Archive of Our Own ^beta

It wasn't the first time Aesop entered Joseph Desaulniers' room. One couldn't really say he did it often, since Aesop didn't want it to happen regularly. But occasionally at least, he did walk into his room, carefully so that nobody could see him.

Aesop Carl was rather good at going unnoticed. He was a quiet and reserved man, and never spoke more than what was strictly necessary. People barely knew his name. He spent most time alone, gathering with others only to participate in what he was there for. And during those moments he always tried to avoid them aswell. It being because of his distrustful tendencies, or a lack of interest in those around him, or both.
Only at one point did a man catch his attention so much, after the very first time he'd seen him in front of himself. He couldn't know then, that such Photographer would have been able to find such a special place in his head, sitting in the darkest chambers of his mind, nourishing obsession.
As beautiful as lethal, and merciless, he seemed to put a spell on the younger man, for such seduction exceeded the horrors of being harmed, pushing him towards choices he himself couldn't even imagine to make.

Sneaking into another person's room seemed a tricky thing to do, besides the fact that it was, on each level, truly wrong, but Aesop happened to own just the key he needed. As it was usual in big residences such as the Manor, every room had a key, and every key had an identical twin. Every guest owned their own room's key, while each double was kept in a drawer guarded by one butler. Mr. Carl found a chance —as his ability to go unseen made that particularly simple— to hold the right key in his hand, or the one with Joseph's room number on it. He needed no particular effort, nor he felt too intimidated to some extent, by the way such action could have met him with danger. Something in the Manor was strange, he vaguely thought; if anybody wanted, they could have easily done whatever they felt like, given how easy it was to go ahead and commit what was, and Aesop knew, a crime.
That way though he had secret access to Joseph's private space, which he deeply coveted to explore. That way, he did it many times.

