#◟༺✦༻◞ Aria of the Empyrean ┊Celestial collision.┊

[twilightichor]

Ah, how he missed his tender touch. Softness and care of the one and only that would garner warm sentiments wash over the seraph in tidal waves, brilliant glow within glacial sapphire depths twinkles with glee. Imagine how blissfully his nervous heart beats when rejection was a possibility that Dáinsleif anticipated as an alternative answer. To observe that it was no in the realm of possibilities to al-Háitham gladdens him immensely.

Now does he lean into his touch as he always wanted, to bury his face some more on the palms of his hands and allow himself to feel. To explore all manners that small touches like this does to his heart. Albescent lashes flutter close in anticipation, as soon as realization dawns on him that al-Háitham wishes to recreate their first kiss. No more worries to have, no more what ifs to consider. It's just the two of them, enjoying in full moments that spark out of bouts of sentiments that perhaps none of them expected to have for the other.

Low hums rumble within thoracic cavity as roseate lips welcome the kiss of another set of equally as soft and warm lips. The hand that initially caressed his cheek lowers to his shoulder so it may meet with his other arm to take him in his earnest embrace. Before a pregnant preoccupation lingered in the wake of their first kiss, for al-Háitham was not in the best health condition he could have. He worried he could hurt him, that he could do something wrong and undesirable.

No more.

Dáinsleif parts his lips unasked to invite the scribe's warm tongue in after learning the last time about his enjoyment for spicing up kisses with more warm intimacy like that, enjoyment that is mirrored with Twilight's own. He finds peace in the lack of self-restraint he can exercise with al-Háitham, for a while now when it was crystal clear to him that a breach betwixt them has been stitched together. Within his reserved nature they share, he noticed a genuine wish to be more sincere with him too.

Incarnadine lips byproduct of the languid kiss smile, strong arms pull al-Háitham closer as he trails a path to the pallid column of an exposed neck. He cranes his neck a tad to give him freedom to explore to his heart's content, leveraging in playful lips for each of their descent on his tender skin, basking in the soft tingles of pleasure and the pull of low hums when they reach a weak spot.

Al-Háitham's words are encouraging and comforting in equal ways, now that he holds the certainty that he has done nothing wrong that time when they first kissed and the moment had to come to a sudden halt. His heart flutters within the confines of his chest with euphoria at the notion that he, too, thought about him in this manner. Part of him believes it would be strange not to, when it was him who initiated their first intimate contact.

Punctuated shivers and warmth pooling on the spit of his stomach makes a hand to travel up to hold gently the nape of his head in warning. ❝W-wait...❞ Dáinsleif musters courage to still his beating heart and swallows, warmth spreading on moon-kissed cheeks at the thought of where their current behaviour may lead if they continue. He braves himself to look into emerald irises, then... ❝Before we proceed... I must warn you that I have never slept with a man. I only know the theory.❞ It is the most honest he can be at this moment, so no unrealistic expectations are made. ❝If this supposes any inconvenience to you and you don't wish to continue, I will understand.❞

Al-Háitham doesn't fault him for not having considered the option of seeking that kind of comfort in men. Lord Dáinsleif mindset is in tune with what is expected of him as a pure-blooded Khaenri'ahn and as per his social standing, after all. It has been characteristic of social strata of this level in more civilisation than one, including the times of the Sapphire City and the desert's glory.

The way he spoke earlier about relationships doesn't inspire distaste, either. What he had stated thus far is the conventional manners that mankind work with in order to preserve that blue bloodline. In the past, al-Háitham used to think that way too until he has come to the realisation that were he find a woman who wouldn't understand him and would still seek to bear his children, it couldn't work with females. Not that he wouldn't bed any of them, no. To this day he has sporadic relationships with both women and men alike— though he makes sure to be protected with both lest he contracts a disease, he is particularly careful with women as to not have any undesirable child.

