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Tighnari is nineteen when he is betrothed. 

Of course, he’d known that this would happen eventually. He is a prince, after all. But a part of him had pretended it wouldn’t, anyhow—that he would spend the rest of his days studying and learning how to govern, roaming the rainforest with his companions, laughing over dinner with his parents. And so his voice shakes when he learns of it, just a little. 

“To whom?” he asks. 

“Prince Cyno,” his mother tells him. 

Cyno of the Great Red Sand. Of the desert, with its harsh sun and silent dunes. Tighnari’s blood roars in his ears; he cannot speak. 

“He is a good man,” his father says gently. A pause. “I’m sorry, Tighnari. I know this is not what you wanted.”

Please, Tighnari thinks, please, don’t do this. Don’t send me away. To the desert, to a man he has never met, to a life he does not want. But he is the crown prince; this is his responsibility. He has had no shortage of joy up until now, a lifetime’s worth. 

“It’s alright,” he says. “I understand. Thank you, Mother, Father. I’ll make my preparations for travel.” 

And so, in the season when the Sumeru roses bloom, Tighnari leaves behind the verdant rainforest, his gentle parents, his beloved home. 

A week’s travel brings him to the desert palace. 

The sun is merciless—Tighnari feels faint as he dismounts the sumpter beast. The sand shifts underfoot; it is a little like trying to walk on water. 

Prince Cyno is waiting for him at the entrance. Wordlessly, he takes Tighnari’s hand and kisses it stiffly, dutifully. He is strikingly handsome, but his expression is sharp and severe. Disinclined to laughter, to joy. 

“Your Highness,” he says, and does not smile. 

“Your Highness,” Tighnari says, and despairs. 

The rest of the day is congratulations and greetings, formality at its best. Tighnari sits next to Cyno in the great hall and meets the king and queen, who look just as serious as their only son, if not more so. He exchanges pleasantries with nobles over spiced tea and fruits that he can barely get down. Forces a pleasant smile, a quick wit. When he feels himself losing strength, he thinks of his parents, of his dear little kingdom. 

Through it all, Cyno barely speaks, except to express his gratitude for any congratulations. His expression remains solemn; he speaks almost emotionlessly. If anyone finds this off-putting or disrespectful, they do not mention it. He does not even look at Tighnari until after dinner. 

“Your Highness,” he says, taking Tighnari’s hand. “Come with me. I will show you to your chamber.” 

Like before, he holds Tighnari’s hand gingerly, like he does not want to touch him, and leads him away in front of everyone. It must be a formality of some kind, some courtship ritual. When they reach Tighnari’s room, Cyno lets go almost immediately. 

“Goodnight,” he says curtly, and strides away before Tighnari can even respond. 

Tighnari bristles, and wishes he could tell this ice-cold prince that the sentiment is very much returned. 

Later that night, Tighnari tries to sleep.

The bed feels too large for him. In the sun’s absence, the air grows uncomfortably chilly. Compared to the rainforest, lush with life, the desert night is hauntingly silent. Tighnari stares up at the ceiling, and can only drift off when exhaustion takes over him. 

The next day, he is allowed to take his breakfast in his room, which he does. He doesn’t get much time to himself before there is a soft knock at his door.

“Your Highness.” It’s Cyno. Tighnari’s heart sinks. “I’m to show you around the palace today. Please join me when you are ready.” 

So he gets dressed in the light, silken clothes left for him in the wardrobe, and joins Cyno on the most unenthusiastic palace tour he’s ever had in his life. Not that he’s had many, but even if he did, he’d still rank this one last.

“This is the solar,” Cyno will say, as curt as usual. A few silent minutes of walking later: “This is the guards’ quarters.” And so on and so forth. He very obviously wants to get this over with as soon as possible. A part of Tighnari is a little sympathetic—it’s obvious by now that Cyno wants nothing to do with him—but the other part just thinks, who raised you? 

The palace itself is a marvel, though. Much larger and more intricate than any structure Tighnari’s ever seen, designed cleverly to keep the heat out, yet somehow letting sunlight find its lovely way into every room. Had Tighnari been less miserable, less homesick, he would have been in awe. When they reach their last destination, the library, it’s beautiful enough that he forgets himself for a moment. 

“I think I’ll stay here until dinner, if that’s alright,” he says, a little excited. 

Cyno shrugs. “Do as you please.” 

“Would you like to join me?” Tighnari asks politely. 

“Not particularly, no.” Cyno bows curtly. “Be sure not to miss dinner.” 

And then he turns, striding away to gods know where. Tighnari resists the childish urge to make a rude gesture at Cyno’s retreating figure, instead turning his attention to the immense collection of tomes and tablets, and wonders if there’s any possibility of getting the library in the divorce.

Over the next week or so, Tighnari does his best with what he’s given.

He’s never particularly been one to mope, even in the worst of times. So instead, he tries to keep himself busy: continuing some of his princely duties through letters to his parents, striking up conversation with anyone who’s willing, poring through texts in the library. He finds an unlikely friend in the chief guardsman, Dehya, who accompanies him if he ever wants to step outside the palace. She is warm and quick to laughter, a pleasant companion to have.

Conversely, Cyno is just as cold as before, if not more so. When they spend time together, as they often have to do, he barely speaks and never smiles. He is a good man, Tighnari’s father had said, and Dehya too speaks of Cyno fondly and with respect. And yet for Tighnari to wrest any warmth out of him, even a single word, is like pulling the teeth of a sumpter beast. 

It’s a little infuriating. Once, he’d asked Cyno what his favourite food was, and Cyno had blinked and asked, “Why would you need to know that? It’s not as if you’re going to make it for me.”

Tighnari had seethed inwardly, but forced a smile. “Well, I like mushrooms,” he said.

“They don’t grow here,” Cyno said, and did not say anything else for the remainder of the meal. 

This is the man I’m going to marry, Tighnari had thought to himself, and almost laughed because it was so sad. And then, I hope he chokes.

Later that night, Tighnari pens a letter to his parents.

The prince, he writes furiously, is insufferable and exceedingly poor company, and I would rather marry a stone wall, and so on and so forth. 

Of course, Tighnari does not actually send this letter, although he keeps it for scrap parchment. Like most good children, he has mastered the art of writing to parents so as to not worry them—in other words, the art of embellished, censored truth. So after his anger has been satisfied with scrawling a full page of libel, he takes out another roll of parchment and writes outrageous lies like the prince is agreeable and kind. I look forward to deepening our acquaintance, and other similarly false but comforting sentiments. 

When Tighnari is done, he sends the letter off by dusk bird, and watches it disappear into the distance, envious. If only, he thinks, if only he too had wings with which to cross the desert, to fly home. It is getting late—surely, the forest birds are now singing their sweet evening serenades, the fireflies blinking into brightness, the Nilotpala lotuses beginning to glow as if awoken by the moon herself. 

Tighnari swallows. He is already nineteen; he will not cry. 

In the Great Red Sand, it is customary for the betrothed pair to forage for henna berries in the desert, which will then be used in dishes at the wedding. And so Tighnari finds himself trudging across the sand in the middle of the day, and suffering immensely. He has never been so hot in his life, even in the cool, light clothes that he’s wearing. He’s run out of water; his head feels light. Cyno, of course, seems used to it. 

“Let’s pick up the pace,” he says. “The sooner we find more, the sooner we can get this over with.” It’s the first time he’s spoken since they began in the morning. 

