Chapter Six
“So we’re staying in the South Ward?”
“Southern, not South,” Rizeth corrected. “They’re rather particular about that.”
It was afternoon already, later in the day and the season than Rizeth had wanted to arrive. He’d hoped to have been settled in Waterdeep well before the new year, but the weather had continued to conspire against them. A dray rattled past, the long, windowed carriage packed full of passengers avoiding the implications of the dark, heavy clouds that loomed overhead. If it didn’t snow tonight, he’d be surprised.
“I’ll remember,” Ashenivir said. He turned the map in his hands, struggling with its awkward size as he tried to orient himself. “Oh. There’s a shrine here.”
His tone was light, too carefully so.
“You have time to visit today, if you’d like,” Rizeth said, equally lightly.
Ashenivir flipped the map around again. “No, I…I don’t want to.”
Rizeth didn’t press him. He still hadn’t gotten to the bottom of Ashenivir’s strange behaviour in Neverwinter Wood, but it wasn’t his place to pry. Unless and until it reared its head in a scene, he would wait for Ashenivir to come to him.
It didn’t take long to find their way to Curtain Alley, where Rizeth had written ahead to arrange lodgings. The small apartment wasn’t exactly elaborate, but it was the two things he needed it to be; comfortable and private. Ashenivir immediately claimed the bed nearest the window and sat there, cross-legged, pretending to be absorbed in the pamphlets he’d picked up on the walk here. His attempts to conceal his delight as Rizeth moved methodically through the apartment to cast the soundproofing spells were as charming as they were futile.
“Volothamp Geddarm is a hack and a charlatan,” Rizeth remarked. He sketched another rune in the air, then blew a handful of diamond dust into an upper corner of the bedroom. It shimmered, sinking into the wall with an azure glimmer.
“He wrote an entire guide to the city.”
“And I am certain if you follow his every instruction, you shall be indistinguishable from a native in no time.”
“You’re teasing me.”
“Is that so?” Rizeth turned from his casting, and the pout on Ashenivir’s face was thoroughly delightful. He bit his lip, eyes raking over Rizeth with a familiar hunger.
“How long do the spells take, Master?”
“Another hour to set them all correctly.”
Ashenivir groaned and flopped back on the bed.
“Your patience will be rewarded, Ra’soltha, but not if you continue to complain quite so much.”
“It’s been months.”
“It has been a few days.” Rizeth moved on to the next corner, drawing another handful of diamond dust from his pouch. Three times around to embed the spells, then another three to make them secure—the latticing took a great deal of time, but it was worth it.
Ashenivir took up his pamphlet again. “Months since I’ve screamed for you, Master.”
Rizeth concentrated on the spell. Ashenivir said such things so casually, blissfully unaware of the effect his words had. The silence between them that followed was more comfortable than it had any right to be, though Ashenivir’s attention turned to him more and more as the minutes passed. By the time the soundproofing was complete, he was practically vibrating out of his skin.
“Come here,” Rizeth said, and almost laughed at how he sprang from the bed. “You know your position, Ra’soltha.”
Ashenivir went to his knees in a smooth drop, tucking his arms behind his back. Rizeth tipped his head up with two fingers. “You want to scream for me.”
“Yes, Master.”
“What manner of screaming would you like to do?” Ashenivir flushed. Rizeth tapped his lip with a thumb. “You are not shy, do not start pretending. Tell your Master what you want.”
“I want you to fuck me,” Ashenivir said in a confessional rush. “I want to play with the gauntlet, I want you to tie me up and gag me, choke me, spank me…I want you to make me hurt again.”
A soaring fullness expanded in Rizeth’s chest. Knowing what Ashenivir wanted from him was one thing, but hearing it was another euphoria entirely.
“You,” he said, pushing his thumb into Ashenivir’s mouth, “are quite a greedy creature.” As if to prove his point, Ashenivir sucked at it lasciviously. He pulled it free. “But you will have to show your patience a little longer.”
Ashenivir whined, and Rizeth slapped him lightly. “I have arrangements to make this afternoon. We are here for the foreseeable future, Ra’soltha, you will get what you want.”
“But I want it now.”
Rizeth slapped him again, harder, enjoying the gasp it drew. “Your mouth runs away with you more and more lately. Clearly I have been too lenient.”
