"Oh, you have given me plenty." He retorts quickly. Even with that last bit he said merely pads the conclusion he's been building from what Dirk has sprinkled through his narrow-minded understanding of self expression and gender.
"But, if this isn't a direct result of heteronormative expectation being foisted upon you by someone you respect and love, therefore feeling a greater sense of obligation towards that which stands counter to your very core, thus your revulsion to aught that reminds you of such an emotionally traumatic experience where loyalty to yourself and your friend collided—then I cannot help but wonder if my more feminine and flamboyant expression has seeded an irrational fear within you."
He takes a moment, because all of that was spoken in a single breath. Quickly and efficiently. The next part he asks more slowly, deliberate, and not at all dismissive.
"Are you worried I wish to have a child with you? Is it because I have had children before?"
He knows this isn't it, but he has to make Dirk shoot down what it isn't, or else they'll never get anywhere.
Emet starts talking, and Dirk is reminded of a third character who thought--wrongly--that they could undo him with a bunch of words, if only they were right enough.
MSPAR. This is pretty much exactly like the dressing-down that MSPAR tried to give him back in his own goddamn route, only with an added layer of contentiousness that Emet is framing as...
...uh. Wait. What?
Dirk's left brow inches inward towards the midline, furrowing. His original plan, which was just to wait for Emet to stop talking and blow him off regardless of what was said, is blasted to scrap in grand high speed train-hitting-a-schoolbus fashion.
"I wasn't worried about that until this exact second. Is this what I should be worrying about now? You want a repeat, but this time no one dies?"
The simple fact of near-endless repetition in Dirk's reality, his selves, his tragedies, often blinds him to the unique kinds of pain he may be inflicting or resurrecting. But this time, perhaps it's just the fact that for all his millions of selves and splinters, he's never lost anyone the way Emet has.
Later, he may regret those words. But in the moment, it seems no more barbed than anything Emet has said to him.
His jaw sets tightly in place as he hears those words. He hates how sensitive he is about all that--still, after all these years.
Still after he had admonished himself for such weakness. For caring about that fragile and feeble mortal. What folly it had been to open his heart to them.
Still after he had tried to convince himself that the man was not his son, but merely that of his body's...
Still his heart aches for that boy who had finally given him hope, yet was claimed far too soon...
There's a sadness that flashes in his all-too-golden eyes, his gaze darting away from Dirk as he tries to stifle that painful tension in his chest. He can tell that Dirk had not said it to harm--it's obvious when he's on the attack--but intentions never softened blows nor dulled blades.
Intentions didn't heal wounds.
"...Nay." He finally manages, his gaze still not on Dirk nor anyone for that matter. With a blink it returns to Dirk, his entire aura has shifted to something far more somber.
It's a ricochet Dirk is all too familiar with--the reflected hurt of a blow he didn't even realise he was about to strike until he saw it land, recognising the damage he does always too late to stop, definitely too late to put his guard up against the inevitable return as the consequences come home to roost, burying filthy beaks in his rotten heart.
Cool. Great. Well, that's the curtain close.
The silence hangs over them for a few seconds. Sombre and heavy with the weight of grief, or at least regret.
He turns to Hythlodaeus, on the bed. He's still sharp, pointed in ways that refuse to be handled, but the exhaustion hangs in his shoulders as he points to their naked third wheel.
"You could ask him to remove the dress as it is not sewn in, I don't think. Or you could be honest about why you started this fight since it did seem like he got pretty close. Or you could just apologize for hurting his feelings for no very good reason," he eats one more grape as he sets all of it aside.
He remains lounging as he gestures between them and to the bed.
"Actually those are all excellent ideas. Do that in this order. Apologize, tell him that his dissection of the truth was pretty close, then you can either correct him or allow it to lay, and then you ask him to come to bed with you and take off the dress. Whatever you do, don't leave it right there for goodness sake. This whole scene turned dreadful."
Dirk doesn't laugh, but he huffs the breath out of his lungs through his nose in a way that definitely resembles laughter, even if the lack of corresponding expression on his face makes for a humourless delivery.