Tighnari laughs, a little uninhibited because of the dizziness. “Your Highness, are you allergic?” he asks, testy. 

“Excuse me?” 

“To conversation.”

Cyno looks a little irritated. “I just don’t think it necessary at the moment.”

“Seems like you don’t think it necessary at any moment,” Tighnari says. 

“Well, we’ll have the rest of our lives for that, won’t we?” Cyno says coldly, and Tighnari decides he has had enough.  

“Listen,” Tighnari says, unable to hold back any longer. “I know you don’t like me, and you don’t want me. But that doesn’t mean you have to be so damn disagreeable, does it?”

Cyno stops in his tracks and blinks. For once, he looks taken aback, his icy composure broken. 

“Truth be told, I’m not so fond of you, either,” Tighnari continues. He feels incensed, feverish, the last week’s worth of loneliness and frustration and sorrow finally escaping him in the shape of fury. “Do you think I wanted to leave my life behind for—for this? For you?” He is being exceedingly rude; he knows this, and yet he cannot stop. “Who would? But I did, because it is my duty, just as it is yours to not be a—an absolute—”

“Your Highness—” 

“Don’t interrupt me, I haven’t finished speaking—” 

“Tighnari,” Cyno says, and there’s genuine concern in his voice. “You don’t look well. Are you alright?”

No, Tighnari wants to say, no, I’m not alright, it’s too hot and I miss my parents and my friends and the rainforest, and it’s too hot and I’m dizzy, but he doesn’t get to say any of this before the world tips over, and everything goes dark. 

He blinks awake to the sound of hushed voices. There is a physic at his bedside, speaking quietly with Cyno. 

“Heatstroke,” the physic says. “He needs to be kept cool, but he’ll be alright after some rest and adequate water.”

“Thank you,” Cyno says. “I will send for you if anything else arises.” 

The physic bows and exits the room, leaving the two of them alone. Tighnari sits up to drink some water, and stares at the wall silently. It’s a little awkward. 

“You should’ve told me that you were feeling unwell,” Cyno says, after a moment.

“Well, I kind of did,” Tighnari says dryly. “I fainted.” 

Cyno does not laugh. 

Tighnari sighs. “I’m sorry,” he says. “I’ve caused you trouble. I’ll be more careful next time.” 

“No, you misunderstand me,” Cyno says. “It was my fault for not noticing. But I do hope you’ll refrain from fainting as a means of communication in the future.” 

“I’ll do my best,” Tighnari says dryly. 

A moment of silence, until Cyno breaks it. 

“I’m sorry,” he says, meeting Tighnari’s gaze. “I’ve been unkind and selfish.”

Tighnari blinks. “No, it’s—”

“It’s true,” Cyno says. “I was unhappy, but that’s no excuse. Truly, I am sorry. I hope you can forgive me.” 

Although Cyno’s expression doesn’t change much, Tighnari can read regret and remorse in the stiff way he holds himself, as if ready for punishment. He feels a twinge of sympathy—he’s never been one to stay angry for long. 

“Of course,” Tighnari says. “It’s alright. I could tell you didn’t want me here from the start. It must’ve been hard.” 

“No, please understand,” Cyno says hurriedly, “this isn’t—this isn’t about you. You conduct yourself admirably; I’ve heard nothing but good things about you. And you’re very beautiful, truly.” Tighnari blushes, surprised. “But at the end of the day, I don’t know you, and you don’t know me, and neither of us had a choice in this decision. And I don’t think that’s fair.” 

Tighnari blinks, taken aback by the sudden honesty. And then he can’t help but smile. 

“What’s so funny?” Cyno asks, brow furrowed.

“Nothing,” Tighnari says, “it’s just—that’s the most I’ve ever heard you talk.” He sobers. “But—yes, I understand. I completely agree.” 

“I’m glad,” Cyno says. And then, almost shyly, “I—I’ve never been good at conversation. But I’ll do my best, if that’s what you’d like.”

“No need to push yourself,” Tighnari says. “As long as you don’t hate me, that’s fine.”

“I don’t,” Cyno says.

Tighnari smiles. “Well,” he says, “since it seems that falling madly in love is off the table for us, why don’t we be friends while we’re stuck with each other?” 

“Yes,” Cyno says, “yes, I would like that.” 

“Let’s start over, then.” Tighnari holds out his hand. “I’m Tighnari. It’s nice to meet you.”

“Call me Cyno,” Cyno says, as earnest and serious as ever. He takes Tighnari’s hand; his touch is warm like sunlight. “Likewise.” 

Being friends with Cyno, Tighnari discovers, is not all that difficult. 

Though taciturn, he is a good listener. There is something warm and comforting about his quietness. In turn, Tighnari listens carefully when Cyno does feel like talking. 

“Tahchin,” Cyno says one day, out of the blue.

Tighnari looks up from his book. “I’m sorry?”

“My favourite food,” Cyno says. He won’t meet Tighnari’s eyes; his ears are a little red. “You asked about it, a while ago.”

“Ah, I see,” Tighnari says, and smiles. His tail is wagging, just a bit. “Thanks, Cyno.” 

In light of their new friendship, they start spending much more time together instead of the bare minimum. This doesn’t go unnoticed.

“He’s quite taken with you recently, you know?” Dehya tells Tighnari one day in the library. “The king and queen are over the moon. They thought he’d never take to anyone.” 

“Really?” Tighnari says, curious. “Anyone?” 

Dehya smiles, amused. “Despite how he seems, His Highness is actually quite the romantic at heart,” she says. “He has always wanted to marry for love, and love only. Which is difficult in and of itself, but he’s also so rarely partial to anyone!” She laughs. “And that’s why he’s been unmarried until now—the king finally had enough of waiting, and they’re looking for new allies, anyhow. And that’s where you come into the picture.”

Tighnari hums. “I see,” he says. No wonder, then, why Cyno had been so upset when Tighnari had arrived. And then he laughs, thinking of Cyno’s unchangingly stoic expression. “Cyno? A romantic?”

Dehya laughs too. “I know,” she says, “I know. But in this case, it’s the truth.” She tilts her head. “Maybe he read too many fairy tales as a child?” 

Tighnari smiles. It’s endearing to think about. “Well,” he says, “I suppose we’re all romantics in one way or another.” 

On their second, slightly more successful harvest of henna berries, they rest in the shade awhile before heading back. Tighnari finishes his water; Cyno offers him his own, despite Tighnari’s objections. 

“You’re fond of flowers, aren’t you?” he asks, after they’ve recovered their energy. Tighnari nods. “Then come. I’d like to show you something.”

He brings Tighnari to a plateau. Tighnari can scarcely believe his eyes. Sumeru roses—albeit golden instead of violet—in the middle of the desert. He is intrigued, delighted. 

“Oh, wow,” he says, kneeling down. “This is amazing—I’ve never seen a plant like this here—” Even the scent is similar to the ones that grow in the rainforest. “And the colour! I wonder if it’s an adaptation, somehow…”

“We call them golden roses,” Cyno says. “My parents love them, but we can’t figure out how to grow the seedlings properly around the palace. If you’re interested, you could help investigate.”

“Of course!” Tighnari says. “I would love to.” It’s been so long since he’s done any kind of scientific study. “Thank you, Cyno.”