“Yes,” Ashenivir said, eyes bright. “I need to be disciplined again.”
“You need to behave.”
Ashenivir bowed his head, managing to keep the smile from his face but not his voice. “Yes, Master.”
“Good boy.”
Rizeth collected his cloak and paused in the doorway, glancing back to where Ashenivir had gotten to his feet, stretching. “And Ra’soltha?”
Ashenivir froze mid-stretch.
“Do not think I have forgotten what you are owed for your lapses on the way here.”
“Twenty-five?”
“Twenty-seven,” Rizeth said. “And do not touch yourself whilst I am gone, or it will double.”
“Yes, Master.”
Rizeth hid his own smile as he slipped down the stairs to the street, tugging his hood up against the chill wind. Strange to be back in the city after all this time, but for all that was different, so much remained the same—the piercing whistle of a traffic warden two streets over; peeling layers of advertisements pasted on every available surface; City Watch in green-and-gold, trudging along their patrols. He wondered if the place on Vorin Street was still there. It would be nice to feed more than one of Ashenivir’s hungers tonight, and it was one of the less obnoxious establishments in the Sea Ward, if memory served.
He had a few other stops to make first. Some supplies for the apartment, registration with the Watchful Order for the both of them—gods, he hoped he was still on their books. He doubted a few decades had lowered the level of bureaucracy within the arcanist’s guild; if anything, the forms had probably gotten longer. But he was supposed to be on a sabbatical, which meant finding some avenue of work to occupy his time and his thoughts. If he couldn’t come up with any viable pretence of research himself, the Order would doubtless have enough work to keep him occupied.
Without a distraction, he was liable to get carried away having Ashenivir so close at hand. He could indulge tonight, at Ashenivir’s request—it had been too long, he was as starving as his Ra’soltha—but after that, limitations. Restraint, that was the key to this trip. Given he’d originally conceived it as a way to put space between the desires he had and the reality he lived in, he had to be careful.
Otherwise he was going to end up in deep, deep trouble.
The apartment had two main rooms: a larger living area with windowed doors leading to a narrow balcony that looked out onto the High Road, and a smaller bedroom off to the right of it with an equally small bathroom attached. Ashenivir dumped out the clothes from his bag of holding, and began folding them away into the slightly scuffed chest of drawers—he had no intention of living out of his luggage the entire time they were here. When he finished, he glanced to where Rizeth’s bags lay by the door, chewing his lip. Should he unpack Rizeth’s things, too? They were living together now, did that mean he should start serving like that, or—
“Oh, Goddess.”
He sat down very suddenly on the nearest bed. Living together. With Rizeth. This wasn’t sharing a room for a few days in an inn, this was their apartment. He’d never lived with anyone before, not like this—their things would entangle, their habits would clash; how long would it be before his idiosyncrasies wore Rizeth to exasperation? There was only so much annoyance that could be remedied with punishment, and Rizeth wouldn’t want to hold dynamic over him all the time; he’d get sick of it, regret ever bringing him to the surface.
“Stop overthinking things,” Ashenivir muttered. He glanced again at Rizeth’s bags and decided to leave them, settling instead for organising the rest of his own things. He hung his cloak in the entryway, and put his books on the empty shelves in the living area, along with the shard of still-glowing crystal Rizeth had given him at the Hot Springs. The maps of Neverwinter and the Sword Coast went on the shelves with the books, but he tacked the one of Waterdeep to the wall just inside the front door, the better to study the layout of the city.
The apartment still felt sadly bare once he was done. He’d see if he couldn’t acquire some more books over the next few days to fill the shelves out. That would help.
He went out onto the balcony, despite the cold, and gazed down at the bustle and noise of the street. It was half-surreal, actually being here. He kept expecting to wake from reverie at any moment, find himself back at the Arcanum—or worse, back at the Zauvym estate. At least his mother couldn’t have Dirius throw sendings at him constantly; the faez’ress barrier surrounding the city saw to that. He’d hated it when they’d gone to Sshamath—it kept him from even reaching out to Keszriin for comfort—but now the silence was a blessing.
Ashenivir took a deep breath, chilling his lungs. He was here. Here with Rizeth until winter turned to summer, and he was going to savour every second of this temporary freedom.
