"Yes, warmth. Kaladin felt warm. Surely ... if there truly was a deity ... it watched him from within that light." – From Rhythm of War, Chapter 8

I

Kaladin Stormblessed was… fine. Ostensibly. It'd been a month since the disastrous night of the intervention – since he'd sworn those quiet words for only himself – and, mentally, he'd never been better. He'd stopped hunting for Leshwi from his balcony. His constant scowl was now a middling frown. Syl had finally quit shooing off the anxietyspren that swarmed him like a noxious cloud, and even Lirin had kind of apologized, in his own way. Objectively speaking, Kaladin Stormblessed was doing great.

There was just one problem. A small one, perhaps, when compared to all the others, but one that no amount of encouragement, support, or pointed self-reflection could fix: he still couldn't storming sleep.

At night, he tossed and turned and tangled himself in intricate positions like the bed was a prison of his own making. He paced the tower's corridors like a spirit from Damnation itself, sent to haunt the souls of those who dared to walk them. He'd even started doing pushups to try and tire himself out, but that had only resulted in arms that were unbelievably well-sculpted (and almost always sore).

He'd been tempted, at times, to ask Lirin for a draught. Something powerful enough to just knock himself right out into sweet oblivion. The temptation was strong. He'd even been close on a couple occasions, but in the end, he always floundered at the crucial moment, dooming himself back to his somber quarters for yet another sleepless night.

Because here was The Thing:

The Thing was that he'd have to start giving explanations. Explanations he wasn't necessarily ready to deal with, or enthused about, or even sure how to give. The Thing was called Renarin Kholin, and he was sitting there with the rest of Bridge Four as they all competed to see who could guzzle the highest volume of Rock's stew in the least amount of time.

They were in a long hall near the breakaway market they'd repurposed as a general dining area, with several neat rows of tables and a few benches along the periphery. Bridge Four had taken over the room at the insistence of Lopen, who'd claimed they needed to "increase group morale." Kaladin was watching the night's proceedings from a corner, which – by complete coincidence – gave him a direct view of Renarin. "I just trade one nightmare for another," he muttered.

"He's not a nightmare!" said Syl. She had taken the form of a skyeel for some Heralds-forsaken reason. "I find the prince very pleasant. He's a nice boy."

The dreams had started the day after the rooftop, when he'd settled into bed determined to challenge whatever demon his broken mind conjured up. It had begun as usual; the flying, the falling, the chasm…except this time there'd been no spikes. There'd been no glaring, undead faces to decry his failures. This time, Kaladin had hit bottom, only to find Renarin there, with a wise comment and a ready hand to help him up. The second time, it'd been the memory of the highstorm he spent with Shallan…except it hadn't been her. He'd squeezed the figure in his arms and found a broader, more masculine one than he remembered. He'd found no long, curling tresses of red hair – only a tidy mix of black and blond.

All his dreams were like that. He'd dreamt of Renarin on the airship, in the dining hall, on horseback as they rode into battle, and even in places that didn't exist. To his horror and shame, he'd dreamt of Renarin in varying states of dress (and undress). He'd dreamt of Renarin doing things he was pretty sure were outlawed in Azir. It was like his brain had decided to take every single nightmare he'd ever had and rework it into something totally different, yet equally torturous.

Much like with his nightmares, Kaladin would then wake up and find himself covered in sweat, heart pounding, his hair twisted into impossible knots – but it was worse than even that. Whenever he'd wake from one of these dreams, he'd do so overcome by a harrowing sense of loss, like he'd been ripped away from a world where everything was light and good and warm. He'd slide his hand over the empty right side of the bed and feel the chill of the cold linen on his burning skin. Then he'd get started on the pushups.

"It's like I'm a storming virgin again. He hugs me one time and suddenly I can't stop thinking about him."

"What's a virgin?" said Syl.

"Don't worry about it." In the distance, Renarin fidgeted with that special box of his. Kaladin watched those wriggling fingers, felt the emptiness in his own. He sighed. Was he really so starved for human touch that he'd regressed to adolescence?

And that was The Other Thing. With that hug, Renarin had ascended past some unspoken, sacred tenet of manhood – the one that ruled two friends could only ever touch in dire circumstances, like far too much alcohol, or imminent death – and so The Other Thing was that Renarin kept storming touching him.

