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Celebrations, at least for Druig, are the one time that he finds himself enjoying the company of humans. During their day-to-day he finds them harmless enough, but not particularly interesting. And during wartime- well, he didn't like to think about wartime. Wartime made him think things that none of the Eternals would ever approve of. Even Makkari, his beautiful Makkari, couldn't fix his mood when blood ran through the streets.
During celebrations, however, he could almost forget the bad times. How could he be angry in the face of a festival as lively as this one, with children running through the streets, faces painted, and food vendors distributing treats, and dancing throughout the roads. How could he ever doubt the goodness of humans when there was so much joy around him? It wasn't joy that he ever felt himself, but when the air was so thick with it, he could almost pretend he was a part of it.
That is, until he hears scuffling around the back.
He follows the sound of raised voices to the bar, where two men are engaged in what looks like a drunken argument. Nothing too unusual for a celebration - get enough drunk people together and someone is bound to burst - besides for the fact that one of the men is holding a dagger. A dagger? For a bar fight?
"-stay off of my property," the one with the dagger slurs, waving it dangerously. "'F'you come on my property again, 'll kill ya."
The other man, just as drunk, doesn't back down.
"Not just your property. Yer wife wanted me there," he says, and those are dangerous words indeed. A man's wife is a large part of his property, his value, and getting cuckolded like that is a dishonor like death. Druig's blood chills, knowing that this is about to escalate beyond a simple talk down. His eyes never leave the dagger in the first man's hand.
If he could just control him for a second. Just long enough to get him to drop the weapon. This doesn't have to end in bloodshed.
But if he controls one man, that's opening a gate he firmly shut years ago. It starts off resolving a pub conflict, and then he's resolving all of them, and then it's every conflict in the city. How could he stop at one when everyone needs his help so badly?
And then there's the part he hasn't told anyone, not even Makkari. Controlling humans is addictive to him, a power complex that frightens himself sometimes. It's hard to let go sometimes, to the point where someone else needs to interfere. He doesn't need to be in control, but damn does it feel nice. Too nice.
He blinks, and the second man has a knife sticking out of his gut. A wound like that could easily be healed by Ajak, but she's the most adamant about them not interfering, despite her love of the village. She would only watch on with pity as the man slipped away, as he does now. The first man flees the scene, leaving his knife behind, and the owner of the bar - deciding to finally be helpful - attempts to stop the bleeding.
Druig doesn't move, knowing a fatal wound when he sees one. Instead, he waits until the man is pronounced dead, then takes the knife from his torso, icy cold spreading through him like he was the one stabbed. He takes it back to his hut, ignoring the stares from the rest of the villagers as he passes them. This is why he can't stand humans. Even in times of celebration, they still find a way to fuck everything up.
He wipes the knife down in his room, feeling stupid as he does. This will cause him problems later. Nothing too bad, but definite inconveniences. He then leaves it under his pillow, where it'll undoubtedly poke at him later. He needs this reminder amidst all the joy in the air. He needs to know none of it lasts.
He walks back outside, sitting against the outer wall of his hut. He lives on the outskirts of the village, but he can still hear faint music and laughter coming from the celebration. Good. Let everyone else enjoy it. They can do that, can't they.
He feels a warm fingertip poke him in the cheek, and he startles, even though he knows who he is. None of the other Eternals would dare to touch him, especially when he's in such a mood.
"Makkari," he says, voice low. He doesn't want to open his eyes, doesn't want to talk, but out of respect for her, he does. She's just as radiant as ever, but he doesn't have the energy for radiant. "Why'd you leave the celebration?"
You shouldn't sleep out here, she signs mirthfully, even though her eyes shine with concern. It's not good for your back. Plus the children might think you're dead.
"Maybe I am," he says, signing wearily. "Maybe I died years ago. We don't know what happens when an Eternal dies. Maybe we just keep on living, but less." He would believe it if someone told him that he died with the first human he couldn't save. He would believe it, and he would laugh.
You're not making any sense.
"It makes sense in my head," he signs, and her eyes stick to his left hand, where he missed a spot of blood. She quickly meets his eyes, and he clarifies, "Not my blood. There was, um, a fight by the bar. I didn't interfere." He wishes he did.
Are you okay?
"I told you, I didn't interfere," he says, and he can't meet her eyes anymore. He knows he did the right thing, at least in her opinion, but the coldness has spread all the way down to his toes, and he wraps his arms tightly around his waist.
