Show A Little Skin Meme: send a symbol for my Muse’s reaction to yours…
Cyril hates when Tyki comes home drunk out of his mind.
Sadly for him, it happens far more often than it should for any brother of a public figure. It began as something that just happened every so often after they’d awakened as Noah and while Cyril hadn’t been pleased then either, he understood. Life was very different with the Millennium Earl for them and not just as far as their external lifestyle was concerned. Everything had changed— right down to their own souls. It was understandable that Tyki had far more appreciation for drink than he had before. It wasn’t just a coping mechanism; it was in his nature to overindulge now.
After some time, it became habitual though and Cyril wondered if he’d done wrong by his brother by not attempting to discipline him on the matter sooner. Even now, he thinks about how difficult it was — and still is — for him to really say a cruel or truly harsh word to Tyki at all. It’s like sensation and emotion both became amplified a hundred-fold once they were Noah. He felt love and the desire to dote on those he loved all the more strongly. Everything, to this day, is like so many different flavors on his tongue and the taste of guilt is still one he never has been able to stomach, least of all when it’s delivered by his darling little brother.
Even so, there’s nothing pretty about having to scrape Tyki off the cobblestone path in the garden where he’s unceremoniously passed out. Cyril isn’t exactly sure how long he’s been there, but it has clearly been long enough for Tyki to have caught a bit of a chill from the night air and his older brother laments silently that he had not chosen sooner to come out looking for any sign of Tyki. At least it seems that he was making some real effort to come home before his unruly state worsened and Cyril takes some comfort in that— as much as he does in realizing that Tyki also made no attempts to bring any of his little human playthings back to the manor either. Cyril may be the last person of the Noah clan who is in any position to judge Tyki for his tastes and little pleasures, having many varied and strange ones himself, but unlike Tyki, Cyril is the sort to get jealous. He’s possessive. That is in his nature. He tolerates the fact that Tyki sleeps around just as much, if not more, than he does, but he doesn’t tolerate it happening under his roof with uninvited guests. He won’t. To see that Tyki continues to have no intention of deliberately breaking this rule makes Cyril sleep easier at night, even if he only knows it’s because Tyki doesn’t really like bringing people over to the mansion anyway.
Clicking his tongue in disapproval, Cyril pulls Tyki’s arm around his shoulder tightly and gets a good, firm grip on his younger brother’s middle himself as he hefts him up off the ground. The older Noah wrinkles his nose and frowns sharply, but never flinches from his duty as he begins to carry Tyki to the house, jostling him lightly in an effort to wake him so that he isn’t completely dead weight on his shoulder. It’s no small feat, given their differences in size and height, but Cyril doesn’t so much as grumble to himself about what trouble it is.
Even like this, Tyki is still beautiful. There’s something a little charming about how vulnerable he looks; something that makes the brittle pieces of Cyril’s old black heart break just a bit more at how he knows his brother is most at peace like this— quite possibly even only at peace like this, now. He reaches up and brushes the thick, unkempt curls of Tyki’s hair out of his eyes and tries to straighten up his clothes with one hand while he more or less drags him inside. He’s rubbing at Tyki’s arms and chest in an effort to warm his skin as he takes him up the stairs, just like he’s done countless times before.
By the time they get to Tyki’s bedroom, the younger man is finally awake, albeit still heavily under the influence. He pushes off of Cyril, because even this drunk, he still doesn’t like having the older Noah fuss over him so. Almost dutifully, Cyril stands watch near the door as Tyki begins to thoughtlessly undress himself. He watches while Tyki sheds one superfluous garment after another, exposing more and more dark skin, more and more finely sculpted muscle.
But it’s not until the younger man stops at his belt, apparently too drunk to remember how such a contraption works, that Cyril makes any move. That’s when he can’t help himself and he doesn’t really see why he ought to. Boldly, he strides forever and swats Tyki’s fumbling hands away. He hooks his fingers into the waist of the other man’s pants, thumbs pressed to the belt buckle, and roughly pulls, effectively eliminating any space between their bodies. He leans in close and his smile is sharp as he hisses softly against his brother’s jawline, nimble fingers working to undo his belt.
“Still such a sweet little boy, Tyki… needing his big brother to put him to bed…”
Alcohol isn’t the only thing that Tyki tends to overindulge in, of course.
