The day of the inauguration arrives, predictably, far more quickly than anyone wants it to; but everything goes off without a hitch. The first party runs from just after dawn prayers, which means that everyone has to be up and organizing even before fajr: Babkak, Omar, and Kassim all trudge out of their rooms around the same time, half-dressed with messy hair and bruised eyes. They share a look of the most extreme suffering, before dragging their heels to their respective meetings before salat. But by the time of the official gatherings, the snacks and tea are passed smoothly around the gallery, and all the courtiers are bright-eyed and fawning, resplendent in their new clothes. Kassim and Aladdin are nowhere to be seen, in private meetings and being dressed in their royal finery, but Babkak and Omar keep a handle on things, along with the master of ceremonies whom Omar has really learned to admire over this whole ordeal.

The party dwindles; most people trickle away for noon prayers; then only the highest courtiers and the royal party are ushered into the throne room, Babkak and Omar among them. They find Sultan Hamed and his viziers, along with Jasmine and Al, to one side of the throne, decked out in the finest silk and precious jewels, turbans piled high with feathers, robes sweeping the floor. They're all decorated with markers of state: necklaces, bangles, scepters, swords, and patterns on headpieces and the trains of robes.

On the other side of the throne stands Kassim, alone, piled high with similar finery and his brand-new ceremonial robe, but with only the simplest turban on his head. He has an expression on his face somewhere between pride and constipation, and Babkak and Omar elbow each other and suppress identical smiles. Kassim, they can tell, is absolutely terrified.

There's nothing to be afraid of, though. The highest vizier, Al-Hashim, says a few ceremonial words of approval, then Jasmine, then the sultan; then Al steps forward, and gives a small, horribly formal speech about duty and wisdom and responsibility. He looks like he's trying not to laugh, which at least seems to make Kassim relax by a fraction. Then the sultan steps forward, full of grandeur and ceremony, and Kassim swears to serve the sultan, and the prince and princess, and the kingdom, to the best of his reason and ability, with dignity and justice; and the sultan pins the winding, ruby symbol to Kassim's turban above his brow; and it's done. They both turn to the little gathering of the court, and let out a sigh of relief as polite applause is rung over with a whooping cheer from Omar.

Then the royal party crosses the palace to repeat the whole thing on a balcony overlooking the city square, and half an hour later, as Omar and Babkak set up for the celebration, they hear a ringing shout from the city. Maybe, Omar thinks, this whole royalty business wasn't a mistake at all.

The party that follows is a rousing success. The feast is delicious, and seems to go on for about forty courses, which Omar will later learn was entirely deliberate on Babkak's part: a course for every one of the legendary thieves. The dance numbers go well, and everyone has a fantastic time. Not everyone drinks, but there's wine and arak for those who do, and Omar is among them. With all his responsibilities done, he gets very tipsy, and congratulates his friends immensely, and somehow ends up on a sofa in the corner with Kassim half-asleep on his shoulder, the feather in his turban tickling Omar's chin. Without thought, their hands twine together in the space between them, and Omar – faintly, and through a haze of drowsiness – thinks about flowers picked from the palace garden, entirely unaware that when one of Kassim's hands drifts up to cradle his wrist, he's thinking of much the same thing. They've both been awake for far too long, and the party is winding to a close when Jasmine finds them, pulls them both to their feet, and all but orders them to go to bed.

Tipsy, Kassim hugs Omar before they part outside their bedroom doors. He doesn't say anything, but his arms are warm and tight, and wonderfully familiar, and the hallway is only dimly-lit by the fading lamplight. When Kassim tries to pull away, Omar hooks their hands together, so that he's reeled back, laughing faintly in his exhaustion.

"I need to sleep," he says, slurred with exhaustion and wine, even as he settles back into place in Omar's arms. "And I bet you do, too."

"Yeah, probably," Omar sighs over his shoulder. They stay like that for a moment, breathing slowly. Kassim's head shifts on Omar's shoulder.

"I didn't get to say it," he mumbles, eyes closed to the room, "in all the confusion around the ceremony, but – thanks for the baklava." His shoulders jolt with a little laugh, and Omar is glad he's still tipsy, so he doesn't have the brain power to interrogate that. Neither of them lets go for another long moment; it feels like they could fall asleep there, on their feet in the hallway. Finally, Omar huffs out a sigh, and thinks of his warm, soft mattress, and draws back just far enough to hint that they should part, even though they're still nose-to-nose. Kassim smiles and enjoys the proximity for a hazy moment or two – before, very abruptly, his eyes go comically wide.