What he wasn’t going to savour was the bath. He frowned at the heavy, claw-footed tub, hands on his hips. It would need to be filled by hand, heated mundanely unless he arranged it otherwise. He arranged it otherwise. He wasn’t about to sit around waiting after a scene, and he definitely wasn’t going to go the better part of a year without a hot bath.
He painted the runes along the bath’s edge, hoping the arcane inks wouldn’t stain it. Carving them would have been more certain, but he didn’t dare do such a thing—Rizeth had rented this place, and damaging any part of it would cause trouble for him. Still, the painted runes worked fine, and he was draining the heated water back to the elemental plane it had been summoned from when he heard the front door click.
The jump in his chest was too warm and too eager and it tangled like rope around his ribs the moment he saw Rizeth. Whatever greeting he’d had ready evaporated on his tongue.
“You have made yourself at home, I see,” Rizeth said, not seeming to notice Ashenivir’s sudden inability to speak. He had a collection of bags and packages with him, most of which he left on the table in the main room, apart from one which he placed on Ashenivir’s bed, and another which he put into the bag of holding that contained all of their toys. He didn’t say anything about it though, only set to unpacking his ordinary things, and Ashenivir was then preoccupied with trying not to think about what seeing Rizeth setting clothes into drawers alongside his own did to the warm rope entangling his ribcage.
To distract himself, he examined the package on his bed, peeling back the paper to find a folded square of fabric; deep blue wool, of a fine, almost silken weave.
“What’s this?” He drew out the shirt, holding it up.
“We have been travelling for a while,” Rizeth said. “I thought you might enjoy something new for tonight.”
“Why, what’s tonight?”
“Dinner, if you should feel like joining me.” Rizeth slid the drawer closed. “But first I believe we have an accounting to make.”
His voice shifted at that last; darker, harder. Ashenivir set the shirt aside, a thrill rolling through him.
“Twenty-seven, Master,” he said.
“Strip,” Rizeth ordered. “Bend over, hold your ankles. You will count aloud until we are done.”
Ashenivir scrambled free of his clothes, not caring how over-eager he must seem. He flexed his toes against the rug as Rizeth ran a hand up his thigh, giving the taut muscle a single squeeze before drawing back. Tension gathered in the still air between his skin and his Master’s hand, and he gripped his ankles tight, not daring even to breathe.
Then the hand snapped up.
“One, Master!”
Up and up he counted, and Goddess, it was good to let his voice free again. No more restraint, no more biting back every shout and cry. Twenty-seven—and one more to even him out, because his Master was always so good to him—blows later, he lay sprawled on his bed, ass throbbing, thoroughly satisfied.
“Thank you, Master,” he sighed out. Rizeth tapped his shoulder.
“Up, Ra’soltha.” Ashenivir made a lazy noise of complaint, and another spank snapped across his stinging backside. “If you do not want to join me for dinner, then say so. Otherwise, get dressed.”
Ashenivir did as he was told. The shirt Rizeth had gotten him was simple enough—a plain wrap style with brown ties at the wrists—but fastening it sent a jolt of delight to his heart. It wasn’t the same as being given his collar, it was just a shirt, but all the same—his Master had given it to him.
Once he was clothed, Rizeth looking him over, assessing, and Ashenivir almost asked for a kiss; he’d earned a reward by any measure, and besides that, he wanted one. His freshly-punished brain was too slow in forming the request; by the time he’d gotten his tongue in order, Rizeth was away and out the door. Ashenivir suppressed a sigh. He’d ask for one later, and more besides.
They had soundproofing now, after all.
Ashenivir had been to a fair amount of restaurants in his time. Mostly with Keszriin and the others, occasionally with bedmates, and rarely—very rarely—with his family. Many had been in Qu’ellor’harl, which meant he was more than used to being in intimidatingly expensive surroundings where he felt out of place, underdressed, and extremely glad to have someone with him who knew what they were doing.
That person being Rizeth tonight had him off-balance. He was still sore from earlier, and the throb in his backside combined with how fine Rizeth looked in the candlelight was causing him some degree of difficulty.
He hid himself in the menu. It was short, written in elaborate silver cursive decorative enough to pass for Elvish, and he was so engrossed in deciphering the swoops and curves back into Common that he didn’t realise someone had come to take their order until Rizeth had given it and the waitress was leaving. Ashenivir blinked after her.
