Nicholas slept for fourteen hours. He came to feeling as if he'd been knocked out - like, blunt force trauma to the head - but in a nice way. The way waking up from a coma always looked in those old, medically inaccurate feel-good movies.

He was hungry like he hadn't been in weeks. Lucky for him, it was so late in the day that breakfast and lunch had already been left just inside his door. He ate on his bed and watched seabirds skim the surface of Lake Charlatan far below. It wasn't until he'd cleaned every dish that his head snapped up.

His door?

Still there.

The king was surprisingly soft.

Nicholas tested the handle. Unlocked. He didn't go any further for a while.

For a few minutes, he stood at the stairs to the archive and contemplated disobeying Rayan's order. There was no way of knowing how much time they had left. In Nicholas' original story, the version he'd shared with Cici, there was only about a week between Adrian's intrusion on al-Narin and Rayan's death. A week had long since come and gone; there was no such timeline in the journal. Nicholas was trying to outrun a climax he couldn't see coming. He could only assume, based on his own illustrations, that the turning point would happen before summer's end.

It was nearly September. Rayan didn't have time to waste.

And Nicholas needed to go home. He wasn't quite sure when one had become more important than the other.

He glanced back at his bed. The sun always caught his window more directly on its way down. It still sat high, but the early-evening rays had begun to shed over his sheets.

All that fuss he'd made about getting a window, just to spend days at a time holed up downstairs.

Nicholas stripped off his shirt and stretched out on the bed. The light was warm over his back.

His dinner came, and he ate that, too, watching the sun set over the cliffs.

He rose and stretched. Arms high above his head until his back gave a satisfying pop, then dangling low to touch his toes. He put on his only other shirt, identical to the last. The door was still unlocked when he tested it again. He went downstairs to take one of the torches from the archive wall.

For the next several minutes, he moved hesitantly, braced for repercussions at several key checkpoints. But there was no shurta posted outside of the door, or in the main chamber of the library, or on either side of the library entrance. Nobody told him to turn around as he stepped out onto the first floor. Nobody asked him where he was going. The bouncing flame inside the torch cast deceptive shadows, but he was alone.

Nicholas didn't try for an exit. He wasn't stupid enough to think that would work, or shortsighted enough to want to.

And, anyway. It would be a waste not to explore his own castle.

Several doors were locked, but several weren't. He found a room for storage and a room for games, and more sitting rooms than seemed necessary. He found the public bath from his one-night stint as a courtesan and turned right back around.

Everything was beautiful, of course, because it had to be, but Nicholas thought he preferred the warm tones in Rayan's room; beautiful because they had been chosen.

He did love the courtyard, though. He had drawn it to be imposing, with its many asymmetrical pillars and its black marble floor and its view, if one looked straight up, of the castle's jagged roof. Now that he was there, it felt protective more than anything. The floor was just as reflective as the narrow, shallow pool that crossed its center. Nicholas sat on the pool's stone edge for some time.

There was a shurta at every entrance. He recognized the man outside the door he'd come through, so he was sure the man recognized him, but Nicholas hadn't been spared more than a flick of his gaze. Still, he got the impression he was not as ignored as it seemed.

He took a different door on the way back in and caught the smell of food. He was starting to run the risk of getting himself lost. He followed the smell regardless.

Nicholas decided he liked the kitchen nearly as much as the courtyard. He liked the wide open space and the wooden table at its center. He liked the massive hearth carved into the wall and the copper pots and pans hung around it. He liked the scuff-marks on the stone slab floors and the smoky smell of cooking.

He liked that there were windows that let in the moonlight, but also torches in every corner. He hung his own in an empty sconce. The shadows in here were funny, catching the curves of dangling spoons and bumpy gourds.

Nicholas sniffed the spices lining the countertops. There were long-keeping vegetables, dried meats, and grains on the shelves. On the table were perishables and scraps, some sliced and forgotten - leftover from dinner, Nicholas guessed. He took stock of what was available and got a terrible idea.

