Maybe holding hands/hiding face in neck with your basi and their mothers? Could transition into RO of choice as well... 👀
The memories are foggy, faraway, like they're trapped behind frosted glass, but not yet lost. It's hard to know what to blame. It could simply be the nature of time, but it could just as well be something more... Well, regardless, he does his best to cling to what he can.
When he was small, he was shy. He doesn't think anyone who knows him now would believe him if he told them that (not that he ever would) but the world was big and strange and scary, and he always felt so small. Lucky for him, his Ama was big and strong, calm and steadfast, but so, so gentle. If he was afraid, she held him close, let him burrow his face deep into her neck, and smoothed her hands over the fluffy down of his crest, and gently explained to him that whatever he feared could not hurt him, not while she breathed.
Ma would just tickle him until he couldn't help but laugh, and when he hid his face in her neck, he would retaliate by blowing raspberries against her skin.
He still remembers the way they both smelled. Lavender and vanilla, cinnamon and citrus, like sunshine and smiles, scents so tangled up together he could never be sure which belonged to who. After so long together, he doesn't think it really mattered.
Sometimes the wind changes, and he can almost smell them again. Sometimes, when he wakes up, the comforting scent of them still clings to his senses, wraps around him like a blanket, torn away with the morning light and leaving him chilled to his aching bones.
But this time, it changes slowly, sweetly, to something familiar, and close, and tangible. Paper and ink and dusty tomes, earth and warming spice, the crisp zing of ambient magic that tickles his heat pits and down through his sinuses, crackling on the back of his tongue.
He jolts awake with a sharp sneeze.
The pillow under his head shakes, a rumbling little earthquake that jostles him further into consciousness, and then a soft, near-whisper breezing across his crest has his feathers fluffing up, "I suppose I deserved that."
Kesh blinks blearily, turning his head up into the light, and hisses through the gap in his bottom teeth.
Nico's warm, dark gaze meets Kesh's disgruntled squint, and his eyes crinkle at the corners. "You look... surprisingly well-rested," he says, visibly pleased with the observation.
Kesh grunts and tucks his face back into Nico's neck. The chaise the two of them lie on is definitely not meant for two fully-grown adults, human or otherwise, but especially not when one of them is a staggeringly tall basilisk man, though his lean frame makes it a bit easier.
Especially considering he's practically smothering his handler into the plush, velvet cushions, long limbs twisting sinuously around Nico's stouter frame.
Nice huffs out a little laugh as the basilisk hides himself away in his neck again, fingers tripping delicately over the smooth, dark scales of his shoulder, drifting down his arm. Magic tingles on the back of his tongue again, and he flicks it out in an effort not to sneeze again, the forked tip flickering against the human's collarbone.
A shudder ripples along the warm brown skin, and a telling warmth swells beneath it.
"What are you doing?" Kesh grumbles, doing his best to sound put out, though his senses are so full of Nico, his scent, his touch, his warmth, that it comes out rather more soft than he intends, weighed down by syrupy-sweet content.
Work-roughened fingers leave his skin, and the crackle on the back of his tongue ebbs slowly away. Kesh lifts his head again, just in time to catch Nico's gaze darting away from him guiltily. He would be concerned, suspicious even, if it weren't for the way he can taste the heat Nico's complexion is too dark to show.
He keeps staring, and though the human is very pointedly not looking at him, he knows Nico can feel the weight of his unblinking stare.
Finally, he gives in. "Just... practicing a bit. Didn't mean to wake you."
His skin is still tingling faintly, sparks of blue skittering along his scales and blinking into nothingness. "On me?" he asks, more bemused than concerned. Kesh isn't a witch himself, hasn't ever really felt the desire to dabble in magic when he's already got so much to worry about, but he knows enough (mostly via Nico's own research) about it to know that, without the proper materials, nothing will come of absently traced runes.
Perhaps, in the past, Kesh would be wary. Would be suspicious, even angry, at Nico's poor effort at defending himself. But in the past, Kesh would not be here, tangled up around the man and dozing with his face tucked under his chin. He is still warm, and sleepy, and safer than he's felt in a very, very, very long time. He simply blinks placidly and rubs his cheek in the open vee of Nico's shirt, enjoying the now-familiar tickle of his chest hair.
Nico's words tangle up in his throat, and he makes an inarticulate noise of distress and hides his face in Kesh's crest. "Protection runes," he grunts after a long, steadying silence. "Some healing ones. Just practice. Nothing that will stick."
Kesh feels the breath stirring his semiplumes, but he's too frozen to really register it as more than a faint tickle. He wishes he could see Nico's face, but he can't bring himself to move, to disturb this strange not-quite-a-standoff, and he's not sure he could stand to look at him directly anyway.
"Oh," he says, simply and stupidly. Something wells up inside his chest, something he can't even begin to untangle, even if he was brave enough to try.
The wind changes, whistling through the narrow gap in the window, the train shifting, rattling beneath them and around them, two bodies in a rickety, rattling metal box powered by magic and fire, and the breeze carries the faintest whisper of lavender and vanilla, cinnamon and citrus, sunshine and smiles.
Kesh rests his cheek against Nico's chest and inhales, letting the scents mingle, tangle up in his lungs with whatever else is resting there, making it harder to breathe, but in a way that he finds... strangely comforting.
"You can keep practicing," he says at last, closing his eyes. "I'll try not to sneeze on you again."
Nico doesn't say anything, and for a few more seconds, he's still. But then he begins tracing shapes against Kesh's shoulder again, the crackle of errant magic dancing along his scales.
