Work Text:
Narinder wakes up first, his fur tousled and the taste of his own breath rotten on his tongue. Lambert has their arm wrapped around his waist– that fact alone has him burying his muzzle into the crook of their neck and placing a feather-soft kiss upon it– and he places his calloused hand atop their own to keep it there. Decades ago, they’d have fit much smaller into his embrace. The clarity of the morning accents the curve of their horns and the fangs lining their maw, and he wonders how much longer he has to be able to hold them like this.
True, they could always learn to revert to the more familiar form once they grow into a godly appearance that embodies the might they’re known for, the ruthlessness that gave him a voice to sing their hymns. Lambert will make a beautiful god. They already do, even in the infancy of their reign. Narinder isn’t too keen on the idea of him being the shorter one eventually, but at least the thought of them holding him in their palm as they plant a kiss upon his forehead is an appealing one.
Narinder holds his breath and swallows. After all this time, picturing the eternity they’ll share still makes him giddy. His tail curls itself around their leg under the covers, a motion he doesn’t even think about anymore.
Melting into the sheets, Narinder feels a whisper of a purr rumble in his chest. He shuffles his body an inch closer to Lambert’s and they stir. His breath catches in his throat. Their arm around his waist holds him snugly: not too tightly, but he feels them pleading before they’re even awake to know it. Stay. His heart clenches and then pounds away in his chest, syncopated against the beats of Lambert’s pulse. The temptation to drift back to sleep is there, but he doesn’t want to lose the privilege of enjoying their morning kisses while he’s awake.
Lambert finally stirs and plants their face into his chest. They mumble something, but the drowsiness hasn’t left their voice and Narinder’s fur muffles their words, so it’s impossible to make it out.
Narinder feels how his throat is parched when his voice cracks. “Speak up. I can’t hear you.”
They rest their chin on him, not quite opening their eyes. “Mmmwhattimeisit.”
Narinder wipes their sleep-crusted eyelids with the pad of his fingertip. Sleep hasn’t been a necessity to either of them for decades, but there’s no softer intimacy than holding each other, motionless, with only the moon and stars as their witnesses. He brushes the curtain to uncover an inch or two of the window beside their bed. Raindrops pepper the glass; some linger, some cascade down the windowpane to create tiny, interlocking rivers. None of them will last much longer there. The sun, already hours high in the sky, is starting to peek out from behind the gray blanket of clouds. “It must be nearly noon by now.”
A twinge of guilt shadows Lambert’s face at that, but it disappears quickly. Sleeping in this late together is a rarity, but they had been determined to fit as many card games and puzzles into last night as either of them could stand, and the moon had gone to sleep before they did. “Just… another half hour.”
It’s Narinder’s cue to protest. He can almost hear the preemptive snark in Lambert’s voice. But he brings his arms around his love and traces patterns against the wool on their back, not ready to let go of the serenity of the moment. His whiskers tickle when he rubs his cheek against theirs. Lambert smells nice, but they could stand to smell a little more like him.
Lambert leans up to press their lips to his, but they aren’t fast enough. Narinder is already kissing their face with lethargic laps of his tongue. They scrunch their nose and turn away a little. “Can you at least brush your teeth? You have stinky cat breath,” they tease, but give the top of his forehead a gentle peck.
“And you woke me up at least twice with your loud snoring.” Narinder moves his face out of kissing range, which makes Lambert draw out a gasp in mock offense. “It’s raining. Nothing worth leaving the bed for is happening.”
“Oh, good, I’ll look forward to the soggy wet cat smell too.” Lambert puts their hand atop his where he holds their hip and smooths his fur there. “You purr in your sleep, by the way. Have I told you that before?”
Heat rises to Narinder’s cheeks. “I do not,” he says, even though he has no way to contest this statement. “You… you bleat in your sleep.”
“You’re pulling that out of your ass.” Lambert traces their fingers along his cheek, down his jaw, underneath his chin and scratches there.
Narinder turns away, but another sleepy purr escapes him. His smile is a minute upturn of his lips. “Hush. It’s too early to think of a proper retort.”
“It’s noon, Nari.”
