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Chapter Text

The sun had barely begun to sink beyond the western sky, painting the Palace of Indraprastha in a dusky golden hue. The sprawling Sabha had emptied out for the day, leaving only soft echoes of earlier discussions lingering in its marbled corners. The corridors breathed with peace, and the air buzzed with the faint scent of champa and sandalwood. It was a rare lull in the lives of the Pandavas—no council meetings, no courtly obligations, no enemy to strategize against.

Arjuna sat cross-legged on the floor of their private chamber, eyes scanning the hilt of his sword absentmindedly. Yudhishthira lounged on a low divan, humming a soft prayer under his breath, while Nakula and Sahadeva sat across from one another playing a quiet game of dice—not the reckless kind their elder brother once regretted, but the sort born out of sibling leisure.

Bheem was, as usual, sprawled like a lion in slumber, one leg over the edge of the couch, chewing on a stalk of sugarcane he had demanded from the kitchen just moments earlier. It snapped between his teeth with a satisfying crunch.

“This is what heaven must feel like,” he declared mid-chew. “A stomach full, no war looming, and no sage asking us to fast for penance.”

Yudhishthira chuckled. “Speak for yourself, brother. Heaven may not include your third helping of kheer.”

“Speak for yourself!” Bheem shot back, grinning. “Maybe the gods are jealous I get to enjoy this mortal world so well.”

Just then, a familiar breeze seemed to flow in through the open jharokhas, a scent of peacock feathers and blooming kadambas trailing behind it. No one had to look up to know who it was.

“Madhav!” Arjuna’s voice carried an unmistakable lilt of delight as he stood instinctively.

And there he was—Krishna, the cowherd prince of Dwaraka, lotus-eyed, bedecked in a simple yellow silk dhoti, his smile as serene as the Yamuna on a moonlit night.

“Did you think you could all lounge around and not invite me?” Krishna said, stepping in with that playful glint in his eye, scanning the five brothers.

Bheem thumped his chest in greeting, “I was just telling them about heaven, and lo! It appears.”

Krishna laughed. “Then clearly, Bheem, you still don’t know what heaven looks like, if you think this,” he gestured dramatically at the lounging mess, “is it.”

While the others laughed, Arjuna’s eyes didn’t leave Krishna’s face. His hands twitched by his side. Something stirred deep inside, like a ripple against a calm lake. It wasn’t longing—not exactly. It was more… awareness. Presence. Gravity. Krishna always had that effect on him, but today it felt like it carved itself deeper.

The subtle change didn’t go unnoticed.

Yudhishthira raised an eyebrow, his gaze flicking between his third brother and their divine cousin.

Sahadeva nudged Nakula, who raised both brows in silent amusement.

But it was Bheem who elbowed Yudhishthira and whispered not-so-quietly, “Does Arjuna always stand like a tree struck by lightning when he sees Krishna, or is this new?”

Arjuna flushed—visibly.

And that, for the rest of the Pandavas, was the first sign of what could only be divine mischief afoot.

“Arjuna,” Nakula said, rising with a smug grin, “has Krishna grown two heads, or are you just stunned by his beauty today?”

“He always stares,” Sahadeva added, “but today there’s colour in his cheeks. What is this? Has the mighty archer been struck by Kamadeva’s arrow?”

“Careful,” Bheem said dramatically, “Madhav might steal his heart the way he stole butter as a child.”

Krishna merely smiled, saying nothing as he came and sat beside Arjuna, whose ears were now positively crimson. He was never one to flinch in battle, never one to lose composure, yet here he was—nervous, flustered, utterly mortal.

Yudhishthira, kind and perceptive, decided to intervene. “Enough, all of you,” he said, though his lips curved. “Let them breathe. Let us leave them be.”

“Let us,” Bheem agreed with exaggerated emphasis. “Before Arjuna melts into the floor.”

The four brothers excused themselves, trying to suppress their laughter. And with that, the room quieted again, as if Indraprastha itself knew to step away and give space to something sacred.

Krishna’s laughter faded into soft silence. He didn’t speak immediately. Instead, he watched Arjuna with eyes that saw far more than what was shown. He noticed the way Arjuna’s fingers fidgeted with the hem of his angavastram. The warrior who faced Bhishma and Karna without blinking now found words difficult to summon.

“You’re unusually quiet,” Krishna said gently.

“I…” Arjuna began, but his voice caught in his throat.

Krishna leaned closer, brushing a wayward strand of hair from Arjuna’s brow and tucking it behind his ear. “Do I unnerve you now, Partha?”

Arjuna exhaled a breathy chuckle. “You always did, Madhav. Only now I lack the strength to pretend otherwise.”

Krishna didn’t respond with words. Instead, he took Arjuna’s hand in his and pulled him gently toward the long-cushioned couch by the window. They both sat, lazily, comfortably, their legs tangling in a way only lovers could allow—each one’s limbs half in the other’s lap, like vines curling together with ease.

The gold-orange light outside turned soft and dusky blue.

“I missed this,” Arjuna said after a while, head tilted toward Krishna. “Just… this. You, here. Not as Vishnu, not as charioteer, not as guide—but as you. My Madhav.”

Krishna rested his cheek on his palm; legs still looped with Arjuna’s. “And I missed being Madhav. The world forgets I am that too.”

They spoke of small things then—what Krishna saw on his journey from Dwaraka, how a calf followed him for five miles, how the palace cook had a dramatic argument with the gardener. Mundane things. Beautiful things. Things lovers share when words are merely an excuse to linger.

Then, without a cue or flourish, Krishna leaned forward and tucked another strand of hair behind Arjuna’s ear.

And Arjuna… kissed him.

It was not hurried or hungry. It was soft, hesitant, grateful. It was two souls resting in each other. A minute passed—or maybe a moment too eternal to count in time.

And then came the sound of footsteps.

Too many footsteps.

The brothers had returned.

The door creaked, and the energy in the room snapped from quiet intimacy to startled stillness.

Yudhishthira paused at the threshold, immediately sensing something… shifted.

Sahadeva darted a knowing glance.

Nakula looked down with a subtle smirk.

And Bheem? Bheem blurted out, “Well! That’s one way to welcome a guest.”

Arjuna practically leapt away, face now red down to his neck.

