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1.
The first time it happens, Ajay doesn't even realise what he has done until he hears the soft clicks of at least a dozen pistols and rifles that are being pointed at him. Dangerous sounds wake him up, make him look up only to realise he is standing right in front of the heavy metal-reinforced gates to Pagan's current residence. Guards look at him with serious faces, but they don't ask anything and don't tell him to go away, only one of them is talking on the radio.
Ajay doesn't remember how he has got here. He just forbade himself to stop moving and walked and walked and walked, hiking over hills and endless little rivers and stones, ignoring villages and outposts. He had no destination, no purpose, he didn't even know where he could go.
His legs brought him to Pagan.
There's a short sound of static from the radio, the guard tells everyone to lower their guns and open the gates. Huh.
Everything is still hazy to Ajay. He doesn't utter a word, just accepts being ushered to somewhere. He isn't completely sure he is being led to safety, but he decides he doesn't give a damn.
“You look like death, my dear,” a voice says from somewhere ahead of him. Or, rather, the voice. The fog in Ajay's head clears a little more, and now he is alert enough to realise that he is in some kind of a living room. One of the walls is gone and replaced with a balcony, some kind of intricate altar with statues and lots of flowers and greenery and candles in the center. There's a giant ottoman in here, its back to the balcony, and on it — Pagan. His lips are curled into a smile, but there's no fun in his eyes.
He looks worried.
“I'm tired,” Ajay says, and he doesn't even have enough energy to be angry at his voice being so small. So weak. “I'm so, so tired. This... Everything I do... Everything the Golden Path does... It seems so endless. I don't know how much longer I can keep up. I just want some—” Rest. Peace. Clarity. Way to reach USA. “I just need to—” Sleep. Cry. Run away. Know where to run. “Sorry. I don't know why I'm here. I just... walked without thinking and...”
Ended up here.
Pagan studies him, head tilted forward, his right eye barely visible from under the fringe. He probably tries to figure out if there was a modicum of sense in that little speech Ajay has just stuttered out.
And then Pagan sighs — very much unhappily — and extends his left arm towards Ajay, palm up, offering, inviting.
“Come here,” he says, his voice very soft, and Ajay goes to do just that, without thinking, just unclasps his gun holsters, letting everything fall to the ground, takes off his heavy coat, its pockets full of ammo and bandages and other stuff, and accepts Pagan hand. Pagan tugs him further, asking to sit down, and when Ajay lands on the ottoman, Pagan's hand lets go of his, circles around Ajay's shoulders and subtly pushes him down... Oh. Oh. Ajay complies, lays his head on Pagan's lap, face towards the altar, lifts his legs up until his whole body rests on the ottoman. It's just the right amount of cushy and is long enough for him to extend his legs, and there's soothing scent in the air, half flowery and half spicy.
Pagan's hand glides up Ajay's arm until it's on Ajay's head, and then he... strokes Ajay's hair, smoothing the unruly fringe and locks that are getting too long. And then again, and again, slowly, softly, and—
Ajay feels like he is going to cry.
Everything he's been suppressing comes down on him like an avalanche, all the times he's felt—
Hopeless. Lonely. Useless. Tired. Like he is never gonna get out of here.
It all goes away, makes place for the veil of tears in his eyes, for the way his fingers clutch the fabric of Pagan's pants, for the sensation of calloused fingertips sometimes brushing his cheek. Ajay blinks away the tears and shuts his eyes.
“Rest, my boy,” Pagan says quietly. “You're safe here.”
Ajay believes him.
Ajay falls asleep.
He dreams of nothing, and when he wakes up, he feels better than he has in weeks. Pagan is still here, his hand upon Ajay's shoulder. The night has fallen, and the only sources of light are candles on the altar and — Ajay bends his neck to look up — the bright screen of Pagan's phone. Pagan looks a little bit sleepy, but his eyes are still sharp as he writes someone a message. He doesn't acknowledge aloud that Ajay is awake, but immediately removes his hand from Ajay's shoulder when he gets up.
Neither of them says a word while Ajay stands up, stretches, bends down to pick up his coat and holsters, puts everything on and goes for the exit.
“My door is always open for you,” Pagan says when Ajay's hand is on the doorknob, and that's it. Ajay nods, although he doubts the motion can be seen, and leaves.
He is sure that the next time he will be lost in his mind, his legs will surely bring him to Pagan again.
2.
Next time, as it happens, is a conscious decision. Ajay doesn't put on his ridiculous coat, doesn't take anything but his new favourite kukri blade (he got the taste for them immediately) and marches towards the Royal Palace. Sun shines disgustingly brightly, not caring at all about Ajay's mood. And Ajay is—
Angry. Exasperated. Lonely. Loneliness seems to be a recurring thing, no matter how he feels, which is ridiculous, because he is a part of a big group, a movement, he has Amita and Sabal — things are amazing with Sabal — and Bhadra and many others, and still—
He has no one to talk to.
Except now he has that tiny funny feeling in his chest that tells him that Pagan, of all people, can help him.
There're no clicks of a gun safety going off, the two guards give him nods and let him inside. Last time Ajay was here he wasn’t in the right mind to look around, and now he's just not interested in sightseeing. Maybe he'll explore the grounds later.
Ajay doesn't even wait for Pagan to greet him, just throws his kukri on the low table, shrugs off his hoodie and then throws himself on Pagan's lap. Waiting would mean doubting, and doubt leads to disasters.
Pagan reacts just the way Ajay needs: rubs his forearm, then goes up to the shoulder, trails his fingers over the neck, behind Ajay's ear and finally starts playing with his hair in a gentle way. No questions asked.