It’s at least an hour before either of them leave the warmth of the other, but they’re only apart for a transient moment; Narinder stands to fetch some tea from the kitchen and returns with a fragrant, steaming kettle, two teacups, and a wrap of his tail around their waist as it steeps. A mint-tinted aroma reaches Lambert’s nose. He’s brewing their favorite blend and holding them in their favorite embrace. Mornings this slow are cloudlike, a blissful trance of an existence too peaceful to capture in their ichor-stained hands.
Villainy is the ever-open wound that binds Narinder’s soul to Lambert’s, that blurred their metamorphosis from prey to predator. His own heart runs black as theirs, and they too are bewitched with the depth of his cruelty: compliance to one’s own moral dissolution is a nectar best sipped, they figure, with equally corrupt company. The two watch their shadows blend together, silhouetted against the wall, and each decide the depravity running in their own veins must look beautiful on themself too. After all, the way the other wears it is nothing short of perfection: how his claws that once tore through familial skin can trace their cheek so gently, how their fangs that grow sharper with their authority return the smile he’s wearing now so easily.
Two porcelain clinks begin the immortal lovers’ tranquil ritual, a late-morning respite from the comfort of their bed. Until the day wanes into afternoon, they are equally content to find peace in the margins of the scars they’ve inflicted on each other.
***
Quite the crowd has already assembled around Lambert. Their followers show great interest in the spoils they’ve retrieved from Anura, but Narinder’s more interested in the massive bloodstains that have soaked all the way through their wool.
To their followers, they are The Lamb. The Lamb distributes the items followers had requested to their respective recipient: a bundle of menticide mushrooms for Fenoar, a bag of pumpkin seeds for Anbre, a few children’s books for Pana to read aloud to the young ones at the creche. They speak loudly and clearly, but their attention is split every few seconds to fixate on their husband. Their haste seems to make Narinder more eager to unwind with them, somehow. Lambert is a name only he gets to use, one that sounds sweetest when he fulfills his inalienable need to be the first to welcome them home.
It isn’t long before Lambert ends the post-crusade press conference abruptly. They place the rest of the items on the stone steps and run towards Narinder. He’s prepared for them to crush him in a hug, or jump into his arms.
Instead, Lambert headbutts him with so much force that they tackle him to the ground. He should’ve expected that married life with them was going to end up this way.
“You’re utterly soaked with blood,” he manages to say while he’s still pinned against the ground. A couple of onlooking followers are giving them glances that suggest Narinder should probably usher them to their room or perhaps the mating tent. “Messy.”
Lambert grins into Narinder’s robes and starts to help him up so they can head back to their home together. “I know, I look just ravishing, covered with the blood of my enemies. Of course you’d be into that, huh.” They pull uncomfortably at their damp fleece; hopefully Hugrejul can manage to get those copious stains out.
“Not an inaccurate assessment, but I will not have you staining the furniture. Take a bath the instant you walk in that door.”
Lambert looks up at him with exaggerated dejection on their face.
“Lambert,” Narinder reprimands as he holds open the front door for them. A rush of warm air hits their faces; he had placed a new log in the fireplace only a few minutes ago, anticipating their return. “Don’t give me that look. You want me to bathe with you?”
“Won’t you get dirtier if you do?”
Narinder shakes his head, heading directly for the kitchen to heat a pot of water. “Not if you rinse off most of that before I get in.”
Frowning, Lambert trudges to the washroom. Unceremoniously, they toss their filthy fleece in the sink; they’ll deal with it later.
The well-water comes out chilly from the pump, but they manage to force themself to sit in the bathtub as they fill it. The water dyes a deep shade of crimson before it can even reach their waist, so they drain it and refill it with a clean batch.
By the time Lambert’s on their third round of water (this time, it actually stays clear when the tub fills), Narinder joins them, holding a boiling pot. “Move. I need to dump this where it won’t scald you.”
Tucking their legs in, Lambert smiles up at their husband. The fleshy insides of Narinder’s ears pinken a little as he pours the hot water into the bathtub. He slips off his robes, unable to help the smile he gives them in return even though he averts his eyes.
Lambert’s expression widens to a full grin. “We’ve been married for how many years, and you’re still bashful about seeing each other naked?”