Krishna, however, burst into laughter. A laugh so full, so free, so rich with mischief that even Yudhishthira had to smile.

“You have no shame, do you?” Arjuna muttered, trying to calm his heartbeat.

“On the contrary,” Krishna replied, wiping a tear of laughter from his eye, “I am full of it. Shame, joy, love, delight—all at once.”

The others tried to act normal—tried being the keyword. Sahadeva started humming some random tune. Nakula inspected the ceiling. Bheem plopped down and mumbled, “Next time warn us. We could have waited outside.”

Arjuna groaned and buried his face in his hands.

Krishna leaned close again, whispering near his ear, “You look beautiful when flustered, Partha.”

“Stop it.”

“Say it again.”

“I will strike you with Gandiva.”

“You already struck me—right here.” Krishna placed a hand over his heart with theatrical flair.

It was late into the evening when the brothers finally settled back into their usual camaraderie, though every so often, Bheem would snort into his palm and Sahadeva would nudge Arjuna just to watch him squirm.

And Arjuna? Even amidst the teasing and embarrassment, he wore a rare softness on his face that hadn’t been seen since the early days of their youth.

Later, when all was quiet, and Krishna was preparing to leave for his own chambers, Arjuna followed him to the door.

“Stay,” he whispered.

Krishna turned. “You don’t even have to ask.”

They slipped away quietly—just as night slipped into the folds of the palace sky.

The stars looked down. The moon rose.

And somewhere, in the divine stillness of love blooming in silence, the world felt just a little lighter.

Chapter Text

The evening fire crackled merrily in the centre of the forest clearing, casting dancing shadows upon the faces of the five brothers and the dark figure reclining beside them. They had halted their journey for the night after a day of foraging for fruits under the sun-dappled canopy and wandering in the woods surrounding Hastinapur. It wasn’t war, nor exile—just one of those rare days when they could be who they were before fate crowned them with duties.

Logs had been arranged in a circle, the air thick with the scent of fresh fruits, laughter, and the promise of stories. Nakula and Sahadeva were debating whether the howl they heard earlier belonged to a jackal or a spirit in disguise. Yudhishthira was rubbing his temple, smiling tiredly, as Bheem plopped beside him savouring a ripe mango as if it were a war trophy.

And Arjuna—he was seated a bit away, close to Krishna, who leaned lazily against a tree trunk, eyes half-closed, lips tugged upward in contentment.

“You barely broke a sweat today,” Krishna murmured to him.

Arjuna turned his head, arching an eyebrow. “Neither did you. You didn’t even pick up a bow.”

Krishna stretched like a cat. “Why would I need to, when my Gandiv-dhaari does all the work while I enjoy the wind?”

“You’re impossible.”

“I’m divine,” Krishna corrected.

“You’re insufferable.”

“And yet you sit next to me.”

Arjuna tried to suppress a smile, eyes flickering to his brothers. None of them looked directly at him, but he had a sneaking suspicion that they were listening in with the skill of trained spies.

“So,” Yudhishthira said loudly, breaking the whispering energy around the two, “we haven’t had a tale tonight. Krishna, perhaps something from Dwaraka?”

Bheem grinned, tossing a pebble into the fire. “Yes, tell us of your heroic adventures—maybe the one where you stole butter and blamed it on your brother?”

Krishna laughed. “You’ll never let that go, will you?”

“Not until you admit it was you!”

Krishna spread his arms innocently. “I am above guilt. But fine. I’ll tell you something. A tale you don’t know.”

Arjuna leaned back on his hands. “This better not be another story where you turn into a thousand forms just to steal a sweet.”

Krishna tilted his head, mock-offended. “It was a thousand and eight. Accuracy matters, Partha.”

The brothers chuckled as Krishna began weaving a story—an odd one this time—of a time he disguised himself as a sage to sneak into a rival king’s palace to steal a rare flower for Rukmini. His voice wove magic, and soon all were lost in the tale’s humour and wonder. But throughout it, Arjuna’s eyes rarely left his face.

And once again, his brothers noticed.

When the tale ended, the clearing echoed with laughter, but it was Bheem—true to form—who leaned forward and said, “Funny. Arjuna didn’t laugh.”

“I did!” Arjuna protested, sitting up.

“No, you smiled at Krishna,” Nakula pointed out.

“Big difference,” added Sahadeva with the grin of a boy who enjoyed stirring pots.

“Stop it,” Arjuna muttered, a bit too soft, a bit too red in the cheeks again.

Krishna reached over and plucked a blade of grass, twirling it in his fingers. “They tease because they love you.”

“They tease because they’re evil,” Arjuna whispered back.

Krishna nudged his shoulder. “And yet you’d fight the world for them.”

“They’d fight the world for you, too,” Yudhishthira said, joining in unexpectedly. His voice was softer now, serious. “All of us would.”

Krishna’s gaze dropped for a moment. There was silence again—not awkward, but full. Thick with emotion.

“We know, you know,” Nakula said suddenly.

“Know what?” Arjuna shot back, eyes darting.

“You don’t hide it as well as you think,” Sahadeva said, throwing a small stone at his brother’s shin.

Arjuna opened his mouth—then shut it.

Bheem scratched his beard. “You look at him like he’s everything.”

“And Krishna looks at you like he already is,” Yudhishthira added quietly.

Krishna tilted his head. “Such poetry from the dharmaraja.”

Arjuna didn’t speak for a long while. Then finally, he said, “He’s… the piece of my soul I didn’t know was missing until he stepped into it.”

The fire cracked again.

No one spoke.

Not in mockery. Not in shock. Just… stillness.

Then Bheem leaned back with a satisfied nod. “Finally! He says it aloud. I thought I’d have to wrestle it out of him.”

They all burst into laughter again—even Arjuna this time, a little breathless, a little shy. Krishna’s smile was gentler now. Something in his eyes shimmered.

Later that night, when most of the brothers had drifted to their mats, Arjuna stayed by the fire, adding twigs, stirring embers.

Krishna walked up silently and sat beside him again.

“You didn’t deny it,” Krishna said softly.

“Should I have?” Arjuna replied, not looking at him.

“No. I just didn’t expect it tonight.”