"I need to sleep," he says again, more firmly this time, nearly but not quite tugging away. Omar has no excuse or explanation for what he says next. He just knows that he's exhausted from all the days and weeks of preparations, and the early start, and the stress of the parties and ceremonies, and he's had a bit too much to drink, and he just loves Kassim with more of himself than he knew he had, wants him close and warm forever, or at least a minute or two longer. The flickering shadows of the room make them feel like the only people in the city, and the way Kassim's hands are clenched in his clothes, as if trying not to let either of them leave, give him more confidence than he really feels.

What Omar says is:

"I want to kiss you."

There is silence for a long, long moment as Kassim looks at him, tries to meet his eye from so close they're blurry to each other, assessing, considering, deciding. Omar feels oddly patient – like they have all the time in the world, like this hall and its shadowy corners is suspended in water, away from the world – and watches as the wide-eyed tension in Kassim relaxes into something much more appealing, something pliant and happy and warm. Kassim leans in a little further, tips his head to avoid knocking their noses together, and seems entirely unaware of how foul both their breaths are from so close up.

"Oh, this is such a bad idea…" he whispers; then a second later, he's shutting his eyes and kissing Omar, gentle and determined all at once. Omar leans into it, with a little hum of satisfaction, and sure, his mouth is kind of numb from the arak, and he already feels half-asleep, but he knows that it's wonderful. Kassim's hands move forward to link around Omar's waist, and Omar hooks his fingers into Kassim's collar, and they spend a good, long minute like that, with Kassim sighing something incomprehensible into his mouth. Omar knows he's going to forget these details in the morning, but it doesn't matter, because Kassim is kissing him again, careful and uncertain yet quite sure.

They part eventually, when one of the lamps in the corner winks out and hushes them into a closer darkness. They laugh a little bit, deliriously tired, and Omar kisses him once more, short and hard, getting a final peck in response.

"Good night," Kassim chuckles, firmly pulling away, hands flexing when they leave Omar's clothes. "Good night."

"Good night," Omar echoes, biting his lip as he backs away towards his bedroom door, Kassim mirroring him. They laugh one more time, before finally turning away and disappearing into their respective rooms, giddy with alcohol and kisses.

Seconds later, Omar is planted face-first in his bed, quickly hurtling into sleep.


Everyone in the palace with 'Royal' in their title gets the morning off, which of course doesn't include Omar, but that's fine. He feels like crap when he gets up in the morning, but sometimes bad things happen and he just has to deal with them. As always, Omar reflects that, in his old life, 'bad things happening' usually meant some kind of horrible infection, or fainting from starvation and exhaustion, or excruciating cramps from having his hands manacled behind his back for four days. A bit of a hangover and not enough sleep before work is really the least of what he's had to deal with.

So Omar goes to the tailors' quarters, where their work has suddenly plummeted, and he only needs to spend a quick morning shift squinting blearily at his sewing while Miriam laughs at him behind her hand. When he trudges back down to their quarters before lunch, it's to find Babkak reading a scroll and nibbling on a piece of bread and sauce on one of the couches, still in his pajamas. He mumbles something in greeting, and Omar mumbles back, and drags his turban off his head as he sinks onto another of the couches, tipping over onto his side. He really needs to sleep.

"How are you feeling?" Babkak asks. Omar just groans something nonsense in response, and Babkak laughs. "That good, huh?"

"Food," Omar mumbles. "Water. Sleep."

"The essentials."

At that moment, Kassim's door cracks open, and the man himself squints out at them. He's still dressed in his finery from the night before, though rather more crumpled and bedraggled, and Omar gets a vivid flash of memory, of the feeling of those gems sewn into the collar of his vest digging into his palms as he held on while they kissed. Omar goes very tense.

"What time is it?" Kassim croaks, leaning heavily on the doors.

"Just past ten?" says Babkak, as he cocks his head to one side and scrutinizes Omar. A second later, he rolls his eyes. "Yeah, I'm going to… go get some breakfast for you two…" he mutters, as he heaves himself to his feet and shuffles out the door, plate in hand, shaking his head. Omar has the distinct feeling he hears Babkak saying "Idiots," as he leaves. He sits up, awkward and stiff, as Kassim yawns, and runs his hand through his hair, steps out of his room and finally seems to remember the night before, freezing in place with his eyes wide and his arm tantalizingly upstretched. With a breath of hesitation, he at last meets Omar's gaze.

