#wt2020

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They’d spent the last couple hours talking -- well, him talking, and her asking questions. It had culminated in the creation of those...very adorable creatures currently huddled together at the foot of her bed, tails curled together in slumber. She supposes soon she might join them. She has never had a pet before --

“Oh.” Emet-Selch’s tone is clearly exaggerated, clearly demanding her attention. “There’s only one bed.”

Well, yes, there is only one bed...it is her room, after all...thus she does not see especially how this comment requires a response other than a mild nod of her head and a quirked eyebrow as she turns her head toward him in confusion. He stares at her, pointedly, almost expectant. Unfortunately for him, she hasn’t the slightest idea of what he wants from her.

The sigh that leaves him this time is almost disappointed. Shaking his head, he turns from her to stride toward the bed -- where he promptly makes himself at home, at least careful enough to avoid dislodging its previous occupants. She should probably give them names --

Arianna’s eyebrows furrow as she quickly turns to her still-open book upon her desk. She scribbles a question.

What are you doing?

Holding the book open, she presents it to him, tapping fingers on the table when it appears he isn’t paying attention to her. He laughs shortly at the query once he finally turns his head to read it.

“What does it look like I’m doing, my dear? I’m trying to sleep.” This response, however, does nothing to quell her confusion. In fact, it startles her so that she speaks to him again, without thinking.

“B-but why here? This is my room?” It should not be a question, but it pitches up as one anyway.

“I’m afraid I’m simply too tired to just leave...you don’t mind, do you?”

She does, actually, quite a bit --

“There’s more than enough room for two in any case, I should think...” As if to make his point, he slides toward the wall, gesturing toward the empty space beside him with a smirk that sends twists into her stomach. When she makes no attempt to join him, however, he merely sighs again. “I assure you, I don’t bite.”

For some reason, she can feel her cheeks reddening further at his words. Though unfortunately, he feels the need to continue.

“Well, I suppose I could, if you wanted me to, but you’d have to ask~.”

The hyuran woman smacks both palms over her ears, trying desperately to ignore both him and the steam threatening to rise off from her face. He is most assuredly laughing at her. Biting her lower lip, she finds she has lost her words and thus flips to a new page in her book to pen her response.

I am quite fine here, thank you.

“Oh, how you wound me...” There’s almost disbelief, but mostly amusement as he watches her neatly fold her arms over her open book and nestle her face into her elbows.

-- This is not actually uncomfortable, and she has slept in worse positions before in any case.

“At least give her a chance,” his best friend implores. “I promise you she isn’t like other girls.” This is something he’s told him before, and to be frank, Hades isn’t convinced. “And I mean that in the most literal sense! You’ll see.”

Oh, he is simply teeming with excitement.

With a weary sigh, he follows his cloaked and masked friend. He can’t tell if Hythlodaeus’ excitement is mockery or genuine this time, and he’d be lying if he said he was keen on finding out which it was. Nevertheless…he supposes his other, more important duties, can wait. For now.

Hythlodaeus does not lead him to the Akadaemia, as he usually does, but the park. Strike one, and he hasn’t even met the poor girl yet. His friend keeps on his babbling as they walk, arms occasionally sweeping to elucidate his point.

“At the very least, I’m certain you’ll agree — her soul is fascinating.” Finally — something that catches his interest. Hades can’t help but pause mid-step. Hythlodaeus rarely makes comment on someone else’s soul...much less how interesting it is.

“...Why?” He can’t help himself.

“You’ll see!”

Hades can hear the smug smirk in his’ voice. Despite his misgivings for where they’re going...he has to admit he’s quite curious. Hythlodaeus has, at the very least, one point.

She’s sitting upon a park bench as they approach, alone, though she stands up once she notices them.

The very first thing he notices is her soul.

He can’t — he can’t quite tell what colour it is. Is it blue? Or green? It seems to pulse and swirl before his eyes, cyan and teal blending together into something constantly changing and yet utterly unmistakable. He’s never seen a soul like hers before.

