking speed.

How to put into words the thoughts chasing circles through Castor's head? How to voice the wonder, the care, the worry?

Gently, gently, he presses his palm against Sylvester's cheek. It's cool to the touch — Sylvester has always run cooler than Castor. It's a stark contrast, the blackened skin of Castor's hand, talons sheening slightly green where the light bends, against the pale freckled skin of Sylvester's cheek, the soft white-silver hair and eyelashes. It's gentle, Castor's touch, because Sylvester deserves gentleness more than anything else. (He has given so much for Castor, already. Gentleness — a promise of protection, a promise not to harm — is the least that Castor owes him.)

"Castor?"

"Your eyes." Castor says, face still holding that stern appearane. "They're silver?"

Sylvester blinks, slowly — a slight widening of the eyes. Surprise. "Are they?"

"Mmh." Castor's face smooths out, as he leans forwards — thumb brushing just beneath the eyelashes, just beneath Sylvester's right eye. He's careful not to lean too far or too heavily, for his wings are heavy as is his body, and Sylvester is much slimmer. Even still, he leans closely.

They really are silver, Sylvester's eyes. Not silver like the color, but silver like the silver that Awakeners are born from. Like the silver that the Silver Key is made of, like the silver that Mythag values so highly, like the silver that sits within Castor's chest, that marks him as divine by the Lantern's scriptures. It's mesmerizing, looking at the irises — from afar they look simply gray, even if a pale shade, but up close like this Castor can see every individual shift in color. (Structural iridescence, he had read once, to explain the shifting colors of his and Pollux's feathers, to explain the dancing emerald hues in the feathers and hair, in Castor's hair, even with the pigment long lost to stress and years locked underground. That must be what brings forth those slight — but no less beautiful — shifts in color in Sylvester's irises.)

Sylvester leans into the touch, eyelids falling closed. "Your hands are warm." He murmurs, suddenly soft.

"Are they?"

"Yeah."

It's not a cold afternoon — it's late Spring, almost the edges of Summer — but Castor shifts his weight back just slightly. His free hand rests on Sylvester's shoulder, and (carefully, carefully, gently, gently) he begins pulling Sylvester closer to him. Sylvester must truly be tired, to not react at all — and, soon, Castor has pulled the man into his arms. For a few moments (wonderful, gentle moments) Castor simply stands there. Sylvester, held securely against his chest, wings spread to wrap around the other man as well. The Spring breeze drifts through, carrying the smell and promise of rain, rustling his feathers and hair just as it rustles the leaves of the many trees on Mythag's campus.

"You look like you need rest." Castor says, softly, to Sylvester. "Come lay down with me?"

Sylvester makes a soft, inquisitive noise. Though he runs cool, he's still warm, where he's halfway burrowed into Castor. "Will it be comfy?" He asks, bleary — the lack of sleep has hit, Castor thinks.

"It will be." Castor promises, arms tightening just slightly, pulling Sylvester just slightly closer. "There's still a few hours before nighttime. Pollux will be in his half of the room, but if you don't mind it, you could stay with me?" The words tumble out awkwardly, but Castor presses onwards. (It's easier to ask, when those silver eyes aren't looking at him. When Castor can't get lost, distracted by the pearlescent hues.) "You've been kind enough to allow me in your room, on several nights. I . . . want to repay the favor."

Sylvester pulls away, and Castor lets him (even as a stone sinks into his stomach, even as a small part of himself keens). "Let's go, then." Those eyes smile up at him, Sylvester's cheeks scrunched at the action, too. (It's cute.) "Any excuse to get to sleep more and not do work, right?"

Castor can't help but smile back in return. "Of course." He folds his wings against his back, to their proper place. Sylvester follows him as he walks, step-in-step, through campus towards the Awakener Dorms. For once, Castor feels no anxiety nor apprehension at the thought of Sylvester seeing his and Pollux's shared room — only cautious hope, that resting beside Castor (alike to the many times Castor had rested beside Sylvester, in Sylvester's room) may allow Sylvester the sleep that he is so clearly missing.