Narinder drops his gaze to the ground. Fortunately, Lambert scoots towards the center of their bath so he has room to lean his back against the polished-wood tub without teasing him further, and gingerly, he slips his robes off of him and lets them drop to the floor. He tries to join them without deepening his blush, but they lean their head back against his chest and a quiet, lazy bleat tumbles from their mouth. Lambert is certain to notice the hammering of his heart against them while they’re this close, so he smooths the wool on their head.
“Narinder,” Lambert breathes, a twenty-decibel prayer whispered into his ears. He can’t see their face, but he hears how their smile hasn’t faded.
“You know you’re beautiful, don’t you?” Narinder asks, an avalanche of everything he loves about them all at once. Such a simple question isn’t enough, but he doesn’t know how to express himself any other way.
“Only because you bring out the beauty in me.” Lambert touches a teasing fingertip to Narinder’s nose and reaches for the bar of soap. “I’ll get your back if you get mine.”
Narinder exhales a quick puff of air from his nose in silent laughter and takes it from them to scrub their wool. Lambert thins themself out most of each day to account for the needs of their cult, so he doesn’t often get to spoil them like this.
“You’re beautiful, too,” Lambert says, their eyelids fluttering closed under his touch. “Please remember that always.”
Narinder’s silence lasts only a few seconds, but it feels so swollen that he can hear both of them breathing. He synchronizes his breath with theirs, proof of his life and his reason to keep it, before the suds fizz against Lambert’s wool. “You’d never let me forget.”
***
“I will spend the rest of today in bed, if you’re that fussy.”
“Good. Do not rise and shine,” Lambert demands, setting a warmed heating pad underneath Narinder’s wrists.
Confining himself to his bed to ease the sharp cramping in his limbs is definitely not Narinder’s favorite way to begin his morning. He lifts his left hand, his motions agonizingly slow, and attempts to form a fist. It closes halfway.
Lambert tsks and sits beside him, their legs dangling off the side of the bed. Flareups happen infrequently nowadays, but they never mind tending to him when they do. Sometimes they would last a few hours, sometimes a few days or even weeks if the spell is severe enough. Their presence makes the healing process speed up tenfold. “Yes, I can see it hurts, no need to show me by putting yourself in more pain.”
“That wasn’t the idea, my Lamb.” Narinder adjusts the collar of his pajama robes by nudging it with his chin. Speaking takes a much greater effort than usual, but they’re worth the energy he does have.
Lambert purses their lips together and reaches out to enfold his hands in theirs. They look at him with wide, pleading eyes. “May I give you a hand massage for the achy weary kitty bones?”
Narinder isn’t going to object to that offer, but he gives a powerful triple-eye roll at their phrasing. “Would you fetch two additional heating pads for my ankles first?”
“Hmm. I think we still have two more. The long grey one got scorched after you tried to reheat it with a fire conjuration.”
“So I recall. You were pissed at me about that.”
Lambert heads into the kitchen and, after a clatter from the cabinets and a minute of mumbling, returns with three items: two heating pads in their hands and one familiar robe wrapped around their body. They have to lift its skirt several inches to walk without tripping over it. “If I catch you out of this bed at any point this morning, I’m withholding cuddles from you tonight. Got it?”
Narinder feels the throbbing in his ankles recede a little when Lambert eases the heating pads underneath them. “I must say I’m surprised it’s taken you this long to borrow my clothes.”
“Then you might need to make sure your nose is working properly, huh?” Lambert scoots atop the bed next to Narinder and delicately takes one of his hands in theirs. “Tell me if the heating pads are too hot or need warming up again.”
“They’re fine as– sorry? Repeat that, Lambert?” Narinder encourages, angling himself to lean against their side.
Lambert smirks and doesn’t elaborate, but they make soothing circles atop his fingers with their own. Narinder catches the afterglow of their own scent beneath the lavender of laundry soap, mostly rubbed out, set into the fabric of his robe. It’s subtle, but it’s there.
“Come on, Narinder. It’s been entirely too long for you to say you haven’t noticed. I’ve only ever stolen them to wear around the house when you’re busy and they’re about to be washed anyway, but honestly, I’d kill to have matching outfits when we’re out crusading sometime.”
