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Chapter Text

Mostro Lounge was nearly empty by the time Azul finished tallying this week’s profits. The low hum of the tank filters filled the silence between clicks of his pen. He sat with his ledger open, a second notebook beside it, covered in notes for some new drink concepts and event ideas. The lamps casts a golden hue over the bar, and his handwriting slanted a little more than usual.

Jade had already excused himself for the evening, mentioning something about checking on some new mushroom specimens. Floyd had disappeared hours ago without warning. The quiet should’ve been pleasant, but lately it left Azul uneasy. He’d gotten used to the background chatter of people—contract deals, laughter and meaningless noise that confirmed he was still useful.

He drew a line across the page, added up the final numbers and frowned at the total. “Adequate,” he murmured to himself, though his chest ached with the same restlessness he always felt when the day ended too cleanly.

He sighed when he reached for another paper. A list of possible partnerships. His eyes flicked to one name: Scarabia Dorm. Jamil Viper.

He didn’t realize he’d written it down again.

The idea had started weeks ago, an event collaboration. Something tasteful, like an exclusive desert-themed menu. Azul had convinced himself it was practical. Scarabia had a certain luxury appeal, after all. But the more he’d considered it, the more the name “Jamil” lingered, far longer than the proposal itself.

He told himself that it was pure curiosity. Jamil had an air of restraint Azul found irritatingly difficult to truly understand. In meetings, his answers were always concise and polite. It made Azul wonder what went on behind those calm eyes, how someone who served another so effortlessly could sound so.. controlled.

Azul closed the notebook with a soft thud. He’d send a message to Kalim directly tomorrow. Just to inquire.

The next afternoon, Scarabia was awash in sunlight and noise. Azul regretted the trip almost instantly. The dorm felt too alive, too bright and over all nothing like the peace and quiet of Octavinelle. Kalim’s laughter echoed from the balcony, and the smell of cardamom and fruit tea clung to the air.

Jamil noticed him first. “Ashengrotto?” He blinked. visibly trying to mask his confusion. “Did you need something?”

Azul smiled, the kind of polite smile he’d perfected. “A discussion about a potential collaboration, actually. I’d thought it would be best to come in person.”

Behind them, Kalim leaned over the railing, beaming. “Azul! Oh, that sounds fun! You two should do something for both dorms, something big!”

Jamil’s facial expression didn’t change, but Azul caught the faint tension in his shoulders. “Right. Why don’t we talk in the lounge,” he said, leaning him inside.

The lounge was neat, faint traces of incense in the air. Azul noticed how Jamil’s movements were efficient, like every gesture of his had the polish of someone who couldn’t afford to make mistakes. He wondered, not for the first time, if Jamil ever got to simply exist without putting on a performance.

“I appreciate your time,” Azul began, setting his folder on the table. “It’s nothing formal yet, but I was thinking of a joint event. Something that highlights the hospitality of both our dorms. Your cuisine and atmosphere are quite… distinguished.”

Jamil folded his arms. “This could have been a message.”

“I could have,” Azul said lightly, “but you strike me as someone who prefers clarity. Written words often lose tone.”

A faint sound escaped Jamil, almost a sigh. “I suppose.”

He skimmed through the folder, expression unreadable. “This isn’t a bad idea. But you know Kalim will turn it into something ridiculous if we’re not careful.”

Azul chucked softly. “Yes, I imagined as much.”

They worked through the proposal quietly. Azul spoke of the profit margins and logistics, Jamil added notes about menu design and timing. Their conversation flowed with unexpected ease.

When Azul leaned forward to adjust a page, he noticed Jamil’s fingers stilling near the paper, tense. Their eyes met briefly.

Azul turned away first. “You’re very efficient,” he murmured.

Jamil shrugged. “It’s my job to be.”

There was no pride in his tone.

By the time they had finished, Kalim had returned, chattering about decorations and themes neither of them had agreed on. Jamil humored him with quiet patience and a small smile.

Azul watched, a strange weight tightening in his chest. He recognized that brand of patience. It was truly performative. He’d spent years perfecting it himself.

When he left, Jamil walked him to the entrance. The hall had gone quiet except for the faint sound of Kalim’s laughter coming from his dorm.

“I’ll send you the final details tomorrow,” Jamil said.

“Of course,” Azul hesitated, then added, “You seem to handle a great deal on your own. I don’t know how you manage it.”

Jamil’s facial expression flickered, almost startled. “You get used to it.”

