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I. CREATURE, WITNESS
Kabru keeps two things locked at the back of his tongue: the intrigue he felt upon hearing that Laios had torn the Winged Lion apart with odd teeth and ill-fitting claws, and the fact he, for a moment, pictured himself on the other end of that grotesqueness. Laios is human. Laios is the King. Laios’ covers his bite-ridden hands with soft leather gloves. Laios stares right back at Kabru, and Kabru knows how enticing it must have been to be offered anything in the world. It peers back at him that very moment.
A new, third thing Kabru attempts to keep inside of him, a tiny secret, tastes like Laios’ lips. It is shaped like the ridges of Laios’ teeth, the hollow of his mouth. It has the sound of Laios’ content, a rough sigh, long as his throat. Kabru does not have infinite magic or a dungeon or much else he’d be willing to offer, but he thinks he might be able to share himself.
Pressing his face into the crook of Kabru’s neck like an animal, those blunt teeth now against his throat, Laios makes another noise. From deeper within. Anything but content.
When Kabru threads his fingers through Laios’ pale hair, he pulls him back. Demands his gaze.
Laios looks as if he aches without words for it.
II. KABRU DISCOVERS A GAPING WOUND
Laios’ fingers are red and worn when Kabru greets him one morning. His nails are bitten down and even though his sleeves cover his wrists, the long, red scratches aren’t hidden when he reaches for another document to sign. Kabru bites his tongue.
Dinner that evening is exquisite, befitting of a royal family; Kabru still has not adjusted to his place at the table. Even half a year after the collapse of the dungeon and Laios' coronation, Kabru finds himself expecting to find his small dining room whenever he enters the royal dining hall. The house remains in his name, more of a bedroom with a kitchen than a house, but he so rarely completes his work before midnight passes that more often than not he sleeps in one of the castle’s guest rooms. It doesn’t help that every time he suggests he returns home for the evening, someone will invite him to dinner, and Laios will say, Meals are better when shared, aren’t they? And Kabru will contemplate eating soup off a worn bowl, alone, while the sun sets, and then agree to join them.
Laios eats with the same enthusiasm he always does, even though the food presented on the table now is all grown on the nearby farms. At first, upon seeing Laios’ disappointment, Senshi had offered to find a monster to prepare a more dungeon-like meal. After a week of no luck, Laios had been forced to reconcile with the fact that thanks to the Winged Lion’s curse, they were not going to be able to fetch anything even resembling a monster nearby. That day, Kabru had caught Laios staring more intently at his food than ever. Maybe trying to conjure an eyeball or two on it through sheer willpower. Fortunately, the carrots remained carrots, and the beef did not grow scales.
Now, Laios cracks a chicken leg open with his hands right as someone places a pan of fresh bread rolls covered in butter and seeds on the table. Kabru brings a tender piece of meat to his own mouth. A sizzle of orange creeps through the rich, earthy sauce drizzled over it. When he looks up from his plate, he catches Laios’ staring at him from his left. Kabru’ mouth is too dry, but the red wine doesn’t help. The flavor coats his tongue. Kabru helps himself to a second bite as Laios licks the grease off his fingers.
Marcille complains about his manners, but Laios just laughs. Kabru reaches for the plump bread rolls and splits one in half, placing a slice of the chicken onto one side of the bread. Laios cuts the crisp, golden skin off the chicken and hums delightedly while Falin leans over to ask Marcille a question. Laios’ teeth catch the dim light from the candles on the table.
Kabru hunches over his plate. All he hears is the sound of chatter, uncomfortably distant as if filtered through a spell, and Laios’ cutlery against his plate, clearer than anything else in the room.
One time, a trap severed Kabru’s arm at the elbow so cleanly that the pain didn’t strike him until he was already writhing on the ground, gasping for air. Laios slices neatly; he handles his knife with care. Like someone who savors the process of eating as much as the memory of it. His gaze fixes on Kabru, who realizes he has put his fork down, and to busy himself he digs into a small, round quiche. He can’t register the taste of any of it. He imagines Laios’ steady fingers wrapped around the handle of his sword. Laios spears a chunk of red meat on his fork, replying to someone’s question, and Kabru tries to delight in the rest of his quiche.
