It turns out Miriam was right. After a week of probationary work – in which Omar develops painful blisters on the ends of his fingers, along with what must be a thousand pin pricks all over his hands – Aisha lays all his work out over a table in the hallway, frowns contemplatively, and declares him "adequate to the task". With the feast in three days' time, he gets to stay on to finish up the last of the rush work, and is let go with a heavy purse and the promise of being contacted whenever the tailors' load increases. In the meantime, he still has his errand work in the city, which he carries out every afternoon he has free. It's been ages since he last had to ask Babkak or Aladdin for money.

Kassim keeps the flowers in his room until the water's all dried up and they're dead and dropping onto the floor. No one is entirely certain what combination of sentiment and laziness makes him do it.

Just under a week after the flowers, Omar and Tasnim go to the gift shop down the street. The palace is getting busy: it's been decided that Kassim is ready to be made an official royal vizier, and the occasion is grand enough that it needs to be marked with both a public and private ceremony, as well as a court celebration beforehand and an enormous feast and party afterwards. Omar and his friends don't worry about it much – the planning alone is going to take ages – but the whole palace has already upped its game.

So it's kind of impressive that Omar – let alone Tasnim – finds half an hour to escape into the marketplace, especially when Omar spends half the time reassuring his usual errand clients that he'll still be working as much as he can. They buy some baklava – four different varieties in a red, heart-shaped box, wrapped in a golden ribbon – in a smaller option than the one Omar tried to foist on Al for the princess, as Tasnim assures him that caution is still a good idea, and Omar desperately doesn't want to risk scaring Kassim off. The man's reaction to the flowers has just about, maybe, possibly, come close to convincing him of Babkak and Al's point of view – that Kassim loves him back, in just the way he would want him to – but that doesn't mean he isn't frightened out of his wits about putting everything on the line to prove it.

When the shopkeeper asks if the gift is for Tasnim, she bursts out laughing, which at least makes Omar forget his nerves for a moment.

The next morning – the start of a new week – Omar gets a summons from Aisha just after the break of day. He's not naturally a very early riser, but by the time a servant wakes him with the news, and he's washed and dressed and hurrying out of his room, still tucking in his shirt, Babkak is only just leaving their quarters, and Kassim is slumped on a sofa, tousle-haired and mumbling in his pajamas, so Omar can't be all that late.

As soon as Omar walks through the door to Aisha's office, she orders "Take this," and dumps a huge pile of fabric into his arms. The quarters are a riot of activity – more than usual – and Omar had to dodge more than one pair of scissors to cross it.

Omar takes the pile of clothes with a low "Oof," and peers around it at Aisha, adjusting his grip.

"What do you want me to do with it?" he asks, squinting at the stack of rich silk embedded with beads and jewels and fine embroidery.

"Take it apart," says Aisha, already back at her desk and shuffling through papers. "We do this every spring: all the clothes everyone's done with, if it's not going to be worn again – which is usually the case – we take it apart and reuse whatever we can. All the beads and jewels and buttons need to come off, the ribbons, the embroidery, the seams, all of it, just take it apart. We're going at it with all we've for the next week: I'll expect you here every morning until it's done."

"Oh," says Omar, struggling to keep the pile upright. "Okay?"

"Excellent," says Aisha. "I think Ramlah has some room on her desk?"

Ramlah, it turns out, does not have much room on her desk; but compared to everyone else in the quarter, she's got the most. Omar dumps most of his pile of clothes on the floor, makes do with an empty drawer for the beads, buttons, and jewels, and gets to work. He tears seams, and snips thread with tiny, delicate scissors, and undoes embroidery and beadwork. By the end of the day, he's covered in tiny bits of thread, and is surrounded by piles and piles of different kinds of fabric and ribbons. All the piles go into big communal baskets in the main tailors' hall, and enormous jars for the buttons and beads that will all have to be sorted later, and by the time Omar makes it to dinner, he feels a little cross-eyed from the work.

