[fic] Ajna
Title: Ajna - Third Eye
Author: fencer_x
Pairing: Nataraja/Pasupata (Tuti's and Nagayan's characters from Maharaja Mode, seen here at left and center to give you something to picture XD)
Rating: PG
Notes: More NataPasu (I didn't post the last one here, check it out if you want it :P); understanding of Maharaja Mode not essential per se, but it definitely helps if you've been keeping up with my notes :) *really needs to get the full report written*
Warnings: None, unless you count gratuitous instances of Indian terminology I went through hell and high water to find! APPRECIATE IT.
NNWM wordcount: 4524
When Nataraja stepped into his room, he knew he wasn't alone.
He knew it by the fragrant scent of incense assaulting his senses as soon as he heaved the heavy door open, by the delicate white slippers (decidedly not his own--nothing in his wardrobe was so drab) lined up nicely next to his own extra pairs of gaudy juttis, sparkling in every color of the rainbow and reminding him with a sickening knot in his stomach of the sheer opulence he was up to his neck in.
But he knew he was not alone most of all by the familiar patterned overcoat now hanging draped over the tall mirror in his changing area, the scent of pepper still permeating the light blue fabric, stark black diamonds scattered over the folds, days since the battle to save Vishnu-sama's soul.
Nataraja frowned, tugging off the turban wrapped snug around his head--he never would have told anyone, but he felt ten times more like himself dancing like a man possessed under the welcome weight of his Durga Puja costume with all its trappings than as he was now, starched white kurta buttoned tight over delicate wrappings of belts and paijamas far too tamely patterned for his tastes. There wasn't even any animal print, god.
He tossed the remains of his turban onto his nightstand, yanking off the drab bandana underneath it and tossing it haphazardly away as well. Picking at the buttons clamping at his neck, he scoffed, "Shouldn't the guards have stopped you from just barging in without my permission?" From his post sprawled out over the ample cushions of Nataraja's bed--apparently quite comfortable, given he couldn't be bothered to even look up and acknowledge the owner of said bed--Pasupata just popped another grape in his mouth, sucking on it for a bit before chomping into the soft flesh of the fruit and showering the pillows and quilts beneath him with sticky juice. "Oi," Nataraja griped, jogging forward before Pasupata could nip off another grape. "Oi--stop it, you're getting juice everywhere."
Pasupata snapped off a grape, perused it for but a moment, before shrugging to himself and chucking it at Nataraja, who had to execute a complicated slide to the side to avoid the fruit beaning him in his now-prominently-displayed forehead. He let out a bark of amazed laughter, about to proclaim his begrudging awe at such a perfectly executed shot, when he remembered after a beat--"Oh, right. Not blind."
Pasupata just rolled his eyes, then set the half-eaten bunch of grapes onto a small silver platter piled high with an assortment of fruit and nuts likely pilfered from Shiva's private study. He swung his legs around, letting them dangle off to the side of the bed. "I got kicked out of my quarters."
Nataraja stared at him blankly for a moment before shuffling forward, giving his room a cursory glance over, as if making sure this wasn't some complex plot to lure him into a false sense of security, at which point Shiva would jump out from behind his changing screen to deliver some lecture about courtly etiquette and Nataraja's lack thereof (which was rich coming from a guy who couldn't speak formally if you held a talwar to his throat). "...Why?"
Pasupata shrugged. "Something about the royal guards needing the room--they didn't want to move Shiva into Vishnu-sama's chambers, so they just decided to beef up his personal guard...which meant I got demoted."
Nataraja relaxed--that was it? He laughed roughly, trudging over to his wardrobe and picking at the end of the fabric belt wrapped tight at his waist. "You weren't demoted. It's just 'til Vishnu-sama recovers, right?" He managed to pry the twisted end free, and unraveled it, draping the thin, light fabric over the wardrobe door. "Did Shiva bitch about it?"
Behind him, Pasupata's light laughter drifted into his ears. "I think he made up new gods just so he could swear in their names." A pause. "I'm sleeping here."
