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Lyn loved this song. It wasn’t the song she had always dreamed of dancing to with someone. But she decided that was a dream fulfilled anyway. She loved this song now. The one she had never heard before this.
The one she will never hear the same again.
She took Kal’s hand and threw a look towards the dance floor. People were assembling in pairs, joining hands. Some were dancing already for way too long.
Something unreadable passed across Kaladin’s features. For a moment, it almost looked pained. But then he looked at her and gave her a small smile and she decided she must have imagined it.
She liked this song because the dance stayed slow and meaningful. The first few steps were always hesitant and awkward, but they got their rhythm eventually.
Kaladin matched her steps perfectly, placed his hands on the right spots and spun her at the right moments, eliciting enthusiastic cheers from a drunk group of Bridge Four.
It was magical; the world spinning lazily, coming to rest in crystalline moments which she’d later remember in nonsensical placeholders: the low, dim light reflecting off someone’s hairpin, the smell of her own soft cologne contrasting with the scent of Kaladin near her, the taste of the warm, flavourful food still in her mouth, the rough but gentle quality of Kaladin’s hands in hers.
She smiled dizzily. She looked up at Kaladin’s face to smile dizzily at him.
The magic shuttered and stumbled upon itself for a moment. Kaladin looked back at her and there was just— a blankness on his face. Not disinterest. His movements were careful enough for her to know. She couldn’t describe the particular emotion that reflected in his unreadable, blue eyes.
His expression was marked by the absence of emotion—not the presence of one.
She recalled his withdrawn state the entire night. He hadn’t really done or said anything. He’d picked her up on time, wore a suit that Lyn suspected was a friend’s, he’d complimented her softly and walked her to the hall and talked and congratulated all the right people.
But something was just off with him. And it had been ever since Lyn had gotten close enough to notice. It always settled wrong with her. From doubt and guilt that it was something wrong with her to suspicion to confusion to just— a burden she couldn’t stop noticing.
Not yet. Not tonight.
She had to remind herself that tonight was supposed to be special. She was invited as an official member of the Windrunners to Skar and Ristina’s wedding. But more than that, she’d been invited as a friend. Both of these things meant equally as much to her.
“You don’t seem very happy,” Lyn noted, because they’d been dancing in silence for a while now. “I thought you cared about him.”
Genuine confusion marked her voice. Kaladin did care for his men. She’d thought it was the war that burdened him. That a night of a reminder of peace and love would dispel the. . . sadness he always carried quietly.
“I do. I am happy for him,” Kaladin assured. There was a note of hurt in his voice, but also— guilt?
She clicked her tongue and smiled at him amusedly. “Right. You look like the very definition of happiness right now,” she teased.
She knew he always carried a lot of work and responsibility on him, but she didn’t think she’d have to remind him to lay it off for a while. She didn’t mind though. She just wouldn’t mind if he’d actually listen to her.
Kaladin accidentally missed a step, throwing their harmony into a pause before she corrected him and lead the dance again. Kaladin looked down at his feet, hand tightening on her slightly.
“I’m not very good at this,” he said.
“It’s okay. You’re really better at this than you told me,” she said to ease his worry, smiling. But something told her he wasn’t really talking about the dance. She didn’t know what else he’d be talking about.
“I’m sorry. You deserve a better dance partner,” Kaladin said apologetically.
Lyn laughed, but his too earnest tone unsettled her really.
“It’s actually good to find out even you are bad at something,” she replied.
Kaladin’s eyes went unfocused for a split second before snapping onto her again. “I’m bad at a lot of things,” he said softly.
Lyn took a deep breath and released it as she stepped closer into him and then stepped back again as they both spun around each other slowly with only their hands connecting.
“Like what?”
Kaladin looked away and just shrugged slightly, not replying. And not for the first time since this evening—since getting into a relationship with him actually—she felt like he wasn’t fully with her. That she was talking to only a part of him, a performance. And the closer she thought she got to seeing the real thing inside, the farther away she’d actually be. It had made her wonder if the real thing was secretly something ugly, but that had never been the case. Now she knew he did it for a much worse purpose.
Simply because it was real. And she wasn’t allowed into it.
“I don’t know if. . . if you actually are happy, or if you really do care,” she said, throat tightening as they came close together again, his body enveloping hers almost protectively once before the dance took over again. “But maybe you can try to, at least, pretend. For one night. For people that care about you. Because you’re making everyone uncomfortable.” She grew uncertain as she said this, because she didn’t want the expectations in other people’s eyes to go dim, but she also didn’t want to hurt him. She just needed to say it in a way that wouldn’t hurt him.
Kaladin looked slightly surprised for just a fraction of a moment. He looked up, and around himself as if looking for the first time the people around him. He didn’t reply for a long moment and she wondered if she’d overstepped. That was always the problem with him. The exterior was always unreadable, even if she knew enough of him to understand the basics of him, she could never reach inside.
What was she doing here?
Kaladin stepped on her foot during a spin lightly but overcorrected and almost threw their dance into a stumble. But he regained their balance again and started anew.
“I’m trying,” was all he said, voice slightly rough.
“It’s just a misstep. You should have seen me when I was learning how to dance,” she reassured him gently.
Kaladin just closed his eyes and nodded. And that, of all things, was what sparked her anger.
Why stay quiet? Why keep her guessing? Why did he always stay at arm’s length? Why didn’t he just talk to her? What was wrong with her? Wasn’t she trying enough?