Arjuna finally turned. “Why? Because I usually hide?”

“Because you usually protect everyone else’s peace before your own.”

They looked at each other for a moment. Then, slowly, Arjuna leaned his head on Krishna’s shoulder.

“I don’t know where you end and I begin sometimes,” he murmured.

Krishna wrapped an arm around him. “You were never meant to know. We were made to bleed into each other.”

“Will it ever be allowed?” Arjuna asked, voice low.

Krishna didn’t answer. Instead, he reached into the pouch tied at his waist and pulled out a small cloth-wrapped token. He placed it in Arjuna’s hand.

“What is this?”

“Armor,” Krishna whispered. “From when you were a child. Something you outgrew. I’ve kept it all these years.”

Arjuna stared at the rusted, tiny piece of leather and bronze—his first child-sized vambrace.

“You… kept this?”

“I’ve kept everything,” Krishna replied. “Every bit of you that you thought the world forgot.”

Something cracked open in Arjuna at those words. A thousand buried memories surged upward—of training alone, of wondering if anyone saw the weight he carried.

“I didn’t know anyone remembered this,” he whispered.

“I did,” Krishna said. “I always did.”

And then, like the night itself had finally sighed in relief, Arjuna turned to Krishna, slow and certain, and kissed him again—this time not hurried, not shy, not stolen. Just right.

When the kiss broke, Krishna leaned their foreheads together and whispered, “Now you’ve made me forget where I end and you begin.”

A soft breeze stirred the firelight.

Somewhere behind the trees, a twig snapped.

And then came the unmistakable voice of Bheem yelling, “If you’re going to kiss again, at least let us know so Sahadeva can stop covering Nakula’s eyes!”

Arjuna groaned, falling back onto the grass, laughing despite himself. Krishna laughed too—loud and unashamed.

“Let them watch,” Krishna said.

“They already do.”

And under the watching stars, with firelight still glowing, love grew not in secret anymore, but in boldness. In laughter. In knowing. In the company of brothers who, despite all their teasing, had built a world where Arjuna could be exactly who he was—with the one who had always, always seen him.

Chapter Text

The monsoon arrived earlier than expected.

One moment the skies over Indraprastha had been golden-blue, dappled with slow-moving clouds, and the next, thunder growled low like an impatient lion. The brothers had planned an archery session in the outer fields, but the heavens had other ideas.

By midday, the rain had descended in sheets, thick and gleaming. It drummed against the palace roofs and pooled in the gardens like melted crystal. Servants scurried about closing windows, lighting lamps, and placing towels at doorways.

Inside, the palace became a world apart—warm, quiet, wrapped in the scent of wet earth and ghee lamps. And in one large chamber near the courtyard, five brothers and one God took shelter together.

Krishna had arrived earlier that day, unannounced as always, claiming he “missed the feel of their nonsense.”

“You mean Arjuna,” Bheem had muttered under his breath.

Krishna had only smiled in response. “And the rest of you, of course. You're the garnish to my feast.”

“Feast? What are we, leaves?”

“You’re the spicy chutney. Arjuna is the rice.”

Sahadeva snorted. Nakula looked personally offended. Yudhishthira was too polite to be drawn into this particular debate. And Arjuna? He had gone very, very still.

Now, with the rain thick and humming outside, the six of them had gathered on a collection of rugs and cushions around a low table. An oil lamp flickered gently in the center, casting a warm orange glow across the space.

“Cards?” Nakula offered, shuffling a worn deck.

“Only if Krishna doesn’t cheat,” Sahadeva replied, raising an eyebrow.

Krishna gasped, hand to heart. “How dare you imply I cheat?”

“You do!” Sahadeva and Bheem chorused.

“Only when it’s necessary,” Krishna said with a wink.

They settled into the game, the brothers loud and boisterous as always. But Arjuna found himself distracted. Krishna sat beside him—not too close, but not far enough to ignore either. His shoulder brushed Arjuna’s occasionally when he reached for the cards. His fingers, adorned with rings that glinted in the lamplight, tapped against the table with quiet mischief.

And every time Arjuna glanced sideways, Krishna was already watching him.

Yudhishthira was the first to fold his cards with a long sigh. “I never win when Krishna’s here.”

“I take that as a compliment,” Krishna said brightly.

“It's not meant as one.”

Bheem rubbed his hands together. “Alright, alright, enough of this. Since we’re trapped here, I propose a game.”

“Oh no,” Nakula groaned. “Not another one of your ‘truth or challenge’ things.”

“Exactly that,” Bheem grinned, his eyes alight. “We haven't played in years!”

“We were twelve,” Sahadeva said.

“And now we’re... wiser,” Bheem said. “Come on! For old times' sake.”

Krishna clapped his hands. “I’m in.”

That sealed it. None of them could say no once he agreed.

They sat in a circle, cushions arranged, the rain now gentler against the windows, a soothing rhythm in the background. The lamp flickered. The mood shifted—less chaotic now, more quiet, thoughtful.

“I’ll start,” Bheem announced grandly. He pointed at Sahadeva. “Truth or challenge?”

Sahadeva sighed. “Truth.”

“Who was your first crush?”

Sahadeva blushed instantly. “No! That’s unfair!”

Krishna leaned forward with a wicked grin. “Come on, tell us. Was it that merchant’s daughter from Kashi?”

“Fine!” Sahadeva cried. “It was... It was the stable boy. With the dimples.”

A collective ohhhh rose from the group. Laughter filled the room, not cruel, just surprised and delighted.

“Your turn,” Bheem said, still grinning.

Sahadeva, now pink-eared, turned toward Nakula. “Truth or challenge?”

“Challenge,” Nakula said confidently.

Sahadeva smirked. “Tell Krishna to his face that his flute-playing is annoying.”

There was a beat of silence. Then everyone burst out laughing again.

“I— I can’t!” Nakula wheezed.

“You chose challenge,” Krishna said with faux solemnity. “Face the music.”

Nakula squared his shoulders, turned to Krishna, and in the most monotone voice he could muster, said, “Your flute-playing is annoying.”

Krishna gasped theatrically, clutching his chest. “You wound me, prince!”

Laughter again. Even Arjuna chuckled, though his gaze lingered on Krishna longer than necessary.