Nataraja jerked his gaze back over, letting the wardrobe slam shut. "Eh?" Pasupata was digging around in the nuts and figs now, though, ignoring him. "Wait wait wait--no. This is--it's barely big enough for me. You're not sleeping--"
Glancing up, Pasupata popped a handful of cashews into his mouth, spewing out bits of nut as he spoke. "Just for a few weeks."
"A few we--" Pasupata just raised an eyebrow, and Nataraja sputtered to a stop, taking a moment to collect his thoughts. "...You're not staying here."
"Then where am I supposed to go?"
"I don't--the barracks? With the other soldiers? An inn, that I'm sure Shiva would be happy to pay for? The barn? A brothel?" He gestured wildly, as if doing so might further impress upon his friend the indignation he was feeling at the moment. "Just--there's no room."
Pasupata lobbed an apple at his head now, which Nataraja easily snatched up before it connected with any surface hard enough to splatter it. "I'm not asking to share your bed--I just want some space on the floor to spread out a pallet on." He pushed away the platter, then crossed his arms. "You lied to me for fifteen years. You owe me."
"Wha--you lied to me, too!"
A shrug. "I'll pay you back somehow, too." And this seemed to be the end of the argument, as Pasupata promptly flopped back onto the ample pile of pillows, spreading his arms and legs out wide. "...So I can stay?"
Nataraja pursed his lips, raking his eyes over his friend's prone form. Pasupata had always been...a simplifier. Quick-witted and cheerful, he could be sharp and exact when called upon to be so, and was never careful with his words when he knew his partner could handle the blow. After all this time, Nataraja felt he could handle most of Pasupata's demands, eccentric or otherwise, but sometimes the guy just said things to make him think he really didn't know anything about him at all. Which, considering barely 48 hours previously he'd only just learned his best friend actually wasn't blind, as he'd been led to believe...who knew what there was about Pasupata that Nataraja didn't yet know.
Instead of voicing any of these concerns, though, Nataraja just grumpily replied, "...I'm taking a bath." It was what he'd retired to his room for the evening to do, anyways--no sense in having his best laid plans disrupted because Pasupata got his ass kicked out of his own chambers--"Oh. Fuck." His fingers stilled, already halfway through the buttons down the front of his chest, facing the elegant tub--no longer steaming as he'd asked it to be, thanks to his extended chat with his new roommate--with his back to Pasupata.
From the bed, Pasupata glanced over, worried. "What?" Nataraja flexed the fingers of one fist, open, closed, a habit he tended to indulge in when he was feeling particularly nervous or excited. "No oils?"
Nataraja turned his head to the side, regarding Pasupata out of the corner of one eye, then licked his lips. His chamber hadn't been designed to allow much privacy--in a room for one, who needed curtains around the bathing and changing areas?--and there were a million reasons why he shouldn't feel this knot in his stomach that hardened and tightened the longer Pasupata's gaze fixated on his back; they'd bathed togther before, robed and disrobed on countless occasions in the field with Shiva, there was nothing to one another that they didn't have themselves, but...
He'd just...you know. Always thought Pasupata was blind. It was like changing in the dark.
Movement from the bed jerked him back to the present. "Nataraja?" Pasupata was starting to get worried--voice losing its usual edge of mirth and dark brows furrowing as he drew his legs beneath himself. He forced a smile, body tensing like he was about to get up and come see for himself what was the problem. "What?"
Nataraja licked his lips again, smiling self-deprecatingly and offering a rough chuckle. He played with the cuffs of his sleeves, shuffling over to the tub. "Nothing just--I kind of...wanted some privacy. It's been a long day and..." He trailed off. "Never mind."
The long-suffering sigh echoed from across the room. "Mou, is this how it's gonna be now? Weird and tense and all?" There was a flop as Pasupata threw himself back down on the pillows, and Nataraja distracted himself with removing his kurta. "I didn't lie--I just..." A pause. "Okay, I lied. But it wasn't to hurt you or anything--it was the opposite!" His voice was starting to take on a whining hitch. "Shiva told me to tell you sooner, but I couldn't just..." Nataraja's fingers had stilled on the bottom button. "Are you going to look at me?"
