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The alarm on his phone chirped, the sound of high pitched synths painfully loud. It stabbed knives through his temples as he rolled over in bed, stirring with a groan.
His skin was cold, the fabric of his night clothes sticking to the bends and curves of his body. His mouth was painfully dry. Trying to breathe through his nose showed exactly why, as his nostrils were clotted full of mucus. He must’ve spent the night breathing through his mouth. It felt like trying to suck a milkshake through a cocktail straw every time he tried to inhale.
If it had just been a migraine, he could’ve chalked it up to stress, like he had been for the past few days. It was weird they were happening despite the two compression bands he wore to sleep, but they were fallible tools, and they couldn’t possibly be expected to work every time. Unfortunately, it seemed he could dismiss the issue no longer.
He was sick.
How unfortunate, then, that he still had work to do. Jamil threw his hand over his phone and bonelessly turned off the alarm, dragging himself out of bed like a lead marionette.
—
Cooking was always one of his favored chores. That wasn’t to say he enjoyed it, he didn’t, but it was flexible, allowing for some degree of self-expression. Cleaning was just cleaning - nothing could take the hours spent on one’s knees out of the process. Cooking, on the other hand, could be changed to serve his own purposes. Finely chopped vegetables could be used in a dish when he wanted to take out his hatred on an unfeeling victim, stew could be made when he needed to catch up on homework in the interlude between making a meal and serving it.
Jamil stood over a pan, watching potato batter turn crisp under the soft, glowy light of morning. He’d decided on making aloo tikki, as it was fairly simple to prepare. Kalim would need to be woken up in a few minutes, though luckily, time still allowed for him to eat one of the first pancakes he’d started. He wasn’t hungry, and even without any sauce the round felt heavy in his mouth, but he had P.E. and basketball club that day, so he knew he needed to eat something. Whether or not he wanted to was irrelevant.
As it had been for almost everything in his life. His preferences were never accounted for, his aching joints and knotting muscles were never factored into the day’s plans. And they likely never would be.
Oh well.
He picked the last pancake up off the sputtering skillet and placed it on top of a pyramid of others, then moved the hot pan to the sink to be washed while Kalim ate.
He used to eat with Kalim. After overblotting, there was too much tension there to keep it up. Asim never said anything, but there was always an arm, a cup, a laptop screen or a hand between Jamil and his plate.
Of course, they both knew if Jamil had wanted to poison him, he would’ve done it while cooking the dish itself. He still stopped sitting nearby. He wasn’t welcome. The trust had been broken. That had been how he’d wanted it to go, after all.
It still filled him with inexplicable anger. After all these years, one mistake, one moment of weakness, and it was all up in smoke? Really? After everything Jamil had done for him?
He left the kitchen with a full platter of aloo tikki and a bowl of chutney to dip them in, heading to Kalim’s room to wake the heir. His arm shook more than it should’ve under the tray’s weight; he almost sneezed and dropped all of his hard work halfway there.
It wasn’t fair. Why did he, a brilliant and cunning boy with infinite potential, have to spend even his worst days attending to that daft moron? Kalim should’ve been serving him, he should’ve been the one with the world at his fingertips. Kalim hadn’t earned it. Kalim didn’t know his pain. It wasn’t fair.
The solid gold hinges creaked as he twisted the gilded doorknob and stepped into Asim's bedroom. His arm was starting to get weak, so he was thankful to finally have a table to set the food down on. It was a short chest, adorned in glowing lanterns and typically used to do homework on. There was a small stack of assignments beside it.
“Kalim,” He called into the gentle morning breeze, voice huskier and dryer than usual. It was unlikely that the idiot would even notice, considering. “It’s time to wake up.”
“Mngh…” Kalim threw a jingling arm over his bleary eyes. He didn't historically wear his bracelets to sleep, but since everything had happened, he’d started doing so every night. Jamil didn’t ask. He didn’t care. “Five more minutes…”
“No. Come on, you have class in a half an hour.”