"Um," he says, still hoarse – "did we…?"

Omar clears his throat.

"Yeah," he says, "I think we did. No, I know we did."

"Right," Kassim nods, slowly easing back into movement as he shuffles towards Omar's couch. "Right." And he sinks down onto the cushions next to Omar, whose knees and hands are drawing in to hold on tight, make himself small and unobtrusive.

Kassim is silent a moment longer, clearly thinking hard. He frowns, and looks up at Omar next to him. "Just kissing?" he says, and Omar nods, and Kassim nods, and he looks back down at the floor, still frowning. "Right," he says again. "Cool."

Omar frowns, and turns his head to Kassim.

"… Cool?"

Kassim's shoulders slump with a sigh, and he buries his face in his hands.

"I'm sorry," he groans, "I really shouldn't have –"

"You don't have to apologize," Omar scowls back. "I asked you to."

"You did?" says Kassim, looking up at him again, and then his eyes go wide with remembrance, and he says "Oh, you did!", followed immediately by "Oh, God –" as he drops his face back into his hands. "I still shouldn't have."

"You're being ridiculous," says Omar, starting to relax. Kassim sulking is at least familiar. "We'd both been drinking. It's no big deal."

"It's a bit of a big deal," Kassim mumbles. "But if you say so…"

The whole thing is a disaster, Omar decides, looking at the exhausted slump of Kassim's shoulders. He sighs.

"I think I'm going to go help Babkak with the breakfast," he says. Kassim just nods in reply, and when Omar stands up, he sinks down to one side, lying down in the space Omar's just vacated. Omar laughs at that.

"Don't fall asleep again," he warns. Kassim nods, eyes already closed.

It's a hopeless case, really.


They get through the day, nursing headaches and dry mouths. Then the next day, they're right back to their usual, busy schedules. Omar gets to run a few errands again in the marketplace, while Aisha and the rest of the tailors and seamstresses recover from the inauguration rush, and Kassim doesn't kiss him again, though he seems to spend a lot of time just looking at him across the table or over the back of a couch. Even Jasmine looks exhausted for a few days, and Aladdin has bags under his eyes almost heavy enough to rival Kassim's, though he admits to them more than the new vizier.

There's still a bit of work to be done with the tailors. The spring clean-up was never quite finished, so Omar spends the odd morning and afternoon taking apart a sleeve or embellishment, or labelling scraps of material. By the week after the inauguration, Omar is relegated to sorting beads and gems and buttons into bowls organized by color, clarity, material, size, and wear. He's just finishing up on the yellow diamonds when Aisha comes sidling through to his desk with piles of scrolls in her hands.

"Omar, what are you doing after lunch?" she asks, not looking at him.

"Uh," he says. "I figured I'd take these to the jewelers then have the afternoon off –"

"No you're not," Aisha interrupts. "You know the marketplace, right?"

Omar shrugs. He's started learning how to just go with Aisha's decisive flow. "Pretty well, yeah," he says. "Why, do you need something?"

"Baskets," she says. "And jars. There are always a few that go missing or get broken over the year, and we're running out of space for the salvaged material. We need one large basket like the ones in the hall, about half a dozen smaller ones, and ten more of the mid-sized jars for beads and jewels. I'm putting Saida on duty consolidating the old with the new, making sure there aren't any duplicates or anything half-filled. Can you do that?"

"You're sending me on an errand," says Omar, just for clarification, and Aisha finally looks straight at him, narrowing her eyes with suspicion.

"Yes."

Omar grins. "That's my specialty," he says, and Aisha looks almost relieved to hear it.

"Good," she nods. "Well, keep going, take those to the jewelers. First thing after lunch, you go straight to the marketplace. Do you need me to write it down?"

"Say it one more time?" says Omar.

"One large basket, six small, and ten medium jars," Aisha lists off. "Got it?"

"Got it."

And Aisha nods again, and strides out with her usual officiousness. On the other side of the room, Miriam casts a look across at Omar.

"It's so nice having occasionals around," she says. "A few months ago and it probably would've been me she'd sent, and I would've needed it written down."

Omar shrugs, and concentrates back on unthreading a string of what he suspects are just well-crafted quartz pieces.

"It just takes practice," he says. "Most of the people in the marketplace don't have time to write down their orders for you. Come to think of it, most of them can't write at all. You get good at remembering things."