Azul nodded, but his gaze lingered longer that it should have. “That doesn’t mean you have to.”

For a moment, neither of them said anything. The air was heavy in the way silence becomes when two people both realize they’ve seen something they weren’t meant to.

Then Jamil looked away, voice calm again. “Goodnight, Azul.”

Azul smiled, faint and tired. “Goodnight, Jamil.”

He left before he could say something foolish.

The collaboration never actually happened. At least, not in the way Azul had first imagined.

The event remained half-planned pages of figures and menu drafts left in a folder on his desk—but Azul found himself writing to Jamil regardless. Little things. Updates on inventory. Notes about spices that could pair well with some Scalding Sands dishes, and questions that didn’t really need answers.

Jamil always replied.

Short messages, but he replied.

Azul told himself it was just networking. That Jamil was a useful contact, someone efficient and reliable. But his pen always paused on the name, and he started to notice when a reply took longer than usual. Their paths crossed again one evening in the Mostro Lounge. Kalim had supplied a shipment of imported dates, and Jamil arrived to deliver them himself.

Azul was at the counter of the bar, sleeves rolled up, a half-finished sketch of a new drink and its recipe beside his glass. He looked up when Jamil approached, surprised but pleased despite himself,

“You didn’t have to bring those in personally,” he said.

“I was already in the area,” Jamil replied, setting the crate down carefully. His voice was calm, but his posture carried the faint stiffness of someone perpetually on duty.

Azul reached for the clipboard, checking the order. “Everything looks correct. Thank you.”

Jamil nodded, glancing toward the quiet room. “You’re working late.”

“I often do,” Azul said. “It’s when I think best.”

For a moment, Jamil said nothing. Then softly, “I get that.”

Azul looked up, there was a flicker of recognition there, very briefly, though. He gestured to the stool across from him. “Would you like something to drink before you go? On the house.”

Jamil hesitated, then sat. “Fine. Just water.”

Azul poured him a glass, then a glass for himself, the motion almost ritualistic. They drank in silence, the steady hum of the tanks filling the silence between them.

Jamil’s gaze wondered over the bar—the neat lines, the glistening bottles, the faint, warm glow of the lights. “You keep this place running perfectly,” he said.

Azul smiled faintly. “It has to be perfect. Otherwise it falls apart.”

Jamil hummed under his breath. a sound that wasn’t quite agreement. “Must be tiring.”

“It’s easier than it looks,” Azul replied. “And you?” Scarabia always looks… balanced. I know it’s not all Kalim’s doing.”

Jamil laughed once, quiet and humorless. “No, it’s not.”

The sound stuck in Azul’s chest. Something about it felt too familiar.

Weeks passed. They didn’t call what they had a friendship. It was more of an unspoken understanding that they’d find each other in the odd empty hours when where no one else was watching.

Sometimes Jamil stopped by the Lounge late, under the pretense of checking inventory or schedules. Sometimes Azul wandered into the Scarabia dorm with a new idea, just to “consult.”

They never stayed long, but each visit lingered.

One night, Jamil arrived after curfew. He looked exhausted, shadows under his eyes. Azul was in the VIP room, surrounded by open notebooks.

“Couldnt sleep?” Azul asked quietly.

jamil shrugged. “Kalim was practicing magic again. Blew a hole through one of the curtains.”

Azul smiled, then sobered when he saw Jamil’s expression. “You really never rest, do you?”

Jamil leaned on the desk, rubbing the back of his neck. “If I stop, things’ll fall apart. You should understand that.”

Azul did. He understood it all too well. The thought left a hollow ache in his stomach.

“Sit,” He said gently. “I’ll make you something.”

Jamil gave a tired smile. “I didn’t come here for—”

“Just sit.” Azul’s tone left no room for argument.

He left to the bar and he mixed something light, citrus and mint. He came back to the VIP lounge with the drink in hand, sliding the glass across the desk over to Jamil. Jamil took a sip, eyes flicking up in faint surprise. “This is good.”

“I know,” Azul said with a slight grin. But the warmth behind it faded quickly. “You shouldn’t have to carried all of it alone.”

Jamil’s fingers tightened on the glass. “It’s not that simple.”

“Why not?”

He hesitated, then exhaled. “Because that was the role I was given. I can’t just decide I’m someone else.”

Azul’s voice softened. “And what if you could?”

Jamil didn’t answer. His gaze dropped to the desk, to the faint shimmer of light reflected on the now half-empty glass.

They stayed in silence for a little while.

