#colatalks

He stood in Scarabia’s lounge with that suspicion coiled under his ribs, tugging at Kalim’s sleeve while the other boy beamed at him like the universe had never once been difficult to live in. It only soured Jamil’s mood further.

“Jamil, do you think I should bring the blue vest or the gold one?” Kalim asked, already halfway dressed for Pop Music Club and somehow still incapable of looking rushed.

“The blue one,” Jamil said automatically, because it was easier than arguing. “The gold one makes you look like a chandelier.”

Kalim laughed, delighted rather than insulted, and Jamil pressed his fingers into the bridge of his nose.

At least he had a plan. Get Kalim ready. Send him off. Use those hours to cook dinner for both of them, catch up on studying, maybe even get ahead on chores if the day keeps acting suspiciously generous. He already started calculating the most efficient order of tasks in his head when he went to fetch Kalim from the room.

That was when Cater Diamond appeared, as if summoned by Jamil’s irritation itself. Maybe this was karma.

“Hey, Hey, Hey~!” Cater sang, sliding into the corridor with a grin bright enough to make Jamil want to turn around and leave. “There you two are. I was just looking for you!”

Jamil’s smile became a knife-edge thing. “What do you need from us?”

“Just this guy over here,” Cater said, somehow both casual and smug as he threw an arm over Kalim’s shoulder. “I can escort him to club today. I was headed that way anyway and we gotta talk deets for our next performance.”

Jamil opened his mouth to refuse on instinct.

Kalim, predictably, beat him to it. “Oh! That would be great, Cater! Thanks!”

Jamil turned his head slowly. “Kalim.”

“What?” Kalim blinked at him, all bright sincerity and no self-preservation. “You said not to turn down help if it’s offered nicely.”

No. What Jamil said was to TURN DOWN help nicely. Politely. 

“That is not what I said.”

“It is close enough,” Kalim replied, and Jamil had the deeply unfortunate realization that he was being outmaneuvered by social standing once again. Cater’s audience is not escaping him.

Cater’s grin widened, the sort of expression that suggested he was a step ahead. Jamil very nearly told him off right there. Very nearly reminded Kalim, for the hundredth time, not to accept vague favors from people unless he understood exactly what was being exchanged. No matter who they are or how long you’ve known them. 

But Kalim was already nodding eagerly, and the look on his face was too open, too pleased at the prospect of company, to crush without cause.

So Jamil swallowed his annoyance and said, “Fine. Text me when you get there.”

“I will!” Kalim promised.

“I’ll be there to pick you up when club’s over,” Jamil added, already turning the words into a schedule in his head.

“Actually,” Cater said, stepping neatly into the gap before Jamil could reclaim control of the conversation, “Kalim and I were gonna get takeout for dinner after.”

Jamil stopped.

He felt the sentence settle in his mind like a stone.

He looked at Cater. Then at Kalim. “We already discussed dinner.”

Jamil did not want to spend the evening in Cater Diamond and Lilia Vanrouge’s company. The former was too energetic, and the latter could drag on with his stories for hours. They’d suggest a sleepover or some dumb thing like bouncing a bowling ball off a couch for a video. 

Jamil subtly forced his eyes wider, begging for once that Kalim would take a hint. 

Kalim gave him an apologetic smile that was not nearly apologetic enough. “I know, but this way you don’t have to cook everything tonight!”

Strike two.

That should have been the end of it, but his patience was apparently destined to be tested.

“I can taste-test for him!” Cater announced brightly, as if offering a minor convenience rather than an additional complication. “And Lilia said he’d do it too if Kalim wants. So no stress.”

Jamil stared at them. 

Die. Die die die. 

Kalim clasped his hands together. “See? It’s fine! You won’t need to stay.”

He wanted to say no.

He wanted to say that Kalim was his responsibility, that he did not trust an arrangement so vague, that he was not interested in eating whatever happened to come back in a paper bag after a night out and calling it a meal.