His eyes looked around. Nothing changed since the last time he'd visited the room, except for a few objects that were moved, most likely used recently by the Photographer. He noticed a new bottle of seemingly lotion on his nightstand, close to his hairbrush. The hairbrush, intricately decorated and plated in silver wasn't new to Aesop. He'd seen it in his room since the very first time, most of the times where it were now, sometimes on the bed by his pillow instead. He'd imagined Joseph brushing his hair before. Freeing it from the perfect bow behind his neck to let it rest on his shoulders, stroking ivory locks with his graceful ways, sitting on the bed or perhaps standing in front of the mirror next to the door before walking out in the morning. He sighed slowly as he took some steps towards the centre of the room. The clock on the wall ticked softly. It was the only sound filling the room. It was nine in the evening, and it was completely dark except for the dull, cold light coming from the window. Aesop locked himself inside in order to avoid being found, if somebody ever dared to open the photographer's door for any reason. The only person who could also enter the room was Joseph himself now, but he planned on leaving way before that would occur. Aesop knew where Joseph was, and he knew how much time he usually needed in order to end a fight against his adversaries. He found security in this knowledge; Joseph had great control over time. He could stop it, or feed it to his victims drop by drop, slowly and painfully, turning each small second heavy on their chests. In fact, Aesop even felt as though he could find some peace of mind locked in his room, for no rush was needed. He could enjoy the moment in all its preciousness.
His eyes lowered as he took a look at his own clothes, then fixing his jacket a little, thoughtfully. The last time he'd met the Photographer, they weren't fighting against each other. They were not enemies at that moment. It'd happened a few days before.
Joseph was reading. He rested elegantly on one of the armchairs in the quiet hall, keeping his book on his lap, his legs crossed. He wasn't wearing his coat and his sword was nowhere to be seen, possibly left in his room. Aesop was walking downstairs. He didn't notice him at first, in fact, thinking he was alone, the Embalmer sat down on one of the last steps, looking up and admiring the wide ceiling and the chandeliers, shimmering above his head. When his eyes eventually met the other man across the room, his face turned alert. Anxiously Aesop stood up, turned around, and began to slowly walk upstairs, not knowing where else to go. When it came to Joseph he was even the more timid. His glance moved towards Joseph's direction one more time. At that point, the man stopped reading for a brief moment. They looked at each other. He seemed to try and understand what Aesop was doing there; did he also notice him as he was walking downstairs, finding it unusual how he was now withdrawing for no reason? Yet, instead of looking confused or in any way bothered as Aesop feared the most, Joseph hinted a tiny smile, before he was back to his book. Aesop couldn't smile back. He wasn't good at smiles. He remembered how his legs were shaking as he left at that point.
He couldn't tell if that was actually a meeting: they were far from each other. They didn't speak a word. Yet, Aesop lived each moment in Joseph's presence so intensely that he could think about them for days and days. And with each of these moments, he craved more. Even at the cost of following him around while playing against him, trying not to get caught. Even at the cost of crawling in his room without his knowledge.
The truth was, Aesop had fallen in love with him.
His shoes stepped on the soft carpet at the feet of the bed, where he stopped moving. Aesop knew none of his dreams could come true. The dreams in which they shared time together, and talked, and maybe even touched hands.
He wasn't important to Joseph. If he ever took pictures of him, he was sure he hadn't done it with anything different in mind than when taking pictures of any other person; if he ever spoke a word to him during their fights, Aesop couldn't stutter an answer, as his throat would twist, his lungs empty. And Aesop kept wanting, more every time, and longing for such a man whose beauty and intelligence were so bright they were feared, whose talent, quite similarly to Aesop's, was renowned for its morbid vicinity to death. How sweet that was, the Embalmer pondered as his eyes looked at the refined blankets in front of himself.
He then decided to sit ever so lightly on the bed, and finding out it was incredibly comfortable.
Everything was in place in his room. Joseph was a very tidy person. Aesop admired that part of him too. Each book, item and ornament was perfectly kept, nothing was overlooked or there without a reason. His room was pretty much different from Aesop's, even though they were equally big and well kept. More decor and personal effects could be found in the hunter's room, as if Joseph decided to carry a whole part of his life to the Manor. So many pictures, safely enclosed in frames of different shapes could be admired all around, on the table and shelves —the Embalmer was sure those pictures were taken by the Photographer himself; perhaps they were the ones he was most proud of, or they were important in ways Aesop still needed to learn—, as well as many accessories, some of them looking rather old, still as beautiful nonetheless. Aesop could have lost himself in his room for days inspecting, and observing each small thing. To be honest with himself, he sometimes also thought of leaving a sort of trace behind.
He'd never thought of stealing any of the Photographer's properties, since that would have felt truly rude. Instead of leaving one of his own amongst them as he left his room one day, hidden where only Joseph could find it. Thoughts of hiding one of his gloves in his sheets, or, even more riskily, of placing one of his singular tools in a box or a drawer, waiting for him to find it so that Joseph aswell would have begun to think of Aesop so desperately, then aware of a stranger entering his chamber. The idea was captivating. To become his mania, to be the target of his enthrallment. His head bent down a little. Then his glance focused on what stood on the bedside table again, this time from a shorter distance. For now, he only wanted to satisfy his curiosity towards the many things that surrounded him, saving more complex plans for another moment. Aesop knew that, from where he was sitting, he only needed to stretch his arm a little bit in order to touch, or even grab one of Joseph's belongings, either the lotion or the hairbrush. He'd visited his room five other times in the past weeks. He'd never dared to touch or move anything before though. Indeed, this was the very first time he sat on his bed, and the very first time in which he felt as if he could allow himself, after all, to pick one small object to briefly analyze it, then putting it back exactly where it was. He blinked a couple times. As his head turned towards what interested him the most, it being the hairbrush close to the edge of the furniture, his back hunched a little, and his right hand raised slowly from his lap. He hesitated. His arm moved towards it but it withdrew, quickly, until his hand reached his chest in a soft fist. The second attempt was successful, and his fingers eventually wrapped limply around the silvery handle, lifting it up after he memorized the position in which it was set by its owner. Aesop's breath started to quicken. He shifted on the bed as he held cold metal in both his hands, scared it would escape his grip and fall on the floor making a noise. He looked at it attentively once he felt more at ease. Floral engravings made it look dainty and expensive. Joseph took care of it daily, Aesop thought, as it were essentially clean from hair, except for a few candid strands. He stared at them. At that point, with his delicate fingers, he touched one hair, before he held it softly between his index and thumb. He swallowed. That way, he was touching him.
Something made him feel strange then. He needed a few moments in order to understand what was going on in his head. It was a rather unusual wish, a desire to hold the hairbrush as if it were his, and use it on his hair; then putting it back in its place, knowing that Joseph wouldn't have noticed what'd happened and used it aswell, perhaps that very night. And so they would have used the same hairbrush, as if it belonged to both.

