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One of Kalim’s stupid impulsive carpet rides saves his stupid life.
Jamil has already put the farmoza in the oven by the time he hears that Kalim dragged some first-year out on a carpet ride, probably after the first-year said something about wanting to get a picture of a bird or some such equally inane comment. At that point, putting them back in the fridge risks the temperature changes fucking up the pastry, so Jamil lets the farmoza cook. When they come out of the oven, he pops one in his mouth as soon as they’re cool enough, more out of habit than anything. No big feasts tonight—even if Kalim comes back asking for an impromptu one, they have midterms next week, so Jamil is going to make him go to his room and study if he has to tie him to a chair—so Jamil had been able to cook his and Kalim’s dinner in peace, without any of the regular chaos. Someone would have had to tamper with the ingredients before Jamil even got to the kitchen, and after a year and a half at Night Raven College with no such incidents, Jamil has largely stopped worrying about that possibility. The campus is well-warded and the kitchen ghosts vigilant. It would take an inside job, or an exceptionally dangerous mage, to bypass both those things.
He assesses the spices as he chews, rolling the filling along his tongue. He must have been more heavy-handed than he thought with the garlic, but he doubts Kalim will even notice the difference. So Jamil sets the farmoza aside wrapped in foil, and then waits another damn hour before Kalim finally gets back.
He’s in the common room, working on his own midterm studying, when Kalim finally wanders back into the dorm. He beats back the annoyance that threatens to overtake his expression at the sight of Kalim positively bouncing through the door, still chattering excitedly to the dazed-looking first-year. An hour of studying lost to a carpet ride, when his Alchemy grades are already sliding and he’s likely to fail the written test if he doesn’t catch up on the reading. And, on top of all of it, Kalim’s dinner is probably lukewarm at best by now. Jamil stands as Kalim spots him and starts toward him, wind-blown and grinning. Jamil opens his mouth to speak—
—and chokes.
Something is extremely wrong, comes a dubiously helpful message from his body, half a second before a searing dizziness overtakes him. He stumbles, one knee starting to bend beneath him, the room sagging, unbalanced. He watches Kalim’s face transform in slow motion: from happiness, to surprise, to concern.
“Jamil?”
The word echoes strangely, distant and tinny, as if he’s hearing it over a bad cell connection. He’s trying to speak, but it’s like his vocal cords are paralyzed. They simply won’t move.
His brain, with no input from him, flips through a rolodex of primal fears and instincts, trying to identify which one is currently causing this catastrophic shutdown. It lands on bad food and with a sort of monumental effort, Jamil thinks, poison.
Slow-acting poison. Because I always taste the food. Clever.
He realizes his bending knee has hit the floor, and Kalim’s face is now above him, undergoing another transformation: to fear, to sheer horror, and back to fear.
“Jamil!”
There’s a lot of sound suddenly, all around him, and he can’t quite pick Kalim’s voice out of it anymore. He’s preoccupied with finishing his descent to the floor. He lands on all fours, and for a moment thinks about trying to stick his fingers down his throat, see if he can make himself sick.
Unfortunately, he’s reasonably certain it’s too late for that to matter.
Making an executive decision that he’d rather not spend his last few minutes puking for no reason, he rolls onto his back. He’s eerily calm, although one of the current internal failings is still rendering the world a confusing, overloud blur. Kalim’s face resolves out of the chaos, leaning down toward him, looking frantic. He’s still calling Jamil’s name, Jamil can see it on his lips. Then there are arms around him, Kalim’s arms, lifting him up. Jamil presses a hand over his mouth to stop the panicked babbling.
“Don’t—eat—the farmoza.” The words take monumental effort, but they come out clear, or mostly clear. His ringing ears have trouble telling. Kalim’s eyes widen, and then his face crumples. Tears roll out of his eyes as he rips Jamil’s hand away from his mouth.
“No. I’m sorry, Jamil, I’m so sorry, I’m so sorry. Just hang on—”
Something is happening. Something other than general shock and panic about Jamil collapsing to the floor without warning, or an attempt to summon help. There’s too much noise for that, and too much of it sounds like—
—water.
The common room is flooding.
No, that’s not right. The entire dorm is flooding.
Water is pouring out of the walls, rising from the floor, coming down in torrents from the ceiling, rushing down the hallways, sending students screaming from their rooms. Water is filling every room, every hallway. Everywhere except around them. Jamil and Kalim are in perfect circle of dry land, surrounded by the rapidly rising water, with the taste of mana growing sharper and sharper every second.
The next tears that squeeze out of Kalim’s eyes are black.
Jamil manages to convince both his arms to make the journey up to grab Kalim’s face. Summoning every last bit of mana in his body into his words, he keeps his eyes locked on Kalim’s and says, “Calm Down.”
The blackness drains away, into normal tears, and the water starts to recede. Kalim blinks, dazed, staring at him in confusion.
“I—you—Jamil—”
The water starts to rise again. Jamil digs his fingers into Kalim’s cheeks with what strength he has left.
“Calm down, calm down, CALM DOWN! Damn it, Kalim, you’re not allowed to die too!” Or what was the goddamn point of any of it. “This is the last thing I’m ever demanding of you, so you better fucking do it. Calm down.” Kalim sags, almost tipping over. The water starts to wind back down again. Jamil’s arms drop, exhausted. His breath comes in wheezes. He feels too weak to even lift his head to see if the other students are alright. Kalim touches his cheek, softly.
“Jamil.” He sounds lost. Jamil wants to close his eyes against the sight of Kalim’s tear-streaked, heartbroken face, but he’s not certain that if he lets them fall closed he’ll ever be able to open them again. He heaves in a breath. There’s one more thing he needs to say.
“It’s not—your—fault.”
It’s not. Not this. This part has never been his fault.
Kalim probably won’t ever believe him, but Jamil hopes it matters that he said it.
There’s a new commotion, one that sounds more like footsteps. Kalim is abruptly and suddenly pulled away from him.
Jamil lets his eyes close, then.