Ajay basks in silence, enjoys the crispiness of the air and the musky scent of Pagan's cologne.
“Not wearing that green monstrosity of yours today, I see.”
“Nope,” Ajay smiles. "Just me and my boring T-shirt. Not on par with anything you wear, of course.”
“That goes without saying. My fashion taste is impeccable, just as my care for the things I own.”
Ajay glides his palm over Pagan's knee as if saying that yes, he feels all the hard work put in those pants. The fabric is soft and not silky like Ajay imagined. Pagan chuckles, shifts his legs a little. His hand never stops caressing Ajay's hair. Shit, it must feel dirty... he should've washed it this morning.
“By the way,” Ajay says, remembering something he's been curious about for quite a time. “I wanted to ask you... About the day we met.”
“Oh?”
“You killed that guard. And then said he got blood on your shoes.”
“That was very rude of him. And I still haven't heard the question.”
Ajay rolls his eyes. “My point is: you also got blood on your gloves. And coat. And your phone when you took that stupid selfie — honestly, what the hell? — and also you sat on the fucking ground. You got dirt all over your pants. So... why did only shoes deserve the fuss?”
Pagan heaves a sigh, an exaggerated one, and Ajay suppresses the desire to pinch this dramatic fucker.
“Ajay, Ajay, Ajay, my darling Ajay, shoes are the most important part. They tell you everything you need to know about the man.”
“That,” Ajay says after a pause, “is the most stupid thing I've ever heard. No one even looks at shoes. You look at the person's face and then maybe check them out and see their clothes, but no one bothers to look at fucking shoes.”
“I bother to look at my fucking shoes,” Pagan says dryly. “Not my fault if you all are an uneducated bunch.”
Just when Ajay starts to formulate his response to this preposterous statement, Pagan's fingers slide over Ajay's cheekbones, almost touch the corner of his mouth, trace his jaw, then go down the neck, dip below the hem of his T-shirt. All thoughts leave Ajay's head. A wave of heat rushes over him. This is... This is...
Ajay has no idea what this is.
“O-okay,” he finally says, sounding hoarse. He quickly clears his throat. “Shoes are important, got it. But what would you do without your jacket? Or shirt? Wear tees?”
“Ajay, I don't even own a single T-shirt. Can you imagine how I would look?”
Yeah, Ajay is ready to say, like an old man desperate to look young, except that than he really tries to imagine Pagan in a T-shirt: a simple white one, triangular neck, a perfect fit, showing off Pagan's forearms and neck and clavicles, and the line of his spine, and it's—
Hot. Domestic. Makes Pagan look like he's available for someone like Ajay.
Fuck.
Pagan's hand is still under Ajay's shirt.
Double fuck.
"No,” Ajay says. “Won't even try to.”
“Good boy.”
What it would take for Pagan to call him a bad boy, Ajay muses. And then is immediately overwhelmed by a desire to slam his head against a wall. Shit, what's wrong with him? Why can't he stop thinking about— He doesn't even want to put it into words. He quickly needs a subject change. What have been they talking about in the first place? Tees, shirts, shoes, killing the guard... In a very, very angry manner... Huh...
“And, uh, about that guard... again... Your reaction still seems weird to me.” Ajay waits for Pagan to make some clever remark, but the man is silent. “I mean, you totally went nuts. Stabbed him half a dozen times. You hissed at him. It doesn't seem like you.” Pagan is still silent, and even his fingertips stop smoothing over Ajay's collarbone. “You aren't quick to get angry, at least not quick to show your anger. And not in such volatile manner. The way you reacted back then... it doesn't make sense to me. I mean, I sure went through a rollercoaster of emotions when—”
Anger leaving Pagan's face. Voice becoming sweeter. A hug around Ajay's shoulders, not around the ribs, just in case that— Oh. That's it.
Ajay reaches to take a hold of Pagan's hand with his own, a tight reassuring grip.
”It was me, wasn't it?” Ajay says quietly. “You thought I was dead. You saw the bus and the bodies and thought I was dead.”
“Haven't felt that scared in a very, very long time,” Pagan says just as quietly, and Ajay is just... astonished by the honesty of this answer. “I don't know what I would do if you'd really turned up de—” He stops himself. Coughs. “Well. That's actually a lie. I know one hundred percent what I would do. I,” his voice gets that dangerous silky tint, “would destroy the Golden Path. Murder its leaders with my own hands and let my men kill each and every one with as much as a tiniest connection to this degenerative organization.” Pagan chuckles without humor. “Kyrat would be colored red.”
This little theoretical what-if revenge-murder-spree speech should have probably disturbed Ajay. But the feeling swelling in his chest and making his throat tight is gratitude. For worrying about him. For caring.
And also he thinks about Amita and Sabal telling him, from time to time, that he is crucial for Kyrat. Ajay has always laughed at it. But now he knows that the wellbeing of Kyrat does indeed depend on him. Just... not in the way the Golden Path thinks.
When Pagan tries to retract his hand, Ajay quickly catches it and leaves a quick kiss on the knuckles. The hand freezes for a second and then moves to set upon Ajay's head.
“I'm really glad we talked,” Ajay says and then, so there could be no room to answer to this too honest statement, immediately adds: “I'm gonna sleep a little, 'k?”
Pagan hums in agreement. Hums again. And again, until Ajay realizes that he is humming a melody. It's not familiar, but nice, and has a feeling of Kyrat in it. Ajay falls asleep almost instantly, lulled by the careful motive and clever fingers combing through his hair.