“I’d heard the stories, of you and your men in Bridge Four,” she said. “It always made me think of all that you did for your men. I thought you must love them a lot. One of them is getting married today. It’s the happiest day of his life,” she said, remembering the way the dazed smile on Skar’s face had wavered just a little when he’d caught sight of Kaladin. “Why can’t you just be happy for him?”
Kaladin fluttered his eyes shut and blinked a few times. “I am,” he said simply. He didn’t justify himself, didn’t get defensive. But he didn’t really sound convinced himself.
“You just come across as if you don’t care,” she bit out, and that was the crux of it all. She knew he cared. There was no doubt about it in her heart. So then why did it matter if he showed it or not?
The anger dissipated just as quickly, leaving guilt and worry in it’s wake. Because Kaladin hadn’t really done anything. He’d been gentle, and patient, and attentive, and surprisingly considerate with a genuineness that made her think he did things just because he cared about her and not because he found them romantic—which was endearing in it’s own manner. From the start, he had been nothing but the perfect partner. But that was the problem, he hadn’t even done anything.
He did all the things he was supposed to. But she didn’t think he really imagined their future together like she did. She didn’t think he didn’t love her. He loved a lot of people.
She just realised that he didn’t let her love him.
Which was. . . which wasn’t something that she could live with.
It wasn’t supposed to be tonight. Tonight was supposed to be magical.
She closed her eyes and released a shuddering exhale. She’d known this was coming. Maybe, from the start. She’d even started thinking about it, how she could do it to be as painless as possible. Because she knew this was going to cause him pain. She didn’t want to cause him pain. She cared about him. He was. . . he was just— good. He didn’t deserve pain.
The dance came to a close with a several dizzying spins. Kaladin held her hand above her head and her dress swirled beautifully.
“If nothing’s going to change between us. . . If nothing is going to change in you,” she said as she turned to him after the first spin and then turned round again, “maybe we should take some time away from each other until. . .” She inhaled deeply— “If one of us can. . . We should just step back for a while.”
She couldn’t finish what they actually needed to get closer again in the future. Because that was the thing she couldn’t wrap her mind around. She didn’t know why it wasn’t working out. It was perfect. They were perfect.
But there was always just, something, missing at all times.
Kaladin just looked at her a long moment, as if memorising her features. And for a moment she thought his eyes showed. . . grief like she was already gone. But he blinked a few times and gave her a small nod as she came to a rest in front of him, hands finally letting go, music fading slowly.
“Yeah, I think— Yes, you’re right,” he said, with no emotion in particular.
Lyn just stood there, not knowing what to feel. She didn’t know how she’d expected him to react. He didn’t sound sad—or sadder than usual—or even angry, or desperate or anything else.
She didn’t know if she’d hoped for him to fight for them.
The music faded to a moment of stillness before something else could pick up from there. They just stood there for a while, looking at each other. Two inches apart, but they might as well have been from separate worlds. Without words, she knew they were going to turn back and walk the opposite directions.
They did. She went to the drinks section, and didn’t know where he went because she made herself not turn back to look.
He walked her back to her room. That was the thing that almost made her laugh every time she thought about it—even though it wasn’t funny. It wasn’t funny at all.
They stayed for exactly as long as they needed to. Just before they were going to leave, Skar managed to get himself out of everyone’s busy company tonight and walked up to Kal with his arms extended, a shimmering red drink in one hand. Lyn gave them a moment, stepping back.
“Kal, won’t you stay just for a little while longer? I won’t keep you long into the afterparty,” he pleaded.
But she could see it was a last attempt. He’d already accepted the answer that Kal was going to give.
Kaladin put both his hands on Skar’s shoulders instead of replying.
“Enjoy the afterparty on my behalf,” he said and Skar’s face fell a little but he smiled and nodded at the floor, then looked up.
“I’m glad you came.”
“Of course I came,” Kaladin said, staring at a spot on Skar’s shoulder with a very focused frown.
“Skar,” he began.
Skar’s smile widened. “Are you going to do the emotional captain speech now?”
Kaladin huffed, but it didn’t reach his eyes. He nodded a few times to himself then looked up to meet Skar’s gaze.
“I was just going to tell you. . . that I am really happy for you. You’re one of my best men. You deserve this,” Kaladin said. Skar’s eyes grew glassy but he stayed smiling. Kaladin matched it slightly. “Thanks for listening to all my lunatic orders in the bridgecrews. You took your sweet time getting turned over. But I don’t regret a single second of it.”
“Hey, those lunatic orders are what brought me here. Have some respect for them,” Skar laughed, voice thick with emotion.
Then he pulled Kaladin close and held to him with a grip of a desperate man. Bridge Four cheered. Someone took the drink from Skar’s hand behind Kaladin’s back so he could hold onto Kal properly.
Kaladin let him, one hand on his back steadily. Kaladin let Skar hold onto him, like that same day so long ago back in the bridgecrews and then every day since in both the more metaphorical and literal sense. That was what Kaladin was here for.
“Thank you Kal,” Skar murmured thickly, freely crying as he pulled back and wiped his cheeks, smiling the widest smile anyone had seen on him the whole night.
Kaladin just nodded and squeezed his shoulder. And the beloved groom was pulled back into something shortly.
When Kaladin reached her room and stood outside the threshold, waiting for her to turn and say her final goodbyes, she almost wanted to take it all back. But she knew she couldn’t. She’d been scared of this; that she’d regret the loss later. But now the decision was already made.
“I wasn’t lying,” Kaladin said softly, which kept her from turning and closing the door. “When I said— I care about. . . my soldiers.” He gave her a significant look. “All of them.”
