[ The Empire doesn't, truly, need either of them. To Satin's perspective, it had trudged along in its rotting, desiccated way before their emergence to power, and it would continue to do so in their absence. But he doesn't begrudge Altair's desire to cure the beast - his dedicated attempt to convert hard work and personal responsibility into a tangible collective improvement, endearing as it is bemusing. He simply has no compunction against following his whims wherever and whenever suits him, and in this case it means leaving his work to his apprentices while he imposes his company and his own ideas of recuperation upon his fellow Councilor's self-styled sort-of vacation.
Altair seems in part to be humoring him, and in part eager to use the distraction of his presence to justify taking a more tempered approach to his work pace than he would usually permit himself. Comfortable enough to find Satin when he needs it - to sleep beside him in the warmth of his bed rather than working himself to exhaustion - without having to be coaxed into it, but not enough to take himself away entirely. Imperfect, but not intolerable. Satin has yet to have to coerce him away from any object of his focus, and in the end he has his own reasons for seeking out and sharing this relative solitude.
Altair brought the Empire with him, but Satin is looking beyond it.
Space makes him thoughtful, the senses that he often keeps coiled at his core spreading out to brush against the distant harmonizing of threads across the galaxy. To feel them whisper, humming under his touch. It is usually this that occupies him when he isn't waiting on Altair; less he sleeps and more often he spends hours listening to the songs in the Force, because he knows without knowing that there is something there to be heard. Something to follow further when he finds time for it, when there isn't a war or politics clamoring to grasp him.
Satin's consciousness is drifting, aimless, but fortunately Altair needn't demand anything. He begins to settle on the bed and the trap springs, a languid shift from the outward reach of senses into an arm wrapping around his waist to pull him back against the larger Sith. A brief rumble of contentment as he twines blankets around them both and then presses his cheek into a cool shoulder, sighing against soft skin before the texture of the lace catches up with his thoughts and he trails curious fingertips over the garment. Delicate. His nail follows a length of ribbon down to the lower edge, tracing the fall of the lace over the fine arch of the man's ribs. ]
Where have you been hiding this?
[ Teasing, affectionate. It is after all quite far from the oversized shirts and borderline prudish robes he's come to regard as Altair's comfortwear. His hand slips beneath the fabric. ]
no subject
Altair seems in part to be humoring him, and in part eager to use the distraction of his presence to justify taking a more tempered approach to his work pace than he would usually permit himself. Comfortable enough to find Satin when he needs it - to sleep beside him in the warmth of his bed rather than working himself to exhaustion - without having to be coaxed into it, but not enough to take himself away entirely. Imperfect, but not intolerable. Satin has yet to have to coerce him away from any object of his focus, and in the end he has his own reasons for seeking out and sharing this relative solitude.
Altair brought the Empire with him, but Satin is looking beyond it.
Space makes him thoughtful, the senses that he often keeps coiled at his core spreading out to brush against the distant harmonizing of threads across the galaxy. To feel them whisper, humming under his touch. It is usually this that occupies him when he isn't waiting on Altair; less he sleeps and more often he spends hours listening to the songs in the Force, because he knows without knowing that there is something there to be heard. Something to follow further when he finds time for it, when there isn't a war or politics clamoring to grasp him.
Satin's consciousness is drifting, aimless, but fortunately Altair needn't demand anything. He begins to settle on the bed and the trap springs, a languid shift from the outward reach of senses into an arm wrapping around his waist to pull him back against the larger Sith. A brief rumble of contentment as he twines blankets around them both and then presses his cheek into a cool shoulder, sighing against soft skin before the texture of the lace catches up with his thoughts and he trails curious fingertips over the garment. Delicate. His nail follows a length of ribbon down to the lower edge, tracing the fall of the lace over the fine arch of the man's ribs. ]
Where have you been hiding this?
[ Teasing, affectionate. It is after all quite far from the oversized shirts and borderline prudish robes he's come to regard as Altair's comfortwear. His hand slips beneath the fabric. ]