This time Ajay wakes up alone, a thin cushion under his head and a hoodie thrown over him. Sky has already gone lilac, and Ajay puts the hoodie on to hide from the chilly wind. There's some weight in the left pocket that wasn't there before, which turns out to be a smartphone. It's black and looks very nice, sleek and isn't too big. There's only one contact in there, called My King, and its photo is a selfie of Pagan against the sky and a branch of a tree. Ajay turns around on the ottoman, and yeah — the photo has obviously been taken here. Ajay chuckles and also sets this photo as the phone's wallpaper.
When Ajay is outside the Palace's gates, he takes a selfie with the Palace behind him and sends it to Pagan without any caption, even though he wants to send him a million thank yous for this gift.
With Pagan one message away, there's no way for Ajay to feel alone again.
3.
This visit is even less planned than the first one — and even more surreal — just for the fact that Ajay wakes up on the ottoman and doesn't remember how he has gotten here in the first place.
His head is hazy, not just from the lack of sleep, but something more, and when Ajay tries to take a deep breath, it reverberates with pain in his chest. Ajay palms his chest and realizes it's been bandaged. His chest aches, his left side aches, there's an even dull pain in his forearms that makes him want to scratch his skin.
“I wonder,” Pagan says, drawing the vowels, because of course he is right here and watches Ajay like a hawk, “if it counts as a dramatic entrance if you do not walk in on your own legs but is rather carried over the porch by a Lieutenant of the Royal Army, bleeding half to death?”
Ajay chuckles. “If this doesn't count, nothing else does.”
Pagan gives him a smile in return, but... It feels a little strained. Ajay tries not to frown. Fails. Pagan has never had to force a smile for Ajay, what the hell?
“Let me give you a piece of advice, boy,” and, ouch, that boy is dripping with venom. “ATVs are not meant for flying.”
Ajay knows that his what the fuck is now written all over his face. Sure, sometimes Pagan doesn't make sense, true, but this phrase wouldn't make sense coming out of anyone's mouth.
“I... know... that?” Ajay says, carefully.
“Oh, do you now? Then care to explain why the fuck you leapt down the hill on that crippling old ATV of yours and landed in the middle of one of my outposts, having fallen from the fucking sky?”
And Ajay is not sure if he cares to explain, but he certainly glad that it's being explained to him, 'cause he has no fucking idea about what has happened, but now that he knows how it all ended, he can try to recreate the whole picture.
“I didn't mean to do it!” Ajay says and mentally swears for sounding like a child. “It's just, uh... I've been riding a little too fast? And got carried away? And there was a really sloppy place on the road? And I rode over a bulging tree root and then collided with a tree and then I don't really remember anything because I hit my head, but, apparently, I rode down the hill at the full speed and flew over the edge and crushed from a height?”
So totally not Ajay's fault. Not at all. He isn't a kamikaze or anything. He's just... not a very good driver. Especially of ATVs. Especially when he is upset.
“Listen,” Ajay adds, “I'm not sure what got you so riled up,” not true, Ajay has a pretty good idea, “but I swear it was an accident. Just... wasn't in the right state of mind to drive, is all.”
His hand lifts up to touch his left cheek. It resonates with pain, just as he expected. If he's been unconscious for long enough, it must be fifty shades of purple right no—
Ajay catches Pagan catching his gesture.
Shit.
Ajay hasn't meant to do it.
But Pagan still doesn't say a word. Ajay expected him to bombard him with questions and sass and reprimands. Instead — silence. And this silence, this calculating patient gaze of Pagan feel much more interrogating that any words that could have been said.
Ajay sighs.
“It's... not a big deal. Just a little quarrel with Sabal, that's all.”
Finally, Pagan speaks. “That's what got you so... upset?” He sounds like he doesn't quite believe what he's hearing. "A quarrel with Sabal? Don't you all quarrel all the time in that cute little circle of yours?”
Ajay tries not to get hung up on the obvious mockery in Pagan's voice.
“First of all, it's Amita and Sabal who quarrel. Second, they don't quarrel, they argue. And third... Me and Sabal... Well... It’s a little more... personal... I guess..?”
Ajay haven’t liked a strained smile from Pagan Min. Seeing Pagan Min's lips curl in a wide sugary smirk that screams fake is much, much worse.
“So you have been dazzled by his jawline, huh?” Pagan says, and Ajay wants to throw a pillow in his face. Or, rather, Ajay wants to throw something breakable into a wall. His hands itch for it. Pagan has it all wrong, and it's not his fault, he makes assumptions based exactly on what Ajay has said so far, but... Ajay thought Pagan knew better. Ajay hoped Pagan knew better. 'cause what they were having... Shit. Have they been having anything? Or was Ajay just... wrong again?
Well then. Pagan wants to talk? They will talk.
“The first time Sabal brought me to Banapur, right after your hospitality,” and Ajay has no right to drip this word in mockery, Pagan was hospitable, he was, “I later found him in one of the little houses near a wounded man's bed, clutching his hand. That man fucked up a mission, and when I offered to help, Sabal looked at me with such naked hope in his eyes... I wanted to give him world right there and then. It was a fleeting thought, but it was there, and hearing excitement in his voice over the radio was the best thing at the beginning. He saw something in me too. We didn't talk about it, didn't really act on it, it just was this... Anticipation. Silent support. Little secret between us. Sometimes we would look at each other across the room full of people and just know. And it was really good. But lately... He is in too much stress. I thought I could help. But I couldn't. Not as the warrior of the Golden Path and not as the person whom he shared secret smiles over the months with. Yesterday... We argued. First about something small. Then about a bigger picture. I tried to reason with him, brought up the need for a truce between him and Amita. He didn't like that. I always thought he is more mature about their relationship, that Amita is the one stirring the waters, but... Sabal has become just as ruthless about his beliefs as she is...”
