The answer to that is easy enough, a quip for a quip, his head is not worth much at all, but it is worth something. He does his best to reign his fear in, to force a thin smirk. To regain himself from where he had woken out of sorts and out of control. He does not know this man in truth, knows shades of him, fragments and echos that do not make sense with how they jar against one another. Some are warm and comfortable, full of laughter and stolen kisses. Wine shared and soft furs in front of a fire, an entanglement of limbs and hair and voices panting.
The rest- cold. Biting. Full of pain and blood and dismissal. Of ruthless intent and the fragments keep falling, so many shades and sides to this man that he seems to have known and bedded that he cannot form a complete whole. But he is still Zevran and he cannot let a good quip go unanswered.
"Clearly you have never attempted to embalm a skull in honey. Does wonders for the rot, and it should compliment my complexion quite well. You wouldn't even have to shave my head." Because that is the only way this might end, in death. If he pokes, if he infuriates, if he taunts and snorts and teases he will force it to be a quick one.
A kind one.
He has endured far too much to wish his death to be drawn out and degrading. He is under no illusions that he deserves a noble death. He simply wants the end to come swift and sure. But this man seems something of a sadist. He would rather not learn what would make those cold eyes go warm.
"Unchain me and learn for yourself, mm?" The smile is hollow, the promise empty. He's no tenderness in him left to give. No salacious bravado, no twist of his tongue. He is weary. This is all by route. "Or would you prefer to do this against the wall? Most magisters, I hear, prefer to have their victims facing away from them-"
And it's wrong, so wrong, he knows in some small part that this isn't what this man is. There's a name. Something. A glimmer of a fragment and he cuts himself off to truly stare at this man.
"...Isaac." Rosso. "...you were no fade dream."
And is that not just the worst of it? That something that grounded him so well in this strange place is lost to him simply because he cannot remember? There are holes but he can recall bits. A tattoo, a piercing, a massage. A question in a bath and apparently he never pressed the issue. He opens his mouth to ask after something- but the light fades and he's lost once more to the dark. It makes him think of the deep roads, of enclosed cells, of a horror of death he might have endured but cannot recall the details of. he loses his breath, his bravado, voice curling out soft and small.
"...This is a great deal less comfortable than awaking in your bed." That much he remembers. The beginning. That much has put itself into place.
no subject
The rest- cold. Biting. Full of pain and blood and dismissal. Of ruthless intent and the fragments keep falling, so many shades and sides to this man that he seems to have known and bedded that he cannot form a complete whole. But he is still Zevran and he cannot let a good quip go unanswered.
"Clearly you have never attempted to embalm a skull in honey. Does wonders for the rot, and it should compliment my complexion quite well. You wouldn't even have to shave my head." Because that is the only way this might end, in death. If he pokes, if he infuriates, if he taunts and snorts and teases he will force it to be a quick one.
A kind one.
He has endured far too much to wish his death to be drawn out and degrading. He is under no illusions that he deserves a noble death. He simply wants the end to come swift and sure. But this man seems something of a sadist. He would rather not learn what would make those cold eyes go warm.
"Unchain me and learn for yourself, mm?" The smile is hollow, the promise empty. He's no tenderness in him left to give. No salacious bravado, no twist of his tongue. He is weary. This is all by route. "Or would you prefer to do this against the wall? Most magisters, I hear, prefer to have their victims facing away from them-"
And it's wrong, so wrong, he knows in some small part that this isn't what this man is. There's a name. Something. A glimmer of a fragment and he cuts himself off to truly stare at this man.
"...Isaac." Rosso. "...you were no fade dream."
And is that not just the worst of it? That something that grounded him so well in this strange place is lost to him simply because he cannot remember? There are holes but he can recall bits. A tattoo, a piercing, a massage. A question in a bath and apparently he never pressed the issue. He opens his mouth to ask after something- but the light fades and he's lost once more to the dark. It makes him think of the deep roads, of enclosed cells, of a horror of death he might have endured but cannot recall the details of. he loses his breath, his bravado, voice curling out soft and small.
"...This is a great deal less comfortable than awaking in your bed." That much he remembers. The beginning. That much has put itself into place.