“I didn’t…ask for anything…”
“Then it is fortunate for you that I did.” Rizeth clasped his hands together atop the table, tapping his knuckle with a forefinger.
“You ordered for me?”
“If you do not like it, you may ask for something else.”
Something not quite lust but just as hot surged through him. His hand went to his collar. “I like that.” The words came out a low rasp, too shaky by half.
“Like what?” And though Rizeth didn’t say it, Ashenivir heard it anyway—be specific, Ra’soltha.
“You ordering for me.” He slid his hand down over his new shirt, exquisitely aware of every inch of skin the material touched. “And you giving me things. I like…I like it when you take control of me.”
When he met them, Rizeth’s eyes pinned him in place, burning right down through his core. His neck prickled, and he thought Rizeth would let him go after a few moments, given they were in the middle of a crowded restaurant.
He didn’t. He held Ashenivir’s gaze until he was flushed practically luminous, his breeches growing uncomfortably tight. His lips parted slightly, his breath slowing the way it did at the start of a scene, his brain filled with a static hum, and if Rizeth had told him to get on his knees, he would have done it without a second thought.
“Your preferences are noted,” Rizeth said at last, and shifted his gaze to one of the dark windows that formed the front wall of the restaurant.
Ashenivir let out a long whoosh of breath, and valiantly did not collapse under the table. The clink of silverware and murmur of light conversation continued around them, not a single of the other patrons having noticed a thing. Ashenivir rubbed at his blazing cheeks, willing them back to normal. Where had this Master been all the way to Waterdeep?
Though perhaps it was a good thing he hadn’t been like this. He wouldn’t have had any sense left if Rizeth had done that every time they’d eaten together at an inn.
Their food arrived some time later, and he did like what Rizeth had chosen for him; a ragout of bright peppers and tomatoes, thick sauce over delicate dark meat. It was rich, spiced enough to light up his tongue, and utterly delicious. He devoured it with perhaps less decorum than his surroundings called for, but Rizeth didn’t seem to mind. He wore that almost invisible amusement that to Ashenivir was clear as any broad grin, and he wondered that he’d ever found Rizeth hard to read. All it took was paying a little attention.
“How did you know, Master?” he asked, setting his fork aside. It wouldn’t be appropriate to lick the remains from his plate, though he was sorely tempted.
“I have seen you choose your own meals often enough.”
Ashenivir fiddled with his napkin whilst Rizeth finished off the shelled sea-creatures he’d ordered. His mother still couldn’t even make his tea right, but his Master had watched him order from a handful of taverns and chosen better than he could have himself.
It was suddenly very hard to breathe.
He shoved his chair back, mumbled a flimsy excuse about going to the washroom, and didn’t wait for a reply, almost knocking over a waitress as he dashed between the busy tables. The washroom was blessedly empty and as elaborate as any in Qu’ellor’harl, magically lit with low, sourceless light that glinted off of silver-edged mirrors and the wave patterned mosaics on the floor. It was internally plumbed, as—according to Volo’s guide to the city—many of the buildings in Waterdeep were, and Ashenivir gratefully twisted one of the polished taps to splash ice-cold water on his face.
He gripped the edge of the sink and stared at his dripping reflection. Indigo was painted so dark over the bridge of his nose and cheeks it might have been stained there, his eyes were much too bright, and his backside throbbed in time with the thudding of his heart.
“What is wrong with me?”
His reflection didn’t answer. Ashenivir rubbed at his chest, thinking of Keszriin’s good kind of terror and Dresvan’s accusation of weird crush and wished they’d both just go away. He didn’t want either; didn’t need either. All he needed were his rules and his sex and his punishments and he had all of those in abundance, so whatever this was, it could just stop right now. Rizeth was his Master. That was all.
Ashenivir took a few long, deep breaths, until he felt more like a person and less like a panic attack, then made his way back to Rizeth. He was stood by the table, Ashenivir’s cloak over his arm.
“Are you feeling well?” he asked, handing it over as Ashenivir approached.
“I’m fine. We’re leaving?”
“It is late,” was all Rizeth said.
Outside, it was freezing, far colder than when they’d arrived. Ashenivir shivered and tugged his cloak tighter about his shoulders, starting when something cold landed on his hand. He looked up not to the splatter of rain, but something else entirely falling from the sky.
“Snow!”
