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“Where do you live?”
Robert looked up from his taco to the man sitting across from him. Flambae, Zahir—a villain he had arrested, and probably should get back to jail soon. The man seemed obsessive to say the least. Maybe he truly was, maybe it was Robert’s paranoia. And yet despite the fact that the man had been watching his patrols and set a forest fire just to ask him out, he was still here. Eating tacos that he hadn’t paid for.
In his defense, free food was free food.
“Why do you ask that?” Robert asked.
“So I can drive you home.” Zahir said, looking down at the single taco he’d eaten. “You barely ate your food.”
Robert looked down at the three tacos and rice. “I’ll have leftovers.”
“I will make you food if you need it,” Zahir said. There was an undernote to it that Robert couldn’t pinpoint—a growl, maybe? Or a chuffing kind of sound. “You’re starved. You need to eat.”
Robert looked up at him. “I’m still rather confused.”
“About eating?” Zahir asked.
“About this,” Robert said confusedly. “You literally just set a fire in a forest to ask me on a date–“
Zahir blinked before sighing, head resting in his hands as he whispered in a language Robert didn’t understand before looking back up at him. “How do you not understand it? You’re my mate now, and you’re in horrible shape. I take care of you.”
“Why are we mates?” Robert asked incredulously.
Zahir huffed. “We fought nicely, you beat me. Therefore, you’re my match and my mate.” he said, taking a sip of whatever fountain drink that he’d gotten. “It’s not hard to understand. Bitch.”
Robert huffed at the nickname. He’d been called bitch at least five times in one hour alone. “My bad for not understanding this when it got popped on me less than an hour ago.” he grumbled, fork poking at the rice.
“Look, I understand. It was weird for me too when I first learned, and it’s my lineage, but–” Zahir said quietly, leaning forward to talk to him. “I think you’ll understand. It just takes time, if you’ll let me teach you.”
Robert looked at him before sighing to himself. What hurt could it do?
“You live here.”
It wasn’t a question. It was a statement. An extremely sad, angry statement that seethed smoke out of Zahir’s mouth. This place was, was—
It was awful.
“Don’t judge.” Robert snorted, placing his keys on the counter before walking over to the dog bed. Zahir thought that the dog bed was the only redeemable thing in this solitary confinement prison. That and the dog now inside Mecha Man’s arms.
He still hadn’t learned his name yet. Mecha Man wouldn’t tell him. Though he did tell him about Beef—seriously, who names their dog Beef—and even let Zahir hold him. He wasn’t sure why Mecha Man was letting him near Beef. The man seemed like paranoia personified, the utter epitome of it. Zahir was a little worried about it, but he had the feeling he had quite a bit of worrying to do with his new mate.
His mate.
The words had been ringing in his mind ever since they had dinner. His mate, Mecha Man was his mate. He seemed as accepting about it as one could be. Perhaps being introduced to Beef was a good sign? A peace treaty?
Perhaps a better alternative to a peace treaty would be fixing whatever the hell this shithole is.
“How long have you lived in this thing?” Zahir scoffed, eyes narrowing at the cracks in the outer walls. Definitely not good.
“Don’t remember.” Mecha Man said.
“Why won’t you tell me your name?”
He shrugged. “It’s private.”
“I won’t kill you.” Zahir promised him, Beef sniffing his feet. “I’d rather descale myself.”
“Literally what does that mean?” he asked.
Zahir huffed. “Maybe not right now.”
“You can tell me that we’re mates but not why, then?” he snorted, crossing his arms over his chest. “That makes me feel like you’re lying to me, Zahir.”
There was something about the way that Mecha Man said his name that made his instincts curl inside of him and purr contently. He wasn't sure what it was. But it was there and it was making its way deep into his veins and his markings—markings he couldn’t control when they lit up like this.
“And you haven’t explained the tattoos either,” Medha Man said to him.
Zahir looked at him before out at the sky from the balcony window. It was a dark sky now, no moon and just the stars. There were two side by side. Twinkling. One after the other in a pattern, like a dance.
Like a sign.
“I’ve, uh, gone about this the wrong way.” Zahir murmured. “To say the least of it.”
Mecha Man snorted.
“Look. I’m used to the idea of doing this with people from my culture, not–“ he said before pausing, picking at his fingernails. “Not someone who is human.”
He hummed. “I figured that was the case.”
“I don’t know how you guys really do things,” Zahir snorted as he walked over to the counter that Mecha Man was standing by, leaning his hip against it. “But in my culture, they fight. Even matches means that you’re compatible, and you– you’re the best fight I’ve ever had.”
“Even when I mutilated you?” Mecha Man asked him, eyes down at his lack of fingers. There was guilt there.
“I was doing a crime, you couldn’t stop me.” he shrugged. “Paid for it or whatever. But–“
Mecha Man raised an eyebrow. “But?”
“There’s things about me I don’t want to share. And things you don’t, and I didn’t really think about that. When I got into this.” Zahir murmured to himself. “I just always had a fantasy of how it would go.”
“I’m glad I crushed your dreams so early.” Mecha Man said monotonously.
Zahir laughed before looking at him. “Can we restart?”
Mecha Man snorted. “That’s probably for the best.”
“Is there more to deciding a mate than just fighting?” Robert asked curiously.
They were thrifting right now. A thrifting date, he had called it. Operation get Robert clothes was what Zahir called it—he even pulled Beef into the mixture too. Not that Robert was truly complaining. As much as he wanted to be, as much as he felt guilty for not complaining. For not being on the field, for not doing hero work while he was thrifting. Zahir was teaching him, slowly but surely, the power of resting.
Attempting to. It didn’t always go well.
But when it did, it left Robert curious. About Zahir, about his family, about his culture. He’d done research on many nonhuman races yet still hadn’t been able to pinpoint him down to any particular one.
“In all cultures or just mine?” Zahir asked.
Robert snorted as he pushed the cart. “Yours.”
Zahir was looking through shirts right now. He’d looked through some jackets already, though most of the things he found were for him rather than Robert. “I guess,” he said quietly. “It’s hard to explain it without sounding, well, creepy?”
Robert raised an eyebrow.
“Things like smells can help. Maybe an allure the first time that you see them.” Zahir explained as he held up a shirt to Robert’s torso. “The fight is usually the most major signifier, but– it’s more than just the power.”
“What is it then?” Robert asked.
Zahir looked at him in the eyes, fingers tilting his chin up to face him. “Fighting with you was like getting my Qokharbi all over again.” he whispered, fingers pausing whatever question Robert was going to ask. “I know you don’t know what that is, but it’s important.”
“Okay.” Robert nodded quietly. “It’s important.”
Zahir nodded before putting the shirt into the cart.