The next day, Floyd noticed the change before anyone else.

“You’re gettin’ all quiet again,” he said, leaning over Azul’s shoulder as Azul sorted through paperwork. “You keep staring off like a lovesick jellyfish. Who’s got ya stuck this time?”

Azul’s pen paused mid-stroke. “Don’t be ridiculous.”

Floyd grinned. “It’s that snake guy, ain’t it? The one who’s always with that sea otter.”

Azul kept his tone even. “Jamil Viper is a business associate.”

“Uh-huh.” Floyd propped his chin in his hands. “You get this look when you talk about him. All weird and soft. Makes me wanna squeeze it.”

“Please don’t.” Azul closed the ledger with a firm snap.

Floyd laughed and wandered off, humming.

He told himself it wasn’t like that. He simply admired Jamil’s discipline. The way he kept everything controlled, even when chaos surrounded him.

But later that evening, when another letter from Scarabia arrived, Azul found himself tracing the edge of the page with his thumb, as if the paper might give something back.

At Scarabia, Jamil wasn’t faring much better.

Kalim had noticed the shift too, though he didn’t understand it. “You’ve been smiling more lately!” he said one afternoon, handing Jamil a tray of sweets. “Did something good happen?”

Jamil forced a small laugh. “Just less stress, I guess.”

He didn’t mention the late nights at the Lounge. Or the way Azul’s voice sometimes stayed in his head long after he left.

He didn’t know how to name this quiet, persistent pull. It wasn’t comfort, exactly. More like recognition.

Someone who saw the cracks and didn’t try to fix them.

That evening, Azul stopped by again under the excuse of delivering paperwork. The dorm was half-asleep; Kalim had long since gone to bed.

Jamil met him in the courtyard, the moonlight pale across the sand.

“You could’ve sent this by mail,” Jamil said, taking the folder.

“I know,” Azul replied. His voice was low, almost careful. “But then I wouldn’t have seen you.”

The words slipped out too easily.

Jamil looked at him, eyes narrowing slightly. “Why do you keep coming here, Azul?”

Azul didn’t answer right away. His gaze moved to the tiled floor, then back up. “I could ask you the same.”

For a long moment, neither spoke. The night air smelled faintly of spice and salt.

Then Jamil stepped closer, “You should go.”

Azul nodded, but didn’t move. “I will. In a moment.”

When Jamil finally turned away, Azul caught the faint tremor in his hands.

He didn’t reach for him.

Not yet.

Chapter Text

The clock near the front of the lecture hall ticked softly as the late sunlight made uneven stripes across the desks, brightening the edges of open notebooks and dulling the purple trim on Trein’s blackboard frame. Students settled into the classroom. It was the last lecture of the day, and Trein’s patience with half-asleep underclassmen had worn thin weeks ago.

“Binding magic,” he said, chalk resting between his fingers, “was often used to join mages together in pursuit of greater strength.” He drew two intersecting circles. “Two wills, one purpose. Fail to keep them balanced, and the spell collapses.”

Azul’s quill hovered over the page. He wrote ‘binding = trust,’ then erased it, dissatisfied. Beneath it, he tried ‘binding = control,’ and hesitated. His handwriting was immaculate, but the word felt wrong no matter now many times he rewrote it.

Around the phrase, he began tracing the runes Trein had drawn onto the board until the parchment grew crowded with symbols that looked correct but meant nothing. He pressed too hard, the nib cutting slightly into the paper. For a moment, he stared at the mark, at the small tear where ink had pooled. Then he began again, reworking the same sigil, as though the repetition might fix whatever tremor lived beneath his calm.

Across the aisle, Jamil sat three rows closer to the front, shoulders slightly hunched, dark hair tied back with its usual style. His notes were written with diligence, each line straight and every definition written down. The back of his uniform caught the slanting light, a thin seam of gold along the collar.

Azul’s gaze found that seam and lingered. He told himself it was just a habit.

Jade noticed first. He didn’t look up from his notebook when he murmured, “You’ll need to replace your ink if you keep starting holes through the bottle, Azul.”

“I’m concentrating,” Azul replied.

“Of course.” Jade’s quill moved again. “On what, I wonder.”

Floyd leaned back far enough that his chair squeaked. “He’s watchin’ Sea Snake again. You see that look, Jade? That’s the look he gets before he starts a new contract.”

Azul didn’t bother to answer. He simply turned a page, though he hadn’t filled the first one.

