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Rishid didn’t ask much of Malik, so when Rishid had haltingly explained, “I need your help,” Malik had been confused, but held out both hands to his brother. Rishid hooked his fingers hesitantly in Malik’s hands.
“Anything,” Malik tightened his hands, holding on closely, as though Rishid might slip away from him, “For you, anything.”
“The clan,” Malik tipped his head in pleasant interest, “They’ve been at odds for weeks.”
Rishid seemed regretful to speak of the matter. Malik knew Rishid organized the family matters, and well he presumed; Rishid had never spoken of it before.
“Perhaps Isis?” Malik suggested thoughtfully, “They might be-” He paused, unwilling to even suggest it, but swallowed past it, “They might respond better to her,” The implication was hideous, and Malik wished he could cram it back into his mouth. No matter how true it was, it should have been a filthy lie for how it tasted between them.
“She has tried,” Rishid admitted, and Malik flushed.
“Oh I should have,” Malik chuckled uneasily, “I mean of course you’d think to ask sis…”
“Malik,” Rishid rubbed his thumbs into Malik’s hands soothingly, little circlets of comfort, “I need you to speak with them.”
Malik sat cross-legged in front of the mirror, worrying at his eyes, and pulling at his adornments, “I shouldn’t wear the crown,” He moved to push it off, and Rishid shook his head in the mirror, “It’s Atem’s,” Malik turned his head to catch Rishid’s eye haplessly, “It feels wrong.”
“They will expect something,” Rishid folded his arms across his chest, “You wore it last time.”
“Last time I was trying to rule the world,” Malik left the crown and thumbed at his eyes, “I don’t feel that’s the best place to start with,” Rishid only inclined his head, and Malik sighed, “Are they that bad?” Rishid blinked slowly, eyelashes brushing at his skin, “Alright.”
“If we had the rod…they knew what it could do,” Rishid murmured, and Malik looked back at Rishid again, eyes round, looking at his brother with an searching, grasping expression. He held his hands out, fingers spread like a child, and Rishid crossed the room to take them.
“You’re this worried?” Malik let Rishid pull him to his feet and they stayed linked by their hands.
“The clan will hold,” Rishid bowed his head and Malik stared until Rishid met his eyes again, “The clan will hold; do not fear it,” Rishid could not understand why Malik’s mouth was still a small frown, eyebrows furrowed with distress, “And to see you again will settle them more than you know; they do remember you.”
Malik nodded, and dug his fingers into Rishid’s hands, holding them together. Finally he released, as though pushing himself away from the shore and treading water. Rishid reached out, touch light and kind, to adjust the sit of the crown.
The room was captivated, not by any elegance on Malik’s part, but by the way he toyed with his cloak, fingers brushing at the crown, and toying with the gold at his neck. He didn’t shrink under their heavy gazes, but Rishid straightened his back, neck craning. Malik met his eyes through the crowd, nodded, and brushed his fringe away with a lazy, dramatic gesture.
“So,” Malik’s tone was casual to the point of violent, and the room didn’t seem to realize it came from incompetence, and here he faltered. Rishid gestured, hoping Malik would remember the ritual greetings. Morning star, dawn, the horizon-
Malik squinted queerly at Rishid, and raised a hand to mimic Rishid as he spoke. Rishid dropped his hand immediately, and Malik’s hand slammed down on the table before him.
The room flinched, leaning back in their spots, as Malik gave an awkward, hyena laugh.
“You dog-fuckers sure aren’t living up to my expectations!” Rishid covered his mouth sharply, and Malik’s laugh cut off with an unnatural, eerie air. Rishid gestured to his tattoo, hoping Malik’s nerves would be cooled, but Malik’s gaze fixed on Rishid’s ear and he grinned at the room, “What’s this I hear about you not listening to my brother?”
Rishid made a slicing movement at his throat, already regretting the way in which he tried to tell Malik to tone it down. He aborted the movement, hand dropping as he watched Malik in slow horror.
“Would you have treated him as such with me here?” Malik drew the side of his hand across his throat in a menacing gesture, smiling disjointedly at the room. Rishid could see spikes of anxiety in the expression, Malik’s nerves practically clamped between his tight teeth, “I think not.”
Rishid tried to keep his hands still, obviously seeing this was going in a bad direction, but Malik was fumbling now, eyes widening at Rishid at the back of the room. Some word faltered in Malik’s throat, half-said, stuttering. Rishid held both hands out in front of him, fingers gently combing at the air. Asking for Malik’s hands the way Malik asked for his hands.