She nodded, received the message. That even if things were over, that wouldn’t stop him from caring about her on the field. That she’ll still stay the skilled fighter and soldier that she was in his eyes.
She hadn’t doubted it for a while now.
Kaladin closed the door behind him and released a long, tired breath, shoulders slumping. Exhaustion hit him with full force, and he hadn’t even done anything that merited it. His bones ached and his mind stayed the same, tireless empty void.
He sat down heavily on the edge of his bed and his fingers halfheartedly fiddled with a few buttons but ultimately he couldn’t even be bothered to take his uniform off, letting the hand drop.
He’d stayed for far longer than he’d thought he’d be able to, but had to leave when he found his performances falling flat the more time passed.
He couldn’t bring himself to dwell on what just happened with Lyn. A part of him regretted the loss, knew that he could have done something to prevent it. Another part knew this was inevitable, it was going to happen eventually, and now it was just a relief, a burden off his shoulders. One person he didn’t have to keep up the pretence of being normal with anymore.
The problem was that he knew he was broken. He knew he couldn’t be fixed and was beyond help. Pretending like that wasn’t the case with every person he talked to was becoming more and more difficult by the day.
And he was trying. He knew what he was supposed to feel. He was supposed to feel happy. He knew he was. He just couldn’t feel anything.
He just couldn’t stop seeing his men’s happiness and just imagine their dead, accusing faces that would surely taunt him in the future, for believing there was an end to this where their happiness could stay forever. He didn’t blame them for choosing to stay happy for as long as they could—that was what he’d worked for. But couldn’t they see how futile it was?
And he was trying. Couldn’t they see how hard he was trying? He was drowning every day in his own efforts at pushing away the wretch. Hot tears stung his eyes and he furiously wiped his eyes. But they fell anyway. Why was he so useless? Why couldn’t he just act like a normal person?
What kind of a man couldn’t even be happy at his own friends’ marriage? He’d said all the right things, made all the right expressions, laughed and smiled at the right times when it was needed, but deep down he knew the imposter that he was. And the guilt was crushing.
Lyn had figured him out so quickly. He always knew letting her close was a mistake, she was so smart and apt. He really would have liked her if he wasn’t so broken. She’d just left him because he couldn’t love her properly, and he deserved it. How long until everyone else figured it out too?
Kaladin pressed a hand to his chest, just to ground himself. In this room, in these dark walls, all alone while every one else celebrated a well deserved happiness he wasn’t worthy to be a part of, Kaladin could sit here and see himself for what he really was. There was just a void where his heart should have been.
Maybe there was no Kaladin. Maybe he’d always been a wretch. And the part of him that was Kaladin was just trying very, very hard to push against that reality.
He just sat there, staring at his wall, avoiding Syl’s worried gaze, mind a blank and heart a void, letting his tears run dry over his cheeks and prepared himself for the next day of pretending—and the next, and the next—until either he gave up or everyone gave up on him.
And he knew that when the door knocked and he got up to find Adolin Kholin—smiling, always smiling, hair an artful mess and a dazzling blush on his cheeks—standing outside his room, that keeping up the pretence was going to become so much harder than with anyone else.
Because Adolin saw all the things that no one else could. Yet he always came back.
Storm the man.
Kaladin was going through his second orange glass when Adolin’s warm, easy laugh drifted in his ears. Adolin’s laugh first, then everyone else followed like they couldn’t help but be drawn in his current.
Kaladin kept turned away. Adolin had let him sulk slightly as he engaged with another group of people he’d somehow managed to rope into conversation.
He took another sip. Drinking was dangerous in his current state. But he’d already offended enough people by not participating in the festivities properly—so he drank, but he still stayed cautious.
Adolin came over him like a sweep of wind and flopped down heavily on the bench beside him, resting his elbow backwards on the table with a grin towards the people. He turned towards Kaladin with the same expression—as if he couldn’t help but find him first whenever something made him smile.
Kaladin tried to match it. He really did.
Adolin’s coat was embroidered golden at the shoulders and cuffs and it glittered in the dim light of the bar, his hair were even more messy than before but they somehow looked even better, his eyes were crinkled with laughter hanging just at the edges and a pink flush adorned his cheeks from the alcohol.
All things considered, Kaladin’s smile should have been real and convincing.
Adolin drew his lips together and squinted, then leaned in really close while he stared at Kal, who leaned back a little in surprise.
“You’re not having any fun,” he announced, like he was just finding out.
Kaladin’s stomach dropped. He really thought he’d been doing a good job of holding it together.
“What are you talking about? This is fun,” Kaladin said, raising a glass and turning away uncomfortably, but that just gave him a view of all the drunken patrons of the bar celebrating—showing him what actual fun was supposed to look like.
Storms, Adolin wasn’t actually expecting him to have fun, was he?
Adolin leaned back, and a small frown appeared between his brows, like he was greatly considering something.
“You’re not having a good time,” he said. It wasn’t a question. Then before Kaladin could respond, he grabbed Kaladin’s wrist gently and stood up. “Come on, why stay somewhere we’re not going to have fun in?”
Kaladin stood up without protest—somewhat in surprise—and Adolin swiftly led them through the thick, nauseating cluster of people. Several of them called after him and groaned in protest when Adolin announced his leave, but Adolin just laughed and smiled and consoled people just by that alone.
“You didn’t have to do that,” Kaladin said, frowning as they left the clamour and stepped out into the quieter parts. “You were clearly having fun.” He tried not to sound bitter about that.
