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When the swaying flames of the candles grow too bright and the intricate ornate patterns of the wall décor becomes worryingly vibrant and dizzying, Isfan thinks that he just may have one drink too many tonight.
With a hint of drunken slur to his speech, he murmurs his apologies to the companions sitting on either side of him at the long table, where most men are still having avid discussions about the recent political turmoil in Misr, and excuses himself, his steps a little unsteady but he keeps his back straight, eyes concentrating straight ahead of him, and begins to make his way out of the tavern.
Once he’s safely in the deserted street and out of sight from the others, Isfan lets himself collapse against the nearest wall, but instead of the solid and somewhat painful collision he’s been expecting, he falls into the arms of a stranger instead.
“You must be more careful, Isfan-kyou,” a low, silvery voice, honeyed and ringing pleasantly like a melody, and stirring something furious within the young knight’s chest, whispers by his ear, warm breaths moistening his sensitive skin. “Who knows what kind of wicked folks you’d run into at this time of night?”
Not a stranger then, Isfan thinks belatedly.
The man, who has his arms wrapped around Isfan’s shoulders in order to catch his fall, makes sure the knight can remain standing on his feet before letting him go entirely.
“Gieve-kyou…” Isfan says, voice deep and relatively balanced for someone who feels like he’s about to regurgitate the contents of his stomach with the slightest motion. He nods his greeting, which turns out to be a bad idea because the world is suddenly blurring around the edges and everything is spinning like a kaleidoscope.
“Woah, steady does it,” the wandering musician catches his arm to stable his staggering frame. For a long, fixed moment, Isfan is unable to keep his eyes off from the hand that’s holding him – moonlight pale and elegant fingers that wrap themselves tightly around his bicep. “Do you need help getting home?”
And then he blinks and the glow dissipates as Isfan snatches his arm back, taking a step back for good measure.
Gieve says nothing, just watching him silently with those scrutinizing, emerald gaze of his, a hint of a smile – not quite friendly, and Isfan can’t make out the man’s intention at all – ghosting along his sculpted lips.
“It’s all right,” Isfan tells him, even as his body seems to react otherwise, and he’s surprised by how genuine Gieve’s offer has sounded. “I’ll be fine on my own after resting for a while, but thank you… for offering.”
The corner of the musician’s mouth lifts into a lopsided grin, and he nods towards the doorsteps of a sweets shop, long closed for the day, on the other side of the street.
“I’ll wait with you,” Gieve says, already walking ahead and plops down on the cold steps, while Isfan hesitantly follows him and takes a seat one step below, movements ginger and measured – mostly because he thinks he will actually vomit if he were to go any faster but he can’t deny that it’s also because he wants to keep a safe distance from the wandering musician with the cryptic smile. “Just to make sure.”
Isfan half considers telling him to fuck off and mind his own business, but opening his mouth will take too much effort so he remains quiet and rigid as they silently watch the deserted street, dimly illuminated by the torches from the inside of the tavern.
The wave of nausea has passed after Isfan rests with his eyes closed for some time, concentrating on his breathing and the soft humming from behind him, an unfamiliar song but pleasing all the same. Isfan thinks about asking Gieve the name of the song, thinks about asking him to sing with lyrics, thinks about asking him what he was doing out here so late. The questions just circle ‘round and ‘round in his gradually sobering mind, but Isfan’s mouth remains obstinately shut.
He considers apologizing for the insults he threw at Gieve all those months ago when they first met, and admitting that he’s been too childish to face the cruel but necessary truth. He doesn’t say those things, either.
“You didn’t have to stay here with me,” he finally says, voice hoarse and crackling like autumn’s leaves.
“I know,” Gieve chuckles, the sound warm and smoky, and Isfan wants to capture it, keep it close in his heart, and a furl of frustration stems from the seed of confusion deeply seated in his inebriated mind. “But I wanted to, and I’m really glad that you’ve let me.”
Isfan doesn’t let himself think when he twists around, kneeling on the step as he leans forward to plant a light, fleeting kiss on the unsuspecting musician’s cheek.
“Isfan-kyou?” It’s the first time Isfan has witnessed Gieve being rendered speechless for once, his eyes widened and mouth slightly parted but no sound comes out. “Wha ––?”
“Thank you, Gieve-kyou,” he quickly stands up, ignoring the onslaught of dizziness and the flaring heat of his face that has nothing to do with the amount of alcohol he’s consumed, and pauses at the bottom step, his back facing the awed musician. “I’ll take my leave, now. Have a good night.”
Gieve doesn’t get up until the Isfan’s dark shape is swallowed by the darkness of the summer night.