I'm driven, [he returns quietly, the ghost of a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth despite himself. Viktor does have a very good and salient point about Palamedes' walking straight into a potentially dangerous situation here, but - well, he has no excuse, not really. His concern for Viktor supersedes his risk avoidance, it's simple as that. They can talk about that... later.
He watches the boundary line of silver dip away as if alive, actively avoiding the space the two of them connect and he thinks, good, and then he wonders how much of Viktor is coated in that sheen of silver.
Not that— he isn't going to demand to check, but if necessity demands he cup Viktor's face like this for another hour, he'll do it. The brush of Viktor's thumb along his wrist undoes him into a puddle of some emotion he can't quantify, only for the look on Viktor's face to put him back together and undo him hastily again. Palamedes squeezes Viktor's arm, the one he's still holding, trying to be encouraging and at least somewhat grounding. He hopes.
He watches the silver actively leave Viktor's face and he still has to wonder if it will come back as soon as he pulls his hand away— it's going to be a long(er) night, but he brightens as much he can without it feeling forced.]
I tend to, [he says, to winning, and brushes back an errant lock of Viktor's hair before he lifts his hand away. The, ah, the evidence suggests that points of contact are the plan of attack here, so he offers Viktor his hand - and then his elbow instead? maybe? - no; he offers the hand, definitely.]
It's been a horrendously dull couple of days. I've been surviving on cold sandwiches; I'm hopeless. [a beat; softer,] I'm with you.
no subject
He watches the boundary line of silver dip away as if alive, actively avoiding the space the two of them connect and he thinks, good, and then he wonders how much of Viktor is coated in that sheen of silver.
Not that— he isn't going to demand to check, but if necessity demands he cup Viktor's face like this for another hour, he'll do it. The brush of Viktor's thumb along his wrist undoes him into a puddle of some emotion he can't quantify, only for the look on Viktor's face to put him back together and undo him hastily again. Palamedes squeezes Viktor's arm, the one he's still holding, trying to be encouraging and at least somewhat grounding. He hopes.
He watches the silver actively leave Viktor's face and he still has to wonder if it will come back as soon as he pulls his hand away— it's going to be a long(er) night, but he brightens as much he can without it feeling forced.]
I tend to, [he says, to winning, and brushes back an errant lock of Viktor's hair before he lifts his hand away. The, ah, the evidence suggests that points of contact are the plan of attack here, so he offers Viktor his hand - and then his elbow instead? maybe? - no; he offers the hand, definitely.]
It's been a horrendously dull couple of days. I've been surviving on cold sandwiches; I'm hopeless. [a beat; softer,] I'm with you.