Adolin smiled and let him go but kept walking. “Having fun is a two person job,” he simply replied.
That soured Kaladin’s stomach further but he kept walking blindly beside Adolin. And the rest of the walk passed by him without his notice, mind elsewhere already.
Adolin stopped at an intersection in the hallway and turned to him. “You want to go to your room or mine?”
At first, Kaladin automatically, almost, said his own room. Because that was where he thought they were going. Or—not really. He hadn’t thought about where they were going at all. He’d just left that on Adolin. And he thought choosing his own room meant going their separate ways, which was what he’d assumed they were going to do in the first place.
He hesitated. “You choose.”
Adolin chewed his lip and tilted his head in actual thought. “Okay, I’ve decided my rooms. I think they’re nicer. The only nice part about your room is that you live there.”
He took Kaladin’s hand and began walking down a hall again. Kaladin felt a weight lifting he didn’t know had been pressing on him. Storms, he hadn’t realised that he didn’t want to go to his own room yet.
Normally, he’d be loathe to be kept up, would want to shut himself in and stay alone. And he did. Which was part of the reason why he couldn’t go back.
Even if the pretence was difficult, Kaladin couldn’t go back to being himself—which was nothing.
Adolin shook off his coat with a satisfied sigh and hung it in his wardrobe carefully, before stepping out into his room again to find Kaladin standing in the middle with his hands clenched and a jaw set, glaring at the floor like it owed him something. It wasn’t an expression Adolin liked, but storms, was it much better than that empty look that had taken over his eyes before. Adolin had thought Skar’s wedding would cheer him up slightly. But whatever it was, it had only managed to make his mood worse.
“So what now? Aren’t you going to sleep?” Kaladin asked, head snapping up even though Adolin hadn’t made a sound.
“And waste a perfectly good night? Are you kidding?” Adolin said as he flopped down on a plush chair in front of his tea table, patting the seat beside him invitingly.
“Why did you leave the bar so suddenly then?” Kaladin asked instead.
“I brought you with me to have a good time together, and you weren’t in on it, clearly,” Adolin replied simply.
“That’s not your problem,” Kaladin grumbled, turning to frown at empty air. “It wasn’t the bar’s fault. I’m going to have a bad time everywhere.” He crossed his arms, then looked like he’d said too much and was regretting it.
“That’s why I brought us here,” Adolin said.
“That’s why you brought us here,” Kaladin repeated, staring at him, looking like he was not quite getting it.
“So we could have a bad time together.” Adolin smiled at him.
A series of emotions passed across Kaladin’s face. He stared at Adolin with something close to surprise, then frowned in confusion, and then turned his head to look away in a mix of touched and uncomfortable.
He silently took the seat beside Adolin, shoulders touching barely. Adolin tried to ignore the warmth that spread in his body from that singular point of contact, and then their knees brushed together.
“Want something to drink?” He dragged a jug and a glass from the table closer and began pouring himself an orange, though he missed the yellow he’d been having at the bar. Orange was practically non alcoholic.
He saw Kaladin about to respond immediately but then hesitate. “No,” he said stiffly.
“Okay.” Adolin shrugged. “Want water?”
Kaladin blinked. “No,” he said, this time more easily. “But thanks.”
“So, want to tell me why you want to have a bad time?” Kaladin asked, leaning an elbow on the table tiredly.
Adolin snorted. “I don’t want to have a bad time.”
Kaladin looked away. “Of course. Nobody wants to,” he said softly.
“I want to have your bad time,” Adolin completed.
Kaladin frowned and glanced back at him. But Adolin didn’t clarify. He leaned towards him instead, turning slightly to face him.
“Want to tell me why you’re having a bad time?” he asked in return.
“No reason,” Kaladin said, almost in a sigh.
“Kal—“
“No, literally,” Kaladin cut in, looking irritated. “There is no reason.”
“Okay,” Adolin said slowly, thinking. “I get like that sometimes too. Everyone has bad days.”
“No,” Kaladin said again, this time almost a whisper, like he was afraid to be heard. “I’m always having a bad time. I guess I’m just—“ he shrugged, but it looked defeated “—like this.”
“That’s not true. I’ve seen you having a good time before,” Adolin interjected.
Kaladin gave him a skeptical stare that looked like it would have been a proper glare if he didn’t look so tired.
“No, really,” Adolin insisted. “When you have a spear in your hand, for one. When you’re flying. When you’re having stew with your men or listening to them talk, when you’re verbally sparring with Shallan, when you’re explaining surgery techniques, when you’re curious about my folios.”
Kaladin’s expression became more and more clear like something was dawning on him as Adolin talked, like he’d forgotten all the things he usually had fun engaging in. But it also became slightly mortified at the end there, and Adolin wondered if it was because he’d said too much, growing embarrassed himself.
But storms, he wasn’t embarrassed to admit he liked noting all the things Kaladin liked—or disliked—or just anything that involved Kaladin at all.
“Huh,” Kaladin said slowly.
“It’s just more rare for you than it is for others, but I think it makes those moments more special. You’re not doing any of those things right now, so maybe that’s why you’re not having a good time.”