Narinder’s ear twitches and he frowns at his oversight, but he knows better than to respond to their rhetorical statement. He studies the way it hugs their wool a little snugly, how far they have to push up the sleeves so the white fabric doesn’t drape over their hands. He can’t see Lambert’s hooves while they’re sitting cross-legged next to him, but he’s willing to bet the length would need to be hemmed at least six inches if they want to move nimbly enough to fight in it.
He does smile at the thought, though. He’ll have to put in a word with Nowka to tailor one of his spares.
It takes almost four hours of Lambert’s company and hand-massages to ease Narinder’s cramps. Eventually, he’s able to stand long enough to get around their home.
The moment Lambert leaves for their mid-afternoon sermon (though they’ll “handle everything else later and be back in a flash”), he slips into Lambert’s dresser and purloins one of their fleeces.
***
“Narinder.”
Laced with concern, Lambert’s voice pulls Narinder from his thoughts. His eyes had been unfocused for an unquantifiable amount of time, and his pen had slipped from his hand and clattered to the floor. He blinks his third eye once, then each of his eyes out of sync, and finds himself gazing at a blank page in his journal.
Lambert approaches him and slips their hand behind his shoulder. “You’re tense. What are you thinking about?”
A palpable silence, then a resigned sigh. The dichotomy between the life he’s imagined for the two of them and the new disruption that threatens to destabilize it makes for an uncomfortable discussion; it’s one they’ve had before, but Narinder needs Lambert’s presence to ground him. He doesn’t look at them as he speaks. “I am not accustomed to fear anymore. Confronting this will likely confirm that those old resentments haven’t faded, but simply been dormant.”
Narinder shifts on the couch and his journal slides down his lap to fall on the floor. Lambert picks it up and sets it on the coffee table, their brows downturned with sympathy. They sit beside him.
“We don’t have to, you know,” they say, harboring as much warmth for Narinder as coldness towards his kin. “It’s always been your choice.”
Narinder gives a small nod and flickers his gaze to the window, where a tree branch knocks against the glass pane every few minutes when the gusts outside take their fury out on the new spring growth. He sits with his chin propped atop his palm, almost muttering into his claws. “This problem will not be resolved by continuing to avoid it. Not knowing whether it is mendable, in some ways, is worse than having certainty that it isn’t.”
Lambert rests their hand upon his thigh to remind him that they’re beside him, though they know he hasn’t forgotten. “But you don’t know how they’ll adjust once we bring them back.”
Narinder slowly curls his tail around his ankle to stop it from beating an anxious rhythm against the floor.
As if they don’t know full well that the truth is too multifaceted to convey with one answer, Lambert asks, “Do you miss them?”
A breath leaves Narinder’s lungs with a slow, solemn sigh. The swallow he takes is audible, even to Lambert. “As much as I can bear to admit I miss the memories of…” He pauses. There’s no way to talk about what he has the potential to restore without reiterating what Lambert has lost forever. “…Having a family.”
It leaves a sour taste in their mouths: the measures the Bishops took to ensure that Narinder’s family remained torn also ensured that Lambert’s would shatter. A mass exodus towards the domain they now wielded, leaving only themself behind.
The sting of irrecoverable defeat will make Lambert look even more shocking to Narinder’s family. The curve of the horns that frame their face (when did they become so long?). The fangs they’ve sharpened on the whetstone of altars they’ve toppled, consecrated memorials to the deities that sought their annihilation. The confident stride in their hooves as they walk beside him, God and Witness. They’re almost as tall as he is now.
Barely out of the infancy of their godhood, Lambert hasn’t forgiven his family. They probably never will.
But they’re giving him a chance they’d never take themself, and still they find a reason to laugh, to hold on to warmth despite every opportunity they’ve had to turn cold. It’s right beside them with, despite everything, a heart that beats in time with their own, reawakened after many dormant centuries. “Well, you have an eternity to work it out, but I might need infinity plus one to get used to the idea of them being my in-laws. That is, if their sheer mortification at our marriage doesn’t give them a heart attack and end their immortal lives before they step off the indoctrination stone.”