At the end of their meal, Laios says it was delicious—there is never any detail spared in his praise. What he does not say is, I’m full. There’s nothing in his voice that betrays it, but Kabru wonders if anyone else notices the tense line of his jaw or the dejected slope of his shoulders. And, if they do, would they ask him?
It is not their first night together, but there hasn’t been that many. The guts of realization cave in as Kabru lowers his
lips See, here? / his thumb crossing Laios’ navel Laios’ / tilted head holds questions but his open / mouth yields to silence How did
you / devour him? Kabru asks the cavity / between / Laios’ ribs Where does / the ghost of him live? Laios grips / his arm says It has
no shape but I know it when I / taste it Kabru / laughs / the sound is like / oil on water and Laios leans in / for the flame says softer
For a moment I was everything Kabru stares / at him / Everything? Yes Everything / Kabru’s grip tightens but he keeps his tongue
keeps / everything / he could offer only admits To many now you are Everything just not a Monster / Laios laughs this time it /
echoes / echoes / Inside of Kabru’s mouth it is / hot.
III. MEATS
“It’s late.” Kabru pushes his palm against the wooden door behind him until it slides shut.
It’s a wide room, and even though it is simple, it is covered in trinkets: Laios hoards the way a dragon does. Now, Laios stands in front of the only window in the room, his one place where he might avoid being accosted about taxes or diplomacy, a simple office at the very top of the castle. And he is feasting. Laios’s fingers are red, the flesh around his thumb struggling to hold to his bones with the intensity of Laios’ stubborn teeth digging into it. He holds Kabru’s gaze, uncomfortably steady, and says nothing.
Clicking the bronze lock shut, Kabru strides over to the window, ignoring the sound of his heartbeat in his ears. His first thought is, this monstrous man, but he doesn’t say it, because he knows Laios would lap it up and demand seconds. He is weak to compliments, especially unintended ones.
“Open your mouth, Laios,” Kabru says, and the King lets his grip on his own hand go, opening his mouth so that all of his teeth are on display. They are too sharp to be human, but they’re not beastly, either. This is a creature. He runs his palms up Laios’ stained cheeks, waiting for a word, anything to humanize him.
“I thought I could pry it out of myself,” Laios explains.
When Kabru turns his gaze down to Laios’ hands again, they have healed; something shifts inside of him, heady and a little revolting. Laios’ eyes follow his gaze, searching with intent, like he can smell the hint of revulsion just through Kabru’s movements.
It doesn’t sound like childish dissatisfaction when Laios says, “I just want to taste it again. I feel it on the back of my tongue every moment.” He sounds like he yearns.
Kabru hates when Laios makes him feel this way: dizzy and desperate to understand. Food is just food. It’s a necessity, a ritualistic part of society, a habit he’s fond of but not dependent on. Laios talks about his hunger like it is a lover he has parted with for months.
“Stop.” Prying Laios’ hands away from his mouth, Kabru grits his teeth. “You’re going to chew through your bones.”
“They heal,” Laios tells him. “I tried prying them open.”
Kabru’s stomach twists. Eyes meeting Laios’, he watches as Laios lowers his head enough to press his lips against Kabru’s palm, and the sensation of his wet tongue against Kabru’s skin has static whipping down his neck. It buzzes at Kabru’s nape and curls in his stomach, deepening every moment. Laios’ teeth press into the back of his hand without breaking skin.
Kabru remembers dying, that brilliant moment of everything before his vision cuts and he wakes up elsewhere. How, somehow, he was both happy and terrified of being alive again—what is more terrifying than becoming addicted to that fear? To wonder if desperation will seize him the same after a dozen times or more. When Laios eyes him, not entirely beast but not unlike them either, Kabru’s mind prickles with an unsavory thought. He presses his lips together tightly, his hand not occupied with Laios’ mouth clenching into a loose fist.
