He always lingered outside the door to Anatole’s office, waiting for the needle to inch towards five-thirty on the dot. Not a moment too early, not a moment too late, and never in a hurry. It was just how Haider liked it.

When he knocked, the door swung open, and Haider stepped in, the tinkle of his anklets and the scent of bauhinias signaling his arrival.

“I could set my clock by your timing, Haider.” Anatole looked up from his desk with a smile. Resting his quill, he got to his feet, dark brown eyes sparkling as he took Haider in, in that particular, carefully obvious way that never failed to make him blush.

He’d anticipated that look when he’d hastened to freshen up after he’d closed up the restaurant, pinning fresh flowers into his hair, a new, beige silk scarf around his broad shoulders, a few more bangles to clink at his wrists.

“Hello,” was all Haider could manage to say, the breath leaving his body in a rush.

*

The next time, he was calmer, their fingers barely touching as they walked together.

Anatole realized that Haider wore his magic like he wore his kindness- on his sleeve, in his heart, in his smile, clinging to him like the scent of his perfume, open and honest and welcoming. The air brightened with it- the plants in the gardens always straightened when Haider walked past them, tender leaves unfurling when he brushed his hand over them.

Something in his heart unfurled with it.

*

Anatole never said a word he didn’t mean.

“This is lovely,” he reached up on tiptoes to tap at Haider’s windchimes, smiling at the silver song of it.

“This too,” he ran his fingers over the flowers he’d painted on to the walls. Outside, the clamor of Haider’s guests for the weekend- his house was never empty- slowed to a murmur. “And this,” he took Haider’s hand, pressing his lips to the henna-butterflies at his fingertips.

He spoke with conviction enough that Haider could see the soft contours of that word curl in the air between them- colored like the blaze of sunrise- he felt it glow in the palm of his hand like a firefly, feel it press warm against his chest-

Damn him, must Nana always delight in seeing him blush and stutter?

And if he never said a word that he didn’t mean-

“Is this okay?” Haider asked him, his palm pressed to the tattoo over Anatole’s heart.

“Yes,”

“And this?” He wound his arms around Anatole’s waist, pulled him to his lap.

“Yes-“ Dark eyes fluttered shut.

“I want to paint flowers all over you.” Haider paused, and winced. “I’m-“

“Don’t be.” Anatole sighed, his fingers tangling in Haider’s black hair. “Don’t be sorry.”

Okay. Okay. Okay.

Haider felt the weight, and clammy undercurrent of anxiety, lift off his shoulder.

Don’t be sorry.

Okay.

Touch me.

Okay.

*

“And now you garnish it.”

He added flakes of chocolate to the freshly baked cake, blowing gently over it when he cut off a slice, smooth and practiced, to offer it to Anatole. “Careful,” he murmured, his eyes widening at Nana’s eagerness.

“I’m not much of a baker, I’m afraid-“

“Not much of a baker?” Anatole asked weakly, nearly light-headed from the rush of flavor and softness and the crumble, the touch of caramel- “What are you talking about?”

Haider laughed. “Okay, I’m a better cook than I am a baker.”

“Am I invited to see for myself?” He mumbled past another mouthful of cake.

“Oh-“ Haider brightened, no, bloomed, grinning from ear to ear as though the treat was his. “Anytime.”

*

He never came in empty-handed. There was something, always- a snack, a meal, a pot of coffee, always laced with his magic. He never appeared without the questions, either- asked almost out of habit.

“Have you eaten?”

“You look like you’ve been sitting there for hours- d’you want a massage?”

One time, uncharacteristically, Haider had been in a rush to get dressed, pulling his scarf over himself and tugging on his shoes.

“Are you sure you’re not staying for coffee?” Anatole frowned.

“Can’t.” He slid his bangles past his wrists, giving Nana an apologetic glance. “I promised the kids I’ll fly kites with them before sunset.”

The kids. The horde of small mischief-makers who clung to him on weekends, at his restaurant’s closing hour, demanding snacks and playtime.

Anatole couldn’t resist teasing a little. “And they can’t wait?”

“Nana!” Haider stared at him, scandalized. “I can’t break a promise!”

*

Anatole had once read that green magic builds over time to rest with the practitioner’s body- years upon years of caring and tending and creating imprinting calluses and waves of energy that had by now become Haider’s own.

It was a thing to be earned, and no matter how much it had been taught and principled into him, to care was to choose- and often to choose goodness. He knew that more often than not, it was not a choice made in lightness.

Anatole found himself wanting to lean into that warmth, touch it, hold it, and return it.

*

Haider did not read poetry.

Metaphors were beyond him- and a code beyond those of colors and measures and precision made him lose footing in the slip-slide of words.

Aarcha, however, did.

Anatole did too.