Cyno shakes his head. “I should be thanking you,” he says gently. “But I’m glad if this makes you happy.” He exhales, kneels next to Tighnari. “I know it’s been hard for you here. If there’s anything you’d like, just say the word, and I’ll do my best for you to have it.” 

His earnest kindness makes Tighnari’s heart twist. And in that moment, he makes up his mind: he does not want Cyno to be unhappy. 

“Cyno,” he says, “let’s break our engagement.”

Cyno blinks. “Excuse me?”

“You said it before,” Tighnari says. “This isn’t fair to us. To you. You want—you want to marry for love, don’t you? And I want to go home.” 

“But our countries—”

“There has to be a way,” Tighnari says, gears already turning in his head. “A way without conflict that still benefits our people.” 

Cyno’s gaze is focused, intent. “What do you suggest?” he asks.

There are a number of things they need to do, but it all boils down to this: they have to convince Cyno’s parents, who’d wanted the match in the first place. 

Cyno sighs, loud in the quiet of the library. “You think I haven’t tried?” he asks. “Even before you came, I objected. But they think it’s foolish of me.”

“Well, you have me now,” Tighnari says. “I did spend most of my life studying—I know how to construct a good argument, at least.” He picks up his quill and smiles. “So, what do we know right now?”

They know this: what their two countries gain from their union is security and knowledge, respectively. Tighnari’s home of Gandharva is young and innovative, the birthplace of scholars and new ideas, as well as a haven of biodiversity. But it is unstable, surrounded by larger nations on both sides, without much of a military to speak of. Conversely, the Great Red Sand is established and much more powerful, but entrenched in the past, looking to move forward. So… how to reap these benefits without their marriage? 

And—well, isn’t that the question. They have a little less than three months to answer it before the wedding preparations truly start to begin, before the engagement is officially announced to all. 

“That’s fine,” Tighnari says. “We’ll figure it out by then.” He smiles. “I’ve written longer papers on shorter notice, after all.” 

In the meantime, they continue going through the motions of their courtship, the customs and ceremonies. It’s best not to raise suspicion, Cyno had said. If my parents found out what we were working on, I think we’d get in a fair bit of trouble. And so they’re stuck learning dances, or dining together, or a myriad of other activities that are meant to foster intimacy between the new couple. It’s not really that bad now that they’re friends, although Tighnari has to do his utmost to hold back his laughter when a fortune teller—an old, old man—describes, in detail, their alleged compatibility in all matters, and Cyno looks absolutely mortified.

Whenever they have spare time, they spend it in the library, and proceed to work on their shared project. They read, pore over history records to see if there have been any others in the same situation. Learn about alliances, trade routes, and so on and so forth. It’s not as if they haven’t been taught such things—they are, after all, princes—but there is so much more to learn. 

“Is this some kind of… new courtship custom for young people?” Dehya asks, perplexed, when she sees them in the library for the umpteenth time.

“Dehya,” Cyno says, not looking up from the book, “you’re hardly older than me.”

“I’m old enough to think this is strange,” Dehya says.

“It’s how we express our undying affection,” Tighnari says, quill scratching nonstop across his parchment. He looks up, very serious. “Because we’re madly in love, you see.”

Beside him, Cyno huffs, evidently amused. Dehya narrows her eyes. “Fine, don’t tell me,” she says. “Just… stay out of trouble, alright?”

“Will do,” Tighnari says. Under the table, Cyno’s knee bumps against his, and he hides a smile. 

Of course, even Tighnari needs a break from reading from time to time. 

Cyno brings him to the palace oasis, and they sit on a large rock on the shore, the refreshingly cool water coming up to their knees. They share a small bundle of snacks between them: nuts, honeyed fruits, candy. A short distance away, Dehya keeps watch, leaning casually on her claymore. 

Out of nowhere, Cyno speaks. “Fignari,” he says.

Tighnari freezes, the fig in his hand still halfway to his mouth. “Excuse me?”

“It was a joke,” Cyno says.

Tighnari groans, puts the fruit down. “No, it wasn’t. Don’t say that. You’ll ruin my opinion of you forever.”

“But it was. You see, it’s funny because you’re always eating figs, and the word ‘fig’ and the first part of your name sound somewhat—” 

Tighnari places a hand on Cyno’s back and pushes him into the water. The splash is loud. Cyno splutters when he makes his way to the surface. “You—”

Tighnari throws his head back and laughs. But then a hand closes around his ankle and pulls, and he too falls into the cool water ungracefully. When he surfaces, Cyno is smiling.

“Justice,” he says. His wet hair is plastered to his head; he pushes back the strands of his bangs. He looks younger like this, more approachable.

“You know, I’ve never seen your forehead before,” Tighnari says, grinning. 

Cyno huffs. “I’ve never seen yours, either,” he says, and reaches out, presumably to mess with Tighnari’s hair. Tighnari dodges out of reach. “Hey, get back here—”

“You can’t!” Tighnari exclaims, splashing away, laughing. He raises his voice so that Dehya can hear them. “You can’t, Your Highness, that’s improper, indecent—you have to wait for our wedding night—”

Dehya turns, her eyebrows raised. Cyno flushes down to his neck. 

“Tighnari—”

Tighnari flees. Cyno chases him across the entire lake, and Tighnari is gasping and exhausted by the time he clambers onto shore. He tries to make a break for it on land.

“Oh no, you don’t—” Cyno’s hand closes around his ankle again, and Tighnari falls onto the sand, bringing Cyno tumbling down with him. 

They roll over and lie there, staring up at the clear blue sky, panting and entangled. And then Cyno starts to laugh, and Tighnari can’t help laughing too, and the sun shines down fondly upon them, two friends in their shared joy. 

“I win.”

Tighnari looks down at the game in front of them, the delicately carved pieces, the wooden board. “Do you?” he asks politely.

Cyno frowns. “Yes, the game is over, and you have less pieces on the board than I do.”

“I do not,” Tighnari says. “We have a tie. And I’m sure I know how to count, Your Highness.”

Cyno counts. He looks utterly perplexed. Tighnari holds in his laughter with great difficulty, tries to stop his tail from wagging. “But… I swear,” Cyno mutters, so focused that he doesn’t notice Tighnari’s ears twitching side to side in amusement, “just now, I had one more, I swear…”

“Well, it happens,” Tighnari says magnanimously. “How about a rematch, then?”

“Very well, then,” Cyno says, and he is gathering the pieces when there is the thunk of a small object falling out of Tighnari’s voluminous tail and hitting the floor, drawing their attention. 

“Ah,” says Tighnari. 

Cyno blinks at his missing piece next to Tighnari’s foot, and then he realises. “You—you!” he exclaims, exasperated, and Tighnari finally lets himself laugh. “I knew it, I knew it—”

Tighnari grins. “All’s fair in love and war,” he says.

“This is neither.”

Tighnari picks up the piece, hands it back to a disgruntled Cyno. “You should’ve seen your face,” he says, still grinning.

Cyno huffs. “Do your people know that their crown prince is a liar and a cheat?”

“Of course not, Your Highness,” Tighnari says, and smiles. “Just you.” 

Occasionally, Cyno goes on short diplomatic trips in place of his parents, or fulfils other princely duties away from home. By all accounts, he is a good prince, and no doubt he will one day be a good king. 

