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“Seems to have most everything together, all the way up to the end. I didn’t tell him about Ludinus since that was after- figured you can break that good news. If it fits right now, y’know.”
“I’ll, ah. We’ll see.”
“Sure. Good luck, and hey. Caleb.”
Withholding a fond eye roll, he readies himself.
“Ja.”
Beauregard peers with a pointed finger, eyes wide and piercing.
“Small house.”
“Thank you, Beauregard.”
Caleb stuffs every word with his long-suffering sigh as she passes, grin wide, to rejoin the rest in the temple’s mainroom.
Balancing ceramic with one hand and his quite-full bag on the same elbow, Caleb opens the door to what is, presently, Essek’s room within the Clay’s home.
Cozy, daylit-shaded, a low rumble again suffuses the stringcraft-strewn space. This slightly deeper tone is indicative of healing, Essek has claimed with no small amount of indignation.
And, as he has been, Essek is comically tiny to the bed frame he’s propped upon, the blanket he swims under, though this allows Caleb plenty of room to sit on the bedside.
It seems Corrin was also just in; Essek’s bandage is crisp, though it’s certainly had an easier time remaining so over the past few days.
The residuals of tired amusement rest under Essek’s dark eyes, in his darkened cheeks, in the twitch at the corner of his lips. His hands have taken up their stir-crazed flexing again, though, so perhaps it is for the best that Caleb is a little tardy, given what made him so.
“Guten Morgen.”
Essek’s eyes flick to the midday-illuminated curtains, back to Caleb.
“Afternoon.”
His gaze drops to the mug in Caleb’s hands, and he sighs a flat chuckle.
“I’ll be more the families here than myself by the time I can leave. The Gonsolves again?”
“Not them, something a little different. And more materials, especially for reading and work.”
And Caleb pats the bag of books, cloth, and yarn before setting it to the bedside table next to the exact dozen of Essek’s neatest crafts.
Of the things to return to him, first among them was muscle memory, the manipulation of threads.
“I’m going to drive Colton mad when he returns, with so many trinkets left around.”
“Better than sleeping so much.”
“I’ll take them with us.”
“Sounds like a plan.”
What a joy it is, to have plans once again.
Essek tips his chin to the mug, sitting up on his own, his soft, snowy curls bouncing across his forehead with the slight heave. Based on the zigging part, Yasha must have helped him this morning.
“And the mystery drink? Not hemlock, I hope.”
“No, they were out of that.”
Caleb carefully passes the mug over, ensuring Essek has a firm hold before releasing his own.
“Orange blossom herbal.”
Brows furrowing in the exact way Caleb hoped, Essek breathes the wavering steam.
“It’s spiced.”
“Mm. The exact blend is pretty broad, but the cinnamon is a notable part.”
And Essek silently watches the contents of his mug swirl, a thoughtful press to his lips.
Perhaps he needs a nudge.
“Surprisingly hard to find, tricky to brew.”
“Seasonal, or- oh.”
Essek’s shift in tone to faint wonder grabs Caleb’s heart as Essek meets his eyes.
“Custom batch.”
He affirms the resettled memory with a grin.
“Ja. I have the timing down to a science.”
Essek takes a sip, consideration on his brow.
“Sweetened it with just a little bit of honey, good for the throat.”
“Only a little bit. The bees must miss their hive. Bisaft?”
“Bisaft, ja. And a little bit of a lot, perhaps.”
Essek sniffs.
“‘Perhaps’.”
Despite the sarcasm, as Essek continues sipping, his ears take up that very slight wiggle they do when he especially enjoys something. Caleb practically glows with the knowledge he absolutely chose just the right blend, matched it with just the right amount of sweetness and spice.
Through these years, he has yet to tell Essek they do that, or even bring it up to the rest. If he ever will. He might not, for fear Essek may stop himself if teased. While Essek is not so self-conscious about much anymore, at least privately, Caleb can recognize that some ingrained habits color deep, inextricable as a vein of gold through marble.
Likely realizing they have been sitting in silence—not that Caleb minds in the slightest—Essek redresses in his manners, the second thing he gained back.
“I appreciate the ah. Enrichment. Thank you.”
“I hope it excuses my lateness some.”
“You don’t need an excuse, Caleb. I know I wouldn’t want to be cooped up so much.”
“Yes, well.”
Caleb weaves his hands together in his lap.