"Nah. But he was close. A younger, more desperate version of me would have taken that bait, for sure." He glances at Emet, sideways, his view split by the sharp edge of his angular shades.
"Maybe it's a thing requiring a more authentic mortal experience to understand."
"He was close, was he? Perhaps you would care to enlighten us all. Or," he says with emphasis. He shrugs a shoulder as he finger combs the hair over it.
"Think of it this way, then. How would you like your evening to pan out? In lover's arms and quiet conversation... or, this?" he gestures to the physical and metaphorical space between Dirk and Emet-Selch. He bows his head slightly. His voice takes on a playful tone and cadence.
"Come sit, Hades, and I will help you with your bodice. How ever did you get into that garment by yourself?"
Indeed, he's been given enough of an indication he was right. That Dirk didn't outright deny it is more of a yes than it is a true maybe. However, he's thoroughly exhausted and finding himself a bit more emotionally frayed than he would ordinarily.
So at Hythlodaeus' offer to help him out of his dress, there's an odd sense of relief that comes with it. That they can put a pin in this, that Hythlodaeus isn't rejecting Dirk despite this, that they might yet indulge in something affectionate at the end of this terrible night.
He offers his hand to Dirk, a gesture to include him. To show him that even if he goes to Hythlodaeus, Dirk isn't being left behind, even with the hurt still fresh in his eyes.
"Come, let us enjoy the rest of the evening."
But then he looks to Hythlodaeus to answer his question, "the yamask are ever dedicated helpers. You will soon see."
Really, from a narrative standpoint, Dirk has divbulged and conceded all he'd ever need to; still, he can't help but shake the feeling that this isn't over.
Which sucks, because even as the ostensible 'victor,' he would really like it to be.
This isn't what he'd wanted. Nevermind what he'd expected, not spending more of his night like this is a fucking compelling suggestion, even before Emet extends his hand. He releases a sigh, the casual aggression in his posture relenting almost immediately.
"Yeah. I've had enough. But I can tell when I've overstayed my welcome, so you two have fun."
Emet's brow furrows, and for all he might be tired and exhausted, he is not so much that he cannot swiftly put himself between Dirk and the door.
"I believe that is for us to decide. Hythlodaeus and myself wish for you to stay, I implore that you do. Let us not end this night on such a low note. Will you do this for me?"
Maybe it's low to frame it like that, downright manipulative, but if Dirk refuses to be reasonable, then Emet will return in kind.
Dirk blinks a couple of times behind his shades as Emet cuts him off, the corners of his mouth turning down as Emet entreats him in that soft, sad way.
He still hesitates, though not for any doubt in Emet's sincerity.
"You sure that's what you want?"
He glances at Hythlodaeus as he asks--the fact that this one is an entire separate person from Emet is something he can't exactly forget.
There are two wolves inside of Hythlodaeus. One of them wants to tell Dirk to get a grip, take a walk around the premises. But it's clear how much Emet-Selch wants him.
And although he is a separate entity, he had never stopped being obsessed with Emet-Selch regardless. And he can read a situation, or at least what would be advantageous for his beau.
"Of course I do."
For all that he loved to antagonize Hades, he was by far the more agreeable man.
Dirk manages not to look surprised by this outcome. He also manages not to look smug. He doesn't really look any particular way--except that he looks at Emet one more time, establishing one final layer of certainty before he steps back from the door, a single half-step towards the bed.
Hythlodaeus might have two wolves; Dirk just has more Dirks. A certain majority wanted this, wanted to just settle down and set this aside, preferably forever but at least for now. A second majority, however, was in agreement with Hythlodaeus. Leave now, take a walk. Get a grip; cement your victory; establish your self-sovereignty; D, all of the above. To some extent, putting the decision in someone else's hands was the only guaranteed outcome. Especially with outliers, like the conceptually exhausting but cruelly practical impulse to push his advantage, really ruin the subject as a vallation against any future attempts on his adolescent baggage.