Loathe he is to admit it, Hythlodaeus was right. On this account, at least.

“Hades, meet Persephone. Persephone, meet Hades.” His friend gives a tiny flourish of a bow as he gestures him closer.

“Right, ah...” Hades’ golden gaze flicks from Hythlodaeus to the girl named Persephone. “Pleasure to meet you.”

Her mouth is curved in a very slight smile, and while he can’t see the rest of her face for the cowl and the mask, somehow he can tell there’s no malice behind the expression. But...she’s utterly silent.

Instead of speaking, she tilts her head ever so slightly at him. Perhaps deigning if she should speak to him at all? He finds himself growing a little irritated at her reticence; this is why he’s really not good at these social interaction things, he’d rather go back to staring at those lights...

And ignoring how pretty hers is.

Clearly she thinks she’s too good to speak to him, and the implication has his proverbial hackles rising —

Abruptly, one of her hands sweeps up -- she holds her index and middle fingers together, as if signalling something. Then, her arm moves, an elegant arc -- and her hand leaves a trail of -- stardust and blooms behind it.

She writes in the air.

The words gleam with colour upon their dark background of pale twinkling stars. Brilliant blues, reds, greens -- so much colour amongst the sameness of the scenery around them.

Hello. It is nice to make your acquaintance, Hades.

The (very cute) red dress she wears shimmers slightly as she steps out of  the restroom in pointed crimson heels. There’s a puff in the skirt that makes it flowy and adorable, the thin straps on her shoulders a slightly paler shade than the rest of the fabric. Laurelis has done her hair a little differently this time, two braids twisted in a loop behind her head. It’s very Hingan and quite adorable and not exactly Ishgardian style, but she likes how she looks in the mirror and that is what matters.

“Darling?” she calls as she wanders into the hallway. “I’m ready!” Her husband is waiting for her near the door, already pulling on his coat over his smooth and well-pressed suit. With a bright grin, the miqo’te takes her coat and wraps it around herself over her purse.

The long furred coat comes down to her mid-calf. Whilst Haurchefant thinks she might still be a little cold, Laurelis thinks the length is just right. Not to mention the coat is warm and comforting, one of the first gifts he’d ever given her. Of course she’s kept it all this time.

“All done?” Haurchefant asks her, taking her hand gently in his. The woman gives him an easy nod, and the two depart after ensuring all has been locked.

Neither are strangers to this restaurant. They like it precisely because it’s familiar, because they’ve had good food here before, whether simply together or with other friends.

It takes only a few minutes for either to decide upon their dishes. As they wait, they make idle chatter, occasionally involving a few of the other patrons seated near them. An elderly couple in particular seems charmed by them, going as far as to formally ask their names toward the end of the evening.

“I’ve always wished to make the acquaintance of the Warrior of Light.”

-- Ah. Her expression, vibrant merely moments ago, falls. How she dislikes being called the Warrior...she is not one, but one of many. It feels a disservice to her comrades and family to --

Her thoughts are broken as her husband gently wrests the bill from her fingers. Laurelis scrunches her face in an exceptionally attractive manner as she glares at him, though there’s no bite behind it.

“That’s no fair!” she protests, ear flicking irritably. “You always pay, it’s my turn.”

The elezen male shrugs slightly. “In the end, it is both our money, is it not? So truly, I think it matters little who does the physical aspect of paying.”

The smile he gives her is too pristine for her to want to complain -- and she supposes, grudgingly, that he is correct. With a pout, she leans back in her chair, crossing her arms lightly over her chest.

He does not judge. Or, at least -- he does not seem to. He has not even a sardonic remark for her. He merely -- sits near her. It is strangely...comforting. Though she struggles to associate that word with an Ascian --

It is all too easy to forget his presence, simply consider it a norm. As if she has done this before, though she knows that isn’t possible. She is...comfortable around him, though she really shouldn’t be. This is simply another quiet evening spent in his company. The days have started to blur together and she isn’t sure if it’s because of the light or because of his new existing in this space, someone else other than her.