Ajay falls silent. He didn't mean to share that much, but once he started, he couldn't stop. What has transcribed, it... hurts him. That's the only right word for it. And physical pain has nothing to do with it.
“He slapped me,” Ajay says. “There wasn't even any real strength behind it...” Ajay's fists clench. “If he would hit me, I'd understand. I'd fight back. A fight is a way to resolve matters, sometimes it's healthy. But this... This wasn't about hurting. It was the way of saying, you are lower than me. Close your mouth. You have no right to talk to me like that. It was about inequality.”
It was humiliating. It didn't break their friendship, but it broke that fragile thing they had, that wonderful part of their relationship that Ajay cherished. He hasn't been interested in pursuing Sabal romantically, not for a long time, not after the dozens of nights he has spent in the Palace, not after he has come to know the gentle way Pagan touches his hair and how he always manages not to wake Ajay up if he has to leave, not after the hundreds of messages, and phone calls, and selfies, and photos, and one memorable time of Ajay crying for ten minutes straight on the line without any explanations. But it still hurts, being left with less than before.
He wants to talk to Sabal. He desperately wants it. And it drives Ajay crazy how much he wants to mend things between them.
But also he wants to talk to Pagan. Really talk. Without that bullshit attitude Pagan is giving him. And mend things between them. Shit, how has Ajay managed to fuck up both of his most important relationships in one day?
“Is it too much?” Pagan asks, quietly, no trace of a smile in his voice. “This country?”
Wait, what? Where is that coming from?
“Well, sure, sometimes it is, but—”
“I can arrange for you to leave.”
...What?
“Of course, first we go and scatter your mother ashes, but then tickets, passports, sneaking out, the whole shebang.” Pagan stands up and walks up to a small bar in the corner of the room, grabs a martini glass, bottles, starts mixing something up. All Ajay can see is his back, but when Pagan reaches up for the bottle on the right side of the top shelf, Ajay gets a glimpse of his face.
If there is to be a picture for the word miserable in a dictionary, that would be it.
That's it. Ajay has had enough. He's fed up with dancing around, with pretence, with being a coward and acting all almighty when in reality you don't know shit.
Fuck everyone who thinks they know what's best for Ajay.
Why don't people ever just ask about your wishes?
Ajay takes a deep breath. Slowly sits down, right hand clutching his bruised-up side.
“Being at the middle of a civil war sucks, you are right. Being shot at almost every day sucks. Missing my old friends, losing my new friends, witnessing the organization I'm a part of crack — all of it sucks. But you know what?” Ajay stands up, hissing at the bolt of pain, and moves towards Pagan. He stops right behind Pagan's back, looks over how stiff are his shoulders. “I'm not my mother.” A measure glass slips from Pagan's hand, falls right to the ground and breaks. “So I'm not leaving. No matter how fucking hard it is, I'm not leaving this country and I'm not leaving you. So... please.” Ajay puts his palm between Pagan's shoulder blades. “Don't offer me things like that. Especially if doing it hurts you so much.”
Pagan takes a shuddering breath. Then sways back, falling on Ajay, drops his head back on Ajay's shoulder. By some miracle, Ajay manages not to lose his balance and hooks his right arm across Pagan's chest.
Ajay hasn’t really wanted to bring up his mother. It might have made things too weird. Also it's not good — competing with your own mother, long gone and deeply loved. But his fight with Sabal stirred something inside Ajay's heart, made him think, made him see how maybe — maybe — he and his mother share the same position across the decades. And if Ajay is truly standing in lshwari Ghale's shoes... Then he is one hundred percent sure that leaving Kyrat shattered her heart — or what was left of it after the death of Lakshmana — to pieces.
And Sabal... he doesn't know about these visits to Pagan. If Sabal wasn't so blinded by hatred, by war, he would realise that Pagan has a soft spot for Ajay. And if he was a far worse man that he is, he would've used it. Ajay wants to laugh at the obvious parallels, and at the same time — he wants to cry.
But he won't laugh. And he won't cry. The only thing he is going to do right now — is to hold Pagan tight and pretend he doesn't notice that tears make Pagan's eyes shine especially brightly.
4.
Ajay scrolls through the gallery on his phone, picking photos for Pagan to send to. It's actually a ridiculous notion: it's not like Ajay can show him something he hasn't seen, the man lived here for the most part of his life, for Gods' sake. But Ajay thinks Pagan has forgotten how truly beautiful Kyrat is, how glorious her blooming trees and snow-covered mountains and temples are.
When Ajay has tried the camera on his phone the very next day he received it, he was amazed by the quality. The phone had to be custom made: it bears no logo, has a very good GPS and call quality, a way to quickly send a distress signal and the best phone camera Ajay has ever tried. He loves taking photos with his professional camera, but only a phone lets him share a photo right away. And with a camera like that, he is not ashamed.
Ajay has sent Pagan photos of hundreds of things already. The colorful carpets that a woman in Banapur does, bright bold colors and intricate patterns. Photos of elephants taking a bath in that little lake west to the Varshakot. A delicate flower floating near a shore. The play of shadows under a tree. A close-up of the calloused hands of a man who has been maintaining vehicles and weapons for most of his life. A little bird that found its way into Ajay's house and hid on the wardrobe. Ajay's own face.
Pagan never comments on the photos. But Ajay — because he is a nosy little shit and went through Pagan's phone once — knows he saves all of them to his phone memory. So Ajay keeps sending them, reminding Pagan of the wonders of Kyrat.
There're photos — not a lot, just about a dozen — that Ajay doesn't send and is never going to. They're private, and he hides them in a password-locked folder.