He snooped around the hearth. There was a coal bucket filled with tinder and satchels of kindling. And there were matches.

Nicholas had read his fair share of historical fiction. He'd done plenty of research when he was writing this story.

He could figure out a little fire, right?

One hour, several bruises, and a few finger burns later, the answer was a qualified 'yes.'

His arms were sore from pumping water from the sink. It had taken him ten minutes just to wash some scrap veggies and fill a pot with water.

The fire, now that it was burning, felt like a conquest, even if his body felt distinctly conquered. He stared it down with his hands on his hips, daring it to try him again. His gloating was short-lived; the heat started to sting his eyes. He covered the pot to let the chopped vegetables simmer in salt and peppercorns, then turned his back and wiped away his tears where the fire couldn't see.

Nicholas was covered in a sheen of sweat by the time he'd moved a massive sack of rice from its shelf to the counter and back. The sheen turned into droplets beading at his hairline and upper lip as he washed the rice and filled a pot to soak it. After everything he needed was laid out on the table, and he'd rinsed his hands for the fifth time just to wipe the sweat from his palms, he stopped to take a breath. Nicholas knew he wasn't the most athletic, but this was madness; he used to go on runs. Sometimes. In the stagnant heat of the kitchen, just standing up was exhausting. He imagined the cooks as a group of burly men and women with calloused hands and massive calves. In his vision, the head cook drove them like a sergeant.

"Oh- Nicholas."

Nicholas stood straight like a soldier being called to attention.

The door closed gently behind Rayan, nudging him further inside. He rubbed his eyes as if he wasn't sure he'd seen correctly. He wore only a shirt and pants, billowy around his frame, like he'd had the discretion to dress himself but not the energy to do it well. His hair fell free around his shoulders. He had socks but no shoes.

Tonight, he was the misty gray of a morning fog, low-hanging and slow to move on.

"Why are you here?"

There was no accusation there. So Nicholas really was allowed to be here.

"I went exploring," he said, as if that answered everything.

"I see."

"And you?"

"I...wanted a carrot." Rayan cringed like he regretted admitting it.

"A carrot."

"There were carrots in my dinner today. Usually there are some left over." His eyes swept over the table.

"Why a carrot?"

Rayan pressed his lips together. He was so expressive like this, caught off-guard. "It helps me sleep. Sometimes."

"The carrot?"

"Salma believes it may have to do with the, ah. Chewing. The motion of it. And having something fresh in my stomach."

"Salma."

"Yes."

Nicholas fought down a grin. "That's really weird."

"I suppose."

He didn't ask about Salma. He definitely didn't ask about the king's apparent oral fixation; that seemed like dangerous territory. He glanced guiltily at the table, where the leftover carrots had been when he walked in, and at the pot hanging over the hearth, where they were now.

Nicholas searched the table for something else to offer. Among the scraps he hadn't used yet were eggplant, okra, and string beans. From the shelves, he had taken onion, squash, something he hoped was related to bitter melon, and the garlic he'd been crushing beneath a knife when Rayan walked in. He put down the knife, just to be safe. People in this castle tended to assume the worst of him.

"I see," Rayan said again. He turned toward the door. "Well then, I will..."

"You, um. If you still want something fresh in your stomach, I'm not great at cooking for one, anyway."

His mother had always prepared meals for the family, and then some. He didn't trust himself to alter her portions and still do a halfway-decent job.

Rayan blinked sluggishly.

"Alright."

He walked past Nicholas to the hearth and opened the pot. Nicholas had thought it would be a little steamier by now.

"What do you have here?"

"That's just vegetable stock." Even though Rayan hadn't seemed phased by the knife, Nicholas switched to grinding peppercorns with a mortar and pestle. "I'm leaving it to simmer."

"By when? Tomorrow?"

Nicholas made an affronted noise.

"Your fire is...small."

"I worked very hard on that small fire. You should be more mindful; you never know what people are going through."