It's not that Castor's room is messy, of course. He and Pollux both go to great pains to ensure their room stays neat, organized, and free of debris or clutter. They struggle with having things, he and his brother, but they are slowly accumulating items to make the room feel lived-in. The majority being bedding — soft blankets and pillows, cushions left unclaimed and other such things. There are the bookshelves with their valued tomes set upon the shelves, an eclectic collection of other things equally distributed along both halves of the room — Pollux's carefully-copied notes in neat penmanship, Castor's elegant-yet-hastily written notes and questions in his own journals. The ever-growing collection of inks, and a few favored pens. The incense left in the corner, for daily prayer, and the small strip of gauzy purple fabric that was to be the only thing of the Church either would allow in their room.

Castor would be surprised if Sylvester noticed much of this, however — what with how quickly Sylvester heads toward Castor's bed. (It's easy to tell that it's Castor's bed, on account of the feathers, scattered and woven into the nest of blankets that Castor had turned his bedding into.)

"I'm sorry," Castor starts, hit with realization as Sylvester leans down to remove his shoes, and then cape. "I don't have any spare nightclothes."

"It's alright." Sylvester smiles, removing his vest, but leaving the undershirt and pants. "I can just sleep in my dayclothes."

"You're sure?" Castor's hands find his writs, talons running through and tugging at the long feathers growing there. "I — I could lend you one of my spare robes, if you'd prefer . . .?" (It'd be too big on Sylvester, they both know.) "I don't want you to be uncomfortable.

Sylvester laughs, and shakes his head. "No, no, it's alright. I just want to sleep now, if that's okay."

"Of course." Castor carefully watches for a few moments, as Sylvester eases himself into the blankets, burrowing down into them, until he's sure that Sylvester is comfortable. He sheds the outer layers of his robes quickly, leaving just the thinner inner robe, and carefully settles down onto the bed himself. Then, beneath the blankets — laying on his stomach, tugging at blankets until they cover him well enough.

Sylvester laughs again, and Castor turns to look at him, blinking — frozen, then, as those silver eyes gaze into his own emerald, mirth dancing within them. Sylvester says nothing, but shuffles until he's pressed against Castor on the bed, blankets pulled over them both — a hand gently tugging at Castor's wing until it's draped over Sylvester, and the blankets pulled over the wing and person both.

A hand runs through black feathers, and Castor's eyes fall closed. A soft trill escapes his throat, and Sylvester hums softly. (Some song, that Castor can't name, but knows dearly all the same.) "Your feathers are soft." He murmurs, tucking his face against Castor's neck. "Goodnight."

Castor doesn't have a name for the fondness welling within his chest, but he'll treasure it regardless. Sylvester is asleep, already, but even still, he smooths down Sylvester's hair again. Sighing softly, and with a smile upon his lips, he presses a soft kiss against Sylvester's forehead. "Goodnight, Sylvester."

He hums to himself, softly. Where has he known that scent from? Perhaps he should ponder it further, but there are other plants to tend to in the garden — and, though he may be an Awakener now, Salvador's knees do still somewhat ache with age. Best to get off the ground. He goes about the watering and checking various plants — other flowers, bushes, and shrubs are all carefully tended to. It's not particularly hard, but it is calming. A steadiness, a gentle sigh of an afternoon. He thanks the Father for these moments of calm — they are much-appreciated, and Salvador is always grateful for times when he can simply be.

Clicking, muffled through walls. The soft creaking of the garden door as it opens, and the sound of footsteps — soft tramping upon the earth — growing louder. There's an accompanying noise of the soft rustle of fabric, and a noise that Salvador has learned is that of long hair, swaying in motion.

"My dear Bishop." A familiar voice purrs, cultured and even. Ah, it's Doresain. The voice alone would have given the other man away, but the brilliant pearlescent soul makes his presence unmistakable.

