The nights, by now, just sort of blurred together for Rufioh. He spent a great deal of time asleep, and what little time to himself he had that he didn't spend sleeping was spent laying on the floor (he'd clawed the sofa up some, and hadn't liked sitting on it even before then). It wasn't that comfortable, but what did comfort mean here?
The pillow with himself on it that he'd fashioned into a shirt for Bukram had left behind a great deal of pillow fluff and he'd piled that together enough that he could rest on it when he wanted to. The Unreasonably Large Stuffed Horse (yes, that was in fact what Rufioh had named it) was honestly on the verge of meeting a similar fate. The fate of the fluffless. He didn't much like looking at it. Maybe he'd claw it open and crawl inside like a fidusucker.
It'd make a nice place to nap.
That was what he was considering when he'd gotten messaged by Mituna. Mituna, his moirail. Even in this unspeakably dark mood he'd been in for a while, just the thought made him smile and color. His moirail. His moirail who had gotten a bracelet to make it Very Official, which meant that in order for that bracelet to be of any use, Rufioh needed to get one too.
That was a less than happy ordeal he would have to go through, and it took Rufioh quite a while to work up and through the bullheadedness pride that made it so difficult for him to ask for anything from Horuss. A bracelet was the least Horuss could do for him, and if he didn't receive the thing he asked for, Rufioh wasn't sure what he'd do. He'd pitch a fucking fit, probably. A lowkey fit maybe, but ... still.
The conversation that resulted from his request was not what he'd hoped for. He had hoped for no conversation, actually, a plain yes and the delivery of his bracelet, but Horuss had insisted upon him doing some things in return. Had the the he requested been for only him, he would have dropped it entirely, but he wanted to get to see Mituna more often, and he wanted Mituna to get to come and see him. So it was for him that Rufioh had agreed to let Horuss take him to the showers and to medical, and for no one else.
He didn't have to like it, though. Relatedly, the thought of being carried anywhere by Horuss had lost its appeal entirely thanks in some small part to his own fears that this was what had instigated the punishment with Tavros. He would not be letting that happen again ever, so he was going to end up on the end of a leash tonight. Just the mental image was embarrassing as hell, like he'd given up and agreed that yes, this was definitely his place.
Rufioh hated it. He hated it, and he hated Horuss, and he hated that Horuss seemed to think that getting his fingers fixed would fix anything else.
Maybe now was the time to finish off the last of that bucket of vodka Horuss had left him before. It would help with the upcoming humiliation, probably. Rufioh crawled the short way to where he'd pushed it last and sniffed at the stuff before turning the thing up and trying to drink past the loud protests of his tongue and throat. It wasn't all that bad tasting, but it burned and it made his throat want to close up.
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