the fever is still fresh in his body. each wavering limb feels light and vibrating, the flesh of his cheeks crawl pink and a morbid darkness that spreads out towards his ears; even the eyes are unfocused. a command, surely, another rule he must follow. another unspoken gesture towards humanity, marius paints in the domesticated hues, covers the wild shades of his youth and still it runs like water color under the acrylic. amadeo stands, thinking of his shadow as unruly and untamed as it is, this running specter that his master glimpses without even himself seeing it, and it vexes him. polite? the eyebrow's come together, curls sticking to the balmy forehead and amadeo glances up, blinking away the lingering sickness, so that he can catch his master's gaze. ❝ i am going to bite them. ❞ he says, crude and affronted that he should need a reminder - as if he's ever been anything but polite. however, as he says it, it occurs to him that the frailty in his body, the fever, has taken hold of him in that moment and he shakes his head, grabbing for marius's great, large white hand. his fingers curl around his cool, marble digits and they squeeze, leaning forward so that his temple is pressed to his shoulder.
❝ i do not mean what i said. i only - ❞ sweat is rubbed off on the cotton. amadeo squeezes his eyes shut, sighing through his apparent affliction. he even allows his hand to reach up to the elbow, taking marius's arm in his own so that he might convey his regret. ❝ i feel very strange, master. they are no senator's. take riccardo. albinus. the language is not lost on them. ❞ @threnodique