It was the brush of a hand against a shoulder. The casual, fond squeeze of an arm. The absent-minded tap to draw his attention. It was the way that their fingers would knock together while reaching for the same bottle of wine. The way that Renarin would pick something out of his hair without a second thought. It was the way each of those touches burst with warm light that simmered on his skin. It made Kaladin wish he had less time to think.

Time, as a soldier, was more uncertain than survival. There was always something to fight for, to worry about, to do. As a doctor, Kaladin had the gift of time. He could take the time he needed to recover the lost parts of himself, but he could also obsess over a meaningless crush until it threatened to induce a seizure.

"You should talk to him," said Syl. "He's by himself. Maybe you can seduce him."

"Do I look like I can seduce anybody?"

Kaladin's face was an ashy, swollen mask that draped over his bones. Lirin had wanted him tested for the plague.

Syl shrugged. "I don't know. That's what I heard Lopen saying about the lady in the market. How do you do it?"

"Renarin is not…" Kaladin stammered. "He's the kind of person you take to dinner first."

"Well, what food do you think he likes?"

"I am not having this conversation with you. Go spy on someone else."

Syl crossed her arms. "Fine! But you should still talk to him." With a pout, she flew off towards Rock.

Maybe I should go talk to him. I never really thanked him for…all that.

From across the room, Renarin locked eyes with him. It was only natural. He'd probably felt Kaladin's stare like two arrows aimed at his back. Kaladin waved at him. Renarin waved back.

Storms, should I smile? Why would I smile? He's not a blushing maiden! Wait, what is he doing?

Soon, Kaladin found himself smiling up at Renarin as he took the steaming bowl of stew placed in front of him. "You didn't have to bring me any."

The back of his hand had brushed Renarin's. It burnt more than the hot glass threatening to obliterate his fingers. Kaladin set it down next to him.

"It's no problem, Sir," said Renarin. "I didn't want the men to finish it all."

"You don't have to call me that. I'm not a soldier anymore."

"Sorry – habit. I meant Kaladin."

"Kal."

When he looked down, Kaladin gestured at the empty spot next to him. Renarin took a seat – far too close, not close enough – and Kaladin started wracking the wet mound of slime that was his brain for something not stupid to say.

He settled on a solemn: "I…Thank you. I'm sorry I didn't say anything before."

So much for avoiding stupidity.

Renarin frowned at him. "The stew was right there. It wasn't any trouble."

"That's not what I mean."

And there was that light again, behind Renarin's eyes as he understood, that warmth as he turned, and his shaky knee pressed into Kaladin's own. When he blushed, it was a breath of pink on tan cheeks. "It wasn't any trouble."

Kaladin stared straight ahead. His hands buzzed with the need to reach out – to grab and hold and possess. "I really needed that."

"I thought we weren't to speak of it again."

"I was being dramatic. Storms, I'm not that wound-up."

Renarin chuckled. "I thought surely you'd push me off."

"I wouldn't have! I like hugs, too," said Kaladin, in the same way that a murderous whitespine might have claimed that it, too, liked to be cuddled. "Don't laugh – quit laughing!"

When Renarin laughed, he scrunched his eyes as if they basked in the merriment of his lips. He covered his mouth like he was sharing a secret in the utmost confidence. His back shook with it, because Renarin committed his whole self to anything he did. When Renarin laughed, Kaladin was shrouded in a pure, golden warmth. Renarin's laugh felt like being held all over again.

Apparently, anyway.

May the Heralds spare me. I have become the Eleventh Fool.

"I'm sorry, it's just – you were so stiff. I feared you would crack."

"I was…surprised." Now it was Kaladin's turn to blush. He could feel the tips of his ears light up like hot candlewicks. "But –"

They snapped their heads in unison to look at the middle table. Bridge Four had broken out in cheers; Drehy was arm-wrestling Lopen.

"I should get back," said Renarin. "Your stew's getting cold."

As he rose, he wrapped an arm around Kaladin's shoulder and gave a firm squeeze. Then he was gone, and all that remained of his touch was a sudden rush of empty air.

"I think he did that on purpose." The third moon had come and gone, and Kaladin lay face-up on his bed, staring at the shamespren that rained from the ceiling like a torrent of flower petals. He hadn't even had the chance to dream that night. He hadn't gone to sleep at all.

Syl was a single blue flame in the gloom of his chambers. She danced in looping pirouettes around the petals as she tried to blow them away. "I don't know why you're embarrassed. Didn't you like it?"