“Does it have to be your own?” he asks. In the pit of Kabru’s stomach there is heat. It dips into his legs and prickles his fingertips.
Laios’ eyes glaze over, and
Kabru makes a nauseated face / asks about hunger as / Laios puts his thumb above Kabru's navel, his index finger / digging into the
soft dip / between his ribs / the center of his chest / there lies everything, Laios says I have eaten / a demon from its throat to the hollowness
inside of it / right here / Kabru asks about devouring souls and / Laios has interest / Kabru asks about devouring flesh
and / Laios opens his mouth.
Mornings, Kabru discovers, are the same no matter what bed chamber he wakes up in. Laios’ room is large but sparsely decorated, except for the walls covered in diagrams and paintings—even his bedsheets are plain. The most extravagant thing about them is the gold embroidery around the edges of the comforter, shimmering gently in the dim morning sunlight. When Kabru runs his fingertips along the design, the thread is wonderfully smooth. Laios snores to his left.
IV. HOW TO HOLD GENTLY WITH SHARP TEETH
Laios asks Kabru what he hungers for. Kabru says he is content with the extermination of the dungeons; the reply is shallow and not filling. It leaves them both longing for something more.
Kabru leans back in the chair placed next to Laios’ desk. This late in the evening, no one else is around; Laios has been whimpering about wanting to be done, too. On the table in front of them is a small stack of unfinished paperwork that could possibly be left for tomorrow, but would be easier to deal with tonight. Laios blinks up at him from where his head is resting on the desk. His eyelashes are uncomfortably long in the flickering light from the candle.
“In the dungeon that time, you ate the harpy egg omelet even though you didn’t want to,” Laios says.
“I did.” Kabru presses his pointer finger against the edge of his brow, swiping over it before pressing hard against his temple. If he tries hard enough, maybe he can force himself not to remember its rich and surprisingly bitter taste. To not gag. On the other side of the candle, Laios is sighing wistfully.
“Because you wanted to be nice.” Laios’ tone sounds as if he’s walking around the idea in his head.
“Because I wanted you to not dismiss me,” Kabru agrees. If not for the indisputable fact that Laios had been his best chance at sealing the dungeon, he might have allowed himself to refuse. Not that anyone else would think to offer him monster delicacies. You seem interested in monsters. Kabru’s interest in monsters has nothing to do with the meat and everything to do with keeping them inside of dungeons. “You were excited about it. It was important to you.”
“Food always makes it easier to deal with people,” Laios tells him, not breaking eye contact. “Everyone’s in the same mindset right before a meal—I want to eat. Everyone can meet each other in the middle.”
Stretching out and then slowly wiggling into a new, comfortable position in his chair, Laios scratches the growing stubble on his chin.. “I never even got to try half of the monsters I wanted to eat. Sometimes in my dreams, I’m back in the dungeon, chasing a new monster. Kensuke’s with me, and Falin’s there, too, and we can all try new meals together without worrying about what’s going to happen when we get to the end.”
Turning his eyes back to the letter, Kabru says, “Have someone bring you a carcass from a dungeon.”
With a pathetic moan, Laios says, “I’m starting to think even a carcass might grow legs and run away from me.”
Unable to help himself, Kabru snorts, then follows it with a sigh and places the paper in his hand on the desk. Laios raises his eyebrows at him, and Kabru studies the tired, deep color underneath his eyes. Kabru extends his hand and Laios reaches for it, fingertips tracing the lines on Kabru’s palms rather than the handwriting on the document by his side. His touch is light and idle; it almost tickles.
Kabru’s stomach twists. Laios brings Kabru’s hand to his mouth, lips smooth against the skin where his fingers had just been. A wet breath. They both know this type of desire, at least, as off-beat as it is for them.
And if Kabru has to tell himself his voice is steady when he says, “Well, I have no intention of leaving,” then it’s a fine lie.
V. KABRU’S ROOM: IN RETROSPECT
Kabru doesn’t cook.
