What he desired was to shrink away, to move away, to curl into himself and sleep and wake up when the sun came up and have all of this be a terrible miserable no good very bad dream but that was not going to transpire—and he knew it. His head lowered down to his knees, resting on top of his fingers that bit into the skin of his knees veiled by the robe that he wore. How was this possible? —It was cold, he was cold, and yet he didn’t feel it. He heard a heart beat, he felt a heart beat, and yet he knew it was not his own. It was Ja’far’s: it echoed in his brain, reverberated and filled his brain in the manner that moonlight fills a room: peeking, peering, then threatening to engulf every shadow, every thought.
A weak s h a k e of the head—he didn’t remember—
[[much]]
this was not the time, so he told himself, this was not the time to lie to Ja’far. There were other times, yes, about how much he’d drank or who (ahem how many) he had bedded the night before, but this was not the time. But he couldn’t focus because his body ached as though it was on fire…
None the less, eyes, gleaming, almost, in this usurped light of the moon. Lips finally parted but it was more to drawn in breath that was of no substance to his lungs than anything, and s u d d e n l y he was aware that his teeth felt bizarre, running the wet muscle of tongue over them as he furrowed his brows as they pricked—hopefully, Ja’far hadn’t noticed.
But when was the King ever subtle?
“… I drank too much,” spoke the male as he started out by stating the obvious and carding a hand through his hair. “And one of our guests from the Harvest Moon Festival suggest a bit of privacy. Well… two. Two of our guests—so I went with them, back to my chambers…”
Even such a sour state, Sinbad could managed a laugh at his own expense: “Really, Ja’far, do you need all the sordid details?”
—He knew enough though that he simply sat there for a moment, in thought. He’d merely though it was the wine that had made him pass out, but the more he thought about it…
Fingers ran down from his hair to trace at his neck, to feel scars that made his eyes widen.
“… I passed out after one of them bit my neck.” He stated. It, really hadn’t made a damned bit of sense at the time: hence why he had simply a c c e p t e d that it was because of the wine. But what, what if this was some malady, or some disease of the living dead?
Were he not so encompassed by this overwhelming thirst, he might have…
Once more eyes dropped down, seeing the color in Ja’far’s hands. Oh, normally he would not associate c o l o r with his [[fair assassin]] but this was a very rare occasion indeed. For his icy digits came to cup the faint warmth that came from those hands, eyes watching as though mystified at the veins that coursed beneath porcelain skin. Skin so thin, he thought he could see the pulse.
It was completely enchantment, as that of a man seeing for the first time the strength of the ocean, or the winding of a bellydancer, an he was simply staring at the porcelain hands he already knew so well.
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