The game rolled on. Yudhishthira’s truth revealed he once ran away from sword lessons to watch birds. Bheem’s challenge forced him to balance a mango on his head while singing a love ballad. Spirits rose, the air thick with nostalgia and the safety of shared history.

And then it was Krishna’s turn to ask.

He turned, slowly, to Arjuna.

“Truth or challenge, Parth?”

The room went still. Even the rain seemed to quiet down.

Arjuna’s lips parted. For a moment, he considered. Then: “Truth.”

Krishna’s eyes glinted. “When did you first know?”

The question hung in the air like a held breath.

Arjuna didn’t ask “know what?” He couldn’t. Not when Krishna’s voice had dropped into that low, velvet softness that only he knew. Not when the others were watching, but not interrupting—just waiting.

Arjuna looked down at his hands. His voice, when it came, was quiet.

“When you held me back from the fire at Khandava.”

The brothers exchanged glances.

Arjuna continued, his eyes far away. “I was burning. Not outside, but inside. I wanted to prove myself, to burn with the fire, to match your fury. And then you... you looked at me, and it stopped. All of it. The ache, the rush, the need to destroy just to feel worthy. You made me still.”

Krishna didn’t say anything for a long time.

And then he reached across the circle and took Arjuna’s hand, right there, in front of everyone.

“You were worthy before the fire,” he said simply.

Something cracked open in the room. A silence of understanding.

Yudhishthira stood up quietly. “I think,” he said, with a faint smile, “we’ve had enough truth for one evening.”

The others rose too, murmuring excuses about food and rest. But none of them were rushed. None of them looked surprised.

And as they filtered out one by one, Arjuna and Krishna remained seated.

The rain picked up again, gentle, persistent.

“Do you think they know?” Arjuna asked.

Krishna smiled. “They know everything. They’ve simply chosen not to name it.”

Arjuna looked down at their joined hands.

“I hate the hiding.”

“You’re not hiding,” Krishna said softly. “You’re protecting something delicate. That isn’t shame, Arjuna. That’s love.”

They sat in silence for a long while. The lamps flickered low. Outside, the world was washed clean.

Krishna shifted slightly, lifting Arjuna’s hand to his lips. He kissed the knuckles, then the palm.

“Come with me to the courtyard,” he said suddenly.

“It’s raining.”

“Yes.”

“That’s the point?”

Krishna smiled. “Come.”

They slipped through the hall, barefoot and quiet, the way only warriors could move. The open courtyard was slick with rain, the stone glistening under the open sky. Water fell around them in veils, cool and silver.

Krishna stepped into the center, arms wide, head tilted back.

Arjuna watched from the archway.

“You're crazy,” he whispered.

Krishna looked back. “crazy for you.”

And that was all it took.

Arjuna stepped forward, the rain soaking him instantly. He stopped just before Krishna, close enough to feel the warmth of him even through the storm.

Their foreheads met.

“I want to kiss you,” Arjuna whispered, barely audible above the downpour.

“You always can.”

And so he did—under the sky’s blessing, in a storm that drowned out everything else, Arjuna kissed him. Not like a secret. Not like a stolen thing. But like a vow.

When they pulled apart, breathless, Krishna smiled.

“I’m soaked,” Arjuna murmured.

“We both are.”

“Think your flute will still work after this?”

Krishna grinned. “Always.”

And so the song returned to the monsoon—a melody that no one else could hear but them.

A love not hidden anymore, only held close.

Where no war reached, no law touched.

Only sky. And storm. And two hearts that had always known.

Chapter Text

The dawn crept gently over Indraprastha, spilling gold across the palace’s marble floors and waking the city with a soft glow. The air was fresh, the breeze carrying the promise of a new day untouched by the shadows of war or politics.

Inside the palace, the Pandavas moved through their morning rituals with the quiet confidence born of brotherhood and countless shared battles. The calm was a fragile thing, cherished deeply but never guaranteed.

Arjuna sat cross-legged in the garden courtyard, a stringed instrument resting on his knees — a veena, polished and gleaming. His fingers brushed the strings softly, coaxing out a melody both mournful and hopeful. The music floated through the open arches, mingling with the scent of jasmine and wet earth.

Krishna appeared at the entrance to the courtyard, his steps silent and deliberate. He paused, listening to the music with a small smile curling at his lips.

“Your playing has grown,” Krishna said softly, settling beside Arjuna without a sound.

Arjuna looked up, his eyes reflecting the sky. “I’ve found comfort in it,” he admitted. “In these melodies, I can speak what words cannot.”

Krishna nodded, reaching out to gently brush a stray lock of hair from Arjuna’s forehead. “Music carries the soul’s whispers.”

The brothers soon gathered, drawn by the rare quiet moment. Yudhishthira joined first, sitting beside Krishna, his gaze steady but thoughtful. Bheem, ever larger than life, settled heavily nearby, drumming his fingers on his knees. Nakula and Sahadeva came last, exchanging a glance before settling comfortably on the grass.

The garden was their sanctuary — a place where the weight of duty could soften, and laughter could bubble freely.

“Enough with the music lessons,” Bheem declared with a grin. “Let’s see if you can still hit the mark with your bow, Arjuna.”

Arjuna’s lips twitched in amusement. “You’re always challenging me, Bheem.”

Krishna’s eyes twinkled. “That’s what brothers are for.”

The morning slipped into afternoon with stories shared, lighthearted jabs exchanged, and the steady pulse of friendship holding them close.

Later, as the sun dipped low, painting the sky in hues of amber and rose, Krishna and Arjuna found themselves alone once more beneath the ancient banyan tree. The soft rustle of leaves was a lullaby, the world narrowing until only the two of them remained.

Krishna’s fingers traced gentle patterns along Arjuna’s arm. “There is strength in silence, and power in peace.”

Arjuna leaned into the touch, a soft smile playing on his lips. “With you, even the quiet feels alive.”

Krishna’s gaze deepened. “You carry more than arrows, Parth. You carry hopes — mine and many others.”

Arjuna met his eyes, steady and sure. “And I will never let them fall.”

The night settled around them like a protective cloak. Stars peeked through the canopy, witnessing the quiet promises exchanged without words.

In the distance, laughter echoed as the brothers returned, their bonds unbroken, their hearts intertwined.

