At some point the lounge became his lounge. It takes on the colors he tends to favor in his dress, becomes plusher, with pillows more suited to keeping him comfortable while reading and trancing. Gains a companion in the form of a low table. Books he’s shown interest in manifest on the table, along with similar tomes, rather than him having to ask for them each time. The far end grows slightly farther away, to accommodate Jester’s frequent company without leaving him cramped. All this consideration, and Essek only ever sees Caleb for the handful of minutes it takes him to exit his tower, recast it, and enter it again. Essek doesn’t know if that is a kindness or not. Because his pulse still quickens, and his stomach still knots with fear, but his heart aches for that quiet, brilliant company. -- The little orange cat visits more nights than not, patient but insistent on his attention. “Does the master of the house send you, I wonder?” Essek murmurs. The cat is curled at his hip, purring loudly. Essek strokes it behind the ears. “He sends the others to wait on me, but you don’t seem like the usual staff. And I know you aren’t Frumpkin.” No, he’d spotted Frumpkin, in his usual livery, and Essek is certain Caleb would not expend the resources necessary to change his coat with such frequency. So this is someone else. “Well, even if you are here under orders, I appreciate your company.” The cat lifts its head to stare up at him with its vibrant blue eyes. If Essek didn’t know better, he’d think there was something sad in that gaze. He wonders if he’d said something wrong, before realizing that he could hardly offend a cat, arcane manifestation or no. Still, he scratches it under the chin in what he hopes it a suitable attempt at mollification. The cat leans into his fingers for a moment, then climbs onto his chest and curls up again, purring more loudly than before. -- He might spend most of his time in the salon, on his lounge, but Caduceus has encouraged him to walk around. Exercise, to regain his strength. If that first circuit around the salon, holding Yasha’s elbow, hadn’t exhausted him, he’d have brushed the idea off as well-meaning but ludicrous. Surely walking couldn’t elude him. But Caduceus is an expert in his own field, and Essek should have known better than to disregard his advice. He can’t very well walk around outside (which is Uthodurn, apparently. They deemed it sufficiently remote and neutral for the purposes of hiding him.) so he makes due with wandering the tower. He no longer needs an escort, at least, and he takes it as an opportunity to study Caleb’s handiwork. It’s the detail that consistently impresses Essek. This is masterwork, and it never grows less careful, no matter how many times he recasts it. No matter how many times he changes it. Essek has so many questions but— A turbulent mix of emotions rears up—fear, anger, longing, sadness, worry. His grits his teeth, breathes the way Caduceus taught him. Eventually, the chaos will to turn to exhaustion and numbness. What was the other advice? Focus on his senses. Hearing for example. What can he hear, besides the pounding of his pulse? Voices. Whose voices? Beauregard’s and— And Caleb’s. Essek is on the sixth floor, the furthest he usually ventures upward. Below Veth and Caleb’s rooms. The iris is open—not unusual—but Essek doesn’t think he’s ever heard anything from that floor. Eavesdropping is rude, but it is also second nature to him. A return to one of his worse habits can probably be forgiven, under the circumstances. And Essek misses the sound of Caleb’s voice very badly. “—Fuckin’, seriously? There’s self-flagellation and then there’s whatever the fuck you’re doing.” “Beauregard.” “Don’t ‘Beauregard’ me, I’m right.” A beat of tense silence, then— “No, you think you’re right. But I’m not going to subject him to more pain because of what you think.” “The fuck? You’re acting like this is your fault or some shit.” “It’s not about fault. It’s about—” Caleb’s voice dies. Essek can picture the tense, grim expression that must come with a silence like that. “I know how he prefers to break people down. Not just pain, but lies, and—and—” There’s a soft choking sound, very like the prelude to a sob. “Essek is afraid of me. I don’t care if it looks like self-flagellation to you, if I were him I’d never want to see my face again.” “He’s not you, though. And we both know it’s not you wigging him out.” “And it doesn’t seem to make a practical difference.” “You wanna live like this forever? Never talking to him again?” “It doesn’t matter what I want, so—” Essek doesn’t hear the rest, he is already fleeing. He doesn’t know why, just that he doesn’t want to hear more of that conversation. He fairly flings the door to his own chambers open, only barely keeps himself from slamming the door behind him. Essek sinks to the floor almost immediately, resting against the door. Curls into himself, head resting on his knees. Tries not to shake. He cannot name this feeling, this yawning ache. The know that Caleb knows, to know that Caleb is trying to spare him in the ways he can, to miss Caleb bitterly, to hate that he cannot stomach what he desperate to have. To know that Caleb, too, is hurting for his hurt. It occurs to him that the last words they exchanged, if they could be called that, were Essek’s bitter attempt to fling vitriol at someone else entirely. Will that be it, then? Will that be forever how things stood between them? Essek finds he hates that thought more than almost anything else.
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timeasmymeasure
Re: Fill 6/?