At the front, Trein’s chalk moved in slow circles. “In early rituals, the binding circle symbolized equality. Each mage contributed identical runes to the design. But equality,” he said, “is easier to draw than to maintain.”

Jamil’s hand paused over his notes. His thumb pressed a faint dent into the paper. Equality—he understood the problem too well. Balance was always an illusion: one side giving orders, the other pretending not to obey. His life had been built on a contract no one ever signed.

Kalim leaned over to him, whispering, “Hey, Jamil, did you know Ruggie once tried a binding spell on a dog? it followed him for a week!”

Ruggie, seated on Kalim’s other side, laughed under his breath. “Not really a binding spell, but I got out of doin’ things for Leona for a little bit.”

Trein cleared his throat, and Kalim straightened instantly. The professor continued on as if nothing had happened.

“Breaking a binding,” he continued, “hurts both parties. The stronger the connection, the greater the recoil.” He drew a jagged line through the intersecting circles. “A failed pact, leaves residue—echoes of thought, shared fatigue, and confusion of identity.”

Azul’s quill tapped once against his notebook. Shared fatigue. That phrase slipped into his mind like watr through cracks. He thought of late nights in the lounge, the way exhaustion clung to him afterward, the strange calm that only appeared when Jamil happened to drop by after hours. He’d convinced himself those visits were coincidence. It was easier than admitting dependence.

Floyd whispered again, half-amused. “You think the professor’s talkin’ about you two?”

Azul didn’t look at him. “Hes speaking generally.”

“Sure,” Floyd said, grin audible in the word.

Jamil felt the back of his neck prickle. He didn’t turn around; he didn’t need to. He could guess the conversation happening behind him. Azul’s friends always watched with a kind of curiosity, as if cataloging a rare species. He sighed deeply and focused back onto the board.

The diagram Trein was drawing expanded, more circles, more lines linking them. “In advanced cases,” he said, “the binding is emotional as much as magical. Trust alone sustains it.”

The chalk squeake sharply, and a few students winced. Kalim whispered, “That sound gives me goosebumps.”

“Focus, Al-Asim.” Trein said without turning.

“Yes, Professor Trein!”

Ruggie hid a smile behind his hand.

Jamil copied the diagram perfectly, every symbol clear. He didn’t need to; he already understood the principle. What he couldn’t understand was why his chest tightened each time the professor said trust. It was a word that should have been neutral. Instead it felt like a weight he’d been carrying too long.

Azul’s pen slipped; a small blot of ink bled across the margin. He closed the notebook with a quiet snap and folded his hands. His mind was miles away from the chalkboard.

Jade leaned slightly closer.  “You’ll reopen the Lounge tonight?”

“Yes,” Azul said, still watching the board.  “There are figures I need to review.”

“You work too much.”

“Coming from you, that means little.”

“True,” Jade allowed. He smiled faintly and wrote another line of notes, though Azul suspected it was mostly decoration.

The sun shifted again, the last beam cutting directly across Jamil’s desk. He blinked against it and adjusted his papers. The light made his handwriting shimmer faintly, precise strokes of dark ink glinting like the edges of a seal. Azul noticed the movement before he could stop himself.

Jamil’s discipline was the mirror of his own, the same hunger for control, the same quiet terror of losing it. The difference was that Jamil looked like someone still trying to escape the cage, while Azul had already decided to decorate his.

Trein began listing famous pacts by name, the chalk’s rhythm steady again.  “The Azhura Covenant. The Pact of Ulem. The twin binding of Lir and Sava, in which one mage sought freedom, the other permanence.”

At that, Jamil’s eyes lifted briefly. “The Lir-Sava bond failed because one participant underestimated his own will,” he said, voice low but clear. “The imbalance destroyed the circle from within.”

“Correct,” Trein said, nodding once. “An excellent example.”

A murmur of admiration ran through the class. Azul didn’t speak, but his thoughts followed the pattern. Underestimated his own will. He wondered which of them that applied to now.

The hour dragged and folded in on itself. Trein filled the board with patterns, each one smaller, tighter, more complicated than the last. The smell of chalk dust thickened in the air. Students’ quills slowed. Even Floyd had stopped whispering, his attention drifting to the fading light outside.

Azul forced himself to copy a diagram, though he didn’t care about the shape of it. What mattered was the repetition, the structure. It kept his breathing steady.

