Chapter Text
Faris has never met a genie in the flesh.
No one in his family has, not for centuries—not since the First, Grandmother Hayat’s husband, the giver of their name. Like so much magic, the jinn have passed into myth and legend, etched in tomes that his family collects and studies and teaches to those who have a desire to learn. D’jinn the First kept no diaries, but Grandmother Hayat did, and she described a devoted and loving husband, one who chose to forsake his immortality to live a full life with her instead. His abilities were not heavily described, nor his appearance.
Their library holds one of the greatest collections of magical history in the world, yet their research on the jinn is sparse compared to what they have amassed on vampires or the peri. Jinn are so often fought over, sought across the centuries, lost to both battle and time, that few are interested in them beyond their limitless wish granting abilities. All that is documented is the benevolence and terror they instil at their masters’ behest, the awe-inspiring nature of their boundless cosmic power.
With all of that in mind, the genie in the cell next to his own is nothing like Faris has been led to expect.
Unconscious since the Phantom Blot siphoned him out of the hulking, magic-draining gauntlet on his right hand, the genie is far from an otherworldly behemoth of legend. While not a small man, the genie is lanky and not unlike a mortal in appearance. His feathers are a rich brown and what hair is visible beneath his turban are tight, brown curls. He wears traditional silks and babouche slippers and golden hoop earrings glisten beneath his magenta turban.
But for all that, the genie also looks washed out and pale, almost sickly. Faris had already balked at their captor’s ability to contain a jinn at all, but now he fears what this unnatural imprisonment is costing a being that is meant to be invulnerable.
The genie begins to stir, and Faris can’t help his eagerness as he leans forward. He feels like a boy kneeling at his mother’s side as she unfurls the scroll of the First D’jinn and his young eyes hungrily devoured her words and the gilded inscriptions of a love that defied the intentions of the cosmos.
The genie opens his eyes and takes Faris’ breath away.
Any delusions he had about the genie's apparent mortality are swept away at the first glimpse of the genie’s gold eyes. They shine like every boyhood imagining of ancient treasure, the dunes of the Salt Desert at sunrise, a sign of concentrated magic unlike any he has ever seen.
The genie closes his eyes and groans as any Normal man might at a rude awakening. Faris does not smile, but it is a near thing.
“Are you alright, Genie?” he asks.
Faris finds himself pinned under that endless gold gaze, unable to tear himself away even if he wished it.
“Ugh,” the genie says with feeling, and Faris does smile then.
Gene stretches in the brilliance of a Tehran sunrise, his golden earrings and silks catching the light and refracting a kaleidoscope of colors. Faris is arrested by the sight in the middle of packing their campsite, a bedroll clutched loosely in his hand.
Out of the shade of their temporary shelter, Gene continues stretching as if he can’t feel Faris’ eyes on him, twisting left to right and raising his arms over his head. Without the added height of his turban, his frame is more slight, his presence less otherworldly. Gene looks over his shoulder and catches Faris in the act, his liquid gold eyes flashing with mischief and making Faris’ stomach flutter with awe. As if he could ever confuse his partner for something as boring as earthly.
“See something you like?” Gene teases, wink and all. Ever the showman, cartoonish stars flutter off his eyelashes.
Faris is not easily flustered, but with frighteningly casual ease, Gene slipped beneath his defenses with the first utterance of ‘90s slang and seemed to make a mission of cracking his warrior’s austerity with lingering touches, coy flirting, and plentiful compliments. However, in the last five months, Faris has learned that while Gene can “dish it out,” he cannot take it.
Faris smiles as he finishes properly securing their bedroll to his motorcycle. “Always, darling,” he replies, knowing how the pet name unmoors Gene.
He looks up in time to catch the last of Gene’s stunned expression before it’s hidden behind the paper fan he conjures into his hand, flapping it over his face like a damsel. A fainting couch snaps into existence behind him, which he collapses onto dramatically. “Take it easy, casanova! I’ve got a delicate constitution, don’t you know.” He throws an arm over his eyes, lounging handsomely.
Faris rolls his eyes fondly. “We should pack and depart quickly to avoid the worst of the heat.”
Without raising his head from the arm of the couch, Gene waves his fingers and bundles the entirety of their campsite onto the back of Faris’ motorcycle in the exact method in which he would organize it. Faris glances sidelong at Gene, who’s gone back to feigning sleep.
“That isn’t what I meant,” Faris chastises gently.
