"I didn't want to bring it up once I remembered. I thought maybe I'd forced it on you, or you'd changed your mind in the light of day..." They've held each other before, but it's different now. Gale's hands move up and down Pom's back, gentle and exploratory. "I wish you'd told me, or I had told you, before Patho-Gen took me." Before he was broken, needing to be put back together before his edges cut someone.
"For the longest time, I didn't know what to say."
Gale's hands feel good running over his back, through the fur that's grown there over the past several months. He might have scales and ridges down his spine while in Kelesis, but he enjoys the sensation all the same. The water behind him swishes gently — that'd be his tail — as he pulls back just enough to look Gale in the mismatched eyes.
"I didn't know what it was about you that got me so twisted up. Northly had me figured out quick, but I couldn't figure myself out. I just knew I hadn't felt like this before, and that when you started talking about your friends back home..."
He shakes his head, still trying to stifle the ugliness it brought out in him. "I thought you had better waiting for you. That I'd been wrong about how I felt. That I'd read you wrong, and couldn't see what I ought to do, so I just... didn't."
"Oh," Gale says, thinking back through their previous conversations with new perspective. Times where Pom was reticent or awkward, was it because he was struggling through feelings he didn't understand? Gale can certainly understand that, though his answer for such troubles is usually to talk more rather than less. "No, there's no one else... not for a long time, anyway. The only people waiting for me back home are Tara and my mother." Even his friends, well. If time marched on in his absence, then they had bigger worries than a wayward wizard. "I'm glad you figured it out eventually."
"Only because this fella I live with decided to kiss me in a dream."
Not that Pom sounds upset about that, especially not now that he's got Gale in his arms. He struggles to keep his eyes open — even the dimmest light bothers him without his shades these days — but he can still feel Gale's feathers beneath his hands, smell him in the air, sense the rhythm of his pulse through his skin. It's nice - it's nice to be so close, to want someone in a way that's novel and frightening and exciting all at once.
It's also nice to be wanted back, and though the rest of those wants that come with being so vulnerable with someone else rile his nerves... they can deal with them in due time. For now, it's just them.
He seems to remember belatedly that the water isn't getting any warmer. He lets go of Gale to get the tray, pulling it back toward them. "Lemme help you finish up in here. We can talk more when we're out. Pretty sure it'll take a while for all this to dry." Fur and feathers are unfortunately like that, as he's sure Gale knows well by now.
"Of course," Gale says, but doesn't immediately let go. Now that he has
him, it's difficult to believe he'll be able to keep him. That he won't
leave, that Patho-Gen won't take one of them again, that they won't just be
torn apart. It makes him want to hold onto this moment that much tighter,
and his fingers clutch tighter before he's finally able to let go.
"And shouldn't I reciprocate?" He offers. "Do you trust me enough to touch
your hair?"
Pom's hair is always a touchy subject. He doesn't let anyone but himself and Purl wash it - even Northly only gets to touch it on occasion. It takes a lot of dyeing and styling to maintain that signature look of his.
So he's pleasantly surprised when the idea of Gale washing his hair is... enticing.
"Of course," he says, as though he didn't just trust Gale with his past - his hair ought to be no problem by comparison. "There's a lot more of it these days, though if anyone would know, it'd be you. You've been here since the start."
Gale was never the type to fuss with his hair, considering raking it back
out of his eyes or tying it back good enough, but he's always been a little
fascinated with those who take the time to do intricate hairstyles. Getting
to run his fingers through Pom's hair is something he's idly thought about
on several occasions without hope of fulfillment. Now, he dives in without
hesitation, first wetting Pom's mane with cupped handle of water and then
getting the shampoo. He scrubs his fingers through Pom's hair, mindful of
his claws, and a little smile flits across his face.
While he's used to the feeling of Purl's paws running through his hair to help him wash it, having the hands of another human being — as close as they are these days, anyway — scrubbing his scalp is an entirely new sensation. At first, it's just good - Pom closes his eyes, leaning into Gale's touch, not minding the claws whatsoever.
Twenty seconds in, and he feels his tail swishing behind him, making waves in the water; another fifteen, and he's forced to sit on the bench built into the side of the basin, his legs threatening to give out from under him as he loses himself in the sensation. His neck cranes one way, then the other, begging for more contact as he sinks into the water up past his shoulders.