Brushing her dark hair behind her ears, she casts a furtive glance at him out of the corner of her eye. Emet-Selch is not looking at her; his attention, for the moment at least, is upon a book he’s pulled from one of her desks. It takes only a second for that to change, however.

Ah, he’s noticed her. The way his mouth curves in a smirk has her fumbling with her pen as she looks nervously away, her face reddening. She hears a quiet thunk as the book is replaced, and then a low sigh.

"So, what have you written today, hmm?” he asks smoothly, as if to mask it. She holds his gaze this time as she looks up at him. Then, she looks away -- if only to write. She pushes her parchment aside to pick up a book, one that is only meant for conversations.

Nothing, yet. I have just been rereading old passages.

Upon finishing writing, she lifts the book toward him; he takes it from her.

“Having writer’s block?” he asks wryly, handing the book back. She gives a mild shrug -- perhaps she is merely looking for inspiration. Or a reason to write. Come to think of it...

If you would like

But she can’t finish her words. She frowns, staring at the paper. She does not know -- how exactly to ask him...or if she even should. It’s silly of her. Ridiculous, even. There is no reason he would want to...but she’s let him read enough of them, that perhaps...

“Well?” His voice sounds so much closer to her ear than she ever expects, and she jumps in her seat, the top of her head brushing against his coat. “Would I like what? I won’t be able to answer unless you finish writing. I’m not a mind reader, you know.”

She has no idea why the sensation of ants crawling up her skin renews itself, nor why her heart threatens to beat out of her chest. Swallowing harshly, she smooths her fingers over the pages, trying to ignore the strange sensation that seems to assail her so often around him. She bites her lip, green eyes narrowing as she stares at the words, wondering if she would dare finish them.

Her hand moves.

If you would like, you could try writing something yourself?

The sentence seems awkward to her, but she can’t think of any other way to put it.

She knows he must be able to see what she’s written, but he doesn’t respond. He doesn’t even move; she can feel him standing behind her, leaning to stare at the parchment. She wishes she could see his expression.

Finally, finally, he moves, to sit on the other side of the table. A familiar place. They’ve sat like this before. Arianna blinks, watching him curiously. It’s a few more seconds before he chooses to respond.

“Why not...” His voice is quieter than she’s ever heard it, but -- it’s...assent. He almost sounds resigned.

Honestly, she’s more than a little surprised --

Emet-Selch seems deep in thought as he gazes down at the parchment she’s lent him, fingers twirling the writing utensil idly. His champagne eyes narrow, lips pursing, and it seems like an eternity before he finally begins to write.

She’d thought she would be able to relax then, but instead her entire body tenses, breath turning to ice in her chest as she can do nothing more than wait.

If it was an eternity before he started writing, surely it takes even longer for him to finish. She’s dreadfully curious. She wonders what he’s come up with -- if it’s some sort of mockery, or if he’s truly written something...himself. It’s difficult to explain. Is he making up his own story? She wants to ask, but she can’t, because she might interrupt him, and she so knows how frustrating it is to have one’s thoughts cleaved in half --

“There, all done.”

Her green eyes alight in curiosity as she takes the papers from him almost eagerly. A sense of wonderment is quick to come over her, as for a moment she simply gazes at the cursive, elegant print as if to memorise the lines. She likes his handwriting, she decides in some part of her mind, without really thinking about it.

Then, she focuses upon what he’s actually written. Oh, he’s writing about them, those characters she’s told him about, the ones he occasionally asks about. The ones he seems to search for when he flips through her own writings.

It’s a -- a -- ...

K -- 

Her mouth is dry. The chair creaks as the Ascian shifts in his seat. She can see the folds of his clothing move in the corner of her eye.

“Coin for your thoughts?”

It’s just...it’s just...

Hades is kissing Persephone on the back of her hand. That’s all. There’s nothing lewd or unsavoury or strange about this passage at all. In fact, it’s quite pretty. Prettily written...

There’s nothing wrong with it. She can see everything.