There's a photo of Sabal praying. The room is foggy and dark, the shadows crisp, fire reflects on Sabal's hair and highlights his cheekbones. Ajay can almost smell the heavy incense, hear the crackling of the fire.
There's a photo of Bhadra sleeping on Amita's knees. It was a very sunny day, and they hid under the shadow of a vast tree. Amita is looking down on Bhadra, and the smile on Amita's face is so soft it makes Ajay's heart ache.
There's a photo of the whole Banapur gathered near a huge fire in the night, a wide shot of women and men and kids, everyone is laughing and drinking warm herbal tea. It was a good night. Those are rare.
There's a photo of Sabal smoking. It's black and white, Sabal exhales the smoke, his eyes half-closed. It's obscenely sensual and Ajay is pretty sure he blushed when he took it.
And, of course, Ajay has a photo of Pagan in that folder. It was actually taken on his Nicon, then transferred to the phone by the courtesy of Pagan's Mac. Ajay still can't believe he managed to capture it. It's a portrait shot, down to the shoulders, full of blurred warm light, a piece of cyan-blue sky on the left. Ajay caught Pagan looking up from his phone, head tilted down, his fringe completely covering his right eye. His left eye looks right into the camera, thick eyelashes and subtle eyeliner making his gaze sharp, predatorial. A sly smile plays on his lips, and it looks almost... suggestive. He is all sharp lines and perfect proportions, and the camera clearly loves him.
Which is a bitch, considering this is a single photo of him that Ajay has, the fact that irks Ajay to no end. He hates staged photos and there hasn't been a lot of opportunities to catch Pagan unaware, so... Only one photo, which is ridiculous, because — in Ajay's probably biased opinion — Pagan deserves a whole folder for himself. Ajay could look at him for ages and never get tired. Seeing Pagan is such a crucial part of Ajay's life now, he doesn't even understand how he could live without knowing such man exists.
Also it's unfair for the fact that Pagan has tons of selfies of Ajay. Talk about imbalance. Not that anyone makes Ajay send them, but still.
Ajay startles at the sudden sensation of a hand ruffling his hair. He looks up to see Sabal grinning at him. Ajay grins back. Then an idea strikes him, and he tugs at Sabal's arm to make him sit down. Ajay weaves left arm around Sabal's shoulders, squishes his cheek against Sabal's and extends his free arm to take a photo. Sabal laughs at that, shifts into a more comfortable position and gives the camera a toothy smile. Ajay clicks the button, there's a familiar sound of the shutter, and Sabal squeezes Ajay's knee, stands up and goes on with his business. Just like that. Their interactions have become so natural since they had The Talk last week and made amends, Ajay just can't stop testing it and revelling in it. It's amazing, having Sabal at his side for one hundred percent.
Ajay still hasn't said anything about it to Pagan, though. It has been a little awkward between them after Pagan silently disengaged from Ajay's grip and went into the direction of his room without even taking the cocktail he has just made. They haven't talked since, and the radio silence makes Ajay uneasy. He is used to speaking to Pagan almost every day, even if it's just a couple of messages, whether text or links to whatever interesting stuff they both find on the Internet.
Ajay glances down at his phone. He and Sabal look like the happiest pair on Earth. Uh, a pair of friends, that is. The photo is very telling anyway. Before Ajay can stop himself, he opens his chat with Pagan and sends the photo to him, then sets his phone on the bench and grabs the little kit he has gathered up for taking care of his kukri blade.
He doesn't even have time to open it before his phone blips.
[My King] Kissed and made up, did you?
Ajay breathes out. Seems everything's okay. Good.
[Me] sure did. my ribs almost cracked from his hugs tho
[Me] I do not recommend reconciliation while being injured
[My King] Did he promise not to be such a dick in the future?
[Me] yeah. what's better, I'm 100% sure he meant it
[Me] I mean
[Me] Sabal I met half a year ago would never say the things he said/promised now
[Me] so
[My King] Please stop splitting your messages in pieces. It makes you look fourteen.
[Me] and
[Me] you
[Me] type
[Me] like
[Me] an
[Me] old
[Me] person
[Me] you
[Me] are
[My King] Sincerely, fuck you.
[Me] get here first
...Wait. Fuck. Fuck. He did not just send it. Shit, he did. Can he delete it from the conversation? Or maybe—
Ajay watches with horror as two blue check marks appear near the message. Received. Read. Shit. Curse his stupid running mouth, he wasn't planning to do something like that at all. Sure, Pagan's all my darlings and my dears and touching Ajay really non-platonically, but what if he is n—
[My King] I'II treat you to dinner first.
Oh. Okay. They're going down that way.
[Me] haven't we had a fair share of dinners already?
[My King] Ajay, snacking from my fridge at 3 AM is not considered dinner.
And before Ajay could come up with something witty:
[My King] You like fish?
Direct questions. Good, Ajay can deal with direct.
[Me] I like how it tastes. I detest picking out the bones
[My King] Duly noted.
[My King] You free this evening?
Is he kidding? No, a better question is, is it really happening? Are they setting up... a date? Like, a real one? A date-date? With both parties aware that it's a date? There's no way Ajay will directly ask about that.
[Me] was planning to fuck up another one of your bell towers, but I guess I can reschedule
[My King] Wonderful. Come at 8.
[My King] Don't forget your camera.
Don't forget how to breathe would be a much more appropriate advice, but whatever. Ajay forswears being surprised at anything else this day can bring to him. Pagan wants his camera — he will get it.
They don't talk more after that, and Ajay spends the day being jittery and bumping into people at a rate at least one per hour. Everyone looks at him with good-willed concern, but Ajay just politely brushes them off. When 6 PM comes, Ajay finds Sabal and tells him he will spend the night outside the village, hike a little, maybe even stargaze. Sabal looks amused, but doesn't question him, tells Ajay to be careful and radio him if anything happens.
