Work Text:
Beneath the twinkling, cavernous ceilings of Cairo International Airport, Isis stood alone, waiting for Seto. She had come from the museum to meet him here, and she’d left on her white blazer, khaki trousers, and loafers—even her lanyard and ID badge. She felt professional in these, more apt to be respected; less likely to be bothered. No matter that it wasn’t her most attractive ensemble.
Isis half-expected Seto to arrive wearing glasses and a fake mustache, as often as he’d stressed to her that he’d be incognito. No Blue-Eyes White Dragon jet or private plane; no security detail; not even a flamboyant trench coat. He’d sworn off his many statuses this weekend, save one: Isis’s boyfriend. This four-day, birthday weekend belonged to just the two of them. No exceptions.
“Even your brother?” she’d asked him, arching an eyebrow.
“Even your brothers?” he’d countered, implacable as ever. Fair enough. So in his theatrical way he had dumped his laptop, his briefcase, suit jacket and phone into his office bin—fishing out the phone when Isis protested, to finish their video call.
“I’m ordering Mokuba and Isono not to disturb me,” he’d begun—
“Ordering, or bribing?” Isis had asked.
“—and I’m buying a round-trip ticket on some average airline, and I’ll tell you when to pick me up,” he’d finished, ignoring her question.
“Bring your mobile, please,” Isis had entreated. “What if your flight is delayed, or canceled?”
“Nope.”
“Seto.”
“Then I’ll get a burner phone,” he’d said, “and only you get the number.”
“...I will accept that.”
She’d watched his roving, anxious eyes, pixelated but no less bright; they’d narrowed when they met hers. “Make sure Malik and Rishid are gone.”
“They’re already meant to be gone that weekend.”
“Good.”
They had ended their call in their usual fashion, a stubborn sizing-up till one of them softened and smiled and said goodbye. It had been Isis this time.
“I look forward to seeing you,” she had admitted, quietly. He hadn’t quite smiled back, but he’d gazed with an intensity she knew was reserved for her.
“Yes,” he’d said—and dumped his phone in the bin again.
Isis checked her own phone. No messages from ‘zaraafa,’ as she’d christened his burner phone’s number. Evocative of her beloved, yet maintaining the mystery. Travelers trudged along, rolling and bumping and sometimes running past, none of them Seto. Isis had half a mind to find a café and wait for him there.
She unlocked her phone to compose such a message, glanced up out of habit, and almost didn’t recognize him in his dark wash jeans, a snowy gray button-down, chalk-gray chukka boots. He carried no briefcase, merely a simple, navy duffel bag. And oh my god—he’d had a haircut!!
Isis backspaced and sent a new message. She watched him stride to the palm tree nearest him and fish his phone from his pocket. He hadn’t noticed her, or if he had, he was an excellent actor. And she knew the latter was a blatant falsehood. What a difference wardrobe and hairstyle could make. How young he looked. She remembered her uniform and felt exceedingly dowdy. How Malik would tease her if he’d been there: Cougar! Cradle-robber! As though three years were three-and-twenty! They were both adults—she was only turning twenty-five—
Her phone vibrated.
Isis [18:17]: Did you lose a bet?
ONE NEW MESSAGE:
zaraafa [18:18]: LMAOROFL where are you?
Isis laughed out loud. She found his attempts to use text-speak—ironically or otherwise—incredibly endearing. She began her return message but got no farther than ‘You’re so incognito, I keep losing sight of’ before a pale hand closed over the screen.
“You laugh like a supervillain,” Seto informed her, smirking at her surprise. “I heard you cackling from across the atrium.” He looked tired.
“Your hair!” she cried, winding her hand ’round the base of his skull and tugging in vain at what little was left. “It’s all gone!”
“It’s not all gone,” he said, frowning. “I told you I’d be incog—”
“Yes, yes, for the hundredth time, incognito,” she teased him. “Did you only just learn that word?”
“Let’s go,” he huffed, craning his neck for the exit.
“Don’t you need to use the restroom?” she asked.
“I’ll use the one at your house.”
“Suit yourself.”
Isis led him outside to the pickup zone. It was nearing twilight, and the leaning sun shone hot and struck the sculpted, bird-wound globe like a frozen bolt of lightning. Beyond the globe, incoming planes traced the shimmering runway, straight and gentle—mechanical calligraphy.
Isis fanned herself with her ID badge, and Seto watched the planes, saying nothing. He had not remarked on her clothing; he’d not even properly said hello. Isis found she didn’t mind; in fact, she loved this quality of his. When he was with her, he was neither with her clothing nor her etiquette. He was with her.
They soon sat hip-to-hip in the cramped backseat of a taxi, and Isis broke the silence.
“I led a group of important visitors today,” she said. “I am famished and exhausted.”
“They don’t give you a lunch break?” he said, staring straight ahead and picking at the zipper of his duffel bag. “Surely the sarcophagi won’t disintegrate in a half-hour.”
“It occurred in the very distant past. Ten-thirty in the morning!”
“Practically predynastic.”
“Have you eaten?”
He shook his head, and now Isis noticed his mildly green complexion. That’s right—unless he drove or piloted himself, Seto was prone to motion sickness. And the lurches and jerks of their taxi cab could not be helping. Isis lay her hand over his, and he afforded her a glance.
“Then I shall change out of this, and we shall eat,” she said. “Somewhere fancy. We’ll be home soon.”
