[ One day - and only after the letter writer has spent too much time thinking what to write - Emet-Selch will find that at some point an envelope was slipped beneath his motel room door with his name written on it in tidy script. Inside is a folded letter with the same handwriting:
Emet-Selch—
The more that I have thought about it, the more I fear that my gratitude before was not near enough as it was.
For far too long I've been used to shouldering things on my own. It seemed simpler, almost, as it meant I was the only one to deal with whatever it was. Without going too far into details which no longer matter - it was arriving here which quickly proved me wrong on this and much more. Your friendship has been no small part of that, so thank you again.
While what was said then could be the end of it and for what it may be worth there is this now in something tangible: you are not alone either for as long as we are here. The past cannot be changed, but what comes after it is yet to be written. Don't forget that no matter what else may happen.
It's possible this letter will also not be enough after more thought. But until then, I will hope it has been all the same.
Yours faithfully, —Sunday
Also folded inside the letter is a small paper proclaiming to be a gift certificate to a cafe which Emet-Selch might recognize the name of after they've been there recently. It seems to have no expiration date listed and while it's not for as much as Sunday might've liked or would've spent once upon a time - it's more than enough for a coffee and a pastry at least twice should Emet-Selch find himself there before their next planned time to meet.
Which is fortunate, since... that might not be for a while, as it turns out. ]
[ At first, Emet-Selch is not sure what to expect. He's been paying for his room without issue, and insofar as he's aware, there's no rule against animals — the kitten that had more or less adopted him when the meteors first fell has been persistent — so it cannot be from the motel.
There's only one way to find out who this is from, and that's to read it.
He gets exactly one line in before he realizes with certainty who wrote this. This is probably the most sincere thank you he's gotten in thousands of years, and it's so painfully Sunday that it makes him laugh to himself. Something behind his ribs tugs, constricts, an urge to see his friend rising in his chest — an urge he has yet to realize will not abate even as the month wears on. For now, he doesn't banish the feeling. Later is quite another story.
The gift certificate and letter both go back in the envelope, folded neatly, and slid into an inside pocket of his coat, where they will both remain for quite a while indeed. ]
[ Yet again, Sunday finds himself staring at the ceiling rather than sleeping.
This in itself isn't a new occurrence for a variety of reasons, but it has been suspiciously common over the last few days. Time spent in the void might not have been the clearest concept was enough in retrospect to develop a routine. In multiple ways, though it's the lack of one that Sunday's come to recognize is the reason he's currently awake. Again.
It'd made itself apparent during the time spent in Acreage where he'd found himself tossing and turning where sleep eluded him then as well. Notable, too, because he'd caught himself rolling over half-asleep reaching for someone who wasn't there. Not just once, either, when it seemed his mind was not so easily convinced the next time would be a success. Something that's carried over to being back in Panorama, as it turns out.
So here he is, with a dilemma that really isn't one when there's an easy solution. Sunday contemplates his usual options for nighttime restlessness and then weighs them against having to do this for nights on end... and not even his ability to consider a choice near infinitely before taking any action interferes with the only viable choice. A second later he's getting out of bed, reaching for his robe to tug it on over his pajamas, and then there's only the short trip to be made to elsewhere in the motel left.
On the walk he also doesn't let himself think (too much) about this before he finds himself in front of a particular door. A second of hesitation follows in which he contemplates whether he should've sent a message first but, well. A little late for that, so no more pausing before Sunday lifts his hand to knock. ]
[ How did he get here? Sleeping used to be something of a recreational pastime for him. What better way to endure the march of centuries than a very, very long nap? Now, since departing that wretched train, he’s found himself unable to catch even a wink. He’s too restless, too uncomfortable, his mind unable to calm down, insisting that something is wrong time and time again.
He sort of figured it would ebb after a while, and after he spent all that time in Acreage suffering, a return to his own bed would be just what he needed.
It was not, in fact, just what he needed. More than once he’d roll over to find the space next to him empty, and the realization made him feel like he’d been hollowed out at the core.
Ironic that the venerable Emet-Selch, unsundered, found himself suddenly feeling like half a person, and never moreso than in the dead of night.