"What happened to you?" Esther asks as he sits down and nearly drops face-first into a plate of vegetables.

"More than that, why do you look like a weaver's shop exploded all over you?" adds Jamila.

"It's spring," Omar croaks over the table as Babkak piles his plate with flatbread and roasted meat. "They reuse old clothes. It's just all got to be taken apart first."

"Oh, man," Kassim groans in pity. "I am so sorry."

"You don't have to be," Omar sighs. "It's good work, after all."

"You don't look like it's good work," says Esther. Jamila snorts.

"Maybe not," says Omar, "But still." His mood is already lightening just from being around them all. When he asks, "Is that eggplant?", Al practically shoves the dish at him and says through a full mouth, "Not just any eggplant!", and it occurs to Omar that a year ago, they were neither of them warm, and full of food, and wearing clothes that weren't falling to pieces on their backs. Babkak is reeling off a list of the spices in the eggplant, and Kassim is stretching out in his chair, smiling and sated, and they're surrounded by people who love them and whom they love back.

And there's a heart-shaped box in Omar's room with Kassim's name on it. Things, he decides, could be worse.

On his way to work the next day, Omar leaves the box outside Kassim's door. Even a royal-vizier-to-be doesn't need to get up before dawn, but the seamstresses and tailors do, and Omar knows for a fact that Kassim is going to sleep in: he bragged at dinner about not having any early meetings to go to while Aladdin and Jasmine have three before noon.

When Omar gets to the tailors' quarters, it's already a hive of activity. People are milling about, chatting and complaining, and already sorting out piles of clothes before they've even technically started work. Aisha's briefing, when it comes, is short and to the point – "Grab some clothes, and get tearing. Off you go." – and Omar obeys along with all the others. He sits with Ezra this time, and listens to new stories about his brother's children, as they take apart a many-layered dress and Ezra gets all the fiddly bits.

When lunchtime hits, Omar has to force himself to put away his work and go down to face Kassim in the royal halls. It's a bit of a trek from the working quarters, but Omar's gotten used to it, and he doesn't need to eat much. It does mean he always gets to the table after everyone else has started, though: he sidles into the chair next to Esther and reaches over Babkak for the last of the bread. Jasmine is just finishing up an argument with Tasnim about embroidery, and Omar tactfully keeps his mouth shut instead of telling them that he knows a dozen men and women who could probably teach them a thing or two.

"Oh, now that we're all here," says Kassim, swallowing a mouthful of food as soon as there's a lull – "I wanted to ask you guys. Does anyone know who the girl is that's sweet on me?"

Omar – cheeks stuffed with falafel – stares. He sees Al glance across at him.

"There's a girl who's sweet on you?" Al says to Kassim, who just shrugs.

"Some courtier, maybe," he says, "but my guess is, it's staff. It wouldn't be the first time," he adds, stretching his arms over his head and smirking. "But there was a heart-shaped box of baklava outside my door this morning that wasn't there last night, and I don't find it likely that a courtier got up early enough to dump it there without me noticing. I haven't seen someone staring, but…" He shrugs again, and takes a bite of bread. "Anyone got any clues?"

There is a very conspicuous silence at that. Babkak is trying to chew as quietly as possible.

"I haven't seen any women…" Tasnim starts, tactfully hesitant, and Kassim shrugs, tucking back into his food.

"Well who else would it be?" he says, taking an enormous bite, and Omar thinks, In for a copper, in for a gold, and blurts out:

"It was me, actually." The whole table turns to stare at him. "I bought you the baklava. I left it there this morning before I went to work."

Kassim has stopped eating. There's a mouthful of chicken and tabouli and sauce in his cheek, and he's staring down the table at Omar as if the revelation has turned him to stone. Omar can't bring himself to look away, trying to be as certain and stubborn as possible, but he's pretty sure Babkak's stopped chewing entirely. He wishes all his friends weren't holding their breaths, but that appears to be the audience he's gotten.