Dáinsleif's touch makes his snap out of his reverie, makes him look at him with impassive surprise only visible to the eye through quivering vermilion-rimmed white pupils. It immediately makes him return to precious memories of the knight touching him this tenderly while they kissed, causing his cheeks to warm with renewed hope and a fluttering heart in this ribcage of his.

I think about you.

That's his answer to a question that he pondered so seriously for minutes of silence. He doesn't think about men— but about him. The realisation of what he implies makes his heart jump in his chest, emerald eyes soften knowingly. So... this is his answer. And there is no one else he would want that way that isn't him. Just him. Even after he left him in the dark back then when they stopped kissing, he still chooses him. That makes him overjoyed.

Without thinking further does al-Háitham reach out to cradle the blond's face in his hands gently before bridging the distance between them for a kiss. There is no waiting this time for him to see if he's accepted, he knows he is. That's why his eyes close to let himself feel, this time for real, without any abyssal presence to wreak havoc his feelings and magnifying them more than they were at the time. This is him in his purest essence.

He sighs in their kiss whilst he brings Dáinsleif closer to him in an open invitation to hold onto him as he pleases. The kiss is soft and telling of many feelings that can't be conveyed with accuracy through words. Is this love? No, that would be too early. Infatuation? Perhaps, that defines better the state al-Háitham is in. Except there is no idealisation of his person as it was at the time, though perhaps it never was— for the way al-Háitham thought about Dáinsleif is the way he turned out to be in reality. Curse you, abyssal presence.

The need to breathe makes them separate from the kiss, although the scribe doesn't want to stop— he doesn't need to wait to recover. He continues a trail of kisses to the corner of his mouth, cheek, jaw and further below to pepper his neck with his affections. How he wanted for this moment to come. "I've been thinking about you, too. All this time, since back then."

[twilightichor]

Paperwork is as inclement as ever, unforgiving of other obligations to be prioritized as per the Regent’s wishes. Alert and attentive of the Grand Scribe’s on the day, occupied on his office when the veil of night covers everything and the subject of his custody goes to slumber. It has been that way since it all started, thus surprise reflects in icy sapphires upon catching sight of al-Háitham sitting by the fireplace, book in hand and leg crossed over the other in a stance that denotes utmost elegance. ❝Should you not be asleep?❞ This time he returns to the Twilight Residence just a tad over midnight, symbolizing that today’s paperwork was fewer in number and in degree of concentration. Perfect to get a good night’s rest. Except the fact that concern begins to spring within his mind as the wooden door closes behind him and thus he makes a beeline to where the Sumerian scholar sits.

@samyavastha​ ✦

[twilightichor]

Tag dump #?:

◟༺✦༻◞ May your ideals prevail in ivory forever┊al Háitham → samyavastha.┊ ◟༺✦༻◞ Luminous salvation made manifest┊Dáinsleif × al Háitham.┊ ◟༺✦༻◞ Aria of the Augury ┊Emerald & silver.┊ ◟༺✦༻◞ Aria of the Augury ┊Ley Line crossroad.┊ ◟༺✦༻◞ Aria of the Augury ┊White of hope.┊ ◟༺✦༻◞ Nascent dreams of fading twilight┊Wishlist.┊

[twilightichor]

✧ Al-Haitham

          So he truly began to overthink it, Dáinsleif… His own eyes softened at the way he expressed what this would cause were they continue without giving it nary a thought. In Al-Háitham’s mind, this shouldn’t have been more than a nightstand between two men who grew close to one another in ways they should’ve never been. A moment of slip from otherwise logical minds to indulge themselves in the feelings they basked in one another’s company.

          Could he blame the Twilight Sword for feeling the way he did? No, he could never.

          Now of all times Al-Háitham understood that to Dáinsleif, intimacy was a great deal. A forbidden pact between two individuals only to be forged when certain criteria was met. What criteria could it be to the knight, he ignored. Part of him regretted being so open in a moment of vulnerability when he allowed his heart to do the talk instead of his mind as it always did. He should apologise and convince him that it’s better to forgive it if it compromised his ideals.

