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perfectteatime) wrote2022-02-24 05:55 pm
perfectteatime) wrote2022-02-24 05:55 pmAmani Inbox
Greetings. You have reached the message box of Byleth Eisner, please leave a message I will contact you shortly.
perfectteatime) wrote2022-02-24 05:55 pm
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Next, he does indeed close his eyes as Byleth requests, and for a moment he considers using his soul sight to peek—but decides against it. For one, it might not even work depending on the nature of this surprise, and for two, it's only fair Byleth is allowed to surprise him as well.
When he opens his eyes, it is clear how unexpected this is by how he openly gawks. The robe—the mask—all of it is so poorly made! But it is so clearly made with thought and affection, and he can feel his old heart flutter with warmth.
Yet, regardless of how much he appreciates the gesture, and how truly touched he is about it, the...flaws in the garmet and the—is the mask winking at him? Was that intentional? Did Byleth attempt to make the mask flirtatious?
"Oh, this is so...quaint and charming. That you would do this, don the communal robes and mask. How long did you labor over this?" As he asks, he approaches, gently touching the robe, it taking every bit of his self restraint from fixing the inaccuracies. Likewise that curious hand gently caresses the mask, and his mind yells for him to fix it, but he restrains himself.
For now, at least.
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"All week." Byleth's answer is true. He is certainly no auteur of any sort of creative endeavor, he did this as he does everything- with love, with maximum effort, and with intent. He thinks that though it may lie far from perfection, the merit of it will stand.
"I thought perhaps... you might be able to help me smooth out some of the mistakes? If you'd like. I am content with it, but- well." Well, by now, he is coming to know the man, and his habit of fussing about small details. This does not bother him, in fact, it has become one of his endearing features. Something that makes him distinctly... him.
"I hope I got the main bits right."
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That request is equivalent to the single load-bearing pebble holding back a flood finally being forced free, the torrent of water bursting forth unmitigated, uncontrolled. That he worked all week on it is so touching and does nothing to stop Emet-Selch as he touches each part again, fixing the inaccuracies with fussy aetheric manipulation.
Look, it was very charming, but he thinks Byleth deserves dignity, and there wasn't anything dignified about that robe! It was the clothing equivalent to a child's drawing, and the initial surprise of it has already served its purpose! He still loves that Byleth made it, that Byleth would embrace his culture in such a way, even if it was making a shoddy version of their traditional garb.
That any would show interest in his people and the world he loves means more to him than he cares to say.
"Considering what you were working with, likely memory alone, I would say you did rather well. Particularly if you are not much of a seamster ordinarily." The way he speaks, there's an ease to his voice that isn't normally there. A lightness which seems almost uncharacteristic. Does he sound...happy?
"But come, as much as it is riveting to stand in your front lawn, this is hardly the place for our outing. I trust you know how to ride a mount, yes?" With the question asked, he looks to Grani to emphasize it. The intimidating creature's dimly glowing white, pupilless eyes stare directly at Byleth. It's hard to tell if that stare is merely curiosity, or a challenge, but besides the deep and measured breaths it takes, it is silent.
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"Yes, we have a lot to do tonight." The date, and what's to come after- also prepared in a small satchel at his side. He peers past Emet at the mount, before nodding to him. "Yes. I was a fairly experienced rider, both on horseback and wyvern." He's selling himself a bit short, given his chosen class was wyvern lord. Still, now isn't the time for boasting. He moves toward Grani, holding out his hand amicably in case it wants to get his scent.
"Hello there. Aren't you a regal creature?" He seems not at all bothered by the appearance. He's grown so used to the severity of the strangeness here, everything and nothing is expected. "Does it have a name?"
He resists his urge to pat it, not yet sure if it would be amicable to that... but oh he does love all manner of creatures.
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He doesn't comment on the spin, though. Mainly because part of him wants to complain about the vanity that goes into such a twirl, but the other part of him appreciates it all the same. Thus he chooses to merely watch him with amusement.