But Kalim was already smiling. Cater was already acting like this had been settled. And Jamil, against his better judgment and every instinct sharpened by years of living around the most difficult people imaginable, had no clean way to refuse without making the entire exchange a public argument.

So he exhaled through his nose and forced the tension from his shoulders.

“Text me,” he said again, more sharply this time. “And don’t disappear.”

Kalim saluted him. “Got it!”

Jamil watched them go with the sense that he had just missed a trap by half a step.

Then he stood in the hallway of Scarabia and discovered, with growing irritation, that the rest of his evening had been rendered useless.

He no longer had to cook dinner for Kalim. He could get something simple from the cafeteria instead. His notes were already in order, which meant studying would be finished much faster than expected. Chores could be handled later. He could even get ahead on the cleaning, perhaps, if he found the patience for it.

In other words: he had time.

Too much of it.

It should have felt like a reward. Instead, it felt like a setup.

Jamil narrowed his eyes at nothing in particular and pulled out his phone, only to remember that his schedule had been stolen from him in the worst possible way: by being empty.

Then it buzzed.

For a moment, he assumed it was Kalim complaining about forgetting his good belt, or Cater sending one of those cheerful, meaningless messages that read backhanded. 

 Instead, your name lit up the screen. He took a second to linger on your profile photo before clicking the message. 

Emergency. Can you come to Ramshackle?

Jamil stared at the message.

Of course.

Of course there was an emergency. Of course the day had been too calm, too efficient, too perfect. The universe had not been generous; it had merely been waiting to balance its books. He should have expected it.

And yet, beneath the immediate instinct to be suspicious, some quieter part of him loosened in relief.

Finally, Something he can handle

He typed back a terse agreement, already moving.

“Ramshackle,” he muttered under his breath, slipping his phone away. “What did you break now?”

It was almost comforting, in a twisted sort of way, to have his bad luck finally show its face.

With nothing else demanding his attention, he headed out at once.

—

By the time Jamil crossed the path toward Ramshackle, his irritation settled into a familiar, manageable shape. The air was cool. The walk was simple. No one was asking him to tolerate anything unreasonable just yet. Give it time. Always give it time. 

He reached the squeaky front gate and heard the commotion before getting one foot through. A sharp crash from inside, followed by a muffled clatter that made his brow furrow.

Jamil paused.

That did not sound like the  minor inconvenience he expected. When you say ‘emergency,’ it usually means a hole in the wall or Grim tore a hole through your only decent blouse. 

That sounded like structural damage. He might walk in there to find a crime scene and end up as the Headmaster’s scapegoat for student neglect. 

Jamil  pushed through the gate, already preparing several cutting remarks for whatever disaster he was about to find, and stepped into the front hall expecting broken stairs, collapsed furniture, maybe a loose floorboard gone dangerously wrong.

Instead, he found you in the living room nursing a bump on your head and glaring at a lit wall candle with less dignity than he gave you credit for. Not that Jamil hasn’t seen you wage war on inanimate objects before…to his chagrin. 

Seeing as you weren’t dead - yet - Jamil allowed the sense of urgency he’d built to taper off and let you lie there for a time as penance for - 

For? 

Huh. 

Ramshackle’s living room was… clean.

Not “less disastrous than usual” clean. Clean, clean. The couch had been buried under extra cushions and blankets in a way that made it look intentionally inviting instead of merely lived-in. A spread of food sat on the table, and even from the doorway Jamil could smell enough of it to know his stomach was suddenly and traitorously interested.

Curry. Samosas. Chocolate bark. Fizzy drinks. Coffee. Biscuits. Those cinnamon candies he knows you banned after Grim threw up two nights into the VDC. Damn gluttonous cat found the stash in Jamil’s bag and ate the whole thing in a sitting. 

And the television—new enough that he recognized it immediately as one of the decent models from after that mess at STYX—was playing a cooking show he knew by reputation alone. He never had much time for reality tv. 

Fell’s Kitchen blared from the screen, the infamous Queendom of Roses cooking show where a celebrity chef delighted in reducing amateur cooks to tears. Jamil recognized it instantly, because of course he did. Rordan Gamsey. Or something like that. The man’s face alone was enough to make people stand straighter. 