          Al-Háitham wasn’t necessarily selfish, but part of him wished he didn’t have to resort to this at the cost of what he would’ve preferred to do.

          His eyes opened wide in speechless surprise and shock when the blond made up his mind to what he wanted to do. To make love to him. Once again, proof of how this is no light matter to Dáinsleif. For all he minded, Dáinsleif could’ve said he wanted to have sex with him and let it at that. Al-Háitham himself would’ve considered it as much. However… how could he when this meant as much as his words and worries conveyed?

          Against all odds and own logic, this, too, meant a lot to Al-Háitham.

          After a moment of thinking his eyes softened, his thumb rubbed his cheekbones in a gentle manner. Usually it’s the Grand Scribe the one taking the lead in his swings, the one who didn’t allow otherwise because of his tendencies to have control even in these situations. But for Dáinsleif? He would let him take the reins and satisfy his heart’s desire with him as he pleased. He saved his life once, he knew he could trust him with his life again.

         “You may.”

          Never before was so hard to keep to himself in the way home as it did now, his heart throbbed with anticipation for what was bound to happen when they returned to the intimacy of the Twilight Residence. It was difficult to not hold Dáinsleif’s hand in the way back for a light warm-up, for the promise of something greater to come. But oh, he certainly did as soon as they crossed the door and it closed behind them.

          The Grand Sekretar led Dáinsleif to the room he assigned to him and pressed it against the door to close it shut, lips glueing immediately to his beautiful pink ones in a passionate kiss that he longed to have in his wildest dreams that woke him up all flustered. His warm tongue prodded for permission to trespass the barrier of his soft lip with the urge to meet the blond’s. A sigh eases in his mouth as he feels the heat growing in the pit of his stomach that he was so familiar with. His lips part agape to take air, then he cups the side of Dáinsleif’s neck with a hand whilst he pressed his forehead on the crook of the other side of his neck to breathe in his scent. “Do you mind if I start first…?”

Immense heat rushes through an otherwise cool body whole, mouth agape with utter shock at the display of strength and dominance never before directed at Dáinsleif. His presence commands authority, his might— authority that others daren’t shatter lest they face harrowing consequences. For he is an enforcer, the mightiest of them all, a one million battalion of a single soldier. Albeit unexpected, the preeminence is wholly welcomes, it ushers his blood to run south immediately with the closeness of Al-Háitham’s body pressing against his own. And those lips, his tongue— by Irminsul, not even his rare, sensual dreams could have such strong imagery.

Strong arms snake around Al-Háitham’s neck to hold him close, to hold him holy for just this one moment of passion and ardor in increase the luminary feels with every caress of their tongues, with every capture of roseate lips betwixt his. From this position, rises and falls of clenching and relaxing muscles can be felt without the need to touch, a prospect the seraph intends to explore to its fullness given the opportunity.

Muscled chest rises and falls with every ragged breath that comes in the aftermath of such passionate kiss, a hand rises to the back of the scribe’s head to hold him close. Albescent lashes flutter close to feel the strong inhale of his scent from the other’s buried nose on his neck and for a moment, Dáinsleif senses heat rushing to otherwise pale cheeks. Barely now he is getting acquainted with intricacies of intimacy, sending his heart in a beating frenzy against Al-Háitham’s chest.

❝Please.❞ To his answer, an invitation whispered close to his ear enough to graze roseate lips against sensitive skin. Dáinsleif ventures to move his hips against the Grand Sekretar, further beckoning him to do as he pleases— to teach him the ways to intimacy he won’t dare to voice once he, the inexpert one offered to indulge themselves in the lovemaking act. Thus his hands cascade their descent from strong shoulders down to muscled chest, this time making time to marvel in the beauty of a body befitting a warrior rather than a scribe. Ultimately, long fingers slip through the tight fabric of his opaque tank top to feel the heat of yearning skin first, then do his hands move up to peel Al-Háitham off this shirt that so insultingly stands in his way.

