Mehndi Your Own Business

"A package?" Ahmed's voice floated in under Dacon's door from the front room. Dacon shook himself awake, always having one earbud out due to paranoia, on the bottom mattress of his bunk bed. Sweeping the black-out curtains rigged to the frame aside, he strode towards the door. He cracked it open and stared at his distant grand nephew's back. He took a step into the hall, but the sun hadn't fully set yet, and his skin began to crawl as the ambient sunlight washed across him. 

"Kya yeh mera hai??" Dacon hissed in Hindi. Ahmed pretended not to hear him. Dacon sighed, crouched behind the door leaving it open only a slit, and in irritation repeated the phrase in English. "Is it mine?"

Ahmed turned with a smile, which faltered when he saw Dacon wincing in pain. 

"Yeah, get in the room, I'll bring it in."

Dacon retreated, not fully shutting the door, back to his bunk bed. He slumped into the wall and waited. Ahmed came in, shutting the door behind him. The motion-activated night light flicked on, spilling candle-like orange light through the room.

"So you learned how to use that debit card I gave you." Ahmed beamed proudly. He set the box on the edge of the mattress as if it contained a live kitten. Dacon knew it wasn't a kitten because he'd asked if he could have one and Ahmed had told him no plenty of times. Dacon reached out and grabbed the box pulling it onto his lap.

"Yes. I asked the robot lady in the phone for help and she opened up the pages I needed. Just like on the TV." Dacon began to pick at the tape on the package. He English had an accent, but it British English contaminated with his place of origin, not American. Ahmed was 100% Ahmed. He was born in Illinois, after all.

"The dyslexia app I download any help with reading? You've been doing your writing drills on the tablet with the stylus?"

"You know very well I haven't."

"The sooner you learn the more the internet will be available to you."

"So I can go argue with people in the comments sections of recipe websites like you do? No thanks." Dacon gave up with his finger nails and bit into the space between the lid and box. His canine was super-extended and sliced through not only the tape but the cardboard and protective plastic sheath as well.   

"Olive oil is good on anything savory though," Ahmed mumbled with a smile. 

Dacon opened the box and inside it were: eleven carrot shaped plastic bags, like the kind used for icing a cake, two fragile bottles of essential oils (tea tree and lavender), two bags of clay color powder, and five stainless steel tips.

Ahmed lifted up the pamphlet and flicked through its glossy pages.

"Henna? Like they do at the farmers market?"

"I need to mix this with water and sugar in a bowl." Dacon didn't answer. Ahmed volunteered to get it and did so. With all the ingredients gathered, Dacon mixed them together until the powder turned into a dark, rich paste.

"I'm surprised this is what you wanted to spend your first check on. Isn't Henna for girls?"

"Mehndi is for anyone who can make it." Dacon rolled off one of his socks and sat down on the floor. He grabbed an errant magazine and shoved it under his foot. After attaching one of the steel tips to the paste-filled bag, he brought it close to his foot. Ahmed folded his arms and watched his great-uncle, who looked like his nephew.

"What are you doing now?"

"Janchane," Dacon responded, distracted. Ahmed cleared his throat and Dacon realized his mistake, translating it to: "A test." He carefully drew a paisley around his ankle. Ahmed didn't even notice fifteen minutes passing. When Dacon finished, he set the tube aside, threw his arms behind him, and arched his back a little, stretching out. 

"That's not half bad," Ahmed responded.

"We'll see how it looks when the air cures it," Dacon didn't sound too optimistic.

"The book says once it dries you should cover it with plastic." Ahmed offered, flicking through the pamphlet.

"I didn't need to cover it in plastic when I did it two hundred years ago," Dacon scoffed.

"You weren't going to be touching my furniture two hundred years ago. One second," Ahmed ducked out into the kitchen and returned with some large freezer bags. He set them off to the side to be worn when it was all dry. "When did you learn how to draw?"

"Mom knew how to do it," Dacon tilted the tube. "You learn to do all sorts of stuff in the old world. Here you can trip and fall into money. Not like that there and then. I did it here and there, for weddings and such. Once we started fighting, though, I've been... busy. I haven't drawn since the Cold War, at least."

Ahmed didn't argue. Poor meant different things in different places.

"Can you draw something on me? Just my foot, I can't go to work looking like I spent the weekend at some music festival."

"Sure."  Dacon offered one of his rare half-smiles, the kind he usually only rewarded when seeing a cat. Ahmed took off his socks as well and sat down in front of Dacon. Dacon frowned.

"Your foot has little clingy cotton things. Go wash it off."

Exasperated, Ahmed did that, then resettled again.

"Aren't feet considered unclean?" Ahmed asked.

"This is the USA," Dacon shrugged. Ahmed was tempted to pepper him with questions, but held his tongue. In so many ways, the vampire who'd stumbled into his life last year was still a mystery. Ahmed believed Dacon was his relative, and he believed Dacon didn't intend to hurt him, but beyond that the other had been so evasive. He knew hundreds of years of family history and mystery rested behind those fangs, but when he mentioned it Dacon just wanted to watch his stories, sleep, or zone out. He'd finally gotten a part-time job working the dead-eye shift stocking groceries at the corner store owned by a Pakistani family when Ahmed threatened to disinvite him (a prohibition Dacon would have had to obey, since vampire magic worked like leprechauns or something). 

Maybe he'd have to be content with this kind of communication, at least for a while. 

"There you are," Dacon retreated, revealing the pattern. A paisley that matched Dacon's almost perfectly, though it was wider on Ahmed's larger body. 

"Thank you."

"No, thank you."