Asim looked over at him with big, glossy red eyes and pouting lips. “Please, Jamil…?”
“No,” If I have to get out of bed feeling like this, so do you. Jamil strode across the room, grabbing Kalim by the arm and hoisting him up. “You need to get dressed. Come on.”
Rubbing his eyes, he did as he was told, swinging his legs over the edge of his bed as Viper rummaged through his closet for his uniform. Everything was always in a different place, no matter how many times Jamil organized it. Why was his belt in the sock drawer? What would possess him to put it in there? Why did Jamil even let him put his own clothes away when he always did it wrong?
A soft, sleepy voice broke the silence. “...You don’t have to wake me up every day, you know.”
Jamil, with two thirds of Kalim’s outfit slung over his forearm, glanced around the open door of the dresser. “Yes, I do,” He deadpanned, though his words were noticeably more nasal than normal. “You don’t know how to tie your headdress, or how to do your makeup properly."
“I could learn,” He offered with childish optimism. Like he didn’t know his place. As if he wasn’t grateful for all of the leisure and lack of necessary knowledge his status provided. It was insulting to all the time Viper had spent practicing the process to perfection.
Turning back to the closet, Jamil laughed bitterly. It dissolved into a coughing fit immediately.
Seven, damn it all. Perhaps if he just kept talking like it was normal, Kalim would brush over it. Healthy people still coughed on occasion. “And you expect me to believe you would actually get out of bed on time? You aren’t that responsible.”
“Well…” Bashful, he hesitated. “Maybe not at first, but if I recorded your voice and set it as my alarm, I bet I would adjust pretty fast. And then you could get more time to yourself in the morning.”
Good, glossing over it worked.
Sighing, he shut the closet doors. “That’s not how this works. Forget it, Kalim.”
“But, I-”
“Kalim.” He didn’t have the energy to argue about things that would never change, not with the cloying nausea settling in his stomach and the throbbing ache behind his eyes. He set the stack of daywear on the corner of Asim’s bed and pulled his long head scarf out of the pile, shaking the wrinkles from the silk. “Just… lean your head to the left so I can put this on.”
Staring dejectedly at his feet, Kalim complied.
—
Okay, going to class had been one thing, but he should not have shown up to the basketball club meet that day. He was one misplaced maneuver away from vomiting all over the linoleum floor of the gym. As long as he kept moderating his breathing, it shouldn't have ended up a problem. 1, 2, 3, 4… 1, 2, 3, 4…
Oh, he was on the four point line. He should probably take the shot.
But his fogged brain and wobbly limbs didn’t react fast enough, and Ace stole the ball from him mid-dribble. With chaotic glee, Trappola took the shot.
The one Jamil absolutely had. And had no excuse for not taking.
Subconsciously, he brought a hand to his lips. The scent of rubber and cologne clung to his fingers. It was overwhelming in that state, nauseating despite his usual partiality to both aromas.
“WHOO-HOO! And that is point numero uno for Ace Trappola, the best basketball player in Twisted Wonderland!” Throwing his arms up in triumph, he spun on his heels. He always took a chance to gloat. Jamil couldn’t bring himself to care when he was so cold and sweaty, when saliva kept spontaneously generating in his mouth, when icy tendrils of illness were crawling up his throat like mold. “In your face, Ja-...”
The wide, smug smile dropped from Trappola’s face, a rare occasion. It was replaced with something edging on horror. “Dude… why are you the same color I am? You look awful.”
“Hm?” Floyd popped up from behind Jamil like a predator circling its prey, having been across the court when the round had ended. “Oh, yeaaah… Sea snake looks pretty seasick. Are we supposed to walk you to the nurse? ‘Cause count me out. I came here to play basketball.”