Visiting the market, preparing the ingredients, spending an hour tending to ovens or pans or boiling bots, slicing and chopping and then having to sit down and devour—cooking is a chore. Eating is an extension. The tavern a street over knows him by name, and the ones closest after that one are almost as familiar with him. His landlord often leaves him dishes neatly packaged whenever he is not at the castle, ones that need nothing more but an open flame and that he can then scrape right out of the pan with a fork.
If anything, mealtimes leading up to a dungeon visit had been a resource; he could determine the state of his party and gather new information about the dungeon all at once over a drink or a shared plate of roasted meat. Inside of the dungeon, meals were a necessity. He couldn’t count on his fingers how many times their expeditions had been cut short because of hunger rather than death, forcing them to retreat even though he wanted to push further. Wobbly hunger. Draining hunger. Echoing hunger.
Three weeks after Laios’ coronation, Kabru finds him in his room. He had visited once before, mere days before he had been properly crowned, but he had felt like any other visitor. Now, Kabru is unusually self-conscious about his space, as if a stranger is visiting.
“I thought we’d eat lunch together,” Laios says as if this is something they do often. A somber look crosses his face, almost pouty. “Marcille is busy and Falin has gone with her, and none of the other people at the castle feel comfortable sitting down with me. I don’t like eating alone.”
“I don’t have any food.” Kabru offers him a bright, apologetic smile, as good as he can muster. “If you’d like, I can direct you to a restaurant that would be more than happy to serve you.”
“No.” Laios shakes his head. “I’ll cook, we can find ingredients nearby.”
“You can’t peel random mushrooms off walls and eat them here,” Kabru says to him, keeping his tone sweet and helpful. “You’d have to go to a market or a butcher.”
“I know how cooking outside of a dungeon works,” Laios tells him while opening his arms defensively. “I used to cook for Falin all the time! Come on, just this once, and then I’ll never bother you again.”
Whoever taught Laios to lie smoothly should take responsibility for their actions. Kabru considers denying him and handing him off to someone else to deal with, but the title of advisor most likely extends to making sure his king does not take off recklessly. It’s probably for the better to keep him here until they can return to the castle together.
“Fine,” he agrees. “Let’s go.”
Even though he believed that Laios would make a good king long before he became even a decent one, he had some doubts about Laios’ charisma. About his ability to connect with people. Kabru always assumed he’s going to be the buffer between the world and Laios as he settled into himself and the crown. He knows he can do that much.
Laios doesn’t look over his shoulder when he walks from shop to stall, chatting with merchants and farmers. Instead, Kabru trails after him. He trails and trails and trails until Laios stops and turns to him, asking, “Do you prefer chicken or meat?” And Kabru half-heartedly tells him chicken, even though it’s all the same to him.
The man Laios is speaking with laughs at something Laios says that doesn’t reach Kabru’s ears; Kabru who is busy staring at Laios’ expressive hands, his hunched and humble shoulders in contrast to his confidence. Maybe the crown has taken to him faster than Kabru expected it to.
“If you stare at me like that, I’ll think there’s something wrong with me,” Laios tells him.
Kabru doesn’t avert his eyes. “Nothing’s wrong.”
“If you say so.” With a loose shrug, Laios tears into an apple, their other groceries slung over his shoulders in a bag. “Let’s keep going for a little longer, then we can head back. The weather’s nice.”
It is nice. Warm and sunny, but cool in the shade. Even so, Kabru is burning up, his mouth dry.
But Laios laughs again and Kabru listens. Then, with that heat still licking up his spine, he walks a step faster to keep up and ignores the thickness in his throat in order to join the conversation, feeling more at ease immediately. This much is familiar. This much he knows. The sky’s darkened several shades by the time Laios says he’s too hungry to keep walking around, and Kabru’s eaten half of the second apple they’d bought, fingers slick with juice.