Dáinsleif fights the urge to press roseate lips in an endless trail atop fervent skin in favor to merely caress his bare skin and observe arising twitches and moments of tensions that ease into complete relaxation with every stroke of his hands, with every brush of nomad fingertips that seek to bask in what warmth this natural act arises within such attractive man that yields to his command.

[twilightichor]

Comforting silence blankets the room, brimming with liveliness now that al-Háitham is wide awake unlike the forlorn quiescence from before as shadows entered past the windows. Dáinsleif is a great enjoyer of moments like this, simply being together with someone else without disturbing one another's peace in the process. It is something that remained present despite the fact that the Twilight Residence housed one more person.

The luminary blinks, astral pupils follow al-Háitham's hand motion as he fights once again the urge to lean into his touch. He feels flattered for being treated so gently like this, giving importance to parts of him that not necessarily correspond to the figure of the Twilight Sword or the Bough Keeper. It seems that the scholar wants to break the silence and his voice was caught on his throat, or perhaps he pities to disturb the quiescence after a moment's comfort, Dáinsleif ignores.

Whatever the case may be, he makes no opposition to being brought closer. He thinks nothing of it, truly, thinking that al-Háitham will tell him something once he is close enough to hear his murmur. He would just have to turn his head a bit if need be, except that will never happen. Glacial sapphires widen as soon as realization dawns on him of what the Sumerian scholar intended to do, causing his heart to skip a beat or two.

Never in his life Dáinsleif thought ever once about dating a man. It is not necessarily byproduct of an inclination that he doesn't have, which he doesn't. Despite his lack of memories from the times before he came to Khaenri'ah, it would seem that it was in his blood to think this way. That sooner or later, he would marry a fine woman that he would have children with. As a pure blood Khaenri'ahn, he knows that is what people would have wanted of him, being as little that could be regarded as original founders of this kingdom as per mankind's origins at the time.

But truth to be said... that plan was never a reason for excitement in the slightest. Not for now, at least.

He has tried in the past to date a couple of women, mostly as per the Regent's insistence that he builds a personal life that he lacks, separated from the matters of the kingdoms. At this point of time, Khaenri'ah is well-established with almost no inconveniences that cannot be solved by other capable men too. So Dáinsleif tried, but it never worked. It was no different than adding a weight to his shoulders that he didn't know would be as heavy, the pressure he was subjected to. After the first woman he dated, he learned about the weight of social expectations and betrayal. Perhaps a strong word to use, albeit it encompasses well what happened. For what she wanted was naught but to boast to people about her increased status for being courted by the Twilight Sword. The second lady he dated was more modest, there was nothing bad he could say about her, truly. But it did not work well— even she could tell as much, that he was not ready for this.

Reason why he isolated himself from that life. Now, he notices, how much he truly wants to be touched tenderly. To be treated in a way he is more used to give than to receive. Strangeness still settles in at the prospect of a man kissing him, having always thought of his future life by a lady's side— but it is not bad. A spark of fear strikes him, nonetheless. What will people think about this, should they find out? As soon as that line of thought came, it goes away. Who cares? Nobody truly knows in full about his personal life, nor is he the kind to share much about him to begin with.

Besides, he... he likes it. He likes this. Perhaps the fact that it's with al-Háitham makes it better to him in ways he cannot describe.

Past the original shock, Dáinsleif's eyes soften for a moment until albescent lashes flutter to a close. He isn't stranger to the act of kissing someone, but he isn't entirely an expert either to take the lead. That is why he lets al-Háitham take the lead for him to follow, he is a good learner. In due time he will learn about the silver-haired's kissing pattern and he will be able to take the reins. Not now, however.

Moon-kissed skin turns into a brighter shade of pink the deeper the kiss goes, now past the phase of a simple press of lips to a slow waltz. The seraph gets closer, arm resting on the side of al-Háitham's head on the pillow to support his weight without inconveniencing him with it— he's still vulnerable and afflicted, he reminds himself. The other hand moves to cradle the side of his face, to return the man's affection, to make him forget even if just for once about the horrors he must've dreamed about in his slumber until he must go to rest again.