The solution, then, is a simple one, and on one particularly bad night, he finds himself hauling himself out of bed to go in search of it. He’d been a fool to let it go this long, really. One would think he’d learned his lesson by now.
Sunday’s hand does not get the chance to come down on the door to knock before it swings open, and there is Hades, still in his sleep clothes, looking ready to go somewhere only to be halted by Sunday’s presence literally right outside his door. A moment of bewilderment gives way to bemusement gives way to something terribly fond, the knot of restless anxiety that had gathered behind his ribs untangling itself in an instant. Oh, he missed him. They could be parted for a heartbeat, and he’d still miss him. ]
[ In those milliseconds there's just enough time for Sunday to consider again he should've sent a message, that this is rather presumptuous to simply show up here, and that all that restlessness pulling upon him might've just been his own. And amplified by any number of things, not least of all the discovery that sleeping alone holds zero appeal these days compared to how it used to.
Hades opening the door before he has time to do anything prevents Sunday from going any farther into a spiral. Even more so when the mild shock of being greeted almost like this was expected startles him into freezing with his hand mid-air with that knock never happening, and there's nothing to do but look at Hades.
Who, it turns out, has the very same series of expressions Sunday's going through himself when exactly what's happening hits him with all the severity of a thunderbolt: they'd independently reached the same conclusion, it seems. He'd only been a few (literal) steps faster which is the only reason they're greeting each other like this and not somewhere in the motel's hallways.
At some point in these realizations he'd moved his hand back to his side which seems rather silly when all Sunday wants to do now is reach for Hades' hand. Something which might've come to pass but can wait a minute thanks to that all important question which leaves him barely suppressing a smile given they surely know the answer. ]
I would. [ No point in pretending otherwise, is there? A beat goes by in which Sunday considers Hades again and then, with no small amount of amusement, ] Unless you were planning on heading elsewhere.
[ A small joke as a hint of the relief that'd rushed in bordering a bit more on delight. The same plan - he'd presumed nothing at all. ]
[ It takes a moment - a very long moment - for Sunday's mind to stop spinning after that headache came on so abruptly right before everything else crashed in from reading too far into thoughts not meant to be heard, and to realize he wasn't the only one who would've felt that.
Or felt enough to know something was absolutely wrong for a few moments on one end of the bond and isn't entirely now either as other discomfort lingers in waves while he withdraws his phone to tap out a message. ]
I promise that I'm fine.
[ A message that could've been longer before he pressed send, probably, except that Sunday needs to pause to run a hand over his face while everything settles. Totally fine!! ]
[ It’s like Sunday knows Hades is on the verge of calling him – which indeed, he is. Startled by the sudden stab of pain behind his eyes, the way the world spins and doesn’t quite settle correctly. Even at a distance, they’ve spent so long steeped in their bond that he feels all of it quite keenly, and no doubt Sunday is well-aware of the panic and concern that surges through their connection in response.
He has his phone open, literally about to punch the call button when the text comes through.
Hades considers it a moment, considers replying. He presses call instead.
Sunday will scarce have a moment to breathe even a syllable once he picks up. ]
[ His phone rings in response, and, well. He should've expected that. There's no hesitation in his answering the call and Sunday opens his mouth to apologize, but gets a deserved question first as he winces. ]
I found myself on the wrong end of some telepathy after pressing too far.
[ To say the least. Sunday gives up on sitting up to lay back on the ground, the back of that same hand now pressed to his closed eyes so the world spins a little less. Enough so he can focus specifically on Hades and what filters through their bond fully now from what'd hit him with everything else before, and with some guilt also comes the realization of how woefully inadequate that text was. ]
I meant it, I am alright. I'm sorry that I worried you.
[ It's a few hours into the blackout, which also means that it's the middle of the night. Ardbert should be asleep, but the adrenaline of all that's happened doesn't allow for that. He'd had to get back to the motel and check in with Aria, they'd had to gather all of their relevant supplies, and then when it became clear that the city was descending into unrest, they also had to add some security to their motel room.
Already, they can see the writing on the wall. They'll be out and about in the city until this is over, providing aid where they can, so they won't be able to check back in on their space all that often. Dropsy will be holding down the fort, and Ardbert wants him safe too.