There was a snort and a small slap. Nicholas shot a triumphant grin over his shoulder; Rayan had lifted his hand too late to stifle his laugh. He bent to add wood to the hearth, used a poker to nudge the logs, and fanned the flame with a bellows. The whole kitchen seemed to get a few degrees hotter. When he straightened, Nicholas was still watching him.

"What's that face?"

"Don't you have magic for that? Pretty sure I gave you magic for that."

"Talkative tonight," murmured Rayan. "I enjoy the process. It's methodical. You should try it, next time."

"What do you think I-!" Nicholas caught the rest in his puffed-up cheeks when he realized he'd taken the bait.

Rayan was holding another knife when he settled beside him. Before Nicholas had time to panic and contemplate his life choices, Rayan took an onion and asked, "How do you want this?"

Nicholas looked at him dubiously.

Rayan huffed. "I know what I'm doing."

Nicholas looked at him dubiously, harder.

Was that a trick of the light, or was the king really pouting? He only ever did that to Yasmin.

"I already told you, I venture here when sleep evades me. I have had plenty of time to learn."

"When the carrot's not enough?"

"When the carrot isn't enough."

Nicholas accepted it. Rayan took off his gloves. They worked side-by-side, only speaking to trade instructions - how thick Nicholas preferred the squash, how to tend the fire without letting it get too big. Rayan was sweating, too, strands of hair sticking to the sides of his face. The brothy smell filled the room.

Once Nicholas hung the rice over the fire, there wasn't much left to do but wait. Rayan pulled himself onto the countertop furthest from the flame.

"Someone's going to put food there," Nicholas said, following him over even though it was a big kitchen, with plenty of places to go.

"The king sits where he pleases."

"Does the king mind sparing some room?"

Rayan looked over at the counter space lining every wall. Nicholas looked up at Rayan.

When he caught on, Rayan leaned back against the wall with a chuckle, widening his knees so there was enough space to step into.

"Sly, Viper," he said, teasing like he hadn't been the one to seek out eye contact while sliding his fingers back into his gloves. Or the one to sit, until seconds ago, with his elbows on his knees, so the open top buttons of his shirt hung away from his chest. Or the one to tilt his head, baring his neck, as he'd watched Nicholas approach.

Nicholas slotted himself into place, hands braced on the counter's edge outside of Rayan's legs. Rayan was extra tall like this, and he seemed to revel in it. He lifted Nicholas' chin but didn't kiss him right away, just watching.

When he finally leaned down, Nicholas was impatient, opening up beneath him. Apparently, that was permission to take free range over his mouth. Rayan's tongue was hot and possessive, and he explored like he was entitled to it. He held Nicholas in place and kissed more selfishly than he had before, sucking and biting for his own fascination, feeling around with his other hand.

Nicholas was very pleased by the attention.

Rayan was all around him, ankles hooked behind his thighs, hair falling onto his cheek. They were only making the room feel hotter, but somehow the cloying heat wasn't so bad like this. Nicholas liked that he could feel it radiating off of Rayan's body and stirring inside of his own.

They stopped once to check on the fire. Nicholas contemplated going over to see how the broth was coming along, and saw Rayan thinking the same thing.

Their eye-contact lasted a second too long.

Nicholas licked his lip.

Rayan scooted forward until they were one scorching line from hip to chest.

It put him even higher. Nicholas found it faster to reach his neck than his mouth, so he dove at the skin Rayan had bared at him earlier with open lips and a heavy tongue. Rayan's breath stuttered high. He still held Nicholas' chin, and he moved Nicholas where he wanted him.

"Can you..." Rayan trailed off as Nicholas kissed the hollow of his throat.

"Mm?" Nicholas asked without moving too far from the heady taste of salt on his skin.

"Put your hands here." Rayan was touching his own thighs.

Nicholas groaned. "You sure?"

"Don't move them."

"Okay."

He settled his hands lightly at first, worried the barrier of cloth might somehow tear if he gripped too hard. Rayan guided him back up to his lips, and Nicholas wound up gripping hard anyway, digging in with his fingers just to keep them in place.