She grabs his wrist, warm fingers meeting cool skin, and tugs it more for show than anything. They both know that if he doesn't want to move, there's not a force weaker than Gilgamesh that can move him. Come. If you're going to sleep, you should do it in a bed.
He lets her drag him from the chair into a bedroom. Not his, but hers. When they do share a bed, they always do it in her room, since his bed, in her words, feels like a slab of stone covered in a blanket. He can't argue with that - he oftentimes struggles sleeping on it himself - but that's the point of it. Sometimes he needs to be uncomfortable in order to fall asleep at night. If he's uncomfortable, he can pretend he's suffering along with the rest of the humans, instead of continuing to live alongside them without doing shit.
He wants his bed now, but he won't say it. He's afraid she'll find the knife under his pillow.
"Makkari, love, I don't need to be tucked in," he says while taking his shoes off. Truly, a nap doesn't sound too bad right now, but he doesn't want to be infantilized. "You can go back to the party, I won't leave. Swear on the emerald tablet."
I believe you, she replies. I'm still staying with you, though.
"Don't. I know how much you love town celebrations." While Druig is hesitant in large crowds of people, Makkari basks in the attention, in the energy, in seas of beaming faces.
There will be others. Besides, I was getting tired too. Too many vibrations.
He wants to argue with her more, but his headache is getting worse, and he can't fight against the dead set of her eyes. Instead, he peels off his shirt, throwing it so it hits her shoulder.
"Arguing with you is like arguing with the sun," he says, voice just slightly heavier than usual, and he hopes she doesn't notice. Of course she does.
I'm not a clothes bin, she says, and kicks off her sandals. She changes into her sleep clothes, and Druig doesn't miss how she does it at normal speed, rather than speeding through it like she usually does. He looks away instinctively when her shirt comes off, and when he looks up again, he can see she's laughing at him.
You never change, she signs, and throws her own shirt at him, hitting him right in the head.
"Just being a gentleman," he says, and now his eyes pass over her, eyes to neck to shoulders and all the way down. He can feel his ears heating up, even though this certainly isn't the first time he's seen her, and he meets her eyes again, fighting the urge to avert them. "You look-"
Beautiful, she signs, smiling. You say that every time.
"And it's always true." It's one of the only constants in his life on earth. The Deviants are evil, the sun rises in the east, Makkari is beautiful. She walks over to the bed, painfully slowly, and Druig pulls her to his chest hungrily, breathing in the mingled smells of Makkari and the celebration.
"I needed this," he says, communicating directly into her head so that he doesn't have to sign. He closes his eyes again, wraps his arms around her tighter, and he feels her face rest against the crook of his neck. "Makkari, my Makkari, you are the life of me."
Why did you look so upset before?
"Ah, it was nothing. Everything just felt very heavy. I can't spend too much time with these humans, it makes me want to save them too much." Makkari knows what he means by save, and she also knows how hard it is for him to keep himself from doing it. Makkari doesn't fully understand it, but she stays by his side anyway.
He doesn't deserve such beauty.
You're too good for this world, she signs, and it stills him. Usually it's him saying the sappy things and her rewarding him with one of her blinding smiles. He pulls away from her so he can see her face, and it's completely serious.
"The others would beg to differ," he says, signing in the small space between them.
They don't know you as well as I do.
"That's probably true," he says. "You are my favorite, after all. Always have been." And there's the smile he was waiting for. He wishes they could drop it there, end it with that smile like a bookend, but he knows her better than that.
You're doing the right thing, not interfering, she continues, and once again he wants to close his eyes because he knew she would say that but that doesn't make it true. It's because you don't interfere that we get things like this celebration.
"Does one party make up for thousands of years of bloodshed?" he asks, staring at the ceiling, and he feels her hand rest on his cheek, slowly trailing down to his shoulder. This world is so gross, so horribly flawed that he doesn't know if he could fix it if he tried.
Not one party, but all of them, she says. It's all so beautiful.
He tilts his chin down to meet her eyes again, and they're sparkling. She sees beauty in the world that he can only see in her, and it stuns him every time. He kisses her on the forehead, chest warm with... gratitude, he supposes. Gratitude and something else. She lays her head over his heart, fingers trailing his stomach, and he sighs.
"I don't deserve this," he says to no one, since she can't see his lips move. "I'm the last person who deserves this. If Arishem is watching-"
Makkari presses a finger to his mouth, eyes half closed.
Sleep, she signs with her free hand, and he takes her hand in his, kissing her fingertips because he can.
"Ok," he replies, and shuts his eyes. For now, at least, he is warm.