izaiah's first moon in akashingo brought quite the procession.
he'd been on the sidelines as the event slowly swelled with song and sweat. he people-watched from a corner, popping sour berries into his mouth in order to keep his heart from bursting from his chest. he felt well and truly alien, hearing the names of these desert-gods he did not know; desert-gods that were not his!
it was the other wallflower which caught his attention, scoping out the marble-carved face through the sea of drunken bodies. he'd certainly never seen him around before.
you not a fan of crowds either? the boy asks, scanning the sun-dappled eyes for unspoken thoughts. he feels as though he should be intimidated. or all the... y'know... lust.

i can handle it, izaiah snaps back, challenging the smirk with a bored roll of his eyes. i just don't give it out for free. for that was not the way of his God, even if His light could not reach these red-tinged caverns.
he shuffles an inch or two closer, feeling his skin burn beneath the set of eyes which watched him. he feels as if he is prey. he's not sure how to feel about it.
pleasure, power, or perhaps a bit of both; the question lingers in the humidity before he answers. hate to burst your bubble, but neither, he scratches at his arm absentmindedly, avoiding the lurid gaze and turning his own attention back toward the roaring current of bodies. i was sent here. i'm a medical scribe. or, i guess you people call it a sesh.
he sneaks another berry into his mouth, clammy palm now stained with wine-colored juice. izaiah, he then says, offering his name and the second plump fruit which sat between his pads. i don't usually partake in this stuff, but, hey, it's a party, isn't it?

i would argue that knowledge is power, izaiah retorts, the hazel eyes glimmering in the cool bath of moonlight. the warm, rolling burr of the man's accent makes the hair upon the boy's shoulders stand on end. and don't call me dear. at least take me to dinner first.
the fellahin leans close, and izaiah feels the prickle of heat that pools beneath his pelt. he feels the pressure of a nail against his skin as machi takes what is offered, and the boy cannot seem to peel his eyes away as the berry slips between his teeth; watches as it is crushed, consumed, devoured.
he coughs (gayly), covering his mouth with a slender wrist. i am a sesh, yes, he repeats it again in an effort to regain his now very much lost train of thought, tall ears flicking as if unperturbed; but surely, surely the man-harlot would've noticed by now the tension that clung to his acquaintance. i was trained and sent here as-- a gift, i guess, to the pharaoh. my mentor wanted me to broaden my horizons. he thought this was the perfect way to do it.
but i shouldn't complain, he adds then, uncomfortably readjusting himself so that he may look just the slightest bit taller, though the pale man still had a good bit of height on him. this place is... entertaining.

izaiah, being the type of man he was, wanted to delve into this topic as much as the next guy — or, more truthfully, be wished to be lulled into blissful honey-gold wonder by the purl of machiavelli's accented voice — but the web he was beginning to spin with his words was enough to stir a fleeting moment of sobriety from him. his brows furrow, the cogs behind his eyes visibly turning, now beginning to slump forward into a lay. the raven black limbs stretch in front of him like tendrils of dark smoke.
we're all being played, all the time, he finally answers, crossing one forelimb over the other. we're all cogs in the grand machine of life. no one is truly free. sometimes you think you're neither, when you're really both.
qashon. minya. akashingo.
his tail flicks; the hazel eyes harden as if they were made of stone. i'm the kind of man who is a rose in the garden. i'm-- only a piece, a fraction, one that just makes up the larger picture. i don't matter as an individual to the garden's caretaker. i'm just... there, a pretty thing to look at. and one day i'll wilt and die, or get picked and shipped off somewhere else.
but at least i can enjoy my time as a pretty thing, one brow raises, chin tilting upward to bathe in the twinkle of the stars. machi's eyes burrow into him still, as if he were building a home of his own beneath izaiah's skin. and i can learn to appreciate being looked at.

i'm not stupid, izaiah makes a tch sound with his teeth, the boredom returning to the obsidian-carved face. i think you'll find i'm a man of many talents.
he would do well here because he had to. not for the sake of hassan, but for the sake of himself.
i think i can appreciate looking... imagining. perhaps it was the wine which now circulated his bloodstream and brought heat to the tips of his ears, but now the boy felt himself laughing, a bellow that purled from somewhere deep in his chest. i'm not sure whether i should take that as a compliment or not.
there was something like a shift to machiavelli's demeanor; it read immediately as histrionic, one flashy mask torn off only to reveal another. perhaps izaiah was doing the same, entertaining it, taking the bait that was so clearly tied to a string. perhaps he could not help himself.
no, he replies, gaze now unabashedly roving from the pale chest down to the slender hips. which isn't good. i shouldn't 'drink' on an empty stomach.
are you offering?