He has no compunctions and no right to dictate when and where Gene uses his abilities, whether it’s for his own comfort or those of strangers, but he is wary at all times of asking Gene to use them on his behalf. He isn’t Gene’s master; they are partners , equal in all things, and subservient to neither.
But sometimes Gene keeps his true emotions closer to the vest than even Faris does, relying on levity instead of stone-faced sobriety. It is only through practice that Faris has learned to decipher his moods.
“Just helping out, babe. We’ve gotta get to your folks on time.” Gene hops to his feet with a smile, the fan and couch disappearing with a puff of purple smoke, but Faris sees the slight furrow between his thick brows, the way the index finger of his left hand taps against the bicep of his folded arms, excess magic fizzling into the air like the glowing tendrils of a fading firework.
Faris reaches out a hand, smiling to reassure. “You’ve nothing to worry about, Gene,” he reminds patiently. “You know my family cannot wait to meet you.”
Gene takes his hand, scoffing as he allows Faris to draw him closer. “Yeah, you say that now, but what happens when my fifth NSYNC reference gets on Mr. Faris D’jinn Senior’s nerves and he orders me to stop dating his son?”
“My father’s name is Adel,” Faris corrects wryly, holding Gene close with a palm splayed around his waist. “And it’s my mother you need to worry about.”
Gene drops his head against Faris’ chest, groaning exaggeratedly. “I’m gonna mess this up.”
“Would you like me to quiz you on everybody’s names again?” Faris murmurs against his ear. Remembering who’s who in his immediate family is hardly a problem big enough to the source of Gene’s anxieties—in any event, the man employs nicknames more than anyone Faris has ever met—but it can be tricky to broach serious subjects with Gene without him retreating into his joking, showman’s veneer.
Gene presses a kiss to Faris’ jaw before he shakes himself off, as though ridding himself of water as well as his worries. “No, no, no, I got it, professor. Locked in the vault.” He taps the side of his head, generating a hollow, metallic sound for added effect.
“If you’re certain,” Faris says, releasing Gene to board his bike. Gene sidles up behind him, pressing close along the line of his back and wrapping his arms around Faris’ waist.
Hidden beneath the fabric of Gene’s sleeves, Faris feels the press of the hateful gold manacles around Gene’s wrists, impossible to remove or magic away, and the only tangible proof of his fettered connection to his lamp. It burns Faris to know how many have abused Gene’s abilities, his trust, and his will over the centuries, and how easily his current semblance of freedom could be snatched away.
Gene can only hide the lamp away on his person for so long (“Genie rules,” he tells Faris with a roll of his eyes, in the way he always does when listing decrees of the cosmos dating back to time immemorial, “the lamp’s gotta be in reach of a mortal, whether that’s a grody cave or a ditch by the side of the road”) so he gives it to Faris for safekeeping a month into their journey to return the stolen artifacts of the Lost Library of Alexandria to their countries of origin. Guarding the lamp is not a responsibility Faris takes lightly, but every day he is conscious of the fact that someone stronger, quicker, smarter might finally strike him down and take the lamp for themself, leaving Gene at their mercy.
Faris would take the lamp and wish for Gene’s freedom in a heartbeat if he thought it was what he wanted. But Gene has said nothing on the subject since that day they walked out of Estoril hand in hand, so he hasn’t.
It’s half a day’s journey to his family home at the base of West Dobermannar, and he knows Gene could will them there with all the effort of a blink. But Faris has been pleased to discover over the months of their travels that Gene enjoys the long drives as much as he does, the stillness that accompanies stretches of empty roads and camping beneath seas of stars. At rest stops he conjures fruit and sweet wine for them to share, and in the smaller towns they pass he turns unpaved streets into gold and conjures snow falls over children’s parks, using his magic for less grand but much more personal reasons.
Jinn House is a jewel that has stood undimmed against the test of time. It’s been debated over the years who exactly is responsible for its construction: some of his family believe it was the First and Grandmother Hayat, others that it was their children or their children’s children. But they all agree that Jinn House is a marvel.
Gene whistles as they enter the garden preceding the entryway. The paving stones form hexagonal patches of greenery that line either side of a long rectangular fountain that burbles in the center of the courtyard. Iron wrought lamps with protective charms cast upon them to provide both light and safety from mortal intruders litter the garden. The house itself is all high, rounded archways and sun-smoothed golden stone, windcatchers littering the rooftops like palace ramparts. Decorative stucco and wood carving adorn the walls and windows and stained glass throw rainbow shadows across the tiles.