"It's more complicated than that!" said Kaladin. He flopped over on his stomach and failed to stop thinking of Renarin by scowling at the wall. "Ugh." He buried his face into his uncomfortably hot pillow.

"Kaladin? What's wrong?"

"Mmfine" he mumbled. He lifted his head and swiveled onto his back once again. "Do you think he did that on purpose?"

"Of course he did it on purpose, Dummy! You can't accidentally hug someone." Syl floated next to his head. "I think the lack of sleep is hurting your brain."

"That's not what I meant. Do you think he was trying to tell me something?"

"Like what? That he wants more hugs?"

"Yes…hugs. Let's call it that."

"Maybe he does. You should ask him."

"I'm not going to ask him," said Kaladin. He'd rather clean the solid crem off the Oathgates with a toothpick.

"Why not? Do you want me to ask him for you?"

"You know what I've told you about talking to other people."

Syl adopted a fake scowl, putting her hands on her hips for a mock impression of Kaladin. "Don't talk to other people about me!" she said in a gruff voice. "I'm a Big Dummy and I don't talk about my feelings. Huff. Puff. I'm so angry all the time!"

He rolled his eyes. "Just don't talk to Renarin."

"I promise," she said. His mother had scolded him like that as a child: calm, but unyielding. "But you can't keep going on like this."

"I don't know what you want me to do, Syl!"

"Well…" Syl flipped herself upside down. "Why don't you test it?"

He raised an eyebrow. "…Test it."

"You can't tell if he's touching you on purpose, so why not touch him? See how he reacts. Then you'll know!"

Kaladin sat up. He could still feel the fleeting warmth of that hug. What if he'd pulled Renarin closer? If he'd told him to stay? "I'm not going to just grab him. That'd be wrong."

"That's not what I mean. Why don't you do something more subtle? Then you can pretend it was an accident."

A premeditated collision? An accidental slide during sparring practice? "I don't know what I'd do."

"Maybe you'll know it when you see it."

It wasn't a bad idea. If he could see Renarin's reaction for himself, then he could stop pretending like there was something between them. It would be the first step in cutting out the madness that governed his dreams. "I'll think about it," Kaladin said. He threw the bedcovers off. The floor of his chamber was like weathered ice on the bottom of his feet.

"Where are you going now?"

"Pushups."

It was just four days afterwards that Kaladin took his chance as subtly as a violent stormwall. He was finished with the last of an interminable line of women – most of whom had recovered from their mystery ailments upon inviting him for tea – and was headed to a tentative family dinner when he passed one of the balconies and froze.

There in the garden, his skin glistening under the unflinching afternoon sun, was a shirtless Renarin in the midst of a sparring match with his brother.

Kaladin swallowed. Storms, when did he get that strong?

Renarin's scrawny frame was still lean, but the well-defined contours of his muscles made him look older and sharper than Kaladin had ever seen him as he blocked Adolin's punches. He threw a swift kick in response, and Adolin dodged.

They had no weapons. All Radiants were required to train hand-to-hand to prepare for the likely event that they ran out of Stormlight, and Renarin had been studying. Adolin's moves were slick with experience, and he seemed to glide on the floor as he parried Renarin's attacks. But Renarin's technique was impeccable, his form was flawless, and it was clear to Kaladin that a few more months would make him into a formidable fighter.

Syl had flown off to play with some windspren, so Kaladin was by himself as he stepped out to watch. He set down his work bag and leaned against one of the columns, out of the match's way and where he could ogle to his heart's content.

He started by naming the muscles he saw. That there was Renarin's latissimus dorsi, straining with effort as he narrowly escaped Adolin's left hook. There was, of course, the rhomboid major, the deltoid, the oft-forgotten trapezius – the flex of the sartorius when Renarin swung his leg. The curl of the bicep when he struck. The single, sparkling bead of sweat making its way down his sternocleidomastoid.

Kaladin's eyes roamed over every angle of Renarin's body. With so much of it on display, he was more of a menace than covered in shardplate. He was so enraptured by the sight that it was too late to move when he heard the cries of "watch out!" and the whizz of a heavy object plummeting in his direction.

Then he was on the floor. A warm, sweaty weight pressed down on his diaphragm as Renarin tackled him out of harm's way.

"You okay?" Renarin sat up. Next to them, the shattered fragments of a flowerpot lay scattered on the ground.

Kaladin regained his breath. "You just saved me from a concussion. Storms, I can't believe I let my guard down like that."