ATV rumbles with all its power, carrying Ajay over the rocky roads and small hills. Despite a rather cold wind blowing right in his face, he feels flushed all over.
This... dinner... will either end in a disaster or become the best night of Ajay's life. There will be no in-between. But either way, Ajay thinks he will get answers to the questions he has been asking himself for quite a time.
Ajay hops off the ATV after reaching the main gates of Pagan's residence, and one of the guards takes it off to the side and covers it with a piece of black tarpaulin, tying it properly to the hooks on the ground. Shit, if Ajay would need a quick getaway, that would be quite a holdback.
There's a man waiting for Ajay atop of the stairs (Ajay likes to call him a fancy word steward) and he leads him through the rooms to the part of the palace Ajay has never been before. None of the lights is working, and Ajay is glad that the sky is free of clouds, otherwise he would surely trip over something in the dimness of the corridor.
Steward — whose name Ajay still doesn't know — bows his head and makes a gesture towards a closed double door. There's a warm orange light coming from under it. So... this is it. Or maybe he could leap over the railing and— No. This is it.
Ajay grabs both door handles and tugs them on himself, hoping he doesn't look too dramatic.
Pagan is there. Not like Ajay expected him not to be, of course he is already there, he is the host, and he is preparing everything, well, of course there's not much he has prepared with his own hands, but he gave orders, and—
Ajay sighs. He is babbling. Inside his own head. He hopes he won't start doing it out loud. Not that he ever babbles out loud, he is physically incapable of it, and— Fuck, he's done it again.
“Welcome, my boy,” Pagan says, carefully pouring a glass of white wine just as Ajay strips down his coat and puts it on a hanger on the wall. “I swear I've heard your ATV from the mile ahead.”
“I'm not much for stealth,” Ajay says, moving closer to the table. Pagan gestures for him to sit down and Ajay complies, noting the wonderful smell of the food. Christ, he's hungry.
“Unless you're ravaging the army outposts,” Pagan says, and Ajay can hear his smirk. He smiles, accepts the offered glass. It smells faintly of some berries, but Ajay can't quite put his finger on it. And it tastes... Wow. It might be the best wine he has ever tried. He hates dry wine, he hates extra sweet wines and those douchy wines that open up at the aftertaste, and he has shit luck in picking a good one, but this one, it's amazing. It's simple, it's light, not too dry and doesn't burn his tongue or the back of his throat.
Pagan puts the wine bottle into the bucket filled with ice and sits down opposite of Ajay. Their eyes lock over the table, and all thoughts leave Ajay's head. Pagan's eyes are so kind, it's almost like he says Everything is alright without a word. Pagan grabs his own glass of wine, and for the first time Ajay notices that the sleeves of his shirt are rolled up, leaving his forearms naked. And these are very nice forearms. Better than Ajay imagined them some months ago when he thought about Pagan in a T-shirt. Just... wow. Wow.
“You might have already guessed,” Pagan says, interrupting the string of wows inside Ajay's head, “that we're having fish.” When Ajay looks at him dubiously, he adds: “No bones.”
“Huh,” is all that Ajay says, looking down at his plate. Cubes of fish glisten with sugary-brown color, sprinkled with sesame and tiny flakes of something red. It looks really tasty. He picks one cube with his fork, then looks at Pagan with a wry smile on his lips. “If I find even one bone in this, no matter how small, you have my permission to kill the cook.”
Pagan openly laughs, and there're crinkles in the corners of his eyes, and Ajay loves him so fucking much—
There. He said it. Not out loud, but still. He has been refusing to use these words for quite a time, but... What's the point in pretending? Especially if the sight of Pagan fills Ajay's heart with such a sweet ache? So he doesn't know for sure if Pagan feels the same or just has a need to flirt. Big deal. Won't stop Ajay from daydreaming about kissing the smirk off those lips.
And by some miracle, Ajay doesn't feel nervous anymore. What's done is done, he guesses, so he relaxes in his chair and eats the fish. It's delicious. And no bones at all.
They spend some time just silently eating their food and working on the bottle of wine. When Pagan pours the last of it in Ajay's glass, he shoots a message from his phone. A servant comes in with a metal trolley to collect their plates and changes their bucket with the empty bottle for a new one. Pagan once again does the honor of pouring them wine while the servant puts plates with some sort of salad on the table and then a big flat plate with artfully arranged pieces of fruits, all bite-sized. The wine is rose this time, and just as good as the white one. At this rate Ajay will become spoiled. Also he finally notices that Pagan's vest is black. His ensemble is black and white all over. Weird. Since when does he forgo the pink?
The food looks so good that Ajay's hands itch for the camera. But he detests the trend of taking photos of food, believes it to be quite offending to the other party and also able to kill the entire atmosphere. And speaking of cameras...
“So, why did you tell me to bring my camera?” Ajay says, gathering pieces of chicken and peach on his fork. The combination is definitely new for him, but he likes it.
“Let's say I have some things I want you to shoot. With your Nicon,” he quickly adds, quirking his eyebrow.
That's... really not helpful. But whatever. Ajay is good at, ah, shooting things. So whatever Pagan asks of him, he would deliver.
They finish their salads and then slowly make way through the fruit plate. Ajay demolishes grapefruit piece by piece, it's really bitter, but that just how Ajay likes it. Pagan tries the grapefruit just once, makes a face and doesn't touch it again, turning his attention to the mango instead. Huh, who knew. Just makes it more for Ajay. And between the bites they talk about silly stuff, like Ajay failing to learn how to knit or Pagan ordering hundreds of useless things on Ali. Ajay asks Pagan if he is the one coming up with all those sophisticated full-of-wisdom phrases for the pamphlets that are spread across Kyrat, and turns out that yes, he is, but he needs a lot of coke for that.