i have morals, he retorts, raising his brows as he watches machi move, the way the willowy legs stretch and the muscles beneath his skin flex. unlike some people.
but there was hunger there, too, in the boy's gaze and in the way he swallowed the lump which sat heavy in his throat. a want which he had never allowed himself to indulge in; a want which he was not about to give into. he was going to have to get a lot more hammered than this in order for that to work.
so he thought.
what? you're not working, so you're suddenly not allowed to eat? izaiah snorts, rising now to his elbows and his knees, not yet committing to a full stand. come on. i'm sure there's refreshments somewhere. maybe if you come with me, we'll look less lonely.

izaiah follows behind at a rather leisurely pace, content to watch the long tail bob and curve over the dove-white hips for a luxurious second before turning his gaze quickly away. the shmu ceremony? he gives a confused look before his lips straighten into a thin line.
it is how it is, he scoffs. a hint of defiance rises in his throat before he swallows it back down, biting the inside of his cheek. he wanted to scream from the hilltops that these were not his gods, and yet he could not bring himself to.
especially not as machi led him through the sea of dance and drink so confidently. izaiah shrinks down beside him, head disappearing into the ruff of his own neck as if he were trying to make himself invisible. he wished he was.
the warmth of the air is suffocating. his ears flatten to the sides of his skull, lip curling a few times as patrons nearly step on him. the brutal reminder that here, and everywhere else, he is invisible.
the dedicated fellahin pass around fresh meat and dry herbs, which the sesh can only assume is for seasoning, of some sort. it's meticulously butchered and pre-skinned; there are even some cuts served boneless. when he's handed a leaf-pouch with a portioned serving, he mindlessly grabs it with a mumbled thank you before returning to machi's side like a dog.

izaiah did as was asked of him, mindlessly shuffling beside the fellahin as if he, too, were only a lowly servant. he was certainly beginning to feel like one. the stuffiness of the room was beginning to make him feel clammy, heat rising to his features and lingering there upon his cheeks.
the berries from before were, too, beginning to make him feel uncomfortably uncoordinated; just enough to where he was somewhat afraid of tripping over the tall man beside him. he only half-listens as he's introduced to yet another fermented fruit — and if he was to answer honestly, no, he did not want it;
but then his gaze trails down the slender arm that is raised toward him, the visible tendons, the flexing muscles. he lingers there before he feels the iridescent eyes boring into him, and he realizes he's never quite been this close to — anyone.
and he crumbles. or perhaps it was more of a snap.
defiance hardens his stare. he dips his head down, enclosing his lips around the digits and stealing the berry away with his tongue. a hum vibrates in his throat; heat, simmering, coiling like a viper in his belly. when he pulls back, one slender limb wraps around the pale neck, nails pressed to skin, and he presses his mouth to machiavelli's, offering the berry between his teeth.
hooded eyes, coy smile; wordless, smug.

he —
well, this was certainly new.
here was izaiah, the lowly priest's son from qashon, the straight-laced scribe from minya, now a whore in akashingo. and the worst part was that he enjoyed it.
the boy all but melted into a puddle, completely at the mercy of the man who now had him snared in his widow's web. his lack of experience was evident, and yet he was eager, needy, needy, needy; his teeth found machi's jaw, his lower lip, the soft curve of his ear, and he was whimpering, this pathetic, hormone-addled mess reduced to nothing but the nerves which lit aflame beneath every ministration.
he was lost in it, a slave to his own body, doing as was instructed of him by the deepest reaches of his subconscious. hips rocking, back arched; he would have allowed himself to be thrown like a doll if it was what machiavelli desired.
until —
oh, dear.
the silver-cloaked voice of the fellahin breaks him from his spell long enough for him to drag his head away, heaving, suddenly all too aware of where he was and what he was doing and who he was doing it with. this was — it was —
he glances over the golden-hemmed shoulder before he says, quietly, sheepishly, i-i can't.
i mean, fuck-- i-i want to, so bad, i just, i-- reduced to nothing, dissipating, whittled to his raw core. i can't go further th-than this. with you, or with anyone. i'm-- i'm sorry.

he wasn't quite sure what he'd expected machiavelli's response to be. anger, perhaps, or boredom, or offense; but, in fact, it was none of those things.
so much had happened so quickly. the sesh felt the strong blaze of want deep in his gut still, and yet he — could not allow himself to entertain it any longer. not like this, not here, not while the fruit churned his innards to mush and his nerves to static, and not — without sanctimony.
overwhelmed and suddenly feeling far too vulnerable for his liking, the boy felt the hot prick of tears beginning to form in his eyes until the words being spoken to him finally began to register. machi was not mad, not disappointed, only kind; possibly the first true gesture of kindness he'd seen from the man thus far, and it sent izaiah reeling for a good long moment.
oh, he croons, voice still meek and breathy, the heave of his chest only now beginning to lessen. oh. y-- yes, yeah, okay. i'd-- i'd really like that, i think.
he eases back into the touch, the warmth of their palms pressed together. it's gonna take me a hot minute to gather myself enough to think about medicine again, he laughs, letting his gaze linger upon the marble-carved cheekbones, the curve of the long lashes. but-- fair warning, once you get me started, i'll never shut up.