blueprints_bloodstains | Trouble never sleeps [ insomnia ]

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Trouble never sleeps [ insomnia ]

Though this entire version of the plan hinges on retrieving the Crown of Karsus, he feels as though they have nothing to lose by pursuing it. Nothing, of course, except their lives at best and their relative freedom at worst. It isn't until afterwards that the bhaalspawn lets a lick of 'what if' touch him, and even then it's muted, stuck beneath the elation of his plan proceeding the way he had intended it to. Satisfaction exists just beneath his sudden and all-consuming need for blood.

When he had taken the idea to Enver, he hadn't been sure yet of the details. He knew the location of the crown and what he planned to do with it, but assaulting an archdevil's vault had always come with the snag of how to get there.

His Banite ally had been more than connected enough to have answers, the diabolist he had in pocket arranging the portal. The remaining work had been to firm up all details and then execute, and he'd been steadfast in refusing to allow a shred of fear invade.

The agreement had been that he wouldn't slaughter and leave behind traces of their crime unless absolutely necessary. Risk to their own limb or life would have been all the permission he'd need to deviate from that agreement, and yet their journey had been remarkably smooth.

It isn't until after they have returned, Mephistopheles' vault lighter by the extraordinarily powerful artefact, and he has long left Enver in order to sate his dark urges that something strikes him as odd. As though he's run his finger over a smooth piece of wood only to find the tears in the grain. He had escorted Enver from the shadows his entire walk back from the diabolist, ensuring his safety. But once he was back within range of a mounting defence, should there be retribution, he peels away to worship Bhaal.

It's in the clarity of freshly spilled blood that he abandons his plan to leave for Moonrise Towers and instead doubles back on himself. The usual path to Enver's chamber is a well trodden one, but he purposely takes a different route as he works his way back.

He isn't stopped once, and for a moment he wonders if Enver has gone so far as to give him automatically easy access whenever he needs it. The traps aren't quite so discerning. He spots them immediately, used to them being deactivated when he's visiting with Enver, now poised to make him sorry for paying a visit at all. It all feeds into a sense of tension, one that he hadn't been able to pay enough attention to ahead of sacrificing lives to his father.

It isn't until he permits himself entry to the man's space that he's greeted with light. Enough of it to betray a very distinct lack of sleep, or attempt at it. Given the energy it had taken to find and steal the crown, he finds his concerns validated. His own semi rejuvenation, gleaned from intense worship, hasn't completely freed him from fatigue, and he can only imagine how Enver must feel

It keeps him momentarily quiet rather than allowing the name that lives on his tongue more often than not these days to slip loose, just in case, against all odds, the man has found reprieve from consciousness momentarily. He stands well out of range of the vicious traps, on the precipice of Enver's primary dominion, vision flicking around in search of the man himself.

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Almost by instinct he feels himself bending his cheek to that touch, something soft that penetrates through barbs of anxiety and pent-up energy. It radiates downward, reminds so much of his body that it is made of flesh and is not built to be load-bearing.

"Yes...no. Not quite."

It doesn't sound completely correct, and he has to ruminate for something that will.

"I was still a boy when I felt this last, and I haven't missed it."

Being certain that if he closes his eyes, pain is what is going to wake him next. Pain and then whatever is to follow, and there is not enough innocence left to shield him from the dread of knowing what all that could be.

And while it's slow to rear its head on the outside, internally it is very sudden, this feeling of desperation toward replacing that feeling with anything else. His hand covers the Dark Urge's, still turning his face into it, breathing him in, a silent signal to keep it where it is.

"I would very much like not to anymore."

"Memories like those are powerful enough to stay with us."

Some of his own childhood memories have survived despite the cult's teachings and being encouraged at every possible opportunity to forget, to embrace Bhaal's way and only that. He cannot remember the name he was given, but he does recall the smell of sweet peas in bloom every time he was caught by the other children in the neighbourhood and had his face forced into dirt. Of course that stopped the moment he overtook them in height, but the memory lives on.

He has no idea what might be in store for him in only a few short weeks, but without any ability to predict what the future might bring, all he can do is focus on this moment. One in which somebody he's come to care for deeply - more deeply than he has the emotional maturity to fully identify - needs him to try and be emotionally available in a way that helps.