Nataraja laughed nervously. "I only meant...for the bath, you know. Just, it's kind of weird if you're here..."
A pause. "...Wha--why? We've bathed together plenty of times--"
"You were blind though, it's not like you could see--"
"Nataraja I didn't get better--I could always see." Nataraja was turned away, but could hear the frown in the man's voice. "...Besides, it's not like I was looking anyways."
No, it wasn't. Nataraja knew this...because he did look--and Pasupata knew this. Knew about the time Shiva'd given his detail the slip, leaving Pasupata and Nataraja to frantically chase after him on horseback because he'd found an amazing oasis and they all needed to go swimming right then. Knew about the close quarters travelling forced friends into, where privacy was a luxury not even the rajahs could afford.
He could all but hear the complaints and protests perched on Pasupata's lips--how a guy like Nataraja could spend the entirety of Durga Puja prancing around in a bright pink elephant mask with tiger-striped leggings, leading the Super Hindis in their opening dance that was only slightly less gaudy and ostentatious than Nataraja himself, and yet not be comfortable slipping into his private bath just because his best friend of fifteen years was in the same room.
Snorting in frustration, Nataraja shook his head--at himself, at the whole situation--and just muttered a short, "Never mind," before pulling off the stiff, starched kurta and yanking down his paijamas and undergarments in one swift movement, reminding himself as he did so that Pasupata was right: he'd always been able to see, had always been able to take in Nataraja's lanky form--covered in some ostentatious monstrosity of a costume or not--had always been able to see and not just feel the wrinkled, flame-scarred skin stretching over his right arm, had always been able to register Nataraja's eyes following him at moments conscious or otherwise. "Never mind," he repeated to himself, then stepped gingerly into the thankfully still-warm bathwater he'd had drawn.
From his post on the bed, Pasupata idly flipped through a text Nataraja had apparently been studying in preparation for his role in the festival, eyes flicking left to right, up and down, sweaty fingers turning page after page to distract himself from the stark silence pierced only by the slapping of water against a body, against the tub, against itself.
"...Parvati's sleeping in Vishnu-sama's chambers now." He didn't glance over to see if Nataraja was listening, only trusted that the man would at least not ignore him, if he was going to act so uptight and weird now. "To help tend his wounds and nurse him back to health, he said."
"Ah," was the even reply, and Pasupata's gaze flicked over--Nataraja's back was to him, and he was soaping himself down as best he could in such small confines. Pasupata allowed himself a small smile at the absurd way Nataraja's unexpected display of shame was manifesting itself. "Makes sense."
"I suppose," Pasupata agreed hesitantly--how appropriate it was for a simple shrine guardian to be sleeping in the same bed chamber as the ruler (albeit temporarily disabled) of their nation was a matter to be discussed (gossiped about, rather) at another time. He set aside the text, being careful not to lose Nataraja's place, and swung his feet around to stand. Across the room, he noticed Nataraja stiffen--after having worked so hard to finally get relaxed--and almost felt remorse for the guy, but strengthened his resolve with each barefoot step across the plush rug carpetting the room. "Let me wash your back."
Nataraja jerked, unable to ignore him anymore, and twisted in what must have been an uncomfortable manner to glance over his shoulder at the swiftly approaching Pasupata. "Eh--no no. It's fine, I'm just soaking." The brush off did nothing to still Pasupata's steps, though, and soon he was perched at the head of the tub, waiting patiently at Nataraja's back--the guy couldn't have turned away even if he'd been hell-bent on doing so--for explicit permission. After a moment's awkward silence--Nataraja waiting for Pasupata to take the hint and Pasupata simply waiting, sleeves pushed back to his elbows--Nataraja reluctantly rung out the water from the cloth he'd been using to bathe himself with, draping it over the lip of the tub so he didn't have to touch Pasupata.