Finally, Kassim swallows his food.

"Oh," he says. "Well." He blinks. "Thank you."

There is a faint thud, and Kassim flinches, and Omar has the distinct impression that Babkak's just kicked his shin under the table.

"Don't you have something else to say,Kassim?" says Al, with a very leading tone and only a little more gentleness than Babkak's shoe.

"Oh," is all Kassim gets out. Omar can't take his eyes off him, but he's fairly sure he sees Jamila slowly lean forward and drop her forehead onto the table.

"You're welcome," says Omar, pretty much meaning it, though by the slight, high-pitched sound it elicits from Esther, it's not enough.

Kassim swallows again, though he hasn't eaten anything more. Then he shakes himself just a little, and busies himself with his plate, sawing at another piece of chicken. "So, how about that meeting!" he says, rather more loudly than necessary in the near-silent room. "Jasmine, you were saying how the public water still needs regulation!"

Jasmine, after glancing between Kassim and Omar with an expression of mild panic, locks eyes with Aladdin, who just gives a small, discombobulated shrug.

"Yes!" she finally settles on. "Yes, the, uh – the wells in the main districts of the city are fine, but – there are still reports of supplies to the public fountains in the outer suburbs? Being broken off or contaminated. We ought to look into that, right Al?"

Al nods vociferously through a hasty mouthful of falafel.

"Oh yeah," he says, muffled. "Yeah, if the public water can't be trusted, then sanitation and public health become an issue, and we all remember that plague outbreak a few years ago…"

The conversation descends into who remembers what about the epidemic, then into various one-ups and complaints about illnesses and whether or not they should be discussed during meals, and at last fades away into something natural. Kassim shovels food into his mouth and doesn't say a word more, barely looking up from his plate, while Omar finishes his lunch while trying not to stare. All he really manages is sending bewildered looks at Babkak and Esther at regular intervals.

The meal finishes normally enough, with Kassim escaping early and everyone else trailing away to their respective jobs and duties. As she goes, Esther gives Omar a smirk and a thumbs up, and Omar's heart lifts even as he wants to sink into the floor and disappear. Still, when Omar gets back to work, everyone's cloaks are lying in a pile by the door, eschewed in favor of the afternoon sun, and perhaps it's just Omar's imagination, but he feels like the whole palace has perked up a bit, full of happy chatter and good will, and a carefree sort of charm. It lightens his mood remarkably.

As Kassim's friends – and the prince – Babkak, Omar, and Aladdin are given top priority in the organizing department for the inauguration. Which is great, except for the part where they need to organize almost everything. Omar gives a design brief to the entire tailoring department for the parties (which mostly boils down to "Make everyone look good, and make Kassim look important,"), and is then immediately roped into occasional work on all the new suits and dresses and alterations while Aisha and the head seamstresses and tailors work on the royal family and viziers' outfits. He also gets to help choreograph a number for the party, and is involved in meetings about seating arrangements and processions and public addresses. Babkak is given an extraordinary command for a feast, as well as all the nibbles and drinks to be served at the various parties, and seems to spend more time than even he could want in the kitchens. He's up before dawn and never back until after dark, except when he drags a team of servants into the marketplace to source all of Kassim's favorite foods, and a few specific ones he absolutely hates.

Al and Kassim get the worst of it, of course. As Kassim is to be sworn in as Royal Advisor to the Prince – and Future Royal Advisor to the Future Sultan – they both need to learn all kinds of duties, including but not limited to daily expectations, official rules for interacting with nobility and other royal families and their courts, and the ceremonies involved in Kassim's inauguration. They appear in and out of fittings in the tailoring department with Aisha, and although Aladdin knows how to exercise patience when he needs to, when Kassim is there, Omar is all but ordered to bring his sewing into the fitting room, if only to keep him talking and therefore still instead of irritable. Kassim has dealt with much worse injuries than a few pinpricks, but a passerby might think he's the softest, most well-bred courtier in the kingdom, with the way he carries on about them.

