Sometimes, Aladdin was reminded of just how…well, unpoetic he was. It had never bothered him before. He knew he wasn't particularly affluent with high natured phrases and quips, he was aware the subtle beauty of what words were truly capable of escaped him. And, to be quite honest, he didn't have to be poetic to woo Jasmine. She was romantic enough for the both of them. But being romantic, and being a master of language were two different things entirely.
Mozenrath taught him that.
" And so I fall into you, upon you," Mozenrath had said slowly, effortlessly as he stole breath stealing samplings of Aladdin's lips, " like night descends with sprawling wings."
And at first, Aladdin could not really appreciate the impact Mozenrath's little bouts of decadence, his profusions of love. He thought they were odd, to be quite frank, at least when Mozenrath first began. And then he noticed the way his heart balled up there, just behind his throat, when the gentle sensuality of Mozenrath's words hit him. He began to really feel the way he would repeat silently the words of the sorcerer upon his own lips, long after they were said, as if savoring them, testing them.
As the warmth of Aladdin's hands cupped Mozenrath's face for a better maneuvered kiss, Mozenrath's fingers laced coyly behind Aladdin's back, saying with perfect confidence, " In a perfect world, I alone would have the coil of your mortality about my fingers, so as to keep you alive, " a kiss pressed with fluidity, "forever."
He always finished eloquently.
Mozenrath was an educated man, Aladdin knew. He studied with industrious dedication the sciences, astrology, chemistry and biology, astrology, works of Latin, Greek, and classic French. He knew Rome quite well, and could articulate in languages artfully beyond his own. He was versed in all the different religions of the worlds, and was comfortable in the intricate exchange of foreign politics. He was a man well rounded. But, in an instinctual way, Aladdin knew these... these little nothings that meant everything were Mozenrath's own words.
And that made it all the more special. Poetry, for him. To think, perhaps, he inspired it all….And lately? He was developed this little nagging guilt, that he should know all this poetry from Mozenrath's wealth of artful love, and he, Aladdin, only had his sincerity, his actions, his love. Should he not prove his affection with spoken art? But Aladdin…was no master of words. He wasn't incompetent; it just wasn't his area of expertise.
" I can move betwixt mountains, through mountains," Mozenrath had whispered with a self satisfied grin as he curls tickled Aladdin's over heated skin, "if I can indeed move over the expanse of you sun kissed perfection." In a flourish unparalleled, he pressed a light kiss on the trembling skin just above Aladdin's hip.
In one near-disaster, Aladdin almost tried to create his own type of poetry in due appreciation of Mozenrath, looking up with flickering eyes for the confidence to spill out words he did not think he was capable of saying, the attempt to articulate the roiling sea of affection for Mozenrath inside was there, just on the tip of his tongue, before Aladdin smothered quickly in the moment of its birth. He knew it could not compare to all the thousands of ways Mozenrath could both melt Aladdin and build him up to dizzying heights.
He wished he were a poetic man.
Of course, there was the day Aladdin could not find Mozenrath, and so searched for him all over the heat stifled Citadel. He at last tracked the sorcerer down to the emptiest room, where Mozenrath sat with his knees loosely tucked to his chest, looking out of the large panel window at the dunes below. He was meticulously quiet, and looked up only out of habit when Aladdin made his subdued entrance. He knew by experience the varying colors and patterns of Mozenrath's moods, and knew also how to treat them. He knelt down next to Mozenrath, and noted this bout of depression was particularly bad by the fall of Mozenrath's brow, and the lack of focus in his eyes, plus the tight purse of his lips. Mozenrath, for the most part, paid no attention to Aladdin's quiet inspection of him, and exhaled sharply through his nose.
Now, Aladdin's heart urged, now is the time for some brilliant words of comfort and love. Spin Mozenrath a slope of poetry to climb from his depression! Save him and soothe him with the elegance of a man in total love. This need to articulate raged inside of Aladdin, and he fought hard to find the right-sounding words. Eventually, he too sighed, a little more freely than Mozenrath. He surrendered to the facts of himself, the same ole' Aladdin, and, resolved, took Mozenrath's hand into his. He pressed Mozenrath's palm to his lips and said with both humility and lack of abashment,
"I love you."
Mozenrath's countenance hovered for a moment, flickered, and then broke into a genuine, small smile, curling his fingers into Aladdin's hair to pull him in close.
All in all, sometimes, Aladdin wished he were a poetic man. Then again, sometimes he didn't.