He didn't find the time to do that, though.
A small sound made his head lift. With terror, Aesop quickly understood it was the sound of a key unlocking the door that was right in front of him.
Thought was replaced by instinct. He was suddenly on his feet, dropping the hairbrush on the bed to run towards the first hiding place he could find. He closed himself in the wardrobe right before Joseph could notice his presence.
So now, Aesop was stuck, amidst the Photographer's beautiful clothes, tightly surrounded by darkness and his sweet scent. Forced to stay completely still and not to make a single sound, praying, to whomever could pity him, that Joseph didn't need to search for anything in there.
Fear and panic threatened to make him faint at any moment. His limbs felt weak and his head light, his breath was quick and shallow as he tried to keep it quiet.
Some distant voices echoed from the corridor. His ears were, at the moment, the only way he could perceive the hunter inside the room, aside from the shaking rhythm of his heartbeat which didn't really help him.
Joseph closed the door behind himself locking it again. His steps were slow. Aesop closed his eyes shut. In the quiet, he heard him lighting one candle. Then another one. He then heard the soft shifting of clothes and the clicking of metal. The Photographer must have taken off his coat and with it his sword. He sighed deeply, walked towards the restroom's door. Judging by his pace, it was clear that he was tired, or somehow dispirited.
Once the hunter entered the smaller room Aesop could finally breathe again. He slowly opened his eyes, noticing how a thin line of light in between the wardrobe's doors allowed him to see a portion of the space outside now illuminated. As he came back to his senses a little, the first thing he did was moving, silently and slowly, further inside the wardrobe, eventually unfindable behind clothes that were bigger than his. There he tried to calm down and take a few deeper breaths. Thoughts started to flow again in his head. What had just happened? His eyes bounced in every direction trying to find an answer to that. Joseph was very early. He shouldn't have come back at that time. Aesop knew he didn't miscalculate. Yet, even though his calculations were correct, he omitted the case in which Joseph would have, for whatever reason, surrendered— now the only logical explanation to the unfortunate situation he was living. His glance stopped in front of himself as he eventually realized that. How foolish to think the Photographer was so perfect he'd never give up. His jaw tensed, but that wasn't the time to be mad at mistakes.

His ears didn't perceive Joseph anymore, which could have meant he was distracted enough not to see Aesop if he escaped the room at the moment. Yet the Embalmer couldn't be certain about it. He was paralyzed. His own shadow could have betrayed him once outside, or one soft sound from the wooden floor, or Joseph could have just walked back as he was fleeing outside, catching him in the act. No. That was too risky. He would have waited. Joseph would have fallen asleep eventually, and only then he would have moved, leaving his room never to return again, too much afraid of this to happen once more. Aesop's eyes looked sad for a while.
The room was utterly silent. With a safe, new plan in mind, he could now calm down a little more. At the same time, though, he could unluckily tell how the excitement still running in his veins kept tainting him; how it changed from horror to something quite different, stimulated by the Photographer's suffocating presence against his body, as the clothes he'd seen him wearing now embraced him tightly. His flesh aroused in ways he couldn't control. It made him blush, filled with what he nervously recognized as lust.

Joseph wasn't wearing his shoes anymore as he approached his bed. Even though he didn't make a sound as he walked Aesop could tell he was close anyway. He leaned towards the wardrobe's little space so that he could peer at him. His eyes widened. He looked exactly how he had imagined him. His hair was loose and gentle on his shoulders, his body gracious in his white nightgown. He was beautiful, Aesop's fingers tightened around the sleeve of one of his coats, he was beautiful.
Joseph sat down. Aesop gulped when he grabbed his hairbrush. He looked at it for a small moment, then he started to take care of his hair softly and slowly, until they looked shinier and fuller. He didn't seem concerned by the fact his hairbrush wasn't where he'd left it. Aesop thought, he most likely forgot where it was earlier, since it wasn't really as important a detail as the smaller man anxiously considered. His doll-like eyes then glanced at the wardrobe for an instant. The Embalmer froze— thankfully, though, Joseph didn't stand up, instead he put the brush back on the nightstand. Shifted the blankets to lie in them as his head sank in the feather pillow. He rested on his back. His hands met each other on his chest as he sighed once again, before closing his eyes.

Aesop wasn't able to tell how many minutes he'd hidden in the wardrobe. The candles were still burning, so he thought not so many, although his muscles were aching. As he decided to be patient, and wait until Joseph was truly, deeply asleep, Aesop could do nothing but stare at him. Because of his restricted vision and the lights dim in the room, he could only admire his shape in the bed. He looked composed even as he slept, with his legs straight and close to each other, his pale hands on his heart as to cover and protect it from harm.
Something came to Aesop's mind. Just a quiet thought he didn't pay too much attention to at first, then becoming persistent.
He couldn't deny it, Joseph looked deceased. Aesop's hands leaned against the closet's doors, softly not to move them an inch. He looked at him attentively. Yes, he only missed a coffin. Was Joseph aware of that? Did he use to sleep like this every night? It made Aesop twist inside even more. Sleeping as though he was waiting for the Embalmer in his bed just to die in his nightwear, to be taken care of.
No, that wasn't the truth. His brain was playing bitter tricks on him. He needed to leave the room quite immediately.