It's only when all is taken care of and the phones still don't seem to be working that he realizes there's one other potential option. It's with a heaved sigh and no small amount of reluctance that he fishes out the walkie talkie from the back of his Jeep.
He's not even certain that Emet-Selch has one, although he suspects he would have gone to find Elodie for his payment. Whether he kept the device is another question, but hells, at this point he might as well try.
While sitting in his candlelit living room at two in the morning, he pushes the button on the device.
On the other side of it, wherever Emet-Selch happens to be, Ardbert's staticky voice comes through. ]
[ Power outages are not abnormal in Panorama, and certainly not in this motel in particular. There have been many, but nothing this disastrous, nothing inviting this much chaos so quickly.
It does not take a genius to realize this is unusual, and it likewise doesn’t take a genius to realize that the more altruistic souls among them are going to be trying to restore order in the streets, just as the more opportunistic will be taking advantage of the chaos.
Emet-Selch fished his walkie talkie out of his Jeep a couple of hours ago, mostly trying to tune it to different frequencies that he might be able to catch wind of the situation from the Enforcers’ radio chatter to minimal success.
He is both surprised and not when a familiar voice crackles through. Elodie would have given them both one, wouldn’t she?
There is a beat before he answers. ]
I can. This is not a social call, I take it.
[ Sorry he’s got to be a little bit of an asshole still. ]
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
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For your motorbike? Petrol.
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the tag that gets estinien blocked
no because i think this is too funny to stop
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i am so sorry
our shortest thread yet
Couple hours later
I have food for both yourself and your little friend. Where should I leave it?
AN ongoing list of things Hythlodaeus leaves for him....
— sometime not long after The Emotions
Which is fortunate, since... that might not be for a while, as it turns out. ]
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There's only one way to find out who this is from, and that's to read it.
He gets exactly one line in before he realizes with certainty who wrote this. This is probably the most sincere thank you he's gotten in thousands of years, and it's so painfully Sunday that it makes him laugh to himself. Something behind his ribs tugs, constricts, an urge to see his friend rising in his chest — an urge he has yet to realize will not abate even as the month wears on. For now, he doesn't banish the feeling. Later is quite another story.
The gift certificate and letter both go back in the envelope, folded neatly, and slid into an inside pocket of his coat, where they will both remain for quite a while indeed. ]
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Hi. Do you have time to talk?
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Of course. Is something wrong?
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My dad is gone. And it would be nice to see you're not gone.
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lore dump sorry lol
eats it all up
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— after the return from acreage
This in itself isn't a new occurrence for a variety of reasons, but it has been suspiciously common over the last few days. Time spent in the void might not have been the clearest concept was enough in retrospect to develop a routine. In multiple ways, though it's the lack of one that Sunday's come to recognize is the reason he's currently awake. Again.
It'd made itself apparent during the time spent in Acreage where he'd found himself tossing and turning where sleep eluded him then as well. Notable, too, because he'd caught himself rolling over half-asleep reaching for someone who wasn't there. Not just once, either, when it seemed his mind was not so easily convinced the next time would be a success. Something that's carried over to being back in Panorama, as it turns out.
So here he is, with a dilemma that really isn't one when there's an easy solution. Sunday contemplates his usual options for nighttime restlessness and then weighs them against having to do this for nights on end... and not even his ability to consider a choice near infinitely before taking any action interferes with the only viable choice. A second later he's getting out of bed, reaching for his robe to tug it on over his pajamas, and then there's only the short trip to be made to elsewhere in the motel left.
On the walk he also doesn't let himself think (too much) about this before he finds himself in front of a particular door. A second of hesitation follows in which he contemplates whether he should've sent a message first but, well. A little late for that, so no more pausing before Sunday lifts his hand to knock. ]
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He sort of figured it would ebb after a while, and after he spent all that time in Acreage suffering, a return to his own bed would be just what he needed.
It was not, in fact, just what he needed. More than once he’d roll over to find the space next to him empty, and the realization made him feel like he’d been hollowed out at the core.
Ironic that the venerable Emet-Selch, unsundered, found himself suddenly feeling like half a person, and never moreso than in the dead of night.
The solution, then, is a simple one, and on one particularly bad night, he finds himself hauling himself out of bed to go in search of it. He’d been a fool to let it go this long, really. One would think he’d learned his lesson by now.