The mention of being an experienced wyvern rider further amuses Emet-Selch. Perhaps a touch more than it should, if only because the idea of a wyvern and a horse occupying the same category of being a mount is...well, the wyverns he knows of are not merely beasts of burden. They are more his equal than the mortals he was in strife with. Well does he know each world has different laws of reality and classification, but he cannot help but be amused all the same.
"I see, well, I would certainly say he's a bit like riding both at once. Particularly when he takes to the air."
As Byleth draws nearer, holding out his hand to be sniffed, Grani stays in his proper stance, otherwise unmoving—until Emet-Selch gives him a nod. The large beast then leans forward to take an inquisitive sniff of Byleth, before standing once more in that proud and poised stance.
Perhaps he's preening at being called regal? It's hard to tell with a creature with such a static face as he has.
"Grani is his name," Emet-Selch answers as he approaches. As he does, Grani lowers himself into a kneel, so too lowering his head, "he was one of my very first concepts. One of my familiars."
With that, he effortlessly mounts him, settling on the saddle, before offering Byleth his hand to take.
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"You made him? He's lovely. I've never seen anything like him before." For what it's worth, Byleth was telling the truth, he sits rather comfortably and with a sense of familiarity and ease that only a very experienced rider would have.
That doesn't stop him leaning back into Emet though, taking a moment to bask in contact and closeness, as he always does.
"For a while I considered having my wyvern here, but now that I can fly myself, it would be redundant. That aside, Beef Stew deserves her rest after everything she faced with me."
Yes, he named her that.
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"I did, aye. He is a bit telling in ways, I suppose." Of his tastes, he means. He certainly has an obvious bias towards more dark and spooky looking creatures. Just lil fucked up looking guys. He likes 'em a lil scary, but still with a regal and commanding air.
Feeling Byleth against him is a little distracting, enough to bring some warmth to his face, and so he nearly doesn't catch the Wyvern's name. When he does, he pauses as he grabs the reins.
"Beef Stew?" The way he says it is so forceful it's like he's expelling the words with the equivalent force of his disbelief at the name.
"Mayhap she does deserve a rest from hearing that name alone."
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"Maybe so. I was never great at naming things, but she seemed happy enough. The night she was assigned to me she ate a whole pot of the stuff while I was turned around for just a moment. It seemed fitting at the time." Ahh yes, Byleth. Naming things after things and activities they like. He'd probably get along with the lopporits in that regard.
Unconsciously he slips a hand down to rest on Emet's thigh as the man takes the reigns and prepares to see them off.
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"Do you normally name things after their favored meal?" He tries to keep his voice measured and unaffected by the hand on his thigh, but between the swell of emotion he feels about the robes, and the proximity of Byleth in multiple ways already has him plenty affected. It's shameful, really, how easily this seems to happen with Byleth.
After a moment, however, he prompts Grani to rise into the air, an easy feat with how the creature is now bounding in speed. A single leap lifts them, and from its caparison does those silk sashes billow and blow outwardly, lengthening to almost absurdly as they do. He levitates with ease, wind lifting them as he carries them through the air towards their destination.
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His thought is interrupted as they take off, and he watches with mild awe as the sashes flow in the wind around them. This man is always full of surprises, novelty, the new and interesting, and Byleth loves that. The hand on his thigh squeezes unconsciously as they lift off. He's used to being in the driver's seat, so to speak, so it is a bit strange to be flying with someone else. He eases back into his relaxed and muted jovial state as they go.
"So you made Grani all by yourself? It's incredible to think about- just drawing something into being. A new animal, entirely unique. I wonder what sorts of things I would make if I had that kind of ability... maybe I'd make a great big cat to ride on."
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He tries to ignore it, because he really ought to be keeping his head clear with what he intends to do on this little date, but it's proving rather difficult. To think something so simple could make him feel this way, even after an eternity...
"I did, aye. My people are responsible for nearly all life on our star, big or small, weak or powerful. I made Grani as a child, and improve him as I better learned to manipulate aether." So he says, but he had a natural born talent for it, really.