One hand pushed the door forwards.
As his eyes never shifted away from Joseph, Aesop slowly walked out of his hiding place, holding his breath in. He stood still, eventually closing the wardrobe. His hands covered his stomach as he exhaled. Everything was, to this point, going according to plan. The Photographer didn't move or in any way reacted to what was going on in his room, whilst the door was waiting for the other man to reach it and leave. Aesop looked at it and his hand slid into his pocket to find the key. As the room was now warmed by the soft candlelight, it felt even more comfortable and welcoming. He could better tell all the different colors around him, from the brightest reds and blues of books covers, to the milder shades of wallpaper and curtains. Once more, Aesop took a slow glance at every corner of that beautiful place, as if to memorize each little inch. Realizing at last, and rather worriedly, how difficult it was for him to leave now.
However, he quickly had to decide what his next action would have been. Standing in front of someone who had just fallen asleep, with no right or explainable reason to even be there in the first place was absolutely not safe at all. Aesop knew he had two prevailing options. Finding the will to exit the room and leave everything that had happened in the past hour behind, or giving in to his desire to spend, although in a way so immoral, some time with Joseph. He bit his tongue, troubled. Was his need to stay so strong and impossible to ignore, that it had to be satisfied at all costs? Or was it more important to save himself from danger as he always used to?
He looked at the door, looked at the Photographer. Slowly, he took some steps.
He would have left, yes. In the end, that was his original decision, and the most righteous of the two.

Despite that though, the man found himself by the bed nearly against his own will. Not too close, yet close enough to risk his life nonetheless. Only one reason seemed to force him to approach it for the last time; as if to deny the fantasies his head was tainted by while in the wardrobe, Aesop had to be sure that Joseph, lying down in a way so unbelievably perfect, was still breathing, only resting quietly, alive. He just had to see it, and to be sure of it, then he would have left.
The Embalmer watched as his chest rose and fell. Naturally, he was. His breath was slow. His lips were sealed, his face serene, and, as he predicted, he evidently was in a state of unconsciousness. Aesop felt light-headed. He was suddenly so delighted to be able to see him from such a small distance, and in a way so sweet. Wasn't that an inestimable fortune, a blessing impossible to subtract oneself from. For a moment, all of the turbulent thoughts in Aesop's head, the ones begging him away from the hunter as fast as he could, screaming for him to run away— vanished. Due to the fact that Aesop, now completely incapable of thinking of anything else, understood that what was in front of himself was not only his beloved Joseph, but an opportunity he couldn't miss aswell, surely the most precious so far. It was obvious, and all too clear to him that he wouldn't have been able to see Joseph like that again, except for that night; at peace in his room, far away from the eerie places their battles took place in. Surrounded by comfort, asleep. Soft, tender.
The door behind him became utterly unimportant in a matter of only a few minutes.
Aesop's hands started to shake. Only a couple steps parted them. The few shreds of fear that were left in him made him ponder, slightly, over the worst that could have happened to him. If Joseph had opened his eyes right then, it would have been truly over for the small survivor, barely able to step away. Aesop imagined; Joseph wouldn't have even needed his sword. They were so close, he would have just bounced up, outraged rather than frightened by the unknown presence in his room, clawed him in the blink of an eye, murdered him on his bed. Choking the life out of him, or digging, with his nails so sharp —Aesop took a quick look at them as the scenario took place in his head—, inside his very chest, tearing him apart. He perfectly knew that, whatever his sentence might had been, he would have deserved it. And maybe one day Joseph would have really found him out, and punished him for what he'd done.
Although such possibility was a terrifying thing to think about, right now it seemed like Aesop wasn't burdened at all with it. Something altered his mind, as he was completely aware of the danger he was heading to, but he only felt strangely thrilled. Some sort of feverish will pushed him towards the bed, made his fingers itch with desire. To have Joseph all to himself that night was the only thought he needed in order to quiet down the voice of reason in his head.
He looked down and bent a little over him. Not exactly sure of what to do or how to act then, Aesop relied on what he knew best. His profession required a careful observation of the subject's state as the first step of the process. Soon, his eyes began to focus on each single detail. Joseph's milky hair looked golden in the candlelight. His eyelashes were just as pale, his skin looked young and fragile. Perhaps in order to perform a more complete analysis of his appearance, or simply because of his immeasurable need to do it, Aesop ended up touching him, on his cheek, with the back of his fingers as if he were so easily breakable. Until his hand moved away, waiting mid air to touch him again.
Was that reality? Had his dreams come true? His hand caressed him once again after a few seconds, albeit still a little reluctantly. This time it was Joseph's forehead to be touched; yes, everything was tangibly real, so real it made him ecstatic. To the second touch, Joseph's brows furrowed softly.
The change in his expression was almost imperceptible, yet Aesop's heart fluttered and he withdrew his hand immediately. He waited still in order to understand what was going to happen next. To his luck, Joseph continued to sleep and his face relaxed a few seconds later, and he swallowed in his sleep. His neck was exposed and free from any collar or scarf, differently from the way Aesop was used to see him. His nightgown was partially unbuttoned, showing his skin down to his clavicles. Joseph must have been exhausted, and his slumber already deep. He kept not waking up even as the Embalmer placed his fingers at the base of his neck, in order to feel his warm pulse. His beat was slow and regular.

