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When G'raha leaves his tower, he discovers — to his chagrin — that it is dark outside.
He stares at the beautiful, inky curtain of night above him, and murmurs, “Oh dear.” The stars twinkle back, as if mocking his irresponsibility. He could have sworn that he had only been working for a short while, but — when he entered the tower, the sun had been high in the sky, and now… “What time is it?” he asks, though he does not expect the sky to answer.
The guard at the Dossal Gate coughs self-consciously. “It’s, ah… half past third bell, m’lord.” She doesn’t seem to know where to look; her eyes flick from G'raha’s face, to his feet, to somewhere over his shoulder. He smiles at her with well-practiced patience. The people of the Crystarium are still growing accustomed to seeing him without his cowl — and he is still growing accustomed to their stares.
“Thank you, Lieutenant Mao,” he says, and she gives him a starry-eyed salute.
He bids her farewell, and decides to take a more leisurely route to the Cabinet. The night sky is truly a treasure to behold, after so many decades of light, and he regrets that he does not more often take time to appreciate it — especially so, considering all that was sacrificed to restore it.
‘Tis a shame, he thinks, that the hour is too late for any of the city’s vendors — he finds himself suddenly pondering the purchase of a chronometer. He is mulling over this very idea, considering whom among the Crystalline Mean he might commission, as he passes by the Hortorium. It is then he recalls a scrap of conversation from a recent council meeting.
One of their trees — the great, fuchsia willow — has had trouble of late adjusting to the newly reestablished day-night cycle. Staff at the Hortorium reported that it was dropping an unprecedented weight of foliage, leaving them worried for its health. Last G'raha heard, the city’s engineers and botanists were hard at work on mechanisms to ease it into the new environment — but he cannot remember exactly how. He peers over the area, wondering if he might discover any evidence of their labors, when a lone silhouette catches his eye.
The figure sits swaddled in a nest of fallen leaves, the outline of their face and shoulders stark against the pastel glow. G'raha can make out Mystel - no, Miqo’te ears, slicked back in an unruly mess of curls, and sees a tail lashing and flicking behind them, creating small flurries of fluorescent foliage in its wake. They’re sitting on the plank flooring of the tree’s platform, and G'raha can also see - and sense - a small Allagan node, idling on a crate behind them. The node, G'raha also recognizes - a translation device that the Exarch gifted to a very important visitor, not so long ago.
“Khovu?” he asks aloud, more out of surprise than anything. The shape of him has haunted G'raha’s dreams for a century; he would know it anywhere. But he also knows how much Khovu ardently, passionately enjoys sleeping, which makes it all the stranger to discover him out of bed in the middle of the night. For what purpose would he have wandered here, and alone to boot?
G'raha wavers for only a moment more, before stowing his staff against his back and approaching.
As he descends the ramp into the Hortorium proper, he can make out more details. Khovu’s shoulders and lap are dusted in glowing petals, the same that rain from the willow with every breeze that shakes its topmost branches. He’s been here for some time, G'raha thinks, and notes his clothing — a loose, light pair of slops and sleeveless tunic, which he knows to be Khovu’s nightclothes.
Closer still, a few yalms away, G'raha’s feet still beneath him, and he examines the peculiar picture. Khovu’s hair is a mess, his curls mussed in a tangle that G'raha hasn’t seen in over a century — and usually as a byproduct of a rough tumble in the sheets. They’re held up in a haphazard bun, several strands escaping to fall down the back of his neck. His head is tilted back, eyes closed, but G'raha can see the quick breath in his chest, the anxious lash of his tail, and knows that he has not fallen asleep. Sharp lines of tension coil in his shoulders, in his fists clenched against the fabric of his slops, and G'raha’s heart aches for him.
