They were the strangest match made on earth. Quin said they were cute, laughing.
Qasim’s mind was a construct of business and strategy and yet, he could never put his finger on the plan that kept them together. Was there something fixed about the measures that kept tipping the both of them in each others’ favor? Was there some curse that he’d yet to pick apart, to see the threads that stitched them together? Maybe it was lust? But he’d never, never had that kind of appreciation before them.
Grib kisses him and it makes him laugh. He likes their smiles, feels warmth pool in his chest when the tent parts and it’s their red hair, a shade brighter than Una’s, their glasses and round nose and worn green dress. “You’re cute,” he never says, until long after they’d gotten together, and even then only when it’s early and his mind is still relaxed with sleep, his nose mushed up against their cheek. “You’re lovely,” he murmurs into the dark. It comes easier to him with time.
It threw him in a panic at first trying to figure out the meaning of it; of the pros and the cons, duty competed against companionship (love isn’t just a binding contract Qasim), insecurity (boring, haughty, desperate—it’s all been said of him before) vastly outweighed the merits of textbook attraction. The scales tipped back and forth with every confession he attempted, fudged, and bit back, they tipped him back and forth until his mind spun and swayed in exhaustion.
“Fuck it,” he retches, spitting up the last of the toxic tea into a bucket while Grib holds back his hair. “I am not everlasting.” Grib looks nonplussed and a little guilty, though it face blossoms in understanding after he coughs out the rest and damn he’s not so sure he’s rinsed out all the poison, but they seem okay with kissing him again, after the whole experience.