Pagan's phone starts ringing, interrupting their talk. Pagan does a quick swipe across the phone's screen, stands up, dusting his coat.
“Well, come on!” he says with enthusiasm. “And don't forget your camera!”
Good point. Ajay finishes his glass of wine, then finishes Pagan's glass, which earns him an amused glance. The wine is superb, sue him. Ajay takes his camera — but not his jacket, even though it's probably chilly outside — and they leave. Pagan leads him outside, they follow a worn path, then go up the wide stairs, and Ajay is so concentrated on watching where he steps that he doesn't notice the lights until the last moment. He takes the last step, lifts his head and—
Mix of red and orange and golden and scarlet, and myriads of little lanterns and banners and thick pieces of deep-colored linen everywhere. And in the middle of this little world — dancers. They're clad in what Ajay believes to be traditional Kyrati clothing, patterns and ropes and dozens of layers and also — masks. There are ten of them, and clothes make it hard to discern whether they're guys or girls, just that they're all almost exactly the same height and built, but it doesn't matter, because the way they move is—
There's no word for it.
And just one thing to do.
Click.
The first photo Ajay takes mostly on autopilot. And then he just can't stop. He slowly makes way from one position to another, tries as many angles as he can, circles along the edge of the pavilion, getting a better look at each dancer individually. The way they move... it's not something Ajay can put in words. It's mesmerizing. They remind him of the bird flocks in the sky, a formidable force of thousands moving as a single organism, and their grace is one of a tiger, big predator on the prowl.
Ajay is no good with things poetic. But he is good with his camera. He lives by it. Stealing moments of life and keeping them forever has always been that something that kept him moving on.
A flash of black and white invades the red sea of dancers, and Ajay realizes that it's Pagan, gliding between those men and women. Ajay doesn't know if it was planned or not, but dancers move around Pagan almost in a guiding way, one of them letting him through and the other circling around and the third beckoning to move to the right, and Pagan does, and he flows in the middle of them, stroked by their foot long sleeves, and he catches the rhythm, he twirls just as slow as music asks and then just as fast as music asks, and he looks—
Ethereal.
If only that one dancer could just keep with the others, goddammit, it would've been—
Wait. That's what has been wrong, that dancer. He is a little bit taller than the others and is half-beat late to their movements, and just refuses to leave Pagan's side—
Shit, no, it's just Ajay's imagination and his inability to relax. Right now comes the part of the dance that mirrors the one from about ten minutes ago, and they all switch places from inner row to the outer in what Ajay can only call a sinusoidal way, and—
The dancer doesn't follow a pattern and instead slides behind Pagan's ba—
Ajay screams, “Behind you!” — and Pagan's reaction is instant and it's just in time for him to intercept the knife coming right at his ribs by getting the hold of attacker's wrist, and Pagan knees the guy in the stomach, then elbows him between the shoulder blades, hits him with the knife in the exact same spot, pushes him to the ground, turns over with a kick, slices his throat, stabs his chest, and again, and again, and finally leaves the knife between the ribs, inside up to the hilt.
It takes no more than ten seconds.
Ajay keeps taking photos for the whole time.
Pagan rips the mask off the attacker. One of the dancers says that it's not one of theirs in a shaking voice. Pagan scoffs and gestures for them to leave. They're very happy to do just so, to run down the stairs, because whether they are or aren’t at fault, they're at risk.
Ajay puts his camera down on the nearest railing, it's wide enough to hold it. His hands are shaking.
Pagan is breathing heavily, still sitting on the ground, his crisp white shirt is covered in blood, and when he stands up and checks the hem of his rolled-up sleeves, Ajay sees that his palms are red all over.
Pagan turns to face Ajay. His face, it looks— He looks—
Hungry.
Ajay comes up to him in three big strides and smashes their mouths together. Nothing gentle, just raw desire and adrenaline. He takes a tight hold of Pagan's jaw with both hands, almost a painful grip, and he doesn't even want to think about the scenario in which Pagan doesn't recipro—
Pagan bites Ajay's lower lip. It hurts, and it makes Ajay angry, but then Pagan licks a wide wet stripe across Ajay's lips, just like Ajay loves, and almost painfully grabs Ajay's neck, and their mouths are hot, and when rare wafts of the wind brush over them it's almost freezing, and it's still not enough, not enough, not enough—
Ajay cries out when his back hits one of the columns, Pagan smashing into him, and that is, that is more like it, Ajay wants it rough, wants to keep biting and licking and all of it without any thought or system behind it. He pulls Pagan's head back, dives down to kiss Pagan's neck, to bite it, to trace his tongue up, kiss his jaw, and then to kiss his lips again, hungry and sloppy, and he doesn't give a fuck that Pagan's got blood all over his shirt and his hair, just as long as he doesn't stop—
“Boss! Boss, you okay there?”
Oh for the love of Kyra, Kalinag and Banashur..! Ajay is going to kill Paul. No, first he is going to torture him in his own torture chamber so the fucker could feel the irony, but then..!
Pagan leans away from Ajay, his breath unsteady, blush highlighting his cheekbones. For one fleeting second Ajay's afraid that Pagan has realized what they've been doing and that he doesn't actually want it and just was confused and aroused by the situation but not Ajay, and—
Pagan leaves a gentle kiss in the corner of Ajay's mouth.
“I'm fine, Paul, dear,” Pagan says to the general direction of Paul's voice. “You better go check on the dancers, see what happened.”
