In the story of Patroclus
no one survives, not even Achilles
who was nearly a god.
Patroclus resembled him; they wore
the same armour.
Zayir used to lay awake at night and try to quantify their relationship; he would dissect it, each unnerving—and enticing—interaction, until it was over-thought and over-analysed. He used to think he was gasoline and Cairo the spark but, with age, Zayir has learned otherwise.
They are both wildfires. They are both ravaging the wilderness as they speak; uncontainable; proud; apathetic; destructive. All these things and more and, when they collide, it is with the heat of two small suns. Careful, Zayir, or I might get the impression you have missed me. His voice pools in Zayir’s veins, a rush of pure adrenaline, of pure something. Where Cairo’s smile is wicked, Zayir cannot help the lackadaisical, almost boyish smile that flashes across his own face. “Of course I’ve missed you.” There is a fondness there difficult to put into words; but it is there in his eyes, in the way they take stock of every inch of Cairo’s flesh. Possessive and somehow gentle; challenging and yet submissive. This is a dance they know well.
If I minded, it does not matter, you are already here. Cairo gives nothing away in his tone or his expression; but Zayir knows. He knows his touch maddens the other man, just as when two fires meet and converge, they grow. Yet, Cairo will always be his undoing. The other man is more tightly wound; less prone to express himself genuinely. The lips that touch the edge of Zayir’s ear evoke a sudden, startled gasp from Zayir. Was a look not enough for you, Companion?
Zayir meets his eyes. All the unspoken words—all the turmoil—boils between them. I’m so relieved you’re alive and we have so much left to talk about and how are you?
Even that simple question seems too much. Too heavy. Zayir knows Cairo well enough to understand the other man’s liquor-leaden breath is not just for show. It is for escape.
And so Zayir says nothing at first. He simply dances; one dance into the next, until the very movement of their bodies against one another becomes a kind of combat. If Cairo goes to step away, Zayir is there to block him—and vice versa. Where other dancers seek to intermingle, Zayir offers a stiff shoulder or flank. Neither man will allow the dance to end, until one song drains into the next and the night lengthens endlessly. Zayir does not know when or how, but the press of their bodies transforms from polite, to sensual, to violent, to sensual again. The loop of moods is nearly dizzying. Zayir is sweating and although he has not had a drop of liquor, there is a drunkenness to him, a feverish flush of his pale skin. His eyes are bright, and hard, when at least an hour later he finally says in a voice raw with things unsaid:
“You know a look is not enough, Cairo.” And like that, the dance continues—except it is Zayir wrenching himself away from his hawk-eyed companion to stalk lion-like through the crowd. It parts for him as deftly as flesh does for a blade; and then he is taking two shots in quick succession, one after the other, at the bar. He refrains from glancing over his shoulder to see if Cairo pursued.
Zayir refuses to give him the satisfaction. He will be many things for Cairo, but to be a relief, an escape—that is something that has never settled with Zayir. His mouth is dry with it and his mind is full, suddenly, of the Prince in White.
You could always stay, he had whispered, with a softness unknown to Zayir, a softness he had never before touched.
But he hadn’t. He hadn’t. He had come back to Solterra for—well, for many reasons. His mouth is dry; it is not a game he plays with tact. He wants so badly for Cairo to follow him and yet he is too proud to admit it.
"Speaks" || @
always in these friendships one serves the other, one is less than the other: the hierarchy is always apparent, though the legends cannot be trusted--their source is the survivor, the one who has been abandoned.
