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so this was supposed to be a pride month release but viral fever is homophobic apparently
CONTENT WARNING: hurt no comfort, angst, depictions of violence, doomed yaoi alert, major character death (obviously), unrequited love, cursing, 'a little bit of this, a little bit of that' ahh fic, mild internalised homophobia, my horrendous writing and characterisation of uzair
how come I see you and ache instead?
AU where Hamza kills Uzair instead of Siyahi
based on my face-blind ass who thought it was Uzair being killed instead of Siyahi in the first movie during the movie's climax
It wasn't the first tug of the thorned vines pulling against Uzair's trachea that broke his spirit to fight. It wasn't his fingernails scraping his neck in stringy ropes of dead skin cells, muscle and blood. It wasn't even knowing that Rehman was too far away to save him.
No, it was the realisation catching up to Uzair that Hamza Ali Mazari would be the one to kill him.
—✿—
'Somewhere in South End when you were fun'
Uzair's gaze was soft as he watched Hamza light up like a child with a new toy as he rummaged through the new guns Shirani had gifted them. The day was already filled with festivities, and it was as if the pressure of the Major's demand had completely left Uzair's mind.
'You took my hand and you made me run'
There was something about the way Hamza pranced around with the guns with him, Rehman watching them from far away. Uzair wasn't usually this trigger-happy (who am I kidding, he always had a finger on the trigger, but let's pretend he was a normal man for today), but Hamza's presence had opened some sort of floodgates within him.
"Don't get reckless," Hamza eventually said to Uzair.
The taller man laughed freely. "We'll be fine."
He felt young. Not that he was particularly old, but he never had anyone his age around him. Siyahi liked Donga. Donga was...well, he was Donga. Rehman bhai loved him, don't get me wrong. But Uzair respected him far too much.
'Up past the prison to the seafront'
He always felt a little left out.
Well, that was until Hamza turned up.
Uzair really hoped that he would stick around longer than the others. There was this spark in him. Potential.
'You climbed the cliff edge and took the plunge'
The Major's plans with the ammunition succeeded. Everyone was elated; celebrations ensued and even Rehman didn't show any restraint in getting drunk with Uzair, Donga and Siyahi. The only man missing was...
'Why can't we laugh now like we did then?'
...Hamza.
Where was he? In his drunken haze, Uzair lamented about the man's presence to Donga and Siyahi the whole night.
"Man, is he your wife or something?" Donga nudged Uzair, the taller man flopping around like an overgrown toddler. "Why are you so worried about him?"
That struck a nerve.
Why, someone didn't need to be your wife for you to care about them. Not that Donga would understand that.
The longer haired man turned away from Uzair as soon as he saw him in the hallway. He wasn't at his kabootar-khana of a house either. Uzair didn't know what he had done to receive this behaviour.
'How come you only look pleased in bed?'
Everyone in the gang was going around whispering, 'Yalina. Jamali. Yalina. Jamali. Yalina Jamali.'
Uzair didn't quite like that.
He followed along with smiles, sure, but the prospect of Hamza getting married was...not good. It surely wasn't bad; I mean, who wouldn't want to see their best friend getting married? And Yalina was a sweet girl. But Hamza getting married would mean responsibilities. Duties. Duties that would hold him back from romping about with Uzair and Donga and Siyahi and all those other idiots whose names he couldn't be bothered with. Why did Hamza need to get married?
And married to Jameel Jamali's daughter, no less. That dumb politician couldn't say something genuine to save his life. Everything about him screamed fake. Artificial.
Uzair couldn't trust him.
And Uzair didn't know how to feel.
'Let's climb the cliff edge and jump again'
Getting blackout drunk at your best friend's wedding seemed to be the natural thing to do.
'Pineapples are in my head'
Hamza looked good. Smart. A little strange, with his hair and beard done instead of being left frizzy and free.
