Work Text:
Azem had always struggled to see any fairness in returning to a mountain of paperwork at the end of every journey. His seat was meant to travel, to act upon the world rather than record it. So, in most cases, the paperwork piled up on his desk until he could no longer avoid it. But his time in the city was precious, and he would rather look over documentation from the comfort of home than in the confines of his office in the bureau. The file had been tossed on an end table the night before, leaving them within easy reach when he first woke. His early hours were spent pouring over them. Somehow, the work felt more manageable when he did not have to leave the comfort of his bed. Azem glanced down from the lengthy list of resolved ventures and newfound wonders to the sleeping form beside him. An ever-present scowl still marked the brow of his companion. Always stormy, aren’t we? He mused. Worry managed to paint Emet-Selch’s features even when he found moments of rest, and Azem had long learned not to let his ever-frowning lips trouble him.
The muffled whimper as he brought his gaze back to his work, however, was enough to give him pause. Setting aside the battered dossier of long-overlooked paperwork, Azem reached for his shoulder. “Emet-Selch,” He said, trying to rouse him without any undue stress. Even a gentle shake of his hand proved unable to bring him from his sleep. He repeated the other’s title once, then again. It was no use. Whatever dream held him had a strong grip. Finally, he relented, saying the name that came before the red mask. “Hades, wake.”
Golden eyes opened to meet him, blinking against the sudden flood of morning light and seeming even more displeased than he had looked moments before. The man never appeared happy about being woken by anyone. Not in all the years Azem had known him, at least, and even Hythlodaeus was quick to tease him for his unpleasant morning expressions. Azem smiled, but his brows knit together as he looked at the man still struggling to blink the sleep from his eyes. “Sorry to disturb you, but you know I can’t bear seeing you sleep through a bad dream.” He said. “When did you start having nightmares again?” The question was gentle, almost apologetic, as he brushed a strand of hair away from the older man’s face.
Emet-Selch groaned. Turning away from his touch, he pressed his hands over his eyes, the frown he wore in his sleep only deepening. “Do not tell me that I was whining aloud again.”
“I’m afraid you were,” Watching the other’s face flush red beneath his hands, Azem made a quiet sound of protest. “Look at you, acting as if I haven’t heard it a thousand times before.” Gingerly, he pulled the other man’s hands away from the clear, golden eyes that looked sheepishly back at him. “You can’t hide from me, you know.”
With an exhausted sigh, the white-haired man nodded. There was truth in the claim. Psyche, long before he became Azem, had always been liable to nip at the heels of his Amaurotine companions, routing out their troubles and mending what hurts he could manage. If Emet-Selch tried to evade his questions, he would be hounded for it until he left the city once more. “I’ve been having them again ever since you left for the north,” he said. “Not that I’ve the faintest idea why.”
As Emet-Selch began to wrap himself in the defensive tone that Azem knew far too well, he watched him closely. Hythlodaeus was adept at unwinding his defenses, prodding and teasing until he at last relented into speaking in earnest. Azem never could manage to do the same. Instead, he gave him the space to speak freely, offering calm and quiet in hopes that Emet-Selch would remember that pretenses were unnecessary between them. In most cases, it worked. Sinking back down into the blankets, Azem draped an arm over his chest.
“Which dreams are they?” He asked, dragging his nails lightly against his shoulder. None of them were strangers to the man’s nightmares, in all their grandiose terror and mundane hurt. But Azem was the one who wanted to hear them in every detail, no matter how many times they recurred. Emet-Selch’s chest rose and fell in a great sigh. His eyes stayed rooted on the paneled ceiling overhead as he began to speak.
“The ones where I cannot find you, or the other two,” He said. “As of late, I find myself in the bureau, but every door is locked. When I reach the door that should be yours, the place looks as though it hasn’t been touched in centuries.” His voice trailed off. An unpleasant expression spread over his face, as though he could taste the memory of the dream on his tongue as he spoke. Azem nodded, waiting for him to unwind the rest of the tale. “If I see anyone in the halls, they tell me that they’ve never heard of you. Or your seat, even.” Emet-Selch scoffed. “And then they tell me that I ought to go to the foyer. In the dream I always know that Kereboros should be there with Hythlodaeus, and that they will know where you are, and why they’ve let your office fall into disrepair. But Azem,” He said, at last bringing his gaze to him. “Every time I take the lift down to the foyer, water rushes in when the doors open. I’m wading through it just to reach the desk, and the entire place looks as empty as your office. But I know they’re there somewhere, so I start digging through files and trying to pry at the doors. But there’s no use to it. The doors never open, the files are so waterlogged I cannot even read them, and, then,” His voice faltered.
“And then you wake up,” Azem offered. The other nodded.. So many of his nightmares sprung from the same root. A fear of being left alone, or of losing them. Azem often wondered how it was that Kereboros managed to carry his own fears of being left alone so much closer to his chest. He hummed softly. “If you were worried about me when I left, that would be reason enough to bring those dreams back to your bed. You’ve never been very good at staving them off when you’ve already surrendered your waking thoughts,” The smile tugging at his lips was kindly. He wished nightmares could be snared and dragged away from those afflicted with them, but the follies of sleep remained inaccessible even to the most stalwart inventors. Reaching up, Azem placed his palm against the side of the other man’s face. “But we do remain here with you, dearheart. I imagine that brings some small comfort, at least.”
“Of course it does,” He murmured. “At the very least, I find it easier to write the whole thing off as the product of an overwrought mind when I know where you all are.” He closed his eyes, and Azem noticed how the frown finally began to relent. Left to his own devices, Emet-Selch likely would have fallen back into slumber if allowed to lay there for long enough. And Azem would not have been one to stop him. At the soft, unmistakable sound of the psychopomp approaching the door, however, his eyes flicked open once more.
“That would be Kereboros with your breakfast,” Azem said through his smile as he untangled himself from the other, smiling at his feeble attempts to keep him from sitting up.
“You’ve already had yours then, I take it?”
He nodded. “I’ve been awake for most of the morning.” Azem lifted the file of still unread paperwork for emphasis. He could have offered his usual excuse for lingering. That he knew Emet-Selch did not like finding himself in an empty bed, even on days where he allowed himself to sleep far past the rising of the sun. But Azem had his own reasons. Tedious work was easier to wade through with company, even if that company was quietly snoring at his side, and liable to berate him for letting so much work pile up in the first place. With a final smile cast toward him, Azem slipped out of the bed, shrugging on his robes before opening the door for one of the other pieces of his home.