Work Text:
Since Jamil’s overblot, Kalim has been avoiding him. He’s sure Jamil has, as well, and it’s working. They haven’t bumped paths even once since that fateful day.
The next quarter is starting soon, though, and Kalim isn’t sure how he’ll be able to manage without Jamil. If they keep up this game of avoiding each other like the plague, how will Kalim know if his food is poisoned? How will he get through all of his assignments and projects on time? How will he be an actually effective dorm head, instead of the smiling idiot he now knows practically everyone sees him as?
He isn’t sure if he can, but he wants to prove to Jamil that he’s able to survive without him. Because Kalim is angry. He suppresses it with a smile, but he is more irate than he has ever felt in his life. And maybe he isn’t justified for feeling this way. Maybe he should be completely understanding and accepting of Jamil’s position.
But just this once, he can’t be the perfect embodiment of forgiveness and grace he usually is.
Kalim wakes up an hour earlier than he usually does, going through the motions of his morning routine before reaching the part Jamil typically does for him—his makeup. He glares at the eyeliner pencil like it is an enemy, slowly reaching out to it before grasping it tight.
A feather-light stroke of dark brown paints his eyelid. He exhales. So far, so good. Another stroke, slightly bolder this time.
Fuck. Too bold. He rubs at his eye with a makeup wipe, then tries again.
This time, his hand trembles and causes him to draw a stray line along his nose. An exasperated huff escapes him, and he wipes the unwanted mark away.
The third time he messes up, dragging the corner out a bit too long, he throws the pencil at the wall and scrubs at his eye. His skin feels raw, like he has rubbed it against concrete pavement over and over and over again, and he crouches down on the floor, burying his head between his knees and scratching repeatedly around his ears with his hands.
Another second, and he stands, taking a deep breath and exhaling loudly as he retrieves the eyeliner pencil. He goes at it again, jaw clenched as he draws on his eyeliner, forcing himself not to flip out over how uneven and patchy it looks. From afar, it will look fine, and that is all Kalim can manage for now.
He really can’t do much without Jamil, huh?
Quickly shaking his head, he takes a brief break from the eyeliner, flapping the pain out of his hands and bouncing on the balls of his feet. He is always full of energy, but he wants the aggravated energy out. Once he thinks he has dallied for too long, he picks it up and moves to the other eye.
It goes on much smoother than Kalim expects, to his immense relief. It even looks better than the other side, which tempts him to redo it for the fourth time, but he resists. He applies a tiny bit to his lower lid as he recalls Jamil doing before setting the pen down and admiring his handiwork.
It’s not perfect, but it’s something. And if something is all he can manage, then so be it.
He takes a bit of lipstick, dabbling a demure amount to his lips, cheeks, and eyelids. It is a little trick Cater had shown him, for when he feels too lazy to apply proper blush and eyeshadow individually. Kalim is glad he is aware of the technique because he could not handle trying to figure out eyeshadow application. The eyeliner was hard enough.
Hey, he doesn’t look half-bad, now! Nothing can be done to conceal those dark circles, but at least he’s made it this far!
Putting on his clothes and wrapping his turban come easy. He would be meeting with his counselor today, so his school uniform was a sufficient outfit until he could return and change into his loungewear, and his father had taught him how to tie his turban when he was a little kid—it was one of his core memories with him, one he would likely never forget. His father wasn’t around much, now that he thinks about it.
He straightens his posture, patting his pockets to make sure he has his phone, wallet, and magic pen, before pushing open his door.
Two pairs of eyes widen. Ruby and stone. Naïve and shrewd. Kalim and Jamil.
Without allowing a second more to linger on the interaction, Kalim shuts his door quietly before walking past him without sparing another glance. Jamil does not call after him, and Kalim does not turn to see if he is watching his back. He waves to his other dormmates with his usual casual friendliness as he treks to the mirror, and when he hops through, he forces himself to keep his thoughts on the meeting.
Knocking on the door, Kalim distractedly watches his bangles jingle before realizing he has been knocking for too long and bashfully allowing his arm to fall back to his side. The door opens, and he tilts his head curiously.
“Professor Trein? What are you doing here?”