The courtyard buzzed with quiet energy as the brothers settled around Arjuna and Krishna. The veena’s soft melody hung in the air, a gentle backdrop to the easy camaraderie.

Bheem cracked his knuckles, eyeing Arjuna with mock seriousness. “So, Lord of Strings, can you handle a real challenge? How about a contest of skill — bow and veena? Winner gets the biggest mango tomorrow.”

Nakula smirked, nudging Sahadeva. “Mangoes and music — who knew the great Arjuna had such refined tastes?”

Yudhishthira raised an eyebrow, calm but amused. “I’ll be the judge. No cheating, Arjuna.”

Arjuna chuckled, fingers still lightly strumming. “You’re on. But I warn you, my arrows don’t miss.”

Krishna leaned forward, a mischievous glint in his eyes. “And my veena will sing victory.”

Bheem barked a laugh. “Enough talk! Let’s see this ‘victory’.”

As the contest began, playful banter flowed like the breeze.

Bheem grinned, handing Arjuna his bow. “Try not to blush when I beat you, Prince.”

Arjuna smirked, nocking an arrow. “I’ll blush only if you miss.”

Krishna’s voice broke through softly. “Remember, skill isn’t just in strength or precision but in the heart’s intent.”

Bheem pretended to bow. “O wise one, may my heart be as strong as your words.”

The brothers erupted in laughter.

Later, as Arjuna strummed a triumphant tune, Bheem groaned theatrically. “Fine, the bow loses to the strings today. But I’m still king of mangoes.”

Nakula clapped his hands. “You should try serenading the mango trees. Maybe they’ll give you more fruit.”

Sahadeva added with a smirk, “Or maybe you’ll get a kiss from Krishna for every sweet note.”

Arjuna’s cheeks flushed faintly at the teasing, stealing a glance at Krishna.

Krishna caught his eye, his smile warm and knowing. He reached out, tucking a loose strand of hair behind Arjuna’s ear with the gentlest touch.

“That was for the mangoes,” Krishna whispered, voice low but filled with affection.

Bheem, catching the exchange, grinned wide. “Ohhh, did I just witness the great Arjuna being made a blushing mess by the Blue God himself?”

Arjuna’s blush deepened. “Bheem!”

Yudhishthira chuckled, shaking his head. “Let the boy enjoy the moment.”

Nakula laughed softly. “It suits him, honestly.”

Sahadeva’s eyes twinkled. “Perhaps Krishna’s charm is a weapon mightier than any arrow.”

Krishna’s laughter was soft. “And Arjuna is the only one who wields it.”

The evening stretched on, filled with teasing, warmth, and quiet declarations.

As stars peeked through the sky, Arjuna pulled Krishna close, resting his head against Krishna’s shoulder.

“Thank you,” Arjuna murmured. “For being my strength and my calm.”

Krishna’s hand found Arjuna’s, their fingers entwining naturally.

“Always,” Krishna said, voice steady and full of promise.

The brothers watched, smiles soft, knowing some battles were won not on fields but in the hearts they held sacred.

Chapter Text

The morning sun spilled over Indraprastha like a cup of warm milk, golden and lazy. Birds darted overhead, their songs braiding through the cool air. The palace stirred with gentle movement—but the courtyard, unusually, was alive with something far more chaotic.

“I’m telling you, Yudhishthira,” Bheem said loudly as he stuffed dried fruit into a cloth satchel, “if we don’t leave now, the best makhan in the village will be gone!”

Yudhishthira, calm as ever, folded a linen shawl over his shoulder and smiled. “Bheem, the butter is not running away.”

“It might as well be,” Bheem grumbled. “With the way you all move slower than tortoises in winter.”

“I think tortoises would be offended,” Nakula added, adjusting his armband. “At least they don’t waste time debating breakfast routes.”

Sahadeva nodded sagely. “Besides, tortoises don’t argue over who gets the last bite.”

Bheem pointed dramatically at Arjuna. “That was once!”

“Twice,” Nakula corrected, holding up two fingers. “You snatched my laddu too.”

Krishna sat on the palace steps, watching the scene unfold like a contented painter admiring his own chaotic masterpiece. His fingers toyed with a blade of grass, smile lazy and affectionate.

Arjuna emerged from the hall last, tightening the knot of his sash. His bow was slung across his back—more out of habit than need—and his hair was loosely tied, stray strands falling onto his forehead.

Krishna’s eyes followed him, fond and unhidden.

“We’re all set then?” Arjuna asked, glancing around.

“Finally!” Bheem threw his hands in the air. “If we wait any longer, I’ll have to eat you instead.”

“Tempting,” Arjuna said dryly, “but you’d miss me.”

Krishna stood, brushing dust from his dhoti. “Let’s not scare the villagers before we even arrive, hmm?”

They set off through the palace gates, the brothers bickering, laughing, and occasionally singing off-key. Krishna walked beside Arjuna, their arms brushing just slightly more often than coincidence would allow.

The path curved through wildflower-covered hills, the occasional tree offering shade as they ambled toward the village beyond the woods.

“You know,” Sahadeva said, “they say this village has mangoes sweeter than honey.”

“I heard their jaggery’s even better,” Nakula added. “We should bring some back.”

Bheem let out a dramatic sigh. “We’re here for butter. Focus!”

“You’re here for butter,” Arjuna corrected. “We’re here for peace and fresh air.”

“And maybe,” Krishna murmured, leaning toward him, “a little trouble.”

Arjuna looked at him sidelong, trying to hide his smile. “When are you not the trouble?”

“Only when you are,” Krishna returned, eyes twinkling.

Behind them, Nakula watched the exchange and grinned. “Are we going to pretend we don’t see that?”

Sahadeva snorted. “We’ve been pretending since Dvaitavana. Let them be.”

Yudhishthira merely shook his head, amused. “If we stop to comment every time, we’ll never make it to the village.”

Bheem, hearing none of this, was already charging ahead toward the scent of fresh cow dung and woodfire smoke. “I smell butter!”

“Or maybe you stepped in something,” Arjuna said with a smirk.

“You wish,” Bheem shot back.