"Tell me how I can aid you?"

In the hours before the dawn, when the task has been finished and there is finite time before things must begin moving again, there is a longing for rest, but something more as well. With the Plot in motion, there will suddenly be much to do, very quickly. And whatever this is? Will have to be quite lean until it is finished. Not done with altogether, but reserved.

Like many things that are not work, it's to be savored, and right now the warmth and utter comfort he feels that the Dark Urge came back, that he is here right now, that this endeavor ended with something good -- not just for his god but for himself? Is exactly what he needs right now.

"Can you stay?" the question is quiet, and he doesn't quite lift his gaze to him until it's fully said. An iquiry, but not quite a plea -- not explicitly, anyhow. "For a little while, at least?"

"I had no intention to leave until you found some rest," he shares in response, not relegating Enver to hanging on for an answer any longer than a shallow breath in. Whether that rest is long enough remains to be seen. If he had to take a guess, he would be leaning heavily towards being resoundingly unconvinced.

The request for the other man to stand doesn't come in words, instead the hand he offers, palm facing up, is meant purely to lever him out of his seat. Whether or not he feels any way at all about the fact that he has faint blood stains on the heel of his hand, he doesn't show it. He's aware that Enver's god requires other types of worship, and that the two of them would be at odds if not for the plan they have originally allied over.

No sooner does he start contemplating that does he stop, learning from the small hours after Lord Gortash's masquerade ball that these are not notions to bring into this very particular space.

"We can start by relocating you to your bed."

There is some desire to argue with that. Perhaps just some juvenile push back toward any sort of suggestion toward a command, which certainly anyone might experience. (Leave alone that he was, after all, a Baneite, and it would not have been unusual for that to feel like the most natural reaction after a decision has been made, no matter how counterproductive.) But whether because he sees logic in the suggestion, is too tired to object, or both, Gortash takes the Dark Urge's offered hand as he rises from his chair.

No mind is paid to the dried blood, save perhaps a more watchful look on the half-drow's body language. Any change in movement, even how he took his hand, that might suggest that it was his own blood.

Doubtful; he knows the man's line of work. But it doesn't hurt to turn his vigilance toward something else for a few seconds.

He needs some manner of distraction, something to hold his attention long enough to let mind realize it's just as tired as his body, and the Dark Urge fills that role admirably, already. Even just a chance for a few minutes with him that don't involve where they were earlier, or what is to be done.

But his gaze flickers from the small curtained corner where he usually rests, back out to the chamber beyond. Other than the two of them, there is no movement.

Time to dwell isn't afforded for all too long as he beelines a path directly to the corner. If it seems as though he isn't concerned about a potential irate archdevil on their doorstep, it's half because he's putting in effort for Enver's sake. He doesn't feel the fear the same way as the other man does, but he isn't a fool either. The more time that passes, the less likely it is they will be linked to the theft. And yet the possibility is never completely off the table.

For Enver, he makes sure to put his best foot forward, leading the way with confidence. And, as expected, there isn't anything lurking for them behind the curtain. He gives his partner a moment to take that in for himself before he releases the hand he's holding. Just for long enough to turn and face him, pale eyes running a quick once over. He forgets the smaller man isn't able to see the same way that he does.

Reaching for the extinguished candelabra near to Enver's bedside, he rounds the corner to light it off one of the other candles and then sets it at the end of the bed. The illumination cast doesn't light up the space completely, but it provides enough for the man to see for himself. Even if the shadows play all the more sinisterly now.

"I went to part of the city I'd never been through earlier," he says as he folds his arms over his chest, as if waiting for Enver to make a decision about getting onto the bed first, or requesting that he does instead.

"Sometimes I have a few moments, before I must act, of being able to watch people."

At first, the beginning of that story only inspires confusion. Enver turns to the bhaalspawn in the dim light, absorbing the words, the gentle tenor of his voice. The cross of his arms makes his mass seem larger, the flicker of the candles leading the shadows around them in a quiet dance to the words he is saying.