That gesture, though small, is a lot. It certainly eases some of the tension in his chest, that at the very least, has lessened. A sign that the conflict might be at an end, even if only for now.
Once again, Emet offers his hand to Dirk. The half step is a nice first step, even if only half of one, but he needs a little more evidence that he won't simply leave the moment he steps away from that door. A concession of sorts, a deeper assurance. Though, he cannot help but chastise himself privately for having any such need at all, for allowing himself to ever fall to such a low to be this vulnerable. To let himself be impacted by such small and otherwise insignificant gestures.
Maybe he's just too old to be doing those all nighters, especially with this body of his. How pathetic that it would affect him this way.
Dirk stares at the proffered hand for a beat. Two beats. It's almost three by the time he reaches out and plants his hand in Emet's, calloused palm flush with Emet's significantly more well-treated one. Or. Flush except for the fingerless leather glove, which at least spares Emet contact with that rough, dry skin except where Dirk's fingers close over his hand.
It's a forcibly modern, almost bro-code reciprocation to a tender, genteel gesture, but if nothing else, it's unhesitatingly sincere.
As he does this, Dirk catches himself wondering if he's supposed to hold Emet's hand all the way to the bed. That would be weird, right?
Oh, he is absolutely going to hold Emet's hand the whole way there, if the way he entwines their fingers with a firm grip says anything. There's almost something Lord and Lady about it, except Emet has done Dirk the service of keeping his body language a touch more masculine so that it does not seem as overtly that.
With Emet taking the lead, he brings them to the bed, and—as Hythlodaeus had requested before—he sits on the edge of the bed so that he may unfasten his dress.
With a firm squeeze, he releases Dirk, and pats the bed besides him.
And unfasten he does. With his legs tucked beneath him and his ass slightly raised, he undoes every hook and eye until Hythlodaeus' fingernails just brush Hades' lower back.
His eyes slide to Dirk's little ensemble as he looks for a point of egress in all that fashion choice.
Dirk didn't really follow his instructions, but he sort of knew he wouldn't anyway. It was fine, he would speak to Emet later about Dirk's true suitability. Such anger in such a small package.
Emet's choice of dress (literal) gives the walk a strange vibe, one only slightly mitigated by the strength of his grip and the length of his stride. It's one that reminds Dirk vividly of his adolescence in more ways than one. A few adolescences, actually, from the one spent as a pair of glasses erping Roxy's lonely Adam and Eve fantasies, down to the finest age-inappropriate detail to one spent running through toxic fog, hand in hand with a boy he really did believe wouldn't break his heart. Even the hazy days of 1990-whatever, when he was still beholden to no one and nothing except himself, his pal Cal, and a purpose yet to descend from the literal heavens.
It kind of makes his skin crawl? Not just with the stomach-churning kind of nostalgia, but with embarrassment and discomfort. This is, undeniably, extremely awkward. Sitting slightly apart on the side of the bed, he lets Hythlodaeus undo the multiple unseen latches on Emet's dress and starts unsnapping the dozens of little brass studs on either side of his breast. There are a lot of them. Steampunk aesthetic is extremely impractical unless you too want to die like Franz Ferdinand, being cut out of your own clothes for lack of a way in.
Emet takes little joy in making Dirk suffer in any regard, even in ways that does not truly invoke pain. He feels how awkward this is, and he isn't immune to the feeling himself, however he's also quite used to such ignominy, thus he is quite capable of ignoring it. However, he knows that Dirk is not quite the same, and for all he might have suffered humiliation time and again, he would not wager it helped him build up a true resistance to it.
While he does not take joy in Dirk's suffering of this awkward scenario, but he knows he deserves it on some level and so he's more at peace with it than he might otherwise be. Under no delusion that this will actually truly teach the lesson it should, it might help nudge him in the right direction all the same. Or rather, Emet will be sure to make it happen.
Free of his dress's clasps, he gently peels the form-fitting gown off of him, before standing to remove it completely. He's left in knee-high leather boots and a pair of black bikini style men's underwear. Not quite as feminine as they could have been, but not near as masculine as Dirk might have liked. As he goes to remove his boots, his attention falls to Dirk and his own struggles to remove his costume.