The water rippled at his back when the rag was dipped into the murky, soapy, lukewarm water, and Pasupata waited patiently for Nataraja's chest to stop heaving so frantically. "I hear Vishnu-sama gets three servants to do this..." he murmured conversationally after a moment, finally seizing a safe moment to drizzle a dollop of bathing oil onto Nataraja's back. "That's gotta be weird, right?"
"He's probably used to it," Nataraja ground out, legs tucked up to his chest and trying not to shiver where the cool air drifted over the bits of him not submerged in water. He closed his eyes as the rag was pushed and dragged over his back, drops of water twisting their way down his spine. Pasupata rubbed particularly roughly at a patch of skin just above his shoulderblade, and Nataraja hissed in appreciation.
Immediately, the rag dropped into the water, and Pasupata pulled back--"What?"
"Eh--ah, no. You hit a good spot...was all."
Pasupata laughed. "Oh--geez, you scared me." Nataraja mirrored the soft chuckle, relaxing even further and flexing his back muscles to loosen them. Behind him, Pasupata pushed his sleeves even further up, steeling himself, then reached up barehanded to work the stuff muscles he'd just been tending. Here again, Nataraja shivered--and then snapped to attention, pulling away abruptly and twisting in place, eyes wide and breathing hard. Pasupata jerked his hands back, ready with a nervous laugh on his lips again. "Oi, stop that--"
"No--I--" He swallowed, eyes fixed on Pasupata's hands, and rubbed at his arm unconsciously. "You shouldn't--touch me. It's not--I'm...It's not proper. Is all." He swallowed again, eyes warily flicking back and forth between Pasupata's fingers and eyes, looking like a stray who'd just been kicked.
Pasupata paused, any trace of mirth or confusion slipping away. "...Why would you say something like that? Why would..." He laughed for show in a futile effort to brush off Nataraja's worry. "You know castes don't matter to me--or Shiva. You're the only one who ever--"
"It matters now," was the firm repetition, and Nataraja slowly turned his back to Pasupata again, shrinking in on himself further. "No more pretending."
Another beat of silence stretched between them--Nataraja curled up in a tub too small for his large frame, Pasupata standing at his back, sleeves pushed halfway up his arms and fingers dripping with water. His face twisted into an ugly frown, and without warning he lunged forward, clamping his arms around Nataraja's torso to force them together and pressing his cheek into his friend's back, struggling to maintain as much flesh-to-flesh contact as possible if only to further press his point home. "I'm not pretending."
Beneath him, Nataraja stiffened, gripping one wrist tight in his grasp and trying--without much effort, albeit--to dislodge himself from Pasupata's hug. "Pasu--"
He just squeezed tighter, taking in deep breaths so that the air flushed over Nataraja's bare skin before pulling it into his lungs. "You're not--unclean or untouchable or--or wrong or anything, and you never were. So don't...say things like that. I never pretended."
A pause. "...You pretended to be blind." And Pasupata couldn't help but laugh at the very obvious statement, shaking Nataraja with held-in amusement. "You did..."
"I did..." he allowed after a moment, smiling against Nataraja's back, nose filled with the scent of lavender and sage and the faint scent of sweat despite the rapidly cooling tepid bathwater. "Hey..."
"Hm?"
"...I looked." Nataraja didn't respond--didn't stiffen, didn't suck in a nervous breath, didn't do anything.
"...When?"
"...All the time." He took a deep breath, then slowly released his hold on Nataraja, pulling back upright and resolutely ignoring the browbeating he was going to receive from his back when he paused to consider how much he'd had to strain to hold the position. He tugged on the hem of his kurta, sniffing. "I'm hungry."
Nataraja shifted around, hands gripping either side of the tub to steady himself, and he stared incredulously up at his friend, finding nothing but a blank expression staring back. He quickly collected himself, coughing. "...Wanna go to the kitchens?" Pasupata simply nodded, shuffling back over to the bed to allow Nataraja the privacy to finish his ablutions.
Making himself comfortable in the pillows, he pulled the text he'd abandoned earlier back into his lap, idly flipping through the complicated illustrations of dance moves and chant lyrics.
If they weren't going to bother pretending anymore, there was no sense in him returning to a room he'd lied about being kicked out of in the first place, after all.
