#subtle language

You don’t push him.

Aventurine calls it “a silent negotiation,” but even he doesn't say much when you sit with the boy on the sun-warmed balcony, wrapped in a too-large coat with golden trim. It's one of Aventurine’s—swiped from a spare rack and draped carefully around the child's tiny shoulders. He still smells faintly of sand and salt, his skin drawn tight over a starved frame and eyes too old for someone so small.

Aventurine, standing behind the glass door, watches in a way you’ve never quite seen before—quietly, almost reverently. Not a trace of his usual showmanship, no roulette-smile or theatrical tilt of his hat. Just him. Real and unguarded.

Kakavasha curls against your side like you’re a fire he wasn’t expecting.

You lower your hand to rest against his back, feeling the rise and fall of his breath. His head doesn’t lift, but the tension in his shoulders eases. Slightly.

“He’s you,” you say later, when you’re alone with Aventurine in the kitchen.

He’s not flamboyant now. No hat. No peacock feather. No watch catching light like a wink. He leans against the counter, sleeves rolled up to his forearms. His hands, for once, are still.

You expect a flippant remark. A chuckle. A sly “How poetic.” But Aventurine says nothing.

Then: “He flinched when I stepped on tile too loudly.”

The words land like a stone on water.

You cross the room and take his hand—the left one, the one he so often hides behind his back. He doesn’t pull away.

“He doesn’t flinch around you,” you say, quiet. “He trusts you. Even if he doesn’t know why yet.”

Aventurine looks down at your intertwined fingers. “I’m not sure I trust me.”

You don't answer that. Not with words. Instead, you guide his hand to your chest, letting him feel the rhythm of your heart—slow, steady, open.

On the fifth day, Kakavasha speaks.

It’s not a grand moment. No music swells. No dramatic close-up. He just tugs on the hem of your sleeve as you’re adjusting a cushion on the couch and murmurs, “Hungry.”

You freeze.

And then—Aventurine is at your side before you even speak, already listing options aloud with exaggerated flair: “Well, well, the young sir awakens! Shall it be flatbread? Pudding laced with fruit syrups? Or perhaps something grander—roasted skylamb with jeweled rice?”

Kakavasha blinks. “...Bread.”

Aventurine bows low, lips twitching. “Your wish is my command.”

You don’t miss the way his eyes shine as he straightens.

That night, you find the two of them in the living room. The child is curled up in Aventurine’s lap, head tucked under his chin. He’s asleep, breathing slow and peaceful. Aventurine’s arms are wrapped around him in a rare, unscripted embrace.

He notices you watching and lifts a brow.

“I don’t think he realizes he’s me,” he says, barely above a whisper. “Or that I’m him.”

“You don’t need him to,” you murmur, stepping closer. “That’s not why we’re doing this.”

“No?” His smile falters, just a fraction. “Then why are we?”

You crouch beside the couch, brushing a strand of blond hair from Kakavasha’s face. “Because if anyone deserved a second chance at softness, it’s him. And if anyone deserves to give that softness back... it’s you.”

Aventurine stares at you.

No snark. No dramatics.

Just aching silence.

And then, his hand finds yours again—his left one, warm and trembling.

In the weeks that follow, the boy begins to laugh. Shy, soft giggles at first, always hidden behind his hands, like joy is something dangerous. You and Aventurine become fluent in the language of small victories:

He eats all his dinner.

He lets you hold him when he cries.

He traces the patterns on Aventurine’s coat and calls them “lucky swirls.”

Sometimes, Aventurine tells stories—not real ones, but whimsical fabrications with flashy names and impossible plots. Kakavasha listens with wide eyes, nestled between you both on the couch. He always clutches the edge of Aventurine’s coat when the story gets scary.

You notice, over time, Aventurine stops hiding his hand.

And the boy sleeps without nightmares.

And for once, you feel lucky.

One evening, you find a note tucked in your book. The handwriting is uneven, like it was written with trembling fingers, but it's unmistakably his.

Thank you for not making me grow up alone.

I like you. Both of you.

Please don’t go.

—Kakavasha

Your throat tightens.

You look up to see Aventurine in the doorway, watching. He says nothing. He doesn’t need to.

You stand, cross the room, and press the note to his chest. He covers your hand with his, and in the low light, you both stand there—two fragments of broken lives, mended not by fate, but by choice.

By love.

By the family you chose to be.