Finally, a week before the ceremony, Aisha snaps her fingers at Omar and pulls him aside into her office, where a preliminary version of Kassim's new official outfit hangs on a form, resplendent and heavy-looking and ready for a fitting. Aisha says, "Well?", and Omar's eyes go wide, as he tries very hard to think of the most tactful way to put it.

"I am not wearing that."

Omar shrugs at Aisha from the other side of Kassim, helpless.

"I told you he'd hate it," he says.

"I am not wearing that!" Kassim repeats, to Aisha properly this time, pointing at the clothes on their form with a kind of bewildered accusation. It's an almost exact copy of what they remember Jafar wearing: long, heavy, velvet robes, in black and red with intricate silver patterning, hanging bell sleeves, and a cape that forms a puddle on the floor. Omar can't imagine it on Kassim, no matter how hard he tries. Frankly, he's wondering why anyone in Agrabah would bother wearing velvet at all.

"It's traditional," Aisha sighs. "The royal vizier has worn a uniform like this since my grandmother's time at least."
"It there some kind of law written down about it?" asks Kassim, harsh but fair.

"No," Aisha starts, but as soon as the answer's out, Kassim carries right on.

"Is it a religious thing? Is it practicality?" he demands. "Does it actually mean anything?"

"Well, no," Aisha relents. "But it's tradition."

"Well, screw the tradition," Kassim scowls. "How am I supposed to run in that? And what are those sleeves, how does anyone get anything done in those? I can't wear that, I wouldn't be able to move!"

Aisha's face is already in her hands. Omar grimaces across the room at her.

"I did warn you," is all he can really say.

"You did," says Aisha, with unfamiliar resignation. "You really, really did."

"What's essential?" Omar says, trying to find something positive in the situation. "What's a matter of state, of the rules? He can wear whatever he wants other than that, right?"

"I don't have to carry around that stupid staff thing, do I?" asks Kassim, arms crossed over his chest.

"No, you don't," says Aisha. "That was Jafar's addition. He took the whole snake imagery thing a bit… seriously."

"And does it have to be robes?"

"No," Aisha sighs yet again. "No it doesn't. The only thing that's really necessary is the sigil."

"The what?" Omar and Kassim echo in unison. In answer, Aisha reaches up and plucks the elaborate, feathered, jeweled turban from the top of the form.

"This symbol, here," she says, pointing out the twisted ruby symbol pinned to the front, looking something like a snake, and something like a flickering flame, and something not at all like either of those things. "You have to wear a turban, but it can be as simple as you like, so long as you've got this pinned to the front of it. It's a matter of respect, and piety, and responsibility, and authority. That's non-negotiable."

"Okay…" says Kassim slowly. "Okay. I guess I can handle that."

"You'll still need newer clothes," adds Aisha, eyeing his outfit with a judgmental tilt to her brow. "And a robe for official occasions. The royal vizier is expected to –"

"God, don't tell me," mutters Kassim. "I'm sick of hearing what the royal vizier is expected to do, and say, and eat, and wear, and – eugh."

Omar knows his face is pinched, as displeasure oozes its way down his throat and into his chest. "Kassim," he says, with a note of warning, and Kassim glances over at him, and his mouth goes sour and pursed.

"Fine," he says, rolling his eyes at Omar. "I'll wear the stupid sigil, and I'll get some nicer clothes. Happy now?"

"Perfectly," Aisha monotones. "Out you get then – we've got work to do."

Kassim rears back and stumbles towards the door as Aisha flaps her hands at him to make him leave.

"But Omar –" he starts.

"Has work to do," Aisha finishes over him. "Go on!"