Kaladin shook his head slowly, sighing this time. “I don’t want to do any of those things. I don’t know, I don’t want to do anything.” Kaladin shrugged again, like he was trying to pass this as less heartbreaking than it was. “I’m fine, I’m just tired. I know I should be happy, it’s Skar’s wedding. I never imagined I’d be able to keep them alive long enough to see that day.” A single anguishspren sprouted with it’s upside down face near Kaladin, like he was upset at himself for not feeling happy. “I’m usually only like this on Weepings. I don’t know why I can’t just—“
A guiltspren replaced the anguishspren as Kaladin cut himself off. Adolin gaped, because guiltspren were rather a rare sight. They were only attracted to strong emotions. His eyes snapped back to Kaladin with a new understanding that twisted a blade in his heart.
Kaladin pursed his lips as he caught his expression. “I shouldn’t have said anything. I’m sorr—“
“No,” Adolin cut in. “Thank you, for telling me.”
And he was grateful. This felt precious, like a gift, or maybe a responsibility. No, it was more like— more like opening a door for him that usually always stayed firmly shut, letting him take a glance inside. It felt like trust. That was the word. Trust, that he wouldn’t turn away from what he found on the other side of the door.
And Almighty forsake him, what he saw just made him want to take a step inside and keep the door open as much as he could. But he couldn’t do anything about what the door was there for to hide. It killed him to accept it. Adolin always wanted to look for solutions to help people. He didn’t like letting them stay with their problems. But trying to fix this problem would only make it worse, he suspected.
So he’d just hold the trust like the precious, soft thing that it was and try to cradle it in his hands.
“Skar knows you care about him. All your men know you love them. They wouldn’t mind if you left a bit early from a party or something. They already know you’re not big on that stuff,” Adolin said easily, trying to reassure him. And he meant it. Kaladin always felt guilty about things that weren’t his fault.
“Do they?” Kaladin asked, turning away slightly.
Adolin frowned. “What do you mean?”
Kaladin shook his head. “Nothing. Nevermind. Just— thank you, Adolin, for saying that.”
Adolin paused, but wasn’t convinced. He touched Kaladin’s shoulder, hoping to get him to at least look at Adolin again.
“Talk to me, Kal,” he said. Then suddenly had the odd feeling that these exact words had been said to him once before.
When he did get Kal to turn to him, Adolin knew Kaladin wasn’t convinced, but he also knew pushing wouldn’t help.
Adolin didn’t take his hand off of Kaladin’s shoulder, and thought that he almost found them both leaning closer, but surely he was imagining that? Adolin dared to let his fingers drift closer towards Kaladin’s jaw. Kaladin’s eyes tracked his every movement, but made no attempt to freeze or lean away.
Feeling emboldened, Adolin leaned closer. “You don’t love quietly, Kal,” he whispered. “You think no one sees it.”
Kaladin’s eyes flickered from Adolin’s hand to his eyes, then dropped down to his lips.
“Do you?” he said, so quietly Adolin almost missed it. “Do you see it?”
Adolin shuddered. “I see you.”
And closed the distance between them. He wrapped an arm around his shoulder, hand spasming on Kaladin’s cheek. He almost gasped at the rush of feeling that exploded in his body at just the touch of those lips. Kaladin kissed like a drowning man and Adolin was his last breath. Adolin was just happy to give him whatever he could. Their lips moved together in tandem, perfect harmony, like they belonged together. The real thing was so, so much better than his imagination. And he’d imagined it enough times over for him to go insane about it.
Kaladin leaned back and let out a long, shaky sigh, not getting out of Adolin’s space.
Kaladin’s lips tingled, heart soaring, pulse rapid. But he didn’t feel like falling, he felt like flying. Kissing Adolin felt like flying.
“I’ve been wanting to do that for a while now,” Adolin said, sounding dazed.
Kaladin almost smiled. “I know,” he said. Or at least, now he did. He hadn’t been sure before.
Adolin raised a questioning brow.
“We almost did this once before,” Kaladin whispered, foreheads touching.
“What?” Adolin asked, leaning back to look at him better with confusion painting his face.
“A few months ago. When you were drunk,” Kaladin said, hoping to jog his memory.
Adolin kept giving him a blank look. Storms, had Kaladin imagined that? But no, the phantom warmth of Adolin’s lips on his palm had stayed with him for hours afterwards. It had tortured him enough that he knew it was real.
Slowly, recognition dawned on Adolin’s face as he thought. “That was real?” he asked, voice high, breaking at the end.
A flush appeared on his cheeks, and he looked both mortified and dazed. Kaladin felt himself almost smiling, and even though the expression wasn’t fully there, Adolin caught it and the flush deepened.
“You don’t remember?” Kaladin asked, finding himself actually chuckling at Adolin’s expression.
“Oh, I remember it,” Adolin said, huffing as he looked away. “I just thought I. . .”
“Imagined it?” Kaladin asked. “Why did you think— why would you imagine something like that?”
Adolin closed his eyes and leaned his face into a hand, face entirely red now. He turned slightly towards Kaladin to give him a look, face still half hidden in his hand.
“Oh,” Kaladin said, throat going dry. He gaped at Adolin. “You— really?” It was his voice that cracked now.
“Yes,” Adolin said.
“I just thought it was a, spur of the moment, drunk impulse,” Kaladin said, genuinely off guard.
“Kaladin,” Adolin’s voice sounded pained now, “why would you think that?”
“How long?” Kaladin asked instead.
“A while.” Adolin hid his face under the rim of a glass but didn’t take a full sip.
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Why didn’t you tell me I tried a failed attempt at kissing you?” Adolin asked, sounding slightly squeaky, which wasn’t something Kaladin would have ever imagined from him.
“I just thought. . .” Kaladin frowned, trailing off. “I thought you’d regret it in the morning, if I let you.”
