Chapter Text
Citlali has not started drinking yet, but she looks like she wants to. While her body language isn’t tense, there is annoyance plain in the set of her brow that makes Kinich slow down and glance around furtively. It’s easy to scope out the area when there’s such a wide berth of space around her, the other Night-Wind members bowing their heads with both respect and fear around her and never once daring to enter her personal space.
Ah.
Mualani is hanging off her shoulders and chattering on, not oblivious to what has caused her girlfriend’s mood but doing her best to not draw attention to it.
“Hey guys! Did you find anything good?” she asks brightly once they get closer.
Kinich grunts affirmatively. “We better have, with how much Ajaw spent.”
Maulani snorts. “Well, good! I found some nice things, too! I got this super sparkly tapestry to hang in my room — aren’t the colors just great? — and look at this cute eyepatch. I think Mamala will like it!”
He lets Mualani’s cheery wave of words wash over him as he falls into lock-step with her, signaled by the familiar jerk of her head. Ajaw catches his hand and follows along, absentmindedly pulling his glove off and slipping it into a pocket — at this point, he might as well just have left them at home. When a woman almost cuts in front of them before double-taking and swerving away with a fearful apology, Mualani changes track and starts telling them about the small children who were entranced by the color of Citlali’s hair and trailed them from booth to booth with stars in their eyes, a story which gets Citlali to relax a fraction until they get to the restaurant where they’re going to eat; it’s full up, but when the staff see her there’s a collective shriek of Granny Itztli! and suddenly there’s a free table for their group.
They settle, Kinich and Ajaw on one side of the table and Mualani and Citlali on the other. There’s a vein visible in Citlali’s forehead that only gets worse when the staff not-so-subtlely start playing rock, paper, scissors to decide who will wait on their table. The loser shuffles forward with the enthusiasm of a man at the gallows.
All of the staff are wearing pale blue hats fashioned to look like Iktomisaurs. When the waiter stops three feet from the table looking like he’s about to wet himself, he pulls the brim of his lower down his face as if he can disappear into it. “H-H-Hi, welcome to The Iktomisaur’s Dawn, what can I—?”
“Get out!” Citlali scoffs at him. He squeaks and turns tail, nearly braining himself in his haste to scramble away.
Mualani reaches down to grab the dropped menus. Kinich can see a frustrated frown briefly contort her face before she smooths it away, sitting up to hand them out with a smile.
Kinich… really doesn’t know how to help with this. He’s used to being hated by his tribespeople, not feared to the point of exclusion. The gap between their situations makes the likelihood of him verbally misstepping if he says anything too high to be worth the risk. There’s a reason that his go-to solution to deal with problems is usually at their source, with violence if necessary.
Mualani seems to have it covered, if the way she leans into Citlali’s side and points to something on the menu with a quiet giggle is any indication. Citlali glances around the restaurant nervously before the visual equivalent of fuck it passes over her face and she relaxes into the touch.
Kinich turns to his own menu with no small relief. It’s cute, pale blue paper with little Iktomisaurs printed on the margins. In Ajaw’s direction, he asks, “How hungry are you?”
He’s expecting a long-winded rant about how the Dragonlord is starving after an entire morning of high-intensity shopping, so catching Ajaw’s shrug from the corner of his eye surprises him enough to look up. There’s a little furrow between his brows that Kinich wants to smooth away as he says, “That depends. What is hunger supposed to feel like?”
Kinich pauses.
Ajaw could eat and drink in phlogiston form, but he didn’t have to. One of the many wondrous virtues of phlogiston that humans minds are too puny to grasp, let alone appreciate — ask Kinich how he knows; he can recite this particular monologue by heart — is not needing an external fuel source. Having to eat for more reason than just taste is new for Ajaw, so it might take time for him to get used to interpreting hunger and thirst signals.
Kinich isn’t the best at either, honestly — there’s a reason he eats on a schedule rather than waiting until he’s hungry, because otherwise he just won’t eat — and it means that he stalls out trying to describe it.
“Hunger feels like…”
The thing about growing up dirt poor under the guardianship of a drunkard who only had enough thoughts in his head to secure food for himself and not his kid is that hunger was never far away.