He had never enjoyed kissing this much.

Well. He had always liked it. But nobody he'd ever kissed - not either of his boyfriends, or any of the mistakes in between - had liked it the way he did. Kissing had always been a greeting, or an affirmation, or a lead-in to sex. A few seconds, a few impatient minutes.

Rayan savored it. He seemed about ready to spend the rest of the night this way. They would sweat through their clothes but keep them on, because this was enough.

Nicholas didn't think he'd mind that at all.

If he didn't have a meal to cook, that is.

He peeled himself away. The heat and sweat instantly felt disgusting.

Rayan helped him find something to strain the broth. He did the straining while Nicholas sniffed and snooped until he found oil and what he thought was soy sauce. He pulled his shirt down over his front, willing his body to calm down. At least Rayan was moving stiffly, too.

It helped that sauteing over an open hearth was harder than expected. Rayan placed a grate over the flame, and Nicholas held a pan atop it with the tips of his fingers, arm outstretched, despite Rayan's assurance that the handle was long and he would not get burned.

"You gave me magic for this, remember? I would not allow you to burn."

Nicholas was a little braver after that.

The whole ordeal took so much concentration that he forgot to be debilitatingly turned on. He didn't think about much of anything until the broth and ingredients were covered in the pan, and he had five minutes to kill.

"What is it we're making?"

"It's called pinakbet. It's a Filipino- a traditional dish, where my mom's from."

"Does she make it often?"

"She did."

That wasn't exactly true. She had normally made it with pork belly and shrimp paste. Nicholas didn't have that option, unless he wanted to try his luck on the dried meats on the top shelves. Who knew how long they'd been there, anyway; he bet Rayan had fresh meat delivered for every meal.

This was the version his mom had cooked whenever her vegetarian sister was in town. It was the last meal of hers he'd ever eaten; they had been on the way to the airport with his aunt and uncle when the car crashed.

Nicholas thought about Uncle Sam for the first time in a while. Nicholas had been...not adopted, not really. But cared for, and taken care of. Nine years of living together had to mean something. He wondered if Samuel and his new wife and his new kids had reached out to him since this whole mess began. He wondered if they were worried about him, or if they were used to his lack of response by now - it occurred to him too late that maybe nine years should have meant more to him. He wondered if, back on Earth, he had been reported missing, or if he was out of sight, out of mind. He'd never really been in sight to begin with.

"And your father?"

Rayan's voice dragged him out of his head just when the room was starting to feel sticky.

"He couldn't cook for shit."

"Ah. So that part of your story was true."

What a funny thing to say. Oh, you really are an orphan! Nicholas smiled bitterly. "There's always a sliver of truth, huh? I've been trying to learn her recipes."

"For how long?"

Nicholas had only dug up her old handwritten recipe books within the last few years, but he didn't think Rayan was asking about that. "About fourteen years."

"Both of them?"

"In the blink of an eye."

"Might I ask your age?"

"I'm twenty-one- oh." He wasn't sure how exactly time worked when he was here. But if the days back home were passing on without him, then June 11th had come and gone. On Earth, at least, he was, "Twenty-two."

As he dished the rice and pinakbet into four bowls, Rayan extinguished the fire with a flick of his hand.

"What happened to the process?"

"Putting it out is not nearly as fun."

"Oops," Nicholas said when he saw how much was left over.

"Shall I send for help?" Rayan asked, fishing something out of his pocket.

They leaned their hips against the table. Nicholas nodded, distracted. He tried not to be too obvious about watching Rayan raise his spoon to his lips and blow. He took his own bite carelessly and burned his tongue.

While Nicholas panted around his mouthful, Rayan said, "This is good."

Nicholas managed to swallow. The flavor settled. He frowned. "It isn't right. I can never get it right-"

"Nico. It is good."

A feeling squeezed itself in beside the frustration filling his chest.