'Got nobody 'cause I'm braindead'
The good thing was that Hamza was talking to Uzair again. The jokes were a little stilted, but it didn't matter. As long as Hamza spoke to him in his soft voice. Looked at him with his salty brown eyes. Smiled at him with—
'Somebody said that I'm a fuckin' slum'
The bad thing was that Uzair felt like screaming every time he saw Hamza holding Yalina's hand? Brushing a lock of soft, curled hair away from her ear? Rehman, a little tipsy, congratulated them every other minute and Uzair's ears had blood rushing into them, blocking away the music and merriment around him.
'Don't know where I belong.'
Uzair always thought these types of whims were faced by those watery-eyed, fair-faced women in films. Not men, surely. He had seen Rehman bhai lament over Ulfat, but this?
'Maybe you're I'm fucking dumb.'
He'd dropped his pocket diary at the table as the Major rambled about more ammunition. Hamza bent to pick it up along with Uzair, and their hands brushed for a moment. Uzair froze, but Hamza picked the diary up without a second thought.
'Maybe I'm just a bum.'
Dazed, Uzair wondered how Hamza would've reacted if it was Yalina's hand instead of his.
'Maybe you're I'm fucking scum.'
'Don't you go psycho chum'
'I want you for the world'
'I want you all the time'
At the end of the night, it was Hamza that carried Uzair's telephone pole of a body out of his seat. By this time, Uzair was far too gone to care about what people thought about him. Even what Rehman bhai thought about him.
'Five thousand footsteps in your wet dress'
"Tu theek hain?" Hamza asked, a smile hidden under his now-freed locks, as if something was funny. "You drank too much."
'Back to the house with your arms around my neck'
"Why did you have to get married?" Uzair groaned as they walked—or, well, Hamza walked and Uzair was dragged.
"I don't see the problem." Hamza rearranged his grip around Uzair's shoulders. "You got free food. I got someone I loved."
"You don't love me?"
'We drank pork soda with tangled legs'
Now, Hamza laughed.
"No, seriously." Uzair slurred. "I love you."
"Kam peeya kar, bhai."
Uzair did something stupid that day. He was drunk. His head was spinning and Hamza was along with it. He planted his hands on either side of Hamza's broad shoulders and pressed his forehead against Hamza's.
His lips twitched and he wanted to ask a plethora of questions, 'wasn't I enough? What's all this about love? You've only known eachother for a few months. What about us? Why not me?'
He just said, forcing a joking smirk, teeth bared more in desperation than mockery, "don't forget about me."
'I won't forget how you looked at me then'
A beat.
Hamza gently pushed him along, thank god.
Uzair slumped as he was dumped to Rehman bhai.
Hamza stopped avoiding him after that. They were friends again, and Uzair couldn't find it in himself to protest.
'I know I'm no sweet prince of love'
Gun forgotten. Running. Head throbbing with the pain of slamming it into the centre console, running as fast as his legs would carry him. Leaves crunching under his feet. Blood ran along his temples.
Hamza. A traitor.
'Those times that we got drunk'
Hamza was the one who got pushed into the thorned bark, but Uzair was the one who felt the pain.
'Maybe Jamaica rum'
Uzair was a hotheaded man from the start. In his rage, he didn't notice when Hamza had tangled him in the thorned vines. His chest ached, and Uzair didn't know if it was the ache of betrayal or the sting of sharp spines digging into his skin.
'Maybe some Johnny Dub'
Hamza pulled. Barbaric.
'Maybe you still think of us'
Death wasn't merciful. Uzair's neck didn't snap. Instead, his throat was squeezed. Spots dancing in his vision.
'Phone buzz, and still I jump'
Their first meeting. Hamza jumping as Uzair's gun shot almost thirty bullets at once.
Another pull.
Football. Picking Hamza's burly self up in joy when he won against Donga and Siyahi.
Hamza lets out a scream. Guttural.
Laughing his ass off when Hamza coughs like an asthmatic after one puff of a cigarette.
Uzair felt the ends of his limbs go numb.
The chase through Cheel-Chowk.
A snap.
Rescuing Rehman bhai from the Lyari Task Forces.
It wasn't the last tug of the thorned vines pulling against Uzair's trachea that broke his spirit to live. It wasn't his fingernails scraping his neck in stringy ropes of dead skin cells, muscle and blood. It wasn't even knowing that Rehman was too far away to save him. Maybe he was dead already.
