Becoming
A half-pivot on the tips of pristine toes. The curtest (or cutest, as he’d prior been informed in a coo) grimace. Hands clasped at his twin globes he squeezed. Shook. Scowled. Azroti wasn’t sure how he managed to find new things to criticize about himself daily, given that he rose the same from silk morning after morning after morning, after, morning. Twin cobalt eyes stung back from opposite the mirror, not one pleasantry found between them. Lingering.
“Intolerable,” a grumble passed dry from between thin lips, completing the prior pivot and making his way to the closet at a strut, “fatherhood is clearly doing its best to set in beside husbandhood.”
This was, of course, impossible. Irvyng had made it so that that particular physical truth may never manifest, with the blessing of drinkerhood. And yet there was a stagnation he’d felt creeping into view for months now.
Months ... Months? Maybe. Weeks? A day? A sweep? They were all more or less the same these days.
Headfirst in a rack of frocks both fancy and futile, he knew what he needed was something ... different. Anything to mix things up a bit. He adored fatherhood certainly, and husbandhood to the degree which it concerned his beloved (less so the accessories that accompanied him). But, put simply - were his life a bookshelf, one of the B’s was shoved awry halfway through the A’s.
Concerning B’s and A’s, he spied just what he was looking for - and promptly removed the gown, and slunk in. A tight little floor-length number fit for a red carpet, he shimmied it up his beangrade stalk, his toes rooted firmly in the sooty gray of the plush beneath his lowest clawed digits.
Today was going to be different. If the river of silky mane he let down behind him screamed as much, then the mascara he slid across his lashes echoed the sentiment.
The doors of one of the manor’s many master bedrooms clattered open, and the surly cerulean emerged languid from his and his mate’s abode. He wanted held, dammit. Coddled, if possible. And worshipped -- lwell, ah, that was less likely by a hair, if only that. He may have the rotten luck to find Irvyng with his attention already divided, he thought.
Hmph.
Well, he’d remedy that just by entering the room, if he had a word on the matter.