“No, I-I’m fine, just give me a-” Saliva gushed into his mouth as he lurched forward, cheeks bulging. He squeezed his eyes shut, tried to take a deep breath. 1, 2. 3…
Another gag, and he was dashing across the gym to lean over the trash can in the corner. His ears filled with high-pitched static as his body rejected his internals, fluid on his lips dripping into the bin with the steady pattering of liquid on plastic. Again, he tried to take a breath, but the air stank of acid, and all it did was make him lean his head deeper into the trash and retch harder. The eyes on him felt dangerous on a pavlovian, instinctual level.
The other club members were talking in the background. About him, he assumed. About how no matter how hard he tried, he was always pathetic, how he would never be able to prove himself because he’d already proven everything he’d ever be. About how insignificant he really was, how this was what he deserved, how-
A waterfall of stomach contents rushed past his teeth, bitter from how little he’d eaten that day. At least his hair was already tied back.
“-yd, please, just go get the nurse.”
“Nahh… I’m bored. You and sea snake are only interesting when I’m competing with you. I’m gonna go find someone else to toy around with.”
“What?! Are you serious? Someone has to stay with him, you can’t-”
In the distance, one of the metal doors to the gym clicked shut.
“Urgh!” Stomping footsteps approached him, but he didn’t look up, didn’t even open his eyes. He knew if he did, the light and the vertigo would immediately push him back into the bin.
“Yo, Jamil,” A hand rested on his shoulder. He shoved it away, looking up to glare at Ace and- Seven, everything was spinning. He was heaving again before Trappola even had a chance to see his expression. Great, he’d made himself puke again for no reason.
“Well, sorry,” Ace sassed, sounding in no way sorry. “Look, I’m gonna go get the nurse, just stay here a minute, okay?”
“There’s no need to do that,” Jamil croaked. “I’m going to walk back to my dorm regardle-” He was cut short by a coughing fit.
There was far too much training behind his control over his body for that to be acceptable. He was a precise dancer, a steadfast servant and a strategic opponent in sports, why was he failing at basic instinct suppression so horrifically? How to suppress the need to cough or sneeze was one of the first things he was taught to do, both for the sake of propriety and stealth, in the case of danger.
“You sure? You don’t-”
“Trappola, I assure you, it’s fine. I apologise for causing a scene. You’re-” Spit got caught in his throat, but he convinced himself not to choke with the same iron will he used to convince himself to put up with his life’s duties,”You’re free to leave.”
“Fine. But don’t go claiming I didn’t try to help.”
Jamil waited for the sound of footsteps growing distant, but it didn’t come. All he could hear was quiet rummaging. He thought about raising his head to figure out what the hell Ace was up to, but he had no desire to make himself sick for a third time.
Then, a brief flicker of a flashlight caught the edge of his peripherals, followed the click-click of a camera shutter and a whispered, but panicked, “Oh, shit-”
“Delete that.”
“Delete what?” His voice dripped with faux innocence. Jamil could hear the uneasy, lying smile on his lips.
“Delete that photo.”
Nervous laughter. He could picture the asshole scratching the back of his head in a poor attempt at acting casual. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. I didn’t take any photos. Ahaha, that’s crazy, why would I do that?”
Jamil took a breath, using his grip on the lip of the garbage bin to straighten out his buckling knees and bent spine. As soon as he was sure he wasn’t going to collapse without the plastic’s support, he was glaring over his shoulder at Ace. “Delete it.”
“O-Okay, look,” He started frantically tapping at his phone, then turned the open camera roll to him. “See? I deleted it. There.”
“Empty the trash folder.”
“Damnit…” He cursed under his breath, then, realizing that Jamil could still hear him, jumped back into acting right. Visibly angry as he did so, Ace pressed the button to permanently delete the photo and shoved the empty screen in Viper’s still-blanched face. “There! See! I deleted it. Are you happy now?”
“No, but I am satisfied that you no longer have any blackmail at your disposal.”