Author: fencer_x
Pairing: Nataraja/Pasupata (Tuti's and Nagayan's characters from Maharaja Mode, seen here at left and center to give you something to picture XD)
Rating: PG
Notes: More NataPasu (I didn't post the last one here, check it out if you want it :P); understanding of Maharaja Mode not essential per se, but it definitely helps if you've been keeping up with my notes :) *really needs to get the full report written*
Warnings: None, unless you count gratuitous instances of Indian terminology I went through hell and high water to find! APPRECIATE IT.
NNWM wordcount: 4524
When Nataraja stepped into his room, he knew he wasn't alone.
He knew it by the fragrant scent of incense assaulting his senses as soon as he heaved the heavy door open, by the delicate white slippers (decidedly not his own--nothing in his wardrobe was so drab) lined up nicely next to his own extra pairs of gaudy juttis, sparkling in every color of the rainbow and reminding him with a sickening knot in his stomach of the sheer opulence he was up to his neck in.
But he knew he was not alone most of all by the familiar patterned overcoat now hanging draped over the tall mirror in his changing area, the scent of pepper still permeating the light blue fabric, stark black diamonds scattered over the folds, days since the battle to save Vishnu-sama's soul.
Nataraja frowned, tugging off the turban wrapped snug around his head--he never would have told anyone, but he felt ten times more like himself dancing like a man possessed under the welcome weight of his Durga Puja costume with all its trappings than as he was now, starched white kurta buttoned tight over delicate wrappings of belts and paijamas far too tamely patterned for his tastes. There wasn't even any animal print, god.
He tossed the remains of his turban onto his nightstand, yanking off the drab bandana underneath it and tossing it haphazardly away as well. Picking at the buttons clamping at his neck, he scoffed, "Shouldn't the guards have stopped you from just barging in without my permission?" From his post sprawled out over the ample cushions of Nataraja's bed--apparently quite comfortable, given he couldn't be bothered to even look up and acknowledge the owner of said bed--Pasupata just popped another grape in his mouth, sucking on it for a bit before chomping into the soft flesh of the fruit and showering the pillows and quilts beneath him with sticky juice. "Oi," Nataraja griped, jogging forward before Pasupata could nip off another grape. "Oi--stop it, you're getting juice everywhere."
Pasupata snapped off a grape, perused it for but a moment, before shrugging to himself and chucking it at Nataraja, who had to execute a complicated slide to the side to avoid the fruit beaning him in his now-prominently-displayed forehead. He let out a bark of amazed laughter, about to proclaim his begrudging awe at such a perfectly executed shot, when he remembered after a beat--"Oh, right. Not blind."
Pasupata just rolled his eyes, then set the half-eaten bunch of grapes onto a small silver platter piled high with an assortment of fruit and nuts likely pilfered from Shiva's private study. He swung his legs around, letting them dangle off to the side of the bed. "I got kicked out of my quarters."
Nataraja stared at him blankly for a moment before shuffling forward, giving his room a cursory glance over, as if making sure this wasn't some complex plot to lure him into a false sense of security, at which point Shiva would jump out from behind his changing screen to deliver some lecture about courtly etiquette and Nataraja's lack thereof (which was rich coming from a guy who couldn't speak formally if you held a talwar to his throat). "...Why?"
Pasupata shrugged. "Something about the royal guards needing the room--they didn't want to move Shiva into Vishnu-sama's chambers, so they just decided to beef up his personal guard...which meant I got demoted."
Nataraja relaxed--that was it? He laughed roughly, trudging over to his wardrobe and picking at the end of the fabric belt wrapped tight at his waist. "You weren't demoted. It's just 'til Vishnu-sama recovers, right?" He managed to pry the twisted end free, and unraveled it, draping the thin, light fabric over the wardrobe door. "Did Shiva bitch about it?"
Behind him, Pasupata's light laughter drifted into his ears. "I think he made up new gods just so he could swear in their names." A pause. "I'm sleeping here."
