#kipling the apprentice

Zurkhi swept his bright red hair out of his eyes. Loose, bell-capped sleeves hung off her shoulders, her crop top cut over her midriff, her shorts over halfway down her muscled thighs, showing off enough of the gleaming brown of her skin that it took a moment, and then another, for him to realize that he was staring. Cursing himself internally, he prepared to apologize- but when his turquoise eyes met hers- the Suasor found neither reproach nor confusion- but a faint spark of something else in them. 

Oh. 

“Not at all,” he managed to say, collecting himself, and offering a smile of his own. “I prefer company to solitude. And,” he shrugged, tearing his eyes away from her to gesture to the pots around her. “I see you are at work.” 

“Only dropping off some deliveries.” She said sweetly, picking up one of the pots, the flowers bobbing beneath her wide smile, beneath the glinting turquoise of her nose piercing. “Don’t mind me.”  

She got closer to him, the cowrie shells at her neck and wrists singing with the bounce in her step, and, when she was close enough that she brushed against his chest, she got to her tiptoes to place the pot over the stone-ledge. Her thick, cascading curls, the half of which was not tied into twin-buns, swept over Zurkhi’s arms and the bare skin at his collar.  

Don’t mind me, she said. 

He flushed, all the way down from his scarred cheek to his chest. 

It never happened with him, never happened for him, really- and he had made peace with it as he had made peace with the scars on his face, with the ways of his own history. But he found himself eager as he read it anyway, this spark of her eager interest, this playful coyness with which she dropped back to her feet to read him right back. 

She dusted her palms, her eyes locked on his, and he held out his own. “Zurkhi.”  

He sensed that she could hear the breathlessness in his voice. Sensed too, that it pleased her as much as it surprised her. “Kipling.” 

“Kipling.” He echoed, letting his turquoise gaze trail over her face, lingering on her eyes, the faint flush on her cheeks, the curve of her lips. Her hands were calloused where his were scarred, palms warm where his were cold and grooved. 

 They were hands that built things, he thought, grew things- gentle, beautiful things like the bright begonias that splashed color at the corners of his vision. For a moment, he imagined her tending to them, these hands tilting a can of water, these gentle fingers stroking over tender leaves- her voice whispering to them, perhaps, soothing things, patient things, so that they would rise slowly from the earth and reach towards the light.  

He wondered how they would feel against his lips, against his face, against the tattoo that ran down his scarred back. Wondered if they would feel as the spring rain does to the hungry earth. 

All at once, he wanted to draw her by the hand to hold her in his arms, to rest his head against her shoulder, to breathe in the scent of cocoa butter and soft earth and springtime. 

“Are you alright?” Her eyes softened. Zurkhi nodded, and smiled. “It is a delight to meet you.” He lingered for a moment, and let her go, their fingers lacing gently into each other’s even as they parted. 

She took a step back, the backs of her calves brushing against the leaves. “I’d have thought you’d burn a hole in those plants,” she teased, “that’s how intently you were gazing at them.” 

Zurkhi chuckled, tugging at the end of his ponytail. “I do get lost in my thoughts-” he confessed, “I could only rein them in when I have, or well,” he glanced at the flowers, “pretend to have a listener.” 

Kipling raised an eyebrow, and walked past him to sit on one of the stone benches by the side of the walkway. A stray flower drifted to her lap, and she patted the space beside her. “I can listen to you. I’m rather good at it.” 

“Could you?” He followed her, sitting down close enough, that when she sidled even closer, their legs brushed against each other’s- her bare warm skin against the cotton of his palazzo pants. “I could.” She cradled her chin in her palm. “Unless, of course, you’d rather go back to gazing at the plants.” 

He savored the suggestion in her golden-brown eyes, the barely-teasing touch of her skin. Folding his papers to one hand, he let the other fall to her knee, and caught her eyes, their brilliant turquoise matching the jewels on her piercings, her breath catching at the intensity of his gaze. “I would much rather gaze at you.” 

She beamed at him, her cheeks flushing darker as she leaned forward a little more. “Talk to me.” 

Zurkhi took a moment to blink, distracted by her proximity. 

And then, he did.  

He ran through his address and then some, offering her his hope, his conviction, his beliefs, the parts he still had to parse through and string together, the parts he had considered and discarded, until the papers, and his voice, nearly ran themselves out.  

