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Morning in Khansaar was a wretched thing. Dull, dry and lazy. Sunlight barely touched the streets, beating down the roofs and peaking through the windows of the houses unfortunate enough to reach into the sky. And it lingered diffused in the plumes of black smoke that the city breathed out in impure light that strained the eyes.
They hated mornings in Khansaar.
Deva would wake up before him- at 5 a.m, the most ungodly hour by Varadha's watch. He could tell it was by force of habit, his mechanic hands guiding him to find himself a hammer and metal to put shape to. But there was no hammer nor metal here, or rather, none that needed constructing. On the days that he would unwarily wake Varadha up, he would watch Deva sit silently on the bed, drifting in his own world, falling asleep on his knees. Varadha would then try to put him back to bed and Deva would jolt up again, mumbling an apology and leaving to make them both their cups of morning chai.
Was this morning any different?
The night following up to it had been.
Varadha had spent years lying in that same cold bed night after night with his dreams in the grasp of cold hostile hands. And now twenty five years later, the warmth had returned to him and yet it kept an arm's distance from him, just out of touch, an aching that stretched in his fingertips. Six nights of unreachable distance.
But the seventh, oh the seventh. When he fell into bed, the warmth enveloped him in its arms. He felt soft lips meet his skin again and again, feverish with desire and warm like balm. Warm, so warm. He was melting like candle wax, dripping on to Deva and condensing on him until he couldn't tell where he ended and where Deva began and whether Deva, too, would ache when he stretched his finger, not for longing but for the ecstasy of finally reaching.
"You love me?" he asked Deva again, the palm he had placed on Deva's cheek melting into his skin.
"I love you," he said again, pulling him closer still until Varadha felt that he could crawl into Deva's ribcage and be warm his entire life.
"I love you," Varadha echoed as he drifted off to sleep.
When he opened his eyes in the morning, he found honey brown eyes looking tenderly at him. Not even Khansaar's dirty sunlight could dim the glow of those eyes. But they belonged to the son of Kateramma, saviour and monster both, walking always on a thin line of juxtaposition. A deity never stayed in shadows.
"Too much light," he said in a half groan.
Deva hummed in agreement and rose to shut the curtains.
Varadha caught him by the wrist and pulled him back to bed. "It's okay."
"Are you sure? Would you be able to get some more sleep?"
He sighed and pulled the sheet up on his face. "I'll have to get up soon anyway."
"What for?"
What for? They were walking targets for everyone at Khansaar; it was a miracle they had even seen daylight today. There was no saying if a bullet would not find their heads the second they stepped out of the house. Deva was right- he had nothing to do now but wait.
But no matter how much the bed welcomed his weight on it and the pillow softened to cradle his head, he couldn't sleep now that he had seen Deva awake. Too much time had been spilled from their foolish hands and he couldn't bear to waste more. He had decided last night: from here on, they were one. He would see what Deva showed him. He would laugh when Deva did. He would take in a breath only as long as Deva had his own.
"Nothing. I can't sleep longer," he said.
A flash of concern passed through Deva's eyes. Varadha rose and kissed him on the forehead. "Good morning," he said, smiling. Deva smiled back at him, and it twinged at Varadha's heartstrings that this sight- the most beautiful sight in the world- was so rare to come by.
Two cups of steaming milk tea were waiting on the bedside table when he came out of the bathroom. Deva stood near the window that opened out to the river, watching the shallow water ripple with swimming fish. The veins on his hands showed clearly as he leaned down further on his elbows. Varadha bit his lower lip. To feel those hands on his neck, his back, his thighs- he flushed red and made to pick up the cups. But before he could, a gentle force pulled him back.
"Still too hot, darling," Deva whispered into his ear, "don't touch now."
Varadha coughed gingerly and took a step away from him. "Alright."
Deva wore that same cocky smirk he was wearing last night, the one that made Varadha confused about whether he wanted to bash his face into a wall or onto his own face. He rolled his eyes and pointed to the door. "Go. I'm gonna get changed."
Instead of leaving, he simply leaned against Varadha's cupboard. "Why do I need to leave for that?"
"Because I said so."
Deva folded his arms, veins showing again. He seemed to have realized the effect it had on Varadha and was determined to use it as much as he could. It did work seamlessly as Varadha caught himself staring at them for a second too long before turning his eyes away.
"Well then," Deva sighed. "Since the Kartha has commanded it, I have to obey."
