[original] ink - mala and hayani
This is an original piece I’ve been working on. I really want it to come to completion so I’m posting this little character interaction piece as a way to kind of encourage myself to keep going. It was an exercise in getting to know the characters for myself.
It’s early in the afternoon, after lunch and hot, which means most of the palace is in that state of sleepy calm. Hayani is still energetic, bouncing and looking for something to do when most people are off napping or taking tea, not wanting to be bothered with work or responsibilities.
Mala will indulge him, if he isn’t asleep, which he very well might be. Hayani peeks into his room first but there’s no one there, nor any sign that he’s been there recently, which is good news. If Mala were asleep, Hayani would curl up with him of course, but as tempting as that always is he’s not in the mood to relax right now.
He searches a few more places, unable to find him in the library or his sister’s sitting room where he’s been doing a majority of her work projects, and he’s wondering where on earth that man has gone when he finally catches sight of him as he’s passing by one of the balconies.
“What are you doing here?” Hayani asks as he steps out beside him, sitting on the edge since there’s only room for one chair and Mala has taken possession of it.
“What does it look like I’m doing?” Mala asks without malice. He’s focused on his painting, eyes darting between his canvas and the scenery he’s painting. It’s the image directly before them, and Hayani takes great delight in looking between the two; this is clearly something Mala has been working on a for a while since it’s midday but the image looks like sunset.
“You don’t paint that often. Not like this,” Hayani says. He likes how Mala looks, his fingers flecked with colored ink, a splash of it on his cheek where he must have held a brush with his teeth at once point.
“Mm,” Mala says and Hayani quiets down, knowing that tone. Mala is concentrating and Hayani is distracting him.
Hayani always likes to watch Mala work, seeing his brushstrokes bring meaning to a formerly blank canvas. He’s only seen him write words and numbers not draw. The look on Mala’s face is still focused, but it’s more open too.
He finds that he likes this too but that’s not a surprise when he likes most everything that Mala does.
Mala straightens up and dips his brush in the cup of water, snapping it side to side.
“I miss your long hair,” Hayani says, trying and failing to run his fingers through Mala’s hair. It’s soft, like it used to be, thanks to the oils Mala has access to again and Hayani barely refrains from sticking his face in it to smell it. “My hair is longer right now!”
“They cut it as part of the baptism for the church,” Mala says absently, shaking out his paintbrush. He inspects the ends, plucking out a few loose strands. “I wasn’t thrilled with it either. But it’ll grow back soon enough.”
“I should grow my hair out in the meantime,” Hayani suggests.
“I can’t imagine you with long hair,” Mala says, blinking as he cleary fails to think of it. Hayani has always had a crop of messy, golden hair that he never lets grow past his eyes; he can’t stand brushing his bangs out of his face and that’s as long as it gets. Mala brushes at Hayani’s nose, making him laugh at the sensation and move back. “Let me work.”
“I do so love watching you at work,” Hayani breathes.
“Ah, I guess this isn’t work,” Mala says, eyes far away as he’s still as he inspects his painting. He puts his brush again to the horizon. “It’s simply practice.”
“Practice? This is what you call practice?” Hayani stares at him in bafflement. Mala has created a beautiful work of art, a stunning interpretation of the desert sunset before him and he calls it nothing.
“I didn’t say it was worthless,” Mala says, his chuckle nothing more than a slight shake of his shoulders. “But the work I normally do is rigid; the words have to be a certain way to fit on the page, people choose what I write, and they want a specific style.
Hayani takes his hand and presses a kiss to the back of it, and Mala smiles at it, bringing it to his lips to kiss the same spot.
“Maybe we should find more people who prefer this then?” Hayani suggests and Mala scoffs a little at him, but it’s lovingly.
“This is for me,” Mala says. “I like the words I create. Don’t try to make me into an artist, Hayani, it won’t end well for anyone.”
“That’s right, you’d have to travel more, wouldn’t you? And what if you met a cute artist boy who drew your likeness and captured you? I couldn’t bear that,” Hayani says.
Mala stares at him for a moment before breaking into laughter.
“Where do you get these ideas?” he says, choking a little on his words, having spoken too soon.
“The possible future?” Hanayi suggests. “But no, no, I can’t let that happen. Sorry, Mala, but you cannot become an artist. I would die.”
Mala sets his brush down and turns around to face him properly.
“Stop,” he says. “You know I wouldn’t leave you. Why would I want to? I’m content, deliriously so, and I have no intention.”
“Good,” Hayani says.
“But if you don’t let me draw in peace I will push you off this balcony,” Mala says with a kiss to his cheek, holding his hips steady but making Hayani realize how precarious his position is. “Now shush and let me finish this piece.”
“Can I have it when you’re done?” Hayani asks and Mala pauses for a moment, giving him a questioning look. “Let me hang it in our room. You can decorate it all with your art.”
“I manage one of these in the course of months,” Mala says. “It would take me years to fill up a room.”
“I’ll wait for that,” Hayani says and Mala gives him a fond sigh, eyes alight with the promise of years for them.
“You can have them all,” Mala vows as he returns to painting.
Hayani falls silent as he watches him paint. He can't wait to see their room filled up and yet at the same time he is more than happy to slowly see their room brighten with Mala’s brushstrokes. He wants to spend the rest of his life with Mala, watching him paint and write and live, together.