"It was our duty to fill it with varied and beneficial species that would perpetuate and preserve its ecological structures. We achieved this through our study and practice of creation magicks, taking great pride in our work and dedication to the care of our world." The way he speaks certainly emphasizes that pride and love. Not only for his people, but for his world, for the star they worked so hard on to make a blossoming paradise for all to enjoy and thrive. Yet there's a tinge of something to his voice, a sadness that weighs the words down, a longing that grips each syllable as if the moment the sound end, so too would that which he speaks of.
"If my creation magic worked as it should, I could make you that cat by extension of your imaginings. Alas, this poor excuse of a world cannot adequately compensate for such ability, and so I must use stamps to slowly unlock aught that is too complex."
Perhaps he might keep that idea in his mind, should he have a few spare stamps sitting around. He can't imagine unlocking the ability to make a cat for Byleth to ride would be too expensive, and with Byleth likely being his partner in getting those stamps, it's...well, he's already done his part to earn it.
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"That's incredible. For everyone to have a place in creating their world. It really does sound like a beautiful place whenever you talk about it. I wish there were some way I could have seen it." He hums to himself in thought, touching a finger to his chin just briefly. "You're already really powerful even here, I can't imagine what it must be like to be at your full potential. Stamps will do. I have to admit- they're fairly fun to obtain, anyways."
He pulls his robes a bit tighter against the wind. He does take a moment to quietly appreciate the atmosphere up here. It is romantic, and he does like the idea of having such a peaceful night out, and then a very peaceful night in after.
To have his curiosity and desire sated in the same evening is an occasion to delight in.
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"It was a paradise." His tone is still settled in that lower register. "I believe you would have liked it. I believe most would. It was not without its flaws, but that is in part what made it perfect."
A seeming contradiction, but it isn't. Not to him. For all his people had their little trivialities and flaws, they ever strove towards a brighter future, one where all might live in that continued harmony, where their contributions, regardless of how small, mattered. Where life was cherished, discovery valued, and creation celebrated. Autonomy was paramount, and such freedom could be trusted.
That cannot be said for mortals, as he has seen time and time again. A grim thought, unwelcome with such a beautiful and romantic view of the city. Sometimes this world makes it easy to forget that it's all a fiction, especially when he has such wonderful company.
"It is strange, I admit, being limited in this way. Not that I am one to eschew restraint, nor one to flaunt power needlessly as that is utterly irresponsible, however having such an innate ability moderated as it is feels unnatural." He sighs and shrugs, there isn't much to be done about it beyond what's been stated.
"But I suppose acquiring the stamps isn't as terrible as it could be." When he says this, he glances to Byleth with an almost playful coyness, before he returns his attention to Grani, directing him to descend until they land before a building. One that looks to be unused, but in fair shape. It's difficult to tell what it's for from the outside, at least.
Grani lowers himself, kneeling as he did earlier to make dismounting no trouble at all.
"Here we are."
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He beams up at him from behind his little mask. He won't push too far, now isn't the time for that, but sharing a moment of conspiratorial flirtation lifts his mood even more.
They land, and he slips off reaching to capture Emet's hand in his own. He's excited to see what this will be like. The relatively plain building outside piques his intrigue even more. Squeezing that apprehended hand, he nods.
"Well then. Shall we?"
This is perfect. Exactly what he wanted. Holding hands! In public! Boyfriends!
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Grani settling down comfortably while they pass the threshold, and it is as if they have walked into a different world entirely. There are no signs of the worn nature of the exterior of the building, instead the open entryway of the building is sprawling and well kept, the architectural styling similar to that of the Hall of Rhetoric, though this looks more like it might be a theatre house than a debate hall.
The intricate detailing in gold with the dark browns and stone grey of the walls certainly make a sight. Though the stain glass windows are truly breathtaking, both in their size and beauty. The care that went into crafting them was not wanting, to say the least, and the results are stunning.
