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1.
Horus loves his uncle's hair.
There's something just so - beautiful , about it. It's not something he can necessarily put into words; there's a thousand different adjectives lingering on the tip of his tongue, and yet none of them even come close to doing his Uncle's desert-red locks justice.
Gorgeous , he tends to start with, as stares and stares and stares. Ethereal , he tends to end with, as he reaches out, but he pulls back his fingers each time.
It's why he shows how he feels through his actions.
They're both in bed by midnight, nowadays. The times are peaceful enough to allow them to do so, and the winds are soft enough that the sand in the desert isn't carried away. They've found a home in each other - whatever that is, Horus still isn't completely sure, but he realises now that not everything needs a name on it.
And so, it's why when the morning light comes flitting through the cracks, and Horus finds himself waking, he blinks open his eyes - blue as the neverending sky - and reaches out for Seth's hair, this time touching.
A lock of crimson, around his index finger. A ribbon of scarlet, splayed across his palm.
The red roses of the desert, brought to his lips, as softly (and as tender as he can be.) He kisses them, pouring out all his love through that single action.
Then again, up to his nose, Horus brings a strand of vermillion, and it smells purely of his uncle. The unbridled, untamable, raw scent of his beloved, his home, his soul.
And he repeats it all again; he gently tugs and holds each lock, making sure to pour all his love onto his uncle as he alternates between which bunch he takes into his hands, and which threads he lets pool in his palms - an everflowing sea of red, beautiful red.
Then, there's a small dip in the bed, and he lets go - reaction as quick as ever. Seth's hand shifts from under the sheets. Horus smiles, and he leaves it at that.
2.
Then, there are his uncle's hands.
They're calloused. Rough. Scarred. Painted over with the streaks of war, marred with the call of violence. Horus has seen them on the reigns of a chariot, wrapped around the hilt of a khopesh, and around the necks of his enemies.
Horus has felt them on his own skin, as blows or claws, digging into his flesh until his skin caves and his blood bursts.
Horus has felt them on his back at night, clawed still, but affectionately so. In those times, the pain was negligible. Seth would heal any inflicted wounds or bruises with a single touch of his hand, or even the slightest flick of his wrist.
And now - Horus sees them again, irresistible, in this navy-night light, barely poking out from under the sheets. His nails are unsharpened this time, not meant for killing. No - now his fingers are soft and unmoving.
They're meant for holding.
So he does just that. He takes his uncle's hand into his, careful to not make any sudden movements. Then from the left the right, he kisses every knuckle, and when he's done with that, he reaches for Seth's other hand.
And he does it all again.
He finishes, soon enough, because nothing is limitless. (Except for his love.) But there are also so many other ways for him to love, and so slots his hands into his uncle's.
He basks in the way they're smaller than his own, sinking in the feeling of them fitting perfectly in his.
He stares at where he joins their hands, his uncle's under his, and he swallows down a cough, almost softening too abruptly to catch himself.
They're scratched, they're bruised. They're rough and jagged. They're weapons if they want to be.
They're perfect to him.
Horus holds onto him a little tighter, only releasing his grip when his love blinks awake.
3.
There's also his eyes.
They're so - ah, he doesn't know where to start again. After a moment to think, he guesses ' powerful,' would be as close as he could get - because they were. They were piercing, and violent, and addicting to look at. And for each time that he caught glimpses of them it was an immediate catch. No escape after, nowhere to go.
All encompassing. He doesn't have a problem with that. He loves that. Seth's raw fury , hidden even in the most mundane of body parts.
It's unfortunate that they're hidden at night, when he's resting - but Horus again, is okay with that. When he looks over at his uncle, he sees how those heavy lids let his sleeping love rest, revenge and fear and war buried under the sand for now.
Even if they're just eyelids, he appreciates that part of Seth so much too. For giving his uncle a moment of peace. It's what he deserves, especially after everything he's been through.
So he presses a kiss on his uncle's temple (as close as he can get, without any fear of accidentally hurting him,) and smiles against his skin. He breathes softly against his cheek, peering up at Seth's thick, long lashes, studying how each and every strand looks and stems.
He stays there, finding it extraordinarily difficult to pull away. He only does so when he's forced to, as Seth audibly smacks his lips together, yawning awake.
4.
His mouth isn't an exception either.
From what the world can see, every word that spills from it is like steel, sharp and out to kill. To every other person, they were venomous, toxic, corrosive, right from his teeth.
To Horus, it was home to the most beautiful voice. It wasn't soft, by any means - it was loud, when it needed to be. Low, like a waning sandune. Thunderous, like storms over the desert.