Jamil closed his notebook and stared at the faint imprint left by his writing. His thoughts were elsewhere. Kalim’s laughter earlier, Ruggie’s ease, the professor’s words about equality. None of them felt reachable. He’d grown too used to serving balance instead of sharing it. Even here, where roles were supposed to be level, he carried the instinct of someone waiting for orders.

“We’ll stop here for today. For tomorrow’s exercise, you’ll work in pars to draft a symbolic binding diagram. The goal is not perfection but equilibrium.” He surveyed the room over. “I’ll be assigning the pairs.”

A faint groan rippled through the students. Floyd stretched his arms lazily. “Hope I get someone fun,” he muttered.

“Don’t worry,” Jade said. “You’ll make any pair… interesting.”

Trein then began reading names from a list “Rosehearts and Floyd. Al-Asim and Bucchi. Vanrouge and Jade…”  He paused to adjust his glasses.  “Ashengrotto and Viper.”

The air seemed to thin. Azul felt a tightening somewhere between his ribs. The twins exchanged a silent glance; Floyd’s grin returned, sharp and delighted. “Ooh, look at that,” he whispered. “Fate’s doin’ the pairing for him.”

Jade just nodded.

Jamil’s pen stilled. He inhaled once, carefully, before closing his notebook. The movement was calm, but his heartbeat wasn’t. Across the room, Kalim was laughing softly at something Ruggie said, their shoulders bumping as they gathered their books. The normalcy of it made Jamil’s stomach twist.

Trein continued reading names. The noise of students forming pairs filled the space again—chairs scraping, voices low and ordinary.  Azul stood, smoothing his uniform automatically.  His expression stayed composed, but the stillness in his posture was too deliberate to be natural.

He waited until Jamil looked up.  Their eyes met across the scattered desks — no surprise, only the tired recognition of two people who had been circling the same inevitability for too long.

“Looks like we’re partners,” Azul said, voice even.

Jamil’s mouth curved, not quite a smile.  “Seems that way.”

—

When Trein dismissed them, the conversations of students comparing notes, grumbling about the assignment, or simply glad to leave filled the lecture hall. The afternoon light had grown thin. Azul closed his notebook with care, aligning the edges until they were exact. The rune for trust still bled faintly through the last page. He resisted the urge to tear it out.

“Still thinking about the bindings, Azul?” Floyd’s voice came from behind them, lazy and amused. He leaned an elbow on Azul’s shoulder, grinning wide. “You look like you’re tryin’ to bind the paper instead of your partner.”

“Not all of us prefer acting spontaneously to concentration, Floyd.”

“But that’s more fun,” Floyd whined, tilting his head. “Besides, Trein said balance needs trust, right? That’s gonna be hard for you.”

Jade then spoke, “He does have a point, Azul. Trust requires vulnerability. I imagine that’s challenging for someone who prefers the safety of a contract.”

Azul’s smile was faint. “I trust plenty of people,’ he paused for a quick second, “within reason.”

Floyd laughed, “So no one, then.”

“Floyd,” Azul cleared his throat, “I suggest you find a new hobby.”

“Gentlemen,” Trein’s voice cut across the room, tired yet still sharp. “If you’ve enough energy for this back and forth, you can use it to review for next week’s quiz.”

The twins straightened their backs. “Of course, Professor.” Jade said, slipping his book into his bag, “Come, Floyd, We’ll be late for kitchen duty.”

Floyd nodded as he followed along, when they were gone, the silence settled again. Azul gathered his satchel, aware that Jamil was still there.

Across the aisle, Jamil was rolling up his parchment. Kalim had turned halfway toward him, still talking, his words bright and careless.

“Hey, maybe you can show me that binding diagram later, Jamil! I bet I could draw one too—Ruggie says I’ve got a good sense of symmetry.”

Ruggie tugged at Kalim’s sleeve. “C’mon, you’ll be late for flying practice.”

“Oh! Right!” Kalim smiled, unbothered as always. “See you later, Jamil!”

Jamil gave a small nod, his polite smile not quite reaching his eyes. When they left, the silence that followed felt heavier than the noise had.

Azul waited until the room was nearly empty before crossing over. He moved with deliberate calm, the measured pace he used when he didn’t want to seem uncertain. Jamil was stacking his books, each motion tidy, controlled.

“Mr. Viper,” Azul said quietly.

Jamil looked up. “Ashengrotto.”

Jamil’s tone was even, his posture straight as always, but his eyes lingered on Azul’s a little too long.

Azul adjusted the stap of his satchel, the small motion buying some time. “I suppose we should discuss our approach before tomorrow, Professor Trein seemed rather insistent on collaboration.”