“I have heard some good news, or. What I hope is good news.”
And Essek stares over the mug with his impassively soft smile- an expectant, if tempered, audience.
May as well cut to the chase, since stoking Essek’s impatience is the last thing on today’s to-do list.
“So the um. Moorbounder, in the room.”
Though Essek’s poise and demeanor don’t diminish in the slightest, his form gains the alert stillness of a stalked bird. His ears, even his hands wrapped around the mug, become stationary.
Recognition and confirmation could not be clearer, but Essek will dodge every question unasked directly.
“You remember, Essek?”
Caught, now Essek rolls his eyes with a slouch, muttering as dry as his fresh bandage.
“I am indeed doing better, thank you for asking.”
So these edges are still rough. Perhaps they need a little sanding?
“Not once in the years I have known you have you ever said that to me.”
“I am aware.”
Essek’s cheeks darken again as his ears angle a touch back, minor suspicion, maybe defense.
“I take it this is another exercise?”
“More that I am genuinely curious.”
“Why?”
This particular flavor of aloof indignation is a fetching combination that Essek once wore better than most garments. It’s moth-bitten.
“Did you think it was an accident, that I misspoke? If you’re looking to embarrass me, Caleb, you are a Beauregard too late.”
Things really must be settling back into place though, if he can tolerate being teased so much, and without that worrisome silence or blankly polite confusion.
Voice, third. Mental memory: ongoing.
Still, Caleb will take better care. He gentles his tone.
“Fear can do interesting things to the mind.”
“I have lived a coward’s life.”
That’s certainly a promising recollection, synthesized rather than given, but even so.
“Death doesn’t trivialize it, my friend. Fear or life.”
Essek sighs through his nose, lips pulled into a flat smile held taut over… something.
Something stopped up, waiting to burst or drain. Perhaps it can be kneaded away before it comes to that.
“You would know.”
“I speak for myself, ja.”
Essek downs the rest of the tea and, with a slow nod, sets the mug aside, kneading against the blanket again.
“Some things are… off-kilter, still. But it doesn’t feel as though the gaps are lingering. I have everything I should.”
“You are sure? If now is not the time--”
“No, no.”
And Essek sighs again, resignation, but the sort filled with a hesitant yearning, far distinct from coercion.
“It was a split-second decision, but I can list for you the reasons I considered, my thought process, if it would sate your curiosity and abate your concern. I’ve even numbered them in order, one through nine.”
Of course it was and of course he did, the dear overthinker.
And this is new, this is good, resolving the minutiae. Maybe today really is the day the last bits scrambled will realign.
Maybe Caleb even guessed correctly in the moment. Levity may ease the ache of anxiety some.
“Indulge me.”
Caleb says it in hope, as if Essek is capable of much else by now.
And Essek scoffs a chuckle, holds out a hand.
“As if I am capable of much else by now.”
Caleb grins as he takes it, warms it to stillness between his own.
To Caleb’s delight, Essek draws what might just be his deepest breath since returning to them. The deepest Caleb has seen, at the very least, and Essek hasn’t left his sight save for sleep sans dreams and his usually-quick trips for supplies.
Seemingly steeled, Essek begins.
“One.”
He holds up a trembling thumb.
“As you’ve noted, the phrase does not frequent my Common lexicon, thus it would have seemed unusual.”
And it did. So far, Caleb’s guesses are one for one.
“Two.”
Essek’s index joins.
“It is three short syllables, fast to say.”
A fair point. Two Widogast.
“Three.”
Essek continues counting with his fingers. Good, he must be doing it for the dexterity practice. Little steps.
“It can be enunciated well enough without moving the face much at all.”
A stretch, but reasonable. Two point five Widogast.
“Four. It has a similar structure and sound to ‘intuit’.”
The peak of their hazard code, of course. Personalized rather than purely practical; this reassurance also hits deeper than the prior few. Three point five Widogast.
“Five. Such words alone are often used with certain weight, indicating a grave situation in conjunction with four.”
A tier of danger above ‘intuit’- rather true. Four point five Widogast.
“Six.”
Essek slips his hand from Caleb’s, holding up the appropriate number of fingers.
“Not the worst last words ever spoken.”
Well, that’s not inaccurate, per se. Five Widogast.
“Seven. They clearly thought it was a waste, if they were as unprepared for your arrival as Fjord claimed.”
