#mournsuns

This ones dress was certainly elaborate. It reminded the Emperor of Pandyssia and other offshore lands where their energy did not come from the sea and whale oil. Lands he did not quite understand but heard tale of from his bound witches and dignitaries. And now, here they stood in his court, colors bright and flashing like some exotic bird among the dim greys and washed out reds of his throne room.

 Corvo leaned in faintly to rest his elbows on his knees as he eyed the newcomer, the rats in the walls and at his feet chattering about the presence of a stranger to his lands. His eyes, bloodshot and lined in circles, still seemed to try and bore holes into the stranger. 

      “What brings you to Dunwall, stranger? I am intrigued how you         even managed to land ship here.               Few make it through unannounced and unscheduled.” 

     “A martyr turned villain, hm? Sounds like a child’s tail.”

Back turned to the other man, he’s not giving him the light of day- except his ears perhaps. “A popular monster, you can say perhaps.”

   maybe it’s because majima isn’t used to sleeping on western-styled beds. or maybe because he’s spouting back into bad habits. it wasn’t nearly as draining as nights in sotenbori about two decades prior, how he would wake up in cold sweats and out of breath when confronted with memories of his kyoudai, shimano, and all the strings that came attached. but here, instead he’s craving a cigarette, staring upwards at the hardly illuminated ceiling with his one good eye. he could trace the lights of the rare car driving through the district’s headlights dancing above him in fragments, only being drowned out by the pale moonlight peeking through the blinds sheepishly, faintly. had his calm breathing been interrupted by the person next to him, he would of continued to bask in this uncomfortable daze. it was odd, how recounting trauma felt almost therapeutic, a routine he kept himself aligned to for such a man bent on chaos and disarray. after all, trauma is all he has left. majima goro IS his trauma.

    majima turns towards dove, single tired eye and leather eyepatch hardly glistening in the ambient light of the night skies; maybe dove could see that it was wetter than usual, give not for how dark the room is. he takes a moment, sitting up on the bed with a silent creak of both the springs and his spine. majima rolls his shoulders briefly, cool blues of nightfall draping over exposed chest and ink before he clears his throat.

      they’re laid out on the couch together, and noctis has settled comfortably against dove, laying his head in their lap. dove cards their fingers through his hair, slow and easy. the tv is on, playing something, but honestly, noctis has no idea what’s even on, is not processing those words at all. he presses his face against dove, lets out a little sigh as he does. on bad pain days, the emotions run high for him, run too high, to the point where everything seems to blur together and there’s nothing he can do to fight it. 

      when dove speaks, it takes a moment to process. everything feels far away on days like this, days where he’s almost frozen with the pain that’s always at least an underlying current under his skin. 

      he hums in response, turns his head again so that he can catch the hand in his hair and press a kiss to dove’s palm. today is one of those days, those days when breathing is the best he has to give. it’s enough, or at least, it feels like enough today. 

      “  love you,  ”  he mumbles, turns his head back to tuck his face back against dove’s stomach.  “  love you.  ”