Work Text:
Kalim needed a haircut.
Tufts of white were spreading onto the back of his neck, much akin to the blaze of a wildfire. His bangs were lower than they usually were, an occasional strand making its way in front of his eyes. While he didn’t make any comments about his hair, Jamil saw.
Kalim needed a haircut.
It was homeroom, the only class he didn’t have with Kalim. While he wanted to say he enjoyed the peace, he didn’t. He couldn’t relax. While it was abnormal for him to, it was especially hard when his charge wasn’t there.
He was always attached to Jamil. His body, his soul. He saw him the same as he saw his leg, or his arm, or fingers. An extension of himself. Something that he could only call his. His. His.
Kalim needed a haircut.
The bell rings and Jamil gets up from his seat to go to Potionology. A familiar voices calls out his name. He turns to see him blowing wisps of hair out of his eyes, waving as if he hadn’t seen him in years. If he could help it, he’d be with him all the time.
In class, he actively ignores the temptation to stare. He badly wants to take Kalim away. To hold his head in his hands and trace his lip with his thumb. To feel the warmth of his skin on his. To hold a pair of scissors with the weight he’s held less to kill much stronger men.
Kalim needed a haircut.
—
“You need a haircut.”
The tension in his shoulders releases as the words leave his lips. He’s undressing Kalim so they can move onto their afternoon activities. He didn’t know why he felt a relief when he finally spit it out.
Maybe he wanted to say something else.
Probably not.
Kalim snaps back to attention, now using a hand to feel his hair on the back of his neck. He pauses before breaking into his smile.
“I do! When’s the next time you’re free, Jamil?”
He scoffs, acting as if this was an impossible task to do. As if he hadn’t cut his hair millions of times before and will probably keep on doing. As if he wasn’t the only one who could do this task for him, other students be damned. As if he weren’t the only one in the world who knew Kalim better than he knew himself. As if he hadn’t killed people for him before.
He blinks, hard. Now's not the time to think about that.
Not when Kalim needed a haircut.
“I’ll do it after dinner. And I’ll wash your hair too.” Doing this for him felt like some kind of understatement. Like he was meant to say more than he actually did.
He doesn’t stop his fingers from tracing Kalim naked back, dragging his way through putting his tank top on. Kalim shivers from the touch and a splash of magical energy fills the room, clearly pleased with his touches without really processing it. Unconsciously, he smiled.
“Thanks Jamil! I couldn’t do it without you!” He’s putting on the last of his jewelry at this point as Jamil fastened his belt and put on his scarf. “You remember how I like it, right?”
Jamil nodded.
“There’s no reason for me to forget.”
—
Kalim is sitting in his bathroom, naked except for a towel. He’s sure this is a fantasy for someone else but currently this is currently his reality. A feeling of smugness creeps up on him. It’s tender, raw, and real.
“I’ve drawn the bath.” He says, the smell of jasmine and honey wafting through the air. Kalim had his own bathroom, separate from everyone else in the dorm. His bathtub was huge, at least compared to anywhere else in the dorm. Perfect for him to lounge in. Which he will. Maybe even complain about getting out when it's time.
The towel falls off his shoulders to reveal ripples of softness all around him. A leg goes into the milky bath, checking its temperature. When he’s content with it, he steps in fully, sighing with his back turned to Jamil. His tattoos go all over his arms and a part of his back. Inscriptions of magical spells meant to protect him. Normal henna doesn’t look like this, at least, not this intricate. Without anyone knowing, he’s had two forces protecting him this entire time.
Jamil takes a wooden bowl and gently pours the water in it over Kalim’s head, the wildfire of his hair now flat on his scalp. After rubbing the shampoo between his palms, he starts massaging Kalim’s head, the indescribable yet lush scent now staining his hands.
He’s careful with it. Of course he is. While his hands have been used to kill, right now they’re gentle. Pruning from the water and now sweet-smelling. He makes sure to take his time. While his fingers twitch as if expecting to snap, he’s trained enough to know that he cannot think of Kalim in that way. But years of fighting off intruders don’t wear off easily. So his fingers dig a little harder into Kalim’s scalp.
His back is killing him but he can’t stop the haze that comes across as he methodically washes Kalim’s hair. Soon, he realizes he’s shampooed enough and pours another bowl of water over his head, watching it sweep the soap in his hair and go down, down, down. The soap is in the water now. Jamil stares at a cluster of bubbles for a moment, thinking how it was milky like blood. Then it pops and he realizes he needs to shampoo Kalim’s hair.
This is their new normal. When Kalim was accepted into Night Raven College, he was once again forced into doing his duties. The caveat was that he didn’t need to worry about assassination attempts nearly as often. Where did that leave the both of them?
The conditioner he uses is a matching set, so it smells the same. He gently rubs the ends of his hair with it, fingers tangling its newfound softness. Again, he allows himself to trace Kalim’s body. Now they lightly scrape his shoulders, elating when Kalim tenses only to relax once again. Because Jamil would never harm him. And he won’t.
This tenderness, the softness that his hands now hold is too heavy. To distract himself, he pours another bowl of water, finishing the job before he could lose himself.
“Thanks, Jamil.” Kalim mutters as he steps out of the bath and is dried off by him. He doesn’t say anything. It’s only his duty.
—
They’re still sitting in Kalim’s bathroom, although now they’re both clothed. It’s large enough to fit both of them and then some. Kalim is sitting in a chair Jamil has pulled up, towel draped over him to catch bits of hair as they fall. He’s looking into the mirror. Jamil looks back and doesn’t recognize himself.
No matter. He takes the scissors and stars to cut. He starts at his neck. Snippets of the wildfire fly away, falling on the floor and the towel. He’s slow once again. The scissors weigh on his consciousness. He doesn’t know why but at the same time he does. He doesn’t want to think about it again.
A moment’s hesitation would kill him but he’s not going to die right now. He probably won’t for a bit, at least until their fourth year. After that… he doesn’t know. The haze has grown stronger, not helped by the steamed air that isn’t going into the vents fast enough. He’s not like this with knives or cooking. Why must he act this way now?
“You remember how I like it, right?” Kalim asks. He doesn’t sound any better than he does. He glances up into the mirror and looks into his eyes. The haze has affected him too. He knows Kalim. He knows his eyes. That wasn’t what Kalim was usually like. But this isn’t what he’s usually like either.
“Cut short and styled flat?”
“Yep.”
And the silence continues.