The impressive chandelier that hangs above them is made of glittering crystal, shedding soft light upon them as they make their way across floors of marble. Beyond the artistry of the building, Byleth may take note that they are not alone, and that he is dressed rather appropriately to boot. For there are robed and masked individuals fast at work behind a counter, and when they take notice of the two, they offer a bright smile their mask does not hide as they gesture welcomingly, then motion for the double doors that tower just beyond.
Emet-Selch looks to Byleth, gauging his reaction, watching for every nuance change in expression, or change of focus for his gaze. What he might appreciate most, or what might baffle him.
"Well?"
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"This is..." A lot of things, "So much. It's incredible. You made all this?" The unsaid portion hangs as 'for me', but the look in his eyes visible behind his mask says it all. He's utterly struck by the whole thing. What a grand gesture it all is. His hand tightens on Emet's as he looks back up at him, little else to say for his astonishment.
It's like walking into another world. The shades there make it feel as though he belongs, too. A nice feeling. Belonging somewhere. He remembers when he first felt the notion when he was teaching, and then with Dimitri.
He can't help himself from wanting to look everywhere all at once, his head still swiveling to catch every little detail.
"I'm ah. I'm speechless."
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"Perhaps I did. Not that it matters, but I am glad you approve." He says a bit modestly, as if he rather not dwell on the particulars of the how, but rather focus on what's before them. He does take note of the aw, of how affected Byleth is by this, and it makes his heart swell with affection. That he would appreciate such a silly show of sentiment means a lot, and maybe it makes him feel a little less silly for indulging.
"Good evening, most esteemed Emet-Selch. It is always an honor to see you within our humble theatre house, and what a bold outfit you've chosen to wear...but it is of no moment. Pray come, take your seats! The play will start anon, and we would not have you miss any part of this glorious production. I am certain your most honorable guest will find it quite the moving spectacle, if he is not already familiar, perhaps even if he is!" The theatre attendant who speaks does so in a voice unfamiliar to Byleth, for he never knew this man. Emet-Selch, however, did and so the voice is one his mind could replicate with ease. One such member of Altima's office—advocates of the arts.
"Indeed, well, I usually find this theatre rather agreeable, but would tonight prove different, I wonder? You will speak not of this singular flamboyance, yes? After all, starting rumors about the Convocation is wont to reflect poorly on the gossiper, more than the gossipee." He offers to the illusion, as if electing to be part of the show for Byleth. Playing his own bit part for this whole experience. Nervously, this man nods and bows his head, a little embarrassed by speaking so bolding to a member of the Convocation.
Glancing to his company, a small curl pulling at his shapely lips as he nods towards the door, "shall we? I would hate for you to miss any part of the show."
As if he isn't in complete control of that happening...
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He manages himself though, and he understands. It is for the authenticity of it all. True immersion. He did say he would like to have seen what his home was like, and this is a glimpse into it. He will not put him off of this showmanship. Instead he chooses to play along. He will tease him for this later. When he has him bound and helpless.
As of now, he lifts his chin and tries to put on what he would assume might be the air of Emet-Selch's guest. He nods up to him.
"But of course, my Honorable Emet-Selch. It is my pleasure to be at your side this evening, I wouldn't want to miss a single moment." He's not a terribly good actor, but the sentiment is true to his heart. He is glad to be here, and in this company. He allows Emet to take the lead and show them into the theater proper.
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No pressure.
That Byleth plays along, indulges him as he indulges them both, means much to him in ways he hasn't the words for, and he has words for almost all things. There's a desperation to the details, a love letter to the characters upon this double stage, a homage to his home, at least an aspect of it. Even after an eternity, he remembers it so clearly, remembers each person he's spoken to, each person he's helped or argued with. He wouldn't allow the pain to convince him to forget, that would be the same as if he were the one who took their lives, allowing them to die a second and final time. He would not suffer that.