Sunday’s hand does not get the chance to come down on the door to knock before it swings open, and there is Hades, still in his sleep clothes, looking ready to go somewhere only to be halted by Sunday’s presence literally right outside his door. A moment of bewilderment gives way to bemusement gives way to something terribly fond, the knot of restless anxiety that had gathered behind his ribs untangling itself in an instant. Oh, he missed him. They could be parted for a heartbeat, and he’d still miss him. ]
Would you like to come in?
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Hades opening the door before he has time to do anything prevents Sunday from going any farther into a spiral. Even more so when the mild shock of being greeted almost like this was expected startles him into freezing with his hand mid-air with that knock never happening, and there's nothing to do but look at Hades.
Who, it turns out, has the very same series of expressions Sunday's going through himself when exactly what's happening hits him with all the severity of a thunderbolt: they'd independently reached the same conclusion, it seems. He'd only been a few (literal) steps faster which is the only reason they're greeting each other like this and not somewhere in the motel's hallways.
At some point in these realizations he'd moved his hand back to his side which seems rather silly when all Sunday wants to do now is reach for Hades' hand. Something which might've come to pass but can wait a minute thanks to that all important question which leaves him barely suppressing a smile given they surely know the answer. ]
I would. [ No point in pretending otherwise, is there? A beat goes by in which Sunday considers Hades again and then, with no small amount of amusement, ] Unless you were planning on heading elsewhere.
[ A small joke as a hint of the relief that'd rushed in bordering a bit more on delight. The same plan - he'd presumed nothing at all. ]
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guess we should mark this as NSFW now huh
WHOOPS i meant to put that on my last tag
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— text, post cube contact
Or felt enough to know something was absolutely wrong for a few moments on one end of the bond and isn't entirely now either as other discomfort lingers in waves while he withdraws his phone to tap out a message. ]
I promise that I'm fine.
[ A message that could've been longer before he pressed send, probably, except that Sunday needs to pause to run a hand over his face while everything settles. Totally fine!! ]
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He has his phone open, literally about to punch the call button when the text comes through.
Hades considers it a moment, considers replying. He presses call instead.
Sunday will scarce have a moment to breathe even a syllable once he picks up. ]
What in the hells happened?
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I found myself on the wrong end of some telepathy after pressing too far.
[ To say the least. Sunday gives up on sitting up to lay back on the ground, the back of that same hand now pressed to his closed eyes so the world spins a little less. Enough so he can focus specifically on Hades and what filters through their bond fully now from what'd hit him with everything else before, and with some guilt also comes the realization of how woefully inadequate that text was. ]
I meant it, I am alright. I'm sorry that I worried you.
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1/2
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Tuna is her preferred, or chicken if you can manage to find it.
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a secret third thing (walkie talkies)
Already, they can see the writing on the wall. They'll be out and about in the city until this is over, providing aid where they can, so they won't be able to check back in on their space all that often. Dropsy will be holding down the fort, and Ardbert wants him safe too.
It's only when all is taken care of and the phones still don't seem to be working that he realizes there's one other potential option. It's with a heaved sigh and no small amount of reluctance that he fishes out the walkie talkie from the back of his Jeep.
He's not even certain that Emet-Selch has one, although he suspects he would have gone to find Elodie for his payment. Whether he kept the device is another question, but hells, at this point he might as well try.
While sitting in his candlelit living room at two in the morning, he pushes the button on the device.
On the other side of it, wherever Emet-Selch happens to be, Ardbert's staticky voice comes through. ]
... Emet-Selch? Can you hear this?
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It does not take a genius to realize this is unusual, and it likewise doesn’t take a genius to realize that the more altruistic souls among them are going to be trying to restore order in the streets, just as the more opportunistic will be taking advantage of the chaos.
Emet-Selch fished his walkie talkie out of his Jeep a couple of hours ago, mostly trying to tune it to different frequencies that he might be able to catch wind of the situation from the Enforcers’ radio chatter to minimal success.
He is both surprised and not when a familiar voice crackles through. Elodie would have given them both one, wouldn’t she?
There is a beat before he answers. ]
I can. This is not a social call, I take it.
[ Sorry he’s got to be a little bit of an asshole still. ]
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