Kabru never thought that he would miss his sword, but when he holds the only knife he owns in his hand, he wavers. Laios hovers to the side, peeling a red onion with a swiftness Kabru expected but eyes attentively regardless. When Laios is done with the onion and discovers that Kabru has only messily cut half of the chicken slice, he takes the knife from him and begins to cut.
“What’s a meal you used to eat growing up?” Laios asks while reaching for the bagged spice he’d bought for them, enough to leave some behind for Kabru’s kitchen. “When we were younger, Falin loved soup.”
“I don’t know.” Kabru lifts the bottle of oil and swirls it around. “They all blend together, and mother didn’t exactly experiment a lot beyond elven cooking. Occasionally I’d have something from my hometown, but it was rare.”
“Elven food…” Laios repeats. “What do you like now?”
Kabru dissects a variety of meals in his head, but they aren’t any more defined than his childhood dishes, except perhaps the very distinct taste of dragon’s meat and harpy egg omelet. He wrinkles his nose and hands the onion over to Laios, who is humming loudly while placing the chicken in the heated pan. The thick scent of meat cooking fills the room, and Kabru has no doubt that it’ll linger even after Laios leaves. A sprig of rosemary brews in the oil alongside the chicken while the onion is placed in a separate pan. Crisp skin, simple flavors, tender onion slices, a side of deep-purple potatoes.
“I’m not a chef, but hopefully you’ll enjoy it,” Laios says, plating the food and handing it over to Kabru, who holds it tenderly.
Laios eats ravenously. Kabru can’t follow his example, but he finishes all of the meal, anyway. While Laios indulges in another piece of chicken, eyes nearly closed and his blonde lashes visible for once in the bright light, Kabru watches him. And watches. And watches.
Laios doesn’t comment on the state of Kabru’s room nor the empty cabinets. He washes the dishes alongside Kabru and then fetches his jacket from the chair he’d hung it over.
“You should join us in the dining room tomorrow.” Pausing for a second, Laios adds, “It would be a good opportunity to know everyone better, right? And the food is very good. I’m sure everyone else would be more than happy to see you there.”
“Thank you,” Kabru says sincerely. “That’s thoughtful of you.”
It shouldn’t be surprising—was that not the first thing he’d learned about Laios while incessantly trying to figure him out? That Laios cares. That, often, he is kind.
“You’re giving me your advisor voice,” Laios complains. “If you don’t like something, you can say so.”
“I mean it.” Kabru puts his fork and knife aside, ignoring the uncomfortable pressure between his ribs. “I’m grateful that you invited me.”
“You don’t have to come if you don’t want to,” Laios tells him. “But I like your company.”
“I’m aware.” Reaching for his water, Kabru smiles.
Unlike earlier, Laios stares him down. “Not just in that way.”
“I know that, too,” Kabru says.
He doesn’t say that Laios’ honesty is something that makes Kabru’s head sizzle.
VI. THE ESSENCE OF DESIRE IS SALT
Kabru digs claws into Laios as if / he intends to hurt and Laios laughs / in the shadow of his need He, too / wants many things
the taste of this / is divine They are / godlike in their wanting They have / everything / It tastes like / love if love had / flavor if it had / a
body if it had / eyes like Kabru’s if it had / lips against his own if it / yearned in absence if it / had fingers calloused but kind /
determined it tastes / like sweat It tastes / of flesh it has a / body and Laios / feasts.
VII. SINEW, WOVEN
“I suppose there’s no other option.” Many could be entertained, but Kabru is not interested in hosting them. He has a willing body and a dubious heart and a king in a precarious situation. This is his expertise. “Are you hungry?”
“For breakfast? I will be soon,” Laios says.
“Not for breakfast,” Kabru adds. His shirt is still on the floor from last night and he desperately wishes he had a cup of tea for his rough voice. Laios’ teethmark lingers right below his ear, threatening to show at his throat. Somewhere on Laios’ waist are Kabru’s persistent bruises.
“I think if we went again, I’d never get out of bed.” Laios’ smile is warm and dizzying. Kabru has him but wants him all the same, and that fact sits uncomfortably in his chest. “Do you think Marcille could manage on her own for a day?”
