Post by sidonie on Jul 5, 2011 14:35:38 GMT 10
Title: Balance
Rating: PG-13
Couple: Roald/Zahir
Event: Love long jump
Words: 506
Summary: Zahir works late.
Warnings: Kissing.
~~~~~~
The candle gutters in a pool of melted wax, the wavering flame threatening to plunge the room into the darkness that lurks just outside the window. Zahir sighs, lighting another from the remains of its predecessor, setting it well clear of the reams of paper cluttering his desk. He rubs an ink-stained hand across his eyes, squinting at the elegant black script of a palace scribe, recopying the most important parts to present to his knight-master on the morrow. It's a dull task, but a necessary one. If Jon had to deal with the entirety of every report, missive, and complaint that came his way, death or insanity would follow close behind.
Zahir is so absorbed in his work, fighting for a few more minutes of consciousness, that he doesn't notice when Roald enters his chambers. It takes a soft laugh and the feeling of arms wrapping around his shoulders for him to pull free of his reverie.
“You know, you'd be no good to him dead,” the prince murmurs, breath warm against Zahir's ear.
“I won't die, then,” Zahir retorts. “Problem solved.” It's a familiar argument, worn and comfortable as old cloth, and he sinks into it easily.
Roald presses a light kiss to the base of his neck. “As much as I rejoice in your continued existence, I doubt you can concentrate this late anyhow. The world is asleep. You're defying nature.”
“There is balance in all things.” Zahir rarely quotes Bazhir theology, not in front of the damning eyes of the court, but in his chambers he is safe. “Perhaps I'm meant to be awake, to weigh against all those lazy citizens slumbering in their beds. Besides, I can too concentrate.”
“Oh really?” There is very little capacity for wickedness in Roald, but his gentleness sharpens when placed against Zahir's stubbornness. He trails whisper-soft fingers over desert-tinted skin, tracing nonsense patterns that mean everything and nothing. He kisses the curve of Zahir's ear and the rough stubble on his cheek, his teasing smile more felt than seen.
Zahir sighs and leans back, abandoning his quill to capture Roald's mouth with his own. They stay still for a moment, tasting sweetness in the gathering dark, until the prince pulls back, tugging gently on his lover's hand.
“You're no good to him dead,” he repeats. “Come to bed.”
Zahir casts a wistful glance back at the scattered papers, then takes a handful of drying sand and scatters it over his notes. “You're right,” he capitulates, and he kisses Roald again, pulling him close and admiring the golden touch of candlelight in his deep blue eyes. “I can finish tomorrow morning.”
Roald grins, and it is more familiarity than triumph. They have played out this conversation a hundred ways, and he knows how it ends. He crosses the room to collapse on the bed, watching Zahir with a fond smile as he brushes off the drying sand, trims his quill, and blows the candle out.
Rating: PG-13
Couple: Roald/Zahir
Event: Love long jump
Words: 506
Summary: Zahir works late.
Warnings: Kissing.
~~~~~~
The candle gutters in a pool of melted wax, the wavering flame threatening to plunge the room into the darkness that lurks just outside the window. Zahir sighs, lighting another from the remains of its predecessor, setting it well clear of the reams of paper cluttering his desk. He rubs an ink-stained hand across his eyes, squinting at the elegant black script of a palace scribe, recopying the most important parts to present to his knight-master on the morrow. It's a dull task, but a necessary one. If Jon had to deal with the entirety of every report, missive, and complaint that came his way, death or insanity would follow close behind.
Zahir is so absorbed in his work, fighting for a few more minutes of consciousness, that he doesn't notice when Roald enters his chambers. It takes a soft laugh and the feeling of arms wrapping around his shoulders for him to pull free of his reverie.
“You know, you'd be no good to him dead,” the prince murmurs, breath warm against Zahir's ear.
“I won't die, then,” Zahir retorts. “Problem solved.” It's a familiar argument, worn and comfortable as old cloth, and he sinks into it easily.
Roald presses a light kiss to the base of his neck. “As much as I rejoice in your continued existence, I doubt you can concentrate this late anyhow. The world is asleep. You're defying nature.”
“There is balance in all things.” Zahir rarely quotes Bazhir theology, not in front of the damning eyes of the court, but in his chambers he is safe. “Perhaps I'm meant to be awake, to weigh against all those lazy citizens slumbering in their beds. Besides, I can too concentrate.”
“Oh really?” There is very little capacity for wickedness in Roald, but his gentleness sharpens when placed against Zahir's stubbornness. He trails whisper-soft fingers over desert-tinted skin, tracing nonsense patterns that mean everything and nothing. He kisses the curve of Zahir's ear and the rough stubble on his cheek, his teasing smile more felt than seen.
Zahir sighs and leans back, abandoning his quill to capture Roald's mouth with his own. They stay still for a moment, tasting sweetness in the gathering dark, until the prince pulls back, tugging gently on his lover's hand.
“You're no good to him dead,” he repeats. “Come to bed.”
Zahir casts a wistful glance back at the scattered papers, then takes a handful of drying sand and scatters it over his notes. “You're right,” he capitulates, and he kisses Roald again, pulling him close and admiring the golden touch of candlelight in his deep blue eyes. “I can finish tomorrow morning.”
Roald grins, and it is more familiarity than triumph. They have played out this conversation a hundred ways, and he knows how it ends. He crosses the room to collapse on the bed, watching Zahir with a fond smile as he brushes off the drying sand, trims his quill, and blows the candle out.