Jamil’s gaze dropped to his satchel. “After club meetings?” He asked. “The library will be quiet then.

“That’s fine.” Azul hesistated, then added, “I can bring the supplementary texts from the archives. I have a few that explain the sigil geometry more precisely than the standard edition.”

Jamil gave a small nod. “You always do.”

It wasn’t meant unkindly, but something in Azul’s chest twinged anyway. He studied Jamil’s expression, the way his jaw was set—not hard, but wary, like someone keeping an invisible leash on their own thoughts.

“I prefer to be prepared,” Azul said, softly defensive.

“I know.” Jamil began stacking his quills in perfect parallel lines. “You hate leaving anything to chance.”

Azul offered a practiced smile. “Chance has never been kind to me.”

That earned a quiet hum from Jamil, neither agreement nor argument. He closed his notebook with a soft thud. “I’ll meet you by the east tables. Seven o’clock?”

“Seven,” Azul echoed.

He meant to leave it there, but the silence that followed stretched too long, heavy with things unsaid. Jamil lingered, still tidying a desk that no longer needed it. Azul waited for him to move first, but he didn’t.

For a moment, they just looked at each other—two people who had learned too well how to appear composed.

Azul’s mind, always ready to calculate, searched for what to say next: something polite, something safe. Nothing came. Instead, he found himself watching the small details, like the faint ink smudge on Jamil’s thumb, the way his hair caught the light where it slipped loose from its tie. It was ridiculous how easily such things could catch him off guard.

Jamil felt the scrutiny, even without looking up. He had grown used to eyes on him, Kalim’s, teachers, strangers—but Azul’s gaze was different. It wasn’t ownership or admiration; it was quiet and precise, like someone cataloguing a secret he hadn’t meant to reveal. It made him tense.

“I’ll bring my draft of the diagram,” Jamil said, breaking the moment. “You can revise it however you like.”

“I’d rather we review it together,” Azul replied, too quickly. “It’s a joint assignment.”

Jamil’s brows lifted slightly. “You don’t trust me to draw the lines correctly?”

Azul opened his mouth, then stopped. “That isn’t what I meant.”

Jamil didn’t push. He just gave a slight nod and shouldered his bag. “I’ll see you tonight.”

He turned away, the movement being efficient. Azul watched him go until the door clicked shut.

For a while he stayed at the desk, unmoving. The room had nearly emptied; only Trein remained, gathering his notes with deliberate slowness.

“Mr. Ashengrotto,” the professor said without looking up, “you’ll do well to remember what I said earlier. Equilibrium matters more than precision.”

Azul’s hand tightened on the strap of his satchel. “Yes, sir.”

He left before the chalk dust had settled, the echo of his own footsteps following him down the corridor.

Chapter Text

Azul walked across the courtyard with his satchel pulled tight against his shoulder, trying to look like he was simply heading to the library the same way he always did. His steps were steady, maybe a little faster than usual, but no one was around to notice. The lanterns overhead cast pale circles across the stone, and each time he stepped through one, the faint sense of anticipation under his ribs pulsed again. It was irritating how easily it slipped past his defenses.

He wasn’t nervous. There was no reason to be. He had asked Jamil to meet him, Jamil had agreed, and this was only studying. A normal, responsible evening. Still, he kept running through hypothetical versions of the night like what they would cover for Trein’s assignment, how long it would take and how he would keep his focus from drifting. He ignored the part of his brain that kept repeating the same thought.

Jamil will be there.

Azul pressed a hand over his chest briefly, as if smoothing out the thought itself, then pulled open the library door.

The inside was lit softly, the way it always was this late. Lanterns hovered closer to the shelves, casting long shadows across the aisles. A couple students flipped pages at opposite tables, one tapping his pencil lightly, another yawning behind his sleeve. The air smelled faintly of worn paper and driftwood perfume from the librarian’s desk.

Azul chose a table near the window and he placed his things down with care. Notebook infront of him with his quill aligned beside it, and books arranged by relevance. Organizing things by order gave Azul a hint of comfort, but it didn’t distract him by the restlessness inside of him, a slow, irritating pulse that had been there since he walked out the classroom earlier that day.

He didn’t know exactly when studying with Jamil had become… something anticipated. It crept up slowly, the way most unwanted things did.

Azul checked the time on his phone. He was early, of course. It was just a habit, he told himself. A responsible one. Not something else.