With Byleth's agreement, he leads him through the large double doors, gesturing with a hand to compel them to open. Beyond them are rows of seats in an impressively large auditorium, which almost looks more like a colosseum than what most might be familiar with theatre stages. The stands are certainly full, or nearly so, quiet chattering is being had between the shades, though whether or not they can be understood is another matter. It's certainly passable chatter, but low and indistinguishable enough that what's being said cannot truly be gleaned.
Or so it seems, because who would actually put that much detail in this to have all of them having their own conversations? Really, who?
As they draw closer to their seats, the conversations do actually become clearer and they are indeed talking about their own little lives. One talking about a new concept they submitted to the Bureau of the Architect, something about a multi-legged shark that is waiting approval. Another couple speaks of their studies under Mitron of the Convocation of Fourteen at Akadaemia Anyder. While others have more banal conversations about daily activities or conversations they had with colleagues.
Though as Emet-Selch approaches and steps past them to get to their seats near the front of the auditorium, the conversations hush as wide eyes behind those masks glue to him, whisperings among them quickly turn to wondering if that's Emet-Selch, and some few comment on his choice of clothing. Some seem surprised yet impressed by the boldness, some few criticize the slipping integrity of the Convocation, if this is how they are to conduct themselves in a public venue.
He ignores it all as he finds their seats, gesturing for Byleth to take his and Emet-Selch is soon to follow as he sits besides him, waiting for the large circular curtain that hides the stage to rise.
"Never you mind their chattering, 'tis but an Amaurotian pastime to gossip, and I am performing a rather flagrant social taboo."
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He sits, once again, apprehending Emet's hand to fold between his own.
"Were I not on my best behavior I'd give them something really interesting to chatter about." He says, his voice warm with humor and mischief. "Shucking the social rules just for me though... I'm quite flattered. Though I think perhaps I may get distracted looking at your handsome face instead of the play."
He does however, turn his attention to the stage. His hands idly playing with Emet's, moving his fingers, rubbing, or tracing little patterns into his palm. It's all slow and slight enough to not be annoying, not be too distracting.
As a hush falls over the crowd of shades, Byleth leans himself just slightly against his shoulder. Just enough to allow his warmth to be pleasantly felt. This? This is lovely. He allows himself to settle into this play within a play, relaxing his mind into a comfortable fuzzy state where he can just imagine everything is real.
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To bear the yoke of the duty he was forced to was a horror nearly without end, but only one beaten by the loss of paradise and its people. By his failure to them, and such failure will be carried with him until the Underworld consumes him completely.
"I do not dispense of social rules lightly, though perhaps it would be best if I don my mask? I cannot have you distracted from the spectacle, now can I?" He says with a slight smile, his golden eyes fixating on their hands. He flexes his fingers slightly, giving Byleth's own a light squeeze, then easing the grip to better accommodate whatever fiddling he chooses to do with his hand at any given moment.
His attention is grabbed similarly as a hush falls over the crowd, and the lighting in the room notably dims. The usual queue that the show is about to begin. Similarly, a scent wafts through the theatre, that of flowers and a field, the fresh smell of pollen as if you were laying in a field of flowers yourself. Then the reason becomes clear: as the red curtain rises, the stage is that of an expansive field, with real blades of grass blowing in the wind. The light in the room beams down upon the stage replicating with the authenticity of natural rays of sunlight while the actors—dressed in simple tunics which have the slightest suggestion of proto-Amaurotian styling and notably without masks—lay upon the field, gazing to the illusionary sky above them.
Truly, should Byleth look to the ceiling, he will see a blue sky, puffy clouds slowly floating by as if they had simply removed the roof of the building. They haven't, but when you are a race of people with impressive and boundless magical ability, why wouldn't you use that for an immersive theatrical performance?
Doubly so, in Emet-Selch's case.
As the play goes on, the stage will continue to shift with each lowering of the curtain, the story being of a time before Amaurot, before the Convocation, though whether or not this is purely theorized fiction or historical account is hard to say. Especially for someone unfamiliar with Emet-Selch's world and its history.