On occasions like these, Tighnari occupies his time alone by researching the golden rose. He investigates the few ailing specimens planted around the palace, conducts experiments with sunlight, water, soil. It is calming and familiar work. It makes him think of home, of his childhood, his parents teaching him ever so patiently: look, Tighnari. Here is the leaflet, the rachilla, the petiole. But despite it all, he finds himself just a little lonely at times like this. The heart grows used to companionship, after all.

In the midst of taking notes, he hears footsteps, and his ears perk up. He does not have to look up to know that it is Cyno. “Back already?” he asks, as if a part of him hasn’t been looking forward to this since Cyno left in the morning. 

“Yes.” Cyno kneels down next to him.

“Have you eaten?”

“Not yet.”

“Why not? You must be starving.” 

“I wanted to see you first.”

Tighnari looks up from the wilted plant at his fingers. He is suddenly very conscious of how they are alone, save for a few guards on the other side of the courtyard. “Well,” he says lightly, “consider me seen.” He reaches into his bag to take out a bundle of honeyed fruit wrapped in cloth. “Here.” 

“Thank you.” Cyno takes it, unwraps it to examine its contents. Tighnari knows what he is going to say before he says it. 

“Don’t you dare—”

“Fignari.”

Tighnari groans. “You need—you need to stop,” he says. “If you say that again, I will marry you, I swear, and you’ll be stuck with me until we die. Is that clear?”

Cyno smiles, small and warm. The last of the sun’s scarlet reaches for his silhouette softly, as if unwilling to be parted from him. “Of course, Your Highness,” he says. 

That night, Tighnari lies in bed, just on the edge of sleep. 

If he listens well, he can hear the soft whisper of the wind, the young sirocco. He lies there, and absently wonders when he’d learned the sound of Cyno’s footsteps, such that he would know them in the dark, would know them anywhere. 

“You’ve made good progress on this,” Cyno says one day, reading through Tighnari’s notes on the golden rose. He’s helping with proofreading; he looks pleased. “I’m sure my parents will appreciate it.”

“I’m glad,” Tighnari says, in the midst of drawing out a scientific diagram of the flower. “I enjoyed it, too. The other day, I collected a few seeds from wild specimens—I think I’ll soon figure out why they don’t sprout when planted.”

Cyno nods, still reading. “I see,” he says, flipping a page. And then, “What’s this?”

“What’s wrong?” Tighnari asks. “Did I make an error?”

“‘The prince,’” Cyno reads out loud, sounding perplexed, “‘is insufferable and exceedingly poor company, and I would rather marry a stone wall instead of him—’”

Tighnari whips around. Oh. Oh, no. “Stop,” he begs, trying to regain possession of the paper, to no avail. Cyno dodges him, walks away while reading. Tighnari pursues him fruitlessly. “No, please, stop—”

“‘He is uncivil and ungracious,’” Cyno continues, “‘and seems to be the death of any conversation in his vicinity. Had I not taken meals with him, I would have thought that he lives on a sole diet of lemons and limes to fuel the sourness of his expression—’” Cyno looks up. “I do not. They don’t even grow here.”

Tighnari pulls his ears down over his face in shame. He will never keep scrap parchment again. He will only whisper his true feelings into the desert wind, where nobody can read them. “Are you finished?” he mumbles. 

“Well, I can be,” Cyno says. He scans the rest of the letter. “You evidently weren’t, though. This is hurtful, Your Highness.”

“I’m sorry. I don’t think those things anymore, I promise.” 

“Is that so?”

“Yes, of course—” Tighnari says, desperate. And then he sees Cyno’s expression, the ever slight upturn of his lips. “You’re—you’re teasing me.”

“Yes.”

Tighnari huffs, mortified. “I think I liked you more when you didn’t talk to me,” he mumbles. He sits down on the floor, hugging his knees to his chest; Cyno settles down next to him. 

“You know I can’t blame you for being upset at how I first treated you,” Cyno says. He sounds amused, gentle. “I would have been the same. Although much less eloquent, I’m sure. Some of these are… creative. A testament to your education, truly.”

Tighnari snatches the letter back and crumples it in his fist. “I’m burning this,” he announces.

“Pity,” says Cyno. And then, “So, I take it you would no longer marry a stone wall instead of me, correct?” 

“Don’t push it, Your Highness.”

“My apologies.”

Tighnari does not need to look at Cyno to know that he is smiling; he can hear it in every syllable. 

Time passes like this, as it is wont to do, and before Tighnari realises, it is almost the day of the Sabzeruz Festival. Tighnari receives some small early gifts from his parents—dried flowers and well wishes; he sends them a letter and his own gifts in return, and cannot help but feel a little homesick. Cyno must notice this in Tighnari’s voice when he speaks about the festival, because soon after, he comes to him with an invitation. 

“Tighnari,” Cyno says, holding out his hand. “My parents have given us permission to leave for the evening. Dehya will be accompanying us.”

Tighnari takes Cyno’s hand, almost without thinking. “Alright, but—where are we going?”

“To a festival,” Cyno says. He pauses. “Unless you don’t want to. I’m sorry. I should’ve asked first.”

“No, no,” Tighnari says, smiling, “I would love to,” and lets Cyno lead him out of the palace, to where their sumpter beasts are waiting. 

They arrive at a large village nearby, and the festival is in full swing. Before they enter the village, Cyno removes his headdress and ties back his hair, and Tighnari can’t help but smile. 

“What is it?”

“You look so different like this.”

Cyno huffs. “Well, that’s the point. Wouldn’t want anyone recognising me here.” His cheeks flush when Tighnari keeps staring at him. “Stop it, Tighnari.”

“Alright, alright,” Tighnari says, amused. He looks to Dehya. 

“Yes, you can both amuse yourselves now,” she says good-naturedly. “I’ll be close by. ” 

So they make their way to the festival, and despite the noise and the crowd, Tighnari cannot help but feel excited. It’s different from the Sabzeruz Festival, to be sure, but lovely nonetheless: there is the sound of music, of laughter, and the wonderful aroma of cooked food in the air.

Cyno looks a little tense. He takes Tighnari’s hand. “Don’t get lost,” he says.

“Yes, yes,” Tighnari says, with a smile. He leads Cyno to one of the food stands and buys some tahchin for them to share. Cyno’s a little miffed when Tighnari doesn’t let him pay, but the food pleases him enough that he seems to forget almost immediately. Seeing him like this, eating tahchin so eagerly that he forgets to even speak, Tighnari wonders how he ever thought Cyno intimidating. 

“What should we do now?” Tighnari asks, after they’re finished the meal.

“I don’t know,” Cyno says. “I thought you would.”

Tighnari blinks. “Cyno, have you… never been to a festival?”

“I never thought it necessary,” Cyno says shortly.

“But you brought me here.”

“Yes, for you.” 

“Ah,” Tighnari says. With Gandharva being as small and newly established as it is, in many ways, Tighnari had grown up the same as any child in the kingdom: festivals, studying, scoldings and all. Cyno evidently did not have the same privilege. Even now, he seems a little uneasy, his hand cool in Tighnari’s despite the heat. 

“Well then,” Tighnari says, and decides that some things are worth sacrificing his hearing for, if it’s just for a while. He stands up. “Let’s dance, shall we?”

Cyno blinks. “Dance?” 

The village centre is filled with dancers, with sweet music and laughter. It’s a little deafening, but Tighnari bears with it. 