Date: 2021-08-27 12:28 am (UTC)It takes on the colors he tends to favor in his dress, becomes plusher, with pillows more suited to keeping him comfortable while reading and trancing. Gains a companion in the form of a low table. Books he’s shown interest in manifest on the table, along with similar tomes, rather than him having to ask for them each time. The far end grows slightly farther away, to accommodate Jester’s frequent company without leaving him cramped.
All this consideration, and Essek only ever sees Caleb for the handful of minutes it takes him to exit his tower, recast it, and enter it again.
Essek doesn’t know if that is a kindness or not.
Because his pulse still quickens, and his stomach still knots with fear, but his heart aches for that quiet, brilliant company.
--
The little orange cat visits more nights than not, patient but insistent on his attention.
“Does the master of the house send you, I wonder?” Essek murmurs. The cat is curled at his hip, purring loudly. Essek strokes it behind the ears. “He sends the others to wait on me, but you don’t seem like the usual staff. And I know you aren’t Frumpkin.”
No, he’d spotted Frumpkin, in his usual livery, and Essek is certain Caleb would not expend the resources necessary to change his coat with such frequency. So this is someone else.
“Well, even if you are here under orders, I appreciate your company.”
The cat lifts its head to stare up at him with its vibrant blue eyes. If Essek didn’t know better, he’d think there was something sad in that gaze. He wonders if he’d said something wrong, before realizing that he could hardly offend a cat, arcane manifestation or no. Still, he scratches it under the chin in what he hopes it a suitable attempt at mollification.
The cat leans into his fingers for a moment, then climbs onto his chest and curls up again, purring more loudly than before.
--
He might spend most of his time in the salon, on his lounge, but Caduceus has encouraged him to walk around. Exercise, to regain his strength. If that first circuit around the salon, holding Yasha’s elbow, hadn’t exhausted him, he’d have brushed the idea off as well-meaning but ludicrous. Surely walking couldn’t elude him.
But Caduceus is an expert in his own field, and Essek should have known better than to disregard his advice.
He can’t very well walk around outside (which is Uthodurn, apparently. They deemed it sufficiently remote and neutral for the purposes of hiding him.) so he makes due with wandering the tower. He no longer needs an escort, at least, and he takes it as an opportunity to study Caleb’s handiwork.
It’s the detail that consistently impresses Essek. This is masterwork, and it never grows less careful, no matter how many times he recasts it. No matter how many times he changes it. Essek has so many questions but—
A turbulent mix of emotions rears up—fear, anger, longing, sadness, worry. His grits his teeth, breathes the way Caduceus taught him. Eventually, the chaos will to turn to exhaustion and numbness.
What was the other advice? Focus on his senses. Hearing for example. What can he hear, besides the pounding of his pulse?
Voices. Whose voices? Beauregard’s and—
And Caleb’s.
Essek is on the sixth floor, the furthest he usually ventures upward. Below Veth and Caleb’s rooms. The iris is open—not unusual—but Essek doesn’t think he’s ever heard anything from that floor.
Eavesdropping is rude, but it is also second nature to him. A return to one of his worse habits can probably be forgiven, under the circumstances. And Essek misses the sound of Caleb’s voice very badly.
“—Fuckin’, seriously? There’s self-flagellation and then there’s whatever the fuck you’re doing.”
“Beauregard.”
“Don’t ‘Beauregard’ me, I’m right.”
A beat of tense silence, then—
“No, you think you’re right. But I’m not going to subject him to more pain because of what you think.”
“The fuck? You’re acting like this is your fault or some shit.”
“It’s not about fault. It’s about—” Caleb’s voice dies. Essek can picture the tense, grim expression that must come with a silence like that. “I know how he prefers to break people down. Not just pain, but lies, and—and—” There’s a soft choking sound, very like the prelude to a sob. “Essek is afraid of me. I don’t care if it looks like self-flagellation to you, if I were him I’d never want to see my face again.”
“He’s not you, though. And we both know it’s not you wigging him out.”
“And it doesn’t seem to make a practical difference.”
“You wanna live like this forever? Never talking to him again?”
“It doesn’t matter what I want, so—”
Essek doesn’t hear the rest, he is already fleeing. He doesn’t know why, just that he doesn’t want to hear more of that conversation. He fairly flings the door to his own chambers open, only barely keeps himself from slamming the door behind him.
Essek sinks to the floor almost immediately, resting against the door. Curls into himself, head resting on his knees. Tries not to shake.
He cannot name this feeling, this yawning ache. The know that Caleb knows, to know that Caleb is trying to spare him in the ways he can, to miss Caleb bitterly, to hate that he cannot stomach what he desperate to have.
To know that Caleb, too, is hurting for his hurt.
It occurs to him that the last words they exchanged, if they could be called that, were Essek’s bitter attempt to fling vitriol at someone else entirely.
Will that be it, then? Will that be forever how things stood between them?
Essek finds he hates that thought more than almost anything else.