Work Text:
When your fingers ache from clutching rulers, protractors, and pencils for far too long–
He plays you the barbat.
At first, you think he’s mocking you. You always start off like that. Seated next to him on the divan, you fist the material of your trousers, ready to draw blood (through word or claw or teeth).
You may never know a time when, around him, you relax without thought. You love him so much, so deeply; your very love for him leaves you suspicious that he will hurt you again. Your heart is prepared for the pain of destiny.
His plucking of the instrument is methodic, almost without soul. You control yourself, though you wish to rip it out of his hands. You know yourself. You must ride the wave of this loathing, aimed outward and inward, all your pent-up frustration exploding out like a collapsing star.
Sucking in a deep breath, you place your head against his sternum. The vibration of the strings resound through your bones.
He is serenading you. He is reaching his hand, offering an evening’s truce.
You wipe the hot tears before they can race down your cheeks. This is how he loves you.
Dehya’s hand is a lever at your back. Mehrak floats alongside her without complaint – your little light has come to trust her, without your explicit command.
The bonfire burning bright at the centre of the encampment sears all your exposed skin. Its crackling nearly swallows up the play of the children nearby, the drums accompanying the dancers’ throng.
‘Nobody’s gonna bite your head off,’ she assures, grins at your wordless gawking. ‘You’re building these people a library. Get out there; show ‘em your face.’
‘But I don’t–’
She shoves you forward, brash– unrepentant. As soon as you try to round on her, temper flaring in your chest, Mehrak gets between you both. It beeps in a song that is appeasement and encouragement both.
Dehya won’t let you sulk by yourself, no matter how you crave it.
When your head is spiralling with all the last-minute changes requested by clients, their vague discontent with your proposals and inability to articulate what they truly want…
He guides you to the greenhouse.
Pardis Dhyai, despite all its energetic Amurta activity, stands tall and pristine. The inside of the greenhouse is an idyllic shelter– though you do not miss the way he winces, touching his own shoulder in remembrance.
Perhaps he means to walk you through all of the flowering plants, each and every one of their plans for cultivation of seeds excavated from the era of King Deshret…
But the way he loves you best is letting you see his vulnerability. Karkat pays witness to how you get him to the floor, exposing his lightning scar and mouthing kisses across the skin.
He places a hand on your head as though to dissuade you. As he looks into your eyes, however, he sighs. He shakes his head with preternatural fondness.
You make thorough worship of his body then and there. He buries all his noises of pleasure into his thick gloves.
All you want to do is sacrifice your love at his altar.
He is one of your gods.
Kandake paints your face with effortless strokes. She is not prideful in her work, either. Once you’ve seen yourself in the mirror, she wipes your face and does it all over again.
‘Unless Dehya comes to visit, I have very little opportunity to use my cosmetics,’ she confesses. She is weaving in an excuse for you to relax, to accept her generous attention. ‘This is therapeutic for me as well.’
This time, she turns the mirror on you. You gasp when you see the woman in the reflection.
‘Do you like it, Kaveh?’
‘I–I do! Very much,’ you stammer, mesmerised.
Her chuckle is soft. She strokes the edges around the kohl of your eyes, the soft pink of your lips.
‘I think you look very beautiful. Thank you for doing me this small favour.’
When you are at odds with yourself as much as with the rest of the world– when you are losing shadow and reflection and persona beneath the withering murk of self-doubt…
His attentions are absolute.
He does not pull you into a game of Genius Invokation TCG. He does not so much spare you a glance as he fixes his gaze on you, unrelenting ‘til you have put down your charcoal and run blackened hands through your hair.
Whilst the rest of your camping team sleeps (Collei tossing and turning in her tent, lost in that post-Eleazar pain; Madam Faruzan still as stone in hers, having watched the stars for so long) – he pulls you to him with the magnetism of his eyes.
He is more powerful than ever. Even so, it is not the commanding might of Hermanubis that gets you on your knees before him. He sits on a tree stump, and it might as well be a consecrated throne.
In these moments, you are full of surrender. He will be a person for you.
All you need do is kiss the inside of his palm, offer yourself up.
He loves you with the power of a king.
‘Wait–’ you gasp, unable to catch yourself in the dance. ‘Wait!’
Between you (around you?) Dunyarzad and Nilou giggle. You’re not sure whose voice skims your ear, nor whose brushes against your shoulder.
You come back to yourself in Dunyarzad’s arms, making graceful turns with her across the stage of Zubayr Theatre. You can feel the oud strings and the daf singing through the wood.
They whisk you through the Goddess of Flowers’ story. Your head is crowned in horns, and the costume’s thin veils flirt with your skin.
The troupe audience is clapping along, but you’ve no time to be ashamed. Nilou takes you next, pulling you in sharp and emblematic of the God-King Deshret’s courting.
You can hardly breathe, but when you can…
You join them in laughter.