﴾ there's a hint of tension in jamil's fingers, but it is largely imperceptible and very much short-lived. what a scene it would make if kalim were to pick up on the fact that jamil knows, that all of this ache and torment is the only thing he sees anymore when he gazes upon his master. for all that has transpired between them, jamil has no idea what to do with the sickly twist in his gut, the unrest scraping beneath his skin when he is reminded that the one danger he has failed to protect kalim from is himself. it was never supposed to be this way.

but there is no changing the past now, not really. not for very long, at least — a hypnotic word here or there can ease the tension for an hour or two, but like all spellwords, they quickly burn away and leave behind the raw truth. it is a thing that jamil is still learning to deal with when lies were sovereign for as long as he can honestly remember, as awkward as a newborn fawn taking its first steps on uneven soil.

still — very tempting when he meets kalim's eyes, just to speak all his pain away and let them crash together like the tides, natural and imperative. instead, his fingers spread for the soft dusting of kalim's kisses, and close in on the last of them, framing the curve of his cheek in a gesture that would look loving if not for the wall of ice in jamil's gaze. ﴿

How refreshing to hear. I suppose you deserve a reward for your clarity.

﴾ his other hand is busy, burrowing beneath the collar of kalim's soft sweater, drifting over his shoulder to squeeze and stroke. his touch is as capable as the rest of him, divining the tiniest points of tension as easily as if they were calling to him personally. it is almost sweet until his fingers curl, grasping and inextricable as jamil pretends for a moment to deliberate and ultimately decides: ﴿

You can stop talking and go to bed. Now, Kalim.