Roseate lips part to mold to perfection to al-Háitham's, welcoming his lips with his own and holding them betwixt his own until they slip away, only to repeat from a different angle. There is an unknown factor about kissing him that makes Dáinsleif like it more, to feel more at ease and comfortable. Not that he dislikes kissing, mind you. He finds the action tender and loving and he would do it for hours if the proper circumstances meet. Perhaps it is the fact that all the weight he felt with his past lovers is inexistent with him, that there is no expectations to be had for him. Perhaps it is the bond they have established since the beginning, with its ups and downs.

A particular opening is taken to the scibe's advantage that has Dáinsleif releasing a small yet involuntary moan inside his mouth and opening his eyes to peek into emerald ones, hoping it was not too loud or lame, that he forgives his lack of habit in matters like these, pleasant as they are.

Human quality knows not of believers or not, of celestial beings or otherwise. What wise words to share from someone who is such a prominent figure in a nation where lacking faith matters so. Al-Háitham wonders: where does the title Twilight Sword come from? The second half can only mean that he is adept to the art of swordmanship— as he is. But the first? What meaning has twilight exactly in a kingdom that lacks natural sunlight?

Perhaps that is what makes it so meaningful to call him twilight. It is the dying light of day to give room to the blanket of night and stars, as it is also the herald of daylight as the first drops of sunlight come. His position in the military could imply that he is the former, that he is so capable of even silencing the light— or maybe he is meant to be light in a lightless realm in the darkest corner of this world. To al-Háitham, he would be the latter. This power of his that he has never seen before, not even gods... it resembles to the blue hour, the moment when there is still no daylight, yet there is not complete darkness either. It is as magical as it is described, healing and invigorating.

Al-Háitham appreciates the closeness to lord Dáinsleif now that he is set on the bedside instead of the chair, it helps alleviate the stupid strain on his arm, not as intense as it earlier was. It does not escape his perception that the blond doesn't resist his tender touch, he doesn't pull away. The increasing warmth of his cheek makes him keep his hand there, caressing the delicate skin of his under eye in silence.

Vultur Volans isn't stranger to intimacy, albeit he seldom indulges in emotional intimacy like he does with Dáinsleif in this moment. To him, the most recurrent form of intimacy is sporadic sex with people he will never see again, raw and wild to release some built-up stress. Celestial creatures aren't exempt from primal urges as humans are, after all. For a moment, he wonders: What is so special about Dáinsleif that makes his behaviour change so?

The first option that comes to mind is the emotional link they have established in so little time. Knowing that his safety matters greatly and taking it upon himself to do everything in his hand to recover his health as if it's his fault was eye-opener. Alongside the revelations of awareness about his person, and everything he could've done with that information and he did not. The second option is confidence. Even if they did not start with the best footing in that department, it was not without all sorts of reasons that have been laid bare in their past conversation. If there was any existing rift between them, now there must be none. Emotional connection and trust are two factors that he hardly had in his life, Greater Lord Rhukkadevata being the only one alive to count. Now... it is Dáinsleif, too.

Somewhere in the back of his mind a voice warns him that it's too early to feel so attached to someone. He ignores it.

Slender fingers move to push a few starlit strands behind his ear, emerald eyes can't help the temptation to fall on the man's plush-looking lips and then back at him. What is this strong urge to press his lips on the other's and feel their warmth and softness? Is he to mesmerised by a newfound realisation of beauty standing before him, or something different altogether? His eyes soften, feeling the warmth of his chest growing more at that thought that should remain fantasy.