"Lord Doresain." Salvador acknowledges, turning to face the king as he tucks his hands into the wide fabric of his sleeves. (Best not to let the man see his scars, quiet yet. Salvador would not want to upset him.) "Did you have need of me?"

"Nothing so grand, I assure you." Doresain moves closer, enough that Salvador is achingly aware of how short the distance between the two of them is. "I merely wished to enjoy your company."

"Is that so?" Salvador replies, evenly. Beneath the heavy fabric of his cassock, his tail curls around his leg, gripping almost tightly. (He would not want Doresain to trip on the limb, after all, with the way the man seems to walk on his. . . toes? Salvador is not entirely certain of the shape of the man's legs, only that they seem to have holes, and are long and tapered. Heels, perhaps?)

"It is." Voice curling in what Salvador would call affection were he brave enough to dare — Doresain's voice is low, and quiet. Fitting, for the space they are in, and matching Salvador's own. "Shall we sit? I ensured there would be food — tell me, Bishop Salvador, have you yet eaten?"

Salvador allows Doresain to gently grasp him by the arm and guide him towards the table nestled further within the garden. It is. . . comforting, that Doresain would guide but not force — that Doresain, aware of the limitations of Salvador's gift from the All-Father (for, though his sight of souls is strong, it cannot capture everything that Salvador's vision had held, when he was living stil), is considerate enough to allow Salvador the choice of when to rely on outside aid. "I have not eaten in some time." He admits, tail curling just a bit tighter.

Doresain hums, clearly displeased, but no admonishments spill from his lips, nor any sighs of upset. He merely reaches, pulls something from the basket he had taken with him. "I had planned for such." He says lightly, setting a plate and some pleasantly-scented meal upon the table. "The choices of food will be kind to your stomach, my dear Salvador, so please do eat." The man leans forwards, just slightly, and though Salvador cannot see, he still feels the weight of Doresain's gaze upon him. "I do so enjoy seeing others partaking in meals I've made for them."

". . . If you insist, Lord Doresain." Salvador does not give voice to the apprehension within him (though the man had denied it, surely there was something he wished from Salvador? Was it truly so simple as watching him eat and enjoying his company?) and instead reaches forward. It's a simple sandwich, he discovers with some light exploration, and Salvador will admit . . . he does enjoy the flavor of it, simple as it may be.

The mist swirling around Doresain thickens, waxing and waning like a strange tide. Never enough to overpower Salvador's sences, or be unpleasant, but present nonetheless. He pauses, in the midst of eating. Ah. That is why the forget-me-nots had been so familiar — it is that very same scent that is held within the mist made from Doresain's soul. (How fitting.)

"Bishop Salvador?" A note of concern in Doresain's voice. "Is aught amiss?"

"My apologies." Salvador shakes his head, slightly. "I merely recalled something." He resumes his meal, and Doresain resumes his watching. (It would feel off-putting, for any other to rest their gaze upon him for such length — but somehow, with Doresain, it merely feels peaceful.)

It is only after Salvador has finished eating that he recalls that his hands have been ungloved this entire time — scars on display. Ashamed, he moves to return his hands to within the cassock sleeves, so as not to burden Doresain with the sight any further — but Doresain's hands reach out, one grasping each of Salvador's. Lightly, but the cold is enough to bring Salvador pause.

"May I?" Doresain asks, low and quiet, almost hushed. "Forgive me, but I find your scars to be rather beautiful."

It takes moments to find the words, choke down the blood and memory of smoke filling his lungs. "I am. . . grateful that you would be kind with your words." He makes no move to pull away. If Doresain believes such — if he truly believes such — then Salvador. . . well. It is not being selfish, to allow the other man to look, to let his hands rest within that cool embrace. It is a kindness, to allow Doresain that sight, to grant his request. (It is Salvador's duty to alleviate the suffering of others, under the All-Father's teachings, and if allowing Doresain to hold his hands will aid the other man, then any comfort it brings Salvador is merely a secondary aspect of such a thing.)

Though he cannot see it clearly, Salvador imagines that Doresain is smiling when next he speaks. "Thank you for your kindness, my dear Salvador."