Kinich should remember hunger.
He can remember being a child still convinced that food would appear on the table as long as his parents were around. He remembers when the dizziness and fatigue after a few days without food became irrefutable proof that such niceties were for other children, not him. He remembers when he discarded that ideal and focused on something more practical: feeding himself.
He remembers the agonizing weeks spent caring for the grainfruit his mother left behind and the torment of being so hungry his stomach tied itself into knots even as he was surrounded by perfectly edible, if unripe, plants. He remembers telling himself that he was lucky the grainfruits were already close to fully grown and not to waste that luck by picking them prematurely, instead tiding himself over with game he had to teach himself how to hunt and fruit growing around their house on the outskirts of nowhere. He remembers the day he learned that adding a pinch of salt to his water could help him feel full; how momentous, how grand those coarse little grains appeared to him, his salvation measured in the dryness of his throat.
He remembers: the grainfruits finally ready to harvest, large enough to barely fit in his childsized, water-swollen hands and each kernel pure gold.
He remembers: the speed at which he shoveled the fruit into his mouth, not tasting their sweetness or finding satisfaction in how they burst under the sharp edges of his canines, too focused on eating to even mind the ear’s silk as it got caught between his teeth.
He remembers: retching on his hands and knees in the grass behind the house, so nauseous he couldn’t keep anything down as chunky bits of barely-chewed kernels mixed with bile in the dirt.
Kinich remembers all of these pains, and yet he can’t remember what hunger itself feels like. It’s simply been too long since he’s been able to feel it. Even after he was self-sufficient enough to begin eating regularly, the damage had been done: being half-starved for months on end made him so disconnected with his body’s physical needs that his ability to feel hunger faded away. He can taste just fine and find food appealing, but his blood sugar could be low enough to drop a puppy in the dirt and he’d still feel no twinge in his stomach.
Between Ajaw’s insistence and Iansan’s careful meal plans, Kinich’s eating habits are much better, but the actual mechanism by which his stomach is supposed to talk to his brain has been eroded. He’s not sure it will ever recover.
He’s been quiet too long. He looks at the table, follows the wood grain as it whirls its way under the purple tablecloth, clears his throats, stops. Mualani’s and Citlali’s stares burn into him. He flexes his hands, tries, “Hunger—”
Stops, breathes, tries again, and this time he gets as far as, “Hunger feels like—”
He should be able to describe it. Hunger is something Kinich knows more familiarly than his parents’ love; hasn’t he earned the right to put words to it? It’s infuriating, but anger is dangerous, anger is cruel fists and the taste of the cleaner they used on the floor, so instead he makes himself flatter, colder, quieter, until it is a vacant shell of himself sitting there. He doesn’t feel the sun warming the side of his face or the way the seat squishes underneath him. He is as smooth as seaglass.
“If you’re thinking about food a lot and notice your stomach growling, that’s hunger!” Mualani says distantly, trying to fill in for Kinich’s incompetence. Ajaw nods blankly, but he’s not looking at her. His eyes haven’t left Kinich’s face once.
Unwavering, Ajaw looks for Kinich.
Kinich wants to turn away and keep on the mask that has protected him all his life, but they promised each other the truth and this is one of Kinich’s, as shameful as it is. He inhales for four beats, recognizes that he is with friends who will not judge him for this, exhales another four. Bit by bit he pulls himself back into his body until he can feel his toes curl in his boots and his fingers as they dig shallow, crescent indentations into the wood.
Years at Kinich’s side has served Ajaw well. Like an all-knowing god, he scrutinizes Kinich’s face and uses whatever he’s able to find in the too-relaxed set of his jaw and his perfectly straight brows to somehow pinpoint the exact moment he is present enough in his body for touch to be grounding and not a threat. Ajaw turns more fully towards him, raising an arm in clear offer.
Kinich does not deny himself the comfort. He presses under it and gets wrapped up into Ajaw’s side. It’s warm all around, a steadying weight across his shoulders. Here is his sun, tucked into the space between himself and the cushion-covered booth.
