Work Text:
It's elegant, the way Rook dances around the other necromancer— Emmrich, he tries to remind himself. That's the one word that always comes to mind when he sees the two together: Elegant. There are others that also frequently merit use. Delicate is the way the professor holds himself, the manner of speaking the man uses with the others and Davrin himself, the way Rook responds to the more senior mage in turn. That's what surprised him the most. It was the previously unseen side of Rook that was pulled to the surface nearly as soon as they set foot in the necropolis. Rook's voice softened when the other Nevarran was around, and it made Davrin falter frequently. It sounded good, coming from his friends lips.
Soft was another word. Similar to the previous, yet made distinct by the actions of its subjects. The smile that Rook adopted when the other was around, the strength in volume of his voice when discussing the intricacies of necromancy that made Davrin's head spin with intrigue, the ease with which he settled back into the customs of a Watcher— as if it were coming home. It's all painfully soft. It suits Rook. It suits both of them— they suit each other.
And Rook thinks so too. He's obvious about it, asks the man to accompany him on any mission or errand he can, pulls the professor aside for conversation and inquiry as often as is polite, and makes the occasional bold declaration of interest even within earshot of any others. Emmrich merely quirks an eyebrow and rises to meet Rook's temerity and deliver a measured flirtation of his own, as if daring Rook to make good on his seemingly impetuous words.
Davrin would never admit to how many late nights he spent wondering if Rook ever did; the very thought makes him sick with want. And that's the long and short of it, isn't it? The reason Davrin averts his gaze upon catching sight of the two of them together, yet keeps his focus trained on every word they speak and move they make. No, Davrin cannot merely be happy for someone he would be glad to call a good friend, because he wants. He wants with a fervor that makes it almost incoherent. His desires are hard to put into words; they appear in his mind as fleeting visions that blur together: himself, kneeling for Rook and pressing his face into a hand more lightly calloused than his own; Rook, working his spellcraft in the distance while Davrin holds the front line; more recently, the thin lines of the professor's form pressing into Davrin's own from behind, reaching around to guide his hands in some unknown task. All of it comes together to crowd Davrin's thoughts and tighten his chest with an ache that threatens to drive him mad. All of it together causes him to screw his eyes shut as if warding off a migraine, taking tightly measured breaths exhaled through his nose.
All of it feels like too much and the enormity of his desire overwhelms him.