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Usually, Gil is awake early. One wouldn’t think it, what with how he enjoys lounging and lying around and assorted activities, but he’s always been an early riser. Even if there’s nothing to do in the early hours — he turns away his attendants and assistants, bringing reports from the last night, usually — he rises before Enkidu, and sits in the open-air window of his room, watching the sunrise light up the Euphrates with an unexpectedly thoughtful expression when he thinks no one is watching.
Enkidu won’t tell a soul, but usually when Gil gets up, the movement wakes them as well, and each time it does they turn as silently as they can, with scarcely a rustle of the sheets, to watch him drape himself with a loose patterned covering and sit in the emerging beams of the sun. It lights him up, in a way that the overhead sun or the setting evening rays don’t — sitting alone with the wide open expanse of the room around him, the angles of his face softened by the diffusion of the light and the lilac shadows, he looks kinder, or maybe sadder, or maybe lonely — even what little Enkidu can see of him, from their position on the bed. They always watch for a few minutes, almost unblinking, before Gil finally notices someone looking at him. Each time, they snap their eyes shut and pretend to be asleep, but they don’t presume that he’s fooled.
Gil is usually up first, which is why it’s a rare occurrence for Enkidu to wake, slowly, to the warm pressure of his forearm around their waist. For a moment, they figure that he must be awake already, and just feeling lazy, so they prepare to turn around and jab their fingers into whatever part of his ribs would hurt the most. But his breathing is steady and slow, and he hasn’t moved at all even with the start of Enkidu squirming their way around to face him. They slow considerably, propping themself up with their elbow — careful not to accidentally jab Gil with that, too — before flopping rather ungracefully onto their other side. All the while, Gil’s arm stays right where it is, a comforting weight against their side. He hasn’t stirred a bit.
The sun is higher than it usually is, so the room is lighter than usual; it’s not yet morning proper, but outside there is the sound of a solitary stall — or perhaps two — being set up in the nearby marketplace — the sound of a few voices, the sound of wood against stone as boxes are unpacked — and the light is more orange than blue as it comes in through the window, although the sky is still dark enough to mistake for evening. Enkidu is sure the moon would still be up, were they to crane their neck over the balcony to look.
Whatever time it might be at this point, the light in the room is just enough to illuminate Gil’s sleeping face. Enkidu almost laughs at the thought of anyone else seeing him like this — his mouth is just slightly open, his cheek visibly squished against the arm between it and his pillow. Of course, fashioned by the gods as he is, he still looks unfairly picturesque like this, completely conked out under a set of wrinkled, tossed sheets. Enkidu doesn’t manage to stifle a little laugh at that, though it’s more an exhale than anything else, the tiniest sound carried mostly by air.
Like this, Gil doesn’t look like a hero-king. He doesn’t look like a tyrant, or a cruel despot, or the wedge of the heavens at all. He just looks like Gil, the rawest and most frank Enkidu has ever seen him. When he’s awake, there’s something about the set of his jaw and the furrow of his brow, the way he crosses his arms and straightens his neck, that’s meant to make him look larger than he is, more frightening and cruel and stern than he is. Of course, he is those things. Enkidu won’t deny it — they’ve seen it themselves, in action. But equally so, they’ve seen Gil pet the head of a lion cub with an unbelievable softness, card his hand through their hair with a care they’ve told him a thousand times isn’t warranted. They’ve seen him look a child in the eye and soften, almost deflating with the weight of it. And right now, the Gil that’s sleeping next to them is that Gil — the one who was given an impossible task at the end of the age of gods, who tried to shoulder that alone for years. He may have grown since Enkidu first met him, may have become older and harsh and unyielding, but inside he’s still the same child whose voice first called them to Uruk in the moments after they were first born.
He would probably be angry if he heard them say that, Enkidu realizes with a soft smile. They pull the sheets up to their chin, shifting to almost completely cocoon themself. In a way, it is wrong. If Gil had never been meant to change, then the gods never would have created Enkidu — there would never have been a need for them. It was him all along, whose life gave a reason for their existence. Enkidu doesn’t think it something romantic, or something over-the-top; to them, it is the simple fact that they were created for him.
Gil is still fast asleep; it seems that this time, he hasn’t noticed Enkidu’s incessant staring. In fact, they’re sure they’ve hardly blinked — without human eyes, it’s not necessary to, although they’ve certainly picked up the habit from someone or another — perhaps Shamhat told them that it creeps people out if they don’t, at some point. With no one else to see, though, Enkidu can look all they like. Gil’s flaxen hair just barely catches the light at this hour, and his eyelashes are barely visible unless Enkidu squints. They lean in close to inspect, unconscionably close — their nose must hardly be an inch from Gil’s cheek — then decide that it’s been enough looking.
Enkidu readjusts, propping themself up properly on their elbow, and leans in again. Their free hand brushes away the hair on Gil’s forehead, and they press their lips to it, feather-light. They move away slightly after a moment, but no further, breathing in the smell of warmth. Gil may be part divinity, but he has the warmth of humans — a tangible, welcoming warmth.
It occurs to Enkidu, not for the first time, how much they love him. They think they might be swallowed up by it.
When they open their eyes, he is looking back at them, awake, red eyes still sleepy and half-lidded. And so they smile. “Good morning, Gil.”