A kiss is pressed onto his forehead, soft in emotion but rough in texture, and Kinich thinks: Ajaw needs chapstick. The thought is so bizarrely human, so limited in possible contexts to only this future they are creating for themselves that it takes his mind off the weight of the past in an instant. Kinich sighs again, quiet but full-bodied, and returns to himself.
Mualani’s eyes flick to him questioningly. He nods steadily back, and she smiles and relaxes. Citlali follows her girlfriend’s cue, and that’s that.
The waiter traipses back over like he’s been waiting for an opportune moment to interrupt and squeaks out, “What would you like to order?”
Ajaw goes for grainfruit wraps with a side of magma eggs and Citlali for tatacos, which aren’t on the menu but the waiter doesn’t argue when she raises an eyebrow in challenge. Mualani chooses the shrimp bisque because even though she knows that no tribe does seafood like Meztli she’s decided to make it the metric by which she recommends restaurants to travelers who hire her as a guide.
Kinich doesn’t feel hungry. He never does, though, so there’s no sense in sabotaging himself. He and Ajaw made plans to explore the northern tip of the Tezcatepetonco Range. He’ll need the fuel.
He barely read the menu before accidentally throwing himself headlong into his thoughts. On a quick glance he’s drawn to the blazed meat stew, but he ignores it; he’s sure he could make it better at home and he doesn’t want to get overcharged on beef if he doesn’t have to. He picks the mini fowl pockets instead. The waiter is running away before he’s even finished the last word, pen flying over his notepad.
One of the most incredible things about Mualani is how socially awkward situations just don’t register for her — not because she lacks care, but because she is so extroverted that there’s not a conversation she can’t carry and she’s kindhearted enough to be willing to do so. In the face of painful silences and disinterested conversation partners that Kinich would duck out at, she barrels on without batting an eye. In this case, her conversational enemy is the tacenda lurking over Kinich’s shoulder, and she approaches it with the same enthusiasm as she does the rest of life.
“I’m looking forward to the food,” she says brightly, as if there was no hiccup at all.
“This is the first meal I’ve had at a restaurant, so this place better be up to snuff!” Ajaw scoffs. His voice is close to Kinich’s ear but not too noisy despite the underlying rumble that usually accompanies his louder rants. Kinich grabs onto it, letting the familiarity of it soothe his smarting pride. “It’s not off to a good start — that waiter was useless. He didn’t even give me a chance to order any juice!”
“He was just nervous. Citlali told me this place is supposed to be one of the best in the tribe,” Mualani supplies.
“Really now?” Ajaw asks skeptically as he cards his fingers through the loose hair at Kinich’s nape.
Mualani gathers up their menus, given that the waiter forgot to take them in his haste. “Yeah! We’ve shared a lot of meals together, but most of them have been things that I cooked. I thought it’d be fun if we went out together, so we’ve been trying to eat at every restaurant at least once. This place is pretty popular, but,” she winks at Citlali, who blushes crimson, “luckily you don’t need a reservation when you’re with the best shaman in the tribe.”
Ajaw’s got one eyebrow cocked, squinting as he tries to find the point. “And this has to do with this restaurant’s shocking dearth of courageous waiters, how, exactly?”
Mualani blinks. “Oh, it doesn’t! I just wanted to brag about how many dates I’ve gone on with my girlfriend.”
Their food arrives, which is probably for the best as it stops Ajaw from doing something dramatic like manifesting his draconic form and setting the place ablaze. Mualani oohs and ahhs appreciatively while Citlali immediately disappears into her tatacos. With a grumble about the danger of sticky-fingered food thieves, Ajaw pulls his plate closer towards himself.
It puts the grainfruit out of Kinich’s line of sight. His husband lacks anything approaching subtlety.
It’s unnecessary but sweet enough to keep him from overthinking as he wraps a napkin around one of his fowl pockets and bites into it. He ate just fine yesterday, and he can do it again today.
Besides, Ajaw’s reminders to eat usually involves impassioned speeches delivered at ear splitting volumes with a surprisingly scientific breakdown of all the nutritional benefits of well-balanced meals — although it’s not that surprising in hindsight, given that Ajaw had to make himself an entire body from scratch — that, if they go on long enough, transform into laments over the tragedy of underutilized taste buds. Kinich is not eager for that performance now that his annoyance has fingers to poke him with.