It’s love, and indeed his sacred honor, that makes him unable to help but smile at that.
***
“And then we wiped the floor with that god,” Narinder tells Lambert as he unravels the third scarf they’d wrapped around his neck. Even his winter coat isn’t thick enough to insulate him from a particularly rough cold spell. “It wasn’t even an entertaining fight, in all honesty. We took them four-against-one.”
“So Leshy wasn’t old enough to fight then.” Lambert plucks a clump of black fur out of their fleece and flicks it from their hand seconds before they follow Narinder into the temple.
“We had only found him the moment before,” Narinder says as he discards his snow booties. He gives a sigh of relief when his paw pads, slick with a thin layer of sweat, touch against the cool flooring. “Curled up inside a pumpkin, his crown far too big for his little head.”
Spring had rolled in a full moon-cycle ago, but winter wasn’t done with them yet. One last frost threatened to roll into the cult, so Lambert had held an impromptu harvest ritual yesterday morning. The followers spent the rest of the day gleaning the fields of every crop before the freeze claimed them first.
The work was starting to wind down when the cold front arrived, and Lambert had insisted on Narinder bundling up. Now that they’ve returned from crusading, Lambert has to gawk at the sheer amount of fur coming off of Narinder.
“It’s shedding season, Lambert,” Narinder says calmly. “You know to expect this annually.”
“Yes, my dear, I just don’t usually see you shed enough fur to make a whole ‘nother cat.”
“Nother is not a word.”
Right after Lambert drops the bones they’ve collected over the course of the night, they fashion the Red Crown into a brush and push Narinder onto a seat.
“Fine, you can brush me out. How gracious of you to ask,” Narinder snipes. It’s lighthearted, of course, but Lambert rolls their eyes at that anyway. Narinder glances to the temple door and ascertains that it’s locked before he slips off his outer robes.
“Why didn’t you tell me you were shedding?” Lambert moves behind Narinder and runs the back of their hand down his head a few times to get him acquainted with the contact. “I had to get assaulted with giant masses of black fur on the way here.”
Narinder’s ears perk, then relax to the side of his head. He has to remind himself to keep his eyes open when Lambert reaches around him to put their hands on his cheeks and scratches behind his whiskers a little. They’re just teasing him now. That asshole.
As they brush him, Lambert falls silent to avoid disturbing Narinder’s halcyon comfort. Tufts of black fur catch on the bristles. The world seems to still, with everything in place. Except for the gentle sweep of the crown-brush against Narinder’s fur, the temple is utterly silent.
“Feels good,” Narinder mumbles.
“Your shedding should be minimal when I’m done.” Lambert has to remove a mass of fur from the brush when a new one accumulates every few strokes.
Narinder shrugs, not even attempting to resist shutting his eyes. “I suppose so.” He feels lighter when they pamper him like this. The moment is reminiscent of the copious times that the servants he had back in his godhood would tend to him, ensuring no strand of fur was out of place, but Lambert’s devotion to him is not out of necessity. Now he is cared for out of love, a vow they renew with every breath. It feels more tender, more intimate.
“Baal and Aym are coming to visit the cult with Forneus sometime in the next couple days.”
Narinder hums. His question is barely audible, almost drowned out by the rumble of his purr. “Is that so?”
“Only for a few days. I’ll tell you more later, though.” Lambert’s laughter is gentle, but enough to make them pause. “You’re too comfortable to listen.”
Narinder lifts his chin when Lambert brings the brush around to the front. A dazed smile dances on his lips. “Keep talking anyway. I enjoy listening to your voice.”
***
“What’s that?” asks Lambert, peeking over Narinder’s shoulder at the sketchbook in his lap.
Narinder frowns, leaning over to conceal his art with his robes. It’s difficult enough to draw far away from the burgeoning bonfire, the centerpiece of the night, but his social stamina hadn’t lasted more than an hour at the festivities. So he’d found a quiet corner to doodle, distanced enough from the commotion that he could enjoy himself but still close enough to monitor the cultists. Discipleship binds him to keeping the cultists in line, and he refuses to shirk his duties.
