[open] the way it feels to be just anyone

[altusimperius]

WHO: Benedict and you
WHAT: catch-all
WHEN: Bloomingtide
WHERE: Kirkwall
NOTES: will give warnings as needed. hit me up if you want a starter!

I. The Library

Performing his chamberlain duties in the daytime and studying magic in the evenings doesn't leave Benedict a lot of time for leisure, and in fact the hours he would have spent drinking or playing cards are now occupied in the little office he sets up every night at one of the library tables. It's here that he writes letters, several scrolls weighted down in front of him which list Tevinter's major families and their relations, spread all across the country and ripe for persuasion.

Sometimes he can be found writing fervently, a cup of tea sitting untouched and forgotten beside his scribbling quill; more than once he's fallen asleep there, his face smudged with ink as it rests atop the desk.

II. The Gallows Courtyard

On the rare occasion that he's out of real work to do, Benedict can sometimes be found sitting on the steps of the tower with his parchment board and a quill or stick of charcoal, idly drawing the surrounding architecture. The sketches are loose, but hone in with great detail on things like the flourish in a column or a specific pattern of tilework; he shows little interest in the denizens going about their day, and in fact makes a little face of irritation if ever someone steps in the way.

III. Wildcard

do ur worst



for Solas

With the warming weather, Benedict has felt more comfortable taking his magical studies outside to practice in the open. Well, semi-open-- still afraid of being heckled at the proper training grounds, he opts instead for the herb garden in the evenings, where he can take his time and maintain a relatively low level of anxiety.

The barrier is something he mastered ages ago, but Benedict's skill in it has weakened with his resolve; he can't seem to keep it going under duress, which has led him to try a visibly stronger method: the Rift barrier, as he saw Solas conjure when Kirkwall was besieged by ghosts.
Benedict is able to draw a brief form: a slab, part of a wall, which remains for several seconds and then disintegrates, much to his aggravation.

If he can't make a simple barrier work, no matter its material, he can't protect himself.


for Kitty

It's been more than a few days, but the Inquisition is like that: people get busy and stay busy, with less time than they hoped for side projects. So it's more like several weeks later when Benedict next visits Kitty in the library, walking in with his posture straight and his eyes bright, hopeful.

"Any luck?"


for Marcoulf

There's been no reason to talk to the little ferret-face, save perhaps for a gnawing conscience that rears its head every time Benedict remembers that awful night and the subsequent conversations. Perhaps he was too unkind to him-- perhaps he's afraid of Marcoulf still, even after everything. But he can't have this nonsense hanging over his head, not when anxieties are at an all-time high and the whole world seems unbalanced.

So he approaches Marcoulf one night, sauntering up next to him and leaning against a nearby pillar, where he lights a cigarette and just... stands there. One of them will speak first. Maybe.

Comments

[altusimperius]

Letting himself get lost in the process, there's a part of Benedict that wishes for more: a rough hand in his hair, a more forceful reaction in general, but Marcoulf is almost suspiciously restrained.

Pulling away before anything ends up in his mouth that he doesn't want there (or on his face, or anywhere else unsanitary), Bene snatches the handkerchief from his pocket and catches the result of his labor, only to wad it up and discard it on the floor about a foot away as he rolls off the man's lap and picks up the hose again.

He's lying on his back now, taking another drag from the pipe, his eyes glassy as he stares at the ceiling. Well, that just happened. Nobody seems any better or worse for it.

[esquive]

Which is fine. Not everything has to be about something or for any reason. It's fine, he thinks as he lays out in the quiet after, to just do something. Anything. It's fine not to think much about anything after - the study the ceiling and think about the no-feeling buzz in his fingertips, and not much else.

At length, he says: "Do you want--" and then stops, realizing he isn't sure what he's asking. Me to touch you? To say something? A proper cigarette that stings?

[altusimperius]

Lolling his head back to look at Marcoulf, Bene shrugs one shoulder, expelling a breath of smoke as he does so. "No," he muses flatly, fidgeting around until he's lounging more comfortably, "...and that didn't happen."

There's a restlessness beneath his artificial torpor, he can feel it trying to claw its way out. He must have made a mistake, doing something like that with someone who didn't even seem to care, who maybe hadn't even wanted it. If it gets out that Benedict Artemaeus will go down on anyone, his reputation will be ruined-- at least, what's left of it to ruin.

[esquive]

It's not like he's disappointed.

"All right," he agrees, after a fixed moment of quiet. What else is he meant to say? Eventually, he begins to relace his trousers.

[altusimperius]

It's almost as though he were never there. Benedict continues to stare at the ceiling, smoking contemplatively and making no move to get up or do anything else. What else is there to do, even? Kiss? Hardly. Talk about their feelings? That moment, if it were ever going to happen, has come and gone.

Now it's time to languish in-- and simultaneously try to ignore-- how sad this is.

[esquive]

For some minutes, Marcoulf's equally inert beside him - limited to the quiet motions of straightening his clothes and shifting the rucked up line of his sword belt back to where it belongs, running his fingers back through the wiry thatch of his hair to smooth it, and...

And.

And nothing, until he pushes himself up into a sitting position. "I've an early posting tomorrow," he says.

[altusimperius]

A grunt is the only acknowledgment; Benedict barely looks at him as he moves, seeming entirely fixated on smoking as much as possible in the shortest imaginable time if that's what it will take for him to not care about this-- or anything-- anymore.

[esquive]

He reaches out then across the narrow space between them, touching Benedict just there on his knee. There isn't any particular warmth in it and his hand doesn't linger long, but it is wholly unnecessary. The fact that it happens is--

Well, nevermind it. Marcoulf pats him gently, then draws his hand away and pulls himself unsteadily to his feet. He tries once more while upright to smooth back his hair. Then the sword is collected. Then he goes away from the room.