As he sits, his hands beneath the water find their way back to Gale's waist, pulling him closer - onto his lap if he must. Whether it's the bestial behavior of the Soul that is making this experience so euphoric, his own wants and needs, or just the fact it's been so long since someone washed his hair so intimately, he doesn't know - but he wants Gale closer, now.
It only takes a little tug before Gale willingly climbs into his lap. Never
once does he let up, fingertips rubbeing over Pom's scalp, wondering how
far he can press this. He posts attention to those doggy ears as well,
rubbing them with gentle but firm pressure. He's seen dogs kick a leg when
the pets are particularly good — will Pom do that? If he touches him
elsewhere, what other reactions can he earn? He hums at the thought, but it
comes out sounding more like a low growl.
"Do you want me to keep going? Should we get out?" He pauses his scrubbing
to make sure he has Pom's attention for the question.
With Gale in his lap, it's so easy for Pom to lose himself in the feeling of him being close, of the wizard's hands working around his ears, then the ears themselves. His leg quakes as his tail continues to swirl the water around them; his breath is hot on Gale's skin, his own claws threatening to dig into the wizard's back to keep him close. Pom wasn't aware his ears were so sensitive - he's let Northly rub them on occasion, but never had that sensation mingled so thoroughly with unbridled affection and desire.
But oh, it's the desire itself that Pom suddenly realizes is there, a stranger lingering at the back of his mind, watching. He's used to faking it, to putting on a smile and saying the right things and playing a role - he's not used to it being something authentic, welling in him, filling his veins like a drug. The moment he's aware of it, he hesitates, still pressed against Gale, trying to lose himself in that sensation again.
The feeling is still there, and he doesn't know what to do with it - not if he wants this to be truthful, honest, sincere. Suddenly wracked with indecision, his nerves creep in, making him anxious as he tries to determine what he should do rather than letting instinct work on its own. He doesn't trust his instincts half the time, especially these days when they push him toward aggression, primal ferocity, feral and monstrous behavior. The pause continues as he stiffens, and it quickly becomes a spiral that drags him down, down, past his own wants and into deep-seated doubts ingrained into him from years of pretending to be someone else, someone better.
But is he? Can he be what Gale deserves?
Realizing the silence has stretched too long, he clings harder to Gale, afraid he'll leave before he can put his thoughts together; his claws make divots in Gale's back.
"Sorry, just—" He's not sure what he's apologizing for, and tries again. "I want this. Want you, but... I gotta sort my head out first. I wasn't- made for this."
Those predator senses let Gale notice more than he would have been able to before. Pom freezes, and Gale pulls his hands away instantly. "Don't be sorry," Gale tells him, a little more forcefully than he means to, because he doesn't want Pom trying to put up a front or try to be something for Gale's benefit that isn't real. Gale has created enough illusions for himself to last a lifetime, lovely dreams that let him hide from reality. During his year of isolation, he spent time in an illusory astral sea to take his mind off his troubles. In Karteria, he had made illusions of Waterdeep to sooth the longing in his heart. Even his time with Mystra, hadn't much of the love he thought he'd seen there been all in his mind, if what came after was anything to go on? He doesn't want that with Pom. "No one was made for this. And this doesn't have to be anything you don't want it to be." He holds Pom's face in his hands. "I just want to be with you."
His face cradled in Gale's hands, Pom turns that reassurance over in his mind as he searches Gale's eyes for any hint, any indication at all that he's made the wrong choice, that he misinterpreted his own feelings, that he's somehow tricked one of the few people he could call a friend into being something more. There's no Purl to ask, no one but the two of them, and Pom doesn't trust his own gut on this, despite everything.
So he has to place his trust in Gale... and he finds he's happy to do so. Gale tells him he wants to be together, and that it doesn't have to be anything life-altering, and Pom finds it so much easier to believe him than himself. It's a relief, one he's not sure he can put into words; it instead manifests as a gentle smile, one born from a reprieve from his own unease.
"My Soul is telling me otherwise, but... maybe we could take it slow." He meant for that to be a question, but it feels better as a statement - as something he needs as much as Gale himself.