Before he can consider how he should approach, the dormant node whirs to life, flitting towards him. G'raha has spent enough time around these devices to know when he is being regarded, analyzed — and after it completes its assessment, it floats down and nudges Khovu on the arm. The other Miqo’te stirs, almost flinching away from the touch. Petals rain like shed feathers from his shoulders. But when he catches sight of G'raha, his face cracks open into a wan smile.
“Raha,” he signs, as has become his custom every time they meet. G'raha feels his ears perk up, as they always do, and he closes those last few yalms between them.
“Khovu,” he replies, and sees Khovu’s ears twitch in return. “I happened to notice you on my way to the Cabinet. Why are you out so late, my friend?”
Khovu smirks at him, an expression that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “Are you the only one allowed to stay up all night?” He swipes at the ground next to him, sweeping away the worst of the leaves in a wordless invitation.
G'raha settles down beside him, and considers his response carefully. Khovu seems…. perhaps a touch irritable, or defensive. G'raha can hardly blame him; at this intimate distance, he can see the exhausted smudges under Khovu’s eyes, the bristled fur on the back of his neck. In his younger days, G'raha might have taken the bait, let his temper overtake him, and allowed Khovu to deflect the conversation; tonight, he tries a different approach.
“You’re quite right,” he says. “It would be hypocritical of me to scold you, when I am just as guilty of neglecting my own bed. I’m merely curious as to what tempted you away from yours. I understand from the Manager of Suites that you are quite taken with it.”
Khovu’s hackles smooth over a bit, and he huffs out a short laugh. “Mmh. It’s a good bed.” His eyes soften, and he idly smooths away some of the petals collected in his lap. “I was sleeping poorly,” he admits, after another long moment. “No fault of the room’s.”
G'raha nods, and leans in, letting their shoulders bump together fondly. “But you still left, and came… here?” he asks, gently. This is new territory between them, talking about the sorts of things they would, in their past lives, have kept locked away. G'raha is still learning when and how to press, to help Khovu find words for whatever he wants to share.
“It’s the smell,” Khovu says, and stirs a hand through his nest of glowing leaves. “And the rumble of the the waterfall in the planks. I… in my bed, I kept… falling into this, this horrible twilight between waking and sleeping. Like my mind was only halfway fixed to my body, and a nightmare was trying to claw it away from me.”
“Oh, Khovu,” G'raha breathes aloud, then signs, “that sounds horrible.” He reaches out to rub his friend’s back in sympathy. Beneath his hand, Khovu’s tunic is soaked through with sweat, cold and clammy beneath his fingers.
“The nightmare had a face,” Khovu admits, and G'raha feels him tremble. His eyes close; his ears pin flat to his skull. He’s signing blind. “Faces. At first it was Zenos, bleeding primal aether, smothered in scales. And then — then it was Wilred. Wilred’s —“
He doesn’t seem to be able to finish. G'raha finds his limp hand and squeezes, trying to communicate that he doesn’t need to. Wilred’s murder is — was — just a footnote in history, but Khovu’s letters filled in the missing details: during the Bloody Banquet, traitors from the Crystal Braves attacked the two scions guarding Wilred’s remains.
Hoary Boulder and Coultenet had survived, barely, but Wilred’s body was never recovered, never laid to rest. G'raha knows it has haunted Khovu for years.
A long moment passes in stillness and silence, save for the distant rumble of the waterfall. G'raha keeps hold of Khovu’s hand, rubbing his palm gently, until he finally opens his eyes again.
“I don’t know how long I was lying there, like that,” Khovu says. His gaze is hollow, his tail limp on its floral bed. “I was trying to get up, but I couldn’t move more than a couple ilms. When I did finally — I fell out of bed,” he admits with a short, humourless laugh. “And I just left, fast as I could. I even forgot my shoes.” G'raha glances down; he can see Khovu’s bare toes, peeking out from beneath his folded legs. “I, just. The smell here was helping, I think. I, ah — I don’t really remember how I got here.”
