Saliva gathered thickly on Gaara’s tongue and in the back of his throat. He did not move as Addhir came close, he could not. The warmth of his skin brushed his only barely, his breath like sweet blooming cacti. He felt as though he had trudged home from the festival already, three glasses of wine deep, drowsy, pliable as putty. The thumbprints of Addhir pressed in him all over, molded to his whim.
He understood the risks from a logical perspective; they stood poised on his teeth when he finally swallowed. It was difficult to believe that Addhir had truly not considered the possibility of escape before Gaara voiced it, or that his imprisonment, at times, was not so different from that of a prince. Should he will it the slave would find no trouble slipping into the night, stranding Gaara in an unfamiliar word - leaving him - never to be seen again.
Gaara watched Addhir’s perfectly manicured hands make his move for him, and his own fingers burned where they touched. He nodded his assent mutely, knowing at once that should his father mean to harm one hair on his golden head he would burn the world to ash.
The itch in the back of his mind did not fully subside. Echoing beneath Addhir’s stare, even as Gaara licked his lips without realizing it, a voice whispered: Were the situations reversed…
He slotted these thoughts away. Another time.
In his stupor he grasped for purchase and found boldness:
“Maybe if I do, I will find something to smile about, after all.”
 Addhir smiled, soft as a caress.
 “I will be looking forward to it.”
 He really did. That night, Asmodeus found himself torn between multiple desires of his own. As exquisite as the prince’s poorly veiled pining was, as delicious would the moment be when his blood finally boiled over and he would break those invisible chains that bound him to his title - and his grief. Withholding that bittersweet release was torturous for them both. Unlike Gaara, however, Asmodeus was no slave to his fleshly prison and the frustrating moral conventions that humans submitted themselves to. A true master of his practice, he also knew a thing or two about hunger, and how the most wonderful food was always that served to a starving man. Still, his patience was running thin. Lucky was the man bound by outside forces then... at least Gaara did not have to rely on self-restraint alone.
 In the end, Addhir did nothing to further physical contact with his master after their little game. He half expected Gaara to be crawling all over him by the end of the night, but when he woke to an exceptionally early morning, only a single lonely hand had gotten lost on his shoulder.
 Following breakfast, Addhir spent most of his day thoroughly grooming himself. Although the task was made significantly easier by the fact that his artificial body produced neither pimples nor undesired body hair or other flaws, washing, oiling and braiding his mane, applying make-up and picking out an appropriate set of clothing for the night swallowed several hours. The prospect of spending his evening as a pretty but ultimately untouchable piece of palace decor did little to excite him, but still he took uttermost care to arrange himself in a pleasant manner. After all, the truly interesting event was still to come... only he would be wearing significantly less jewelry for it, alas. All the more reason for him to give his prince (and the court, of course) something to marvel at until then. Besides, the royal harvest celebration would mark his very first outing to the public, and if he didn’t tread cautiously, it might very well end up being his last.
 It was already afternoon when Addhir returned to Gaara’s side in the privacy of their sleeping quarters. His copper hair was styled more intricately than ever before. Rows and rows of perfectly symmetrical braids lacing into each other, intertwining into thicker strands, and accentuated by golden threads woven into different sections. Creams and powder had given his skin a healthy glow without covering up his freckles. His clothes, while no less expensive, remained on the modest side. The white and gold embroidered kaftan looked just a little out of place for someone who was so obviously a foreigner.
 Spreading his arms, Addhir did a little spin, his robes flying behind him.