Mualani and Ajaw carry the bulk of the conversation while Citlali and Kinich chime in every now and then when their partners have said something particularly mushy, in the former’s case, or inflammatory, in the latter’s. Ajaw complains about Mualani’s lateness, and the vendors’ unwillingness to throw themself at his feet with offers of discounts, and the tedium of having to push through crowds instead of just being to float above them, and so on. In between scathing diatribes, he shovels his food into his mouth. Not once does his complaints turn to the food, and Kinich feels relieved to be seen.
Mualani also talks about the morning’s activities, just with less colorful language. While recounting a story about a different small child that was enraptured by the color of Citlali’s hair during their shopping — this one was apparently dressed in a thick cloak that had ears like an iktomisaur and tried to lure her away on a quest that Mualani became way too invested in and is now distraught over because the young girl had to leave for an afternoon nap before revealing whether or not the princess was saved — she starts digging through one of her cloth shopping bags.
“Oh, speaking of that! You know, I used to have to bribe Citlali with food just to get her to open the door early in the morning, if you can believe it. I’d be knocking at three in the afternoon and she would still answer the door looking like I woke her up—”
“Hold on now,” Citlali tries, her face half-hidden behind the rim of her cup, but she’s too flustered to have a hope of stopping her exuberant girlfriend.
“—which gave me a chance to see her pajamas," Mualani continues on. “And they were cute, but it also made me want to see her in even cuter pajamas! I commissioned this for her, isn’t it just adorable?”
Carefully avoiding the plates, she holds up a white nightdress dip dyed into an ombre of deep purple and decorated with an army of big bows. Kinich stares at it blankly, pausing with a mouth of half-chewed fowl as dread seeps over him. Oh dear. This is a double date, isn’t it?
Ajaw comes to a similar realization at the same time. Around a mouthful of egg, he asks, “Mualani. Why are you tormenting me with your disgusting public affection?”
“I would’ve thought you’d figure it out by now,” Mualani says sadly, voice practically dripping with pity. “This is tactical revenge for all the times I had to listen to Kinich go on about you. Besides, you’re one to talk!”
She gestures at the way Ajaw is half-draped over Kinich. Given the aforementioned egg, he can’t stick his tongue out at her immediately, which gives her time to really ham it up. She shakes her head at the two of them with exaggerated disbelief, even throwing in a finger wag for flavor.
Ajaw chews furiously. As soon as he’s swallowed, he pulls Kinich further into his side and downright huffs, “I’ve got years of touching to catch up on, so We will hear no complaints from the peanut gallery.”
That sends Mualani and Ajaw into a friendly argument again, while Citlali just seems happy that the topic has drifted off of the topic of her lingerie. Kinich reaches for the next pocket and comes up short. Surprised, he realizes that he has finished his food. With nothing else to do he folds his napkin up, corner meeting corner with meticulous precision.
They don’t stay long after they finish eating. Other groups are waiting for tables, and besides Citlali hasn’t been able to go five minutes without someone whimpering and bolting once since they sat down and it’s starting to show in how she slumps further and further into her girlfriend’s side. Mualani waves down the waiter, who gathers himself with a firm nod of his head and strides towards them with purpose.
“Your total will be, uh,” he stutters, courage failing him as soon as he looks up and meets Citlali’s eyes. He can’t even finish the words, instead shoving the paper receipt onto the table like it burned him.
“I’ll pay,” Kinich says, going for his wallet, and the waiter very visibly almost keels over with the relief of not having to charge Granny Itztli. Mualani opens her mouth to protest, but he cuts her off with a reminder that Ajaw ate most of the snacks she brought this morning. She pauses to think it over, then sighs in defeat and gestures him ahead.
After squaring up the bill, they emerge into the afternoon sun. Kinich stretches until his back pops satisfyingly. Ajaw tries to copy the motion and nearly overbalances into the wall.
Citlali watches him with academic curiosity on her face. “How long can you manifest this form for?”
