[ how funny that he should think that, that each little sign and symbol of his cyclical ruts would never show up outside of bounds of expectation. was it not already obvious that the fatui had no issue sinking to exciting new lows? was it not obvious already that kaeya was the only one that he could stand? in all the time he spent back in mond, kaeya was the only one who could bring him back to the fold. he knew better than anyone who it was that sent kaeya stringing along in the days up to his ruts. he'd known better than anyone, that no one else would dare (could dare) to come close when he found himself in the highlands - covered to the wrists in oil and ichor, singed and sunburnt.
it'd been miserable, with or without him. no matter how far he would roam, the knifepoint of his accursed hormones would wedge into the marrow. it would seize him by the throat, make nuisance of itself in the days and weeks up to. nothing could soothe him. nothing could quiet him. nothing. no herbs or salves or tinctures. no potions, made with the newest ingredients or the newest ideas behind them. and so: what fools would those self-named fools be, if not wield the known against him? what a fool kaeya must be too, to think he doesn't already know. ]
'm in bed, [ diluc tells him. slurs, more so. affront cuts through the fever bright of his expression, the dark of his eyes narrowed against the separation kaeya has stupidly carved. like this, he looks every bit an animal. matted lashes and matted curls, the flush on his skin is high and fresh as blood. beneath kaeya's hand, there is no thought of whether it burns. instead, it is instinct that drives the want to press into his palm. to turn his head and nuzzle up against it, only stoppered by the threads of something more coherent underneath it all. barely, that is. he still blinks and leans in, the process both noticeable and unbearably slow. ] Told you to shut up.
[ he did, didn't he? he tries for it again, but his tongue feels weighted in his mouth. he feels as though a bruise, the darkened skins of stone fruits punctured through. he breathes, lips parted. he hooks the rough crescent of his nails against kaeya's shoulder, bites their edges all along the linen that barely covers it. in his head, he thinks he makes a compelling argument to lie back down and stop asking him pointless questions. he thinks maybe he is seventeen years old, a handful of weeks before everything was upended. he thinks maybe they are in the barracks. he thinks maybe that kaeya's hair is warm and rain-damp. he thinks, without thinking at all. all the little ruinous pieces of himself, shaken out across their makeshift bedclothes. what a bother. ]
no subject
it'd been miserable, with or without him. no matter how far he would roam, the knifepoint of his accursed hormones would wedge into the marrow. it would seize him by the throat, make nuisance of itself in the days and weeks up to. nothing could soothe him. nothing could quiet him. nothing. no herbs or salves or tinctures. no potions, made with the newest ingredients or the newest ideas behind them. and so: what fools would those self-named fools be, if not wield the known against him? what a fool kaeya must be too, to think he doesn't already know. ]
'm in bed, [ diluc tells him. slurs, more so. affront cuts through the fever bright of his expression, the dark of his eyes narrowed against the separation kaeya has stupidly carved. like this, he looks every bit an animal. matted lashes and matted curls, the flush on his skin is high and fresh as blood. beneath kaeya's hand, there is no thought of whether it burns. instead, it is instinct that drives the want to press into his palm. to turn his head and nuzzle up against it, only stoppered by the threads of something more coherent underneath it all. barely, that is. he still blinks and leans in, the process both noticeable and unbearably slow. ] Told you to shut up.
[ he did, didn't he? he tries for it again, but his tongue feels weighted in his mouth. he feels as though a bruise, the darkened skins of stone fruits punctured through. he breathes, lips parted. he hooks the rough crescent of his nails against kaeya's shoulder, bites their edges all along the linen that barely covers it. in his head, he thinks he makes a compelling argument to lie back down and stop asking him pointless questions. he thinks maybe he is seventeen years old, a handful of weeks before everything was upended. he thinks maybe they are in the barracks. he thinks maybe that kaeya's hair is warm and rain-damp. he thinks, without thinking at all. all the little ruinous pieces of himself, shaken out across their makeshift bedclothes. what a bother. ]