He ignored the sly look Aarcha gave him when he pocketed the tiny volume from her shelf, a Zadithi poet, she told him, in translation. The book was only a little larger than his palm, and he lay awake at night flipping aimlessly through it until he founda verse that caught his eye.

To the Sun.

His heart squeezed in his chest, and he couldn’t stop the smile that tugged at his lips.

Today when I think of storms, I only think of them breaking-

Golden and gracious against the damp earth on the morning of its ceasing-

I borrow time from the folds of your laughter

I float on its wave like a kite to tomorrow-

The promise of you undoes the night.

I let you fill the silver cracks between sleep and waking with sunflowers-

He couldn’t read any more. Haider’s throat closed, and he buried his burning face into the pillow like a lovesick teenager.

*

Anatole crossed the space between them, and instinctively, Haider wrapped his arms around him, holding him close, one arm around his waist and the other curled tenderly at the nape of his neck. Even though he barely reached up to his chest, Anatole smiled, feeling beneath his palm how Haider’s heart raced, raced, as it always did whenever they touched.

The man couldn’t be subtle if he tried.

“Congratulations,” he murmured. “You’ve worked so hard, and I wish I could have made it. I just -”

“Don’t like making promises you can’t keep.” Haider finished for him, pulling back to tuck a strand of golden hair behind Anatole’s ear. A few important diplomatic visits had timed themselves squarely into Anatole’s schedule just as Haider had hosted a party to celebrate his restaurant’s new wing. “And that’s a good thing, Nana.”

“Well,” Anatole stepped back with a smile full of promises that meant as hell to keep. “I have something for you instead.”

When he unwrapped the painting from its silk casing, emblazoned with the imprint of the auction house from where Nana had found it, Haider’s breath caught, his heart raced, his eyes stung with tears.

“Nana, you didn’t.”

“I did.”

“You-“ Haider was lost for words, his eyes the size of coins as he looked over the painting, again and again.

Simple and lovely- Kites In the Summer Sky­- the colors vivid enough to leap off the canvas, gentle enough to rest around the viewer like an embrace. “Provenance is pretty solid, I-“

“I know.” Haider whispered, stopping shy of touching the signature inked in black at the corner of the canvas. Thasveer Wazim.

“It’s Vaapa’s. I’d know it anywhere.”

Haider saw the slow strokes of his father’s brush, the brilliant blue of the sky over the house that now lay empty. If he listened, he thought he could hear the slow hum of his voice, the cheerful “Zainu! Haidi! Come over here!”

Holding Vaapa’s paintings always felt like coming home.

Finding them, a feat of rare effort.

“You must’ve gone to so much trouble.”

Anatole shook his head, fondly.  “Some effort yes, but no trouble.”

Haider straightened, tore his eyes away from the painting to look at Nana instead. He thought that he’d been certain about where they stood with each other- fleeting engagements, fond entanglements, but this, but this-

He reached out to take Anatole’s hand, trusting his answer before he could even voice his question. “Why, Nana?”

Really, there was no reason for her to be sad. She and Julian were comforted by breezy cushions on a set of light, woven furniture. She had no idea how their owner kept them so pristine in the face of the elements day in and day out. 

She looked at the food. Flatbread with hummus, varying spreads of cheese, and yogurt. Grapes to quench their thirst and whipped salmon roe balanced with salt and lemon. Everything was perfect. Yet each time she looked skyward, she felt this deep aching in her chest like she was missing something so necessary to her existence. 

This ethereal summer sky, something was wrong with it. For whatever reason, it was intent on robbing her of this moment with Julian.

“Where are you?”

Julian’s question struck Hathe so suddenly that she shivered. 

“Pardon?”

Julian was no longer prattling away at the sky. Now he looked at Hathe head on, studying her facial expressions with a mixture of curiosity and concern.

Moving a stray hair out of the way, he said, “I asked you where you are. I want to know.” There was something in his smile that was delicate, careful. “So I can go there and be with you.”

His words struck her, in more ways than one, but Hathe played it off by rolling her eyes and nudging him with her shoulder.

“Jules, come on. Stop being so melodramatic.”

He arched a dark brow and took a sip of his ale. “Darling, I’m not the one lost in the sky right now.”

Hathe clicked her tongue and decided to let him in… but only a little.

“I don’t know where I am, Ilya.” She glanced up at the stars and the pastels. It still hurt to look at that. “…. But I know where I want to be.”

Julian put down his beer and shifted somewhat so he could face her fully. 

“Wherever it is, I’ll follow. I won’t let you go alone, Hathe.”

She chuckled and leaned in against the underside of his jaw, where she sighed and nuzzled her head.

“It’s right here with you, Jules.”

Julian’s stiff uncertain posture relaxed at the realization. He comforted her with a hand in her hair.

“Right, right. Of course.” Then he hummed a lullaby version of an otherwise raucous barsong. His lips found the top of her head where the vibrations in his tune could be felt more vividly.