"Allow me to assist you, my dear."
He beckons with a hand and a smile. Though Dirk might deserve to suffer this cumbrous situation, he need not be cruel nor make it worse by denying him aid in relieving himself of such a difficult outfit.
Little mister gigglepuss over here does have to hold it in when it comes to Dirk trying to get out of whatever he's in here. He can't imagine that someone like Dirk will appreciate the help, but he's willing to be surprised tonight.
He manages to survive the riveting quiet a little longer by ogling Emet-Selch's little bikini briefs. He turns to watch Dirk openly, curious to see what he packed in under all that leather. He reaches for him as well, curious if Dirk will reject his advance. Mostly he wonders if what Dirk is wearing would be considered acceptable in most places. It's awfully revealing, but he's one to talk. That is a mindset that will take a while to break.
When was the last time he even wore something that wasn't a communal robe? Besides tonight, of course.
"Is this thing comfortable?"
Because the dress he was wearing? Exemplary. So comfortable it blew his mind. He'd have to find more chiffon.
Dirk does hesitate at Emet's offer; the stubborn streak in him (not much of a streak, it's more like an MS Paint bucket fill) and the part that wants to retain even a trace of his own dignity balk at the ignominy of scooting over to let another person unbutton him out of his own aesthetically onerous costume. Common sense tells him that sitting by himself and continuing to unfix snap after snap well after everyone else is done, however, may not be much better. Even if it is more in keeping with the character he's established.
But... well, he could at least concede this much to Emet, he guesses.
Wordlessly, and without much expression, he shifts within Emet's reach, only turning his head to Hythlodaeus once he's there.
"....s'not supposed to be." Which is pretty much all the answer that question needs. He sewed a soft, moisture-wicking liner into it to try and mitigate how sweaty he can get and also prevent chafing at points of motion (or just his nipples), but it's still not made for comfort. He'll be glad to get out of it.
Restraining the laugh that bubbles up in his throat is no simple task, but the delivery of Dirk's retort is nothing short of amusing. There's such a pouting child feel to it that cuts the tension for Emet in a way that nothing else has since the start of this whole situation.
Through what remains of his self control, frayed as it is with his lack of sleep, he merely smiles. Smiles, and goes to work helping Dirk out of it, noting the dedication he put into protecting his more sensitive parts. Something he took note of before, but he's charmed by the reminder.
"Yes, comfort is a luxury when it comes to costuming, and with so little time ere the contest, 'twasn't one easily afforded."
Were Dirk a more...aromatic man, the sweat trapped in the suit might have been a bit more potent, but fortunately for all involved, his ripeness is hardly worth noticing.
Hythlodaeus goes to unbutton the other side, pausing and pulling his his back as he touches some major sweat soaked cotton.
"Oh dear. You're awfully clammy under there, aren't you?" He manages not to grimace, though he stands instead of touching another button.
"I'll fetch you a warm washcloth," he says as if someone asked for a volunteer. He gets up quickly and heads to the en suite, looking for a non-decorative and non-monogrammed towel. He finds one at last and returns, holding it out for Emet to use at his discretion.
Dirk, meanwhile, has to resist a degree of annoyance that Hythlodaeusw would be so precious over something so overtly unremarkable; he is aware, of course, that his own sweatiness lacks a certain potency compared to Emet's or Hythlodaeus' own, which makes Hythlodaeus' reaction potentially somewhat insulting. Dirk isn't that delicate, or at least not that kind of delicate, so mostly this manifests as a feeling more akin to contempt.
"Really?" he starts with a drawl, although Hythlodaeus is already up and wandering off quickly. Dirk glances at Emet while he's gone; he takes just long enough for Dirk to be able peel the rest of the leather-and-cloth off his arms and torso before he returns.
"You didn't have to help if you didn't actually want to." Yes, he was saving that for Hythlodaeus to get back, and yes, he does notice that Hythlodaeus gives the towel to Emet and not to him.
