Cutting it close? You bet. Sorry about this round's entry, guys! I had a family emergency that ran through the contest, and most of the extension, so this is a little unpolished. I apologize.

Pairing: Headdressshipping

Prompt: Yugioh Fanfiction Contest Season 10, Round 3

Word Count: 1,200

Warnings: Mentions of dubcon if you squint. Like, really squint. Dedicated to Cookiepants and Cousin, for getting me into this pairing, and making this infinitely easier.

This really hadn't been what he wanted.

Mahaad had always been too aware of other people's expectations. He had long cultivated the uncomfortable idea that there were harsh eyes on him more often than there weren't, whether it was because the tattoos along his eyes marked him as a mage, or that his blonde roots were starting to show where his hair dye ended, or because everyone knew that he was different didn't matter; the feeling persisted.

It followed him to the bath, despite the fact that he hadn't crossed anyone's path in the halls. Where most of the palace nobility employed many slaves to dote on them, Mahaad simply couldn't bring himself to. Not when those people deserved it much more than he, and not when a twist of magic was all he needed to fill his bath, and a dash of already-handy powder could keep it warm long after he washed the day's illicit activities away.

Still, he was ill at ease. His shoulders hurt from straining too hard to hold himself upright, and the sting of Set's fingernails was fresh along the old scars from whippings he couldn't forget, but the hot water made that worse sooner than it made it better. The priest hissed as he slipped into his bath, shutting his eyes against the sting of smoke from the incense he always had to light, just to make sure the smell didn't follow him out into the world.

He heaved a weary sigh, turning toward the edge of the pool to send his untidy pile of clothing away. A few feet wasn't enough distance, but it was something. He had no right to be disgusted with himself, but that knowledge did little to help the knot in his stomach, and the heavy weight of the Ring against his chest was a constant reminder that he was well and thoroughly out of line. That Set was, too, and even so…

The difference in their rank was unmistakable. Set was the High Priest; third to the Pharaoh, and only because Shimon yet held the title of royal vizier. Set had already spoken to the king, to ask permission (Mahaad wondered if Set actually felt the need for permission, or if the inquiry had been on his behalf), and Atem had been all too happy to grant it. Neither of them could bear children, and the law against his priests coupling had only really been put into practice for Isis' sake.

By contrast, Mahaad had little to boast about. A mage was still second-class, even if he carried one of the seven Items. He hadn't been raised to be among royalty. He had spent much of his childhood learning magic at a nearby temple, before luck had landed him here to entertain the little prince, and even now, he hadn't really acclimated.

Yet, for some reason, Set had approached him.

He didn't understand; couldn't, really. Of all the people in the palace, why him? Set stressed that he was attractive like it was common knowledge, but looking down at his gangly legs and skinny arms, Mahaad just couldn't see it. If Set's interest lay primarily in men, he wasn't a prize specimen; and if the older man's interest was in women, that was an embarrassing slight. The Pharaoh sometimes praised his femininity (and he wondered if he was being deliberately mocking, but would never, ever ask), but even then…

Mahaad's reflection always looked back at him, tired and overworked, angular in all the places teenage boys usually were, but without the musculature Set or Karim were blessed with. He ate, slept, and breathed work, round the clock, and had for years, now. It was almost habitual. Work was a blessed distraction from how different his life had been after the former Pharaoh's passing, even when days and weeks all blended together in a beige-colored blur.

Set made for a much better distraction.

The High Priest insisted on talking to him, dragging him away from his piles of scrolls that needed copying right away, insisting that he drink and be merry; see the sun sometimes, and more often, the moon instead. They played Senet, concocted potions, and despite himself, despite feeling that the attention wasn't something he'd done anything to earn, Mahaad loved that. He loved the way Set would open up when they weren't in company, even when he was too forward.

Even when he completely ignored his protests that what they were doing was improper in favor of hiking up Mahaad's robes, and even when Set made sure that he couldn't think coherently enough to keep objecting, or just wouldn't let him get a word in while their clothes found the floor, he couldn't find it in his heart to resent Set's disregard for his wishes. At least he had that boldness. Maybe it would rub off on him if he subjected himself to enough of it; he'd already developed more confidence in the past few months than he remembered possessing in years.

Set cautioned him against changing, and though the prospect frightened him, Mahaad knew that the ball was already in motion. It was progressively easier to speak up, to speak to the Pharaoh's other advisors, to his students-new and old alike-and trust that his consul was worth their time to hear. Six months prior, the mage couldn't imagine most of those same people giving him the time of day.

Akunadin in particular seemed pitted against him, and Mahaad prayed that the former Pharaoh's brother hadn't ever thought to use the Eye to see past his excuses when he and Set were late for hearings. The other priest had never really been kind, by any stretch of the imagination, but neither was he cold. Not until very recently. He couldn't fathom what interest the man had in his relationship with Set, but the animosity was there, no matter how flippantly Set ignored it. He wished he could follow suit.

Mahaad was so lost in thought that he hadn't realized the water had gone cold, or that the candle was starting to burn low, and he hastily summoned more heat into his hands, churning the liquid until it was warm all the way through again. This always seemed to happen, he mused unhappily, leaning out of the pool to take his oils from the reed basket he'd almost forgotten.

"I cannot keep doing this to myself," the mage heaved a sigh, running a hand through his half-damp hair, knowing that the advice was sound, but that it meant nothing coming from his own mouth. There was nothing he could say to change things, not without running the risk of losing what he had now. Set was more interested in discussing the Nile's yearly rise than in hearing about his mixed feelings about the direction their relationship was heading in, and the High Priest seemed particularly gifted at tuning him out when he went too far, or too long, in conversation.

But for those rare moments, between rolls in the sheets, when Set would really see him… those were well worth stepping out of his comfort zone. It needed to be.

There was no other way.