Their driver took issue with every passing vehicle, it seemed. He rammed on the brakes and rapped the horn incessantly. Seto’s jaw clenched; he wrenched the zipper hard enough to break it. Isis skimmed his hand with her thumb and cast about for another distraction.
“Where is my birthday present?” she asked, peering around him. “In your bag?”
Seto lifted an eyebrow. “You’re looking at it,” he said.
“Don’t tell me it’s your haircut,” said Isis, feigning offense.
He turned a mixture of red and green, a proper holly bush, and rounded on her. “It’s me!” he growled. “Enough with the hair commentary!” He ruffed his hair with his free hand, pouting. “I got a trim, that’s it! It’s barely different...”
He bellyached the whole way home—but Isis spotted his tiny, exasperated smile.
Dusk had fallen, but the sidewalk leading up to the Ishtar house still radiated warmth. Isis made herself slow down for Seto, who, though wan, was inspecting the tiny front garden with some interest.
“Is this yours?” he asked.
“Mine and Rishid’s,” she said. She tugged her keys off her belt loop and shook free the one she needed. “Malik participates by eating the fruits of our labor.”
Seto snorted. “Little brother, freeloader. What’s the difference?”
“Scarcely any, I’m afraid,” said Isis. “Come inside.”
They stepped into the cool, familiar darkness. Hints of citrus and spice lingered, courtesy of Isis’s many hours of cleaning and preparation—and they trudged right past it all, straight up steep and narrow stairs, straight into Isis’s bedroom. That was alright. She could show him around once they both freshened up.
She flicked on the lamp in the corner, feeling at once the dragging veil of fatigue and the thrill of anticipation. Seto set his duffel bag at the foot of her full size bed. He appraised her room—all deep and heavy blues and purples, like the bottom of the ocean; like the purple coat the blue-eyed young man had worn that day they met. Then he moved, two soft and sweet steps toward her, and slid his hands over her hips, drawing her in. All wordless; all rich with feeling.
It was nothing discernible, no designer this-or-that—this scent she’d come to treasure these past months. (Years, now?) The t-shirt, the sweater, the jacket he would lend to her, which she’d never wash until the day before another trip to visit him: of these, she would inhale every inch, until the last traces of Seto were gone. And now he was warm and close, and his smell was not a memory.
Isis leaned into him, pressed her face into his shirt. He held her gently. This was her happy place, never mind how trite that sounded. God, was she glad for this weekend alone with him. Isis pulled his face close to hers as a cat would, a soft but pointed tug, and she kissed him. He leaned into her, tracing her cheek with his nose and whispering into her ear,
“...Where’s your bathroom?”
“What?” Isis pulled back.
Seto swallowed. He was very pale. “That taxi…after the plane…”
She clapped her hands in comprehension. “Yes, yes! Follow me—”
They hastened down the hall, but Isis hadn’t even time to switch on the light before Seto staggered past her and threw himself down before the toilet.
“How romantic,” said Isis, cringing and covering her nose as she knelt to rub his back.
“Happy birthday,” groaned Seto, wiping his mouth. He dropped his forehead against the seat. Good thing she’d just cleaned it.
“Are you sure?”
“Seto.”
“You said fancy—but this is—”
“There must be mounds of cotton stuffed into each of your ears tonight, zaraafa, as often as I must repeat myself,” said Isis, stroking what remained of his hair—pushing his bangs all to one side in a sweet, sweeping curl. “I don’t mind.”
From her lap, he squinted up at her. “You say that.”
“Ad nauseum, in fact.” She smirked. “Ad ‘nausea?’ Aren’t I funny?”
“No.”
“Tough crowd.” With her free arm, Isis reached over Seto to the coffee table for her takeout container. She set it on his stomach, piercing a helping of sushi with her chopsticks. “I’m quite fond of Japanese food,” she assured him between bites. “I order it when I’m missing you. It reminds me of you.”
“I’m right here.”
Isis smiled. “I know.”
Seto watched her eat, bleary-eyed, weary from digestive woes and shifting time zones. He shifted his interminable legs, crossing his feet over the arm of the couch.
“...Zaraafa wasn’t one of my Arabic vocabulary words,” he mumbled, closing his eyes. “Do I want to know what it means?”
Isis pursed her lips. “What does it sound like?”
His brow furrowed as he tested the word. “Zaraafa…za-raa…” She watched his features twist into annoyed offense. His eyes snapped back open. “Giraffe—?!”
Isis couldn’t help herself—she burst into her barking, villainous laughter, bending over helplessly and squashing his head. Seto seized her takeout box before it fell, grumbling and swearing.
“My pet name is giraffe,” he said. “Giraffe! I can’t believe this.”
“My beloved zaraafa,” cackled Isis, “you are very tall!”
“I’m not that tall—your brother towers over m—mmph—”
Isis captured his words with a kiss. In a moment he eased into it, clinging to her lips, running a hand through her hair until Isis raised her head.
“...Then you’re maguro,” he said, smiling in spite of himself. “Because you taste like fish.”
Isis raised another helping of sushi toward her lips. “Zaraafa don’t eat fish, my darling. Hey!”
Seto wiped his hand on his trousers, grinning around his mouthful of sushi, eyes twinkling. “This one does.”
Together on the couch, sharing takeout in pajamas, Giraffe and Tuna passed a private, perfect evening.
END