“I don’t know this dance,” Cyno shouts over the music.

“Me neither!” Tignari calls back, but they take each other’s hands anyways and do their best, which is really quite awful. But nobody seems to mind—in fact, everyone seems to be dancing something different here. The two of them tread on each other’s toes and bump into other dancing couples, who laugh and wave off their apologies. Perhaps that is the beauty of it all, Tighnari thinks. It is easy to laugh here, where everything and everyone is suffused with happiness, with love, with the sheer joy of being alive. 

Slowly, Cyno begins to smile. By the time they finish dancing, his eyes are bright with quiet excitement and his cheeks are rosy. He even tries his hand at one of the games. When he wins (albeit after several tries and a considerable amount of gold) and holds his prize—a stuffed sumpter beast—in his hands, his expression is almost that of a child’s: pride, wonder. But it lasts only a moment, and he turns instead to the little girl who’d been watching him play the whole time. 

“Would you like this?” Cyno says gently. 

The girl nods mutely, wide-eyed. Cyno holds it out to her, and she takes it in her small hands, grinning widely.

“Thank you, sir,” the girl’s mother says. “You’re very kind.”

Cyno nods politely. He is smiling. Tighnari watches him, and is powerless against the fondness that washes over him like the ocean tide. 

“What did you buy?”

It is dinnertime, the sun more than halfway below the horizon. They’ve found a secluded spot to eat, a distance away from the centre of the festival.

Tighnari braces himself and holds out the fresh fruits and mulled wine. 

“Fig—” Cyno begins. Tighnari glares at him. “Figures,” Cyno says. 

Tighnari sighs. “Here,” he says, pressing two into Cyno’s hand. “For you. Thank you. For bringing me here today.”

Cyno shakes his head. “It’s nothing,” he says. He bites into the fig. “Sweet.” 

“Isn’t it? Do you want some wine?”

Cyno shakes his head. “I’m not partial to it. But thank you.”

For a moment, they sit there in silence, just eating and drinking, watching the dancing from a distance, the torches glowing in the dusk. 

“They’re dancing for rain, you know,” Cyno says. “We don’t get a lot of it here, so any is a small miracle.” 

“I can imagine,” Tighnari says. “I hope they—” He corrects himself. “I hope we get it.”

Cyno smiles. “So do I.”

A pause. “Cyno?”

“Yes?”

“Have you ever…” Tighnari opts to be delicate. “...kissed anyone?” 

Cyno almost chokes. “Excuse me?”

Tighnari laughs. “I was just wondering,” he says “You haven’t been to a festival, you don’t drink—you seem awfully sheltered, so—”

“Well, I apologise,” Cyno says, slightly affronted. And then, “What about you?” 

“What about me?”

“Have you—well—”

“Oh. Yes, of course. And a little more. Just for fun and curiosity.” 

A pause. “I see,” Cyno says, and proceeds to take a long drink of Tighnari’s wine. 

Tighnari blinks. “I thought you didn’t want to drink.”

“I changed my mind.” 

“Alright,” Tighnari says, amused. “Take it easy, though.” 

Cyno hums. His cheeks are already flushed; Tighnari resists the urge to laugh. 

“When everything is over,” Tighnari says, lowering his voice in case Dehya is nearby, “you should come visit me in the rainforest. And I’ll show you around the great tree, and bring you to the Sabzeruz festival, and make you tahchin myself. I’m sure you’d enjoy it.”

“That’s very kind of you,” Cyno says. He swallows, pauses. “Tighnari, if—if perhaps my parents aren’t swayed, you should know it isn’t impossible to make arrangements that you can visit home regularly, even if we are wed. I’m sure we could come up with something.”

“What,” Tighnari says, amused, “giving up already?” He smiles. “Don’t be so negative, Your Highness. We’ll get you out of this engagement yet.”

Cyno exhales, soft. “Very well, then,” he says. 

They look out at the dancers again. The song playing is a little slower now, a little more intimate, and accordingly, so are the dances.

“Do you ever wonder what it would be like if we met differently?” Cyno says, quiet. “Not as royalty, just—normally. Like if we’d met here, for instance.”

Tighnari laughs. “Well, I definitely would’ve kissed you by now,” he says. 

He expects a deadpan response, some kind of retort, but Cyno is speechless. He looks taken aback, flustered even. And Tighnari realises he’s said too much and had too much wine. But in his heart of hearts, he knows he means what he said, and he’s not quite sure how to feel about that, either.

“You’re very handsome, after all,” he adds hurriedly, lightly. He pats Cyno’s cheek. “I’m quite partial to a pretty face, you know?” 

The moment is broken. Cyno huffs, seemingly recovered. “Is that all you care about?”

“Well, you don’t expect me to be enamoured with your personality, do you?”

“You’re terrible,” Cyno says, shaking his head, but his voice is fond. 

The sun sets fully, pursued by its forlorn lover, the night. Above them, the celestial river of stars begins to shine, and the two of them sit there quietly, peacefully. And for a few moments, it is as if nothing else matters in the world. 

Later that night, when they have returned to the palace, still quite drunk, Cyno takes Tighnari’s hand and leads him down the hall. 

They are laughing quietly, at some stupid joke Cyno’s just made, at nothing in particular. A part of Tighnari wants to tell Cyno that nobody’s watching, that he doesn’t have to do this anymore, but the other part of him revels in it. Let Cyno hold his hand, let them walk hand-in-hand forever, like they are real lovers who met at the starry-skied festival. Let this hallway never end. 

They walk past Tighnari’s room, and Tighnari only realises when he steps into Cyno’s. Cyno does not hesitate—he fairly falls onto the bed, evidently exhausted. 

The tiny still-sober part of Tighnari balks. He shouldn’t be here, he knows. If not for the sake of appearances, then for the fragile new thing that’s taken root in his heart. But then Cyno opens his eyes, and their gazes meet. 

“Tighnari,” Cyno murmurs, raising the silken blanket. “Come.”

And just like that, Tighnari cannot even think to deny him. He climbs into the bed and curls up in Cyno’s arms, and they fall asleep like that, holding each other, entwined. 

Tighnari is awoken by someone shaking him gently. It’s Dehya. 

“Your Highness, you can’t be here,” Dehya whispers. “People will talk. We have to go.” 

It’s barely light outside. Tighnari is too groggy to really understand what’s going on, but he obeys her anyways, sitting up. A part of him cries out for the warmth and comfort that he’s leaving behind. He extricates himself from Cyno’s hold gently, and Cyno’s brow furrows in his sleep, but he does not wake. Dehya looks like she wants to burst out laughing. 

“Wine?” she whispers. Tighnari nods. She covers her mouth to stifle her merriment. “He’s sleeping like a baby.”

Together, they leave the room, Dehya closing the door gently behind her. She peeks around the corner, and motions for Tighnari to follow her.

“That—that wasn’t what it looked like,” Tighnari says quietly, a little more awake and prone to embarrassment. 

Dehya shrugs. “I don’t care,” she says. “It’s none of my business. But it is my business to keep you both out of trouble. And scandals, and so on and so forth.” 

“Thank you,” Tighnari says, honest. 

“Not at all, Your Highness,” she says. 

“How did you know—”

“I was doing my night rounds, and the door to your room was still wide open,” she says. “But you weren’t in it, so I assumed. Don’t worry,” she adds, “it was late when we came back. I don’t think anyone else saw.”