Jamil’s expression flattened out, his foot began to tap. 

“You’re watching this mind rot?” he asked after a decent amount of time, arms crossed and trying not to think about the effort here. You weren’t subtle with your intent at all, not with these catered options. 

The moment you registered his presence, Jamil regretted saying anything at all. He should’ve just made a quiet exit after confirming you weren’t squashed under wooden planks. 

Yet the second you caught his eye, a switch flipped. He had to force his lips together not to reward your idiocy with a laugh. He wouldn’t encourage this shit. 

Without a single ounce of shame, you rocketed to the cushions and flung yourself over the back of the couch with one arm draped dramatically and an expression that was meant to be sultry, though it was ruined just enough by the faint annoyance still lingering at your brow from losing a fight with a candle. 

Then the meaning of the day clicked into place with irritating clarity. He’s losing his touch, if someone like you can pull one over him.

The easy laundry. The postponed banquet. The notes. The madol. Kalim leaving with Cater. His sudden free, bittersweet evening.

He exhaled deeply through his nose.

Of course.

You watched him watching you, as if this was all proceeding exactly according to plan. “Well hello there ~ Find the place easy, savior?”

Jamil’s gaze slid off your face, too unwilling to let you realize that whatever you thought you accomplished was working. Every muscle in his face pulled to keep impassive. 

“Yes,” he said dryly. “Against my better judgment, I came under the impression you were under distress. Has anyone ever taught you that lying is a bad habit?” 

That earned him the smallest, most satisfied curl of your mouth, “Don’t virtue signal on me, Viper. I’m immune.”

You had him caught, and Jamil could pretend to struggle all he wanted. Yet you were more alike than you were different, and he knew from the crinkle in your forehead that you were well aware you had him beat. 

Now, Jamil Viper prides himself on being a sore loser. 

But he also prides himself on being an opportunist. 

—

It was, in retrospect, his own fault. He should have seen that once he walked through the door, the evening would stop belonging to him. Instead, he let himself be herded into your orbit. You waved a hand toward the couch, then the food, then the TV, all without quite looking like you were asking. Jamil noticed that trick. He noticed that you were the sort of person who made invitations feel optional while somehow still ensuring he accepted them.

You also noticed his attention had drifted to the food. He hadn’t eaten since lunch and he was sure you’d intended for him to show up hungry. 

“The curry’s mine, peasant boy” you said, knowing full well it was his favorite and he wouldn’t lose twice in a row. He took the bait and rounded to snag the platter from the table. 

He could scarf the dish like the peasant you so called him, but he decided to play nice and scooped a single spoonful. 

It smelled good, mostly. There was just a faint edge to it. Burnt, if he was being honest. Not enough that he couldn’t swallow, but seeing that hopeful look you tried to hide made him feel a bit vindictive. He lifted one impish eyebrow. “It’s a little scorched, I wouldn’t enroll the Chef on ‘Fell’s’ unless they want to be roasted.” 

You opened your mouth, then closed it, then did what he suspected you did when cornered by a point you did not care to surrender. “W-well it’s a good thing the chef isn’t here, huh! Don’t disrespect the ghost chefs in the cafeteria like that.”

Yeah. You definitely cooked this. 

You made him food.

You prepared him a place to relax.

You, apparently, prepared an entire evening around getting him to stop thinking like a man with a checklist. Even though tomorrow still sits in its nestled spot next to his amygdala. 

He should have been annoyed. Never take favors without the intent. How many times has he hammered that into Kalim’s head?

Instead, he felt something much worse: touched. Eugh. Seven, what is wrong with him? 

Jamil decided that moment was enough to bury for later on, and set the platter down. Although he would continue to take a bite here and there.While not perfect, he couldn’t help but come back for more.  