He drummed his fingers on the wooden surface, checked for Varadha's reaction and finding none, started to walk away. He was promptly grabbed by his flimsy shirt and dragged back to his place.
"The Kartha has changed his mind," Varadha said, slightly tilting his head to meet Deva's gaze. "He wants you to help him change," and he left his lips gently parted.
Deva's eyebrows shot up and his eyes lingered on Varadha's lips. "O-okay," he stammered softly, unable to look away.
It was finally Varadha's turn to smirk and he smirked all the while he opened the cupboard and pulled out his clothes for the day.
Then, he turned to Deva and raised both his hands up.
Deva stepped closer to him and started to slowly pull up the hem of his shirt, letting his fingers brush against every inch of Varadha's bare skin. The warmth of the touch left a tingle on its trail and he trembled as Deva' hands worked away, stripping him off the layers of his clothing and heart both, so softly like he was afraid he would tear the petals.
The shirt came off free in Deva's hand and Varadha dropped his arms, watching Deva's adam's apple bob as he looked at him with hunger. He folded it, kept it on the bed- eyes never wavering- and took up the fresh shirt. He lifted Varadha's arms, slipped them through the holes and gently tugged his head down to pull it through.
Varadha nodded at the dhoti. Deva gave him a questioning glance and then grinned. He started undoing the knot, concentrating on which end to pull when Varadha placed his face on his shoulder. Deva tried to free himself but he was kept firmly fixed and because he was never one to let an opportunity go to waste, especially not one as perfect as this, he placed kisses on Varadha's neck, delighting in the way Varadha curled his shoulder in as his beard tickled him. The dhoti finally fell away. He slipped a hand along Varadha's thigh as he picked it up. Peppering kisses along his jawline, Deva wrapped the fresh dhoti around his waist. He kissed him from his chin, dipping down his neck to his abdomen, looking up at him as he kneeled to pleat the folds. Varadha ran his hand through Deva's hair and Deva leaned into the touch of his palm, devotion gleaming like a starlit ocean in his eyes. He tucked in the final bit of cloth and stood up again.
'Done,' his face seemed to say, somewhat unsatisfied at the completion of his task.
Varadha shook his head, 'No.'
He pointed towards the dresser drawer. It contained his chokers and nose ring. Deva made him stand in front of the full length mirror. He placed the first choker on his neck, the metal cool on his skin. Looking more and more like a Mannar. As Deva put the second choker on him, he wondered how Deva didn't hate him. They grew on this soil together, this soil that seemed to breed nothing but hatred and violence. Why, then, did Deva learn to love like this? He put on the last choker, a metallic clink of the clasp closing. He turned Varadha to face him and slowly tightened the nose ring on his septum like he had done once many, many years ago. This world would never accept them but Deva didn't care- had never cared. That gesture of his had bound them together for their lifetimes, blood and sacred love and his hand in his.
They looked at their reflection together. He held Varadha from behind and the warmth of his flesh seemed to sear into Varadha's bones. Realization, when it dawned upon him, felt like a holy revelation. His Deva had learned to love for him. Was there anything in this whole wide world that could match the tenderness he saw in those eyes? Those eyes that refused to turn away from him?
He closed Deva's eyes and kissed both of them. Deva smiled and looking at him intently, considered something. He took out Varadha's little kajal container and sat down on the bed. And then patted his thigh- an invitation.
Varadha sat on his lap like he was sitting on the throne of Khansaar, comfortable and haughty. Chuckling, Deva dabbed a bit of the kajal onto his finger. Varadha gave him a look of suspicion, 'you're not gonna blinden me, right?' Deva didn't reply, only held his jaw in place as he lined his left undereye. He worked delicately and precisely and Varadha appreciated that look of intense focus scrunching his forehead. He was such a beautiful man. There was no mishap nor any smudging, indeed Deva was too careful for it, and when Varadha checked his reflection, he saw his eyes were perfectly lined.
Deva put the finishing touches- his forehead marking- and a bit regretfully said, "The Kartha is ready."
Varadha nodded and wearing a false look of skepticism, rose from Deva's lap and twirled to examine himself in the mirror.
"Do you not like it?" What a sweet sadness in the question.
Varadha laughed and threw himself on top of him. Lying on top of him, he kissed Deva's temple. "I love it," he said.
Mornings in Khansaar were starting to taste sweet.