[Sorrel smiled in the lee of Adasse's kiss, protest about his appearance dying on his lips when he continues int he vein of Love At first Sight. It was silly; he remembered it clearly, the little room in the Gallows, and Adasse promising to help him shower gifts over Sina's sickbed, if it would please her. The memory sobers him and Sorrel busies himself for a moment with hanging his robe up, putting aside the daytime and preparing for the night's rest.
When Adasse sighs he looks up, jolted out of mindless reverie.]
I think we've both had enough of the Beyond for a little while.
[The Fade lingers. It is, after all, the one thing it does best, in a way the dreams that take place within it do not. Memory fades, and history shifts, people grow old, grow out, and die. But the Fade lingers, green ink under newer additions. Sorrel takes Adasse by the hands and gently pulls him towards the bed.
It's with painful tenderness that he pushes his lover down into the straw-stuffed cushion, the stolen woolen blankets and gifted quilts, pieced together from their previous lives as threadbare curtains, old shirts, and scraps. Gently does he settle Adasse in, smoothing back his hands along rumpled hairlines, unhurried and reverent. When Adasse is in comfort, arranged to Sorrel's liking, he creaks back onto his feet, puts out the light, and pats Coco's soft, pink head. Sorrel walks back in the dark, on silent feet, and slides into bed so that the weight of him is pillowed across Adasse's chest, arms tucked into the warmth behind his shoulders, and draws the blankets over them, and the furs. He promises himself, not for the first time, that he will get more fur for Adasse's bed if he has to go hunting with his own hands; the winter is bitter in Kirkwall, and there has been enough cold in his life already.]
Oh, Creators, it feels so, so good, just to lie down.
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When Adasse sighs he looks up, jolted out of mindless reverie.]
I think we've both had enough of the Beyond for a little while.
[The Fade lingers. It is, after all, the one thing it does best, in a way the dreams that take place within it do not. Memory fades, and history shifts, people grow old, grow out, and die. But the Fade lingers, green ink under newer additions. Sorrel takes Adasse by the hands and gently pulls him towards the bed.
It's with painful tenderness that he pushes his lover down into the straw-stuffed cushion, the stolen woolen blankets and gifted quilts, pieced together from their previous lives as threadbare curtains, old shirts, and scraps. Gently does he settle Adasse in, smoothing back his hands along rumpled hairlines, unhurried and reverent. When Adasse is in comfort, arranged to Sorrel's liking, he creaks back onto his feet, puts out the light, and pats Coco's soft, pink head. Sorrel walks back in the dark, on silent feet, and slides into bed so that the weight of him is pillowed across Adasse's chest, arms tucked into the warmth behind his shoulders, and draws the blankets over them, and the furs. He promises himself, not for the first time, that he will get more fur for Adasse's bed if he has to go hunting with his own hands; the winter is bitter in Kirkwall, and there has been enough cold in his life already.]
Oh, Creators, it feels so, so good, just to lie down.