The whether the body language has the intended effect or just a coincidence will forever be debated, but Gortash does carefully settle down, at least as far as sitting, watching him, listening. Even coming here his body feels a marked difference, the mattress deep and inviting, meant for a different kind of repose than high-backed chairs.

And in this moment his eyes are still, no longer checking exits.

His intention to lead Enver's thoughts away from their recent trip was always going to need to come at the expense of something else. Talking about the plan, about work, seems counterproductive. Especially since he wants the other man to rest, not delve back into the plans he's been poring over.

Yet, unlike Enver, his whole purpose is to serve his father because that's what he was created for. He wasn't born like the other man. Wasn't given the option to make his own way without influence, thanks to his unholy blood.

And so the only way he can talk about something that isn't the plan is by confessing, again, that his thoughts do stray at times from the path set out for him, simply by way of talking about these experiences. It wouldn't be the first time he's shared something like this with Bane's Chosen, and more than once he's considered how he could have misplaced this exceedingly rare sensation of trust. But it remains, steadfast and bright in their relationship. He trusts Enver.

"I saw a child being taught how to hand stitch leather," he continues, allowing a note of relief (that Enver has sat down) to wash over him briefly. Before he goes further, he opts to drop his arms from his chest, taking up residence on the bed next to the man, thigh pressed against thigh as though a solid, warm presence might aid him too.

"I recalled that my father - my adoptive father - had taught me how to hand stitch leather, too. I do not remember his name, but I remembered that. It doesn't happen often. My life before Bhaal is... something I surrendered all too eagerly when they found me. But... I wonder sometimes if I still remember the things I was taught, if I allowed myself."

It would likely be simple enough to apply that kind of thought even deeper, though he hasn't yet reached a point where he wonders if he would remember his own name. That remains something he understands as not permitted, a line he won't approach let alone cross. For all his thoughts of what life is outside of his own experience, he remains loyal to his father - his blood - all the same.

There's a little more relaxing when the Dark Urge sits next to him, and somewhere inwardly Enver is certain he would have tried invited him to if there had been a few more seconds without. Despite the obvious irony in who they both are, there is an immediate warmth (metaphorical and actual) in the closeness and contact it creates, and it's another buttress coming unmoored.

He doesn't have much interest in reaching equally far back in his own memory -- entirely too much of that tonight already. But he did reveal some of that, in a way, so it is not lost on him that Bhaal's Chosen was doing the same: He spoke to him in his low, earthy voice of something also very old, very secret, something that very much did not have a place in his current life.

Something that in the moment brought comfort instead of strife, even if, silently between the two of them it was understood there was not a happy end attached.

Unless you looked at this moment, this place where they were.

Enver felt himself leaning into the other man's side. A hand came to rest on his knee, a quiet invitation to go on.

He didn't know if this was happy, what he felt right now, but it was the promise of something rather close.

"Would you like to try, when there is time? There will be, eventually, at least. When this is over. Time and freedom enough for nearly anything you could want."

Not quite leaning back, but reaching around enough that his arm takes up something of a supporting role behind the smaller man, he considers the question. It isn't lost on him either that there's a genuine warmth here in this moment, one that he'd be hard-pressed to explain away. Whatever choices they're making here, that he's stepping into fully aware that it isn't all that appropriate, he marches onward regardless.

He bypasses the very immediate response that he almost hears in his father's - Bhaal's - voice. Time and freedom won't be his to command. Not when he has the rest of the plan to follow through on, and if he knows his father as well as he thinks he does, he won't be swayed into letting his spawn delay for such mortal pursuits.

"I don't know."

It seems as truthful of an answer he can give Enver without feeling as though he'll lose himself completely at the prospect of what has to be done. He's run away from his guilt once already. He shouldn't be contemplating that this may be a repeat performance, simply for where it puts him in terms of feelings.

He won't lie. He won't claim to not know how Bhaal would feel about that just as much as he won't say whatever time Enver thinks they have afterwards, it's likely not anywhere near as long as either of them may be hoping for.

"I don't know if the memory is worthy enough of revisiting again."

Gortash accepts the answer with no real awareness of any deep wells standing just beneath it. For the moment, he just settles against the Dark Urge's side, lets the rumble of his voice fill his ears, and for just a moment the stillness and the silence that follows is just that: with nothing lying in wait, not the calm before a storm of motion.