G'raha moves, so carefully, to hold Khovu’s jaw, tracing the trial marks on his cheek with his thumb. “I’m so sorry,” he says, hating how cold Khovu’s skin feels beneath his touch. “Are you feeling any better now? Are you okay?”
Khovu seems to give the question some serious consideration. “No,” he decides, and a shiver ripples through him into G'raha’s hand. “I don’t think I am.”
G'raha stifles a noise of surprise. He — well, he doesn’t know what he expected. He wouldn’t have believed Khovu if he said he was fine, of course, but he also didn’t anticipate such a frank and immediate admission to the contrary.
“I,” he says, stalling because he didn’t expect to get this far, this quickly. “What can I do to help?” But Khovu just stares back, something like a dull panic mounting behind his violet eyes at the expectation that he should know the answer. G'raha pivots immediately. “Perhaps — a warm shower? And a change of clothes?” he suggests, thinking about that cold sweat, how it must stink to Khovu’s sensitive nose and chill him to the quick.
“Yes,” Khovu agrees immediately. His ears twitch, and his tail perks hopefully behind him. “That sounds — yes.” He starts to get up, and the way he sways, fumbling with his own two feet, prompts G'raha to seize his arm.
“Please, allow me,” he insists, and teleports them both to his tower.
“Oh,” Khovu says, ears flipping up into eager points when he realizes their destination. G'raha has placed them in his own chambers, the door to his en-suite just steps away. With a wave of G'raha’s hand, the lights in the room slowly glow to life, and the floor warms beneath their feet. “Your shower.” He sways once again, and grasps the wall for support.
“Is that a problem?” G'raha asks, suddenly self-conscious. He hadn’t even considered the possibility that Khovu would go back to the Pendants — and besides, he wouldn’t feel right leaving his friend alone in this state.
Khovu shakes his head immediately. “No. I love your shower.” G'raha feels a small thrill of pride at that, though he doesn’t know why. He didn't build it, nor anything else in the structure. “Just — I could have walked,” Khovu continues, and G'raha fixes him with a stern look.
“You almost fell,” he says. “I’m worried about you, my friend. It isn’t like you to lose your balance.”
Khovu smiles, uncharacteristically sheepish, ears flopping to the side. “My legs fell asleep,” he admits, and winces as he gives one a little shake. He squeezes G'raha’s arm warmly. “And here I thought you were embarrassed to be seen with me,” he continues — and there’s a familiar, teasing glint in his eye. “Folks might talk, I’ll admit, the Exarch leading the Warrior of Darkness back to his chambers, at this time of night…”
G'raha laughs, low and fond, and the anxious ache in his chest eases. This is more like the Khovu he knows. “And here I had a mind to wash your hair,” he teases. “But you’re right, of course. T’would be improper.”
Khovu’s eyes go wide; his tail quivers and flicks. “Wait. No,” he protests immediately. He releases the wall, clinging instead to the front of G'raha’s robes. “I take it back. You are chaste and demure, the epitome of propriety. Please, please wash my hair.”
G'raha laughs again and pushes him, gently, towards the washroom. Despite the years, the aching pit of the duty still in front of him, the staff of his office weighing heavy against his back — despite all of it, G'raha feels in this moment like a young man again. “Strip,” he says, smirking softly, “and allow me to change into something more comfortable. I’ll join you in a moment.”
G'raha finds Khovu sitting on the shower’s small bench, ears pinned back as he basks under a hissing torrent of scalding-hot water. (Without any instruction, he has already mastered the fiddly controls that sometimes still puzzle G'raha.) He whines when G'raha moves the spray away, tail curling around his waist as he shivers from the loss, but he soon perks up when he smells the hair wash leaving its bottle.
The heat and steam have melted away the worst of his body’s tension, like frost beneath the gentle weight of the sun. He is like warm, wet clay under G'raha’s hands, easily molded in any direction or shape as G'raha works the wash through his thick curls. G'raha is pleased to find that the treated tangles tease apart easily beneath his touch, and he is able to finger-comb the knots from Khovu’s hair with a minimum of pulling.