His hand seems to digress in the way it absentmindedly sprawls to touch Dáinsleif's slender neck to the back of his head, where he applies a bit of pressure for him to lower down— down and closer to him until he's within the range for al-Háitham to close the bridge of air between them by kissing his lips, slow and sweet. Nothing like he had ever done in the past. A simple slide of his lips to measure their warmth, the hairs that stand at the beautiful sensation it transmits to him. His eyes remain half-lidded, observers of any sign Dáinsleif may show of discomfort for him to cease. Truth is, he doesn't want to stop yet. If this is what heaven tastes like, al-Háitham wants to get acquainted with it until he engraves it in the recesses of his mind.

[twilightichor]

✧ Al-Haitham

          “You too?” Blame his lack of sleep and the utter relaxation and calmness that the chamomile tea made him feel for his immediate answer. Under normal circumstances he would’ve paid special attention to lord Dáinsleif’s words and no more, opting for not being vocal on the matter lest the other was willing to elaborate. Truth to be said, he was in a state which he was no longer repressing himself understandable from people who should go to bed soon.

          Hopefully he won’t regret this the following day.

          Al-Háitham took another sip of the tea and before he knew it, the cup’s contents were long gone. He, too, was lost in his own thoughts. As much as his brain was able to cooperate with him.

          From tomorrow onwards, he should resume his activities for the sake of the Akademiya back in Sumeru. For that purpose, the Scribe was going to require Dáinsleif’s help to gather data. Be it by his own word or a library, both would work. Perhaps he should suggest to pay it a visit and see the books it contained, then decide what would be more interesting to offer as knowledge of this godless nation to the public display through the Akasha Terminal.

          Before long his thought process stopped making sense the moment his mind returned to what the captain of the Black Serpent Knights said earlier. For better or for worse, nevertheless, his mouth acted sooner than his self-restraint. An obvious tell-tale that he should call it a night soon. “What else could possibly be the Twilight Sword than what he revealed to be?”

Dáinsleif snaps out of his reverie at the sound of the Sumerian scholar’s voice, leaving all train of thoughts he had behind as icy sapphires focus anew on emerald-vermillion eyes. A brow rises out of an ephemeral curiosity soon to fade as soon as realization dawns on the abandoned seraph’s mind, reminiscence traces coming back to him and his musings that al-Háitham is not the only one in this house that lets on less than what he truly is. Thus albescent lashes flutter to a brief close as the occupied hand nears the tea cup to drink the last of its contents before it is put on its plate awaiting on the table.

❝No question privileges.❞ Whatever courtesy the Twilight Sword would’ve extended earlier should the Grand Sekretar of Sumeru be at least sincere with him is gone at the moment. Perhaps it should stay that way completely until al-Háitham’s departure. Nevertheless, such is Dáinsleif’s kindness that he would be willing to give him another chance. So long as the silver haired is willing to make amends. ❝Consider it a token for your dishonesty. Rectify your approach to me for the remainder of your days in Khaenri’ah and I may concede you an answer.❞

Dáinsleif stands up and moves to pick up the suitcase that the Sumerian retrieved from his hotel room en their route to his mansion, cyan irises seek the man for a fraction thereafter. ❝It is late, you ought to rest if you’re feeling better. Let me show you your room.❞ Any other topics of conversation al-Háitham may have, it’d do him a disservice to continue talking when it is crystal clear that he needs rest. The slip of his speech care shows as much despite how little the Bough Keeper has seen of him so far.

Quiescence fills the ambiance as the oracle-priest guides the Scribe upstairs, silence to be shattered the moment Dáinsleif opens the door to what would become al-Háitham’s room for the night. ❝This is your room. Do make yourself feel at home.❞ Mindful to not potentially break anything that may be in the suitcase, the blond nobleman lowers the suitcase carefully onto the floor by the wall. Then, he turns on his heels and casts his eyes briefly onto the silver haired for him to follow his gaze. ❝At the far end of this corridor is where my chambers are.❞ A gloved hand rises to touch his left breast in an act that denotes courtesy as he turns fully to meet his eyes anew. ❝I hope you’ll find the rest you need. Good night.❞