Miriam hums with approval. "I'm impressed," she says. On Omar's other side, Ezra lets out a little "Huh," of surprise.

"What else are you hiding behind that useless façade of yours?"

Omar frowns back at him, and says "That's not very nice," making him laugh.

"You sound just like my niece," says Ezra.

"Well then your niece sounds like a lovely, polite girl."

"He's got you there, you know," says Miriam, and Ezra laughs again, pleasantly enough that it makes Omar smile. They go on in that vein for the last little stretch until lunch, when Omar darts downstairs to the royal table for a few bites before heading out to the marketplace. He gets to eat with Jasmine, Esther, and Jamila, who are always lovely, especially now the inauguration is over. Jasmine gives him a curious look over her food, as if assessing him and coming to a positive conclusion, and Omar wonders who she's been speaking to, or who's been speaking to her.

Once he's full of bread and goat, Omar, fetches a bag of silver from his room, and changes into a more modest outfit that won't stick out like a sore thumb in the marketplace and make the merchants try and charge him double. Then he hurries out of the palace, through the grounds, and out past the gates into the city, where the afternoon sun is blazing down, cutting a swathe of brightness and warmth through the last of the winter chill.

Omar likes the people he works with, he reflects. He likes Jasmine and Esther and Jamila, and he likes being useful and needed and good at something other than picking pockets for once. He likes knowing that Kassim still wants to kiss him. And even if that comes with an undercurrent of bewilderment and fear, it makes him kind of happy to remember the closeness of his body as they slouched on a couch at the inauguration party, and even the warmth of him sitting next to him the morning after, distant and confused. He thinks about Kassim's reaction to the baklava, and decides that maybe he's not the only one who's not getting everything he wants after all.

The thought buoys him up along with the sunlight and purpose. He really should've known something was going to ruin the feeling.

Omar buys the baskets first, figuring it'll be easier to carry the jars once he has those. All the smaller ones fit inside the large one, which he can just barely wrap his arms around, heaving the thing ahead of him like an enormous pot belly. It makes him feel extra skinny. He's lugging the lot up the hill through a modest crowd to a glassware shop he knows, when someone's shoulder rams into his own, hard. He trips, and fumbles with the handle of the basket, and is turning with an apology already on his tongue when a gruff voice says, "Watch where you're going."

There are snake's heads on the man's shoulders, and a regulation beard on his chin. Omar baulks.

"Sorry," he says, bowing his head, "sorry, I didn't see you."

Rather, he wasn't expecting to bump into him quite so hard, because no one bumps into anyone that hard without meaning to. The guard is looking him up and down, brow creasing and eyes narrowing.

"Yeah, I bet you didn't," he mutters, stepping closer. "Let me see this." Without waiting for an answer – without really asking at all – the guard plucks the heavy money bag from Omar's belt and opens it up to look inside. His eyebrows rise nearly to the edge of his turban at the sight of so much silver. The crowd in the street has mysteriously thinned, people slipping away into alleys or huddling against the walls, newcomers turning away at the corner of the street at the sight of a guard in full intimidation. Omar doesn't move.

"What's a guy like you doing with this much silver?" the guard asks, looking right at Omar, who is beginning to feel a familiar, choking fear creep up from his stomach and into his chest and throat.

"I –" he starts. "It's mine. I'm on an errand from –"

"An errand?" the guard repeats. "Must be some pretty good errands to earn you money like this."

He glares at Omar, as if he's expecting a response, but Omar is well-versed in this kind of interaction. He just lowers his eyes to the baskets in his arms and says nothing. The guard curls his lip at that.

"Where'd you really get it?" he says.

Omar stays silent, mind whirling. If he tries to say he's an errand boy, the guard will just repeat that no errand boy earns that much, and if he tries to explain that he works at the palace, the guard will never believe him, because what palace worker dresses like a common errand boy? There's no reason for him to have been stopped in the street except, of course, for his clinking, heavy money pouch and his face which, Kassim and Al once explained, just screams sap.

Without warning, the guard strikes out with the back of his hand, hitting Omar's cheek with enough force and surprise that he yelps and drops his goods.

"Where'd you get the money?" the guard repeats, starting to shout.

"I didn't steal it," Omar tries to explain, glaring at him. "It's my money, I earned it."

Then suddenly there's a hand gripped in the back of his shirt, and Omar's instincts kick right back in. He twists under the guard's arm and slips out of his reach for just a second; but then he grabs for the baskets when he should've started running, and the guard whips his sword from his belt, and there's a blinding flash of pain at the back of Omar's neck which buckles his knees and sends him sprawling into the dust. As Omar scrambles to his feet, the guard shifts his grip on his sword, holding the blade under Omar's nose, making him freeze.