“On it, boss!” says Paul and leaves immediately.
There's a good man. But he still deserves to be electrocuted or something.
Ajay looks over Pagan's shoulder at the dead body of the attacker. The red of his costume is mixing perfectly with the blood. Fucking asshole, coming here and ruining the dance. And speaking of...
"Thanks, uh... Thanks for the dance. It was, uh...” Ajay finds it really hard to concentrate and find the right words when Pagan keeps looking at him with intent and delight and caressing Ajay's forearms. “It was perfect. It was... I loved every part of it.” I loved you every second of it. “I... thank you.”
Pagan is positively shining with glee and satisfaction. This is a very lovely look on him, one he doesn't wear as often as Ajay would want him too. It's not that he spends most of the time brooding, of course not, but he is not in the habit of showing his soft side, showing that he is happy.
Ajay isn't very much into romance. At least into the traditional idea of it. Maybe he isn't made for the traditional at all. Maybe he is made for this, he thinks, as Pagan traces his palms down Ajay's forearms just to entwine their fingers together, for this pavilion, drowning in red, for assassinations and power and bloodied hands and lips stinging from biting.
Maybe he is made for Pagan.
Ajay certainly hopes Pagan was made for him.
Ajay leans down — down, not up, he is taller, it's marvellous — and kisses Pagan, softly, the corners of his mouth curling into a smile.
He thinks about the photos he has just made and about the bitter taste of grapefruit and also — about how he is able to properly breathe for the first time in months. And everything is right.
5.
Well, not everything.
Ajay winces at the sound of the door slamming shut, sighs, hides his face in his palms, groans. He knows that his gestures reek of drama, but he can't help it.
Sabal whispers something under his breath, probably curses, probably prayers, maybe some highly inappropriate combination of those. At any rate, he sounds highly irritated.
“Remind me,” Ajay says, leaning against the table, “how long have you been working with her? No, no, no, better tell me: how did you manage not to lose your sanity while working with her?”
Sabal gives him a sly if a tired smile. “What makes you think I did?”
“Point.”
Ajay's been working with Amita for about eight months now and is steadily going crazy. Sabal deserves a medal for putting up with her for so long. And if she's that bitchy considering that things are going well for the Golden Path, then what was she like before? Yikes.
Sabal undoes his ponytail, cards fingers through his hair. Ajay silently hands him the hairbrush knowing full well Sabal's ritual of brushing his hair to soothe the pain gathering at his temples.
“You remember our talk?” Ajay says, pouring them both a glass of water. “That talk. A month ago.”
“I said I lost my sanity, not that I went senile,” Sabal says dryly. “Of course I remember it.”
“And?”
Sabal sighs. “I understand what you wanted to say to me, I do, but... There's no reasoning with her.”
“Amita is stubborn, yes. But at least you are ready to negotiate, right?”
“Ajay. Let's say I am. So what? Even if we meet on some middle ground, what's use would there be of our plans? Who will let us do what we want? Pagan? Ha!” Sabal scoffs, his words are mocking and tired and desperate, and Ajay—
Is stunned.
By how easy it is.
The answer has been right in front of him for the whole time.
Ajay quickly stands up, grabs his jacket, his blade and almost runs for the door.
“Don't wait up for me!” he says and rushes through the village to his ATV. Villagers are used to him running like a crazy person and easily move out of the way. Ajay grabs a huge woollen scarf from Tatya's table without even pausing and shouts his thanks to her over his shoulder. He has a long road ahead of him, and it will become much colder soon.
Ajay wastes a second to check the tires by kicking them a couple of times, hops on the ATV, starts it, weaves the scarf tightly around his neck and finally goes down the hill.
To the King's Palace.
Ajay takes the less-travelled paths, makes dangerous shortcuts and even — when he sees a Royal convoy coming down his way — leaps down the hill to evade them. That also saves him at least fifteen minutes of the ride and makes him laugh because ATVs are not meant for flying, boy.
By the time Ajay reaches the Palace, he barely feels the tips of his fingers. He stops at the entrance with a swift turn, greets the guards and sprints up the stairs. If Ajay finds Pagan all coked up right now, he is going to murder him.
Ajay marches to the main office and opens the doors hard enough for them to slam against the walls. Pagan is there, not coked up, but also not alone. Some sort of a Commander, judging by his form and insignias, probably making a report or something.
“You,” Ajay says, making a curt nod at the guy, “out.”
The guy stares at Ajay, then stares at Pagan, then back at Ajay, and when Ajay is almost ready to throw him down the balcony just to make him leave, the guy bows his head, leaves some papers on the desk and goes away.
Neat.
“Are you finally trying to take over my palace, darling?” Pagan says, his smile so openly amused and just screaming happiness. He spins in his overly-pompous chair away from the table, leans forwards.
“No,” Ajay says, walking up to him and stopping in front of him, towering over Pagan, looking down at him. “But I'm finally trying to take over your country.”
Ajay expects for Pagan's smile to change, to become a smirk, but instead—
Pagan's whole face just lights up. His smile is now wider and in his eyes, it's—
Adoration.
Not able to stop himself, Ajay leans down to kiss Pagan.
“I'm going to change everything,” Ajay whispers against Pagan's lips. “Kyrat will thrive once more.”
And Pagan says, “Yes.”
Like it's final. Like he has no doubts. He knows — they both do — that it will be hard, that there's no easy or short way to stop the bloodshed, to unite people, that they can't fix all the problems with a snap of their fingers, that in order to gain they might have to lose. But Ajay also knows that they both would do anything in order not to lose each other, so that's fine.
Kyrat has been waiting for Ajay Ghale's return for decades.
And Ajay Ghale would do anything to keep her safe.