Fully opening the door, Kalim wanders in, taking in the bland office. No personal decor, a bookshelf full of self-help books, and a plain monitor. Is it rude of him to wonder why anyone would decorate their office like this? If Kalim had his way, there would be bright, sparkling patterns and pictures of his family and friends and fidget toys galore.
“Your counselor had to call in sick last minute,” Professor Trein explains, lowering himself into the chair across from Kalim. “So I am here in his stead. Now, what is your reason for scheduling an advising session?”
To prove Jamil wrong, but it’s not as though he can say that. “I wanted to swap out some of my classes with some others if there’s any space.” His eyes follow Lucius prowling along the carpet aimlessly before curling into a ball and letting out a tiny mewl.
Trein’s brows furrow. “You wish to alter your schedule a day before the start of the quarter?” Kalim nods. “May I ask what classes you wish to switch, then?”
Nodding again, he pulls up his phone, showing Professor Trein his scheduled classes. “Potionology, flight, and magic history are all fine since they’re core classes.” He is talking more to himself than the professor, a soft murmur of spoken thought. “But my other three are history of contemporary dance, ceramics, and then a free study period. I wanted to replace dance history with microeconomics and ceramics with wealth management.”
The way his professor’s eyes flicker up to him when he lists his desired courses makes him blush. “I will check to see if there are any openings.” As he clicks through the computer, he asks, “Are you sure you want to take these two at once? These are classes that even the most devoted of students struggle with.”
Kalim hears the insult, intended or not, loud and clear, and his resolve only strengthens. “I’m sure,” he confirms. “I’m sort of figuring that I should start taking my education into my own hands since I haven’t been taught much about finance yet.”
That was another thing that weighed on the back of Kalim’s mind. Since Jamil’s overblot, though it has only been a few days, Kalim has done a lot of thinking. As in, reviewing his entire life and picking out each of his experiences and how born of privilege they are sort of thinking. And he has a few qualms about the fact that despite boasting the title of Asim heir his entire life, he knows next to nothing about finances, having never been taught anything of the sort.
Jamil, the only person he truly and wholly trusted with his life, had betrayed him. What’s to say his entire livelihood wasn’t a big betrayal as well?
“Very well, then,” Trein says, clicking a few more buttons before leaning back from the monitor. “Your schedule has been changed.”
“Thank you, Professor.” Kalim equips a smile, and he knows it must look frayed from the pitying look his professor gives him, but a weary smile is better than none at all.
“Best of luck with your classes,” he tells him as he walks to the door. “If you need help, all you need to do is ask.”
Another word of thanks, and Kalim is off to the dorm once again. As he storms back, caught up in a whirlwind of thoughts, he swears an oath to himself: I refuse to go to Jamil for help this quarter.
It is harder than he thought it would be.
Sure, Kalim knew it would be harder than anything he had done his entire life, but he didn’t think it could be that bad.
It is that bad. Considering math is one of Kalim’s better subjects, his failure to understand makes him feel like someone had removed his brain from his skull and smoothed out all of the smart wrinkles in it, leaving his mind glossier and stupider than ever before.
Questions flood his mind every time he sits on his bed, laptop propped open, and papers strewn all over the mattress. How come he doesn’t already know this stuff? Why is he so unable to focus? What causes the letters to drift around the page while the numbers click together just fine? Is Jamil able to do all of this with ease?
Thinking about Jamil is horrible for his focus. He slaps his cheeks, squeezing his eyes shut for a few seconds before popping them back open and returning to the assignment. “Explain demand elasticity…” he murmurs aloud, slowly reading through the sentence. He reads it over and over again, and the words don’t make any more sense than they did the first time he read them. “What even is demand elasticity..?”
This is the point where he would have gone crying to Jamil. But he won’t do that, now. He’s better than that. He’s smarter than that. He can figure things out on his own. He isn’t completely inept.
It takes him a few rereads of the section in his textbook, but he eventually understands the concept. He thinks. The formula sticks in his head better than the words do, but he forces himself to commit the textbook definition to memory before moving on to anything else.
A sense of doom washes over him as he clicks the ‘next’ button on his laptop. That was only one question. He is hardly anywhere near finishing this homework set.
A sense of drive washes over him next. He signed up for this to prove a point. He will finish this homework set before he even thinks of taking a break.