But again.
(Always 'again'.)
It belongs to Seth, and that's all he needs to fall in love with it.
"Did you get enough rest?" Seth asks, in some mornings, knowing full well that Horus’ inability to sleep haunts over him like the ghosts of his childhood. "If you didn't, go back to sleep."
And Horus will fall in love again, right there, right then, because he knows that in the arms - or even just in the presence - of his beloved god of war and sand, he is safe, and that he can rest well.
"Yes, uncle," he says in earnest, careful to stare at each quirk in his love's lips.
So on another night, when he wakes again, moon still hanging high, he takes one good look at his love's lips - and kisses it, until they are glossed over with the prints of his affection. They’re soft and plump. So perfect for kissing. Horus just can't get enough.
And then he strokes a thumb over the corner of it, loving how it feels under his skin.
"Your lips are so rough ," his uncle complains, when he wakes up shortly after, ruby-red eyes glaring daggers at him. Horus is melting from the inside.
Horus says nothing. Seth reaches up, and stretches. His chest juts out a little as he does so, tantalising in a way that makes him warm.
"Did you sleep enough?"
Horus falls in love again.
5.
Last - but not least in the slightest , there is his uncle's chest.
Horus would be lying if he said some of this love wasn't superficial. Because it was.
He loved how his uncle's chest felt beneath his palms, muscles and all, and how it was so attractively shaped. He loved grabbing and laying his claim in the form of bite marks on it during sex, and kissing parts of it until he was dizzy. Lacking oxygen. Out of breath.
But most of all, he loved ( loves) how his uncle's chest is home to his heart. His mighty, bleeding, beautiful heart.
He loves - in essence - how it keeps his uncle alive.
That's all he needs.
And on one morning - the earlier riser again - he feels for his love's chest, and smooths his hand over it. He knows perfectly that no desert can ever be kept.
But as feels the beat of Seth's chest under his palms, he also recognises that his uncle isn't without his ties to the Earth. He's not unkillable, or even unflappable.
But that isn't a weakness.
To think that his uncle has endured so much. Battles of divinity, war of the people, betrayals, time and time again.
And yet - his heart still beats. Strong as ever. Proudly as ever.
The desert is not dwindling. His uncle is alive, and his brave heart, a symbol of unrestrainable power.
"I love you," he mutters, kissing the spot on his uncle's chest, right where his heart hides under. "Thank you," he says right after, sincere like his heart would prove to be on the scale.
He knows his uncle would hate for him to do this. It's why Horus makes sure he's sound asleep first, so as to not invoke his fury.
It hurts, but Horus understands. This tender, cotton-soft, flowerfield love is not for them, in the exact same way that his uncle's love for Anubis was not for him. But that's okay.
It doesn't need to be anything else, or need to feel like anything else; Seth's love is enough for him, no matter how it's packaged.
He goes back to sleep, Seth pressed to his chest, hoping that Seth can feel his heart throbbing too.
+1.
When Horus stirs awake one morning, it's bright outside. The sun is so high up and the sky is so blue.
It means that he's slept a full night. For the first time in so long.
Still, he lies there, completely unmoving.
And for good reason.
There's a hand on his chest, right over his palpitating heart. And another on his cheek. There are lips, pressed right to his forehead, then down to his temple, nomadic in the way it moves.
Fingers shift up to his scalp, scratching a little, right at where Seth knows he likes it, in the exact same way Seth knows makes him relaxed. The other shuffles down to his hand, gripping his fingertips, thumb brushing softly over his jutting knuckles.
"You bastard," comes that voice he loves so much, gritty with sand and early-morning fatigue. "How did you do this to me?"
A pause.
Then lips press to his own. Fleeting.
"I need you so badly. I never want you to leave." It's mumbled right against him.
Horus doesn't move. He doesn't pucker his mouth. Not a single part of him twitches.
He lays there, still as a rock. It's only when Seth pulls away and stretches that he blinks his eyes open. This way, he can fault the dips of the bed as what woke him.
"Good morning, uncle," he says, curling a hand around Seth's waist, sounding as hoarse as he hopes to be.
"You slept in late, today," his uncle says, tucking a hand under his head, completely unaware that he was awake through all of his touches. "Lazy bastard. Must've been a good bout of rest, though."
Horus laughs softly. "It was." He leans against Seth's side. "All thanks to you."
Seth flicks a calloused finger across his forehead. "Shut up," he says, but the look Seth sends him makes him feel stupid in the best way. He's so in love.