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Rashid knows he’s looking at Malachiasz like he hangs the stars in the sky. Parj doesn’t need to tell him that. He’s aware, painfully so, of the way his heart beats, vines wrapping themselves around muscle and squeezing until it hurts. Malachiasz is not aware- and if he is, he’s doing a great job of pretending otherwise.
Some days he can almost forget it - but the close proximity of their travels does not allow it to be fully forgotten. And Malachiasz, at the end of the day, is as touch starved as he is: it is not uncommon for him to, some nights, drape himself over Rashid, head on Rashid’s lap, that mass of ink-black hair spilled all over him ax Malachiasz, nose buried on his spell book, works on something. Rashid’s fingers always play with his hair, making tiny little braids, as Rashid tries to not disrupt him. Malachiasz always purrs when Rashid does that, and he has to fight the heat on his cheeks.
He gets a kiss, once: they’ve gotten their hands on some shitty Kalyazi wine, and Rashid has definitely drunk too much, while Malachiasz seems sober, if not for the little smile on his lips.
It’s not much, it’s everything: Malachiasz’s mouth tastes of blood and ashes, and his hands grasp onto Rashid’s shoulders like his life depends on it, pressing him against a wall until breathing is hard. In the morning, neither, in sobriety, will mention it, but Rashid will savor it for the rest of his life. In the moment, though, it’s that exact knowledge that makes Rashid gently bite Malachiasz’s neck, marking him. It’ll fade in a few days, but Rashid hopes that it’ll make Malachiasz keep thinking of him.
Maybe he’s an idiot for pining, painfully so, over Malachiasz, but - he doesn’t mind the pain, not when he makes a comment and Malachiasz smiles so brightly at him and calls him wonderful. It makes it worth it.