Adolin sauntered over to them. He whistled at the sight. "Bridgeboy, you're getting rusty."

I was too busy lusting after your brother.

"I was thinking," said Kaladin. He rubbed a sore spot on his shoulder. "About work."

"Right," said Adolin with a smirk. "I'm sure those ladies are keeping you busy. Met any you like yet?"

Kaladin opened his mouth to respond, but a sudden yelp from Renarin stopped him. A rivulet of blood oozed crimson from his palm, trailing down his arm before trickling onto the floor in fat drops. The object responsible, a jagged shard of ceramic, stuck out like an earthy knife.

"Damnation," cursed Adolin.

Kaladin leapt into action. "I can help. It looks worse than it is." He used his boot to push away the rest of the flowerpot and reached into his work bag, from which he retrieved a jar of antiseptic, some bandages, and a set of pincers. "Let me see that. Adolin, bring me some clean water."

Adolin might have said something, but it was only a background garble. Eventually a jug appeared.

Kaladin cradled Renarin's hand in his, straightening the fingers to assess the damage. When he'd tried to stand up, he'd accidentally cut himself on one of the pieces. Thankfully, it wasn't a deep wound. He maintained a neutral face when Kaladin picked out the fragments embedded in his hand, with only a slight wince for the biggest one.

"Sorry," said Kaladin. These weren't the circumstances that had pulled him from sleep, night after night, in a clammy fit of passion. Even so, he watched for any change in Renarin's face or mannerisms as he cleaned and bandaged the wound. When he finished wrapping it, he let go with a brush of his fingers on the underside of Renarin's palm.

Nothing. Just as he'd expected.

"How's it feel?"

Renarin flexed his hand with a smile. "Much better. Thank you." He rose, careful not to touch any more of the broken pot. "I'm going to go see about cleaning that up."

Kaladin watched as Renarin disappeared into the tower, and, with him, all the hours he'd spent glaring awake at the ceiling.

It was only later, as he talked to Syl after dinner, that he stopped dead in his tracks with a trembling stroke of realization. His face bloomed red. That afternoon, he'd forgotten to take the most crucial point into account:

Renarin could Surgebind. He hadn't needed help at all.

II

"I might vomit." Kaladin had managed to cram himself into a suit for Drehy's wedding dinner. The dull thump of his polished boots echoed in the corridor. "He's going to be in there."

"Isn't that a good thing?" asked Syl. She'd created an outfit that copied the formal havah of the Alethi nobility, with a long sleeve for her "safehand." It made her look like a child playing dress-up, which was how Kaladin felt as he suffocated under the ruffled silk cravat that Adolin claimed was all the rage in Liafor.

"I don't know what I'm going to say to him."

"Just ask him to dance!" Syl twirled in the air as if she meant to demonstrate.

Kaladin had tucked himself away on the sixth-floor clinic and rearranged all the shelves. Then, he'd taken it upon himself to scrub and polish the floors. He'd started brushing up on his diagrams, practicing his glyphs, and even tutoring some of the trainees that Lirin had brought on. He'd played blocks with Oroden, and then Knights, and then tag. That was how he'd managed to spend two Renarin-free weeks.

But now it was unavoidable. Now there'd been a wedding, and all of Bridge Four would join in the celebration. Kaladin readjusted the stupid cravat before entering.

It was a modest hall on one of the lower floors, with tastefully arranged round tables and multicolored sphere lanterns hanging from the walls. A set of wide double doors opened to a balcony, where several people were already mingling thanks to the wine. As she flew beside Kaladin, Syl noted with delight that there was a band. That had been Lopen's doing. Apparently, he had a cousin.

Renarin sat in the back by himself, fidgeting with that box. His cravat was even uglier than Kaladin's, and when he waved, there were no bandages or scars left on his hand.

"Ask him to dance!" said Syl. She zipped away to watch the music.

Kaladin pulled up an empty chair.

"My brother got you, too, then." Renarin glanced at the hateful ball of fluff on Kaladin's neck.

He rolled his eyes as he sat. "But it's all the rage in the folios!"

Renarin gave him a subtle quirk of smile. "I'm glad you could make it," he added. Without his spectacles, Kaladin could see exhaustion's familiar shadow where it darkened the skin under his eyes.

"What have you been up to?" asked Kaladin.

Not that I would know. I definitely haven't spent the past two weeks thinking about it.