Castor grimaces, pulls the blankets tighter against him. "Food. . . sounds bad. Right now."

"Water? Something else to drink?" Sylvester isn't quite close, but not quite far either — he's brought a bag, filled with whatever miscellaneous things Sylvester liked to carry around.

Shuffle, shift in place, until he's more comfortable and halfway laying down against the near mountain of pillows Sylvester had packed around him. Castor considers the question, lets the shape of it swirl across his tongue until he has an answer. "Water would be nice." He blinks, eyelids just slightly too heavy. "Could you. . . sing? That song you were humming?"

A slow tilt of the head, Sylvester's eyes never quite leaving Castor's. "It doesn't really have any words." Sylvester says, carefully, a hand reaching to rest upon Castor's brow as Sylvester's own wrinkles slightly. "But. . . I can sing what parts of it I remember, once I get you water." His hand pulls away. Castor tries not to mourn the loss.

Nodding decisively, Sylvester turns and heads towards the door. Humming, as he does so. (Castor wonders, with a head full of fog and a body that feels like it's shivering inside the skin and not outside of it, if Sylvester even realizes that he is humming. He wonders where that melody is from. It feels. . . hauntingly familiar.)

Castor tries to hum the tune to himself, as his eyelids fall. Everything feels hazed and vaguely shadowed, like the kinds of visions that are born from early morning fog.

"Poor thing," murmurs the shadow of Pollux, suddenly there beside the bed. His wings twitch, and though one extends to rest atop Castor, no light is blocked.

Castor merely hums softly, letting his eyes fall all the way shut. The hallucination won't leave that quickly, but looking at anything is making him feel worse, so Castor will try and do what he can to feel slightly less miserable in the time before Sylvester comes back.

A sigh. "Don't die, okay?" A hint of a laugh, and the sound of feathers rustling.

Castor drifts, from there, but eventually Sylvester does return — the actual Pollux by his side. They're talking in voices too low for Castor to truly comprehend, with his thoughts turned to thick sludge and his bones feeling vaguely like they're melting, but Pollux sounds worried and Sylvester sounds the way someone sounds when trying to reassure others. (Pollux's voice isn't quite flat, but it's getting there. Sylvester's, by contrast, has a strange calmness in it.)

Castor peels his eyes open, to find his suspicions correct — Sylvester holding a glass of water, as well as yet another pillow, and Pollux standing beside him, eyes tense at the corners and lips curled down in a frown. Upon seeing Castor's almost-bleary gaze, Pollux crosses the room in quick strides to stand beside him, nudging Castor further upright with a shoulder and re-adusting the bedding Castor had been leaning against.

"You're sure he'll be fine?"

"Yes, I'm sure." Sylvester's voice is tired, but patient, as he too crosses the room. "It's just a normal sickness, for now. If it gets worse we won't know until later, and if that happens I promise I'll bring Castor to the medical ward if he needs it, okay?" He sits by Castor's other side, carefully pulling Castor to lean against him while setting his bag on the bed.

"And you're sure that I don't need to be here?" Pollux presses further. (Ah, is he worried something will happen to Castor if he's gone?)

"I will be fine, Pollux." Castor forces through his throat, even as his voice rasps unpleasantly. (The noise is. . . uncomfortably familiar to the way his voice had sounded, when he'd first started talking again after years, dragged out of that cell that he'd spent so long within. Castor tries to pay it no mind.) "You should go to your classes. It . . . would be bad. If you missed too many."

Pollux's lips press tightly into a thin line, and he stares at Castor for several long, silent moments. Then, he nods once, a sharp, decisive action. Turning to face Sylvester, he points at Castor with a hand that is shaking only slightly. "Do not let him suffer." He's back to his sharp-yet-firm voice, again, the one that is slightly arrogant and slightly lofty and very polished in its pronunciation of syllables. The Divus voice, Castor and Pollux had both called it when they were younger, and it is this that makes Castor know that his brother is once more donning a mask to hide his fear.