Nataraja jerked his gaze back over, letting the wardrobe slam shut. "Eh?" Pasupata was digging around in the nuts and figs now, though, ignoring him. "Wait wait wait--no. This is--it's barely big enough for me. You're not sleeping--"
Glancing up, Pasupata popped a handful of cashews into his mouth, spewing out bits of nut as he spoke. "Just for a few weeks."
"A few we--" Pasupata just raised an eyebrow, and Nataraja sputtered to a stop, taking a moment to collect his thoughts. "...You're not staying here."
"Then where am I supposed to go?"
"I don't--the barracks? With the other soldiers? An inn, that I'm sure Shiva would be happy to pay for? The barn? A brothel?" He gestured wildly, as if doing so might further impress upon his friend the indignation he was feeling at the moment. "Just--there's no room."
Pasupata lobbed an apple at his head now, which Nataraja easily snatched up before it connected with any surface hard enough to splatter it. "I'm not asking to share your bed--I just want some space on the floor to spread out a pallet on." He pushed away the platter, then crossed his arms. "You lied to me for fifteen years. You owe me."
"Wha--you lied to me, too!"
A shrug. "I'll pay you back somehow, too." And this seemed to be the end of the argument, as Pasupata promptly flopped back onto the ample pile of pillows, spreading his arms and legs out wide. "...So I can stay?"
Nataraja pursed his lips, raking his eyes over his friend's prone form. Pasupata had always been...a simplifier. Quick-witted and cheerful, he could be sharp and exact when called upon to be so, and was never careful with his words when he knew his partner could handle the blow. After all this time, Nataraja felt he could handle most of Pasupata's demands, eccentric or otherwise, but sometimes the guy just said things to make him think he really didn't know anything about him at all. Which, considering barely 48 hours previously he'd only just learned his best friend actually wasn't blind, as he'd been led to believe...who knew what there was about Pasupata that Nataraja didn't yet know.
Instead of voicing any of these concerns, though, Nataraja just grumpily replied, "...I'm taking a bath." It was what he'd retired to his room for the evening to do, anyways--no sense in having his best laid plans disrupted because Pasupata got his ass kicked out of his own chambers--"Oh. Fuck." His fingers stilled, already halfway through the buttons down the front of his chest, facing the elegant tub--no longer steaming as he'd asked it to be, thanks to his extended chat with his new roommate--with his back to Pasupata.
From the bed, Pasupata glanced over, worried. "What?" Nataraja flexed the fingers of one fist, open, closed, a habit he tended to indulge in when he was feeling particularly nervous or excited. "No oils?"
Nataraja turned his head to the side, regarding Pasupata out of the corner of one eye, then licked his lips. His chamber hadn't been designed to allow much privacy--in a room for one, who needed curtains around the bathing and changing areas?--and there were a million reasons why he shouldn't feel this knot in his stomach that hardened and tightened the longer Pasupata's gaze fixated on his back; they'd bathed togther before, robed and disrobed on countless occasions in the field with Shiva, there was nothing to one another that they didn't have themselves, but...
He'd just...you know. Always thought Pasupata was blind. It was like changing in the dark.
Movement from the bed jerked him back to the present. "Nataraja?" Pasupata was starting to get worried--voice losing its usual edge of mirth and dark brows furrowing as he drew his legs beneath himself. He forced a smile, body tensing like he was about to get up and come see for himself what was the problem. "What?"
Nataraja licked his lips again, smiling self-deprecatingly and offering a rough chuckle. He played with the cuffs of his sleeves, shuffling over to the tub. "Nothing just--I kind of...wanted some privacy. It's been a long day and..." He trailed off. "Never mind."
The long-suffering sigh echoed from across the room. "Mou, is this how it's gonna be now? Weird and tense and all?" There was a flop as Pasupata threw himself back down on the pillows, and Nataraja distracted himself with removing his kurta. "I didn't lie--I just..." A pause. "Okay, I lied. But it wasn't to hurt you or anything--it was the opposite!" His voice was starting to take on a whining hitch. "Shiva told me to tell you sooner, but I couldn't just..." Nataraja's fingers had stilled on the bottom button. "Are you going to look at me?"
