[ Time, the root of every historian’s bane and pride, marches on around him, though he is not a part of it. Cloistered within his scholar's world, he does not notice the gentle shift of lights or the dying of distant sounds as the morning eclipses the night. Every so often, between a sentence or page where he must take pause to let ink dry, he'll lift his head, distantly aware of the ache building in muscles held tense throughout his work.
Such is the moment when Kanda returns to their room; he's aware, at least on a basic animal level, that he is no longer alone. There's a brief glance that follows, a quick scan of the room and its contents to confirm that nothing has drastically changed since the nebulous time between Yu's departure and arrival. Satisfied that he need not rejoin the stream of time just yet, he resumes his work, ink stains limning against pale knuckles but miraculously never marking upon paper.
As such, Lavi does not know how long it's been since he last lifted his head and now, though the ache that was once dull and easily ignored flares sharp in his joints. Though the bookman may leave time for a spell, it does not truly leave him, and his devotion is met with punishing tension throughout. There's a mug near him, a new artifact on the landscape of the desk, and he smiles upon seeing its accompaniment, a tightly wrapped bit of bread and--since this is a Company facility and not Old Town proper, he reminds himself--likely real protein.
Stretching his shoulders and rolling his tortured neck, he decides, albeit with some reluctance, that he's done his duty for the night. Observation without rest or food is a common problem in these situations, but that's as much because of his channeled focus as it is because of the environment. But this is no war zone, there is no need to burn the midnight oil within himself. Not yet, at least. When the next day arrives and the summit begins proper, he'll likely have even less hours in the night to complete his work.
The tea is room temperature when it touches his lips, though it's not quite cold yet. It's likely only been half an hour or so since it was set beside him, although the insulation of the cup makes that a hazarded guess at best. Twisting (and wincing, the whisper of flesh pulling against medical thread sharp against the dull ache of stiff muscles), he turns to offer his thanks to Yu.
But it seems he's the only creature still conscious in this room. His smile warms momentarily--he's glad Yu has managed to sleep on his own, even if exhaustion surely drove it--but ah..
So recently reunited with his physical being, it takes a moment for the full implications of the picture to register within him, mind shifting from sleepily grateful to acutely aware. It's hardly the first time he's seen Yu without a shirt, but everything about the man has become a source of distraction in more recent times, and the sight of pale flesh marked with intricate black is.. decidedly harder to ignore than it once was.
He stares for just a moment, tea gripped with a hand already tired from writing instruments. Tracing the hollows of collarbone to the smooth stone of chest with his sight, he follows the lines of muscle until they converge and hollow again at the precipice of sleepwear.
Trees he has to get this under control. It would be one thing if he were merely observing, as he once did, at the aesthetics of his partner, but he's not just looking as an impartial party. If he were, he wouldn't feel his stomach tightening and the slide of fire down his spine, through his chest and lower still.
Wouldn't imagine himself tasting and touching every inch of exposed and hidden skin.
Cursing softly, Lavi reconsiders his earlier decision to cease work, yearning for the safety of a world of data and empirical observations. But it's useless; even as he turns his head down and tries to throw himself back into those pages, he's powerless to stop himself from studying his peripheral and delving right back into very bad, terrible, absolutely enticing images.
He draws a breath, holds it, counting off in his head before release, taming the quickened beat of his heart. He's no hope of finishing his work or sleeping, he thinks, if he can't get himself under control. At the very least, he should get Yu a blanket, serving the dual purposes of preventing illness (a touch of folk medicine that persists; those who sleep cold will expose themselves to weakness) and giving his mind less ammunition for exceedingly detailed dreams.
Resolved to this end, Lavi pushes out of the chair, carefully extending muscle groups one at a time until he feels some measure of his coordination return. Downing the tea in one fell swoop, he turns to the nearest bed and pulls its top comforter off before padding to Yu's side.
(At first he's mindful to keep his lashes down, but when that provides a wider lens of viewing, he directs his sight to the wall ahead, carefully navigating around tables without actually looking at them.)
It takes some effort--effort he scarcely has the energy to expend--to layer the blanket over Yu without further stares, but he's dutiful in this, and once he's arranged it so that it provides both ample cover and shielding from cold or vision, he hovers in momentary triumph. Momentary in that he notices the towel, and with his own neck protesting a fixed position, he's sure that leaving it there will result in an exceedingly grumpier Yu by morning's time.