A far cry from his shade's penchant for applying it directly to Dirk's body without warning or invitation.
Honestly, he wasn't expecting Hythlodaeus to care this much about Dirk's sweaty body. Well, he isn't making a big deal about it, not really, but it's still more than he expected. He assumed Dirk would likely take a shower, and he and Hythlodaeus could spend a little time together while Dirk allowed himself to do the closest thing he ever does to meditating.
It'd do them all some good, without Dirk leaving for the evening.
All the same, he shrugs at Dirk's single worded question, but then takes the cloth once it's handed to him. Silently he aims to tenderly wipe Dirk down--but hesitates at Dirk's comment. Not for long, deciding to let them talk as he towels down Dirk's sweat-slicked body.
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"But, if this isn't a direct result of heteronormative expectation being foisted upon you by someone you respect and love, therefore feeling a greater sense of obligation towards that which stands counter to your very core, thus your revulsion to aught that reminds you of such an emotionally traumatic experience where loyalty to yourself and your friend collided—then I cannot help but wonder if my more feminine and flamboyant expression has seeded an irrational fear within you."
He takes a moment, because all of that was spoken in a single breath. Quickly and efficiently. The next part he asks more slowly, deliberate, and not at all dismissive.
"Are you worried I wish to have a child with you? Is it because I have had children before?"
He knows this isn't it, but he has to make Dirk shoot down what it isn't, or else they'll never get anywhere.
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MSPAR. This is pretty much exactly like the dressing-down that MSPAR tried to give him back in his own goddamn route, only with an added layer of contentiousness that Emet is framing as...
...uh. Wait. What?
Dirk's left brow inches inward towards the midline, furrowing. His original plan, which was just to wait for Emet to stop talking and blow him off regardless of what was said, is blasted to scrap in grand high speed train-hitting-a-schoolbus fashion.
"I wasn't worried about that until this exact second. Is this what I should be worrying about now? You want a repeat, but this time no one dies?"
The simple fact of near-endless repetition in Dirk's reality, his selves, his tragedies, often blinds him to the unique kinds of pain he may be inflicting or resurrecting. But this time, perhaps it's just the fact that for all his millions of selves and splinters, he's never lost anyone the way Emet has.
Later, he may regret those words. But in the moment, it seems no more barbed than anything Emet has said to him.
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Still after he had admonished himself for such weakness. For caring about that fragile and feeble mortal. What folly it had been to open his heart to them.
Still after he had tried to convince himself that the man was not his son, but merely that of his body's...
Still his heart aches for that boy who had finally given him hope, yet was claimed far too soon...
There's a sadness that flashes in his all-too-golden eyes, his gaze darting away from Dirk as he tries to stifle that painful tension in his chest. He can tell that Dirk had not said it to harm--it's obvious when he's on the attack--but intentions never softened blows nor dulled blades.
Intentions didn't heal wounds.
"...Nay." He finally manages, his gaze still not on Dirk nor anyone for that matter. With a blink it returns to Dirk, his entire aura has shifted to something far more somber.
"I have no desire to make that mistake again."
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Cool. Great. Well, that's the curtain close.
The silence hangs over them for a few seconds. Sombre and heavy with the weight of grief, or at least regret.
He turns to Hythlodaeus, on the bed. He's still sharp, pointed in ways that refuse to be handled, but the exhaustion hangs in his shoulders as he points to their naked third wheel.
"What about you? Got any bright ideas?"
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He remains lounging as he gestures between them and to the bed.
"Actually those are all excellent ideas. Do that in this order. Apologize, tell him that his dissection of the truth was pretty close, then you can either correct him or allow it to lay, and then you ask him to come to bed with you and take off the dress. Whatever you do, don't leave it right there for goodness sake. This whole scene turned dreadful."
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"Nah. But he was close. A younger, more desperate version of me would have taken that bait, for sure." He glances at Emet, sideways, his view split by the sharp edge of his angular shades.
"Maybe it's a thing requiring a more authentic mortal experience to understand."