He held out his hands, trying to catch the flakes that swirled heavier with every passing second, only for them to melt against his skin. The streetlamps cast everything in a sepia hue, the snow seeming to glow as it fuzzed the world to strangeness. Ashenivir turned in a circle, following the drifting flakes up into the velvet black sky.
“It’s so pretty.”
“The first fall always is,” Rizeth said, drawing his hood up. “Let us get back before it becomes unnavigable.”
He started off, and Ashenivir followed, trailing his hand through the air to make the falling snow dance in the wake of his fingers. As they paused at a street corner to let a carriage pass, he tipped his head back and stuck out his tongue—cold, wet, just frozen water, but it delighted him all the same. He realised Rizeth was watching him and snapped his mouth closed.
The snow grew heavier as they entered the Southern Ward. Ashenivir relented and raised his own hood, more to keep the chill flurries out of his face than anything else.
“Master,” he said, sneaking a glance at Rizeth, “did you finish making all your arrangements?”
“For today.”
“Does this evening fall under the foreseeable future?”
“It does.”
“May I have what I want now?”
Rizeth looked at him, and it was the restaurant all over again. Even in the snow, Ashenivir went white hot.
“Yes, apprentice. You may.”
Rizeth let Ashenivir hang up his cloak and take off his boots, then grabbed a fistful of hair and hauled him backwards. His mouth opened wide on a gasp, eyes already wide and wanting.
“Remind me, Ra’soltha, what was it you wanted?”
The answer slipped from Ashenivir’s lips in a sweet sigh. “Everything.”
“Greedy boy.”
Rizeth dragged him through the dark, unfamiliar apartment into the bedroom, where still-falling snow flickered in the glow of the streetlamp through the window. He yanked the curtains shut with a mage hand as Ashenivir scrabbled at his arm—it was a joy to ignore his protests, knowing that was what he wanted, that all it did was make him hungrier.
I like it when you take control of me.
He pushed the thought away. This was neither the time nor the place to dwell on what those words had done to him. He drew Ashenivir around so they were face to face, keeping tight hold of his hair. The neat braid he’d fastened it into was already coming apart, pale strands framing the ink-dark flush of his cheeks. He slid a hand along Ashenivir’s jaw, and as he pressed into the touch, Rizeth gripped tight, holding him still.
“Do not look away.”
“Yes, Master.”
The cantrip very conveniently required only a few words, which meant he could keep both hands exactly where he wanted them: firmly on Ashenivir. Rizeth sent a knife of power spiking into his mind and he cried out, blinking rapidly at the sudden shock.
“I believe I recall you complaining about how long it had been since you screamed for your Master,” Rizeth said. “Is that the best you can manage, Ra’soltha?”
“Was that meant to hurt me, Master?” Ashenivir replied, eyes aglow, even in the gloom—gods, Rizeth wanted to kiss him. He slapped him instead, then took harder hold of his jaw. Ashenivir, ever obedient, held his gaze, waiting for the consequences of his actions.
Rizeth chained the cantrips together, as he’d taught Ashenivir to do what felt like a lifetime ago, and the unrestrained shout of pain that followed was sweeter and more intoxicating than the too-expensive wine he’d drunk at dinner. He allowed his mind to connect to the mark; no distress present, and he hardly needed magic to see Ashenivir’s enjoyment. He ran his knuckles along Ashenivir’s cheekbone.
“Much better.”
Ashenivir hummed, once more pressing to his touch. The urge to kiss him strengthened, and Rizeth forced it away. He’d gone too far in the restaurant—wordless domination was still domination, inappropriate by any measure. And though Ashenivir had said he’d enjoyed it, he shouldn’t have ordered for him, or at least shouldn’t have made it so obvious how much attention he’d been paying to what Ashenivir ate, of all things. He’d been uncomfortable, that much had been clear in the way he’d run off.
Limitations. Restraint. Master and Ra’soltha; nothing more, nothing less.
“Touch yourself,” he ordered.
Holding Ashenivir in place whilst he fumbled to get a hand on his cock was a simple enough pleasure. He was hard already, naturally, and kept his eyes on Rizeth’s, letting out a quiet whimper as he started to stroke.