"As you wish, but should you ever change your mind, the offer stands."

He has very little experience himself, save for maybe the odd patchwork and stitches on other fabrics, the sorts of things you just learn to do from a young age to keep your belongings maintained.

He'll write that down later, he thinks. It might or might not be important. But to just put it someplace, just in case. Maybe it's not worth revisiting. That's only maybe, though.

He closes his eyes, and they feel too heavy to immediately open again.

Thick fingers slide up into a head of dark hair as he gently pulls the other man's head against his shoulder. Comforting anybody else isn't something that comes naturally to him, but leatherwork isn't the only thing he's seen during his bouts of people watching. Turning his head, he presses his nose into the top of Enver's head and inhales, his own eyes closing briefly as he works hard to shove away any thoughts about the after. When the plan is done and the rule is theirs, that isn't for thinking about now.

"I hadn't expected, when we first started corresponding, that this would be within the realms of possibility."

If he sounds slightly wistful, it isn't for long. The sentence is spoken into the top of Enver's head and he falls silent again. Holds his lover - there's no other word for him in this moment - close until he recalls why he walked the man over to his bed to begin with. Only then does he gently, carefully start to extricate himself in favour of guiding the man to his pillow.

"I would be lying if I said it was expected." Given he had his own opinions about Bhaalists, but he isn't one to question when Bane has a specific direction. So when the alliance was proposed and then began, he was ready to perform however was needed.

And then all of this. It seems silly to say, even to himself, that he's grateful. One gives praise to their god, of course, but some things you accept without such open enthusiasm, lest it betray something else.

You could also be speaking too soon.

He feels a little smaller, with the arm around him, the breath in his hair, and "...Damnation, why must I be tired right now?"

It still doesn't occur to the Bhaalspawn to leave a kiss atop the other man's tresses, not even as he readies himself to stand and lay Enver down. His hands are soft and supportive as he helps the man to fold himself out onto the bed as comfortably as possible. It's a belated thought to part the man with his footwear, practicality at the forefront but, almost equally, just a small token of thoughtfulness that seems wildly inappropriate for the Chosen of Bhaal.

He does it anyway.

Undressing seems like too much movement for a man who seems to be on the cusp of slumber regardless, and he doesn't want to rouse him instead of helping him wind down. So he leaves Bane's Chosen fully dressed sans his shoes. Tugs up the corners of the sheets and blankets that are available and drapes them over his prone form.

"Sleep well, Enver."

He stays only a few moments more, enough to satisfy himself with the breathing pattern of the slumbering living - novel - before stepping away and finding himself a posting that gives him full view of the main entrance to the room. There he stays, a blade his only form of entertainment for as long as Enver needs to rest.

Whenever he wakes, it'll be to his drow half-elf guest still guarding him from a chair he's set out facing the doors.

There is nothing in the way of argument, though the act of being put to bed is...just barely short of foreign to him. He's certain at some point it must have been something he experienced as a child, but he cannot place it. It's knowledge of a thing but no clear connection to an actual experience. But it touches something oddly welcoming, even if it has been at odds with his entire existence for a very long time.

Being taken care of. Assured of safety. Those are all things you handle for yourself after a certain age, and perhaps he learned or did without much sooner than most. To the point that the body has an instinct to reject someone who tries to do it for you, perhaps even violently.

Unless they are the correct person, should that exist.

That Enver Gortash doesn't resist any step of this process, that it is the Dark Urge's hands that guide every movement, could be written off as merely tiredness. But that would be selling a number of things short. His hand still catches one of them, letting his fingertips memorize the lines and shape even as his mind slips.

He's not awake enough to listen for him once he leaves his bedside, and he's dead to the world well after sunrise. It's near to highsun when he stirs again, stretches (room enough at least for him to do that), a long breath coming in through his nose.

Then, memory. He sits up, another stretch as he levers himself to the bedside. Thinking he was left to sleep once he was finally out and stopping short on seeing that he is not, in fact, alone.

Did he remain the whole time? Leave and return? "...How long?"