“Don’t be a nincompoop, Narinder, I want to see. Sometimes I wanna share your interests, you know.”
Narinder holds a finger to Lambert’s lips, shushing them. “Don’t you have enough patience to wait until I’m finished? Or perhaps hogging my space means you have not let your followers bother you enough tonight,” he quips.
Grinning, they sit next to him, and Narinder can smell the hops on their breath. “How do you think I’ve been able to stand their constant attention this long?”
Narinder snorts. “I wonder.” The scent reminds him of his own neglected brog brew, and he takes a hearty swig of it. “Did you want to draw with me?”
“By the crown, Nari, I’m not that drunk.” Lambert holds their hand out, and Narinder cleanly tears a blank sheet of parchment from his sketchbook. They take it with a teasing raspberry noise, sticking out their tongue at him, and scoot a few feet away. “Fine, if you won’t show me, you won’t get to see mine either.”
“Fine,” he echoes, returning his sketchbook to his lap and brushing the dirt off its surface. Shame. He doesn’t have his reference anymore.
Lambert shifts the crown into a makeshift clipboard and stares at the blank page for a minute. When Narinder hands them an extra piece of graphite, they snort. “Didn’t even realize I didn’t have anything to draw with.”
Narinder only smirks. He draws from memory, now. His head is a little saturated with alcohol, but it doesn’t disrupt the fluidity of his strokes. He’s watched Lambert dance around the bonfire dozens of times; the flow of their body on the offbeat and their somewhat clumsy footsteps couldn’t be purged from his mind if he wanted them to. (He wouldn’t, of course, unless he had the chance to relive that dance for the first time.)
Silent, the former God of Death and his usurper draw with only the light of the moon and peripheral flames of the bonfire to illuminate their parchment. Painting is the medium Narinder feels most comfortable with, but bringing a brush to a canvas usually reveals more of his memories than he intends to show, even when he tries to keep himself present. Sketching keeps him in the moment, which is why his sketchpad is full of Lambert. Capturing their image softens the anger roiling through him; indeed, they almost make him forget there was ever a time when he wasn’t free.
Narinder slips his hunk of graphite into his pocket and marvels at the silvery shine it leaves on his palms. The image he draws of them will be an eternal work in progress, and he’s satisfied to leave this page as is. Discreetly, he glances up to check Lambert’s progress.
They’re already looking at him, a goofy grin on their face. “I’ve been done for a few minutes.”
Narinder finishes the last of his drink and scoots over to sit beside Lambert. “Well then. Let’s see what you’ve drawn.”
“Nooo,” Lambert whines, tipsiness clear on their beautiful face. “I asked you first a while ago. You go first.”
His drawing doesn’t depict their current form alone, but all of the forms of them he’s known, however slight the differences may be. A few sheep dance around the bonfire in a circle, some of them with shorter horns, some of them taller, some with their wool grown out more than others– they’re all versions of Lambert he’s known. A roaring blaze reflects in the eyes of the Lamberts, and even in greyscale he depicts their defiant joy in a way that feels so colorful.
“I don’t look like I’ve changed much, and yet…” There’s a thoughtfulness in their eyes as they read their visual progression through godhood. “It’s been more than a century, huh. I still recognize myself, but how long will it be before I don’t?”
“Hush. The alcohol is speaking for you. If the fear hasn’t waned come morning, we can worry then.” Narinder lets them hold his sketchpad a while longer and points towards their drawing. “Show me.”
Lambert grins a little, turning their head away. “It’s… um. Not as good as yours.” They push their work into his hands and erupt into a full, embarrassed laughter. “Just so happens I drew you too.”
The drawing is amateurish, with uneven strokes and off-kilter proportions. It’s a thoughtful and detailed portrait, though, of Narinder as he works on his own sketch. Lambert doesn’t draw much, but the picture is beautiful in its simplicity. Narinder knows they love him enough to do things poorly.
His tail finds Lambert’s waist and curls around it. “Let me keep this,” he says softly. His eyelids feel heavy all of a sudden.
“You’re so fucking hammered that you think it’s a masterpiece, but I swear the toddlers at the creche could do better than this,” Lambert giggles. They hover their fingertip over Narinder’s nose and give it a teasing tap. “Say, if we split another, whaddya say we give up this whole… cult business and just… forge art instead?”