“Blackmail? Pssh,” No matter how hard Trappola tried, he was never going to convince Jamil with his barely-above-average fibbing skills, “The image was super blurry anyway, it’s not like I could’ve done anything with it. Plus, I would never do that to you, Jamil. We’re clubmates! Come on, we’ve played so many games together, can't you feel the comradery flowing between us?”
“I cannot,” Jamil replied curtly, turning to leave. He was exhausted in the bone deep, shaky way only fever could induce. The back of his throat was tinged with the distinct taste of illness, phlegm and bile mixed. “Never do that again. You won’t like how it ends.”
He pretended not to hear Ace muttering about how he ‘could’ve gotten a few assignments out of that’ as he walked away with the poised steps and straight back his training had ingrained so deeply in him.
—
The moment he was in bed, he was asleep. It was only meant to be a moment to decompress, he hadn’t changed or undone his braids yet, but once the bun he wore to club meets was out and his head was resting on a pillow, he was unable to fend off sleep. It ate him whole in seconds.
Jamil had no conception of how long he slept on top of his made bed, dressed in day clothes, but what he did know was that he woke up to the smell of spices and warmth. The room was orange from the setting sun that broke through the mesh over the windows. Wracked with fever chills and sticky with sweat, he rolled over on his side, rubbing his eyes.
“Oh! Good morning, Jamil.” A familiar, bubbly voice called from somewhere nearby. “Wait… I guess it’s not morning. Good evening!”
“...Kalim…?” He croaked, half-conscious. “What are you-”
Oh, shit.
“What time is it?” Jamil asked as he pushed himself onto his forearms, suddenly far more awake than a moment ago. “I apologize for not making you dinner, I hadn’t intended to fall-”
“It’s okay! Actually, I made you dinner.”
Bleary and unable to think long enough to string a sentence together, Jamil stared at the smiling nuisance as if he’d grown a new head. Kalim’s gaze flickered to the floor nervously, before tacking on, “Well… Ruggie and I made you dinner. I- I didn’t really know what I was doing. But he was a huge help! He taught me how to bloom the spices and sauteed the chicken for me. He said I could’ve done it if I tried, but I didn’t want it to come out undercooked.”
Kalim took a red terracotta bowl off of the bedside table, where it had been placed atop the medkit residing there, smiling brighter than the sun itself. Before handing it over, his eyes flickered down to the liquid inside, and his face fell, if briefly. He took the spoon from the bowl and hesitantly - though quickly, hidden slightly behind the draping tail of his headscarf, as if he didn’t want to be caught - took a sip of it. Then, and only then, did his smile come back. He held the bowl of orange puree out in offer. “Here you go! It’s chicken curry soup. Ruggie suggested thinning it out with broth after I told him you were sick. He seemed to think it came out pretty nicely when he took the leftovers. I hope you like it!”
“I…” Something deep within him growled in rage. Not only had Kalim cooked for him, his servant, his attendant, his lesser, but he had cooked something that he himself was unwilling to eat. Was he truly so blind to the expectations and advantages of his status? Why did the common folk have to lament the memorized list of powers he didn’t even know he had? “Kalim, you didn’t have to do that. W-What if you’d gotten hurt? What if you’d slipped and cut yourself?”
“Oh, you worry too much. Ruggie was there! He would’ve gotten the nurse. Plus, I was using magic to cut up everything. You made me promise not to use knives, remember? But you didn’t say no using magic.” A jingling, bejeweled hand picked up a spoonful of the soup, clearly preparing to shove it in Jamil’s mouth with or without his consent. “Come on, try it!”
“I’m not hungry right now, just leave it on the- Mph!”
Just as predicted, he did not get a say in the matter.
…The curry was pretty good, though. Not as perfectly prepared as his own would’ve been, but… not bad for a first try. He’d obviously thrown in a random variety of spices based on what smelled or looked right - however, he seemed to have guessed as to what would work fairly well. Except for the oregano. Maybe he’d been looking for basil?