Nataraja laughed nervously. "I only meant...for the bath, you know. Just, it's kind of weird if you're here..."
A pause. "...Wha--why? We've bathed together plenty of times--"
"You were blind though, it's not like you could see--"
"Nataraja I didn't get better--I could always see." Nataraja was turned away, but could hear the frown in the man's voice. "...Besides, it's not like I was looking anyways."
No, it wasn't. Nataraja knew this...because he did look--and Pasupata knew this. Knew about the time Shiva'd given his detail the slip, leaving Pasupata and Nataraja to frantically chase after him on horseback because he'd found an amazing oasis and they all needed to go swimming right then. Knew about the close quarters travelling forced friends into, where privacy was a luxury not even the rajahs could afford.
He could all but hear the complaints and protests perched on Pasupata's lips--how a guy like Nataraja could spend the entirety of Durga Puja prancing around in a bright pink elephant mask with tiger-striped leggings, leading the Super Hindis in their opening dance that was only slightly less gaudy and ostentatious than Nataraja himself, and yet not be comfortable slipping into his private bath just because his best friend of fifteen years was in the same room.
Snorting in frustration, Nataraja shook his head--at himself, at the whole situation--and just muttered a short, "Never mind," before pulling off the stiff, starched kurta and yanking down his paijamas and undergarments in one swift movement, reminding himself as he did so that Pasupata was right: he'd always been able to see, had always been able to take in Nataraja's lanky form--covered in some ostentatious monstrosity of a costume or not--had always been able to see and not just feel the wrinkled, flame-scarred skin stretching over his right arm, had always been able to register Nataraja's eyes following him at moments conscious or otherwise. "Never mind," he repeated to himself, then stepped gingerly into the thankfully still-warm bathwater he'd had drawn.
From his post on the bed, Pasupata idly flipped through a text Nataraja had apparently been studying in preparation for his role in the festival, eyes flicking left to right, up and down, sweaty fingers turning page after page to distract himself from the stark silence pierced only by the slapping of water against a body, against the tub, against itself.
"...Parvati's sleeping in Vishnu-sama's chambers now." He didn't glance over to see if Nataraja was listening, only trusted that the man would at least not ignore him, if he was going to act so uptight and weird now. "To help tend his wounds and nurse him back to health, he said."
"Ah," was the even reply, and Pasupata's gaze flicked over--Nataraja's back was to him, and he was soaping himself down as best he could in such small confines. Pasupata allowed himself a small smile at the absurd way Nataraja's unexpected display of shame was manifesting itself. "Makes sense."
"I suppose," Pasupata agreed hesitantly--how appropriate it was for a simple shrine guardian to be sleeping in the same bed chamber as the ruler (albeit temporarily disabled) of their nation was a matter to be discussed (gossiped about, rather) at another time. He set aside the text, being careful not to lose Nataraja's place, and swung his feet around to stand. Across the room, he noticed Nataraja stiffen--after having worked so hard to finally get relaxed--and almost felt remorse for the guy, but strengthened his resolve with each barefoot step across the plush rug carpetting the room. "Let me wash your back."
Nataraja jerked, unable to ignore him anymore, and twisted in what must have been an uncomfortable manner to glance over his shoulder at the swiftly approaching Pasupata. "Eh--no no. It's fine, I'm just soaking." The brush off did nothing to still Pasupata's steps, though, and soon he was perched at the head of the tub, waiting patiently at Nataraja's back--the guy couldn't have turned away even if he'd been hell-bent on doing so--for explicit permission. After a moment's awkward silence--Nataraja waiting for Pasupata to take the hint and Pasupata simply waiting, sleeves pushed back to his elbows--Nataraja reluctantly rung out the water from the cloth he'd been using to bathe himself with, draping it over the lip of the tub so he didn't have to touch Pasupata.
The water rippled at his back when the rag was dipped into the murky, soapy, lukewarm water, and Pasupata waited patiently for Nataraja's chest to stop heaving so frantically. "I hear Vishnu-sama gets three servants to do this..." he murmured conversationally after a moment, finally seizing a safe moment to drizzle a dollop of bathing oil onto Nataraja's back. "That's gotta be weird, right?"