Despite the draining agony of working through all thirty-four problems of his microeconomics homework set, he does not shut his laptop until he presses ‘submit assignment’ and is rewarded with a beautiful 100% shrouded in confetti popping up on the screen. He knows he shouldn’t be so happy over an assignment graded on completion, but he did it. He did it, even though it was hard.
He did it, which means he might be capable of more.
“Kalim,” Riddle speaks, stepping in front of him before he can leave. “A word?”
Kalim bounces on the balls of his feet. “It won’t take too long, will it?” He needs as much time as he can get to complete the case study analysis project he was assigned in his wealth management class last week. He had pushed it off a bit too long, which means he cannot be proud of himself for remembering to come to the housewarden meeting without any reminders. There is no point in celebrating one success if he falls short in another aspect.
Riddle’s expression sours slightly, though Kalim isn’t quite sure why. “Only a moment. Azul wanted to speak to you, as well.”
That captures Kalim’s attention, and he tilts his head as Azul joins them. “Hello, Kalim, Riddle,” he greets, charismatic as ever. Kalim wishes he had such flawless confidence exuding from his every pore instead of coming across like a frazzled, barely-held-together mess. “Would you both like to come to the Mostro Lounge for this?”
“Yes,” Riddle says.
“No,” Kalim says at the same time.
They both look at each other, and Kalim laughs, hand rising to the back of his neck. “I mean, thanks, but I’m kinda busy.”
“With what?” Azul asks.
Kalim laughs again, this time a little uncomfortably. Here he is, surrounded by two of the top students in his grade, and all he has to complain about is his coursework that they no doubt are capable of completing effortlessly. “Just some homework.”
“Allow us to help you, then,” Azul offers, pressing a hand to his chest in what Jamil calls his ‘signature scammy stance’. Kalim almost chuckles at the thought. “In exchange for your time.”
“It’s fine,” Kalim insists, never allowing his smile to falter. “I don’t need any help! I’m doing fine on my own.” He shifts on his feet, glancing between the two, the other housewardens filing out the door, the headmage’s golden claw rings. “What did you guys wanna talk about?”
The two other housewardens exchange a look before Riddle lowers his voice and asks, “Kalim, are you… alright?”
“What?” It comes out harsher than he intends it to, and he plays it off with a tiny laugh. “What makes you ask that?”
“Jamil’s overblot,” Azul states bluntly. “You’ve been different since then. By this point in the quarter, you typically would have requested our assistance at least four times.” The way he stares at him is not quite a smile, but too soft to be a frown. “Bottling things up is never good.”
“Look where that got the two of us,” Riddle says with a humored lilt, squeezing the folder of important papers that Kalim definitely couldn’t make heads or tails of to his chest. “Perhaps you find it unusual or uncomfortable, but we wanted to see if you needed help with anything.”
Kalim’s eyes flit to the gold watch he had started wearing in place of some of his former useless ornaments. Time never stops. “That’s really nice of you,” he begins, “Really. But I’m fine! I’m managing, just like you guys are.”
Another exchange of glances, though Kalim is mostly bothered by the time they are wasting by standing around. “Kalim,” Riddle tries again. “That is the exact point. Neither of us managed well, especially not when we tried to carry the entire burden of responsibility on our shoulders instead of doling it out amongst our companions.”
“Let us help you,” Azul says firmly. “And for once, I insist on no charge.”
He stares at them blankly, feeling as though his head fills with more cotton with every passing second. “Why?” The saliva in his mouth is thick, and he envisions swabbing it out with the cotton from his brain. “Why do you even care?”
They follow him as he walks out, both silent. Kalim represses the urge to let out even a dull snicker; they don’t really care. There is no reason for them to. The only person who would care was Jamil, except that he doesn’t, which means that no one does. No one cared for him like Jamil had cared for him. No one knows him like Jamil knows him.
No one hates him like Jamil hates him.
“Is a reason necessary?” Riddle speaks quietly, shattering the uncomfortable silence filled only by the clicking of their shoes. “My mo—erm, I mean—there are some people you simply feel for. Regardless of whether it makes sense or not.”
Riddle’s words seem to revive Azul, and he adds, “You’re a truly good person, Kalim. It’s a shame how things progressed between you and Jamil, but it would also be an even greater shame if you found yourself unable to trust anyone else ever again.”