Adolin turned to him with wide eyes then. “I wouldn’t have,” he said firmly, intensely. “Never.”
“Yeah, I see that now,” Kaladin said, chuckling slightly as he touched his lips in a daze.
“I’d like to do it again, actually,” Adolin said, almost shyly, which was—again—so unexpected from him. “If you do.”
“I do,” Kaladin said, and leaned forward again.
Their lips pressed together, but they didn’t hasten to deepen it immediately like before, knowing they had time. Kaladin just explored the feeling of Adolin’s lips against his own. They were so soft, so warm. Kaladin darted out a tongue to lick Adolin’s bottom lip and Adolin made a sound and pressed closer again, taking his tongue in his lips too in the process. Kaladin used the opportunity to taste him from the inside.
When they leaned back again to breathe, inches apart, Adolin’s arms on his shoulders, Kaladin asked:
“What about Shallan?”
Adolin pulled back slightly to give him a baffled look. “We broke up the moment we called off the betrothal. You know that,” he said.
“Yes but,” Kaladin glanced away, “you didn’t even try to court anyone again. I thought you wanted to get back together.”
“Because I wanted to court my best friend,” Adolin said simply. Kaladin’s mouth went dry at the casual use of “court”, like this was an actual thing they were doing. Like Adolin wanted to pursue him. Even though that was exactly what Kaladin had meant to happen when he’d kissed him.
“That’s why Shallan called it off. She saw it before I did.”
Adolin chased his eyes until Kaladin looked at him and nodded. “What about Lyn?” he asked in return.
A pang of loss. But not the crushing despair he was expecting to accompany with it.
“Oh no,” Adolin said anyway, most likely reading his expression. “When?”
“This evening,” Kaladin said.
“Storms,” Adolin cursed. “No wonder you were in a bad mood.”
“No, she called it off because of my bad mood.” Kaladin winced. “Rather, bad moods. Plural. Consistent, frequent bad moods.”
He looked at Adolin like he was expecting him to be scared or angry at him for that. Adolin didn’t feel any of those things, but he did feel sad, for Lyn. He didn’t understand why that made her leave.
“Is it. . . Are you in a bad mood right now?”
Kaladin’s lips quirked up slightly in a small, rueful smile. “No.”
“So they’re not consistent.”
Kaladin made a dismissive noise. Then looked at him again intensely. “You know why Lyn called it off,” he said, like he was expecting Adolin to call it off too because of that.
“I’m not Lyn,” he said simply, unconvinced.
“It was because, I couldn’t give her what she needed,” Kaladin insisted.
“I don’t need anything more than you want to give, Kal.”
“And what if I have nothing left to give?” Kaladin asked softly, voice haunted.
“You have yourself,” Adolin replied, just as softly. “That’s more than enough for me.”
Instead of replying, Kaladin reached forward and placed a hand on the side of Adolin’s face, fingers threading through the hair on the back of his head. Adolin’s breath stuttered and he leaned into it instead of freezing or pushing away.
Kaladin rubbed his thumb over the corner of Adolin’s sculpted brow, watching black hair shine through golden as they rose slightly with his thumb and then settled again once he smoothed them over. He looked back into Adolin’s deep blue eyes, watching Kaladin back with his full attention before they fluttered shut, and Adolin turned his face into Kaladin’s palm, breathing him in, then opened his eyes again to look at him from the side.
Kaladin’s heart was galloping in his chest. A wave of guilt tried to rise, of shame and caution and anxiety, but Adolin deliberately pressed his lips to Kaladin’s palm as he kept watching him, and of those emotions fled Kaladin as he remembered those same lips on his hand so long ago that one night, when he’d stopped himself from feeling them against his own. A blossom of warmth spread through his tired bones as he imagined letting himself go this time.
None of the reasons he’d stopped himself last time were present. They were both under the influence, yes, but not incapacitated, not even drunk completely.
Kaladin remembered Lyn’s words.
“If nothing’s going to change in you. . .” “We should step back from each other.” “It looks like you don’t care.”
He closed his eyes, shuddering. He couldn’t do this after all. He couldn’t be so selfish. Adolin didn’t deserve it.
Adolin laid a gentle hand on his wrist, making him open his eyes again as Adolin’s thumb brushed Kal’s pulse point. He was watching him again, with those too open eyes that saw him too much. Yet, he was still here.
“Why?” Kaladin asked, “why wait for me?”
“Because I—“
Kaladin suddenly knew he couldn’t hear the answer. He shifted his hand from the side of Adolin’s face to his mouth once again, stopping him. Adolin didn’t try taking it off, but he looked at Kaladin.
“Dont,” Kaladin said softly. “Not yet. Not tonight.”
Adolin watched him for a moment, then gave him a tiny nod. Kaladin couldn’t bear the warmth of his breath on his palm anymore and took his hand off to lean in and kiss him again. Adolin met him halfway again, and this time it was more gentle.
Adolin tangled his hands gently in Kaladin’s hair on both sides, exhaling a shuddering breath.
“I don’t want the memory of this. . . of us, to be. . .”
Tainted, was the word Kaladin could think of, but he knew Adolin wouldn’t like it. He didn’t want their beginning to be marked by a night of Kaladin’s hollowness.
“Okay,” Adolin whispered simply. “It’s okay. I’ll wait however long I need to.”
Kaladin squeezed his eyes shut, throat tightening in gratitude and love and guilt.
“Sometimes I feel like I don’t deserve you,” Kaladin confessed.