The chime of the waterclock tower in the lower city catches his ears just then, and he winces.

The moments trickle by and, left to his own devices but with a task to do, not once does he allow himself to slip into a trance. It's less that he thinks anybody might hunt for them and more that he'd like to keep his word. That he wants to make sure that Enver is guarded for the entirety of his slumber and not just dropping off to sleep and then waking.

The rustle of fabric, or maybe the shift of the mattress, alerts him to the change in Enver's state. The chair he's chosen to occupy - getting up every so often only to stretch his legs - creaks as he turns to look over, icy eyes filled with amusement almost immediately as the chime speaks on his behalf.

"Welcome back," is mirthful response, his attention catching more on the shape a just woken up Enver cuts against his bedsheets than anything else. It's a pleasing sight, one that he would like to keep hold of and remember when they need to part soon enough.

"Were you here the whole time?"

From Moondark to now? He almost asks if he slept at all, but remembers before it escapes that he has no actual need for that kind of rest, the way humans do. It places him at a rather unique disadvantage between the pair of them.

He still feels the lazy need to stretch and awaken his limbs fully, but he's well-rested. Far more than he would have been otherwise -- even if he had managed to drop off the very second that the Dark Urge had arrived, he still expected to be awake at drawn and ready to get back to work.

His clothing unfurls around him as he uncovers himself, no reason to be dirty but they feel soiled just by virtue of sleeping in them, and he has already set to unlacing, considering running a bath.

Before business gets him too far ahead in his endeavors or thoughts, it catches his attention that he's being watched, and the beginnings of a smile appear. "Rather gallant, I'd argue."

"Be careful who you're calling gallant. That's an accusation some of us aren't able to live down so easily."

Not that it seems he's being all too serious about it, especially as he's yet to take his eyes off the man systematically starting to strip himself. Perhaps it speaks to how comfortable he is in the presence of this particular Bhaalspawn. Though there's a hunger in the half-elf's gaze that speaks to how appreciated it is that layers are being shed.

This moment, in actuality, feels precious already just for the fact it's the first time in recent memory that he's sat in a room with a sleeping occupant and they woke up alive and well the next morning. There isn't a trace of blood anywhere, and even though he'll soon enough need to turf himself out to return to worship, it's easy enough to keep it on a low simmer.

So he looks. Enjoys. Doesn't yet rise from the chair but does turn it, wood scraping against the floor, so he has a better view of the human and what he's up to.

"Don't let me stop you..."

"Pardon?"

He never broke eye contact, and clearly knows what he was saying. There's something coy in the question. All the same he shrugs out of his shirt and starts to carefully unfasten the metal pieces on his arms, sans the finger splints, giving the skin underneath some time to breathe, and already he feels far better.

His glance becomes appraising, for a moment lamenting the number of layers between the Dark Urge's body and open air, but pleased nonetheless with the opportunity to imagine.

Rather early to be thinking that way. Or it would be, if a tighter schedule had been kept to.

"Seems rather unfair, if you ask me."

"I don't know what you're talking about."

The words don't match up with his expression, the tug at the corners of his lips and the humour practically sparkling in his eyes reflecting his jubilance at parroting back one of Enver's own lines at him. It's meant in good faith, jest rather than anything else. He can play coy just as well now that he's had a few examples provided of how to be that.

But despite the purposeful play, he hasn't taken his eyes off Enver. There isn't a moment where he feels as though he should, the heat in his gaze almost entirely his piqued interest and arousal rather than anything more sinister. He watches the progress like an eager onlooker, his feet shifting apart only by a fraction as he gets even more comfortable. Apparently he's here for the imminent display of skin and no amount of playing coy is going to hide that.

The playful tone, the slight shift in how he is sitting: it all sends a message. The words itself were already a common signal to pursue, one Enver is more likely to employ himself, but he hears the message loud and clear. Rising from the bedside, he saunters into the main room to approach his waiting partner. Immediately, the more open space kisses him with slightly cooler, freer-flowing air.

His feet going from the silent rug to padding against the cool stone floor creates a distinct sound that immediately catches his ears. Mentally he is cataloguing where he remembers his boots are, the work of an instant he's not going to allow to become a distraction.