He hums in acknowledgment, meaning to merely brush over their words, but they strike a chord. He has been denying it this whole time, throwing himself fully into his academics and teaching himself to be a better heir to distract himself, but he still cares for Jamil. As warped and dilapidated as that care is, it’s there. Whether it makes sense or not. And he still finds himself yearning to open up to someone, anyone, even if it’s not Jamil. Even if it feels like a sin to even think of bearing his heart to someone who is not him.
“...Maybe you guys are right,” he muses under his breath, opening his door. His room is pointedly even more pristine than when Jamil would clean it daily. It’s a tiny revenge. He walks in, then turns to them, wearing a small smile. It’s not his broad, optimistic beam, but it’s something quieter. A bit more honest. “You can come in if you want.”
They both take him up on the offer, Riddle clicking the door shut behind him as they both wander into the large room, extravagant and bright just like Kalim himself. Riddle squats down on one of his cushions, admiring the boxes of tea he has lined up on the tiny table. Azul rests his elbows and leans forward to gaze at the rest of Scarabia through the gilded apertures. They fall into a comfortable silence, and Kalim can’t help the smile that makes its way onto his cheeks every time he looks up and they are still there.
When he asks for help on a question about half an hour later, neither of them ridicules him, instead immediately joining him on either side of the bed to work him through it.
Kalim is shocked when he weighs himself in flight class. It counts for their physical education credit, meaning they have to undergo a few things a normal gym class would do, such as measurements.
He has unintentionally dropped seven kilograms since the last time he was weighed.
To be fair, the last time he weighed himself was whenever they last weighed themselves for this class, which was… a couple of months ago. Which would be fine, but he knows his weight stayed consistent up until recently.
He’s been eating, hasn’t he?
His mind swims as he tries to recall the last time he properly ate. He skipped breakfast, but he always does that. Eating breakfast makes his tummy hurt. He had a bag of chips that Azul had given him (that apparently Floyd had given him, but he didn’t want it) the night before. He remembers cutting and eating an orange yesterday because of the tiny cut on his thumb from nicking it on the knife.
So the last time he ate a meal was the day before that when he was having lunch with Silver and Lilia in the cafeteria.
“Ah,” he says aloud as he realizes, stepping off the scale. He has never been the best with his food intake; Jamil would always supply him with food at proper mealtimes. Kalim must have been too preoccupied with everything else to remember to eat.
Coach Vargas’ brows furrow as he flips between two pages of his folder—no doubt Kalim’s former weight versus his current. He looks up at him, piercing blues boring into him. “Have you been eating breakfast?” He frowns in disapproval as Kalim shakes his head. “Lunch?”
“When I remember,” Kalim answers honestly.
His frown deepens. “Dinner?” Again, he shakes his head. Vargas sighs, shutting the folder and setting it down on his desk. “I’m just one of your professors, so I can’t make you do anything, but you need to eat. Get some protein in your body. And maybe talk to your counselor.” He ruffles his hair, a gesture that makes Kalim cringe slightly, and hollers, “NEXT!”
When Kalim goes to the locker room to change back into his school uniform, he can’t help but linger on his appearance. His heart palpitates in his chest as he takes in how gaunt he is. When did he get so skinny? The spiraling white marks tracing his arms and trailing down his back look grotesque instead of elegant, and his cheeks have lost their usual rosiness.
He joins Silver, who had been waiting for him, and nudges his shoulder. “Wanna grab a bite?”
“Sure,” he is quick to agree, but he freezes before shaking his head. “Apologies. I already promised Sebek I would train with him, today.”
“Oh, it’s fine, then!” Kalim says quickly, shoving his hands into his pockets and picking at the balling fleece to occupy them. “See you tomorrow!”
“See you tomorrow,” Silver responds as he departs, leaving Kalim on his lonesome once more.
More than anything, Kalim hates eating alone. He doesn’t know what it is about it, but he despises it. But the more he thinks about it, the more the realization dawns on him that he has no one to eat with. Jamil is a hard no—they still haven’t spoken. Silver was training with Sebek, which meant Lilia would probably be with them, too. He would hate to bother Azul and Riddle with something so trivial. Cater had just spam-posted a bunch of pictures of a bowl of spicy noodles, meaning he had just eaten.
“Oof!” Kalim rubs his nose, looking up to find Leona glaring down at him. His expression breaks into his usual exuberant smile. “Hey, Leona! Sorry, I didn’t see you there.”