Aesop's face flushed once again. In the same fashion of when he was hiding in his closet, a strong desire suddenly hit him, now even more difficult to suppress.
Aesop had never felt this way before. From the moment Joseph had come into his life, he had to quickly learn how to keep this kind of impulses under control. They were new, unfamiliar, just like being in love for the first time, but Aesop promptly buried them in the back of his mind, keeping himself from thinking of Joseph in ways he knew he shouldn't have. It wasn't that easy, though, to prevail over said impulses as one of his hands touched him more and more intimately. The man swallowed, tried to sigh quietly, and focused on the Photographer again. He almost stroked his hands on his chest. His left hand covered the other. Whilst they were quite larger than Aesop's, they were still extremely dainty and neat, clean and free of any damage. He could see how Joseph took impeccable care of his appearance. Was that in order to give a good impression to others? Or did he enjoy taking care of his hair and skin just to look good for himself? No one could deny how beautiful he was. If his goal was to be appreciated, or remembered for his charm, then he was truly achieving it. Aesop was struck by the way he didn't seem to display any flaws. His breath grew heavier as he wondered, taking a look at the covers, if Joseph's body was just as perfect everywhere else. The sheets covered his ribs just below his hands. Indeed, it wasn't difficult for Aesop to move the blanket just enough to get his hand underneath it, and to meet his body again very carefully, gently holding his waist. Shivers ran down his spine, which he tried to ignore, though not so well: his body bent more and his lips parted so that he could breathe more easily. As he expected at this point Joseph responded to his touch. His head turned just a little on the pillow. He took one slower, deeper breath, which resulted in a small sound leaving his throat. Aesop's focused expression turned into a look of surprise. Was Joseph really so sensitive to his brush, as he was perhaps dreaming of something else, unaware of the true source of such touch teasing him? Could Aesop, in this way, crawl inside his dreams just like he did his room, and there love him like he longed to? An unusual sense of joy filled the man's heart. That was a compromise he was willing to accept.
His left hand leaned close to Joseph's shoulder as he moved further under the blankets with his right. He felt weak. The more he touched him, the more his own flesh reacted as if it were touched aswell. His muscles twitched where he was most sentitive, growing only more uncomfortable where his linen tightly covered him, ending up damp. His fingers felt Joseph's hip bone. He stopped moving for a few moments; because of the blankets covering his body he was so warm, and, somehow, he looked fragile. A man so feared now so vulnerable— The only thing Aesop needed to do was being quiet enough.
As his fingers approached his thigh, Joseph's jaw seemed to tense. His eyes moved under his lids and his back shifted, just a little. The Embalmer observed him tilting his head: he asked himself what sort of fantasy was Joseph living in his head, what —or who— was he seeing. What was happening in his unconscious mind while he stroked him carefully over his nightwear.
He felt his temperature rising under his skin as he realized, all at once, how easy it was for him to reach such an untouchable and forbidden spot of his body now.
He found it impossible to do at first. Not only the very act felt too much intense for Aesop himself to endure it, but it could have also disturbed Joseph's peace too much for him to stay asleep, making it a very perilous choice.

