#*points at bryok and myrr* LUV THESE BOIS

[legendary-assassin-stance]

With a bang, the door to Bryok’s office slammed open and Myrr strode into the room -- an irritated snarl was on his lips, but whatever he was going to shout died in his throat once his brain caught up with what he was seeing in front of him -- he stopped in his tracks, staring at the necromancer, who was lying forward on his desk, one arm pillowing his head while his other hand swirled a crystalline glass lazily.

The vividly green contents of the glass, along with the half-empty bottle resting next to Bryok, immediately clicked in Myrr’s mind. ‘Absinthe?’ he mused, followed up by, ‘Has he really drank the whole half of that bottle already?’ It had only been two hours or so since Myrr had last seen Bryok around the camp, and that did not bode well for the necromancer’s state of sobriety.

The sniper hesitantly moved forward, his actions slow and telegraphed; the fact that Bryok hadn’t even lifted his head to see who was breaking his door down (despite the fact that, honestly, only Myrr ever did) was concerning in itself, though Myrr was quick to smother that emotion. “Bryok?” Myrr questioned, keeping his volume neutrally low.

“Mmm…”

Myrr scowled slightly at the noncommittal noise he received, moving to splay his hands out on the desk. Leaning forward slightly, the sniper growled, “Bryok.”

“Mmmmh, yea?” The other still hadn’t raised his head up to meet Myrr’s gaze, but at this point the sniper would take slightly-slurred, but coherent, words over eye contact. The tip of Bryok’s ear twitched when Myrr’s nails curled against the desk, the sharpened tips carving small rivulets into the wood, and the necromancer finally raised his head up, dilated golden eyes barely able to focus on the sniper’s face.

“How much have you drank so far?”

“Jussst this, ‘n uhh… maybe a bit ‘f Orrian wine Cerise had.”

“You mean the ancient wine I brought back from my Orr mission?”

“Eh--” Bryok’s gaze slipped from Myrr’s face, and instead rested somewhere to the sniper’s right. “S’not like she was drinkin’ it.”

“That’s--” Myrr blustered out an irate noise; if his nails weren’t already digging into the desk, they would’ve been by that point. His lips pulled back to show his fangs, and that seemed to snap Bryok’s attention back onto his face, at least for the time being. “Do you know how strong that wine was?”

“M’still conscious, ain’t I?”

“That’s not the fucking point!”

The necromancer flinched slightly at the snarled words, and Myrr’s volume settled back into a low growl. “Cerise had wanted to meet with you, but that’s obviously not going to happen right now,” he snapped, pushing himself back into a proper standing posture so he could stride around the desk. Bryok’s gaze followed him as he moved, expression slightly wary because of how angry the sniper seemed to be, but he didn’t attempt to move away either.

“Up you get,” Myrr huffed, coming to a stop a foot away from Bryok’s chair; he gave the necromancer a minute to process that command, and when it seemed apparent that Bryok was not going to respond -- probably not for lack-of-trying, considering just how much alcohol he’d consumed in such a small amount of time -- Myrr exhaled slowly and leaned forward to wrap his fingers around the upper part of Bryok’s arm, hauling the other out of his seat while ignoring the indignant squawk he got in response. “I said, up you fuckin’ get.”

“‘ey, ‘ey! I can walk on m’own, y’know!” Bryok yelped, his tone of voice a whine that definitely wouldn’t have made itself apparent if he’d been in any state to stay upright and not topple over immediately, talons scrabbling slightly on the wooden floor as he regained his footing.

“I’m not about to let you bash your head in on your desk and die, so Cerise can blame me for it.” Myrr gave Bryok no chance to respond to that, nor any to prepare as the sniper dipped down slightly to scoop the necromancer into his arms in a bridal-style carry. Ignoring the continued squawks and halfhearted arguments that Bryok gave him, Myrr slipped around the desk and made his way towards the other’s connecting bedroom door.

Nudging that door open with his foot once he reached it, the sniper barely glanced around the room before making a beeline towards the bed that occupied the far corner. With very little fanfare, Myrr dropped the necromancer onto the bed with a growl. “Sleep it off, you stupid asshole. I’ll let Cerise know that she’ll have to reschedule whatever the fuck she wanted to talk to you about.”

Not waiting for a response, Myrr turned away from the bed, but paused at a particularly pathetic whine from the other behind him. “Myrr--”

“What?” Myrr growled, his irritation having already peaked at both being reduced to a messenger for Cerise, and having to babysit her drunken second-in-command. The sniper’s posture tensed when he felt a taloned hand brush against his wrist. He turned just enough to look over his shoulder at Bryok, freezing at the wide-eyed, inquisitive look that he was given.

“Stay?”

Bryok’s tone was a hair shy of pleading, and that was more than enough to cause the sniper’s breath to hitch slightly -- though he quickly hid that with a sharp, grumpy-sounding exhale of breath. “Fine, I guess. Cerise isn’t going to be happy.”

“Cerise can wait.” Bryok reached out to fully grasp the sniper’s wrist this time, giving him an impatient, but weak, tug back towards the bed. Myrr allowed himself to be manhandled just enough to walk back the two paces he needed to sit down on the edge of the mattress, scowling when Bryok instantly repositioned himself to curl around his waist not unlike a cat would.

The necromancer huffed, burying his face against Myrr’s thigh, and it slowly creeped into Myrr’s conscious just how inebriated Bryok was at that moment in time, despite his speech being relatively normal. “You do realize how easily I could… literally kill you while you’re like this, right? You definitely aren’t in any state to fight back.”

A slow, rumbling hum vibrated in Bryok’s chest as he nuzzled against the sniper’s leg, a lazy sleepiness to his motions now that he was laid out in an actual bed. “You won’t though.” His voice was muffled against Myrr’s skin, and Myrr shuddered slightly at the feeling of the necromancer’s breath ghosting across his leg. “You aren’t that kind of person.”

A lump settled itself in Myrr’s throat at those words, and he didn’t respond as Bryok’s breathing slowly evened itself out into a sleeping rhythm. Myrr sat there quietly, staring at the mess of feathers Bryok’s hair had descended into as the muted sounds of the necromancer’s exhaling filled the otherwise-silent room.

‘You aren’t that kind of person.’

Bryok believed that so completely that he felt comfortable allowing Myrr to be around when he was fully vulnerable... but could Myrr really believe that of himself?