we really know our worth (the sun and i)
"Everything about me is so plain," Addam said. Sniffed, rather, as much as a plain and honest man like him ever did sniff. "And yet it's task enough to keep my plain self upright. I never will understand how you do it."
"Consider it this way: if I didn't have plain, normal Addam helping me along, I might not be able to."
"Ah. That's not good, is it?"
"It's as good as I say it is. And it is good."
They had this same proto-argument continually, Addam in pseudo-self-recrimination and Minoth in gruff amelioration thereof. Better than arrogance, wasn't it? But maybe it wasn't.
Was Addam allotted shares of low self-image, for being a human man? Was Addam mandated shares of low self-image, for being a human man?
"After all," he said as he regarded his plain and unremarkable wrist, turned this way and that to show the bland-blue unremarkable veins, decorated by nary a blemishing pimple, "the only scars I've got are the type you get when you can't get your hands on any others."
Minoth gave him a look, questioning and perhaps, just slightly, judging.
"That part was easy, for me. Mungo never gave me any issue."
"Didn't the queen? You've told me."
"Oh, the queen," Addam said dismissively. "It's odd to me that all the royals of Torna could be so purely rotten, in that way."
"Not your father? You never told me."
Preoccupied with his grand, championing trains of thought, Addam nearly answered in stride, but caught himself once he recalled the rhythm of Minoth's questions. "No, not my father," he said with a smile. "Oh, but who gives a blast? I'm no more or less a man for facing criticism, or not, than you would be. Or anyone else!"
"So," said Minoth.
"So?"
"So it doesn't matter how plain you are. You're deserving - or not - of my admiration nonetheless."
"Aha, not 'regardless' - you admit to my plainness! And I wouldn't say admiration."
Of course he admitted to Addam's plainness. Of course he knew that, practically, only in fairytales did this sort of divine contrast, loser and loser by strokes of unambition both, emerge. Minoth, beaten down by his sidewise origin. Addam, raised up though he'd prefer it not to be so. It was quite a useful exercise, to be able to position the pieces, this man here and his lover there, and the admiration from afar drawn closer, and closer, and closer... But it was also very, very tiresome.
Minoth muttered, "And I wouldn't say love."
"Too difficult?"
"My effusiveness lies only in written word. Everything I say..." he waved his own wrist "...can be all manner of claptrap."
"You're too right," mused Addam. "I'm not sure I understand the half of it."
They were already standing close - by their personal standards, that is to say, which meant that their shoes were separated by about the length of a foot but that their chests were no farther apart than one or the other could reach with a determined arm - but now Minoth edged closer. The line of his pant leg, very nearly, met Addam's, knee and knicker.
"Take this hand of yours," he began, doing so. "I could stand here and say, look how the index and ring fingers line up, how the last finger is crooked, how the thumb is double-jointed. It all means something. And you could agree," he flexed the index and made it to wag back in Addam's face (the prince remained transfixed in a fond awe), "or you could say it's nonsense. Because it is. But it all means something."
(It's as good as I say it is. And it is good.)
When Addam snaked his free hand over to Minoth's, he found it accepting.
"When I say all that, you don't think that I'm intending to say that I love you."
For the moment, Addam let Minoth retain his innocent delusion, instead replying, "What am I meant to think, then?"
"That I'm ridiculous - that I'm just as ridiculous as you are, and it doesn't matter how weathered my face, how scarred my arms."
The thesis, teased out, as near as Addam could make it: Minoth, by proxy of foolish poetry, would impress upon Addam the inherent lovable nature of once just such as this certain prince, not through the words themselves, but through their reflection in the context of a black-and-white world that revered only the physical appearance of experience and hardship, scorning all others.
All Addam could say was, "You are ridiculous!"
"So it's worked," Minoth said triumphantly. He didn't drop Addam's hand now that its usefulness in the course of examination had been expended.
Addam shook his head. "No, so you're ridiculous." Moving his hand towards Minoth's cheek, he now found, again, the Flesh Eater's attached appendage accepting of the course. "Need we tell ourselves all these lies?"
"In a world where it's impossble to tell what's true, yes."
"Only because you're bashful," Addam said with a smile. "I'll hear all your fictions, all your strange rhymes, and they are more than good enough for me, but don't use them because you think I need them. I only need you."
Minoth rolled his eyes. "In other words, you can't say it either."
"In other words, I love you. Good enough?"
He allowed Addam a kiss, hands interlocked and all secure in their world of singular truth, so Addam allowed him his reticence.