Malik cleared his throat, “Whatever he says, it- it comes from me,” His voice was soft, gentle and quiet with affection, “I will not suffer disrespect to him,” A wildcat undertone, and Malik’s eyes were round, dilated; a dull and draining colour, “You will treat him better.”
The room was captivated, and nodded, a lone voice called out in a low, obedient rumble, “We will heed your servant in future, my lord,” Malik was struck by how much older the voice was, gaze flickering, and opened his mouth in objection.
Closed it again, gaze returning to Rishid in broken, humiliated apology. Simply nodded, and turned about in a sweep of his cloak. Shook when he returned to the hallway, like a dog left out in the cold.
They drove home in silence, Malik scuffing his foot at the floor of the car, hands planted tauntly in his lap. The crown was heavy and hot on his head, and a line of sweat slid down his nose. His cloak was abandoned in the back seat, and the chains clinked whenever Rishid took a corner.
“I’m sorry, I must have ruined-”
“Never think it,” Rishid reached out with one hand, eyes still fixed on the road, and brushed Malik’s hair gently, “You did well.”
“I called them dog-fuckers…” Malik mumbled, and Rishid laughed, hand returning to the steering wheel.
“Yes, you did,” Rishid smiled gently at Malik, “I doubt they will soon forget it.”
“But-”
“You did well,” Rishid repeated, and continued carefully, “They will remember you once controlled a man before them, and filled their pockets with gold, and then called them dog-fuckers; they respect you.”
Malik laughed then, recklessly, the sound coming out in a frightened, nervous giggle, “Oh god, what was I thinking, I just- I honestly…Rishid, Rishid,” Malik’s laughter overtook him, and he curled over into his lap, crying and howling with abandon, choking out, “What will Isis say!”
Rishid laughed then, hard enough he had to pull over, and they cackled at the mere thought of their sister. He laughed hard and helplessly, and they linked hands over the gearbox, fingers loose and lazy with relief.
Rishid felt Malik topple lightly against him, leaning in close and stretching his head back with an unmistakable purr. Rishid let Malik jostle into him, and saw Malik sneak the remote from the arm of the couch, but when Malik settled his back against Rishid, there was barely a flinch at the contact. Instead, Malik focused on flicking through the channels, the reflection written across his eyes wavering.
Rishid adjusted his spot, humming contently, and when Malik opened a spare, languid hand towards him, he curled his fingers in Malik’s. It was a surprise when Malik spoke; not alarming, but not expected.
“Our father was wrong,” Malik’s voice was soft, quivering under the weight of the meaning, “To hurt you,” To hurt me was left unspoken, lost somewhere in a self-blame that turned Rishid’s stomach to witness, “To say you didn’t…” He’d stopped pressing through channels, and Rishid ignored the inane sound of the television, as Malik’s voice tried to creep past him. Quiet and scared and aching with love, “You’re my brother.”
“Master Malik,” Rishid began and Malik twisted to look up at Rishid, trembling thinly. Pulled his hand away from Rishid’s.
“No.”
Rishid felt his heart sink, as Malik turned on the couch, skimming his hand along it. Finally he fished the copper-stained crown from its position, wedged disrespectfully between the cushions. Holding it up in the fingers of one hand, loathe to touch it, Malik knelt at Rishid’s side.
“Master-”
“No,” Malik insisted, some line of tears running atonally beneath his voice, “You are not my servant, you are my brother,” Malik pressed a hand to the back of Rishid’s head, tipping him close and kissing his forehead. When Rishid drew away, Malik crowned him, “You are my elder brother-”
The meaning was clear, and dangerous and Rishid pulled away, Malik’s hands left grasping after him.
“The clan will not allow you to relinquish leadership-”
“I know!” Malik’s face twisted, eyes widened, “I know! I know to them I must always be your master- that you could never-” Malik squeezed his eyes shut, hands clenched until his arm shook, “You are my big brother!”
Malik cannot raise his head to look Rishid in the eyes, and his voice is a small thing when he speaks again.
“I don’t care what the bloodline says, what father said; you are the true heir, you-” Malik sobs, the sound cut out from air with all the grace of a broken thing; fidgeting at his finery, “You are my big brother; you have protected me from everything…” Malik’s hands open and close, trying to relax, “From- From our father, from our past, from- Gods- from the darkness inside my very own heart, Rishid, please.”
It is plaintive; a child holding his hands out hopefully, begging for love. Rishid raises his own hands to answer it, but instead finds himself pulling the crown away. Tossing it to the floor with a clunk, and taking Malik into his arms. He holds him close, pushing Malik’s face into the curve of his neck and tangling his hand in Malik’s hair.
“Malik,” Rishid hushes, “Habibi, anything, anything for you.”