It was pleasant, exposing someone to something they would never know otherwise. Hearing that they liked it. The feeling was probably pride, he thought. It was wildly different from cooking alone, ashamed that he couldn't make it exactly the way his mom had. Nicholas didn't really know what to do with it.

"I can always get more ingredients," said Rayan. "If you would like to make something else, that is. You only have to ask."

Nicholas definitely didn't know what to do with that.

But he thought he'd like to practice some more. And share some more.

"I'm sorry," he said. Rayan paused his chewing with cheeks comically full. "I, um. I don't know what it means to be an adult with a family. I pushed the dead parents trope onto all of my characters because I can't really...picture it. I guess that's a cop out, now that I think about it. Aren't you angry with me?"

Rayan swallowed all that food in one go. "I'd like to be. But that wouldn't be fair."

"If I'd known all this would happen, I never would have written it that way."

"What do you think the story would have been like? If you had known."

Nicholas doubted he would have written anything at all. But if he had... "Probably not very interesting."

Rayan nearly smiled. "Did your mother enjoy it? Cooking."

"I'm not sure how she felt about the procedure. But she loved sharing." Nicholas had never asked. But he remembered the tone of her smile as she watched her family eat, and thought it matched up with that feeling in his chest.

"What did your father love?"

Nicholas smiled before he could stop himself. It felt big on his face. "He loved to dance."

Rayan seemed to stall for a second, mouth open, spoon halfway there.

The kitchen doors flew open. Rayan jumped so hard, his spoonful slipped onto the floor. Behind them, Yasmin barreled through the entrance, only to come to a harsh stop when she took in the scene before her. She wore her weapons over a tea green nightgown over steel-toed boots. Her hair was in two red, pillow-frizzed braids. Her sharp projectiles floated around her, arms raised for a fight.

Her hands slowly fell to her sides as the doors slammed. The single-minded focus on her face scrunched into rage.

"This is why you summoned me?"

"How'd you do that?" Nicholas asked Rayan through a mouthful. "You guys have phones or something?"

"I do not know what that means. But I have these." Rayan showed Nicholas what he'd taken from his pocket earlier. A breastpin with an emblem of a flower, and a medallion in the shape of a wispy, fiery sun.

"Emergencies only, rotten king, or does that mean nothing to you?" Yasmin fumed. Apparently she forgot to put up the deferential front when she was sleepy. She hadn't lowered her projectiles.

"They're charmed. Tadir-samit, the silent alert."

"And do you care to explain why he is here? We agreed that he would not-"

"Activate one talisman, and its complement will warm up. It grows hotter as the wielder nears."

"You already know how I feel about your choice to install that door-"

"This one will call Yasmin." Rayan raised the medallion.

"Walking the halls as if he owns them-"

"It is the medal she was awarded with the rank of military captain."

"Better yet, why are you with him? No, I don't even want to know."

"Well, she has the true badge, but even a replica can be quite powerful if it carries enough meaning."

"So utterly reckless-"

Nicholas asked, "So who does the other one summ-"

Yasmin slammed her palms onto the table. Nicholas's soul left his body.

"I will insist," she said darkly, "again, that you station a guard outside of his quarters, or else lock him in a cell as you should have from the start. I am speaking as your personal guard, and someone who has seen tragedy the likes of which your childish mind cannot even fathom."

Rayan rolled his eyes.

Something dangerous flashed on her face. One of the projectiles - which, Nicholas realized with a bright rush of panic, were pointed at him - shifted to aim at her king.

"That is treason," Rayan said boredly.

"I will take my chances," growled Yasmin.

Nicholas waved furiously. "It's not like I'm going to make a run for it!"

He'd never get very far. More importantly, running away would put him further from the answers he needed. It was hard to feel trapped in the archive when, without the archive, he would be stranded.

Yasmin ignored him.

"Look around yourself! You are alone with the enemy in an isolated room. A room with knives. Knives!"

Rayan scoffed. "Let him try."

"Anyone can be taken by surprise."

Rayan's scowl lost its bratty edge. He looked at Nicholas.