Pom smiles softly and flowers bloom in Gale's chest where he had been certain the earth was salted. Reverently, he brushes the pad of his thumb over Pom's lower lip, making sure that it's real. "I understand. My other soul has... Similar preoccupations." He blushes and glances away. It's not entirely the beast who wants to taste Pom's skin, but Gale can blame it and it isn't as if it can argue. "But I agree. Slow is good." He pauses and then says, "I should probably get off of you?"
That smile is entirely real, as is the kiss Pom presses to the pad of Gale's thumb as it traces his lip. He has to remind himself that this isn't a performance - that Gale wants him as he is. He just has to convince himself of that.
"You could stay another minute," he responds, as soft as Gale's suggestion. "I was liking that." He leans back into Gale's hands, slower this time, trepidation keeping him from going all in. As he struggles with honest behavior, he offers honest words instead. "Only Purl gets this close, so it's been a long time since I felt claws in my hair."
"I'm honored to take up the duty in her absence." His tone is light,
playful, but he doesn't mean it any less. Gale knows how much Purl means to
Pom, how much he misses her, and he is glad if he can be a balm for that
pain. He sighs his fingers back into Pom's hair, rubbing his scalp and his
ears. "Tell me if I'm doing this wrong. I don't know how you like it."
Pom doesn't know how he likes it either, but he's clearly enjoying himself as he closes his eyes, his tail back to wagging, one fang digging into his lip as Gale finishes up with his hair. He makes only one request — harder — as Gale gets to the back of his neck. It's impossible to tell he trims daily with what Kelesis has done to him, a line of fur trailing from his hairline to the mane around his throat, then down his spine; it's thicker between his shoulder blades before thinning out in the middle of his back, only to fluff up again along his tail, its deep color much like his scales when Shifted.
As promised, he behaves for another minute before moving to reciprocate, wanting to help Gale with his own hair. He's careful around those newfound ears, even more so when he gets to the wings on Gale's back. They're small things, relatively delicate compared to the bulk of the wizard's Shifted form, but Pom can't help but marvel at them.
And then, a thought occurs to him. "Hey, you're kind of like Tara now. You said she's got wings, right?"
Fur and feathers itch. Not nearly so much now as when they were first
coming in, and since he's learned to better care for them, but having Pom's
nails dig into his feathers and over his scalp is nice. He's just tilting
his head and butting it into Pom's hand when his words process and, oh. He
freezes, blinks, tilts his head in thought as several emotions pass over
his features. "Tressym," he says, lifting his hand to reach over one
shoulder, running it over the wing. "I.. perhaps? But if so, what does it
mean?"
He continues to scrub, gentle around any part that may be tender.
"Our Souls are both creatures we recognize - or ones we used to. I thought it was because they belonged to those particular creatures. Now, I'm wondering if it's something about us that's giving them their form."
"Viktor thought so from early on. I didn't believe there was anything I
could possibly have in common with a monstrosity like an owlbear." He tilts
his head into that touch, angling so that Pom can't scratch just the right
spot. "I'm... Less sure of that assertion now."
He sighs and sits back. "We should get out before the water gets too cold.
I can dry us off. If you didn't mind the magic."
He does mind the magic, but does his best impression of someone who thinks otherwise. "I'm getting used to it, bit by bit. Better that than stuff that messes with my head, like um. The illusions."
Stepping out of the basin, his fur reaches for the floor, weighted by the water still clinging to it; he shivers almost immediately, remembering how cold the rest of the room is now that he's away from the warm water and Gale's body heat. The small towels provided will do little for either of them, but he uses one to help dry his hair all the same, some of the dye that keeps it purple coming off on the fabric.
Gale does his best not to look hurt by the knowledge that Pom doesn't like
his illusions, sees them as needing with his head. Patho-Gen messes with
people's heads, and Gale isn't anything like them, is he? "I didn't realize
you disliked them so much," he mutters as he climbs out of the tub.
He doesn't bother with towels, dripping as he approaches Pom, his skin
wafting steam. "I'll dry you off," he says, and that's the only warning he
gets before Gale starts casting, removing the water far more effectively.
"I didn't realize your hair was dyed."
