A/N: Writing for dying-suffering-french-stalkers, whom I had for potosecretsanta.
The breathing of the man sleeping beside him is soft, and slow. In, and out. And in, and out. And in, and out. It is a rhythm that he could tune himself to, this breathing, as sweet as any music he has ever heard, repeated hundreds of times every day, and how easy it is for him to just stop, and listen.
That breathing has been his to listen to for fifteen years now. Fifteen wonderful years, and he has wondered, many times, how it is that he has been the one blessed to get to listen to it.
His eyes prickle at the very thought. This man, this wonderful, sweet man, has chosen him to love of all people.
Slowly, Rahim opens his eyes. Erik is still sleeping, though it will not be long until he wakes. The rest will have done him a world of good. He has been plagued with nightmares in the last weeks, tormented by them, and to see him resting peacefully is enough of a rare sight that Rahim's heart aches to see it.
He bows his head, presses a kiss softly to his forehead. It is barely there, and yet it is enough to cause Erik's brow to furrow, and he feels a smile twitch his lips. Fifteen years of being with this man, and still a kiss is enough to startle him, even half-asleep. It is almost funny. If it were any other man, it would be funny. But it is Erik, and being Erik, Rahim knows all too well why he is so easily startled. The smile dies away, and he slips his hand down, twines his fingers between Erik's own and squeezes them.
One gold-hazel eye flickers open, regards him warily, and in a moment Erik sighs, closes it again. "You may kiss me again, if you wish," he murmurs hoarsely, his lips barely moving, and Rahim bows his head a second time, presses a kiss to the corner of those lips. Erik shifts, very slightly, but enough for their lips to align, and the kiss is a delicate one, lasting only a moment but leaving a burning deep in Rahim's chest to hold this man close and never let him go.
(It is always there, that desire to keep him, to protect him, it just burns a little brighter today. Fifteen years could never be enough with him.)
"Happy anniversary," he breathes, pulling back just enough to see that Erik's eyes are still closed, "my love."
The smile that flickers at the corners of Erik's lips is a true one, infinitely precious and he burrows his head deep in Rahim's chest, shifting closer to him. "I could never get tired of hearing you say that."
Rahim sighs, and lays his head back down, folds his arms a little tighter around Erik. Fifteen years, and his own lips twitch into a smile. Fifteen years, but of course, it started long before that. All of thirty-five years ago, if his memory serves.
They sent him to find a magician. Well, that's what they told him. A magician and an architect in one, for to design and to entertain. They told him where to find him, told him he would be masked, and may be reluctant, and would require persuasion by any means necessary.
They did not tell him that the man's voice would not be of this world, nor that their description fitted a mysterious masked assassin, known for disappearing with hardly a trace, and favouring catgut. But Rahim has always listened for whispers, has always spent time sorting through the whispers of the underworld. They would not have made him Daroga otherwise. And so he keeps his ears tuned as he travels. There is so very much one can learn from whispers, after all.
He finds the man – the magician, the architect, the assassin – at a fair in Russia. Gold-hazel eyes glow from behind a black mask, and there is not a flash of skin visible anywhere on his black-clad figure, almost as if the shadows swarmed to form him. Rahim lurks at the back of the crowd as he performs, watching carefully as he plays tricks with doves and cards and makes the garlands of red flowers sing. As those eyes pass over him he feels the hairs on the back of his neck prickle, stands a little straighter beneath that gaze, his blood rushing so hard for a moment it is all he hears, all he knows. His blood, and those eyes.
The gaze passes over him, flicks on to someone else, and when at last the man disappears from the stage Rahim slips around to the back, follows him to his tent.
"Who sent you?" The words hiss along his skin, and he almost shudders, turns to find the man that he thought himself behind actually behind him. "What is it you want?"
"I am an emissary from Persia." Those eyes bore into him, and he knows that though he needs to be honest, needs to fulfil his duty, he would dearly love to not have to associate with a man such as this at all. He takes a breath to soothe the pounding of his heart.