When Kassim catches Omar's eye over her headscarf as he's ushered out the door, the most Omar can do is shrug, and stifle a laugh. When Aisha snaps the door shut after Kassim and turns with a huff, Omar just shrugs again, helpless not to smile.

"He's really very predictable, you know."

The preparations go on. Kassim goes through three fittings for his new clothes, including an official-looking, black-and-red robe he's forced into for ceremonies, heavy and glittering with jewels. The plans for the feast are just about ready, and, according to Al's report, they've memorized to precision the words they'll have to say in the ceremonies. Tasnim is very busy picking out flowers and color schemes to go with what the current advisors and designers have decided on, though she grumbles over dinner about not having Omar's help. Esther seems to be making up for it very well, though, judging by the way she and Tasnim catch eyes and smile at each other across the table. No one has mentioned the flowers or baklava for nearly a month.

In the meantime, Omar has to give up his errands. Between his usual tailoring work and the chaos surrounding the inauguration, he's at the palace full-time, with hardly a moment to spare. There's almost something invigorating about being so needed, after feeling extraneous for so long. He and Babkak are invited to meetings with Jasmine, Aladdin, Kassim, and the sultan, where they mostly just sit and listen, but it's an honor to be included nonetheless. As close friends of both parties involved in the prince-advisor partnership, they're considered vital to the process, and kept in the loop of everything except the most particular details of the ceremony itself. That duty is overseen only by the sultan and his advisors, and passed on only to Aladdin and Kassim. Still, it's nice to be included.

Of course, it's all going a little bit too smoothly. Something – or someone – is bound to snap before long. Unsurprisingly that someone is Kassim; even less surprisingly, he leaves it to the last possible, dramatic moment.

His arrival in their shared quarters the night before the ceremony is heralded by the clatter of sprinting feet, and the wrenching and slamming of doors. Omar and Babkak – from their exhausted heaps on a sofa each – sit up and lock eyes with each other in a moment of shared apprehension. A second later, Kassim comes bursting through the hall doors.

"I can't do this!"

He's gulping and out of breath, chest heaving, and with a faint sheen of sweat on his brow and collar. He shuts the doors behind him, pushing his back against them as if trying to stop an intruder following him in, and shakes his head, wheezing "I can't do this," again towards the ceiling and shutting his eyes, hard.

"Can't do what?" Babkak asks, carefully, as he rises to his feet.

"Royal Advisor?!" Kassim bursts out, almost angry, as if it should be obvious. "I can't do it, I can't be that!" He steps away from the door, stumbling towards them, arms flailing. "I can't have responsibilities," he goes on, "I can't have 'Royal' in my name, that's not me! I just want to – to have fun, and steal stuff, I can't be cooped up in the palace for the rest of my life! I can't wear a robe!"

Babkak is halfway to Kassim by now, hands held palms-forward between them.

"Kassim," he says slowly, "you're panicking."

"Of course I'm panicking!" Kassim cries, voice cracking. "They want to make me Royal Advisor!"

"Yeah, and they want Al to be the sultan," Omar points out. It only seems to fuel Kassim on.

"Exactly!" he shouts, with a half-manic gesture. "It's insane! We're street rats, not royalty!"

"What do you mean?" says Omar, a bit offended at his reaction. "I think he can do it."

"Yeah, 'cause Al's a good guy," Kassim drawls. "I'm not a good guy, I'm a terrible guy!"

"Well, even I think that's selling yourself a bit short," frowns Babkak. "You're not exactly Jafar."

"I'm not saying I'm evil," sighs Kassim, exasperated. "But I'm not Al. Al's all – selfless, and nice, and… gooey." He says them like they're traits which he finds admirable, but slightly disgusting, a twinge in his voice and nose. "I'm not that! I just want to have fun, and not be hungry! That's not Royal Advisor stuff! Royal Advisors stay at the palace and make laws, and give advice. I can't give advice!"