Gale does a good job disguising it, but Pom can practically sense his injury in the way he mutters, feels it from Gale before he knows what to do with it. His ears dip apologetically, tail curling beneath him. "It—"
Oh, but then the magic happens, and the water evaporates from him, dissipating in the air; there's a whiff of what Pom calls 'that magic smell', specifically when it's Gale's magic, and he finds himself suddenly dry. All the fluff and fur on him sticks in every direction, in desperate need of a brushing. He can do that later. He wraps the towel around his waist, only to realize he needs a second towel to make it all the way around. He grabs another, tying them together before he tries again.
"It's not you," he reassures. "Not with the illusions, or my hair. The latter, I don't exactly go telling folks. The former... I don't..."
He pauses, trying to figure out how best to put it. He doesn't want to continue to hurt Gale's feelings, especially when he cares so much for him. He's done that plenty of times already, despite his best efforts. Gale deserves better.
"The illusions are something I can't parse out piece by piece. Can't explain them, like I could an instrument or a machine. It's like something's being put in my head, and I don't know how much I can trust it. How much I can trust myself with it."
"I can understand that," he says, an unspoken 'but' hovering in the cold air between them. He dries himself off next, but it doesn't stop him shivering, not given the temperature in the room. Before, he would have wanted to have a lengthy discussion about this, try to explain magic to Pom, or at least explain why it's beautiful, but words come at a much higher cost since he came back. Pom doesn't like his illusions — he makes a note not to do them around him. What's one more part of him to cut off anyway? "We should get dressed, get under the blankets, something. It's too cold in here to be naked."
Pom's ears remain dipped, his tail curling inward; he does his best to hide his guilt, but without his glasses and clothing, his body so changed from what he's used to, the signs are all too obvious.
"... Sure."
Now that they're dry, he figures blankets will be the best option for getting them warm, as figuring out how to put himself back into his clothes in this partially-Shifted shape is a challenge even when he's not shivering. He gestures toward the bed before heading over himself. Nestled beneath the facade of an igloo, the bed is just big enough for the two of them, although it will be a tight fit.
The barest hint of a smile tugs at Pom's lips - maybe he can still make it up to Gale. Maybe he isn't the proverbial better Gale deserves, but he can pretend, just for a night. Wrap his arms around him, keep him warm. Make himself useful. Help Gale forget he's a fool who doesn't know what he's doing, who is as likely to destroy anything fragile and precious as a rampaging Deviljho.
Well, there goes his smile. He attempts to put it on again as he climbs into one side of the bed, patting the other side enticingly, but the knot in his brow still remains.
Gale hurries to get into the blankets, settling in beside Pom where he'd patted. "You're upset?" he says, looking over his expression with a frown. Pom's smile is present, but weak, and his brows furrowed. Gale reaches up to smooth away the lines between his brow like errant chalk marks on a chalkboard. It's a funny thing, the way they feel so connected without actually knowing all that much about one another. Is that the imprint? Or just the situation they find themselves in. "Tell me?"
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Gale's hands feel good running over his back, through the fur that's grown there over the past several months. He might have scales and ridges down his spine while in Kelesis, but he enjoys the sensation all the same. The water behind him swishes gently — that'd be his tail — as he pulls back just enough to look Gale in the mismatched eyes.
"I didn't know what it was about you that got me so twisted up. Northly had me figured out quick, but I couldn't figure myself out. I just knew I hadn't felt like this before, and that when you started talking about your friends back home..."
He shakes his head, still trying to stifle the ugliness it brought out in him. "I thought you had better waiting for you. That I'd been wrong about how I felt. That I'd read you wrong, and couldn't see what I ought to do, so I just... didn't."
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Not that Pom sounds upset about that, especially not now that he's got Gale in his arms. He struggles to keep his eyes open — even the dimmest light bothers him without his shades these days — but he can still feel Gale's feathers beneath his hands, smell him in the air, sense the rhythm of his pulse through his skin. It's nice - it's nice to be so close, to want someone in a way that's novel and frightening and exciting all at once.
It's also nice to be wanted back, and though the rest of those wants that come with being so vulnerable with someone else rile his nerves... they can deal with them in due time. For now, it's just them.
He seems to remember belatedly that the water isn't getting any warmer. He lets go of Gale to get the tray, pulling it back toward them. "Lemme help you finish up in here. We can talk more when we're out. Pretty sure it'll take a while for all this to dry." Fur and feathers are unfortunately like that, as he's sure Gale knows well by now.