He didn’t say that he felt like he didn’t deserve anything good in this world anymore. And Adolin represented all the good that was left in his life sometimes.
“That’s not true,” Adolin replied simply, without thought. His belief was so firm that he didn’t even need to sound defensive or hurt like Kaladin was expecting him to feel.
“Maybe. It just doesn’t feel that way. Sometimes it’s. . .” Kaladin hesitated.
He’d never talked about this openly before. He never talked about the darkness. People noticed it on their own and created distance themselves. But not Adolin. Adolin always kept running back in as if it only drew him closer.
“It’s difficult,” Kaladin finished. “It’s difficult to parse right through wrong sometimes.”
“That’s okay. I can remind you, when I can.”
“When you can,” Kaladin echoed sadly, knowing it wouldn’t be often.
Adolin watched him with a pang of something deep and aching in his chest. Kaladin was so good, so kind. It hurt to see him hurt like this, convinced that he was worthy of far, far less than what he actually deserved.
“I’m sorry. I wish I knew how to help you,” Adolin said. And he didn’t mean it in a sympathetic way; he genuinely was sorry that he didn’t know how to help. He knew there must be a way. He just didn’t know how.
“You do, actually,” Kaladin said. Then looked like he hadn’t meant to say that. The alcohol was starting to work a little, it seemed.
“I do?” Adolin asked, genuinely. “How so?” Because if he was doing something right, he wanted to know what it was so he could do it more.
Kaladin shrugged. “You. . . you make me feel like a person,” he said. Which wasn’t really an answer and felt far more important than one.
Adolin held this response and tried to process it. The more he did, the more he realised the worth of it’s preciousness because of it’s honesty. He scrunched his brows as a confused smile appeared on his lips.
“You are a person,” he said.
Kaladin looked at him sidelong with a barely-there quirk of his lips. Which was the closest to a first real smile Adolin had gotten from him all day, even if it looked tired and amused. He had a feeling the ones he’d given to his men hadn’t really been there.
“Sometimes,” Kal replied.
“Okay, then, you don’t have to be a person all the times,” Adolin said, shrugging. “It’s bound to get tiring.”
“What do I be when I’m not a person?”
“I don’t know. But you can stay close to me. We can be not-persons together.”
“See? Just like that,” Kaladin said, pointing at him.
“What?” Adolin asked, confused.
Kaladin shook his head, shrugging slightly. “I don’t know. I don’t know how you do it,” he said.
Adolin had a feeling that whatever it was, the fact alone that Kaladin was sharing this with him meant Adolin was doing something right. A fierce protectiveness rose in him for the man sitting across as he felt immense gratitude and honour for being the one who got to make Kaladin feel safe. He laid a hand on Kaladin’s on the table, brushing his calloused knuckles. Kal’s hand was cold, so Adolin enveloped it to warm it.
Kaladin tilted his face slightly and rose up to meet Adolin’s lips again and Adolin exhaled in an almost sigh into it. Storms, he’d wanted this so badly with Kaladin. This was what everyone meant when they wanted him to settle down. Adolin had waited—afraid to act on his feelings, afraid that they were just a spark just like every other woman in camp which would fade the moment he started spending time with them—so he’d waited just at the edge of friendship, content to have Kaladin in whatever way he could have.
But ever since they’d met and until forever Adolin presumed, he never stopped looking for the other man in a room, never stopped thinking of him over random, unrelated things in the day, never stopped wanting to make him smile, make him laugh, make him happy, and let him be sad in peace and safety when he needed to be. No matter how friendly he forced himself to be, the urge to just want the other man close in his life never left. It went so much deeper than physical affection that he knew it had already become a part of him.
Kaladin had become a part of him.
I love you, the words spilled so easily in his mind, they stuck to the tip of his tongue, urging him to let them go so they could soar just as high as his heart was currently doing so. But he couldn’t. Not until Kaladin let him.
“I don’t need you to give me anything more than you want to, Kal. I’m just happy to stay with you in whatever way you want. I want you, not what you can give me,” he said.
Kaladin gave him a sad look.
I’m in love with you.
He didn’t have to say the words to feel them. That was where Kaladin was mistaken. He thought he could keep Adolin from loving him but what Kaladin didn’t know that Adolin had been loving him quietly for a long, long while now, from a distance, right next to him. Adolin had no qualms waiting some time more. The fact that Kaladin was here at all—not just in the room but just, in this world with him—meant he was willing to give Adolin that time, that chance.
That was enough for Adolin.
Kaladin leaned back to take in a breath, lips flushed and Adolin was sure he was just as breathless. He’d lost himself there.
“I want you to know. . .” Kaladin began, voice rough as he touched his forehead to Adolin’ again. “I want you to know that you’re… not… Lyn’s replacement. I’m not looking for consolation or a distraction.”
“I know,” Adolin breathed out.
Kaladin looked up at him then, eyes soft and shy and a deep, deep brown. His expression as open and vulnerable as Adolin had seen the whole night. He placed a hand on Adolin’s cheek again, like he needed the contact to remind himself this was real. His eyes sharpened then, became intense with an emotion that sent a shiver through Adolin.
“I love you,” he said.
Adolin stared, and almost laughed. “That’s really hypocritical of you, you know that?”
Kaladin huffed, looking away and nodding slightly.
“That’s okay. I suppose even you should get to be selfish sometimes,” Adolin whispered, leaning in and kissing Kaladin’s temple. “I wasn’t lying when I said I’d wait.”
