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I doubt thi is quite what you meant, bu it's what your suggestion of tactile turned up - a mismatched pair of sketches from their time apart. Their index is here and the ficlet that describes some of what happened before these scenes is here.
***** ***** ******
There had been long weeks when he hadn't felt anything. His emotions had been wrestled back from the extremes and locked down hard. He focused on his work. On his study. On making a new life, in new places, and on exhausting body and brain before they could betray him. When he was to exhausted his control faltered and there were binges, orgies of anger and futile misery. Music loud enough to drown out thought. Chemicals to send it spinning. Faceless flesh and empty actions. In the weak whey light of the next dawning all he could feel was anger at his own weakness and itching in his skin, and the hard smoothness of glass in his hands.
He was on the roof of a mundane run down flat-felt-roofed port-o-cabin the first time he surrendered to sensation without loosing all control. A mundane corner of an average small town, and all it took was a breeze.
A week's worth of casual labour amongst humans was enough to drive him up here. Tucked away between the maths block and the canteen where the sun bounced between the brick walls to heat the shade. Hot enough to make him wish for a breeze to go with his solitude, and the thought slipped out, and the air stirred.
Just a little, light as ashes, just enough lift the sweat from his bared shoulders and carry the scents of tar and mown grass and over baked potatoes. And he felt it. Closed his eyes and felt it roll over his skin. Felt the gritted roof paper pressing into the heels of his hands. Felt the walls baking in the heat and his trousers pulling against his knees, and the heel of his left trainer pressing into the tendon. Felt the curl of an element moving to his will deep in his chest. He almost forgot to breath.
The breeze dropped away. The air felt solid, heavy with heat, thick in his lungs. For a moment his mind was quiet, absorbing the play of muscles that moved his ribs, the way his waistband was damp against his lower back, the way it felt to draw focus and command the air. The rush and shine of the reaction. The way the litter in the gutter rustled and sighed and his arms goose pimpled under the flow of cooler air. The way it felt to be inside his skin and able to smile.
***** ***** *****
Everything was so over-saturated and superlative that the slightest touch made him flinch. The trail of gossamer silks and the finest furs made his skin crawl, the drag of fingertips and the buzz and pressure of the glamour that disguised them hammered against the watercolour hopelessness of his mood and it took all his will to bare it. A son of Thalamos, he would tread the palace hallways and take his place at his sister's side and hold the jewelled and pattered hilt of his sword just so, for all it raised blisters in his heart to do it.
He would smile and flirt and endure the heady invasion of his senses and in the cool blissful stillness of the dawning he would flee the raucous song birds and the penetrating sun and search for stillness in his private rooms.
As simple as he had made them, the cotton of his sheets caught on the nerves of his skin, his own hair snagged his shoulders, cool water warmed on his skin and every faded trace of scent deluged him in memories he could not retreat from. He bowed his head and let them come, washing silent tears over the damn of his resolve.
The gardens crawled with life, the hilltops oppressed with wind and sky and heather-sweet flower scent, and the constant presence of magic workers' wards and illusions and casual spell craft scratched on every last nerve ending, filled his dreams, disarmed his meditations, drove him near crazy in a way his sister and her mother could hardly fathom at all.
***** ***** ******
There had been long weeks when he hadn't felt anything. His emotions had been wrestled back from the extremes and locked down hard. He focused on his work. On his study. On making a new life, in new places, and on exhausting body and brain before they could betray him. When he was to exhausted his control faltered and there were binges, orgies of anger and futile misery. Music loud enough to drown out thought. Chemicals to send it spinning. Faceless flesh and empty actions. In the weak whey light of the next dawning all he could feel was anger at his own weakness and itching in his skin, and the hard smoothness of glass in his hands.
He was on the roof of a mundane run down flat-felt-roofed port-o-cabin the first time he surrendered to sensation without loosing all control. A mundane corner of an average small town, and all it took was a breeze.
A week's worth of casual labour amongst humans was enough to drive him up here. Tucked away between the maths block and the canteen where the sun bounced between the brick walls to heat the shade. Hot enough to make him wish for a breeze to go with his solitude, and the thought slipped out, and the air stirred.
Just a little, light as ashes, just enough lift the sweat from his bared shoulders and carry the scents of tar and mown grass and over baked potatoes. And he felt it. Closed his eyes and felt it roll over his skin. Felt the gritted roof paper pressing into the heels of his hands. Felt the walls baking in the heat and his trousers pulling against his knees, and the heel of his left trainer pressing into the tendon. Felt the curl of an element moving to his will deep in his chest. He almost forgot to breath.
The breeze dropped away. The air felt solid, heavy with heat, thick in his lungs. For a moment his mind was quiet, absorbing the play of muscles that moved his ribs, the way his waistband was damp against his lower back, the way it felt to draw focus and command the air. The rush and shine of the reaction. The way the litter in the gutter rustled and sighed and his arms goose pimpled under the flow of cooler air. The way it felt to be inside his skin and able to smile.
***** ***** *****
Everything was so over-saturated and superlative that the slightest touch made him flinch. The trail of gossamer silks and the finest furs made his skin crawl, the drag of fingertips and the buzz and pressure of the glamour that disguised them hammered against the watercolour hopelessness of his mood and it took all his will to bare it. A son of Thalamos, he would tread the palace hallways and take his place at his sister's side and hold the jewelled and pattered hilt of his sword just so, for all it raised blisters in his heart to do it.
He would smile and flirt and endure the heady invasion of his senses and in the cool blissful stillness of the dawning he would flee the raucous song birds and the penetrating sun and search for stillness in his private rooms.
As simple as he had made them, the cotton of his sheets caught on the nerves of his skin, his own hair snagged his shoulders, cool water warmed on his skin and every faded trace of scent deluged him in memories he could not retreat from. He bowed his head and let them come, washing silent tears over the damn of his resolve.
The gardens crawled with life, the hilltops oppressed with wind and sky and heather-sweet flower scent, and the constant presence of magic workers' wards and illusions and casual spell craft scratched on every last nerve ending, filled his dreams, disarmed his meditations, drove him near crazy in a way his sister and her mother could hardly fathom at all.