'Why don't I say it then?'
No, it was the realisation catching up to Uzair that Hamza Ali Mazari was the one to kill him.
Varadha wobbled, two arms swung over your and Baachi’s shoulders as you two tried to drag him up the stairs, and you shuffled your feet to not fall on your face. The man was drunk. Straight-up, black-out drunk. The kind of drunk that would have him bedridden the next day with a horrible migraine.
“I kept telling him,” Baachi hissed, “that, ‘brother, you can't hold your booze, don't drink too much’, but who listens to me around here?” He hurled his elder brother over another broad stair. This was the problem with mansions, the big stairs always looked nice and regal until they didn't.
“I listen to you.” You said, looking at Baachi over Varadha's shoulders.
“Whatever. Can't say anything to him, now that he's the damn Karta and everything.”
The elder man mumbled something incoherent, every other step a misfire. The younger man simply sniffed the air angrily in response.
-—-—-—
The two of you managed to get Varadha to his room, letting him flop down on the bed. Baachi stomped out of the room, muttering curses under his breath. You stood awkwardly for a second, before noticing a steel glass of water covered neatly on the bedside table. So Varadha was prepared.
“Varadha?” With the glass in your hand, you walked over to him, who was sitting, hunched over, at the edge of his bed. He raised his eyes, bathed in the amber light of the dimmed cressets in his room. You held the glass in front of you. “You shouldn't have drunk so much.”
He said your name slowly, dazed. You chalked it up to the alcohol, and smiled at him. “It…it was my coronation.” He took the glass from you, taking small sips. “What was I supposed to do?”
“Refuse?” You half-asked, sitting down beside him, putting some space between the two of you. “You're the boss now; it's not like they can force you.”
“Huh. I s’pose that makes sense.” He looked down at the glass, seeing his own reflection in the water, then up at you. “What're you doing here?”
You blinked. “I brought you up here.”
“...oh.” His eyes drifted to the floor, as if he was bashful about his sudden, liquor-induced loss of memory. “Right.”
“You're really drunk, aren't you?” You asked, amusement barely hidden.
He huffed indignantly and waved a hand in front of your face, movements uncoordinated. “I’m not drunk!” He threw his heavy arm over your shoulder, scooting over to your side. “Just a bit tipsy, I think.”
You chuckled and his gaze turned soft, tracing the line of your nose with his eyes. “I can’t wait for the room to stop spinning, so I can focus on your face again.”
Your quiet laughter died down, and you turned to look at him. “What?”
“Yeah.” He said. “You’re pretty.”
“You keep saying this whenever you're drunk.”
“S’true.”
You rolled your eyes. “Keep drinking the water.”
“No.” He slurred, his arm around you tightening. “I need to tell you something, because…” He trailed off, and you watched him intently trying to rerail his train of thought, eyes narrowed at the glass as if it was the culprit. “...’cause I don't have the courage to say it sober. Baba told me to say it.”
“Say what?” You said.
“Before I tell you,” he set the glass down on the floor, and you knew he was about to topple it over with his foot before you could say ‘seal’, “keep it a secret from me tomorrow. And you can beat me up if you don't like what I'm about to say, okay?”
“...okay.”
He hummed distantly, beginning to kick his feet. The glass fell over, spilling water all across the floor. “I'd let you beat me up anytime.”
You stifled a laugh behind your hand. “Get to the point, Varadha.”
He grinned at you. When he was sober, the most you got was a gentle smile, hidden from the prying eyes of the others. Now, it was different. He was grinning at you, toothy and free. “I like you.”
“I think you'd have to.” You said. “Me and Deva have been cooped up in your house for a while now.”
“You’re so stupid.” Varadha’s head dropped to your shoulder, looping his arm around your own. “I like you.”
You tensed. “Are you…”
He nodded, nuzzled in the crook of your neck.
“Varadha…” You paused, a hand coming up to run through his hair.
He raised his head, looking at you very closely with bleary eyes. You saw his pupils blow wide at the sight of you, framed by dark brown that always looked black to you. “You're not going to beat me up?”