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"Of course," Gale says, but doesn't immediately let go. Now that he has him, it's difficult to believe he'll be able to keep him. That he won't leave, that Patho-Gen won't take one of them again, that they won't just be torn apart. It makes him want to hold onto this moment that much tighter, and his fingers clutch tighter before he's finally able to let go.
"And shouldn't I reciprocate?" He offers. "Do you trust me enough to touch your hair?"
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So he's pleasantly surprised when the idea of Gale washing his hair is... enticing.
"Of course," he says, as though he didn't just trust Gale with his past - his hair ought to be no problem by comparison. "There's a lot more of it these days, though if anyone would know, it'd be you. You've been here since the start."
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Gale was never the type to fuss with his hair, considering raking it back out of his eyes or tying it back good enough, but he's always been a little fascinated with those who take the time to do intricate hairstyles. Getting to run his fingers through Pom's hair is something he's idly thought about on several occasions without hope of fulfillment. Now, he dives in without hesitation, first wetting Pom's mane with cupped handle of water and then getting the shampoo. He scrubs his fingers through Pom's hair, mindful of his claws, and a little smile flits across his face.
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Twenty seconds in, and he feels his tail swishing behind him, making waves in the water; another fifteen, and he's forced to sit on the bench built into the side of the basin, his legs threatening to give out from under him as he loses himself in the sensation. His neck cranes one way, then the other, begging for more contact as he sinks into the water up past his shoulders.
As he sits, his hands beneath the water find their way back to Gale's waist, pulling him closer - onto his lap if he must. Whether it's the bestial behavior of the Soul that is making this experience so euphoric, his own wants and needs, or just the fact it's been so long since someone washed his hair so intimately, he doesn't know - but he wants Gale closer, now.
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It only takes a little tug before Gale willingly climbs into his lap. Never once does he let up, fingertips rubbeing over Pom's scalp, wondering how far he can press this. He posts attention to those doggy ears as well, rubbing them with gentle but firm pressure. He's seen dogs kick a leg when the pets are particularly good — will Pom do that? If he touches him elsewhere, what other reactions can he earn? He hums at the thought, but it comes out sounding more like a low growl.
"Do you want me to keep going? Should we get out?" He pauses his scrubbing to make sure he has Pom's attention for the question.
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But oh, it's the desire itself that Pom suddenly realizes is there, a stranger lingering at the back of his mind, watching. He's used to faking it, to putting on a smile and saying the right things and playing a role - he's not used to it being something authentic, welling in him, filling his veins like a drug. The moment he's aware of it, he hesitates, still pressed against Gale, trying to lose himself in that sensation again.
The feeling is still there, and he doesn't know what to do with it - not if he wants this to be truthful, honest, sincere. Suddenly wracked with indecision, his nerves creep in, making him anxious as he tries to determine what he should do rather than letting instinct work on its own. He doesn't trust his instincts half the time, especially these days when they push him toward aggression, primal ferocity, feral and monstrous behavior. The pause continues as he stiffens, and it quickly becomes a spiral that drags him down, down, past his own wants and into deep-seated doubts ingrained into him from years of pretending to be someone else, someone better.
But is he? Can he be what Gale deserves?
Realizing the silence has stretched too long, he clings harder to Gale, afraid he'll leave before he can put his thoughts together; his claws make divots in Gale's back.
"Sorry, just—" He's not sure what he's apologizing for, and tries again. "I want this. Want you, but... I gotta sort my head out first. I wasn't- made for this."
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So he has to place his trust in Gale... and he finds he's happy to do so. Gale tells him he wants to be together, and that it doesn't have to be anything life-altering, and Pom finds it so much easier to believe him than himself. It's a relief, one he's not sure he can put into words; it instead manifests as a gentle smile, one born from a reprieve from his own unease.
"My Soul is telling me otherwise, but... maybe we could take it slow." He meant for that to be a question, but it feels better as a statement - as something he needs as much as Gale himself.
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"You could stay another minute," he responds, as soft as Gale's suggestion. "I was liking that." He leans back into Gale's hands, slower this time, trepidation keeping him from going all in. As he struggles with honest behavior, he offers honest words instead. "Only Purl gets this close, so it's been a long time since I felt claws in my hair."