Neither of them remark upon why G'raha possesses such specialized tonics, branded from a small apothecary in Limsa Lominsa, waiting on their own shelf in his personal shower. G'raha just hopes that Feo Ul left some sort of recompense for the owner of the shop, who by Khovu’s account is a lovely woman.
G'raha soon has the wash worked all the way to Khovu’s scalp, kneading it in with heavy fingertips. A low purr starts building in Khovu’s chest, soon rasping out with every breath, only growing louder when G'raha gently washes the fur of his ears. G'raha tips his head back to rinse, and is met with a warm, adoring gaze. “When you retire as Exarch,” Khovu says, “open a hair salon. Your hands are magical.”
G'raha smiles back at him, fingers trailing down to scrub the scruff at his neck, and the mane piled thick on his shoulders. Khovu rumbles beneath him, eyes closing in weary bliss until G'raha stirs him with more warm water rinsing down his back.
“I’m afraid I would make a very poor professional,” G'raha signs, once his hands are free from lather. “I haven’t the faintest idea what to do with the rest of these.” He gestures at the other glass bottles on the shelf, and Khovu’s ears twitch in interest.
“Oh,” he says, and to G'raha’s eye it seems a touch muted. “I can take care of the rest.”
G'raha studies him for a moment. Khovu sways slightly on his perch, not his unsteady balance from before but a gentle rocking motion. His tail droops in a lazy line towards the floor, with only the occasional twitch as G'raha scratches the base of his ear. “Would it feel better,” G'raha asks, “if someone else helped?”
Khovu’s ear flicks, directly into G'raha’s hand. “If you helped?” That purr kicks up again. “Yes.”
“Then teach me,” G'raha says, ignoring the little flutter in his chest. “I’ll need to know, for my salon.”
By the time they’re done, Khovu is more soup than man. G'raha pours him into bed — G'raha’s bed, as carrying him all the way to the Pendants in this state is unthinkable — and perches on the edge of the mattress.
Khovu curls into a loose ball in the sheets. His purr rattles G'raha’s fingers as he tucks a blanket in place around him.
“Feeling up to sleeping now?” G'raha asks. Khovu, in response, stifles a toothy yawn. G'raha smiles and tucks a pillow under his head, mindful of the scarf wrapped around his curls. “May I remain here until you do?”
“Your bed,” Khovu replies, the words slow and a touch clumsy. “Stay as long as you like. Stay forever.”
“I’m afraid I have business with the council,” G'raha says, a genuine twinge of regret gnawing at his heart, “but I would like to see you sound to sleep before I go. I will not suffer those waking dreams to take you again.”
Khovu nods and nuzzles briefly into the pillow, his breath deep and even. “Thank you,” he signs, so warmly, and squeezes G'raha’s hand. He’s already struggling to keep his eyes open, but they’re latched onto G'raha, blinking slowly. “I kept you too long.”
G'raha just chuckles, and shakes his head. He thinks about the hell Khovu walked through for him, and the bitter decades he weathered for Khovu, and figures that there is no point keeping a ledger of the debts between them. He would do anything for this man and do it gladly, if it would ease his burdens in the slightest. And Khovu has demonstrated a similar loyal devotion, both in Emet-Selch’s dying gasp and in the weeks that have followed.
“We both know I would not have slept regardless,” he says instead, as he gently pets Khovu’s ear. “And the books will wait. You are more important.”
The rumble of Khovu’s purr hitches briefly. His ear flicks up towards G'raha’s touch. “Raha,” he says, the name a whisper of fingers against his cheek.
G'raha can’t help it; his ears spring up. He might not need as much sleep as a wholly-flesh Miqo’te, but the long night has still affected him, making him achingly sentimental. He has revealed far more of his heart than he intended, and yet he cannot bring himself to regret it.
“Khovu,” he replies, and savors it. “Sweet dreams, my friend.”