Kabru has half a mind to let him get away with it, as if Laios is a younger man hoping to escape chores by playing sick. Shaking his head, Kabru reaches for his shirt, trying to smooth it out as best as he can. “There are more evenings. Get up and get dressed.”
Before he can stand up, Laios mouths along his nape, kissing the bite mark below Kabru’s ear once, twice, and then again between his shoulder blades, his hand dangerously close to Kabru’s lower back. He could roll over on his stomach and have Laios’ hands wander even further, and the kingdom wouldn’t fall apart, but he pushes Laios away and shakes his head.
“Is tonight another one of those evenings?” Laios asks. To Kabru, the words remind him of Laios slicing his cut of meat, and they feel good against his skin. He’s never made a bond with a demon, but if the sliver of hunger left from the Winged Lion is anything close to human, it might resemble the unanswered tenseness in his gut. He wants more hours of midnight, too early to sleep, too far from dawn to bother caring about tomorrows.
“If you want it to be,” Kabru answers. He runs his fingers through his hair. When he glances at Laios, bare-chested and sturdy and unkempt and not at all regal he corrects himself: “It is.”
Laios laughs. To Kabru, it is the sound of a bowstring pulled taut. “I like time when I get to spend it with you.” There, the arrow.
The red on Kabru’s ears is nothing like blood, but the sensation of openness is all the same. Laios’ eyes pull to his wound and, with the noise of someone who caves, Kabru opens his arms for Laios’ teeth. He wants to pry his own softness for Laios out from himself, but self-indulgence feels so good. It’s not as if he is failing in his duties.
“You should use that influence when you have to be diplomatic,” Kabru finally says, moving Laios’ hands off him. “Not that tone, though.”
“Is that an official recommendation from my most distinguished advisor?”
“It’s advice from a close friend,” Kabru tells him, “who can’t look after you every hour of the day.”
“Friend,” Laios repeats, pursing his lips the way he does when he lingers on a flavor. “Hm.”
“Don’t.” Kabru turns away. “It is what it is.”
If Laios disagrees, he doesn’t say so, and neither can Kabru see his face while turned to the door. Laios has a kingdom to tend to—his bed chambers can go without attention for now.
VIII. FURTHER MEATS
Laios makes a meal / Laios makes a meal / Laios makes a meal / Laios cuts his thumb and makes a broth / Laios hungers / Laios imagines
devouring the grief of a citizen whose father passed to illness / Laios makes a meal / Laios hungers / Laios severs his thumb /
Laios hungers / Laios approaches the kingdom walls and envisions the dungeon at his feet and hungers / Laios yearns and
hungers / Laios yearns / Laios hungers / Laios yearns hunger / Laios puts his knuckle between his fingers and bites / Kabru asks
him about the finger that always grows back crooked and if consuming himself has made his soul come back crooked too / ajar /
enough of a space for hunger / Kabru asks about flesh / Laios tells him about devouring concepts / Kabru asks about flesh / Kabru
asks about flesh again / Kabru asks about flesh / Laios says he is hungry Kabru asks Laios about his flesh / about his flesh / about his flesh.
“The night is long,” Laios tells him. “Why don’t you find out?”
Kabru’s palms rest on either side of Laios’ head, and in the dim light from the left of them, all of Laios’ features are much sharper. They flicker as the flame does. Intrigue or ownership or some unnamed secret thing stuck in Kabru’s throat, he lowers his mouth to Laios’ sternum. His teeth scrape over the sensitive skin there, wondering about muscle tearing.
Kabru’s tongue dips out and the question with it, “Is this about meat, or about souls?
“I don’t think desire is tied to the soul. I think my hunger is going to outlive me.”
“I don’t agree,” Kabru says. His mouth is thick with the taste of Laios’ sweat and a growing need to praise him simply for existing. “Do you think you could satiate it if you had a little of me, every day?” He discards his own shirt and Laios’ hands greedily follow the slope of his chest, thumbs dragging over the faint muscle. Feeling wanted like this lights sparks along his spine that burrow into his chest and stomach and thighs.