It’s barely even funny, but the comment has the two howling. Narinder only laughs at the airiness in his head, at how stark the difference in skill is between their drawings because Lambert’s laughing at themself, but once he thinks he’s catching his breath, he looks back at them and the eye contact makes them both burst out again. He’s probably more tipsy than he thought he was, because he doesn’t remember what loneliness feels like until it strikes him that what they have is still so new, relatively speaking. When he feels tears welling in his eyes, he struggles to breathe– is he laughing or simply crying? Maybe laughing and crying aren’t so far apart. Narinder feels himself choke out a silent sob, and he doesn’t know why.
Lambert’s brows shoot up in alarm, then knit together with confusion. “Nari? What’s wrong?” They nearly shout the question, probably unaware of how loud their volume is, and lean forward to wipe his tears.
Narinder’s thoughts feel foggy. He’s only had a couple drinks, but they’ve hit him all at once– he hasn’t been like this the whole night, has he? “I don’t know,” he slurs between sniffles. “Can– let’s sit down…”
“We’re sitting already. Did I do something wrong?”
Narinder shakes his head wildly. The world keeps spinning, though, and he nearly collapses forward, but Lambert is there to guide his head to their lap. Too many thoughts teem in his mind, all at once, shapeless. “You’ve done… done everything right. And I fought so hard to get here.” He’s blubbering nonsense now. He needs to shut up. What was he thinking about a few seconds ago? Ah, yes. “Fought so hard for love so that it was a choice .” He looks up at Lambert through tear-distorted eyes. “It’s a choice and… I make it every day and so do you.” The end of the sentence rises in pitch, as if he’s asking a question.
“Nari–” Lambert starts, probably to tell him something he won’t remember in the morning anyway, but Narinder interrupts them.
“I don’t know how to completely understand how much you love me,” Narinder blurts out. He hears his words slur together. “My head would likely… implode.”
Lambert smiles down at him, gently. Despite everything, they’re still capable of softness and he’s still capable of accepting it. Their voice is barely above a whisper, and Narinder has to stand his ears upright to hear them. “Mmm, I thought I was drunk, but these aren’t things you’d admit sober. Not outright. Shall I take us back home?”
“Yes, let’s. I just… Just have to tell you,” Narinder begins, then falls silent. He hiccups. He’ll have a massive headache in the morning.
Lambert tucks their own drawing between the leather of Narinder’s sketchbook and stores it in their crown. “Tell me? Tell me what?”
“You’re such a beautiful god.” Narinder feels them lift him up to carry bridal-style, and he wraps an arm around their shoulder. “Already, ‘nd you’re still growing. I… might not be able to pick you up soon. It’s already harder to hold you.” He’s thought about this before, but saying it out loud renews his tears.
“My stars, you’re so drunk off your ass that you’re blubbering all over me. You know, you just told me not to worry about… oh, whatever.”
Narinder’s eyes are closed, but he feels them start to walk back with him. He tries to hum against their fleece, but it comes out as more of a whimper. The chatter of followers gets louder before it fades off into the distance. Hopefully the followers will be too hung over in the morning to remember the Lamb’s stoic right hand weeping into their wool.
“I’m sure there’s a way I can revert to the height you’re used to, even when I grow into my god-form.”
“I don’ want to be shorter than you,” Narinder mumbles.
Lambert snickers at that. “Oh, yeah, you loved towering over me, didn’t you? Letting me sit in your hand as I chatted with stories of the outside world, back then?”
“Mmmmmy vessel. Would you just…”
“Hey, you need rest,” Lambert tells him as they open a door. Narinder can’t remember if they’ve gone inside already or if this is their front door.
“Don’t leave.”
“I won’t leave. I’ve had my fill of festivities for the night.” Lambert eases Narinder onto the bed, and he opens his eyes again. His spouse watches him fondly, caressing the black fur along the side of his head.
“Knew you wouldn’t,” Narinder breathes. He can feel the gravity of impending sleep. “Just wanted… to hear it.”
“I love you too.”