"The Shah." It is not a question, and Rahim nods in answer to it all the same. There is a whole list of things that he was given to say, but somehow, looking at the man standing before and the way he has his head tilted, eyes narrowed, Rahim knows that they would never work.
"Of course."
The mask does not shift, but the eyes twitch and Rahim cannot shake the feeling that the man is suppressing a laugh, yet when he speaks again his voice is stone cold.
"Be back here in three days. I will give you my answer then." He disappears in a swirl of black cloak, and all Rahim can do is stare at the spot where he stood moments ago.
Three days later he is back there, waiting as instructed, and the answer, it transpires, is yes.
It is not friendship, not at first. It is toleration, to put it mildly. The magician – Erik, he is Erik now – is far from the easiest man Rahim has travelled with. He varies from silent to loquacious – often over the course of a few hours. He can travel in the greatest rush, wearing out the horses, Rahim, and the servants, or he can go along at an easy pace, taking in the country, stopping to sketch the scenery. One day – several days, actually, over the course of the journey – they do not move at all, Erik being in a creative mood. He spends the days in his tent, with his violin and his papers, and spends the time composing, or takes his soft-skinned notebook outside and balances it, and draws.
"It is necessary to act when the muse strikes, Daroga," he murmurs dismissively, and will not be drawn to speak further.
Rahim alternates between admiring him, and wanting to throttle him.
It all changes, of course, after they reach the Shah's court. Well, Erik doesn't change. He is still infuriatingly wilful and light-fingered – lifting Rahim's pocket watch just because he can, or different jewels, or gold. No. Erik himself is not at all different. Rather, Rahim is assigned to watch him, surveillance coming above all of his other duties, and watch him he does. He watches him sketch, watches him compose, watches him lie sprawled on a rug in idle contemplation, and thinks that he is the strangest, most fascinating man he has ever come across.
"Join me, Daroga," Erik gestures imperiously one night from his position on the floor. "The humours are excellent down here tonight." He shifts over, cocks an eyebrow behind his mask, and Rahim has no option but to comply. He lies down beside him, and stretches out, and Erik does not speak another word, and Rahim does not know what he is supposed to be thinking about these excellent humours, so he lets his mind wander, though it returns over and over to the man lying silent beside him, eyes closed and hands folded though he is certainly not asleep.
He wonders to himself, knowing instinctively that he must not ask, what it is that Erik hides beneath the mask, but he does not see it. Erik is too careful, wears a mask that shows his thin lips when taking his meals, and always wears his mask firmly in place, shrouds himself in silks. But yet, Rahim knows that, if his hands are any sort of indication – he does not wear his gloves when playing his music, says they restrict the movement of his hands, and the downcast look in his eyes is enough that Rahim's heart almost aches for him – if Erik's hands are anything to go by, then Rahim thinks he does not want to ever have to see his face.
Soon, toleration gives way to an uneasy friendship, an alliance almost. Erik is wary, ever wary, and cautious, and Rahim is repulsed by the tasks the Shah has set him – murder and torture as much as music and magic and architecture – repulsed yet strangely drawn to him, outside of the bounds of his duty. They pass many evenings in quiet conversation, Erik weaving worlds with his voice and gestures, a master story-teller, and Rahim passing on the news of the court. Erik pretends not to care for gossip, but he thrives on it. They talk, and sip wine, and Erik plays his music, and it is easy for all of its strangeness, in spite of the way it sometimes feels as if the connection they have forged could be snapped in a heartbeat.
The first night Rahim draws a smile from Erik, a true proper smile that lights up his eyes and not the twisted, bitter one he has seen too many times, he cannot help the flicker of satisfaction in his gut. He pushes it from his mind and tells himself that it is nothing, that it does not mean a thing.
(And all the while, that small voice whispers in his mind, that that is so very much a lie.)