"On your knees," the guard orders, and Omar – out of options – obeys. He eases back down onto his knees while still trying to keep his head above the sword in his face. With casual menace, the guard turns his hand so that the edge of the blade is turned up towards Omar, then flicks the sword around Omar's head, resting the blunt edge against the back of his neck. "Hands on the ground," he snarls, and Omar is powerless but to follow where he is impelled, resting his palms in the dirt.

His arms are trembling.

"Now," says the guard, "I think I'll be taking a few of these illegal coins." Omar hears his money rattling, as the guard smugly shakes open the bag. "In exchange for not executing you right here and now."

"Hey!" cries a sudden voice from across the street. "Get your hands off him!"

Kassim. Omar's heart goes simultaneously heavy and light, confused and relieved.

"Who are you?" the guard demands, turning as Kassim storms across the street, hands tense and face stormy. As he reaches them, Kassim shoves his head forward and points conspicuously at the brand new ruby symbol adorning his turban.

"I'm a royal vizier, asshole," he growls, stopping in front of them and pointing down at Omar as the guard's eyes go wide. "And he," he adds, "is not only an innocent citizen, but a servant of the palace, and a close, personal friend of Prince Aladdin. So if you don't want to get yourself in a world of trouble, you'll give him back his money and leave him the hell alone!"

The guard's face has gone ashen by now at Kassim's speech, and at the symbol pinned above his brow. Stuttering out a broken, half-formal apology, he sheaths his sword, bows, and drops Omar's money to the ground next to him. A few coins spill out, and Omar scoops them up, quiet and still unsteady, tucking the pouch back into his belt. Suddenly, Kassim's hands are under his elbow and around his back, hauling him up to his feet, automatic and almost perfunctory as Kassim continues to glare at the guard.

"Get out of here," he orders, and the guard bows again, backing away until Kassim snaps, "Wait." His arms drop away from Omar, who is watching the exchange with surprise and not a little bit of awe. As the guard turns back to them, Kassim stands tall, back straight and gaze clear, like he'd get when they pulled off a decent scam. All that energy, however, is now blazing with righteous fury, and though his hands are in fists at his sides, his weight rests back off his toes, not quite ready to launch into a fight. Authority sits comfortably on his broad shoulders, and the orders sound well in his mouth.

"You have to do what I tell you," Kassim says, as if just realizing it, as he advances a few steps. The guard looks up at him, still half-bowing, brows turned down at the edges.

"Yes?"

"Don't just get out of here," Kassim drawls – "go straight to the palace. Report to Razoul. Tell him I sent you. Tell him you attacked an innocent man and a palace servant out of nothing but greed. Tell him – and I want you to use these exact words – tell him Kassim, the royal vizier, suggests that you be sent to empty all the chamber pots in the dungeons for the next week. Got it?"

The guard looks almost grey with fear.

"Got it," he says. "Sir."

"Good," Kassim grits out. "Now – get out of here."

Dismissed, the guard spins and sprints away, cape fluttering and dirt crunching under his flying feet. In seconds, he's disappeared around the corner at the end of the street, and the crowd has started to inch back into motion, people moving again in whatever tasks they were on. In another moment, Kassim swivels on his heels and is back at Omar's side, breath rushing out of his lungs as he reaches out to grasp Omar's arms between his hands, peering into his face.

"Are you okay?" he asks, low and breathless. "Did he hurt you?"

"Nothing too bad," says Omar, wincing as he stretches his head to one side and rubs the back of his neck. "Thanks for the help," he adds, feeling rather abashed at still needing Kassim to save him. "I guess a thief's a thief no matter what."

"You're not a thief," says Kassim, rolling his eyes. "That's me you're thinking of. He saw shabby clothes and a heavy purse and he didn't just come to the wrong conclusion, he tried to use that to hurt and steal from you. He's the one being a dick."

"Either way," Omar sighs. "I'd kind of hoped this was going to stop happening by now."

"I'm not sure it'll ever stop happening." There's a contemptuous tilt to Kassim's mouth. "But that's on them, not us." His face is tight with something that's two steps away from a scheme, Omar can tell. But he doesn't run off: just stays where he is, standing right up close to Omar, hands on his upper arms, as he stares after where the guard disappeared.