The village unfolded ahead of them—mud huts with thatched roofs, little gardens filled with marigolds, and children running barefoot down winding paths. The villagers paused as the group approached, eyes widening as they recognized their visitors.

“Is that—?”

“The Pandavas!”

“And—is that Krishna of Dwarka?”

A murmur rippled through the settlement. Elders straightened, children peeked from behind doorways, and within moments, a small crowd gathered.

Krishna raised his hand in greeting, his smile warm and open. “We come only to visit, not to alarm.”

Yudhishthira stepped forward and offered a traditional bow. “Peace to your homes. May we share a little of your sun and shade today?”

The village head—an elderly woman with silver-threaded hair and sharp eyes—stepped forward. “You are welcome as family, my kings. And Krishna... oh, my child, you’ve not changed a bit.”

Krishna touched her feet respectfully. “And you’ve grown even kinder, Maasi.”

The day unfurled from there—drums beat, garlands were strung, and banana leaves were laid out for an impromptu village feast. Bheem disappeared into a kitchen, the scent of butter luring him like a moth to flame.

Arjuna and Krishna lingered near a clay stall where earthen pots of butter were arranged in neat rows.

Arjuna dipped a finger in and tasted it. “Mmm.”

A tiny smear remained at the corner of his mouth. Krishna reached over, slow and natural, and wiped it away with his thumb—his touch feather-light, but electric in its intent.

Their eyes met. For a moment, the world blurred.

“Sweet,” Krishna said. “But not as much as you.”

A beat passed.

“Oh for heaven’s sake,” Bheem said from behind, loudly and scandalized. “Can you two stop making every pot of butter blush?!”

Arjuna jumped. “I—! I wasn’t—!”

“You were,” Sahadeva confirmed helpfully.

“Every cow in the village is going to gossip tonight,” Nakula added.

Krishna just laughed.

“I shall start the rumour myself,” Bheem declared. “‘Our brave warrior was slain not by arrow, but by a bit of butter and a lover’s hand!’”

“Bheem!” Arjuna groaned, burying his face in his palms as the villagers nearby chuckled, clearly entertained.

Krishna leaned in and whispered, “If they only knew half of it.”

Arjuna peeked through his fingers, muttering, “I swear, Madhav, you do this on purpose.”

“Of course I do,” Krishna said brightly. “You look adorable when you panic.”

After the butter incident — now unofficially named The Great Smear of Arjuna — the brothers scattered through the marketplace, each drawn to something different. The village pulsed with life: women bartered over spices, men weighed sacks of rice, and children darted between legs like sparrows.

Krishna had barely taken two steps before a gaggle of children surrounded him like he was made of stardust and mangoes.

“Madhav!” one shouted. “Tell us a story!”

“No, no, show us your flute!” another cried.

“Can you make the peacock feathers dance again?” a girl with oil-slicked braids asked, tugging at his wrist.

Krishna held up his hands in surrender. “One at a time! You’ll turn me into butter, just like your cows.”

He was swept away, seated beneath a neem tree within moments. Children piled onto his lap, leaned on his shoulders, tugged at his shawl. He laughed, utterly at ease, telling tales of talking monkeys and mischievous demons, slipping in flute song between the lines, drawing giggles and wide-eyed gasps.

Arjuna, a short distance away, watched it all with his arms folded across his chest, a soft, helpless look on his face.

Yudhishthira came to stand beside him, smiling. “You know, you’re staring.”

“I’m not,” Arjuna said, too quickly.

“You are,” Nakula called from a few steps away. “It’s endearing. A little tragic. But endearing.”

Sahadeva joined in, biting into a guava. “He’s got that face on again.”

“What face?” Arjuna asked warily.

Bheem, returning with no fewer than six clay pots of makhan strapped to his back like some dairy-laden warrior, boomed, “The ‘If he smiled at me like that again I might just combust’ face.”

“Brother!” Arjuna hissed, ears going pink. “You’re shouting!”

“I am shouting. That’s how they do it in villages, isn’t it?”

“You’ve lived in a forest, Bheem, not under a rock,” Sahadeva said, dodging the jug Bheem pretended to throw at him.

Meanwhile, Krishna, still seated beneath the neem tree, lifted his head slightly and caught Arjuna’s eye from across the path. His smile curved — not wide, not showy, but soft and certain. Just for him.

Arjuna looked away. Too quickly.

“You’re doomed,” Nakula said, clapping him on the back.

“You don’t even try to hide it anymore,” Yudhishthira added.

“I am hiding it!” Arjuna hissed.

“By staring dreamily at him all day?” Sahadeva asked, deadpan.

“I do not stare dreamily—”

“Oh please,” Bheem interrupted, handing him a pot of butter. “Even this makhan melts slower than you do around him.”

Arjuna muttered something under his breath and stomped away. His brothers followed gleefully.

Krishna rejoined them shortly after, eyes alight. “I have been fed seven imaginary laddus, two pretend mangoes, and a chalk peacock.”

“You sound like Bheem’s spirit animal,” Nakula remarked.

Krishna chuckled. “Bheem would never settle for pretend mangoes.”

Bheem nodded proudly. “Correct. I brought real ones.” He held up a basket stacked with fruit, all of which looked on the verge of bursting.

Krishna eyed the basket. “You plan to share those?”

Bheem looked scandalized. “Madhav! I carried you on my shoulders once — how could you question me like this?”

“I was five,” Krishna said, deadpan.

“Weight is weight.”

They wandered on, weaving through the market’s narrow alleys and sun-drenched courtyards. There was an old pond at the far edge of the village, tucked away behind an overgrown banyan. Krishna tugged at Arjuna’s wrist as the others became momentarily distracted by someone selling roasted peanuts.

“Come,” he said simply.

They slipped away from the laughter and shouts and splashing feet, ducking past low branches and tangled vines until the world grew quiet again.

The pond shimmered in the dappled light, lotus flowers floating lazily across the surface. Frogs croaked in the distance. Dragonflies buzzed by like tiny comets.

They sat side by side on a large stone near the water’s edge, knees brushing, their shadows stitched together beneath them.

Arjuna dipped his fingers into the pond, swirling little whirlpools. “It’s strange.”

“What is?” Krishna asked, resting his chin on one hand.

“This quiet. This simplicity. We don’t get much of it anymore.”