It was only thanks to the Photographer's slow moves, as he shifted his leg in the natural way one seeks for a comfortable position while in bed, and thus letting Aesop's hand slip in between his thighs, that it eventually happened. The Embalmer stopped breathing. Joseph's cheek pressed into the pillow, one of his hands gripped the sheet lightly.
As Aesop was resting his palm right where he was most afraid, yet eager to touch, Joseph's hips then raised briefly. Although irrationally, he couldn't help but thinking how Joseph, first leading his hand then deepening the touch all by himself, seemed as though he was asking for him to keep going. A subtle invitation, a timid plead to be satisfied. Oh, and Aesop would have done anything for him.

Joseph was still completely clothed, but the Embalmer didn't want that to change. Baring him wasn't something he needed. He could tell he was wearing his underwear under his gown, still, that wasn't a problem. Both fabrics were rather thin, therefore he was sure Joseph would have felt everything he'd done to him.
The Photographer tightened his grip on the sheet when Aesop's hand began to move. The smaller man narrowed his eyes. His face burnt, his hair raised all over his body as he kept going with great attentiveness.
His touch grew slightly more firm after he made sure Joseph wouldn't have been bothered by it. Thrusting a little more, and for a little longer, he made him wince in his sleep, until another small sound escaped him. This time it was followed by a second one, yet still enclosed in Joseph's throat as his mouth didn't open. His tone was querulous. The Embalmer noticed how his face also reddened, colour painting his cheeks up to the bridge of his nose, and his eyes squeezed sometimes, reacting to each different stimulus his body perceived. Soon his sounds were more and more frequent, yet most of them being only soft whispers, sighs and hums; it took him a few other strokes to eventually spread his lips and deliver his breath in a moan.
Aesop stopped; the louder sound startled him at first, before he could exhale and relax— as much as it was possible for him to calm down. Joseph never opened his eyes as sweet complaints left his mouth. They echoed in the room and in Aesop's head, each of them finding their place in his memory never to escape it.
Many times, Aesop had to keep himself from kneeling down and use his free hand to relieve his own tension. It was painful, yes, but he had to endure said torture and stay vigilant, even as his flesh begged and pulsed, shook and ached. Joseph was too beautiful for him to behave so sinfully in front of him, let alone to lower his guard and risk to ruin their moment. He was haunting to watch as he, still completely unconscious, used one hand to grab his surroundings such as his pillow, burying his fingers as his soft cries soaked in pleasure, his body squirmed.
He made Aesop want to stroke his hair as if to comfort him, and so he did, until his fingers ran through his locks. Joseph's head pushed against the pillow as he let out a feeble whimper. He moved in Aesop's hands, pleasured and in languorous despair. His legs tightened around his hand as it pressed lower in between them, his lips trembled.
Aesop kept going for a few minutes, learning where he preferred to be stroked, the ways he appreciated the most. By the way he contorted, Joseph seemed to be oversensitive. Aesop supposed that, maybe, he would have been different awake. He wondered how he would have looked. How it would have felt like if they had shared the bed, both in their nightwear, their bodies intertwined, their faces close. How sweet his name would have sounded wrapped in Joseph's voice. His chest clenched.
However he had to stop dreaming, as Joseph stiffened and his sounds quieted with a sharp sob. He stayed still for a while, his back arched forwards, panting. Until his body could relax again, falling like a feather to rest against the bed.
Aesop stared at him in wonderment.
At that point, he felt like he could allow himself to rest for a moment. His knees touched the floor and his hands left Joseph's body delicately, to hold the bed's edge instead.

The Photographer's breath took a little to settle down. So Aesop's. His eyes were gentle and devoid of any preoccupation or anxiety at the moment. Joseph's hair was tousled on the pillow due to his head tossing many times, his appearance was disheveled. The Embalmer thought of taking care of that once he was able to stand on his feet again. Moving his legs back to their composed posture, placing his hands on his chest like before, brushing his hair nicely around his head. But for once, he felt that beauty could exist even within the untidy. That Joseph should have slept in his love that night like a second sheet.
The candles were almost completely burnt when Aesop felt like he could stand up again. He did so, and looked at Joseph for the last time. Bliss left him frail in his bed. He pulled the covers over him in order to keep him warm. His hand then stroked his face once more, hesitantly. He didn't know how to say a proper goodbye.
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Once in front of the door, he took the key and turned it slowly in the lock, then putting it back in his pocket.
He held the door's handle when his ears captured a sound. Right after that, a voice spoke mildly to him.

"Are you leaving?"

Aesop went still.
Joseph's voice softened even more, corrupted by sleep.

"Are you a dream..?"
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