It’s just two characters interacting in a story. She can see everything...

So why does it send her head awhirl like some silly teenager? This is nothing. This is...this is just...

It’s just a story.

She just never expected -- that he would --

That he would write about...them. Much less...write them...in such a manner...she...

She’s not sure why she’s blushing. She wants to scrub the heat from her skin, but she’s frightened of drawing too much attention to her face at the same time. Oh, but that’s nothing she needs to worry about, is it? He’s already staring at her, measuring her response, and that’s also why she can’t look at him.

Arianna’s mouth opens before she can think about it. It’s as if she wants to speak. And, for some reason, she does. Just knowing this causes her cheeks to burn further as her teeth click together. Her mouth twists in something like vague indecision as she tries to piece together how to respond, how to answer him -- what she’s even responding to...

He just wants to know if she likes what he’s written. Though she can’t imagine why he would ever want her approval...

Blinking rapidly, she fumbles with the writing utensil blindly for a moment, before pulling her book toward her. She stares at the page blankly, unable to formulate a response.

It’s very pretty.

A lame, tame response to something that deserves far more. She tries to add more.

I like it. You know the characters well, I think.

It’s...it’s nothing. It’s stupid.

She pushes the book over to him anyway. His laughter has her chest tightening and her flush running deeper.

She doesn’t scream – her jaw is clenched so tight as to be painful, her teeth grinding together. She’s long taught herself to be silent, and it’s in silence that she struggles into a sitting position, bringing her blanket around herself to cover her nightgown. Green eyes slowly begin to focus on the room around her, the familiar shapes of the furniture in her Pendants room illuminated by moonlight.

Even the Ascian sitting cross-legged at her desk, one arm leaning against it to cup his own cheek as he flips through a book balanced upon his knee. Even that is familiar. She has no idea what he’s reading, but she’s inclined to think it’s one of her writings…

Arianna supposes it’s too late to be annoyed. She’s already allowed him to read occasional passages…and the implicit permission is clearly more than enough for him to go snooping through the rest of the books.

With a world-weary sigh, she draws her knees up to her chest as she leans her back against the wall. If Emet-Selch has noticed her writhing struggle to awaken, he doesn’t make a single comment, not even when he glances at her for a moment with champagne-coloured eyes.

“Ever thought of publishing these?” he asks suddenly, nodding his chin to the book in his lap.

Raising an eyebrow at the question – the mere thought making her uncomfortable – she nevertheless shakes her head.

“You should,” he responds smoothly, shutting the the book with a quiet thunk and placing it upon the desk. “And put them in order. It’d make reading this much easier than having to flip through it and look for the bits and pieces…not to mention more enjoyable.”

Now this comment catches her attention, and the woman blinks at him curiously. Perhaps a little more lucid and awake now – she cautiously reaches across the aetheric bond shared between them, the one she had asked for.

“You like them?”

His shoulders raise and lower in a shrug. “I can’t actually say, my dear.” He leans back into the chair. “They certainly have elements of interest…but when they’re so scattered around like this, and not even chronological I might add, it’s rather difficult to get a proper grip on them.”

A sincere question met by a sincere answer. Or so it seems.

At least he does not think them bad.

She recalls the passage he had written her once, and wonders what had possessed him to write such a thing. But she doesn’t ask.

“Thank you.” A belated response. She should get back to sleep. She’ll have to wake up, soon enough…too soon for her tastes. But a necessity nonetheless. She should. But.

It’s not that his presence makes her unable to sleep. In fact, she has slept in his presence before. It’s remarkably easy. But now that he’s spoken to her…

It makes her want to talk. Or listen. She cares not which. Perhaps listen this time. For a moment, she glances across the room toward her pots and drawers of herbs, before thinking better of it. Getting up now seems like too much effort.

“Tell me a story?” Her gaze catches his, and holds.

“Ah…” He smirks, as if he’d been waiting for this question. Slowly, he stands up from the desk, and approaches. She doesn’t move away as he sits upon the edge of the bed, legs crossing again as he leans back toward her, almost reclining.