Krishna was silent for a moment. Then, softly: “And yet, you seem like you were made for it.”

Arjuna turned, a wry smile tugging at his lips. “I thought I was made for war.”

“You were made for more than that,” Krishna replied. “You were made for fire and stillness both.”

Arjuna chuckled faintly, shaking his head. “You always say such things. It’s dangerous.”

Krishna tilted his head. “Is it?”

“Yes. Because I believe you.”

The silence between them thickened, not with tension, but with understanding. A weightless kind of knowing.

Krishna leaned forward, and before Arjuna could process it, he gently brushed a bit of dried butter — leftover from earlier — from the corner of his mouth with a thumb.

“I missed a spot,” Krishna murmured.

Arjuna blinked. “…From earlier?”

“Obviously.”

“I hate you,” Arjuna said, utterly without conviction.

“I know,” Krishna replied, still grinning.

A voice bellowed from the trees. “FOUND THEM!”

The moment shattered like a dropped pot.

The other Pandavas came crashing through the foliage, victorious.

“Interrupting again,” Arjuna groaned.

“What did I say earlier?” Bheem crowed. “Butter and a lover’s hand!”

Sahadeva looked around dramatically. “I smell pond water, but also—wait! Yes! — tension and unresolved yearning!”

“I’m throwing you into the pond,” Arjuna warned.

“Romance and violence,” Nakula said. “You’re really spoiling us today.”

Krishna stood calmly. “Shall we go find lunch before the villagers think we’ve absconded with all their dairy?”

“I’m the only one who actually did abscond with dairy,” Bheem said, rattling the pots on his back.

They returned to the village together, still laughing, still teasing — loud, chaotic, and whole.

The villagers had laid out a long cloth under the shade of an ancient banyan tree, its roots snaking into the earth like wise old fingers. Banana leaves were spread in a neat row, each one waiting to be filled with hot rotis, sabzi, sweet jaggery, and yes—pots of freshly churned butter.

“Finally!” Bheem dropped to the ground like a boulder in a pond. “This is what I call worship.”

“Please don’t worship with your mouth full,” Sahadeva said, neatly smoothing out his leaf.

“Oh, I will,” Bheem replied, unbothered, as he snatched the largest pot of makhan and cradled it like a sacred offering.

The others settled down around the leaf-spread circle. Krishna took a place beside Arjuna—no one even pretended to be surprised anymore.

“Yudhishthira,” Krishna said, lifting a piece of warm roti and tearing it in two, “do your people always feed this well, or is this a ploy to make me never leave?”

“The latter,” Yudhishthira said, smiling faintly. “We figured if makhan won’t keep you, perhaps Arjuna will.”

Arjuna choked. “Brother!”

“Subtle, aren’t we?” Nakula commented, already two bites into his meal.

Sahadeva, without looking up, murmured, “We left subtlety behind the moment Krishna wiped your mouth, Jyeshtha.”

“That was butter!” Arjuna defended, again.

Bheem paused mid-bite. “We all saw it, Arjuna.”

Krishna turned to him, amusement twinkling in his eyes. “You’re the only warrior I know who goes redder from a thumb than from an arrow.”

Arjuna glared at his food.

Krishna plucked a small piece of sweet from his own leaf and leaned slightly. “Want this?”

Arjuna eyed it warily. “…Is it laced with embarrassment?”

“Only affection.”

Arjuna snorted, but accepted it anyway, chewing slower than necessary. Across the circle, Bheem narrowed his eyes.

“I saw that.”

“You see everything,” Arjuna muttered.

Krishna chuckled and leaned back, his legs stretching in front of him as he broke another piece of roti. The light dappled through the banyan leaves, casting shifting patterns over his skin. Arjuna stole a glance, just one, but it was enough to earn a nudge from Sahadeva.

“You’re like a song with only one line,” he whispered.

“What?” Arjuna blinked.

“‘Krishna, Krishna, Krishna.’ That’s all you ever sing.”

Arjuna shoved a piece of radish into his brother’s mouth to shut him up.

Lunch unfolded in loud, messy joy.

Bheem waged a one-man war on the pickle jar. Nakula tried (and failed) to stop Sahadeva from mixing sweet with sour. Yudhishthira smiled quietly at all of them, though every time Krishna leaned closer to Arjuna, his eyes flickered with gentle amusement.

At one point, Arjuna—having finished his own helping—tried to sneak a bite from Krishna’s plate.

Krishna caught his wrist mid-air.

“I don’t share food,” he said.

“You shared your sweet just five minutes ago.”

“That was a bribe. This is my favourite curry.”

Arjuna raised an eyebrow. “Madhav.”

Krishna leaned closer. “Say please.”

“No.”

“Then stay hungry.”

Arjuna scowled. Krishna popped the bite into his own mouth just to spite him.

From across the circle, Bheem declared, “I hope the heavens give me a husband that protects his food like Krishna protects his curry.”

Nakula coughed. “You’re the one who steals food from everyone’s plate.”

“I don’t steal, I borrow,” Bheem said, licking his fingers. “With passion.”

Sahadeva muttered, “The lentils from yesterday’s lunch still haven’t recovered.”

After lunch, a group of village musicians began to play a soft drum rhythm, joined by flutes and the occasional clap. Children circled around them in untrained little spirals of dancing. The music was nothing polished—just the kind born from content hearts and warm afternoons.

Krishna tapped his foot lightly. “It’s been long since I’ve danced.”

“Then don’t wait,” Arjuna said. “Go.”

Krishna raised an eyebrow. “You come too.”

“I do not dance,” Arjuna said, instantly.

“You don’t,” Bheem said with a snort, “but you do sway like a tree in the wind every time Madhav hums.”

“I don’t!”

Krishna stood and offered a hand. “Prove them wrong, Parth.”

Arjuna hesitated.

“Come,” Krishna said softly. “We’ll keep to the edges.”

Against his better judgment—and because Krishna’s voice never really left room for refusal—Arjuna took his hand. They stepped away from the circle, near the banyan again, where the music drifted gently and the sun fell through the branches like coins scattered from the heavens.

Krishna led, Arjuna followed.

It wasn’t a dance, not in the strictest sense. Just two men moving in quiet rhythm, shoulders brushing, eyes occasionally meeting and looking away just as fast.