They got what was coming for them, then. Six Widogast.
“Eight. It worked. You got the rest. You came.”
That Essek assumed there couldn’t have been a viable option in which it didn’t work stirs up the warm pride in Caleb's chest, such faith and trust. Will to survive.
It’s a testament to their companionate years, his and Essek’s, Essek and the Nein, and Caleb could kiss him breathless for it.
But the fact Essek can remember it now? That takes Caleb’s own.
Caleb sighs to keep the rasp from his words.
“Of course it worked.”
“Then all is well and I remain a genius.”
Chuckling, perhaps Caleb should smack him with a loose pillow instead, but the playful haughtiness is rather handsome.
Oh, how Caleb missed this. He can accept his seven of eight, so far so good.
Though, to speak on missing.
“You have left out number nine, my friend.”
“You and your counting.”
“Says the one with a list.”
“Fair.”
Essek sets up his fingers, steadier already. Little steps.
“Nine was….”
He furrows his brows, lips set in that thoughtful way again as his hands and eyes return to his lap.
“Nine. Just in case.”
Essek’s fingertips fiddle with the edge of the blanket, running along the threading that holds it together.
And what are these confused nerves for? It is quite like Essek to have redundant contingencies. Something isn’t clicking.
Caleb offers a nudge.
“In case?”
Essek draws a shallow breath as he reaches one hand for Caleb’s again. Caleb gives it with ease and Essek gingerly presses his lips to Caleb’s ninth finger, the place where Essek had kept his own silver band. Caleb will have to make a new set, as his own half of Telepathy’s component now rests inert without its companion.
Essek blinks, eyes wider and now focused directly on Caleb with the intensity of full moonlight through a scope.
“A statement does not necessitate a response.”
Seems Essek has found a loose string to pick at. Perhaps it’s best not to let that unravel.
“I suppose not, no, when the intent is purely to relay a concept.”
Caleb coaxes Essek’s free hand from its worrying and Essek immediately laces their fingers tight, marginally relaxing. Little steps.
He watches their hands, still intense, voice quiet as if muttering to himself over spellwork. So close, Caleb can hear him just fine.
“It is not everything this between us is- it can’t be, same as with all else, but. It’s not wrong, either.”
And then Essek stills.
“You know it isn’t wrong.”
His inflection rises with his eyes as they begin to flit between Caleb’s, fraught starlings of violet night, the statement flavored uncertain.
If there is anything Caleb can assure the certainty of, it is this.
“I do.”
But Essek’s voice strains.
“It’s true, Caleb.”
Clearly having missed Essek’s point, Caleb adjusts his aim, setting his hands to Essek’s forearms and his tone gently emphatic.
“I know, Essek.”
Essek’s eyes remain wide as with a realized miscalculation.
“Caleb-.”
Oh. Oh, no, this is the pressure release.
Caleb braces himself, sets out guards of caution, ready to call for assistance in the case Essek falls into panic. Small house.
“I know. I hear you, Essek. I heard you.”
“No.”
Essek still continues his protest, eyes gleaming, ears pinned, fingers clutching into Caleb’s sleeves.
“No, I have been unfair to you.”
That is a very old conversation; worry settles against Caleb’s throat. He fights it from his face, his tongue, for the sake of presenting the surety of their years-built communication.
“You have nothing to prove, my friend.”
But Essek shakes his head, the rest of him following.
“You couldn’t reply.”
Oh.
His last instant of thought; it was concern over his impact.
Wrapping Essek into his arms, safe, contained, Caleb angles his chisel to the dam’s crack, now found.
“You, my friend,”-
He lays a kiss between Essek’s brows.
-“were a little bit busy elsewhere.”
Essek ejects a sharp, gasping whine that quickly shatters and dissolves, turning into quiet clinging, trembling tears.
It takes Essek a bit to calm a step down, as it has before. So silly of him to complain about the amount of tea and broth they’ve been plying him with, as though he hasn’t been crying it all out with memory’s tide.
But maybe this will be the last big wave, until some newer sorrow, some newer joy, finds its way into their path.
Hopefully they’ll make much more of the latter.
While Essek pieces himself together, Caleb retrieves a slightly silken square from the bag with one hand, the other soothing over Essek’s hiccuping back.
Eventually, gradually, his grip against Caleb’s shirt lessens, his back settles steady.
He groans, sounding half frustrated, half relieved. Poor thing.