"I won't." Sylvester promises, unknowing — perhaps uncaring — of the many anxieties and doubts that surely must be nestled within Pollux's ribcage (the same way Castor's own anxieties and doubts nestle within his ribcage, like small birds settling in and building a nest there). He smooths Castor's bangs down with a hand, and Castor can't help but lean in, the little trill of contentment even as the miserable feeling of being sick does not lessen. It feels nice.

". . . good." Pollux leans towards Castor and carefully presses his head against Castor's shoulder. "Rest. Take care of yourself. Don't suffer needlessly." His voice is flat and toneless, as he says these things, but Castor lets himself smile and fluffs the feathers upon his neck. (It is how Pollux shows he cares, when there is no tone in his voice. Inflection and emotion are masks upon his words — and so, flat and emotionless, that is when Pollux is entirely unmasked, genuine feeling paradoxically shown by a lack of any.)

"I will."

Finally, Pollux leaves. In the quiet left behind, Castor leans further against Sylvester, lets his eyelidss fall halfway closed again. Sylvester carefully combs a hand through Castor's hair, pulls the hair tie off and works fingers through the long waves. Softly humming, Sylvester takes some item from his bag and starts working on it. Schoolwork, Castor thinks, though he's too fatigued to bother double-checking. Instead, he lets himself drift again. Soft, almost comfortable. . . Castor drifts to sleep, that soft song following him within dreams.

"This sucks." Sylvester whines, shivering and curled up amidst a pile of blankets and other bedding. He's wrapped his arms around his midsection, but he stubbornly keeps his head slightly raised, eyes trying to follow Castor's motions.

Castor merely hums softly, carrying a tray with water and a bowl of soup broth over to the small table beside Sylvester's bed. "I know. I'm sorry." With quiet care, he sets the tray down, and sits on the edge of the bed closest to the table.

Sylvester, of course, immediately begins shuffling his way towards Castor's side. With a grunt of effort, and a huff born of breath pushed from the lungs, he flops onto Castor's lap, head resting on Castor's thighs, the rest of his body draped over Castor's legs and onto the bed. Only about half of the blankets he'd curled up in made the journey with him, but Castor leans over and carefully tugs some of the few left behind. It's not as pretty as the little blanket nest that Castor had been wrapped in, when Sylvester was the one assembling such a thing, but Castor hopes it at least is comfortable for Sylvester.

He'll need to leave soon for class, but Castor can't bring himself to move. Instead, he extends a wing, carefully resting it atop as much of Sylvester's body as can reach. "Do you need anything?" He asks, softly, carefully combing his talons through Sylvester's curls. Castor does his best not to let the curls catch, to comb through them gently enough that nothing tangles.

"Mmmh. . . no." Sylvester shuffles a bit more, face pressed against Castor's hip. "You're warm. Stay?"

Castor sighs, but can't stop the small smile born of pure affection. "Alright."

Pollux will look for him, soon, but — Castor can't bring himself to leave. With Sylvester sick, like this, all Castor wants to do is stay with him, do his best to tend his needs and ensure Sylvester is as comfortable as can be. After all, what good is a god that tends not to their followers? (For all they have left the Lantern's reach, Castor knows that he and Pollux both are still divine — in their bearing, in the way they have been taught to read the world, in the way that despite lower gnostic indices they both understand the weight of divinity and the exhaustion of it. Divine in the way that of the others at Mythag, only Tulu understands when they talk around the space where the worship of others had sat, divine in the way that there is a possessiveness to them, and the way Tulu dips his head in understanding when quiet words are had about how gods are made from mortal bones.)

". . .don't you have class?" Sylvester blinks open one eye, squinting, but Castor shushes him, carefully presses Sylvester's face back against his hip.

"It will be fine." Castor assures, humming half of a melody within his throat. "You asked me to stay. So. I'll stay."

". . .alright." Sylvester slumps against Castor, then — vulnerable, trusting, limbs curling and nestling further against Castor as if he were made to be held like this. "Thanks for being here."