Apparently he's stopping at bare chest, but the way his eyes flicker, from the Dark Urge's face, to body, to hands, he might not object to an even playing field.

But the fact that he doesn't immediately speak, does not extend a hand even when in reach? Is a challenge in itself.

Now that his mind and body seem to be accepting that the danger is passed, why not celebrate?

He can't recall a time he's enjoyed watching a man cross his own domain quite this much. This is markedly Enver's space; his room, his traps, his guards, when they're permitted to enter. There hasn't ever been any question about that. But there's a thrilling excitement that works its way through him at the sight of the human approaching. There's no falter in Enver's gait as he draws closer to the Lord of Murder's favourite son, and that's arousing all on its own.

They enter a stand-off, but it doesn't last long, the lack of reaching on the other man's part not discouraging in the least. In fact, a finger is hooked unapologetically into the waistband of the smaller man's trousers, tugging him forward to stand between his legs. With eyes upturned to look at his lover, his grin melts into something altogether softer, whatever relief he's started to feel that they're past last night filters through to his expression.

He'd never told Enver that he's safe using that word specifically, but that's what his self-imposed posting in this chair had been about.

"Would you like me to take my clothes off for you, Enver?" He asks, warm finger still slotted between waistband and skin, wiggling only a little as he contemplates how much he's aching for the other man's body.

The Dark Urge initiates contact, in really such a small way, but it really is the response that Gortash was hoping for. He's drawn a few steps nearer, enough that they are not quite fully in contact with each other but enough that he's within the aura the man gives off.

There is a certain thrill, of course, that even being only half-undressed there is this contrast between the two of them. Another way in which he feels exposed, but safe, and he wouldn't feel this way for anyone else.

That it's just one finger, but it could the fullness of his hands altogether, anywhere they wished to be. Everywhere. The soft fullness of his lips pulled in a gentle smile, that he wanted to taste. A voice he ached to hear. And there is so much more, but those are the parts that aren't hidden right now.

"That and likely a good deal more."

Clearly pleased at this new turn of events - perhaps he's thinking of a phrase he's always found too hopeful but now seems apt, something about what a new day brings - the finger he has in that waistband pulls back. He's very purposeful about the way he drags it down over Enver's still clothed crotch before pulling back entirely and grabbing at the fabric of his jet black shirt.

Even at quarters this close he manages to tug the offending garment up and off him without once straying into the other man's territory. A well-practiced movement that betrays how many small spaces he's had to strip down in before. Likely experiences the Chosen of Bane doesn't want to know about, given their Bhaalist slant.

He discards the shirt somewhere to his side, the way it lands on the table more of a happy accident rather than him being particularly neat and tidy. Nothing inside of him feels neat and tidy right now, the way he feels his pulse in his throat and the way his trousers start to tighten around the crotch. The careful way he has to balance out reaching for something messy without losing control of himself, that it makes him nervous, and it's been almost exclusively in this man's presence.

Now that they're in matching stages of undress, his hands both return to Enver's waistband, fingertips brushing over his exposed belly and it's almost reverent. Almost a worship of its own kind despite the voice in his head that supplies the notion that the man's intestines are so very close.

As much as that little touch leaves his senses dancing with an intoxicating mixture of cautious want, Enver's eyes rake over the shape of the Dark Urge, every unbroken line of his chest, every scar that calls to his fingers like lines on a map, before disappearing under the hem of his trousers -- he can already see the beginnings of strain here, and it's like a siren. He feels himself wetting his lips.

"You have done me a favor."

Before this, before them, it had been a few years since anything like it. But it was never like this -- pleasant, but a tool to use when necessary. This pulls at him like gravity. It's not thinking someone attractive and the eventual climb to bliss that strikes him only well after the act is under way.

Here it is constant. Facets of it always.

He's cognizant of the fact that he can be wanted and sought; he would be a fool not to be. At least they play well at that. Here he hungers and clings to the idea that someone feels that for him, as well.

He ventures closer, near enough to kiss but just shy of it, not quite touching until just one hand ghosts against his shoulder, over his chest.

"I do mean to reward you."

Edited 2024-08-14 12:33 (UTC)

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