No matter how long Faris has been away, returning to his ancestral home always feels as though he’s stepped into a dream. This feeling is only prolonged by the sight of his mother waiting on the iwan, the long train of her headscarf fluttering in the breeze.
Gene comes to a dead halt beside him. “Is that…?” His voice wavers in a way he would normally try to hide from Faris.
“My mother, Soraya.” Faris beams, meeting Gene’s anxious golden gaze. Somewhere in between climbing off his motorcycle and wheeling it into the garage at the edge of the property, Gene had traded his customary silks for a plain turtleneck and trench coat, his go-to when he wants to look his least conspicuous. As usual, he could almost pass for mortal if it weren’t for his eyes, glowing gold with latent magic, which he retains no matter what form he takes.
Sparks are fluttering off Gene’s fingertips again, a nervous tic he might not even be aware of, so Faris reaches down to entwine their hands. Gene squeezes back with deceptive strength and allows Faris to lead them forward the rest of the way.
Soraya’s smile grows as they approach, especially when her gaze drifts down to their clasped hands. Faris inherited her strong jaw and naturally severe expression, but his coloring is all his father's; Soraya’s fur is such a dark brown it’s nearly black, and his sisters and their children lie on a gradient in between.
“My wayward child,” Soraya intones warmly, holding out her arms to embrace him. “Welcome home, Farisakam.”
Gene looks giddy when he hears the childhood nickname and Faris resolutely ignores him as he steps into his mother’s arms. He knows that his dignity will suffer far worse blows during their stay.
“It’s good to be home, Mâmân.” Bracketed by her strong arms, he’s engulfed by the peach blossom scent of the oil she uses in her fur, and he recalls a thousand embraces such as this.
After a long moment, Soraya leans back and takes his face into her calloused hands—the hands of both a warrior and a mother. She holds his gaze and strokes the skin beneath his eyes, perpetually purpled from insomnia (another trait he shares with his father, who practically turns into a raccoon when elusive research keeps him in the library for nights at a time). “You look happy, Faris. At peace.” She looks past him, her smile twisting wryly. “I suppose that’s your doing, Master Jinn?”
Faris turns around in time to see Gene duck his head. “The, uh, the feeling’s mutual, happiness-wise. Bânu Soraya D’jinn. Ma’am.” A bashful smile curves his beak, but in his gold glimmer eyes the fear from before still lingers, only for Faris to see.
Before he can part from his mother and return to Gene’s side, Soraya releases him with a pat to the cheek and approaches Gene herself. “Despite what my son might have led you to believe, we don’t stand on ceremony here,” she says warmly, taking Gene’s hands in her own. “We are honored by your presence, Gene, and welcome you to our home.”
Gene blinks, eyes round as polished coins. “H-honor’s all mine, believe me. I don’t think I’ve ever been invited anywhere before.”
“Well, I’m pleased to be the first to do so,” Soraya replies smartly. “Faris’ calls home are filled with nothing but talk of you, and it’s good to finally put a face to the name.”
A mortified flush races hotly up Faris’ neck and up into his cheeks. “Mâmân,” he groans as he hasn’t done since he was a teenager.
Gene looks ecstatic, which is worth the cost of his embarrassment. “You talk about me?”
Faris smiles, still abashed by his mother’s lack of subtlety, but unwilling to miss an opportunity to reassure Gene of his importance in Faris’ life. Family is everything to him, and he’s counted Gene among them for months now. “Of course, love. Whenever I am able.”
It’s Gene’s turn to go stock-still, but Soraya only nods approvingly.
“Come, you’ve had a long journey. Get your things settled in Faris’ rooms and join us for dinner. My daughters and grandchildren cannot wait to meet you, and my husband too, if I can tear him away from his latest manuscript.”
She bobs her head lightly over her and Gene’s clasped hands before she sweeps away, disappearing through the doorway to the family rooms of Jinn House with a flutter of dark skirts. Gene watches her go with a stunned expression.
“I’ve definitely never been invited to dinner before,” he says.
The confession strikes Faris in the heart as cleanly as a blade, not unlike every other tragic reality of Gene’s genie status. It’s irony of the worst sort that the man with the power to unmake the cosmos in his pinky finger has never broken bread with friends or family. That he has been so readily discarded across the centuries once his worth was spent.
Faris takes Gene’s hand and presses a kiss to his knuckles. “Well then, what are we waiting for?”
Gene’s answering smile is wobbly. “Waiting on you, lover boy.”