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Every now and then, there’s a full moon on the night of the Sabzeruz Festival. On a night like that, every flower in the forest blooms, no matter the season, and the evening air is filled with song and laughter so joyous even the most magic-averse human can hear it.
Not that the folk who live deep in the heart of Sumeru’s jungles are much concerned with what humans do and do not hear, anyway.
They’re concerned with the way moonlight spills across the leaves, how it teases colors out of the vipyara petals that aren’t there on cloudy nights, and the way it makes the burnished gold of blonde hair glow, as though the sun had snuck down into the forest instead of setting that night.
“
Stop
,” Kaveh protests, putting a hand over Al-Haitham’s face, but he is smiling, and Al-Haitham does not stop, pulling Kaveh’s hands away to lean closer.
“Why should I? You complain all year long about my lack of romance, but can’t handle a single line of poetic license, Kaveh?”
As predicted, Kaveh tries to scowl, bats at Al-Haitham’s hands and flutters away from him, alighting on the next leaf and pausing, waiting, seeing if Al-Haitham will chase him. It is foolish of him–Al-Haitham always does, and there’s nowhere Kaveh can go in Sumeru where those ruby-red wings of his don’t make him pathetically easy to track.
He’s been sought after by the scholars at Sumeru’s heart for years, a rare bird, a rare butterfly, something out of myth–so it’s only on a night like tonight that Kaveh needs not be cautious, for the hazy magic of the Sabzeruz makes all things seem as dreams.
For Al-Haitham, he does not fear the dream, but that he might awaken from it. That come daylight, the gold band on his hand will vanish, same as the heavy earrings in Kaveh’s ears, the same as all other dreams. It is not a rational fear, and has not been for years–but he treats the night as precious all the same for it.
It is an easy hop to follow Kaveh down to the leaf he’s escaped too, and easier still to follow him down to a broad mushroom cap, almost perfectly flat, aspiring to grow into part of Lokapala Jungle’s canopy. Here, Kaveh turns to face him, annoyance giving way to a bright grin. Here, Kaveh holds a hand out for Al-Haitham to take, and pulls him out to the center of their stage, kicking his shoes off as he goes.
“Can you hear it? The singing from Vanara has started.” Al-Haitham can’t–Kaveh has always been able to hear that chorus before anyone else–but he nods anyway, knowing his part in their little play by heart.
“Of course it has. They always start at midnight.”
“Don’t be a pedant. That’s not the point–” Kaveh scowls, and drags Al-Haitham closer, wings once more flaring in irritation. The moonlight turns the golden patterning in them almost bronze, and the teal points glimmering azure–Al-Haitham has seen it a thousand thousand times and yet, remains fascinated by the shifting colors.
“What
is
the point, Kaveh?” He asks, though he knows the answer. Kaveh huffs, the same way he does every year, and just as with every year, the scowl dissolves into a smile radiant enough to outshine the sun.
“Dance with me,
ya amar
.”
Just as he does every year, Al-Haitham answers with a smile, his wings already flickering his answer before his hands settle on Kaveh’s waist.
“As you wish,
nafasam
.”
They are not the most graceful dancers in the forest–sweet Nilou has always been, and whoever she dances with this night will be elevated by her skill and grace. Nor are they the ones who will dance the longest; Cyno does not seem to ever tire of dancing, and will go from sunset to sunrise during the Sabzeruz festival. Al-Haitham isn’t even sure where they rank among those considered most beautiful, in Sumeru’s courts. He also knows he does not
care
, and he will ensure Kaveh does not either. He only knows that when Kaveh dances, the forest comes to watch, and he will not let anyone dare think they can replace
him
as Kaveh’s partner.
Once, Kaveh had lamented that their wings were mismatched–the exact opposing colors, instead of analogous. Once, Al-Haitham had argued back that the complement was a more dynamic and strong match than any set within the same gradient, and furthermore, Kaveh would have never dared say such a thing where Tighnari could hear him. The truth is, as Kaveh pulls him through the floating steps of a dance Al-Haitham doesn’t know (he presumes Kaveh learned it from Collei, who would have learned it from Nilou), Al-Haitham doesn’t care if their wings match, or their constellations match, or their magic matches–none of those superstitions matter to him.
What Al-Haitham knows are the facts, and the facts are as such; once a year, mortal travelers through Sumeru’s jungles may happen to see the dance of two pairs of wings–never certain if they are seeing birds, or butterflies, or the faeries rumored to dwell within these trees–one red and gold, and the other deep green and silver. They will dance until Kaveh grows tired and stumbling, drunk and dizzy on the moonlight, laughing as he is carried off the stage and back into the cool dark sanctuary of the treetops.
Al-Haitham does this same dance every year, and will every year hence, until time withers their wings and returns them to the soil they came from. He does this because once, a young sapling of a faerie dragged him out of his hidey hole and made him dance, awkwardly fumbling and tripping and arguing the whole way, until the sun came up. He does this because that slip of a boy grew into a man who burns like the sun–
Paridisaea
, the jewel of the forest, and that man entrusted the heart Al-Haitham once broke into pieces back into his unworthy hands.
He takes his tired husband home where they will dance again in their living room, a slow and quiet shuffle across the stained light from their windows, foreheads pressed together and eyes closed, hands clasped tight, until Kaveh falls asleep, drooling against Al-Haitham’s shoulder.
Al-Haitham tucks him into their bed with a smile, settling next to them with his wings spread just enough to shield them. He does all this ridiculous because Kaveh wants to, and he will do anything, for his Sun. That is a magic spell so old and powerful not even the Dendro Archon herself could break it, and a vow so strong it is writ into the laws of the world:
The sun rises in the morning, the seasons turn across the wheel of the year, shroomboars multiply in their strange and mysterious ways every spring.
And every year, Al-Haitham will once again dance with his beloved Kaveh.