Renarin shrugged. "Mostly meetings. The scholars have started investigating the origins of the tower more seriously." He perked up. "Actually, all the fabrials might be connected to each other…"

He looked like a proper scientist as he rambled on about the tower, like he was giving an interesting lecture to the academics in Kharbranth. As he illustrated his point, Kaladin busied himself by characterizing every landmark of his face. Did Renarin know he had a freckle behind his left ear? The words faded into a comforting thrum. Kaladin may or may not have been nodding along. Renarin's lips kept moving.

It was in the space between one breath and the next that Kaladin blurted out: "Would you like to dance?"

Renarin's lips took the form of an 'o' before snapping closed.

"I mean – only if you want to, of course…that is –"

"I'm a terrible lead," said Renarin.

Kaladin extended a hand. "I've enough Stormlight to heal my toes if you step on them."

…

It was a bit like flying. Kaladin's heart drummed a steady patter in his chest as he grasped Renarin's hand to pull him closer. He slid their bodies into a swift turn before bending down into an impossible-looking dip. His body thrummed with the rush of battle.

"I thought you said you were bad at this," said Kaladin.

"I said I was a bad lead." Renarin matched Kaladin's step as they separated – joined only by their interlocked fingers – before coming together again. In the back, somebody cheered. He met Kaladin's eye with a delighted grin. "I'm the Prince of Kholinar. They had me in dancing lessons as soon as I could walk."

"What other secret skills have you been hiding from us? Horse-taming? Lute-playing?"

"Just the dancing. And I wasn't hiding it," said Renarin. He wrapped his arms around Kaladin's shoulder before the next dip. "I just dislike all the…closeness."

Bent over him as he was, Kaladin could see each of Renarin's eyelashes when he blinked. He took his time before returning them to a standing position. In the corner of his eye, he could see Syl's blue glow flitting about.

Tell him something, you storming fool!

"Renarin, I –"

The music stopped. Thunderous applause drowned the room as Drehy and Dru walked in, hand in hand. "Don't interrupt the party on our account!" said Drehy. Dru placed a soft kiss on his cheek, only to be met with more cheers and congratulations.

"They look lovely," said Renarin.

Kaladin nodded. Seeing them together, he felt the same tightness in his chest that he did after waking from a nightmare. They seemed like an image from one of Wit's tales, two heroes together after defeating the evil that would stand in their way. Could he ever have that? No amount of stilted thanks or awestruck looks from people in the market would ever wash away his fits of melancholy, or the icy pang of terror he felt at sudden, innocuous movements. No mention of his successes would lighten the burden of his failures. Kaladin was no hero.

Renarin was…Renarin was light. He was all warmth and goodness and truth. It had just been more of Kaladin's selfishness to tarnish that with the stain of his desire. Kaladin could try to accept his own shortcomings, but he couldn't ask that of someone else.

"I need some air." Kaladin let go where their hands were still intertwined.

"Are you alright?" asked Renarin, but Kaladin's back was already turned.

The air outside was muggy with the heat of an approaching highstorm, and Kaladin itched inside his suit as he gripped the balcony's railing. Commoners milled about in the plaza below. This close to the ground, he could almost make out their faces. Syl had followed him, but he'd told her to leave him alone. He needed to fly. He needed to think.

The door swung open. "Did I say something wrong? Why did you leave?" Renarin stared him up and down, as if checking he hadn't been ill.

"It's nothing you did. I just – I couldn't breathe in there," said Kaladin. "You should go back and enjoy the party. I don't mean to ruin your evening."

"I'm having a wonderful evening." Renarin joined him at the balcony's railing. His hand was so close to Kaladin's that the slightest move from his pinky finger would have them touching. "It's quiet out here. I like it better that way."

Yes, quiet. Kaladin heard the hitch in his own breath as Renarin brushed his finger against the side of his palm, almost by accident. Blood pounded in his ears.

I can't keep doing this.

"Renarin, I need to –" But when Renarin gazed up at him with those eyes, tender and kind and curious, he choked up. He yanked his hand away, tugging at his neck. "Argh! I can't breathe in this storming thing."

Renarin's fingers twitched. "May I?" With nimble fingers, he started undoing the jumbled detestable knot that was Kaladin's cravat.

Almighty have mercy. Kaladin felt the brush of Renarin's warmth against the bob of his Adam's apple as he swallowed. "Did you tie this yourself?"