Kipling listened to him, her eyes brightening with every lift in his voice as though it held her in some form of thrall, her bracelets brushing against his knee, her legs knocking against his- nodding where he paused, asking questions where they needed to be asked, redirecting him gently when he went on a tangent for too long, and bringing him back when his words flew from him as they so often did.  

There was nothing life-changing about this address- Zurkhi knew that; only a few rather routine ideas- but she listened as though they held more meaning than he thought it did, with stars in her eyes and her palm to her cheek like she had hardly listened to anything so striking before. 

And by the seven seas, it felt so good. 

“And that,” Zurkhi sighed, finally, “was what I was thinking of- before you came along.” 

He tucked his papers into his pockets, feeling the knots in his chest ease, his heart lifting and rushing at that sudden lightness. At her.  

Kipling tilted her head, still curious- as though she had not heard quite enough. “And what were you thinking of, after I came along?” She was teasing, the lilt in her voice suggesting that she expected him to respond in jest. 

He chose earnest, instead. 

“Of you,” Zurkhi dropped his voice to a whisper, and took her hand again. “Of your hands.” 

Kipling swallowed, and looked away to catch her breath. “What about my hands?” 

“That they are hands touched with light.” He clasped them tighter. “That they are hands that could grow things- that they are hands that could hold the springtime and bring it home.” 

Kipling bit her lip, lashes fluttering. But she did not miss the faint wistfulness in his voice. “Anyone can grow things, Zurkhi.”  

He dropped her hands, opened his own palms in the space between them. Kipling reached out, tempted to trace over the deep lines of old scars on his brown skin. But then, she settled on placing a hand on his slender shoulder, instead, her throat tightening at the sight of them, so many of them, just as they were on his face, disappearing down his neck, running up his sleeves- 

“I cannot.” He said quietly, cutting into her thoughts. “I have not. Flowers do not bloom by these hands.” 

“Of course they do.” She argued, pressing his shoulder insistently. “Have you tried?” 

“I have-” Zurkhi’s smile was a tired thing. “I have never had the occasion to.” 

“Until now.”  

He searched her face, took in the quiet, sweet stubbornness of her expression.  

Until now. 

He remembered the voice of an old, distant friend. 

Seasons change, Zurkhi. 

“Until now.” He admitted. 

She got to her feet, and he rose with her. Kipling tucked a strand of his wild red hair behind his ear, lingering to graze his earrings with her fingertips as she drew back. “I have a shop, down at South End. You could ask anyone around for me. I can prove you wrong about that.” 

“Will there be roses?” He murmured. “Will you show me how to grow roses?” 

“All kinds of roses.” 

“I do love wildroses.” 

“I could bring you wildroses.” She stepped away, before he could reach for her. “Come over, after your address.” 

He had nearly forgotten all about it. 

She turned to go, but she did not. As Zurkhi laced up his boots, he noticed that she was pausing to fuss with the plants, straighten every pot, a subtle sway in her hips- her gait carefully languorous. 

As breathless as he was, as riveted and astonished, Zurkhi had enough of his faculties about him to know what it meant. 

She was waiting. 

“For the roses, or for you?”  

Kipling stopped in her tracks, looking over her shoulder, the sun pouring gold into the teasing, triumphant quirk of her lips. “What do you mean?” 

He jogged a little to get closer to her. “What I said, Kipling.” He leaned against one of the ledges, letting his eyes rove hungrily over her. “For the roses, or for you?” 

In the space of a heartbeat, Kipling closed the space between them, leaned up ever so slightly, and pressed a kiss to the corner of his lip, right where his scar seamed to skin. Her warmth suffused him, spread through him like wildfire from only the soft touch of her lips- but before he could wrap his arms around her waist and hold her in place, she had pulled back, sauntering away from him, throwing another, beckoning glance over her shoulder. “You’ll have to see for yourself, Zurkhi.” 

With that, she turned a corner, muffling a delighted giggle behind her palm, and was gone. 

Later, as he was rushing up the Palace stairs, smiling unabashedly, his cheeks still flaming from where she had touched him, one of his aides, predictably, took notice. 

“Spring in your step today, Suasor,” They narrowed their eyes playfully.