Through its characters it tells of a man from humble beginnings, who through his hard work and dedication does he create a most beautiful concept, the crowning jewel of his life's work, though this concept is left a mystery. Regardless, as the populace learns of this humble creator's supposed brilliant design, it becomes coveted by all, especially so when the man refuses to allow others to replicate it, let alone see it (the audience gasps at such bold selfishness). He does not allow even the audience this glimpse.
For it is his, and his alone.
Such scarcity gives rise to further conflict, and the greed of this man and the envy of others brings strife among the cast of characters, such avarice breeds distrust and the yearning for this secret treasure likewise breeds discord. Yet the man refuses to give up that which belongs to him and no one else. Those who wish to have this marvel are a slave to their endless curiosity and insatiable desire both. Going so far as attempting to steal it, or harm him for it, but he successfully gets away with cleverness each time, growing more and more stubborn and possessive of his creation all the while.
As with all tragedies, there is an element of loss. That with the protagonist's obsession with protecting his creation from all, he has let slip the love of his life, a man he has known since those simple days in the field. When they were but boys without a care in the world, without such grand aspirations or worry. A man, whom of which, has stood ever by his side during all of this, whom he should cherish beyond his creation and yet does not. Cannot, for he has allowed his greed and pride to possess him, losing track of what truly matters. Thus with it his greatest love deserts him to his singular passion, the man bereft and mournful, yet pragmatic in his decision to leave his lost friend and love to an isolation of his own making. To an obsession that has ursurped him from his rightful place within his beating heart, their love never coming to the actualization that the accursed creation has.
As the story ends, it is with the protagonist—Moneta—standing alone on the stage reciting a soliloquy of his regret, of the love he once held for this spark of brilliance that was his, but the cost was too steep: the loss of his true love, of friends, and peers alike. He looks mournfully at the crystal in his hand, that which holds not only the singular concept matrix but so much grief and sorrow. A reminder of his folly, of his greed, of everything he could have had if not for this...
Then he allows it to roll out of his hand, the crystal dispersing into nothingness, dissipating, and in a single moment the crux of conflict, the root of his damning fixation, is no more.
Then the room goes dark as the curtain falls and silence fills the auditorium.
Emet-Selch all the while, who has seen this play enough times to memorize it and all its moralistic tragedy, enough to put on this illusion by that memory alone, is enraptured. Whether or not that is part of the act to sell the immersion, or if this is truly genuine, it is impossible to tell. His eyes fixated on the play, though during certain parts he does steal a glance or two from at Byleth, to gauge his reactions, to see how he might be enjoying the play.
As the curtain rises again, the stage holds the cast, still costumed as their characters, giving respectful bows as the audience gives just as respectful applause. It might seem understated compared to how mortals might cheer, but Amaurotines are reserved people, and the energy in the room is still that of excitement and passion, even if it's not unbearably loud.
With his attention thus spared, Emet-Selch looks to Byleth with a soft, genuine smile, his eyebrows raised as if to ask "What did you think?"
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Despite his quip, his eyes rarely leave the stage, and even his fidgeting quiets after some time. The story is a classic tragedy. He's read them, and been read them by his father before. They follow a formula, and he is pleased to see that some literary devices do seem to be universally appreciated. The morals are quite clear and perhaps a bit on the nose, but the cliché is cliché for a reason- it works. The story is still good, and it leaves Byleth with a sense of fulfillment when the curtain falls.
He looks up, when Emet asks him, and for a moment he is caught staring. What a smile it is. It sends a shiver through him, a glimpse at that genuine happiness at least for a moment, for a man so dour. His eyes flutter as he extracts himself, and he places his hand to his chin to think.
"I quite enjoyed it. The tragedy of losing appreciation for what you have, the tangible, in lieu of the ideal. Intangible, yet to exist, yet to be realized, and in the end, never to become. The sets were like nothing I've ever seen. Though most of your world is nothing I've ever seen before, so I suppose that's moot. But still- it was incredible." He hums. "I know how these kinds of stories are, but I admit I was still rooting for him to abandon his pride and take his would-be lover into his arms. You know... ride off into the sunset. But I suppose that would have been less effective storytelling." There's the look on his face that says 'but still', because he really is a romantic.