"Kassim, sit down," Babkak sighs. When Kassim's only response is to scoff and start to pace, Babkak grabs him by the arms and forces him down onto a pouffe, snapping before Kassim can do more than open his mouth to protest. "Listen to me. No one's expecting you to be the next Jafar, or the next Al-Hashim, or any of the others. Al could have a whole council of advisors if he wants, and I bet he will want, because he knows exactly what you're like and he knows you'd hate being a politician full-time. He'll have Jasmine, and all of her advisors if she has them, and I'm willing to bet she will, she's not stupid. It's not all on you."

Kassim looks very pained, all grimaces and stretched brows. When he speaks, his voice is broken and worn, finally cracking under the stress of it all. It makes Omar want to hug him.

"Then why the hell did he ask me to do this in the first place?"

"Because he doesn't need an advisor," says Omar, even as the thought itself dawns on him. "He needs a friend."

"What?"

Omar hurries over to Babkak and Kassim's side, almost buzzing with the realization, as Kassim winces and Babkak looks remarkably proud.

"It's something Esther once told me," says Omar hurriedly, too excited to control himself. "She and the girls, they're Jasmine's friends, yeah, but they were her servants first. They help her with what they can, but if it really came down to it, she could just order them around, she doesn't have to listen to them. There's a block there. They're not completely free. You are."

Kassim is still a little short of breath.

"You're not making sense," he says. "What has this got to do with Esther? She's not an advisor."

"No, Omar's right," Babkak nods. "Al didn't ask you to be his advisor just so you could help him out with policies and laws."

"Then why the hell have I been studying all that?!" snaps Kassim.

"It's still good to know what you're talking about," says Babkak, rolling his eyes. "But you're not there for that. You're there to call him out."

"Call him out?"

It looks like the shock, at least, is working to calm Kassim down.

"Al's going to be the sultan, Kassim," says Babkak, like it should be blindingly obvious. "People don't like saying 'no' to the sultan. But you knew him before all this, and you certainly don't have any patience for authority. You'll tell him when he's wrong, or when he's doing something stupid, like you did with the Prince Ali scam. You'll tell him when you think he's making the wrong decision. But it's not all on you. You can still hang out with us, you can go into the city or go travelling. Al's got other people for the day to day stuff, for the boring stuff. Okay, you can't keep stealing, but you probably should have stopped doing that anyway. It's going to be fine."

But Kassim is shaking his head.

"I can't do this," he breathes out, and drops his head into his hands. "This wasn't meant to be me."

"Yes it was," says Babkak, as calm as anything. "And yes, you can."

Omar peers at him askance.

"Was that a compliment?" he asks under his breath. Babkak snorts out a laugh.

"Don't tell anyone," he mutters, then goes on in a normal voice. "Kassim? You're going to be fine."

"I don't think I am," the man groans from behind his hands; but he isn't panicking, which is a start, and he's more dramatic than genuinely stressed now, which is a few steps ahead of that. Comforted by the performance, Omar sits down next to him and tucks his arm around Kassim's back, tugging him in for a bit of a sideways hug.

"It's not a prison sentence," he says. "We'll all still be here. Nothing will have to change."

"So much has already changed," Kassim grumbles. "That doesn't mean much."

"You're going to be fine, Kassim," Babkak repeats, gently kicking his ankle. "Listen to Omar, he knows what's best for you."

Omar shoots him a glare while he can before Kassim at last looks back up at them. Babkak speaks before he can complain again.

"We'll get through this like we have everything else," he says. "Together. It's going to be hard, and it's going to be different, but it's important to Al, and it's important to the kingdom, and most of all, it's important to the gang. We'll stick together, and we'll make it through. Like we always have."

Kassim still looks a little bewildered – eyes wide and brows creased over his hook nose – but he's calmed down at last.

"We'll make it through," he echoes; then after a moment, drops his head again and rakes his fingers through his hair, scratching the back of his neck in frustration. "If you say so."