Tighnari’s ears burn. “I hope not,” he says. 

They arrive at his room. “Thank you,” Tighnari says again. “You’re always so kind.”

“Oh, no need to be so formal,” Dehya says, grinning. “We all owe you a debt for making our prince so happy. Now, go catch up on some sleep. I’m sure you need it.” 

They bid each other goodnight—or should it be good morning?—and then Tighnari collapses on his bed. When he dreams, he dreams of warmth, of watching stars dance to music in the sky, of kissing the pale-haired boy who sits next to him, of the sweet taste of wine on his lips. 

Cyno does not bring up that night again, and Tighnari is not sure if he is disappointed or relieved. Cyno does, however, throw himself into their anti-engagement project with even more determination, and Tighnari can only follow suit.

As they collaborate, it becomes even more evident that Cyno has a sharp mind and a gentle heart, and he challenges Tighnari’s ideas with a near-scholarly meticulousness: you still have to consider the impact such a trade route might cause on the local tradesmen, he’ll say, or there’s an aquifer located around this area that we could take advantage of, and so on and so forth. Of course, this is greatly helpful, but if Tighnari is being honest, hearing Cyno speak like this makes his blood run hot. It’s all he can do not to blush while taking down notes. 

Gods, Tighnari thinks furiously at himself, gods, what’s wrong with you? Because there is no time, no place for what he’s feeling right now. It goes against everything they are working for, and brings him nothing except anxiety. He should never have gone to that festival, or asked Cyno to dance, or shared his bed and his warmth, because now he is going mad, and he only has himself to blame—

“Tighnari.”

Tighnari blinks, broken out of his self-accusing reverie. “Yes?”

Cyno’s brow furrows. “Are you alright?” he asks. “You’ve been a little distracted lately.”

“I’m fine. I’m fine. What is it?”

“Well,” Cyno says, “when the time comes, let me present this to my parents. Alone.” Tighnari opens his mouth to protest. “This was an issue between them and myself in the first place,” Cyno continues, with no room for argument in his tone. And then, more gently, “As much as I love them, my mother and father can be… severe. I do not want you in the crossfire, if we fail.” 

Tighnari sighs, resigned. “Fine,” he says. “If that’s what you want.”

Cyno nods. “You’re sure your parents do not need convincing?” he asks. “I know you said so, but all the same…”

Tighnari shakes his head. “They didn’t want me to marry, either,” he says. “They know how I feel about it. But—well, a proposal like this one—it was hard to turn down.” He fidgets with his tail restlessly. “Our kingdom is young and weak, and we need strong allies. And… we didn’t wish to offend by refusing the offer.”

“So we forced you into this, after all,” Cyno says, and his eyes are downcast. He sounds miserable. “All of you.”

“Cyno—”

“I am sorry,” Cyno says, looking darkly determined. “I will try to make things right. For both of us.” 

He falls silent, the air around him almost forbidding. Tighnari wants to reach out and touch him, wants to bring back the Cyno who smiles small and secret, wants to ask: Cyno, would it really be so bad to be together, you and me—would it really be so terrible? 

But of course, he stays silent. He will not let himself say something so selfish, not when he knows what Cyno wants and has wanted his whole life. 

A week or so later, Cyno requests an audience with his parents. Tighnari sits alone in his room and waits. He is not quite sure what he hopes for. 

When it is over, Tighnari does not have to ask what happened. One look at the misery in Cyno’s eyes, and he knows.

“I’m sorry,” Cyno says, and he looks so distraught that it makes Tighnari want to cry. “Tighnari, I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay, really,” Tighnari says. He takes Cyno’s hand. “Don’t blame yourself. Please.”

“I wanted—” Cyno’s voice actually breaks. “I wanted you to be home for the Sabzeruz Festival.”

Tighnari’s heart twists. Truthfully, perhaps a part of him had wished for that too. But somehow, none of that is as important as Cyno before him right now, his sorrow so strong that he bows his head. “It’s okay,” Tighnari says again. “Truly, Cyno. It’s not your fault. Thank you for doing your best. I’m sorry—I’m sorry it ended up like this.”

“So am I.” Cyno meets his eyes, and smiles mirthlessly. “Well,” he says, his voice unbelievably bitter, “I suppose there’s no getting out of this, after all.”

Tighnari despairs for a thousand different reasons. “I suppose not,” he whispers. 

It is hard for either of them to be happy, after that. 

“I promise you,” Cyno says, trying to comfort Tighnari, “I will treat you well. I will make you happy. Even though—” Even though I do not want this. Even though I do not, cannot love you. He does not say it, but Tighnari can hear it, anyways. “I swear.”

And what about you? Tighnari wants to ask. He wants to take Cyno by the shoulders and shake him. What about your happiness? What about what you want?  

But Cyno no longer seems concerned with what he wants. He agrees to everything that is asked of him, now. And every time he looks at Tighnari, his eyes are so sad that Tighnari can hardly bear it. 

It is a horrible thing, he thinks, to be the source of someone’s sorrow. 

It is the worst, perhaps, when they are congratulated on their upcoming union. 

“Your betrothed is very beautiful, my prince,” some clueless noble says, during dinner. “You will make a wonderful pair.” 

Even now, in his unhappiness, Cyno is still so handsome, eye-catching. An evening star in this dusky banquet. Tighnari looks at him, and wants, and can do nothing else. 

“Yes,” Cyno says quietly, “I am very fortunate.”

For some reason, Tighnari suddenly feels like he can’t quite breathe properly. “Please,” he says, forcing a smile, “excuse me,” and heads out onto the balcony. 

With no sun to warm it, the night air is cool on his too-warm skin. It’d felt suffocating in there, sitting next to Cyno, feeling the weight of his unhappiness. And then he realises: from now on, this is what it will be like. This is all that’s left between them. 

Tighnari has never had his heart broken before; the sheer pain of it takes him by surprise. For a moment, he feels like a child again, unable to stop himself from crying. 

“Tighnari.”

It’s Cyno. Tighnari turns, almost without thinking. And then he realises the state he’s in, and he turns to wipe away his tears. But it’s too late. Cyno’s shock is palpable. 

“What happened?” he demands, reaching out to hold Tighnari’s face in his hands. His concern turns to quiet fury. “Did someone do this to you?”

“No, no,” Tighnari says hurriedly, his voice hoarse. “It’s just—” He forces a smile, even as his tears continue to fall, placing his hand on Cyno’s. “The stars are so lovely tonight, that’s all. They’re really so lovely.”

There is a very strange, conflicted expression on Cyno’s face, and before Tighnari can figure out what it means, Cyno is kissing him.

He is as soft and gentle as rain, and Tighnari’s heart flutters, takes flight, soars. He is utterly weak, helpless against his own elation; he has wanted this for so long now, perhaps even before they’d danced together under the vast blue sky, and the seedling in his heart unfurls, as if having seen the sun and felt the rain for the first time in its life—

They break apart soon, too soon, and it is like falling to the ground, wingless. Tighnari does not know what to do with himself; Cyno, too, looks at a loss. 

“Why did—why did you do that?” Tighnari asks when he can speak again, so faintly he can hardly hear himself.

Cyno swallows. “You were sad,” he says quietly.

It is, perhaps, the worst answer Tighnari could have imagined. “Please,” he whispers, “don’t.”