"I suppose I will just have to take you into my arms and ride off into the sunset instead." He says this as a whisper, mindful of the still applauding crowd. Even then, he leans in, pushing his mask up just enough to allow him to steal a kiss, hidden by the long sleeve of his robes.
"Thank you for this. It was incredible."
By the Goddess he is going to make this man scream tonight.
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Byleth's hope for a happy ending is...cute, if a little childish, but perhaps he too wished that the protagonist might have thought better on his actions, that he might have realized sooner the mistakes he made, before he was left with nothing. Not even the coveted concept which had cost him everything. Yet, that would cheapen the message, he believes, and to the Amaurotines in the audience, they would be left without the ache in their bosoms they were promised.
Of a loss mundane enough to be real, to make them think better of their own self-serving aspirations. Of the loves they might be taking for granted. That Byleth would then turn this into sweeping Emet-Selch away, inspired by the play no doubt, furthers the warmth that radiates from his chest.
As Byleth lifts his mask to kiss Emet-Selch, he feels his heart flutter a bit, allowing himself to be lost in the performance he himself is at the center of. The modesty of the robe covering them sets him into that Amaurotine mindset, the way embarrassment creeps up his neck and warms his face, knowing full well that the robe does nothing to truly hide what's happening.
Eyes are upon them as they break the kiss, and Byleth thanks him. The actors have receeded from the stage, and the lighting returns to the dim, warm glow as before, but that's enough to allow those around them to gawk at such a display.
One audience member grunts in disapproval, some few others begin to whisper in hushed tones, while some few others question whether that really is the Esteemed Emet-Selch. At least the audience members further away are beginning to empty out, but those around them seen pretty keen on staying put and seeing whatever juice gossip fodder they can get their peering eyes on.
"...Mayhap it would indeed be best that you did just that, for now it is we with the audience. Shall we exit this stage of our own making?"
As much as he may be into the whole public humiliation thing, if Byleth is to make him scream, he much rather do so when he isn't also maintaining such a grand illusion! Things might get a little...weird.
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"I think that's a fine idea."
As they do file out, Byleth's mind is split between pondering the play and thinking about what's to come next. Thinking on the whole experience, every little detail and minutia so carefully placed, and the reminder that Emet really did create all of that. Illusion though it may be, it was an impressive one. Incredible.
That is still contending with the thought of this man bound up so lovely in bed, trembling under his touch. What sweet sounds he'll make, and the kinds of expressions that will pass over his face.
The moment they are outside however, he does take the chance to wrap him up in a deeper kiss, something more needing and heated. When he breaks it, he's a bit out of breath himself. An expression of clear desire even through his mask.
"Shall we, then?"
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Maybe that's a backhanded compliment? That Emet-Selch made towards himself? Don't think too hard about it.
Either way, once they are out of the building, the magic that maintains the illusion dissipates, leaving the inside of the building dusty and empty. A far cry from the wondrous splendor it was just a moment ago. Not that it matters, when Byleth pulls Emet into that kiss, and he fully allows himself to indulge in it, kissing him back with a similar fervor, lacking the usual restraint he ordinarily has.
Grani stares at them. Silently. Waiting.
Once the kiss breaks, Emet-Selch glances towards Grani, trying to recapture his restraint again, though he's likewise a little breathless from the kiss.
"Yes, shall we return to your abode or mine?" He's trying really hard to act like he doesn't have the same desire that's in Byleth's expression dripping from his own voice. He's so emotionally charged at the moment, so romantically fulfilled he can barely stand it. The heat to his cheeks and ears betrays his attempts to remain subtle about it almost as much as his voice.
Or if one were to be so inclined to peer below his waist, despite the layers of fabric, one might notice just how his excitement is beginning to manifest. He doesn't seem to notice, or he's trying to silently will it under control. Who knows!
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