“I sense that, you know?” Laios murmurs distantly. His hand stops, pressed against Kabru’s stomach. “It drowns out all of my thoughts when you’re aching for it. It feels bottomless. Sometimes I’m full, but part of me can’t help but think that it’s my body working off a habit. That I’m supposed to be full, even though there’s always this need. I want, and I want, and I want. Every flavor, every texture. I raided the kitchens one night, I must’ve looked feral.” Kabru believes it. “But I guess there are worse things to suffer from.”
Leaning back, Kabru puts his weight on his knees instead of his hands. Laios’ thumb rubs circles along the inside of Kabru’s left thigh.
“Haven’t you always complained about hunger?” Kabru asks. And appreciated a good meal, he offhandedly thinks.
Laios’ thumb digs into the soft flesh right above Kabru’s knee, his palm cupping it as he pushes his hand up to Kabru’s hip. He knots his brow slightly, then smiles.
“I think about roasted basilisk every time I’m served chicken.” A deep sigh. Kabru knows that Laios’ mouth must water at just the thought of it. “And griffons… Something omnivorous with great claws and sturdy scales… They even run away from me in my dreams. Maybe the Winged Lion did that, too. That would make its curse pretty strong, wouldn’t it? I can imagine how it tastes.”
Kabru tries not to grimace, but when Laios opens his eyes and stares back at him, his grin only widens. Eyes glassy.
“I wish you were half as excited about meals with the ambassadors as you are thinking about monster meat in a messy dungeon,” Kabru tells him, all warmth.
IX. SALT, AGAIN
Kabru lies in Laios’ chambers, realizing belatedly that he is too comfortably there for his own good. In the past he’s never had to overthink staying a night or two with a lover; they’d likely not see each other again, and if they did, it was infrequently. He sees Laios every day that he walk into the golden castle, and while it’s not as if he spends his time there daydreaming about their time alone, occasionally a memory will strike him out of nowhere. Like when Laios clasps a pen and his gaze is obscured by his eyelashes, face turned down to the paper; Kabru remembers. Like when he laughs off-beat and then quiets for a moment before his smile catches up; Kabru remembers. Like when a diplomatic meeting goes on for too long and his eyes glaze over; Kabru remembers. Like when Laios stands tall, ordinarily perfect, not born into his position but finding himself a good fit all the same; Kabru remembers. He remembers and he warms and then seeks Laios out against better judgment.
“Kabru,” Laios always says, “I thought of you, today.”
“It would be rather hard not to, considering I’m at your side every day,” Kabru replies, his hand following the curve of Laios’ bicep. He admits, “I thought of you, too.”
X. KABRU COOKS A MEAL
Fresh and pried from / the bone / rosemary thyme the scent of / fire / Laios’ echoes fill the space between / Kabru’s experience and
the cutting / knife Soft along the white fat sizzling / oil sleek as sweat on / his fingers Imagine this, Laios / moving throughout the
room / step upon step upon step a gentle / intruder breaking wisps of smoke / Take that meat and slice it open now / Kabru’s thumb
presses it down his other hand / gripping the blade Imagine this / satisfaction built into the shifting air / lingering scent built
into / the nooks of the cabinets the uneasy curl of his heartbeat Imagine how it tastes / how it tears between teeth Imagine this, the meal /
prepared heartily / unevenly chopped spring potatoes a slight char / a sheen of melted butter / sweet onions in sharp arches
underneath / Kabru asks about hunger / and sits down for a meal Kabru questions / his own hunger and sits / for his meal Kabru
wonders about others partaking and / extends an invitation Imagine this meal / with others Kabru sets / more plates than one
Kabru / makes a meal Kabru carves / space Kabru lingers / on a meal.
It’s not as awful for a first attempt as he expected. Kabru leans back in his chair, fork and knife left on his half-empty plate, and he stares at the ceiling. His body hums. He closes his eyes. He desires. Tomorrow, he makes another meal.