Leona’s verdant eyes narrow. “Still moping over that snake?”
Kalim continues to smile at him blankly before laughing awkwardly and side-stepping him. “Nice talking to you, Leona.”
He feels Leona’s stare boring into him as he walks away until the other calls, “Oi.” Kalim turns around and tilts his head as Leona asks, “You busy?”
“Why?”
“Party at Savanaclaw.”
A party. Kalim’s heart swells at the invitation. He hadn’t hosted a party since winter break when Jamil had overblotted. He wouldn’t want to bother him with the preparations, and he had no clue where to even begin party planning, so he hadn’t tried. He was too busy studying, after all.
Right. Studying. He ought to be studying.
“I shouldn’t,” Kalim begins, only to yelp as Leona tugs his arm. “Ow, Leona!”
“You’re comin’ with me.” Kalim yanks his arm back, and Leona only fully releases him when he is sure Kalim won’t flee from him. “How’s working yourself to an early grave suitin’ ya?”
“I’m doing fine,” Kalim answers simply.
Leona actually chuckles at that, smirking at Kalim with a raised brow. “Yeah. Fine. Have you looked in a mirror?”
Kalim’s gut twists as he recalls his reflection, and he murmurs, “I have.”
They trek along to Savanaclaw in silence, and Kalim’s mood instantly lifts at the sight of confetti and streamers strewn everywhere, the hot sun beating down, and a bunch of random Savanaclaw students Kalim doesn’t recognize playing party games. It’s not the same as the parties he hosts, but the energy is infectious.
“Hey, Kalim!” Ruggie exclaims, squeezing past two particularly stocky jocks while holding a beef skewer in his hand. “What’s up?”
“That’s my cue to leave,” Leona says, waving his hand behind him as he walks in the direction of the dorm. “He’s yours now, Ruggie.”
“Left some food for you in your room!” Ruggie calls after him before turning back to Kalim and giving him a once-over. His brows knit together, though his toothy smile remains. It almost, almost, reminds Kalim of himself. But not quite. “Dude, when the hell’d you get so skinny?”
A laugh escapes him at Ruggie’s bluntness, and he looks down at himself. “I’m not that skinny, am I..?”
Ruggie grabs his arm, dragging him along as he maneuvers through the crowd to the food. “You’re as skinny as me, and you can actually afford food. That’s saying something.” He grabs another skewer, this one to shove at Kalim. “Eat.”
Kalim reluctantly obeys, lips closing over a small piece of meat. It is hard for him to chew through, not equipped with the jaws most everyone else in the dorm has, but the flavor is phenomenal. His hunger hits him like a truck, and Ruggie cackles as he practically inhales the rest of the skewer and grabs another one.
“What’s this party for, anyway?” Kalim remembers to ask, halfway through a bowl of carne guisada.
With a shrug, Ruggie responds, “Guess we felt like it?” He grins, nudging Kalim with his elbow. “No one’s been throwing blowout parties at Scarabia, anymore, so we had to take it into our own hands.”
“I wanna throw one,” he sighs, thoughtfully chewing through another spoonful. “But there’s so much prep involved, and I don’t wanna involve Jamil at all…”
Ruggie gnaws at a short rib bone, watching Kalim. “You guys still haven’t talked?”
“Mm-mm.” His eyes widen as Ruggie’s teeth snap through the bone. “It’s fine, though! I’m doing fine without him.”
After chewing the bone to nothing more than fine dust, Ruggie wipes his mouth and says, “Not my place to meddle, but it doesn’t look like he is.” He tilts his head at the other as he spoons more of the stew into his mouth, to which Ruggie responds, “He’s, like, constantly pissed. Getting into more fights. Skipping class to fuck around with stoner dudes.”
He forces himself to shrug, even though he has so much more he wants to say. His heart is so full of emotion that it might burst. “Oh,” he forces out, pushing around the meat left in the bowl with his spoon. “I didn’t notice.” And truth be told, he hadn’t. He hadn’t been paying Jamil any mind.
Though Ruggie simply hums in response before the two fall back into regular small talk, his words linger in the back of Kalim’s mind. He hadn’t even fathomed the thought that Jamil might be doing bad after the overblot, too. The urge to check on Jamil washes over him stronger than ever as he passes his room, but he packages that urge into a tiny box and wraps it up into nice wrapping paper with a cute ribbon before chucking it into the depths of his mind.