Rizeth wanted to hear him scream again, wanted him further gone, a mess, compliant and desperate beneath his hand. He mused for a moment on whether it was worth forcing him to undress, then decided he didn’t want to wait. He cast again, sending another sliver of psychic pain deep into Ashenivir’s mind. More of a moan than a scream escaped him this time, and Rizeth did not miss the way his hand squeezed faster as the spell hit.
“Enjoying yourself, Ra’soltha?”
“Yes, Master; thank you, Master,” Ashenivir gasped out. “I like it when you hurt me, please do it again, please-please-please! ”
“Since you ask so politely.”
This time Rizeth followed the cantrip chain into the mark, soaring half out of his own head along the rising swell of Ashenivir’s pain. His own magic pulsed back at him, waves of satisfaction filtered through the sigils burned into Ashenivir’s neck, a dizzying mental burn scorching through his veins. Up and up, until there—nothing in Ashenivir’s eyes but the moment, nothing in that hazy gaze but want and Rizeth’s own reflection, a dark and indistinct shape of desire. Nothing left but his Master.
Ashenivir’s hand stroked yet faster, every stuttering breath catching on a needy noise of pleasure. Close, and no words left to ask for it. It took Rizeth a second to find his own voice, he was so tangled in the magic.
“Come for me.”
Obedient to the last, Ashenivir neither looked away nor closed his eyes as he came. Rizeth pressed one last shard of pain into him right at the peak of it, and the scream that issued from Ashenivir’s lips made him ache, from heart to skin, all his body prickling, tight, enraptured. That he could do this to him, raise him to such heights and guide him safely down again…!
Master and Ra’soltha; nothing more, nothing less. There was plenty enough in that to keep him satisfied.
“Why does it not surprise me that this was your first priority?”
Ashenivir closed his eyes and sank deeper into the blissfully hot water. “I am a Master of the Arcanum, I can enchant as many baths as I wish.”
Rizeth tugged his hair, and he grinned. The bath was too small to fit them both, so Rizeth was presently perched on the edge, untangling his hair. Ashenivir was already musing on whether he could find an enchantment to make the bath bigger—the hot water was nice, yes, but sharing it would be nicer. Though speaking of sharing…
“Shall I pleasure you now, Master?” He tried to look around at Rizeth, who stilled him with a firm hand.
“Not tonight.”
“You say that a lot.” Rizeth didn’t reply, so he continued; “You give me all I want, then don’t want anything for yourself. I…sometimes I feel guilty for taking so much.”
“You need not.” Careful fingers teased out yet another knot, combing through with their usual methodical motions. “There are more ways to take enjoyment from what we do than physical release, you know that.”
Like at the restaurant, Ashenivir thought. He’d been aroused, yes, but Rizeth had only affected him so much because of the power he’d already given over to him. The gift freely given—that was what truly brought the satisfaction, so much more than any ordinary bedmate had ever been able to give.
“If you are satisfied, I am satisfied,” Rizeth said. “Watching you as Ra’soltha is enough.”
“If I come, you come, even if you don’t,” Ashenivir teased, and got his hair pulled again for his trouble.
“Behave.”
“Yes, Master.”
After finishing with his hair, Rizeth went off and made tea. He leaned in the doorway with his mug, and the back of Ashenivir’s neck prickled, as it had for much of the scene.
“I’m alright,” he said. “Just a little dizzy.”
Magic hummed a moment longer, then faded. He sipped his tea and sighed—sweet and hot, right at the edge of too much. Perfect. Rizeth always made it this way for him; he’d asked the first time, years ago now, and gotten it exactly right ever since. He listened when Ashenivir told him things. And he remembered them, quietly.
“I will put up heating runes tomorrow,” Rizeth said. “Seeing as we have no fireplace.”
“Does that mean I don’t have to dress?”
The corner of Rizeth’s mouth twitched infinitesimally. “You may do as you wish. I am certain the novelty of perpetual nudity will wear off soon enough.” He drained his mug, then pressed his hand over a yawn. “I am for reverie. Try not to fall asleep in the bath, apprentice.”
The door clicked shut, leaving Ashenivir in candlelit quiet. He took another sip of tea, and warmth rolled from his scalp to his soles. How fortunate he was to have such a considerate Master, one who knew how he liked his tea as well as how he liked to be hit. He tarried a while longer, avoiding the chill leaving the water would inflict, but he needn’t have worried; indeed, he must have enchanted the runes far too hot, for it took an age for him to cool enough to finally fall asleep.