He opened the assigned textbook but didn’t read it immediately. Instead his eyes kept drifting towards the library entrance in a way he *hoped* didn’t look obvious. a pair of some first-years walked in, whispering too loudly. Some students shifting through some books, and someone sneezed in the back corner.

Then, the door opened again, and this time, Azul felt his back straightened and his posture getting fixed before he can even help it.

Jamil stepped inside, eyes sweeping the room like he was checking for something. When his gaze landed on Azul, he paused for half a heartbeat. His expression didn’t change much—Jamil rarely let it,— but there was the faintest softening around his eyes.

He hesitated only for a moment before walking over.

“Hey,” Jamil said quietly as he set his materials down. “Sorry. Got delayed with cleaning up the Gymnasium.”

“You’re not late,” Azul replied, trying to sound casual. “I arrived early.”

Jamil didn’t comment, but there was a tiny exhale through his nose that suggested he had expected that answer.

They settled in without any force of small talk. Azul liked that about him.

They opened their books, their notebooks, their shared exhaustion from Trein’s lecture earlier.

Azul tried to read the paragraph in front of him, but Jamil’s pen made a soft scratching sound that kept pulling his attention sideways. He glanced up once. Jamil was already looking at the text, hair falling slightly over his brow, mouth set in that careful, focused line. Azul snapped his eyes back down immediately.

They worked in silence for a while. Normal silence. Comfortable silence. A student shelving books clattered something by accident; Jamil flinched barely, like the sound hit a nerve he always kept half-covered. Azul pretended not to notice.

At some point, Jamil shifted in his seat, rubbing the heel of his hand under his eye. “Trein’s expectations are ridiculous.”

“On the contrary,” Azul said, trying not to smile, “he’s merely thorough.”

Jamil shot him a tired look. “You say that like it’s a compliment.”

“It is,” Azul replied, though even he knew he sounded a little too earnest.

Jamil’s eyes dropped back to the book, but Azul noticed the way the corner of his mouth twitched, the smallest suggestion of amusement he probably didn’t mean to show.

They read another few pages before Azul reached the diagram that required actual spellwork. He rested his finger on the edge. “We should test this one. The dual-auxiliary array.”

Jamil let out a breath, not annoyed, just resigned. “Yeah. We should.”

He pulled out a sheet of parchment, smoothing it flat with his palm. Azul placed his own beside it. Their hands ended up close—closer than intended—but neither of them shifted away. Jamil lifted his pen first and began drawing the inner rune with steady movements. Azul started the outer circle, keeping his lines exact.

Their magic responded long before the ink finished drying. Azul felt the faint warmth under his fingertips, like a subtle current passing between the pages. Binding magic always reacted to compatible casting, but the speed of it tonight was… notable.

Jamil noticed the glow first. “That’s—fast.”

“You’re putting more magic into yours than necessary,” Azul murmured, leaning slightly closer to inspect the overlapping runes. “Unconsciously, I assume.”

Jamil paused the pen. “I didn’t mean to.”

“You don’t have to apologize,” Azul said, softer than planned.

Jamil’s eyes flicked upward at the tone. Azul pulled his gaze away quickly, pretending to examine the outer circle.

They tried the array again. This time, their spellwork synced even faster, humming faintly between the parchment sheets like a quiet vibration. Azul felt the shift of Jamil’s magic brushing his own—not overpowering, not demanding. Just present. Warm.

He held his breath without meaning to.

A passing student murmured something to a friend, breaking the focus. Azul and Jamil both pulled back at the same time, the hum fading.

“Let’s… try another one,” Jamil said, clearing his throat a little.

“Yes. Of course.”

They switched sigils. Jamil leaned over the page, hair falling nearer to Azul’s arm. Azul pretended he didn’t notice. He forced himself to focus on the angles of the rune, the stability of the lines, the theory behind the spell. But every so often, Jamil’s sleeve brushed the table or his pen paused mid-stroke, and Azul found himself fighting the impulse to glance at him.

And losing.

He caught himself watching Jamil’s expression more than the assignment—the way he frowned lightly when he concentrated, how he bit the inside of his cheek when erasing something, the tired weight under his eyes that he tried to hide. Jamil worked like someone who expected disappointment if he faltered. It bothered Azul more than he liked to admit.

Jamil noticed his stare eventually. Without looking up, he said quietly, “You’re analyzing me again.”

Azul blinked. “I analyze everything.”

“Not like that,” Jamil murmured, voice softer, as if he regretted saying it immediately.