—

Fell’s Kitchen continued to rage on in the background while Jamil pretended not to be invested in which contestant would crack first. You offered dry commentary at exactly the right moments, and he found himself answering before he could stop to think about it. Jamil sat with one arm braced near his knee, his phone forgotten long enough that you finally confiscated it with a look that dared him to complain.

“Responsibility transfer,” you sang, tucking it away under your thigh. “I’ll handle Kalim.”

Jamil lifted an eyebrow. “You already have his location?”

You had the good grace to look only mildly smug. “Yessir! This should be easy. Now I have two phones.”

That, unfortunately, was exactly the kind of answer that made him trust you less and enjoy your company more.

He leaned back and gave you a narrow look. “Tell Kalim not to give that kind of access to people.”

You smiled without apology. “Even me?”

“Especially you,” he said, though the words lost some of their bite the moment they left his mouth.

The corner of your mouth twitched.

He should be annoyed by how pleased you looked.

Instead, he found himself watching the way the light from the TV softened the lines of your face, the way you had arranged the room to feel less like a Ramshackle and more like a place someone might actually want to stay. Which wasn’t good. He’d already toed that risk back during that whole VDC mess. 

At some point—Jamil could not say when, exactly—he ended up on the floor between your legs while you stayed on the couch.

It was not a conscious decision.

You shifted your knees over his shoulders at some point, and he had not bothered moving them. It was easier not to, and also far more comfortable than it should have been. He could feel the faint pressure of your legs on either side of him, the couch above, the warmth of you behind him, and it was intimate in a way that was just shy of dangerous.

Not friends. Not lovers. Something suspended in between.

Jamil was fine with that line for now.

He could afford to toe it, just this once.

After all, you were not a permanent thing—at least not in the way he understood permanence. Not something fixed into his life with any guarantee it would remain. He had never believed in holding too tightly to temporary comforts.

That was why he let himself enjoy the moment without naming it.

Your fingers found the golden disks woven into his braids, brushing over them with idle curiosity.

Jamil’s shoulders went taut before he could help it. “Careful.”

You glanced down. “Or what?”

“Or I dye your hair puke green.”

That earned a small, amused sound from you. “You’d really do that?”

“If you tangle my braids, yes.”

The threat was automatic, but it served another purpose too. It gave him something to focus on besides the fact that he liked the touch of your hands more than he wanted to admit. The way your fingers thread delicately through the braids without pulling. The fact that you were careful with him in a way that did not feel fragile. It goaded the fires in him that he’d tried to snuff, because they burned. All of him burned all of the time, and he always combusted with nowhere for the heat to go. 

“You say that like it would be worse for me than for you,” you said, still playing with the ends of his hair, “if you do that to me, then you’ll have to deal with people staring at us. I won’t dye it back until everyone knows what you did”

“I can hold out. You’ll crack once Floyd changes your name to ‘seaweed’”  he shrugged.

“Mhm.”

He could hear the smile in your voice, followed closely by your hand hitting the back of his head. 

Deserved? Maybe. 

It was easy, sitting there like that. Too easy. The kind of ease that made him suspicious of himself as much as anything else. He could feel how the evening had shifted, how the space between you had narrowed into something warmer, softer, more vulnerable.

You reached for the coffee cup sitting on the table and took a sip, immediately grimacing. “Holy shit, that’s the pits!”

Jamil glanced up, holding his hand out. “Let me see.”

You handed it over without hesitation.

He drank from the same spot you had, deliberately, and kept his eyes on yours while he did it. The response was immediate and oh so predictable. Your cheeks flushed in a way that was far too satisfying, and Jamil let the smallest smirk touch his mouth as he lowered the cup.

“It is burnt,” he said, like a verdict as your knees stiffen at his ears. 

Your expression turned helplessly flustered, which only made him more inclined to continue. He took another small sip, still watching you over the rim. “The brew, at least.”

“Y-you did that on purpose!” you hiss, his eyes form impish crescents. 

“Did I?”

“Yes!”

“Hmm.” He set the cup down, his tone almost lazy. “You’ve burnt most of the dishes too, it seems.”