He looked down to indicate his assent. Renarin's hands had stopped moving. He bit his lip. And then Renarin was leaning in, standing on his toes, and Kaladin's eyes were closing, and he could feel a tug on the blasted piece of fabric still wound like a noose around his neck, and he was putting a hand on Renarin's hip –

And then Adolin flung open the door.

"Renarin, there you – Oh." He backed away. "Excuse me, gentlemen. My sincerest apologies. Carry on…" The door slammed shut.

Kaladin stepped away. "I'm so sorry. We shouldn't have done that. I'm sorry. I should go."

"I don't understand," said Renarin. Kaladin recognized the frayed edge of hurt in his voice. "I thought…"

I did that. I made him feel like that.

"It's not a good thing, for us to be together. It will never work out."

"What? Why?" Renarin tried to get closer, but Kaladin held him at arm's length.

"We're too different," he said. "I have my life, and you have yours, and they never should've mixed in the first place. You have your work with the scholars, and I have the clinic – and…they'd never accept it anyway. Not with me. I have too much to deal with. I'm too much to deal with. I can't give you what you want. We can't all be like them."

The sounds of music and laughter filtered through the cracks of the closed balcony door.

Renarin furrowed his brow. Kaladin saw it then – the gradual hardening of his features, the way his eyes fled back into their usual, inscrutable blue as he looked down at the floor. He seemed to retreat into himself as he fidgeted with the hem of his jacket.

"I'm sorry," said Kaladin. "I shouldn't have made you believe it could work." He grasped the door handle, but Renarin's voice stopped him.

"How do you know what I want?"

"What?"

"You don't know what I want. You've just stood here giving me a speech about what you think I want and what you assume I can handle. You never bothered to ask me." He shook his head. His voice was eerily calm. "Nobody ever does. They all treat me as the same weakling child. The second son. The useless one. They think I can't handle anything. They say I shouldn't even try."

"That's not –"

"I'm a man, Kaladin. I can make my own choices." Renarin jerked the door open. His shoulder bumped into Kaladin's as he passed him. "If you don't want to be with me, then be brave enough to say so."

So maybe Adolin had been eavesdropping. He couldn't be blamed, really. Not when his best friend was in the middle of an almost-kiss-turned-passionate-argument with his baby brother, who had stormed out shortly after, holding back tears.

Adolin had never seen Renarin storm out of anywhere. He'd never seen Renarin so much as make eyes at anyone, much less seem like he wanted to willingly touch them. He'd never seen Renarin look at anyone like that – like they'd taken his heart and shattered it into a million tiny little pieces and then set it on fire just to make sure.

He was going to have Kaladin's head on a pike. Preferably three pikes, to compensate for all the Stormlight.

The balcony was empty, which meant that Kaladin had to have flown off somewhere. Adolin would tie himself to the back of the nearest Windrunner if it was necessary.

He grasped the arm of someone nearby. It was that Azish bridgeman, Sigzil. "Where'd he go?"

"What? Prince Adolin, I fear I don't know what you're talking about…" He tried to free himself from Adolin's grip, but he held steady as a chasmfiend's claw.

"Don't try to hide it! Where'd your storming captain go?"

"I don't know! He likes to go to the top platform sometimes, but I swear I didn't see him!"

Adolin patted Sigzil on the back. "I thank you," he said.

So that's how it's going to be.

He had some climbing to do.

The stars did not shine that night. It was as if the whole sky had been swallowed up by a murky, tarry blackness just before the rain. Kaladin sat against a column and stared at nothing as he let a flimsy breeze cool off his troubled thoughts.

He'd thrown his jacket off somewhere, along with the storming cravat. Syl was saying something he didn't register as he pictured the ugly thing drifting in the wind.

"Kaladin!" Syl transformed into a blue hand and began waving in front of his face.

"I told you I don't want to talk right now. Go back to the party if you're bored."

"You're just going to let it end like this?"

"There's nothing to end. Nothing happened," said Kaladin. He rested his head against the back of the column. Cold. "Renarin is strong. He'll understand eventually."

"There's nothing to understand." A deeper voice called out from behind Kaladin.

"Renarin?"

"No, Adolin. And you'd better give me a storming good reason for why my baby brother ran out of that ballroom crying if you're interested in keeping your teeth." Adolin loomed over him from where he stood with his arms crossed. He raised an eyebrow. "I'm waiting."

"Punch me if you want. I probably deserve it," said Kaladin. This was just another line on the list of his endless crimes.