Ajaw rolls his shoulders back, and the little movement is enough to change his body language to read as scornful. “Through the incredible wisdom of the dragons that apparently even the oldest shamans can’t even dream of comprehending, this is permanent. Kinich can’t be the only one wearing our wedding beads.”
She gapes at them. Kinich slow-blinks, trying not to feel scrutinized as she apparently just registers their beads for what they are. She whirls on Mualani accusingly. “You didn’t say—!”
Her girlfriend raises her hands defensively. “I told you they got married!”
“Yeah, married! But not like… married!”
Mualani bursts out laughing and Ajaw is quick to follow. Citlali presses her palms into her face for a full ten seconds, through which an embarrassed whine escapes.
“What did you think was going on?” Ajaw asks around a caustic grin. His smile is all teeth, apparently so delighted over her embarrassment that he can’t hold back his urge to poke.
Even with her face hidden, the force of her blush is visible in the red tips of her eyes. She cries, “I was barely informed that you two were a thing, I didn’t have time to examine your jewelry! I thought she was just exaggerating.”
Ajaw guffaws with disbelief but Kinich is with her on this one. Mualani might be a go-with-the-flow type of person, not to mention having had the benefit of hearing about his pining for months beforehand, but she accepted, “Oh, by the way, that little floating thing that no one really knows the deal with, yeah, him? He’s human and we’re married now,” way too quickly. She’s an outlier that cannot be trusted as the basis of a regular person’s reaction to Kinich and Ajaw, let alone to explain the situation to someone lacking her easy-breezy disposition.
Mualani pats her back comfortingly like she isn’t the nightmare of introverts everywhere. Citlali steadies under it enough to peek out from between her fingers. “Ahem. Congratulations, you two.”
“A little late to be saying that,” Ajaw says, checking his fingernails in the picture of every asshole they’ve ever dealt with. Kinich wants to slap him and kiss him at the same time; he’s unfairly attractive as he sneers, half-lidded eyes just barely visible behind his glasses but cutting all the same. “You’ve already let your junior pay for your meal. Is that how the Opalstar sends her congratulations?"
Kinich almost signals him to cut it out. Ajaw’s love language is teasing but so is his hate language, and there’s a very fine line between teasing and tormenting. Citlali wasn’t born yesterday, though, and can give as good as she gets. She narrows her eyes as they start heading back into the crowd, which has swelled with the rhythm of the day as other people emerge from lunch to begin shopping again. “What do you want? A palm reading, a tapestry, name it.”
“Ha!” The crowd in front of them breaks at Ajaw’s high laugh like a wave before a jagged rock face. “If that’s all you can offer to one of the Thirteen Sovereign lords and his husband, I can’t imagine how you’ve earned the Night-Wind’s blessings.”
Despite the oddity of his new form, Ajaw’s childish teasing is familiar. Annoying, but familiar. Citlali groans and Kinich has to suppress a snort; that’s a second person’s surprise dealt with the same way, after Mualani. He didn’t even know Ajaw cared enough about Citlali to offer her the lifeline — maybe he’s just in a good mood today.
“Just tell me what you want.”
Ajaw looks away, having already lost interest now that the argument is over. As always, he cares more about having his fun than anything else. “I don’t have anything in mind. Ask Kinich, maybe he’ll want something. Anyway, I’m heading off with Mualani for a bit.”
“You are?” Kinich asks, surprised.
“We are?” Mualani asks, even more surprised. Ajaw nods with a face carved in stone, and she shrugs. “Okay, guess we are.”
Before they separate, Kinich sternly says, “Hey. We don’t have space for too much more,” and Ajaw cackles and reminds him that he’s already drafted up blueprints for expanding their house. After all, a Dragonlord’s abode should endeavor to match its lord’s splendor, even if it will never come close to the same radiance.
As she’s dragged away by an eager Dragonlord, Kinich shoots a look towards Mualani that he hopes impresses upon her the importance of reigning Ajaw in. He filled his mora pouch with enough coins for clothes, not expensive cultural artifacts.
She winks and sends him a thumbs up, which is not the same as a promise. He chooses to be optimistic that they won’t enable each other. It’s a fool’s dream.