You gave him a look that would have been accusing if your ears weren’t faintly red. “I did not burn most of them. Two is not most.”

Jamil tilts his head, sultry smirk on his lips. He’ll show you how it’s done for next time.  “Then what kept you distracted?”

Your eyes narrowed at once, because you both knew the answer.

Jamil did not need you to say it. He could feel the truth of it in the air between you, in the way you had been watching him, in your heels crossed over his chest, in the way your fingers kept finding the tips of his ears and his browline, in the quiet attention you had given him ever since he arrived. He knew very well what kept you distracted.

Him.

The thought should have made him retreat. Instead it made him smug. Even if you walked the line - were stuck in the in between - who was he to look elsewhere? No one else on campus could do this to you, of that Jamil was certain. 

You’d walk nights with princes, share tea with sons of renown doctors, bested tycoons and had idiots still wet behind their ears simping for scraps of your attention. 

Yet Jamil could have all of it, and he burned for it, and while he may not get to hold onto it forever - man, did it feel good to be on top of the chain. 

What made it better is that you were aware he had this hidden superiority complex. You had to be. No one else could look at him the way you do, see the crazed glint, and want it raked over every curve of their body. 

You opened your mouth, probably to argue, but the room interrupted first.

His phone buzzed.

Not in his pocket this time. In yours.

You froze slightly, and so did he, though for very different reasons. The vibration was muffled where the device sat tucked away against you, and Jamil’s gaze flicked there immediately. He did not even have to think before reaching.

His hand slid up your thigh with smooth, practiced ease, just enough to distract you. Then he hooked his fingers around the phone and pulled it free from where you’d been sitting on it.

You inhaled sharply.

Jamil ignored the reaction long enough to glance at the screen to see Kalim was back in Scarabia. Like that, he took a subconscious cold shower. Even if he wanted to blaze until you were scorched with him. 

Of course he was. Of course the day would end with the one thing Jamil actually needed finally being confirmed after all this nonsense. He exhaled through his nose, then checked the time and immediately regretted it.

Later than he would have liked.

You were still flushed, still looking at him with a mixture of surprise and offended betrayal, but he only set the phone beside him and leaned back slightly, considering the room again.

The table needed clearing. Some dishes could be rinsed. The blankets on the couch should probably be folded, though the thought of folding anything in Ramshackle after everything else he’d seen felt almost laughable. Still, he had already stayed this long.

He might as well help.

“I should clean up before I leave,” he idled.

You blinked, still whirling. “You don’t have to. I-I mean, you already came all the way here for nothing.”

“For nothing?” Jamil repeated, and this time the look he gave you was flat enough to be dangerous. “You lured me here under false pretenses, fed me burnt curry, forced me to watch grown men cry over how to cut strip steak, and messed with my braids for hours.”

Now who’s the fish? As he lists how brazen and forward your advances grew, your body goes from stone, to marble, to high grade titanium. 

When you tried to protest, he cut you off with an ease that came from years of ignoring far worse resistance than yours. “It’s the least I can do.”

He let his gaze sweep the room once more, then landed back on you.

“For the housekeeping fairy that seemed to have followed me around all day.”.

That callout  paints your statue scarlet. He tapped the phone against your knee, admiring how skin lightened with the pressure before the blood came back. 

Jamil felt the satisfaction of it settle low and pinned for later. You looked away, muttering something under your breath that he did not need to hear to know was an attempt at recovery. He took it as an agreement. 

He will help you clean.

He will go back to Scarabia afterward. Quickly. There are preparations to make for tomorrow.

He will tell Kalim, with all the firmness he could manage, to stop handing out his location so carelessly. Although if Kalim whined – which Jamil was certain would come to pass – he’d approve only for you. 

He will change into his pajamas, set his alarm, undo his braids, and lay down for the usual messes to pick back up tomorrow.

And when he closes his eyes, he will absolutely not think too hard about the way you look at him when he burns. He won’t wonder how you’d look scorched, or how your smile would taste under the warmly lit lamps you waged war against.