Adolin pinched the bridge of his nose. He joined Kaladin on the ground with a sigh. "What's the matter with you, Bridgeboy? I thought you were doing better."

His wounds were not a scrape to be patched over. Even if he'd managed to drag himself from the worst of the darkness, nothing could excise the rotten pit at his core. "I am. But…never good enough. Not for him."

"Oh, Heralds strike me. Not this crem. And here I thought Renarin was dramatic."

"I'm doing him a favor."

"How? By making both of you miserable? By denying yourself any chance you might've had to enjoy this storming place?"

"We can't be together, Adolin!" Kaladin threw his hands up. "It'll just make everything worse. I can't lose him. We're never going to be what Drehy and Dru have. What you have."

"What do I have?" said Adolin. "I have a wife – three, actually – that I fight for every day. Whenever Shallan leaves, I'm terrified that something will happen to her. I'm terrified that nothing will happen, and I'll keep losing her anyway. I have a brother who won't talk to me, a killer for a father, and an idiot for a best friend. What do you think I have?"

"But you're happy."

"What else am I going to be?"

"I don't know how to do what you do. I have this…darkness in me. I couldn't be happy even as a child. Even with Tien. I can't make Renarin happy."

"You know this isn't about that. You're a storming coward."

Kaladin turned to him. "What?"

"You can be happy. You were happy with Renarin. It scared you." Adolin stated it as if he were commenting on the stitching of Kaladin's boots.

"That's ridiculous."

"No, it's not. You close yourself off to other people so they can't hurt you, but you only end up hurting them," said Adolin. "And yourself, but that's a given."

"I don't want to hurt anyone. Especially not him."

All that Kaladin had done his whole life was hurt people. His parents, his brother, his friends. Even Syl. Had he learned nothing? They'd all gathered a month ago to tell him he was doing it, and he'd gone and done it again.

"You're doing it now, you storming fool!"

"I know I failed him. I should've never done anything to suggest –"

Adolin rolled his eyes. "You haven't failed anyone. At least not yet." He placed a hand on Kaladin's shoulder, forcing him to make eye contact. "Tell me honestly; what do you want?"

"I want…"

I want to swear the Fourth Ideal. I want to stop hurting all the time. I want to hold Renarin like I did when I was so sure that everything was going to be alright. He felt his skin tingling with the memory of that warmth.

"Why won't you allow yourself to have what you want, Kal?"

"I have a duty to protect him. If he gets close to me, and something happens…"

"This isn't about duty. We do lots of things for duty. If you must, think about it like a duty to yourself." Adolin let go of him. He dusted himself off and rose to his feet. "What is it you fools are always saying? Journey before destination?"

Kaladin nodded.

"Then quit being so focused on how everything's going to end before it even starts. You're afraid of hurting Renarin, or of getting hurt, but it's already happened. You didn't protect anybody; you just made yourself storming miserable. Renarin doesn't need you to protect him. Storms, it's hard to accept. He doesn't even need me, and I'm his brother."

"But aren't you –"

"Yes, but he doesn't need it. If my brother has been so foolish as to want your stupid face, then he should be given the right. Even if it ends up hurting him." Adolin helped Kaladin stand. "It does need to be said, of course, that I will knock your teeth out. Don't hurt my brother."

Kaladin snorted. "I wouldn't dream of it."

"Good." Adolin clapped him on the back. "Now go get him. And make sure you take him out somewhere nice. I'll find out if you didn't."

With one last half-menacing glare, Adolin left.

Kaladin turned the words over in his head. I accept that there will be those I cannot protect. The timing wasn't quite right, but he was getting closer each day. Maybe Renarin could help him get there.

Storms, but he'd been a fool. He leapt to his feet. If there was one things fools were good at, it was asking forgiveness for their mistakes.

"Syl, where did Renarin go?"

He'd already knocked three times on Renarin's chamber door before he heard anything.

"I don't want to talk right now, Adolin."

"It's me. I came to apologize."

Kaladin didn't look the part. His hair was a chaotic tangle where it had slipped from its tie as he flew, and his clothes were wrinkled and stained from sitting on the ground. He still hadn't found his jacket.

When Renarin opened the door, his eyes were rimmed red. His jacket was hanging from the back of a chair that Kaladin could see. "You don't have to apologize. I can't make you feel the same."

"That's not why. I came to tell you I'm sorry for being an ass."