"Go to sleep.” You said. “I'll talk to you tomorrow.”
-—-—-—
The next morning, Varadha had his head in his hands. Elbows on the dining table, he sat like a hunchback as a great, pulsating throb wreaked havoc on his temples. What was he thinking? His first night as the Karta of Khansaar—holding up the dignity of the Mannar tribe, a legacy he had snatched for himself from the filthy hands of his so-called ‘legitimate’ siblings, hands practically dripping blood—and he got utterly and completely drunk and confessed to you. How cornered you must have felt!
“You said it?!” Baachi yelled, and Varadha grunted. “Why the hell would you confess while you're drunk!?”
“Quiet.” Baba said. “Don't be so loud.”
“Why?!”
The two of them went silent, and Varadha assumed Baba had gestured something to Baachi. He got his answer quickly. The footsteps Varadha heard were far too loud for him this morning. It took him a while, but he recognised them as yours.
"Baba. Baachi.” Your voice was not sharp, but definitely curt. It was unlike you, and it made you sound a little like your brother, Deva. “Can I speak to Varadha for a second?”
The two pairs of footsteps shuffled out of the room.
A chair was pulled adjacent to Varadha, and he smelled your perfume, much more prominent than what he was used to.
“Varadha.” You said. “Can we talk?”
“Please.”
“Right.” You cleared your throat. “You, um, said that you liked me. Does Deva know?”
Varadha shook his head. “I haven't told him yet.”
“Why?”
“Because I want to know your answer.” He spoke, voice muffled under his folded arms. “I want to know you. I want to court you.”
“...really?”
“Yes.” He sighed, then raised his head. “I wanted this to be much more sophisticated.”
You blinked.
“I…” He swallowed and wrung his hands. “Would you like to court me?”
deva tries to take a walk. old memories resurface.
based heavily on the yuri's poem with the same name.
“Don't you have any other friends?”
Deva knew the kid didn't mean it that way; he was just angry at the older man for not having his head in the game. He knew the kid didn't know about what happened in that place. But the words were a little…striking.
It was just a quarter past one o'clock right now. The whole neighbourhood seemed to be silent, except the one drunken old man stumbling back home, having forgotten he doesn't have one to return to.
Deva tried closing his tired eyes, and felt the burn under his eyelids that comes when you forget to blink for too long. He felt lighter when things were dark around him; the near-constant thrumming under his skin receded in the din of the night, and the softer memories would return. His mother coaxing him to go to sleep with a lullaby, sneaking out to cause mischief somewhere, or coming home from said rendezvous and finding a puppy hiding under a box to pet.
Who would he sneak out with, again?
Deva opened his eyes and got out of the rickety bed, feeling the rusted metal creak under his bed. He had never gotten used to how large he became, always the shorter one between his old friend and him. Even the kids seemed to not mind his imposing stature as long as he agreed to take a part in fielding and let them bat. Heavy footsteps padding across the floor, Deva put his shoes on haphazardly, ankles sticking out of the back (he’d get blisters in the morning, but it’d be fine) and walked out of the house.
It was a warm night. The sky was clear. A playful breeze was skittering around, dragging along pieces of plastic and motes of dust with it. Mindlessly walking, Deva looked up and saw the stars jeweled across the velvety night sky. Or something like that. It sounded like a line from those books Varadha would read.
Varadha.
Shit.
To Deva, it was clear that he would never return to Varadha again. And he had made a point to expunge any memories of the man from his mind. That didn't seem to work. He never had as good of control over his mind as Varadha did. It was so late at night, and no one was awake anyway. Deva assumed he could amuse himself. Far away, somewhere, the drunken man had fallen from the stairs and found himself at the bottom with a bleeding head.
He had heard the older teenagers blast songs about forgetting their lovers on their new-fangled phone. Songs about how to get over a lover. Songs about how to move on from a past love. But how do you forget a friend? Is there anything that can replace an old friend? Even now, Deva would see a book from an author Varadha liked, and get the urge to buy it for him; even now he'd say something stupidly cheesy and get the urge to repeat it to Varadha, just to see him roll his eyes in annoyance.