A laugh burst out of Arjuna as Krishna spun him unexpectedly.

“I’m not light-footed!” he said.

“You’re lighter than you think,” Krishna replied, steadying him with a warm hand on the small of his back.

The others watched from a distance, not intruding, though the teasing buzzed at their tongues like bees at a hive.

“Should we go interrupt?” Nakula asked.

“Only if you want to die,” Sahadeva said.

“I say we let them be,” Yudhishthira murmured. “Let the sun watch them this time.”

The village farewell was almost as lively as their welcome.

Children ran after the departing group with fistfuls of marigolds, tossing them like soft blessings. The elderly folded their hands with reverence, and the village head bowed deeply to Yudhishthira. Women carried plates with sweet curd and smeared tilak on each of the brothers' foreheads, and Krishna's, with affectionate insistence.

“Oh gods,” Nakula muttered as another child tried to climb onto Bheem’s back. “He’s collecting fans like mangoes.”

“Let me have this,” Bheem grinned, lifting the giggling boy with one hand and hoisting him high. “Heir to my appetite, perhaps!”

Sahadeva murmured, “Poor child.”

The group finally started back, the path winding through meadows golden with sunlight. The energy was buoyant, loud — much like the five Pandavas themselves.

Krishna and Arjuna, as ever, walked close, shoulders occasionally brushing. Krishna’s flute hung by his waist, but his fingers didn’t reach for it. His eyes, though warm, held a distant thread of thought.

“Why do you look like you’re counting the clouds?” Arjuna asked quietly.

Krishna smiled — softly, ruefully. “Because soon, I must leave.”

Arjuna’s steps faltered.

“Leave?” His voice was barely above the breeze. “But we’re going to Indraprastha—”

Krishna slowed, glancing ahead where the others were loudly debating whether Bheem had scared off the goats again.

“I had intended to,” he said gently. “But there is a matter in Dwarka… one that needs me sooner than I expected.”

“Oh,” was all Arjuna managed.

Just one syllable — and yet, it carried more weight than any battlefield silence.

“You’re not saying it like someone who’s used to leaving,” Arjuna muttered, eyes fixed ahead, jaw tense.

“And you’re not saying oh like someone who’s used to being left,” Krishna replied, gently.

“I’m not.”

They walked a little while in silence.

“Do you want me to stay?” Krishna asked, voice low.

“Yes,” Arjuna said — too fast, too quiet.

Krishna smiled again. Not teasingly. Not knowingly. Just… softly.

“I’ll come back,” he said. “I always do.”

Arjuna didn’t reply. He didn’t trust his throat.

Up ahead, Bheem had commandeered a stick and was using it to nudge a sheep that refused to move. Yudhishthira tried reasoning with the sheep. It stared him down, unimpressed.

Nakula dramatically dropped to the grass. “We will die here.”

“By sheep,” Sahadeva added.

“We are not dying here,” Yudhishthira said through gritted teeth. “Bheem, don’t challenge it.”

“It challenged me!” Bheem protested. “Look at that face. That’s the face of defiance.”

“That’s the face of a sheep,” Sahadeva said flatly.

Krishna chuckled under his breath, but Arjuna barely smiled. His eyes hadn’t left Krishna’s profile since he’d said the words.

“Now?” Arjuna asked quietly.

“Soon,” Krishna nodded. “When we pass the river bend.”

They reached a wide clearing, the sun dipping into honey-coloured fields. Krishna stopped then, and the others slowed, sensing something in the air.

“From here, I take a different path,” Krishna said.

Yudhishthira’s expression softened. “We thought as much.”

“We knew,” Nakula added.

“I didn’t!” Bheem protested.

“You never know anything until it’s halfway through your mouth,” Sahadeva said.

Bheem turned. “You knew too?”

Sahadeva just smiled.

Arjuna didn’t speak. His eyes were fixed on the path Krishna would take, a dirt road that curved sharply east — toward Dwarka, toward distance.

Krishna stepped forward to hug Yudhishthira, then Nakula, then Sahadeva — each embrace filled with that quiet warmth he carried so well.

Bheem pulled him into a crushing bear hug. “Don’t forget to write. Or send sweets.”

“I will try not to confuse the two,” Krishna said, breathless.

And then, finally, he turned to Arjuna.

For a moment, no one moved. No one spoke.

“I’m not hugging him,” Bheem whispered to Nakula. “They’ll make it last an hour.”

“They already are,” Nakula muttered.

Krishna stepped closer, looking into Arjuna’s eyes. “You’ll be alright?”

“No,” Arjuna said, without flinching.

Krishna’s hand reached up and cupped his cheek.

“Good,” he said. “That’s how I know I’m loved.”

It was a moment held in gold — no movement, no wind, just Krishna’s thumb tracing a slow line along Arjuna’s cheek.

Then Arjuna stepped forward and hugged him. Not fiercely. Not desperately. Just tightly.

The others, of course, were silent for all of five seconds.

“Someone pry them apart,” Bheem muttered. “We’ll grow old waiting.”

“Let them be,” Yudhishthira said, smiling.

But Krishna pulled away eventually, his fingers lingering a moment longer on Arjuna’s wrist.

And then, with one last look at all of them, he turned and walked down the eastward path.

Arjuna watched until he could no longer see even the trailing edge of his peacock-coloured shawl.

They continued on.

The mood lightened slightly, but Arjuna was quiet, steps slower than usual.

“So,” Bheem started.

“No,” Arjuna said, eyes still forward.

“You don’t even know what I was going to say!”

“Yes I do.”

“You’re thinking of him, aren’t you?” Bheem grinned.

“I am not.”

“You are,” Sahadeva confirmed.

“Silence, you minions of mischief.”

“Minions of mischief?” Nakula repeated. “Oh, he’s angry and poetic.”

“I can’t wait to tell Krishna that,” Bheem said cheerfully. “Arjuna’s getting dramatic in your absence, Madhav. Write to him soon!”

“You’re the worst,” Arjuna muttered.

“And yet your favourite,” Bheem said, clapping a heavy hand on his shoulder.

And though he tried to fight it, a small smile curled at Arjuna’s lips.

Just a little one.

Just enough.