#koysov

Time passes, and Malgam and Koysov become closer. He finally seeks the lawmaker out one night after a treacherous round of memories. He stops at the door, seeing the light out. He stops, knowing he can still walk in, but he still pauses. He puts his hand on the door, and words, which aren’t entirely his specialty, begin pouring out. Not to Koysov directly; but affirmations about Malgam’s feelings. The heart he’d encased was beating against it’s glass cage, and instead of feeling imprisoned, it felt as though it leapt at the thought of just touching Koysov’s skin, his hand, his hair; to hold him, to feel the grain of his lips against his own. Malgam lets words he’s never really strung together before pour out onto the door, a quiet hymn into the low-lit hallway.

The fountain in his throat ceases, unable to put more into words properly, and he sighs, leaning against the door, his body still tired from lack of sleep.

He hasn’t realized the person standing behind him. Koysov returns to his room mid-confession, listening and clutching his bag as he retires from another late night in the library. Listening to his king try to unravel his tightly furled heart, trying to make sense of setting these emotions free again. He watches Malgam, tiredly, almost melt against his door, and Koysov takes his king by the shoulders, doing his best to not see the tired shock in Malgam’s golden eyes. Koysov hears his name uttered in a manner he’d only heard from spouses of long-ago years. In a manner of yearning; in a manner of confiding; in sorrow; in happiness; in death. But Koysov simply escorts his tired king inside of his room, sets his satchel down, and helps make Malgam comfortable in his bed. Koysov doesn’t have time to dress down from his fine attire. He holds Malgam, the king’s face buried against his throat and shoulder. 

Koysov can see the scars; part of the symptom of his memories that keep him up at night.

But Koysov promised to give his king happiness to last as long as these wretched moments frozen in time; Malgam deserves better. Malgam deserves to feel whole again. Their friendship, their camaraderie, their countenance has sustained this palpable truce of a solid embrace in his bed, with Malgam’s pale face embedded into Koysov’s silk scarf.

Koysov rests his head on the pillow, nudged against Malgam’s close-cut shock of auburn hair.

He wakes up with their hands in a lazy entwining against each other’s chests. And Malgam finally looks at peace.

'I feel it unfair that I lean on you so often'