But the maw of a wolf separated them. The same souls in two different worlds. Varadha was the Karta of Khansaar, and Deva was pacified into paralysis in Tinsukhia.
It wasn't an open wound, sure, but it was a bruise that hurt when he pressed too hard. It was the blackened veins protruding out of his left arm, cramping when it was too cold until he felt like he needed to chop it off clean.
Deva stopped under an amber streetlight, looking down to see the colour bathe him. There was a faint heat coming from it. There was a massive hum-buzz of thousands of insects, stuck in their perpetual panopticon behind the cheap glass of the streetlight, burning away for their gravity towards the bulb.
In the distance, a blue-green light flickered. A lone figure crossed its path—a silhouette obstructing the eerie glow. Deva’s heart suddenly started to skip a few beats here and there. The silhouette grew. Closer. Closer.
The figure stepped into the streetlight. The light flickered. A familiar tingle of electricity sped up Deva's left arm, turning the blood in his veins to static. The figure raised his hand, clad in thick iron bangles clinking, all hesitant. Familiar.
Time stopped.
The only indication of movement was the amber light flickering against his outstretched fingers, clad, too, in similar rings. The flickering light was in rhythm with the pounding of Deva's heart.
A voice came from nowhere and everywhere at once.
“Deva.”
Have you ever heard of a ghost feeling warmth before? Giving up on understanding, Deva laughed. Understanding was overrated. He touched his friend’s hand. The flickering stopped.
Ghosts are blue-green. Deva's heart is amber.
Deva woke up to the sound of his mother berating him for sleeping in, followed along with the clamor of children whom he'd promised to play cricket with. The sun was out. Blinking through the splotches in his eyes, he came to the realisation that streetlights weren’t blue-green.
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huh. so it turns out my religious trauma doesn't prevent me from enjoying catholic aesthetics in horror movies. BUT it does make it significantly less natural for me, the viewer, to root for priest characters. turns out there's an innate part of me that sees a church uniform and just starts booing. i see a priest and i want him to fail miserably.
how did i learn this about myself? well recently i watched the popular horror film The Exorcist
anyways this website has rotted my mind because the entire movie the only two thoughts echoing back and forth in my head like pong were "god forbid women do anything" and "hell yeah white baby!"
not the first time i've watched an exorcism while rooting for the demonic entity. i do consider this film a comedy though. straight up started cheering when she walked down the stairs backwards
that's my girl!!! she's so mean to the priest character but he deserves it for being a narc
this movie is so funny. "scariest movie of all time" and it's a weird little girl with behavioral issues. yeah i can see why the catholics would have a problem with that
Everyone was scared at Deva's outburst during the ride because he just murdered bunch of people and still covered in blood so they were afraid that they would too get the end of his wrath but not Varadha he was just horny 😭✋
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if we forget the narrative for a moment, and prithvi's depictions of varadha, we confront the fact that varadha's character is written very much as a woman's usually is, especially in indian cinema:
1. varadha is defined by the men in his life: his father, deva, his brother - his life is dictated by their actions
he waits for his father's validation, for deva, for an opportunity to save himself.
he spends most of his existence waiting.
note: it is equally important to mention that deva is just as defined by the relationships in his life, but that he plays an active role in his own subjugation, willing to be a weapon for those he loves, and is capable of taking the narrative into his hands at any point he chooses to.
2. his role as a caretaker is emphasized, time and time again
3. varadha's form of love is immensely self-sacrificial
4. his honor manifests physically (a framing commonly reserved for women)
his dignity becomes something that can be taken from him or he can be saved from losing.
5. and he has his boundaries crossed in ways that just aren't used for male characters
all threats are very intimate.
6. his character arc is entirely about taking back his power, after oppression being mistreated, humiliated, and not taken seriously for the entirety of his life
prithvi brings nuance to an otherwise one-dimensional character; otherwise, varadha is a character meant to suffer for deva's character arc, until it is time for him to take the throne.
gay people can never say shit like "wow it's nice to see you, how are you?" after seeing their childhood best friend for the first time in 25 years. they always have to say shit like "do you remember me🥺" and "your voice changed, but the way you call me hasn't"
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