And then he sighs, speaks the same, muffled, though without a trace of that frustration.
“I’m here.”
“You are.”
Essek nods as he leans away some, moderately composed despite his red-rimmed eyes.
Nudging their foreheads together, habit takes Caleb’s tongue.
“Hallo, honey.”
Swiping his eyes with a thumb, Essek bumps a soft, tired laugh back.
“Honey indeed, hm.”
Then, a thick snuffle turns into a cough heavy enough to make Caleb wince, turns into an:
“Agh-.”
Face screwed tight, Essek lets Caleb collect him close again.
Once his breathing corrects itself, Essek lets out another muffled groan, entirely frustration.
“Corrin will be stern with me if I keep this up.”
Offering the handkerchief by draping it over Essek’s head, Caleb chuckles out the stress in his ribs.
“Well don’t do that, then. Otherwise we’ll have to write ‘here lies Essek, choked by his own snot and care’.”
And Essek shoves him in the chest as he takes the cloth and clears his nose.
“Caleb Widogast, I swear to the Light.”
“A little late for a conversion, but I am sure you will serve your role as champion well.”
The flat-eyed exasperation Essek now dons is among Caleb’s favorite facets of his fondness- the way it always eventually melts, allowing a window display of affection, right down to the root.
It melts.
And there goes Essek’s hand, gingerly tucking a loose lock behind Caleb’s ear. Caleb easily leans into his touch, cheek to palm.
Tension still seems to hum under Essek’s skin, but, with the heightened focus of Essek’s gaze, Caleb gets the distinct sense that it isn’t so precarious anymore. Little steps.
Essek lets a slow, slow breath. He smells of his tea.
“You say I was busy. Preoccupation is a terrible excuse, Caleb, and you know it.”
Leaning closer, Caleb kisses away tear trails for him; what else is he to do, since Essek hasn’t yet wiped them away.
“Consider conversation delayed, no slight felt.”
Wordless, Essek takes his chin and directs his attention front and center.
Caleb stares, is stared into. He isn’t sure exactly what Essek is looking for, but the setting of twilight to night in Essek’s eyes gives him an inkling.
“Did you try the tea, before you brought it?”
Caleb shakes his head.
He had no need to.
“You knew I would like it, down to the amount and type of sweet.”
“A well-educated guess.”
Violet eyes shine with more waiting tears.
“Preference in beverage isn’t important.”
“Maybe not on a grand scale, but I’m only a man with a pretty good memory.”
“Caleb Widogast.”
Essek’s unspoken question lives in the tightening of his pretty cat eyes, his upturned brows, his wavering smile. His almost-steady hand, still under Caleb’s chin.
Caleb assents by setting his mouth soft to Essek’s.
By now, Caleb has a well-detailed, carouseling catalog of Essek’s kisses, the things he tries to say with them beyond tangled words and uncomplicated pleasure.
Evidently self-assured in his own stability, to be kissing Caleb through tears, once warmed up, Essek drinks him down with the freshwater parch of a person drowned at sea; simultaneously too much and not enough, it’s as though he’s found himself wanting for something he doesn’t know how to reach.
Keeping his hands away from Essek’s neck, only low to shoulder and back, Caleb gladly helps him work his nerves out. He’s only a little distracted by the arms around his own neck, the fingers in his own hair, the cinnamon-orange-honey on his own tongue, the teeth sharp against his own lip-.
Essek’s grown to be very, very good at this.
Jaw softened as his voice is not, Essek breathes.
“Caleb-.”
“Mmn-?”
Essek tugs, Caleb remains comfortably stuck in the circle of his arms.
“Lie with me.”
Seems he’s figured out what he wants: an accompanied nap, given his hands haven’t wandered at all.
Now’s the perfect time to tease, then.
Wrestling his vocal cords out of his daze and into forming words, Caleb bestows an excessively chaste kiss upon Essek’s forehead.
“Corrin will be stern if I press you too much, and this is a small house.”
There’s that bland exasperation again, this time paired with a quiet drone.
“Go bring Jester in, then, if you are so worried about not bending rules.”
And Caleb can’t help but nuzzle wide grins to Essek’s chuckling cheek.
“My turn for a sleepover, no funny business.”
They can have a moment for themselves.
The bed is only made for one, but luckily for them, their frames, tucked facing together, are smaller than its intended occupant.
