How long had he been buried?
That is the question that slithers through his mind, wicked as a serpent, stuck within a loop that cannot be broken. Only liquor can quiet its incessant, sinful voice. Only liquor can numb the needles of anxiety that claw through Cairo’s rose-gold body.
He drinks until his eyes grow hazy and their talons are declawed. Then his kohl-rimmed gaze grows soft, soft as butter. The catacomb warrior drinks every new inch of the citadel. It feels strange across his skin. It is a garment that no longer fits him. Do the other Arete feel the same?
He slinks from room to room. His tail weaves a sultry path behind him as Cairo passes all the Fall festivities. A crimson banner hangs, silken and sumptuous. The Arete fighter looks away, for the sight of it is strangling. The cloth no longer hangs from the vaulted ceiling but wraps about his lungs, in tight, constricting knots. It is too much like… Had all the Arete awoken with Cairo? He had heard not all awoke. Worry is a bitter poison upon his tongue.
Inside he burns. Fury is crimson flame that licks against every inch of his being. Aqilline, Cairo watches the crowds in the festival hall and vows to find the pieces of exactly what happened.
His crown of feathers is gilded and bright. He loathes the castle, yet he walks as if he owns it. With feline grace he meanders from room to room lethal and poised. As he goes, he convinces himself he is not searching. But there is only one reason he would be within the citadel: to find other Arete. To find-
- him.
He moves through the crowd, letting skin brush against skin. How many does he touch like this? How many touch him? How often does he let his body brush against others, leaving the memory of him upon their bodies as starkly as gold dust. His crown of feathers is painted this night in midnight blues and golds. Gilded stars shatter through the blue hue of a satin night.
A flash of crimson tells him he needs search no more. Greek and divine, Zayir steps between the pillars of the hall as if they were his temple. He steps outside and the aquiline stallion stops. The lemon glow of hanging lanterns pours itself as ichor across the rose-gold of Cairo’s satin skin. Avian, he tilts his head to watch until Zayir clutches his cloak tight and turns to step back in.
There is an emptiness in Zayir’s eyes, Cairo has seen it before. He feels the cold weight of it settling in his veins. He plucks another drink from a passing tray. In a moment the crystal flute is drained. In a moment the sharper parts of him are singed down to frayed edges.
Zayir bumps into a passing noble. His laurel topples to the side, his shawl slipping down. They do not exchange a look, the noble and the warrior. Zayir does not let them.
Cairo waits.
It happens slowly, but the aquiline stallion knew the moment would come when the pale Arete’s eyes would snag upon his like a sheep within a bramble bush. Cairo holds him there, as if he is a rabbit within his clutch. His perusal is slow, lazy with the hum of alcohol as it taps over the pointed leaves of Zayir’s golden laurel wreath. It then slides down, down the muscular column of his neck and lingers over the exposed shoulder where his crimson shawl has slipped. Cairo does not rush. The touch of his gaze is made to be felt - no longer like talons but like kisses, reminding, reminding.
Remember.
Zayir.
The press of his golden sight over the other warrior’s ivory skin is enough for Cairo to be content that he lives. If their eyes lock, tangling in gold and gold and gold, then Cairo reveals nothing. Instead he turns to slink, leonine and dangerous, back into the crowd.
It was enough to remind them both that they are alive; together.
@Zayir