“I love you,” Kaladin repeated. “I love you, I love you, I love you. I’ll say it better someday. You deserve it better. I have— so much to say.” Kaladin gestured with his fingers towards his chest with an outward motion. “I just don’t know how to. . . I just can’t, for some reason. Maybe that’s why Lyn actually left.” He laughed softly, wetly. Then looked back at Adolin. “I- I feel so much, Adolin, that sometimes— sometimes it hurts, so I stop feeling entirely. But I don’t want to stop feeling this, no matter how much it hurts.”
Adolin breathed shakily, feeling on the verge of tears himself. Kaladin said he couldn’t say much was really just a lie when he already said so much so meaningfully. Adolin laid his own hand on Kaladin’s face, thumb brushing his lip slightly, mouth dry from the impact of the confession Kaladin had entrusted him with.
“Someday I’m going to say it back,” Adolin said as he placed his other hand too, taking Kal’s face between his hands. “And you’re going to let me.”
Kaladin gave him a small nod. Only then did Adolin let him go.
“Want to talk about Lyn?” Adolin asked.
Kaladin smiled bemusedly at him.
“What?”
“You’re the only person who’d offer to talk about my ex on the day we get together,” Kaladin said. “You’re not jealous at all?”
“I was,” Adolin admitted truthfully.
Kaladin blinked. Like he hadn’t expected his teasings to actually be true.
“But I couldn’t really say anything, since I pushed you into that relationship. I thought you didn’t want me so I. . . I thought that was what you needed. I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have put that on you.”
Kaladin shook his head slightly. “I made that decision myself. I wouldn’t have if I didn’t want to,” he said, “and I did like Lyn. She’s very nice. She’s just not you.”
Adolin’s heart skipped a beat as his breath hitched in response. Storms, but Kaladin’s tendency to just say things like that was going to be the end of him someday.
“Over why she left. . .” Kaladin shrugged. “She said that— I have to change, and she’s right to some extent but—“
“You don’t,” Adolin said, taking his face again and shaking his own head softly with a frown. “Maybe if you want to be with her, then yes, maybe she needs something else. But not with me.”
Kaladin just kept looking at him, eyes darting over his face as if memorising him, drinking in his presence. And Adolin realised he was doing the same. He didn’t care about anything else at the moment, about the war, the world, the grand scheme of things. Roshar could end right this instant and Adolin wouldn’t regret it for having this man close to him was enough for a lifetime fully lived.
“What did you mean? When you said. . . When I said your men know you care about them?”
Kaladin looked away, shrugging.
“Kaladin,” Adolin said softly, making him look back at him.
Kaladin took a deep breath slowly. “It’s just what she said too. . . I know she’s right, of course. I’ve known for a while now.”
Adolin watched him as Kaladin crossed his arms on the table and leaned over, resting the side of his face on them. Adolin leaned over him until he was flopped over Kal’s back, cheek resting against his shoulder blade, one hand dangling over, staring at him sidelong.
“She said. . .” Kaladin started, eyes focused on a distant point somewhere on the far wall of Adolin’s room. “She said I come across as someone who doesn’t care.”
Kaladin’s eyes welled up, but he blinked the tears back and pushed them deep somewhere within himself.
“I care,” he whispered.
Adolin released a slow, heavy breath through his mouth, turning his face to press it against Kal’s neck, heart breaking anew. His hand clenched on Kaladin’s shoulder and he squeezed his eyes shut.
“I know,” he muttered. “Oh, Kal, I know. Trust me. I know you care. It’s one of the many things I love most about you.”
It was a close thing to say and get away with. He hoped it would go by unnoticed.
Kaladin nodded slowly, absently. Then got up from the table.
“Suppose you don’t need my help getting you to bed this time?” he asked softly, smiling.
Adolin’s heart clenched at his indication to leave. He’d hoped. . . He hadn’t hoped for anything more. Just that they could have more time.
“Suppose you don’t need me to return the favour?” Adolin asked back.
“I’m not that drunk,” Kaladin said.
“Let me walk you back anyway.” Adolin stood up and wore a coat. He was surprised Kaladin actually waited for him. He’d expected a denial, so he was excited for the permission.
They walked back mostly in silence, but sometimes their hands would brush together, and Adolin would tangle their pinkies together, or bump Kaladin’s shoulder lightly and Kaladin would always give him that small, private smile he reserved for only him. Adolin’s smile in return would always be far bigger, but no less meaningful.
At the door, Kaladin turned to him once more. “Thanks for not letting me spiral all on my own.”
Anytime, was what Adolin opened his mouth to say.
But Kaladin frowned. “I don’t expect you to do this often for me,” he said. “But thank you.”
Adolin pursed his lips and nodded. They pressed their lips together again, just breathing in each other for a while. He saw Kal turn towards his own room in consideration for a fraction of a moment, felt his hands get possessive instead of caressing as he paused, drifted lower. But Adolin forced himself not to chase it as Kaladin decided against it and stepped back. Storm his body and the way it lit on fire on Kal’s touch, but he wasn’t going to do anything that they both didn’t want at the same time.
On a better day maybe. When the shadows didn’t chase Kaladin as strongly.
He squeezed Kal’s hand one last time and let go as he turned and clicked the door shut behind him softly.
Adolin stood there for a long moment, then raised his hand to press against the rough, cold wood of his door.
“I love you,” he whispered, heart bleeding out warmth and affection to a barrier instead of the kind, endless eyes of Kaladin.
One day.
Adolin was going to wait until the barrier wasn’t between them anymore.