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The air in Robert’s small, lived-in apartment was still and warm. The only sounds were the soft, rhythmic click of Robert placing his keys in the ceramic bowl by the door and the louder, more energetic rustle of Nasir kicking off his boots, one of them thumping against the wall.
“—so then,” Nasir continued, picking up a thread he’d started in the car, “Blond Blazer pulls me aside and she’s got this look, you know the one, the ‘I’m being supportive but please don’t make me regret it’ look, and she says the community center wants a fire safety demo. For kids. And I’m like, okay, cool, I can do that. I can be responsible. I can be… paternal. Or avuncular. Which one is cooler? Avuncular sounds like a villain’s name.”
“Avuncular,” Robert confirmed, his voice a low rumble as he padded into the kitchen. He filled a glass with water, the tap’s groan loud in the quiet. He took a long drink, listening to the footsteps behind him.
“Right. So I’m planning this whole thing, right? Controlled bursts, explaining the triangle of combustion—fuel, heat, oxygen, boring—but then I think, what if I make the fire purple? Kids love purple. It’s science and spectacle. Prism said it was ‘try-hard.’ Sonar said the specific frequency of a purple flame might attract insects. It was a whole committee by the end of it.”
Robert smiled into his glass. He could see the meeting table, the exasperated faces. He walked into the bedroom, setting the glass on his nightstand. Nasir followed, still talking, unbuttoning his shirt.
“But that’s not even the best part. The best part was after. I’m packing up the demo props—unlit, obviously, I’m not a monster—and this little girl, couldn’t have been more than six, with these giant glasses, she tugs on my pant leg. Looks up at me and goes, ‘Mister Flame Guy? Your fire is pretty. But your hair is prettier.’” Nasir’s voice softened, a genuine wonder seeping in. “Then she ran off. I stood there like an idiot. My hair.”
Robert chuckled, a warm, quiet sound. He’d already changed into soft sweatpants and a worn t-shirt. He pulled back the duvet on his side of the bed. “It is pretty hair.”
“Shut up,” Nasir mumbled, but there was no heat. He finally ditched his jeans, leaving them in a heap on the floor, and slid into bed wearing just his boxers, the sheets cool against his skin. He let out a long, bone-deep sigh as his head hit the pillow, but his brain, as always, was still spinning. “And then, on the drive over here, I saw the weirdest bumper sticker. It just said ‘My Other Car Is A Regret’ in, like, Comic Sans. Who does that? What’s the brand? Regret-mobile? I have so many questions.”
Robert clicked off the main light, leaving only the soft orange glow of a small salt lamp on his dresser. The room shrank into intimate shadows. He got into bed, the mattress dipping under his weight, and shifted onto his side, facing Nasir. For a minute, they just lay there in the quiet dark, the day settling around them like dust.
Then Robert reached out. His fingers, gentle and sure, found Nasir’s temple, brushing back a strand of dark hair that had fallen across his forehead. He began to trace slow, idle patterns, his fingertips skating over Nasir’s scalp, through the thick, soft strands.
Nasir’s next sentence started, then stuttered. “I should—the grocery list for tomorrow, we’re out of—mmph.” His eyes fluttered closed. He nuzzled almost imperceptibly into the touch, a silent plea for more. Robert complied, his fingers carding deeper, massaging in slow circles at the base of Nasir’s skull where the tension from the day had gathered into a hard knot.
“The purple flame thing,” Nasir tried again, his voice already losing its edge, melting into a drowsy murmur. “It’s actually not that hard. You just need a potassium compound. But the wrong one can be… toxic. So. Maybe not. For kids. I’ll just do red and orange. کسلکننده—uh, I mean safe. We want to be safe. For the kids.” His words were starting to slur, English and tiredness blending into a single stream.
“Safe is good,” Robert whispered, his own voice barely audible. His thumb stroked over the shell of Nasir’s ear.
“Mmm. You’re good.” Nasir turned his head, pressing his forehead against Robert’s shoulder. The ramble continued, but it was degenerating, losing its narrative thread. “Sonar hums in B-flat when he’s concentrating. Did I tell you that? It’s annoying. But also kind of… melodic. In a dentist-chair way. Your hands are cold. Nice, though. Kheili khub. Very good.”
Robert didn’t answer. He just kept up the rhythm, his touch a silent anchor. He felt the exact moment the last of the coiled energy began to bleed out of Nasir’s body. The muscular frame went heavy against him, the constant, subtle fidgeting stilling.
“The streamers…” Nasir breathed out, the words ghosting against Robert’s collarbone. “We got the gradient ones. They’re in the trunk. Don’t let me forget. The cake is still a… a violation. A delicious violation. You’d like it. You like my hair. The little girl said so. دوستت دارم, Robbie.”
The last two words were a sigh, a warm puff of air. Then, nothing but deep, even breathing. The ramble had talked itself to a full stop.
Robert kept his hand moving for another minute, a gentle, possessive sweep through the dark silk of Nasir’s hair. He listened to the breathing even out, felt the warm weight against him. His own eyelids grew heavy. The quiet was absolute, but it wasn’t empty. It was filled with the residue of the day’s chaos, now gentled into peace. The soft sound of Nasir’s breath became a lullaby, a white noise more comforting than any silence. Robert’s fingers finally stilled, coming to rest curled in Nasir’s hair, as his own consciousness, so tightly wound from a day of directing traffic, finally began to unravel and drift away on the same, slow tide.