#mai2

Maitimo wakes to a hand running through his hair, a hand holding up his head, his head in somebody’s lap. Mairon, of course, because who else would it be, and Mairon in his favorite form, small and golden and soft-skinned and soft-bodied. 

“Good morning,” Maitimo says, although of course he has no idea whether it’s morning or not. (He mentioned that to Mairon, once, and Mairon waved a hand in the air and showed him the sky outside. Maitimo still couldn’t tell - the new lights are strange to him. He didn’t say so.) 

“You’re dying,” Mairon says, soft in voice as he prefers to be in all. Like he’s only just realized. Maitimo has no softness to him; his face is gaunt, his skin stretched over his bones, his voice rough from disuse. (Mairon still calls him beautiful. Maitimo hasn’t decided whether he thinks Mairon is lying or simply doesn’t know what beautiful means.) 

Maitimo smiles up at him, more wry than affectionate. “Incarnates do that, love.” 

“You shouldn’t.” Mairon says this like it will change anything.