Renarin regarded him with that same deadpan stare. "Apology accepted." He began to close the door.

Kaladin stopped it with his foot. "– And to tell you that I do. I feel the same. I want this."

"You don't have to lie just to make me feel better –"

"I'm not! Storms, Renarin, I've been going mad about you for the past month and a half. I can't storming sleep because of you! Ever since that night, I haven't been able to stop thinking about that hug," said Kaladin.

Renarin scoffed.

"Ridiculous, right? But you're all I can think about. Every time you touch me, it's like I'm going insane. It's a miracle the ardents haven't locked me in a box with the rest of the madmen yet. I want this, too. I want it so badly. And it storming terrifies me." He stepped forward to take Renarin's hand. "I've been every one of the Ten Fools, and probably the eleventh and the twelfth, too. But I don't want to keep going on like this. I want to give this a chance."

Renarin hadn't said anything, but he'd also loosened his grip on the door, so Kaladin kept talking. "Tonight, when I saw Drehy and Dru…it scared me. I didn't know if we could ever have that. I want to have that, though. And I want to do it right. I want to take you out to dinner tonight – somewhere nice, and we can talk about everything – and then, if you'll let me –"

"No," said Renarin.

A wretched chill settled over Kaladin's bones. He'd missed his chance. It was just like him to bungle all the good things in his life until everything was darkness and chasms and failures. "No?"

Renarin shook his head. "You can do that tomorrow," he said. He twined his loose fingers in Kaladin's hand. "Tonight, come over here and kiss me."

Kaladin did. He grabbed him by the collar of his shirt and crashed their lips together with such force that Renarin let out a startled oomph as his back hit the wall. It felt like every dream he'd ever had, but better. It was like the first time he'd ever flown above a highstorm, when he'd felt that charge of power coursing through every cell in his body and had known that nothing else mattered but that single moment. He'd committed to that moment. He'd made it count. He was making it count.

Kaladin slid one of his hands down to grasp Renarin's hip and felt as Renarin pulled him closer in return. It was clear that he'd never kissed anyone before, but he was a fast learner. Kaladin felt those warm fingers carding through his hair, trailing down his neck until they settled on his chest. His heart was pounding like a fiery ball under Renarin's hand. He deepened the kiss, inhaled sharply through his nose as he felt the tip of his tongue meet another. Renarin's grip tightened on the fabric of his shirt. Somewhere in the distance, he heard the clatter of a button hit the floor. He slid his other hand to Renarin's cheek before finally, traitorously, pulling away.

"I feel like you practiced that," said Renarin. His voice was hoarse. His cheeks were pink.

Kaladin cleared his throat. "I admit I've thought about it before. Hopefully it measured up?"

Renarin nodded. His face reddened even more. He whispered, "What else have you thought about?"

Kaladin glanced at Renarin's bedroom door. Tantalizing. Ajar. "I fear if I showed you without an official courtship, Adolin would make it so I no longer could."

Renarin snickered. "I look forward to that dinner, then."

"As do I."

The second kiss was softer, more subdued now that they'd come to an understanding. Kaladin was smiling against Renarin's lips when he pulled away. He rested his head against his shoulder, and a yawn escaped him.

"What time is it?" asked Renarin. "How long have you been awake for?"

"Longer than I care to admit."

The sight of Renarin's plush bed just beyond the threshold beckoned him.

"Would you…like to join me?" asked Renarin. "For sleeping, that is."

Kaladin mumbled his assent against his shoulder.

That was how, ten minutes later, he found himself lying on the most heavenly piece of furniture he'd ever had the pleasure of touching. Renarin had an arm draped across his chest, and Kaladin could feel himself drifting off with the rise and fall of his breaths.

"Tell me one thing," he said, between blinks that were far too long. "All this time, were you touching me on purpose?"

Renarin's laugh vibrated on his side. "Kal, when have you ever seen me touch somebody? I thought I was being rather obvious."

"I didn't think you had it in you."

"I'm full of surprises."

"Any more secret skills you want to tell me about?"

"I fear it may be improper without an official courtship."

Kaladin laughed and laughed and then began to wheeze, and by that point Renarin had started to rub soothing circles on his back that weighed him down further into the fluffy kingdom of the bed. He focused on the feeling, and soon the foggy nothing of much-needed sleep had carried him away.

As he woke the next morning, with the sun perched in the sky and shining right on his face, Kaladin knew that he was fine. He was as fine as he'd ever be.