"Hey," said Nicholas, grasping for something that would diffuse the tension. "I'm a writer, not a fighter."

He squeezed his eyes shut, mortified. The arguing stopped. When he opened them, Yasmin and Rayan were staring at him. Yasmin had a face like she'd smelled something awful.

Someone burst out laughing.

"Oh, Nico. I don't think I missed you, but perhaps I should have." Cairo wheezed from the doorway, clutching his stomach. Yasmin looked even more disgusted to see him.

He was still laughing as he ambled into the kitchen, apparently unbothered that he was the only one. When he noticed the food at the hearth, he went straight for it, helping himself. "Is this why you called? I do love you so, sweet Rayzi, though your timing could be better." He had on a fluffy robe, which he loosened as he whined, "So hot!"

His face lit up after the first bite. Despite everything else, Nicholas felt a twinge of that pride again. "Oho? Yasmin, princess, you must."

"I will not."

Cairo dished her a helping. The food was finished. He pumped four cups full of water, too.

He sat criss-crossed on top of the table and chewed happily. Rayan took another bite. Nicholas cast a wary glance at Yasmin, then chanced one for himself. Yasmin glared down at her bowl. Her nose twitched like a cat catching a smell.

"You should have had somebody test for poison," she chastised.

"So test it, then," said Rayan.

She did. And kept testing, and testing.

"Would anybody like to hear about my night?"

"No," said Rayan and Yasmin at once. Nicholas noticed the red smudges on Cairo's cheek and jaw, the same shade Mariam often wore on her lips, and silently agreed.

"My day, then," said Cairo, continuing before anyone could object. He talked about nothing interesting, mostly meetings and paperwork, and took too many tangents. But he was a dramatic storyteller. Even Yasmin seemed entertained, though she tried to hide it. She raised her cup over her mouth every time he made up increasingly disgraceful titles for the unpleasant noblemen he'd encountered.

Cairo was dangerous for a whole lot of reasons. He was strong, strategic, and probably at least a little insane. Nicholas hadn't planned on this one, though; how swiftly he could redirect the energy in a room. That was a scary power.

The mood was lighter, now. But it wasn't what it had been.

Rayan had moved to stand at a different side of the table. Nicholas stared at his food as he ate.

"You made this?" Cairo goggled at him. "Nico Nico!"

"We made it together," he muttered.

Yasmin spat out her water. Cairo cackled.

Their entrance felt like being shaken from a nap. That was the only way he could describe the way he and Rayan had moved through the kitchen before they'd arrived - dreamlike. Close enough to reality to seem plausible, but off in a way he didn't notice until he was awake. Too honest, too casual, way too comfortable. Just like a dream, he'd accepted it as normal. The teasing, and the grinning, and the kissing- well, that part was pretty normal, all things considered.

God. What a mess.

Cairo launched a squash chunk at Yasmin's forehead. She sent it splattering into the wall and shot her fork in return. Cairo caught it with ease, thanked her, and used it to push rice onto his spoon like he'd seen Nicholas do.

It must have been something about the sleepiness, and the surprise, and the break in routine. Maybe it was that Yasmin had been right, Nicholas could have snuck close with a knife, and that lapse - that leveling of the ground between them - had made him forget who he was, for a while.

Rayan took such a big bite he started to choke. Yasmin was there in an instant, slamming his back so hard he coughed up the bite and doubled over.

As with any good nap, waking up was disorienting.

While Nicholas collected the dishes, Cairo snuck up on a small moth on the table with his hands cupped. Rayan backed up several feet, urging Cairo to just kill it.

"Cruel!" said Cairo. "Where is your sense of whimsy?"

He caught the moth in his palms and peeked at it through his fingers. "Care to see, Your Maj-?"

"No."

The moth shot out through the gap. Rayan's hand burst into flame. Which, of course, drew the moth his way. Rayan made a noise that Nicholas would have never in a million years imagined him making. Yasmin shot one of her projectiles with terrifying precision, spearing the moth into the wall.