"Kassim?" Omar tries. "Are you okay?"

"What? Yeah, fine," he shrugs. "You're the one who was attacked, why wouldn't I be fine?"

Kassim is too close. Omar can smell him, the oil in his hair, and the dirt under his fingernails, and the sweat under his arms from heavy palace clothes in the late spring heat. All Omar wants to do is grab the front of his shirt and kiss him, bury his face in his sturdy neck, wrap his arms around his trim waist. He wants the hands on his arms to be light like when Omar gave him flowers, not heavy and tight with concern. His heart is still hammering from having a sword in his face, which is only making the proximity worse: it feels like his breath is being stolen away.

"It's just…" he finally says – "you're standing very close to me."

From Kassim's reaction, he hadn't even noticed. The little frown on his face eases up as he looks properly at Omar, not exactly nose-to-nose this time, but not far off it. His eyes dart down to where his hands are still resting on Omar's arms, and his fingers slacken, arms relaxing and dropping down.

He doesn't let go, though. (Praise Allah, Omar thinks.) Instead, he slips his hands down Omar's ragged sleeves until he's cradling his wrists between them, fingers light and thumbs stroking, watching where Omar's hands lie in his own.

Kassim swallows. When he speaks, his voice is a little hoarse, and it cracks just a bit on the first few words.

"I would rather die than see you in chains again."

And Omar remembers –

three pairs of manacled wrists –

the beautiful patterned floor of the palace –

– and he turns his hands in Kassim's and grips them, hard, swallowing his fear.

"I think I love you," he says.

Al was right. He just needed to be honest.

Kassim's eyes go wider even than they did with the flowers and the baklava, and after a second, his jaw actually drops, mouth popping open in surprise, but with nothing to say. Omar winces. "Sorry," he says, "was that too much?"

"N-no, I –" Kassim stammers, trying for a smile and faltering spectacularly. He looks almost devastated, wide and lost. "I have to go," he says, looking over his shoulders. "We're meant to be inspecting the wells –"

Omar doesn't know what to think. It feels like there's a spell over them, which he's loathe to break by trying to speak. When Kassim meets his eye again, words seem to fail him, and his jaw just sort of hangs open, no sound coming out. He flinches a fraction of an inch forward, then starts just as much back, and seems to be avoiding looking at Omar's mouth.

Finally, Kassim plucks his hands out of Omar's, and takes a firm step backwards.

"I have to go," he says again. There's a crack in his voice that – despite his strength and his brashness and his usual wild conviction – seems almost fragile. Which is ridiculous, Omar thinks, but that doesn't stop it being true.

"I'll see you tonight," Omar says, before Kassim can turn away.

"Yeah," Kassim nods, making a better attempt at a smile. "Tonight. And I'm going to have a word with Razoul, this shouldn't be happening to you. This never should've happened to you, to any of us."

"It's the way things are," Omar shrugs. "Do you really think it could change?"

Kassim's expression sets into something stubborn, and proud, and very ready to be angry.

"I'm going to make it change," he growls; then adds, "After… the wells…"

"Get moving," Omar laughs. "I've still got to get back to Aisha."

So Kassim laughs, and turns, and takes half a step down the hill before he's spinning back around. Out of nowhere, he says, "You think you love me," as if the meaning has only just dawned on him. As if he wants to make sure he heard it right, to confirm before they walk away and pretend to forget it.

Omar takes a deep breath.

"Yeah," he says. "Yeah, I definitely do."

There is a long moment of silence; then Kassim is grinning, like his whole world has just been lit up from an interminable darkness, like the sun's come out on a cloudy day, like the world is wonderful and okay instead of terrible, for once.

Then he's dipping his head with a little laugh, and biting his tongue behind his lip. When he looks up at Omar again, he presses his mouth together, but can't stop the beam that lingers in his eyes.

"We both need to go," he says.

"I'll see you at dinner," says Omar, feeling his expression matching the joy in Kassim's, feeling his heart lift so much he must be floating a few inches above the ground. There's an answer in Kassim's face, unvoiced but sure, which Omar has been hoping to hear.

Then he bends down and hauls up his armful of baskets, and remembers that yes, they both have very important jobs to do.

"Goodbye," he smiles out, very determinedly, before turning and marching away. He hears Kassim's wild laugh as it retreats down the road behind him, and when he checks over his shoulder before turning the corner, he can just see the top of Kassim's turban as he whoops and jumps into the air at the other end of the street