Frowning, he swallows his breath and leans down, one hand slipping behind Yu's neck to provide support where the towel currently resides and the other grabbing the cloth by the tail end to begin very carefully sliding it away. If he'd thought it was difficult to focus before this, he's given a new lesson in what precisely difficult means as this action brings him within breathing distance to the lips he's already thought far too much about.
no subject
Such is the moment when Kanda returns to their room; he's aware, at least on a basic animal level, that he is no longer alone. There's a brief glance that follows, a quick scan of the room and its contents to confirm that nothing has drastically changed since the nebulous time between Yu's departure and arrival. Satisfied that he need not rejoin the stream of time just yet, he resumes his work, ink stains limning against pale knuckles but miraculously never marking upon paper.
As such, Lavi does not know how long it's been since he last lifted his head and now, though the ache that was once dull and easily ignored flares sharp in his joints. Though the bookman may leave time for a spell, it does not truly leave him, and his devotion is met with punishing tension throughout. There's a mug near him, a new artifact on the landscape of the desk, and he smiles upon seeing its accompaniment, a tightly wrapped bit of bread and--since this is a Company facility and not Old Town proper, he reminds himself--likely real protein.
Stretching his shoulders and rolling his tortured neck, he decides, albeit with some reluctance, that he's done his duty for the night. Observation without rest or food is a common problem in these situations, but that's as much because of his channeled focus as it is because of the environment. But this is no war zone, there is no need to burn the midnight oil within himself. Not yet, at least. When the next day arrives and the summit begins proper, he'll likely have even less hours in the night to complete his work.
The tea is room temperature when it touches his lips, though it's not quite cold yet. It's likely only been half an hour or so since it was set beside him, although the insulation of the cup makes that a hazarded guess at best. Twisting (and wincing, the whisper of flesh pulling against medical thread sharp against the dull ache of stiff muscles), he turns to offer his thanks to Yu.
But it seems he's the only creature still conscious in this room. His smile warms momentarily--he's glad Yu has managed to sleep on his own, even if exhaustion surely drove it--but ah..
So recently reunited with his physical being, it takes a moment for the full implications of the picture to register within him, mind shifting from sleepily grateful to acutely aware. It's hardly the first time he's seen Yu without a shirt, but everything about the man has become a source of distraction in more recent times, and the sight of pale flesh marked with intricate black is.. decidedly harder to ignore than it once was.
He stares for just a moment, tea gripped with a hand already tired from writing instruments. Tracing the hollows of collarbone to the smooth stone of chest with his sight, he follows the lines of muscle until they converge and hollow again at the precipice of sleepwear.
Trees he has to get this under control. It would be one thing if he were merely observing, as he once did, at the aesthetics of his partner, but he's not just looking as an impartial party. If he were, he wouldn't feel his stomach tightening and the slide of fire down his spine, through his chest and lower still.
Wouldn't imagine himself tasting and touching every inch of exposed and hidden skin.
Cursing softly, Lavi reconsiders his earlier decision to cease work, yearning for the safety of a world of data and empirical observations. But it's useless; even as he turns his head down and tries to throw himself back into those pages, he's powerless to stop himself from studying his peripheral and delving right back into very bad, terrible, absolutely enticing images.
He draws a breath, holds it, counting off in his head before release, taming the quickened beat of his heart. He's no hope of finishing his work or sleeping, he thinks, if he can't get himself under control. At the very least, he should get Yu a blanket, serving the dual purposes of preventing illness (a touch of folk medicine that persists; those who sleep cold will expose themselves to weakness) and giving his mind less ammunition for exceedingly detailed dreams.
Resolved to this end, Lavi pushes out of the chair, carefully extending muscle groups one at a time until he feels some measure of his coordination return. Downing the tea in one fell swoop, he turns to the nearest bed and pulls its top comforter off before padding to Yu's side.
(At first he's mindful to keep his lashes down, but when that provides a wider lens of viewing, he directs his sight to the wall ahead, carefully navigating around tables without actually looking at them.)
It takes some effort--effort he scarcely has the energy to expend--to layer the blanket over Yu without further stares, but he's dutiful in this, and once he's arranged it so that it provides both ample cover and shielding from cold or vision, he hovers in momentary triumph. Momentary in that he notices the towel, and with his own neck protesting a fixed position, he's sure that leaving it there will result in an exceedingly grumpier Yu by morning's time.
Frowning, he swallows his breath and leans down, one hand slipping behind Yu's neck to provide support where the towel currently resides and the other grabbing the cloth by the tail end to begin very carefully sliding it away. If he'd thought it was difficult to focus before this, he's given a new lesson in what precisely difficult means as this action brings him within breathing distance to the lips he's already thought far too much about.
pleasedon'twakeuppleasedon'twakeup ]