Kalim was probably overexaggerating how much work he’d done, though. If the flavor profile was that regular and well-balanced, it was more than likely Ruggie had done everything except stir the pot and cut the vegetables.
Smart hyena. That was one way to get free food.
Staring at him with wide, innocent red eyes, Kalim set the spoon back down and tilted his head to the right like a dog. “Well…? Do you like it?”
“It’s… fine. You don’t put oregano in curry, though.”
“Oh.” He scratched the back of his head, jingling with every movement. “Sorry… I thought it would work because it looked like everything else you usually put in there. Do you still want the rest?”
“I didn’t want any in the first place.”
“But you have to eat before you can take any medicine.”
“Medicine?” For some reason, Jamil had the most distinct feeling that Asim didn’t know how to dose whatever he’d brought.
Kalim gestured with his free hand to a few colored bottles on top of the medkit, next to where the bowl of soup had been previously placed. “I, uh… I couldn’t remember which bottles did what, exactly, but you normally give me a red and a pink potion when I get sick, right?”
Sighing in resignation, Jamil took the bowl out of Kalim’s bejeweled hands. He might as well eat it while it was still warm. “The red is a fever reducer, the pink is an anti-emetic.”
“An anti-wha?”
Spooning a bite of meat and spices into his mouth, he tried to convince himself to not be irritated. How could Asim go through so many different medical events in his life and not know the simplest of terminology? “It prevents vomiting. You use half a shotglass of the red and a full one of the pink.”
“Oh, okay! Thank you, Jamil!”
He watched idly as Kalim uncorked the bottles and dosed their contents into an ornate shotglass, then again into a crystal goblet. The focus with which he poured the infusions was obvious - tongue stuck out just slightly, eyes narrowed. He didn’t want to mess this up. Jamil could’ve done it blindfolded, but it made Kalim feel important, and that was, ultimately, his purpose.
He knew that. It had been stupid to dream.
“There. That should be about right.” He looked over to Jamil for reassurance, and was given it in the form of a curt nod. Mouth full of curry, he couldn’t exactly respond with anything else.
“Good! Well then, uh… I assume you want me to leave, so…”
“I never said that.” He did, though. He would vastly prefer it if Kalim got out of his hair. But saying that would make Kalim sad, and he would rather not have to deal with his dejected puppy dog eyes in the morning. The quiet ‘I’m sorry’s muttered into his breakfast in hopes that they wouldn’t be heard, the obvious frustration at homework assignments that he refused to ask for help with. It was infuriating in an entirely different way than serving him was.
“Well, no, but… It’s okay! I have a project I need to finish anyway.” Smiling, he picked up the potion bottles and started toward the door. The grin didn’t meet his eyes. It never did when they were alone, not anymore. “You should rest. Don’t forget to take your medicine! Not that you would. You’re always super on top of that kind of stuff. Have a good night!”
“Kalim-...” The door had already shut.
And then, he was on his own, a bowl of lukewarm curry in his hands and a cup of medicine on his nightstand. The air still held the lingering scent of myrrh, pineapple and coconut, though it was a whisper under the aromatic spices in his food.
Staring down at his soup and stirring it idly, he watched the multicolored flakes of garam masala swirl in the current. Kalim had tasted it, if only briefly. He only ate curry if it was on top of something else, and even then, he’d always look a tad tense. Jamil wondered why he’d done it then.
He knew, of course. He was testing it for poison. He didn’t want a repeat of last time, certainly not when Jamil was already somewhat incapacitated.
He pretended the nausea that made him feel was the kind that could be fixed with medication as he took another bite. The oregano felt like the warm hug of a hot spring, of rain in a drought. It didn’t blend with everything else - by all objective metrics, it was a mistake to put it in, an irritating loss of points on something that could’ve been perfect.
The glow of the sunset whispered to him not to care.