This is not exactly new for her, either.

Though this time, he surprises her, snapping his fingers; in each of his hands, a single mug of steaming liquid appears. He hands her one, and she recognises the scent immediately. Valerian. She cups her palms around it and realises for the first time how cold they are.

But when she tries to slide out of bed, a loud sigh slips from the man sleeping beside her -- or so she had assumed at first. The arm wrapped around her middle pulls her back into him.

“Must you get up?” Hades asks lazily, one finger tracing idle circles on her clavicle. Arianna blinks, craning her head slightly to stare through the curtain -- sunlight just barely streaming through.

“I suppose not...” Truly, there’s nothing that needs her attention today. Nothing that she remembers, at least. And nothing really this early...

“Good.” He smirks against her neck and settles more comfortably against her. “Then stay.” His arm about her tightens.

One of her hands slowly lifts to stroke at the man’s hair; he hums like a contented cat and she has to bite her lip against the soft kiss he presses to her neck. As the comfortable haze takes over her again, she finds her eyes closing.

Sometimes, she feels like he makes her incredibly lazy...

“You look exhausted, love,” he notes as he sits next to her upon the couch. One hand gently rubs her shoulder in what’s meant to be a comforting manner; Laurelis leans into the touch with a sigh.

“I am...” she admits hesitantly, her ears flattening to her head. “It’s been...a long day...” 

“How about a bath?” her lover suggests. “I could help you -- “

She interrupts him with a shake of her head. “I think I’d rather just go to sleep today.” She gives him a weak smile. “I think I’m too tired to even eat...” Though, come to think of it, she is rather hungry...

“How about I help you get to sleep, then? I could give you a massage.” His hand gives her shoulder another reassuring squeeze, but that’s all she needs for her drowsiness to dissipate. She leans away from him, a frown twisting her features.

“I couldn’t ask you to do that for me,” she protests, shaking her head. She couldn’t possibly just ask him to do something like that for her...using up his energy and time like that when he must be tired, too --

“Nonsense!” he says easily, waving a hand as if to dispel her worries like smoke. “And you aren’t asking me, are you? I am.” Laurelis’ ears flatten to her skull as she stares up at his far too genuine smile.

“B-but, you must be tired,” she tries to dissuade him. “We could both simply go to sleep and wake up nice and refreshed!” Surely that must be a tempting proposal. To her dismay, he isn’t so easily convinced. He nudges her between her shoulder blades lightly, coaxing her to get up.

“I’ll be fine.” Grudgingly, she feels herself get pushed toward the edge of the couch. “So don’t worry. I’ll make sure you get a good night’s sleep, darling.”

Thus it was that she found herself seated on the ground in front of him, lips curving downward in irritation.

Not at him, moreso at...herself. She was frustrated at herself for her inability to even prevent him from exerting himself in such a manner. It was because she was far too tired...

“By the Fury, you’re tense,” Haurchefant mutters under his breath. “I should have suggested this long ago.”

“I wouldn’t have let you,” Laurelis retorts. She has to resist the urge to cross her arms as he begins to slowly knead at her shoulders. She’s never actually been massaged before, so feeling him pressing on her so has her leaning in that direction, thinking he’s directing her to move.

“Just relax,” the elezen urges gently. The miqo’te feels her lips purse into a pout. “You don’t have to move. Just let me...” He trails off, completely focused on his task of pressing at the angry knots in her shoulders and back.

She hates to admit that -- it really does feel rather nice. It’s a little painful occasionally when he presses hard, but when she forces herself to just sit limp, it feels as if there’s...an improvement.

At least she feels a lot better than she had when she’d first stumbled into the inn room. But still...he shouldn’t have to push himself like this...

Before she knows it, any thoughts of protesting have completely dispersed, instead replaced by a a pleasant warmth that seems to spiral  directly out from his touch. By the time he’s satisfied she’s nearly a puddle of contentment, a quiet purr sounding out at the back of her throat.