“Hello.”
“Hallo.”
Once again, Essek’s face rests pensive, but without the tinge of confusion.
One dark hand between his own pale, Caleb kisses Essek’s bare ninth knuckle.
“Are you regretting it?”
“Hm?”
“Said too early, too late?”
It is easier to move forward when steps behind are known.
Featherlight as his touch, Essek huffs.
“It’s not regret.”
He traces from the corner of Caleb’s nose, the corner of his lips, to his chin.
Caleb gives him the deeper line he’s looking for.
Essek returns the smile in his lovely lopsided way.
Then, a murmur settles his lips as he continues his tracing, each stroke drawing a thread of calm through Caleb.
“I just… wish, I could say everything, all together, nice and tidy. I wish I could say it without it settling into background noise, piece by piece over time.”
“I am sure Jester would say a background can set the overall tone in a work.”
Essek’s fingertips pause on Caleb’s chin, their lingering tremor tapping ever so faintly.
“You misunderstand me.”
Keeping Essek’s soft gaze, Caleb kisses them.
“Tell me again?”
Essek’s eyes return to following the paths of his fingerpads, and Caleb watches his lips.
Well-kissed, the lower drawn in a bit as Essek chews on its inside. Perhaps they could still use a little more attention.
It’s as Caleb is considering the best rhythm for this angle when Essek’s fingers slide their way into his hair, dragging long, sure strokes over his scalp. Draped in that thoughtful look again, Essek’s focus stays on the motion of his own hand.
He’s rather handsome like this as well.
Finally, a slow blink, and Essek quietly presents his recompiled thoughts.
“I wish it would fit on my tongue as well as it seems to for others.”
“If you were like others, you wouldn’t be like you. And I just so happen to like you like you.”
There’s Essek’s smile, his chuckle. But maybe he still needs a nudge, for good measure.
“I also like, like you, and like-like you, if any of that helps.”
Ah- and there is his laugh, curling through the short space between them the same as the green beans in the garden just outside: abundant and lively, grown to fruition over so much time, with so much care.
Of all his faces, Essek may just wear naked amusement the best.
It’s Caleb’s favorite, after all.
“You give me hope that people like you exist, Caleb Widogast.”
Brows drawn soft, Essek meets his eyes again. It’s unfair of him to steal breath with just a look.
“I hope you know that.”
And what more hope he has to share.
No need to spoil the moment with mentions of punished archmages, though.
“You are here, Essek.”
“That isn’t what I mean, silly man, and you know it.”
Caleb lets all his heart’s present warmth form his words.
“This between us is different, and it’s ours. I hear you, dear.”
On that note, he would almost swear the permeating purr’s pitch has shifted a little more to this side of security.
“Do you, now? I’m unsure.”
A tease plays on Essek’s lips in the way they try to remain unsmiling.
Essek has never been very good at deliberately withholding his displays of joy- his seams aren’t stitched tight enough to contain the sheer magnitude of it as it has grown. But perhaps Caleb only thinks so because he’s taken the time to learn the little ways it shines through.
He takes the time. They have it, and they will, still.
So he nuzzles even closer, the needy way the cats do that has resulted in some of Essek’s brightest grins.
“Let me show you?”
Hardly a victorious laugh can leave him as Essek sets his smile to Caleb’s; he settles for a content hum, instead.
And Essek’s still sweet, just a little bit of a lot.
Even so, something longing still seems to linger in the subtly craving way Essek now tries to cling close.
Caleb pitches his best guess.
“Do you need me to say it back, Essek?”
Surprise as genuine as a fresh blossom settles over Essek’s face, before it eases into consideration and pretty plum-blushed cheeks. So close, the faint freckles he’s gained under garden sun over careful years stand out and catch silver, bejeweled velvet sky.
“Did you want to, Caleb?”
Not ‘do’- did he want to, when first presented the chance?
Foreheads together, Caleb answers, simply because he can, simply because he is sure he has shown it in ways that Essek can feel. Exactly how, and with what, specifically- besides everything? Who knows.
“My friend, I love you, too.”
It’s there, somewhere in the mix.
“Caleb Widogast.”
If a name can be woven out of adoration, Essek makes it so. He’s had plenty of practice.
He’ll have plenty more yet, Caleb resolves once more.
And Essek grins like starlight- a small, lasting flicker.
“Caleb Widogast, I know.”