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"I'm honored to take up the duty in her absence." His tone is light, playful, but he doesn't mean it any less. Gale knows how much Purl means to Pom, how much he misses her, and he is glad if he can be a balm for that pain. He sighs his fingers back into Pom's hair, rubbing his scalp and his ears. "Tell me if I'm doing this wrong. I don't know how you like it."
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As promised, he behaves for another minute before moving to reciprocate, wanting to help Gale with his own hair. He's careful around those newfound ears, even more so when he gets to the wings on Gale's back. They're small things, relatively delicate compared to the bulk of the wizard's Shifted form, but Pom can't help but marvel at them.
And then, a thought occurs to him. "Hey, you're kind of like Tara now. You said she's got wings, right?"
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Fur and feathers itch. Not nearly so much now as when they were first coming in, and since he's learned to better care for them, but having Pom's nails dig into his feathers and over his scalp is nice. He's just tilting his head and butting it into Pom's hand when his words process and, oh. He freezes, blinks, tilts his head in thought as several emotions pass over his features. "Tressym," he says, lifting his hand to reach over one shoulder, running it over the wing. "I.. perhaps? But if so, what does it mean?"
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He continues to scrub, gentle around any part that may be tender.
"Our Souls are both creatures we recognize - or ones we used to. I thought it was because they belonged to those particular creatures. Now, I'm wondering if it's something about us that's giving them their form."
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"Viktor thought so from early on. I didn't believe there was anything I could possibly have in common with a monstrosity like an owlbear." He tilts his head into that touch, angling so that Pom can't scratch just the right spot. "I'm... Less sure of that assertion now."
He sighs and sits back. "We should get out before the water gets too cold. I can dry us off. If you didn't mind the magic."
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Stepping out of the basin, his fur reaches for the floor, weighted by the water still clinging to it; he shivers almost immediately, remembering how cold the rest of the room is now that he's away from the warm water and Gale's body heat. The small towels provided will do little for either of them, but he uses one to help dry his hair all the same, some of the dye that keeps it purple coming off on the fabric.
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Gale does his best not to look hurt by the knowledge that Pom doesn't like his illusions, sees them as needing with his head. Patho-Gen messes with people's heads, and Gale isn't anything like them, is he? "I didn't realize you disliked them so much," he mutters as he climbs out of the tub.
He doesn't bother with towels, dripping as he approaches Pom, his skin wafting steam. "I'll dry you off," he says, and that's the only warning he gets before Gale starts casting, removing the water far more effectively. "I didn't realize your hair was dyed."
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Oh, but then the magic happens, and the water evaporates from him, dissipating in the air; there's a whiff of what Pom calls 'that magic smell', specifically when it's Gale's magic, and he finds himself suddenly dry. All the fluff and fur on him sticks in every direction, in desperate need of a brushing. He can do that later. He wraps the towel around his waist, only to realize he needs a second towel to make it all the way around. He grabs another, tying them together before he tries again.
"It's not you," he reassures. "Not with the illusions, or my hair. The latter, I don't exactly go telling folks. The former... I don't..."
He pauses, trying to figure out how best to put it. He doesn't want to continue to hurt Gale's feelings, especially when he cares so much for him. He's done that plenty of times already, despite his best efforts. Gale deserves better.
"The illusions are something I can't parse out piece by piece. Can't explain them, like I could an instrument or a machine. It's like something's being put in my head, and I don't know how much I can trust it. How much I can trust myself with it."
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"... Sure."
Now that they're dry, he figures blankets will be the best option for getting them warm, as figuring out how to put himself back into his clothes in this partially-Shifted shape is a challenge even when he's not shivering. He gestures toward the bed before heading over himself. Nestled beneath the facade of an igloo, the bed is just big enough for the two of them, although it will be a tight fit.
The barest hint of a smile tugs at Pom's lips - maybe he can still make it up to Gale. Maybe he isn't the proverbial better Gale deserves, but he can pretend, just for a night. Wrap his arms around him, keep him warm. Make himself useful. Help Gale forget he's a fool who doesn't know what he's doing, who is as likely to destroy anything fragile and precious as a rampaging Deviljho.
Well, there goes his smile. He attempts to put it on again as he climbs into one side of the bed, patting the other side enticingly, but the knot in his brow still remains.
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