“I’m sorry,” Cyno says hurriedly, “I didn’t—”

Tighnari is shaking a little; he tries to smile, to laugh it off. “It’s alright,” he says lightly. “I just meant—you don’t have to force yourself. Save the acting for our wedding day, yes? ”

“Tighnari—”

“It’s alright,” Tighnari says, still smiling, and extricates himself from Cyno’s hold. “I’m tired. I’m going to bed, if that’s okay.” Cyno opens his mouth to retort. “Please, Cyno.”

“Okay,” Cyno says, and lets him go, albeit reluctantly. “Okay. Goodnight.”

Tighnari can hardly talk to Cyno after that. Just seeing him makes Tighnari feel raw, vulnerable, like an open wound. And yet almost mercilessly, Cyno corners him after hardly a day. 

“I’m sorry,” he says. “I will never do it again, I swear to you. It was a mistake. Just—please, Tighnari, speak to me. I’m sorry.”

Oh, how Tighnari wishes to tell him the truth. Oh, how he wishes things were different. 

“Please,” Cyno says desperately, misunderstanding Tighnari’s silence, “let’s just—let’s just forget that it ever happened.”

I will never be able to do that, Tighnari thinks, miserable. I will remember it for as long as I live. Out loud, he says, “Alright,” and watches Cyno brighten up with relief. “I’m sorry, I was being childish. Let’s forget about it.” 

Cyno smiles; it has never been so hard for Tighnari to smile back.

Cyno leaves again for a diplomatic trip, a longer one this time. When he next returns, their wedding preparations will truly begin, and they will be wed in less than a fortnight. 

Before he leaves, Cyno apologises to Tighnari again.

“Truly,” Cyno says, and his voice shakes a bit, “I am sorry.” 

Sadness does not become him. Tighnari looks at him, this kind, lovely boy whose laughter is as rare and beautiful as rain in the desert, who deserves the world, and he makes up his mind.

“Don’t be,” Tighnari says gently. “Don’t worry. It’ll all be okay.”

A few days later, he requests a private audience with the king and queen, which is granted.

Tighnari kneels in front of them, a slim tome in his hand. He knows that they are fond of him, although he isn’t foolish enough to think their goodwill is unconditional. But that no longer matters to him anymore—if he falls out of their good graces, then so be it. 

“Your Highnesses,” he says. “For the kindness you and your people have shown me, I wanted to give you a gift.”

He holds out the completed study on golden roses, rife with details on how they are to be grown, how their seeds are collected, which plants they are best paired with. The queen takes it, and smiles. 

“We’ve been noticing that the palace roses have been blooming wonderfully of late,” she says. “So it was your doing.”

Tighnari nods, his gaze still fixed on the ground. 

“We are grateful,” the king says. “But you did not just come here to bring us a lovely gift, did you?” 

“No, my king.”

“Well then, speak your mind.”

Tighnari takes a deep breath. “My king, my queen,” he says. “I ask that you break my engagement to the prince.”

Displeasure flits across their faces like a shadow. “I had thought you wise for your age,” the queen says. “Yet it seems you can be as foolish and insolent as my son. He had a similar request, which we refused. So if you, too, are going to bring the same arguments, we can only give you the same answer.” She runs her finger along the spine of the book. “Your marriage is the most efficient way to benefit our countries. You are a scholar, well-taught by your noble parents—do you deny this?”

“I do not,” Tighnari says. He has long known this, ever since they began working on the plan together. “But all the same, Cyno wishes to choose his own partner. I ask that you let him.” 

The queen looks even more displeased. “Cyno,” she says, “has never outgrown his selfishness in this matter. I will not let him squander the benefit of this marriage for his ideals of romance.”

“But you will not squander anything,” Tighnari protests. “Every benefit, every advantage for you is still possible, even if we are not wed. You have seen the proposal. And—yes, I admit it is less efficient than a political marriage. Yes, it will take more work to gain the same things.” He feels fevered; the words fall from his lips almost unbidden. “Cyno is the prince, but he is also your son. And is the happiness of a son not worth much more than that?” 

“How dare you—”

The king puts his hand on the queen’s. “Let him speak,” he says.

“Do you know why I studied the golden roses?” Tighnari continues. “It was Cyno who asked me to. He told me that—that you loved them. He thinks of you both, always, because you have raised him well. I have been with him nearly every day since I arrived here; I have seen firsthand his honour and kindness, his love for his people. So do you truly believe he would allow his choice to ruin his country? After all you have taught him, after all he’s done so far?”

The king and queen are silent. Tighnari is trembling, but he keeps speaking.

“I give you my word as crown prince,” he says, “ that I will ensure the friendship between our countries. I will put it in writing at this moment if you so wish. But please, let Cyno have his freedom. He deserves it.”

The king exhales. “And your noble parents? Would they approve of this?”

“They know my heart,” Tighnari says. “They trust my judgement. I have no doubt they will acquiesce, if you both do.” 

A moment of silence. Tighnari feels his heart pound in his chest.

“Your sheer insolence is astounding,” the queen finally says. “And yet you speak the truth, however disrespectfully.” She sighs, turns to the king. “Perhaps, if we give Cyno another year to find someone—just one year, mind you…”

The king nods. “Now is as good a time as any,” he says. “Their courtship is nearly over, but the wedding preparations have barely begun yet, after all.”

“Thank you,” Tighnari says. Relief and sorrow wash over him like a wave. This is it; it is done. It is done. “Thank you, truly.” 

“It is a pity,” the king says, turning back to him. “We really thought—” He shares a glance with the queen. “We were looking forward to calling you our son. But I suppose some things are just not meant to be.” 

“Tell us, Tighnari,” the queen says, almost gentle. “Were you, too, so opposed to this match?” 

“No,” Tighnari says quietly. “No, I was not. But I will not stand in the way of Cyno’s happiness. He is—” Tighnari’s voice breaks, and he forces a smile. “He is my dearest friend, you see.” 

He decides to leave before Cyno returns.

It is a coward’s move, Tighnari knows. And yet his heart cannot handle much more, so he writes a letter.

Cyno, Tighnari begins, by the time you read this, I will have left for home. 

His eyes are hot; there is a lump in his throat. He swallows and forces himself to continue, wiping away the tears that inevitably come. I’m sure you will forgive me for my hurried departure, he writes, even as his vision grows blurry. 

It is all he can do to not write his true feelings: I adore you, I adore you, I love you. 

Tighnari rides away from the palace alone, after bidding Dehya farewell.

The desert, he realises, is a beautiful place. He hadn’t thought so when he’d first arrived. All he’d seen was the barren solitude of it, just as all he’d seen of Cyno was his cold exterior. But he knows now: there is always beauty, if you look harder, if you open your eyes and your heart. 

His parents are overjoyed to have him back. And Tighnari, too, is glad to see them and his beloved rainforest again, even though his return is bittersweet.

His father looks guilty. “Was the prince so awful?” he says. “Tighnari, I’m sorry—I did not know you objected so strongly to this engagement.” 

“We were not suited for each other in such a way,” Tighnari tells them simply. “It was nobody’s fault.” 

“All I’d heard was that he was a good man,” his father says. 

“No, you were right about that,” Tighnari says, and forces himself to smile. He will not cry. “He was kind, truly. He was really so kind.” 