After all, it’s not really his place to try and insert himself back into Jamil’s life, is it?
Kalim lays back against the silken sheets of his plush bed, waiting for something to happen. He is not sure what, but he knows it’s coming, and he knows he has to wait.
Something drips from the ceiling, and his gaze flickers into focus. It’s sticky and red.
Blood.
He ought to be alarmed, oughtn’t he? But he isn’t. For some unnamable reason, Kalim cannot bring himself to be alarmed by the blood dripping from his ceiling onto his forehead.
Making no effort to wipe it, he sits up, ruby eyes immediately going to the mirror across from his bed. There is not usually a mirror there, but he is not really bothered by that. He is not bothered by a lot of things. Not even by the hole in the middle of his forehead, where the blood had corroded his skin and skull like acid and left a gaping hole.
Through the hole, a snake slithers through. It’s black with red stripes, and he giggles as it wraps itself around his neck. Though painful and scaly, its warmth is comforting in a way that he has not been able to be comforted for ages. He relishes it, even as it tightens, even as his vision goes in and out.
When he is finally able to focus again, he is flat against his bed. The snake is gone, replaced by the hand of his dearly beloved betrayer, Jamil Viper. His stormy eyes pierce him like a dagger, hand maintaining the same vice-like grip on his neck as the other, coated in blood, rises to bring a cigarette to his lips.
Jamil takes a long drag before leaning forward. Kalim feels himself rise, and for a fleeting moment, Jamil’s eyes flicker to his lips. But instead of something more tender, he exhales the smoke he had inhaled in Kalim’s face, clouding his vision. He falls back against his sheets with a thump, and his eyes do not open again.
Unfortunately, classes 2A and 2C are having a joint potionology lesson today—the first one of the quarter. Kalim’s leg bounces restlessly as he sits next to Silver, waiting for Professor Crewel to read out his partner. He frowns as Silver is paired off with someone he doesn’t know from the other class, growing more jittery with every passing second.
“Kalim Al-Asim…” His gaze flickers up to meet Crewel’s sharp eyes, and his world is turned on its side as he utters, “...and Jamil Viper.”
The class falls silent, all eyes on the two. Kalim shifts uncomfortably, making no move to get up and join him. “Can I switch?”
“No,” Crewel immediately shoots down, attention lingering on him for only a split-second before continuing, “Azul Ashengrotto and…”
He reluctantly stands to join Jamil at his workbench, tilting his head as Jamil stares at him incredulously. “What?”
“Can I switch?” Jamil echoes, as though it is something astonishing. “Really?”
His brows furrow. “Is something wrong with that?”
Jamil huffs through his nose, flipping open his textbook to the page written on the blackboard. “You’re insufferable.”
Kalim doesn’t bother responding, leaning forward on the workbench and idly watching the rest of the class divide into pairs. He fills up the cauldron with water from his magic pen as Crewel talks, mumbling out an apology when Jamil whacks his arm and tells him he has added enough.
They more or less work in silence, though Kalim will feel a surge of uncertainty in his gut whenever he looks up and finds Jamil’s eyes following him closer than the assignment. He pretends to not see it every time, carefully reading the instructions before adding the designated ingredients while Jamil manages the temperature of the cauldron and stirs.
Among the first to finish, they go up to Crewel with a flask of their potion for him to grade. “Full points,” he deems after swirling it around, though his eyes flit between the two of them. He says nothing more, however, and simply releases a sigh. “You two are free to clean up and leave.”
As Kalim cleans their station alongside Jamil, he can’t help but think about how easy it would be to order him to clean it. It wasn’t as though Jamil could say no, what with their positions. He would have to simply suck it up, seething as Kalim lorded over him, waiting for him to finish so he could demand even more of him.
Not unlike he had done over the course of their lives.
Kalim shudders at the thought. Even without ill intentions, he had ordered and demanded so much out of Jamil. It made sense that he didn’t want to talk to him or even see him ever again. It made sense that he hated him. If the roles were reversed, Kalim would probably hate him, too.