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"Think of it this way, then. How would you like your evening to pan out? In lover's arms and quiet conversation... or, this?" he gestures to the physical and metaphorical space between Dirk and Emet-Selch. He bows his head slightly. His voice takes on a playful tone and cadence.
"Come sit, Hades, and I will help you with your bodice. How ever did you get into that garment by yourself?"
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So at Hythlodaeus' offer to help him out of his dress, there's an odd sense of relief that comes with it. That they can put a pin in this, that Hythlodaeus isn't rejecting Dirk despite this, that they might yet indulge in something affectionate at the end of this terrible night.
He offers his hand to Dirk, a gesture to include him. To show him that even if he goes to Hythlodaeus, Dirk isn't being left behind, even with the hurt still fresh in his eyes.
"Come, let us enjoy the rest of the evening."
But then he looks to Hythlodaeus to answer his question, "the yamask are ever dedicated helpers. You will soon see."
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Which sucks, because even as the ostensible 'victor,' he would really like it to be.
This isn't what he'd wanted. Nevermind what he'd expected, not spending more of his night like this is a fucking compelling suggestion, even before Emet extends his hand. He releases a sigh, the casual aggression in his posture relenting almost immediately.
"Yeah. I've had enough. But I can tell when I've overstayed my welcome, so you two have fun."
Yes, he is just going to try to leave.
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"I believe that is for us to decide. Hythlodaeus and myself wish for you to stay, I implore that you do. Let us not end this night on such a low note. Will you do this for me?"
Maybe it's low to frame it like that, downright manipulative, but if Dirk refuses to be reasonable, then Emet will return in kind.
"Please."
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He still hesitates, though not for any doubt in Emet's sincerity.
"You sure that's what you want?"
He glances at Hythlodaeus as he asks--the fact that this one is an entire separate person from Emet is something he can't exactly forget.
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And although he is a separate entity, he had never stopped being obsessed with Emet-Selch regardless. And he can read a situation, or at least what would be advantageous for his beau.
"Of course I do."
For all that he loved to antagonize Hades, he was by far the more agreeable man.
"So you will come sit, won't you?"
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Hythlodaeus might have two wolves; Dirk just has more Dirks. A certain majority wanted this, wanted to just settle down and set this aside, preferably forever but at least for now. A second majority, however, was in agreement with Hythlodaeus. Leave now, take a walk. Get a grip; cement your victory; establish your self-sovereignty; D, all of the above. To some extent, putting the decision in someone else's hands was the only guaranteed outcome. Especially with outliers, like the conceptually exhausting but cruelly practical impulse to push his advantage, really ruin the subject as a vallation against any future attempts on his adolescent baggage.
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Once again, Emet offers his hand to Dirk. The half step is a nice first step, even if only half of one, but he needs a little more evidence that he won't simply leave the moment he steps away from that door. A concession of sorts, a deeper assurance. Though, he cannot help but chastise himself privately for having any such need at all, for allowing himself to ever fall to such a low to be this vulnerable. To let himself be impacted by such small and otherwise insignificant gestures.
Maybe he's just too old to be doing those all nighters, especially with this body of his. How pathetic that it would affect him this way.
"Come."
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It's a forcibly modern, almost bro-code reciprocation to a tender, genteel gesture, but if nothing else, it's unhesitatingly sincere.
As he does this, Dirk catches himself wondering if he's supposed to hold Emet's hand all the way to the bed. That would be weird, right?
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With Emet taking the lead, he brings them to the bed, and—as Hythlodaeus had requested before—he sits on the edge of the bed so that he may unfasten his dress.
With a firm squeeze, he releases Dirk, and pats the bed besides him.
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His eyes slide to Dirk's little ensemble as he looks for a point of egress in all that fashion choice.
Dirk didn't really follow his instructions, but he sort of knew he wouldn't anyway. It was fine, he would speak to Emet later about Dirk's true suitability. Such anger in such a small package.