Azul’s fingers tensed against the edge of the table. He didn’t answer because he didn’t trust what might come out. Instead, he turned back to his notes, forcing focus into his handwriting.

They worked for nearly an hour. The sounds of the library changed as the night got later—more yawning, fewer pages turning, more students packing up. Jamil loosened his collar slightly at one point, stretching his neck. Azul’s eyes followed the movement without permission. When Jamil caught him, Azul coughed lightly and pretended to adjust his glasses.

Eventually, Azul closed the textbook gently. “We’ve made significant progress.”

Jamil leaned back a little, rubbing his temple. “Yeah. More than I thought we would.”

“You look tired,” Azul said before thinking.

Jamil’s expression shut down too quickly. “It’s fine.”

Azul lowered his gaze. “You should rest.”

“That’s not really something I… get to do whenever I want.”

Jamil said it casually, but the meaning behind it was heavy and familiar. Azul had known pieces of Jamil’s burden, but every time he brushed a little closer to it, it struck something old and sharp inside him.

“You deserve to,” Azul said quietly.

Jamil stopped, his hand still resting on the clasp of his bag. He didn’t look up right away. He stared at the table like he needed a second to decide what that even meant.

“…Don’t say it like that,” he said under his breath. “Makes it sound like you feel sorry for me.”

Azul shook his head a little, too fast. “I don’t.”

Jamil finally glanced at him. Not hostile. Just tired in a way he didn’t usually let people see.

“You don’t really know what I deserve,” Jamil said. “You don’t live my life.”

“I know that,” Azul replied. Quieter now. “But I know what it looks like when someone keeps pushing themselves past what’s normal and calls it fine.”

Jamil let out a quiet breath that was almost a laugh. “Am I that bad at hiding it?”

“To someone who’s had to… build himself from nothing?” Azul said. He hadn’t planned to say it like that. It just slipped out.

The silence felt heavier after that.

Somewhere behind the shelves, a page turned. Someone sniffed like they had a cold. The candle on the table flickered, the light shifting across Jamil’s face in a way that made him look softer and more tired than he’d probably want to look in front of anyone.

Jamil leaned back slowly. “People don’t usually talk like this,” he said. “They either act like they don’t notice, or act like it’s not that serious.”

“I don’t really believe in things not being serious,” Azul said. “I think most things are, if you look long enough.”

Jamil tilted his head slightly, studying him. “And what if I don’t get to decide when to stop?” he asked, honestly.

The question sat between them.

Azul thought about it longer than he’d ever think about a normal answer. He didn’t try to make it clever.

“Then… I think it’s not a bad thing if someone else notices it first,” he said quietly. “That doesn’t make you weak.”

Jamil looked away after that. Toward the window. Toward the dark glass reflecting lantern-light and nothing else.

“You talk like you’re used to doing everything by yourself,” Jamil said.

Azul didn’t dodge it.

“…I am,” he said.

The silence that followed wasn’t awkward. It was careful. Like both of them were trying not to move too suddenly and scare it off.

Jamil finished packing his bag slowly now. Azul noticed that and closed his own book more carefully than usual, fingertips lining up the edges like he was giving them both more time.

“You should still rest,” Azul added, softer.

Jamil looked back at him. “You just don’t know when to drop things, do you?”

“No.” Azul said.

Jamil let out a small breath through his nose. “…Yeah. I figured.”

When both of them reached for the same book at the end of the table, their fingers brushed again. Neither of them jerked away this time. They adjusted around each other, letting the touch linger for just a second longer than it needed to.

Jamil cleared his throat. “We should go. They’ll close the upper floor soon.”

Azul nodded and stood. The chair legs scraped louder than he meant them to, and he flicked a glance toward the librarian’s desk. No one looked up.

Jamil stepped back to let Azul walk ahead. Azul hesitated before moving, and only noticed his heartbeat was faster after he’d already started walking.

They moved toward the exit together.

Their footsteps echoed softly between the towering shelves. When Jamil pushed the door open, he held it for half a second longer than he needed to. Their shoulders brushed as Azul passed.

The hallway outside was cooler. The stone floor caught the lantern light in dull reflections. A faint rush of night air moved through the corridor, lifting the hems of their coats.

They didn’t say anything.

They didn’t have to.

They walked side by side, close enough that their shoulders would have brushed if either of them shifted an inch, far enough that it still looked like nothing at all. Their steps fell into the same rhythm without effort, like it was something they’d already practiced long before they ever acknowledged it.