“Kalim.” Jamil’s voice snaps him out of his thoughts, and he looks up to find the station spotless. They both go to the lab coat roam, sliding off their equipment, but when Kalim attempts to leave, Jamil catches his wrist. “Let’s stop this.”
He turns to look at him with an intentionally unreadable expression. “Stop what?”
A sigh escapes Jamil as he releases his wrist. “All of this. Avoiding each other and whatnot.”
“Why?” Kalim rubs his wrist where his fingers encircled mere seconds ago. The skin hurt, even though his grasp wasn’t tight.
“Because it’s stupid,” Jamil states plainly. “I don’t feel as though either of us are benefitting from how things are going.”
Kalim bounces on the balls of his feet, letting out an acknowledging hum. “I think I have.” He offers Jamil a smile, and he can see how the other shudders at it. “I’ve learned a lot from this, Jamil. I think I’m a better person for it, honestly!”
“You look sick.” Jamil crosses his arms, taking a step closer. “You can’t return to the estate looking like this.”
A laugh escapes Kalim, crisp and unfiltered and a little jolting. “I look fine! What’s with everyone saying I don’t?”
He pushes back the sight of his reflection, the last he had allowed himself to look after getting weighed during flight class. “I’m taking classes that should help me be a better head whenever I end up in charge, and I’m actually doing okay in them! So what if I lose a few pounds?”
“It’s not just the weight, Kalim,” Jamil says, exasperated. “Your eyes are tired. You don’t smile as much, anymore. You’re even less chatty.”
“Isn’t that all stuff you wanted to happen to me, though?” Kalim can’t help but relish how Jamil recoils from his words. “I’m annoying, sloppy, pampered… This is just who I am now that I’m realizing you’re right.”
“Kalim…” Jamil’s brows knit together, and Kalim sees a ghost of concern in them. “I was wrong for trying to kill you. And for much of what I said, though I still stand by some of it.”
Kalim’s eyes widen before he laughs. It bubbles out of him, and he covers his mouth, hilarity suffocating his mind and cutting off his ability to think. He is unsure of how long he is laughing, but he does know that when he collects himself, Jamil is staring at him apprehensively, like he is an unpredictable wild animal that he is trying to discern whether he is passive or aggressive.
“You can’t just say that now, after all this time,” he breathes, straightening his posture and rolling his shoulders back. “You can’t just take it back after I believe you.”
Pushing past Jamil, he stalks away, and his tear ducts burn when he does not hear the sound of shoes thumping after him.
Kalim sits in his bed, and for the first time since the incident, sobs his heart out. He blubbers and wails, uncaring if anyone can hear him. His heart, his mind, his soul, are all in a million pieces, and he thought he was doing better, but Jamil had to come and try and reconcile and ruin the version of himself he had built away from him.
His nails, jaggedly clipped and crimson painted, scratch down the sides of his face repeatedly as he cries. As though it will divert the pain from his heart to his cheeks. If there was a way to turn his pain physical, he would.
The thought scares him, and he bawls even harder. He doesn’t want to go down that road. He is doing so good for himself away from Jamil, slowly but surely becoming more independent and intelligent without using him as a crutch.
Is he really improving, though, or is he just telling himself that?
His haggard skin-and-bones figure tells him everything he needs to know. He becomes a further mess of tears, burying his face into his pillow and wishing he would suffocate. Wishing someone would assassinate him. Wishing Jamil would assassinate him. Because even after all this, the last person he would want to see before dying is Jamil.
Why does it have to be him? Why does he have to hate him so much? Why were they born as master and servant? Why couldn’t they just be two boys together? Why are the fates so cruel?
“Jamil,” he snivels pathetically, and as his nails drag along his skin, he wishes they were sharp talons or knives that could just cut through him like butter. “I’m sorry, Jamil…”
“Shhh.” He stiffens as a hand runs through his hair, massaging his scalp and rubbing tender circles into it. Jamil’s nails scratch him, but it is not painful—it is everything but pain, as Jamil has been to him his whole life. “It’s okay, Kalim. It’s okay.”
Kalim knows it’s not okay, but he has never claimed to be strong. When Jamil is in his bed, consoling him, he crumbles, flipping around to face him and dissolving into nothingness in his arms. Jamil’s hand strokes through his hair, along his arms, down his back, comforting and loving and everything but hateful.
“I don’t hate you.”
Perhaps that is the cruelest thing of all.