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It kind of makes his skin crawl? Not just with the stomach-churning kind of nostalgia, but with embarrassment and discomfort. This is, undeniably, extremely awkward. Sitting slightly apart on the side of the bed, he lets Hythlodaeus undo the multiple unseen latches on Emet's dress and starts unsnapping the dozens of little brass studs on either side of his breast. There are a lot of them. Steampunk aesthetic is extremely impractical unless you too want to die like Franz Ferdinand, being cut out of your own clothes for lack of a way in.
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While he does not take joy in Dirk's suffering of this awkward scenario, but he knows he deserves it on some level and so he's more at peace with it than he might otherwise be. Under no delusion that this will actually truly teach the lesson it should, it might help nudge him in the right direction all the same. Or rather, Emet will be sure to make it happen.
Free of his dress's clasps, he gently peels the form-fitting gown off of him, before standing to remove it completely. He's left in knee-high leather boots and a pair of black bikini style men's underwear. Not quite as feminine as they could have been, but not near as masculine as Dirk might have liked. As he goes to remove his boots, his attention falls to Dirk and his own struggles to remove his costume.
"Allow me to assist you, my dear."
He beckons with a hand and a smile. Though Dirk might deserve to suffer this cumbrous situation, he need not be cruel nor make it worse by denying him aid in relieving himself of such a difficult outfit.
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He manages to survive the riveting quiet a little longer by ogling Emet-Selch's little bikini briefs. He turns to watch Dirk openly, curious to see what he packed in under all that leather. He reaches for him as well, curious if Dirk will reject his advance. Mostly he wonders if what Dirk is wearing would be considered acceptable in most places. It's awfully revealing, but he's one to talk. That is a mindset that will take a while to break.
When was the last time he even wore something that wasn't a communal robe? Besides tonight, of course.
"Is this thing comfortable?"
Because the dress he was wearing? Exemplary. So comfortable it blew his mind. He'd have to find more chiffon.
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But... well, he could at least concede this much to Emet, he guesses.
Wordlessly, and without much expression, he shifts within Emet's reach, only turning his head to Hythlodaeus once he's there.
"....s'not supposed to be." Which is pretty much all the answer that question needs. He sewed a soft, moisture-wicking liner into it to try and mitigate how sweaty he can get and also prevent chafing at points of motion (or just his nipples), but it's still not made for comfort. He'll be glad to get out of it.
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Through what remains of his self control, frayed as it is with his lack of sleep, he merely smiles. Smiles, and goes to work helping Dirk out of it, noting the dedication he put into protecting his more sensitive parts. Something he took note of before, but he's charmed by the reminder.
"Yes, comfort is a luxury when it comes to costuming, and with so little time ere the contest, 'twasn't one easily afforded."
Were Dirk a more...aromatic man, the sweat trapped in the suit might have been a bit more potent, but fortunately for all involved, his ripeness is hardly worth noticing.
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"Oh dear. You're awfully clammy under there, aren't you?" He manages not to grimace, though he stands instead of touching another button.
"I'll fetch you a warm washcloth," he says as if someone asked for a volunteer. He gets up quickly and heads to the en suite, looking for a non-decorative and non-monogrammed towel. He finds one at last and returns, holding it out for Emet to use at his discretion.
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"Really?" he starts with a drawl, although Hythlodaeus is already up and wandering off quickly. Dirk glances at Emet while he's gone; he takes just long enough for Dirk to be able peel the rest of the leather-and-cloth off his arms and torso before he returns.
"You didn't have to help if you didn't actually want to." Yes, he was saving that for Hythlodaeus to get back, and yes, he does notice that Hythlodaeus gives the towel to Emet and not to him.
A far cry from his shade's penchant for applying it directly to Dirk's body without warning or invitation.
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It'd do them all some good, without Dirk leaving for the evening.
All the same, he shrugs at Dirk's single worded question, but then takes the cloth once it's handed to him. Silently he aims to tenderly wipe Dirk down--but hesitates at Dirk's comment. Not for long, deciding to let them talk as he towels down Dirk's sweat-slicked body.
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cw ableism
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cw violence
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cw just a boner
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nsfw
nsfw continues...
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