"He's probably used to it," Nataraja ground out, legs tucked up to his chest and trying not to shiver where the cool air drifted over the bits of him not submerged in water. He closed his eyes as the rag was pushed and dragged over his back, drops of water twisting their way down his spine. Pasupata rubbed particularly roughly at a patch of skin just above his shoulderblade, and Nataraja hissed in appreciation.
Immediately, the rag dropped into the water, and Pasupata pulled back--"What?"
"Eh--ah, no. You hit a good spot...was all."
Pasupata laughed. "Oh--geez, you scared me." Nataraja mirrored the soft chuckle, relaxing even further and flexing his back muscles to loosen them. Behind him, Pasupata pushed his sleeves even further up, steeling himself, then reached up barehanded to work the stuff muscles he'd just been tending. Here again, Nataraja shivered--and then snapped to attention, pulling away abruptly and twisting in place, eyes wide and breathing hard. Pasupata jerked his hands back, ready with a nervous laugh on his lips again. "Oi, stop that--"
"No--I--" He swallowed, eyes fixed on Pasupata's hands, and rubbed at his arm unconsciously. "You shouldn't--touch me. It's not--I'm...It's not proper. Is all." He swallowed again, eyes warily flicking back and forth between Pasupata's fingers and eyes, looking like a stray who'd just been kicked.
Pasupata paused, any trace of mirth or confusion slipping away. "...Why would you say something like that? Why would..." He laughed for show in a futile effort to brush off Nataraja's worry. "You know castes don't matter to me--or Shiva. You're the only one who ever--"
"It matters now," was the firm repetition, and Nataraja slowly turned his back to Pasupata again, shrinking in on himself further. "No more pretending."
Another beat of silence stretched between them--Nataraja curled up in a tub too small for his large frame, Pasupata standing at his back, sleeves pushed halfway up his arms and fingers dripping with water. His face twisted into an ugly frown, and without warning he lunged forward, clamping his arms around Nataraja's torso to force them together and pressing his cheek into his friend's back, struggling to maintain as much flesh-to-flesh contact as possible if only to further press his point home. "I'm not pretending."
Beneath him, Nataraja stiffened, gripping one wrist tight in his grasp and trying--without much effort, albeit--to dislodge himself from Pasupata's hug. "Pasu--"
He just squeezed tighter, taking in deep breaths so that the air flushed over Nataraja's bare skin before pulling it into his lungs. "You're not--unclean or untouchable or--or wrong or anything, and you never were. So don't...say things like that. I never pretended."
A pause. "...You pretended to be blind." And Pasupata couldn't help but laugh at the very obvious statement, shaking Nataraja with held-in amusement. "You did..."
"I did..." he allowed after a moment, smiling against Nataraja's back, nose filled with the scent of lavender and sage and the faint scent of sweat despite the rapidly cooling tepid bathwater. "Hey..."
"Hm?"
"...I looked." Nataraja didn't respond--didn't stiffen, didn't suck in a nervous breath, didn't do anything.
"...When?"
"...All the time." He took a deep breath, then slowly released his hold on Nataraja, pulling back upright and resolutely ignoring the browbeating he was going to receive from his back when he paused to consider how much he'd had to strain to hold the position. He tugged on the hem of his kurta, sniffing. "I'm hungry."
Nataraja shifted around, hands gripping either side of the tub to steady himself, and he stared incredulously up at his friend, finding nothing but a blank expression staring back. He quickly collected himself, coughing. "...Wanna go to the kitchens?" Pasupata simply nodded, shuffling back over to the bed to allow Nataraja the privacy to finish his ablutions.
Making himself comfortable in the pillows, he pulled the text he'd abandoned earlier back into his lap, idly flipping through the complicated illustrations of dance moves and chant lyrics.
If they weren't going to bother pretending anymore, there was no sense in him returning to a room he'd lied about being kicked out of in the first place, after all.