For the next few days, Tighnari settles back into his old routines. But if anyone notices him spending longer than usual in his room, nobody asks. It makes things easier to just read and read and write, and fill his head with other things. So he sits there and tries to figure out the bioluminescence of Nilotpala lotuses, until there is a knock on his door.

“My prince,” Al-Haitham says, knocking, “there is someone here to see you.” 

Tighnari does not look up from his notes. “I am unwell.”

“I saw you practising archery this morning, my prince. You are as unwell as water is dry.” 

Tighnari groans quietly. “Fine,” he says. “I’m coming, I’m coming.”

He opens the door. Standing in front of him, his hair windswept from travel, is Cyno. Tighnari’s heart sinks to the bottom of the sea. 

“Your Highness,” he says. His mouth is dry. 

“Tighnari,” says Cyno. He, too, looks nervous. “May I come in?”

No, Tighnari thinks, please, no. Out loud, he says, “Of course.”

Cyno steps inside; Al-Haitham leaves and closes the door behind him. Somehow, Cyno looks out of place here, among the wood and greenery. He seems to feel it, too, shifting awkwardly from foot to foot.

“You—you didn’t say goodbye,” he finally says. 

“No,” Tighnari says quietly, so mortified he wants to die. “Please forgive me for my rudeness.” 

“No, that’s not why—that’s not why I came here.” Cyno swallows, steps closer to him. “Tighnari, why didn’t you tell me?”

“You were away, I didn’t want to impose any longer on your parents—”

“No, not that,” Cyno says. He steps even closer, his gaze intent. “I meant—why didn’t you tell me you loved me? Why did I have to find out only after you’d already left?”

It is as if the sky has come crashing down. “What?” Tighnari whispers. “I don’t,” he says, and even he wouldn’t be convinced by his own lie. “I don’t.”

“Don’t lie to me—”

“I’m not—”

“I know what you did for me!” Cyno says, raising his voice. “I know what you said to my parents, I read your letter, I—” His voice trembles. “I am dull when it comes to things like this, I am thickheaded, but even I can tell, when you—”

Tighnari is horrified. After all he’d done to keep his secret, only to have it fall apart like this. 

“If I am mistaken,” Cyno says, a little quieter, “if I am delusional, look me in the eye and tell me—” 

“I didn’t want you to know!” Tighnari bursts out. “You are so—you are so kind, so dutiful—after everything, how could I let you know?” He is shaking, angry at his own vulnerability, at having his heart bared against his will. He does not want to cry again. “So do forgive me, Your Highness, for not wanting to be married out of pity!”

Cyno is silent for a moment. “I see,” he finally says, gentle, and reaches out to take Tighnari’s hand. “I understand. I am sorry for upsetting you. But this—” He sinks to one knee. “This is not pity, Tighnari. Nor is it duty. Please, believe me.” 

Tighnari is rendered speechless. His heart is a frenzied bird, wings beating, pounding. He feels so much he does not know what he feels. Slowly, gently, Cyno presses something small and round into Tighnari’s hand, and closes his fingers over it. Almost absently, Tighnari turns over his hand to inspect it, and—

There, in his palm, sits a fresh fig. A fig, in all its simple, familiar glory. 

“‘You’ll be stuck with me until we die,’ was it?” Cyno says quietly, and smiles. “Well then, I hope you are a man of your word, Fignari.”

Tighnari wants to laugh; he wants to cry. When he can finally speak, his voice is hoarse. “You are unbelievable,” he whispers. His tail is wagging, unable to stop. 

“Yes,” Cyno says, still smiling. “Insufferable too, or so I’ve been told.” Tighnari laughs—he can’t help it. “But if you could do me the greatest of kindnesses and overlook these terrible flaws, then please accept me. I beg of you.” 

He looks expectant, nervous, hopeful. Seeing him like this, something in Tighnari’s chest finally settles. He goes down to his knees so that they are eye level. “You do not have to beg,” he says, and reaches out to take Cyno’s face in his hands, and kisses him. 

Cyno kisses him back, and it is unbearably lovely, like that time under the stars, although this time there is no sorrow to speak of. Perhaps Tighnari is crying a little. Perhaps he is laughing a little. Perhaps Cyno is doing the same. Together, they lose their balance and tumble softly to the floor, almost like clumsy children. 

“I didn’t know,” Tighnari whispers, when they break apart for air, “I never thought you…”

“Likewise,” Cyno says, gentle. 

Still a little mortified, Tighnari buries his face in Cyno’s chest. “We are truly unbelievable idiots,” he says. 

Cyno laughs. And then Tighnari sighs.

“What is it?”

“Nothing,” Tighnari says, looking up at Cyno. He winces. “I just realised—well, we are going to be teased mercilessly. ”

At this, Cyno smiles. “Indeed,” he says, and presses the gentlest of kisses to Tighnari’s forehead. “But that’s rather a small price to pay, I think.” 

“It is,” Tighnari says, grinning, and pulls him down for another kiss. 

They are wed in the desert, under the shade of the Ajilenakh palms. 

The two of them wear garlands of flowers—violet, golden—on their heads, silver bangles on their wrists. The sun shines overhead. There is dancing and music and gifts and food, and it seems that almost all the kingdom is in attendance. If anyone notes that there are more fig-related dishes than is customary at a wedding, nobody objects. Tighnari’s parents are here as well; his mother’s face is already stained with tears of joy. Tighnari cannot blame her. It is a joyous day, a day for laughter and tears alike. 

He takes Cyno’s hands in front of everyone, and they recite their vows. And then the high priest speaks, proclaims that the two princes are now united forever, as witnessed by the sun and sky and sand—

Tighnari kisses Cyno before the priest has finished speaking. A little scandalous? Perhaps, but the surprised smile on Cyno’s lips is worth it. His initiative seems well-received by the people too, who laugh and cheer at the forest prince’s forwardness and affection. 

And then, as if a miracle, rain—falling sweet and soft as feathers, even as the sun shines golden above them. There are exclamations of wonder, of joy. Children reach for the sky, stick out their tongues to catch raindrops. Laughter rings through the air. Tighnari’s heart is full, full, overflowing. 

He turns back to Cyno, who looks at him so gently and so fondly it makes his heart flutter, who looks happier than Tighnari has ever seen him, whose eyes are brighter than usual. 

“Cyno,” Tighnari says, smiling, unbelievably fond, “Cyno, are you crying?”

Cyno laughs and wipes away the wetness on his cheeks. He takes Tighnari’s face in his hands, pressing their foreheads together gently. 

“Of course not,” he says. “This is merely the rain.” 

Prince Cyno of the Great Red Sand has a secret. 

The secret is a letter, long forgotten by its author, tucked away in a safe place in their bedroom. Should the prince’s lovely husband—the author in question—learn of its continued existence, no doubt he would burn it out of embarrassment. So Prince Cyno keeps it a secret to himself, and thinks about it from time to time, and smiles. 

Near-prophetically, this letter reads: 

Cyno,

By the time you read this, I will have left for home. I’m sure you will forgive me for my hurried departure—after all, you have forgiven me for much worse. 

These past few months with you have been an utter joy, and I will think of them fondly even when I am old and senile. I was truly fortunate that out of all the princes and princesses in the world, you were the one I was promised to, even if that promise was not made by us. 

Cyno, you are kind and strong and lovely. I am sure that you will find someone who loves you dearly and knows you deeply. I am sure this fortunate person you choose will be just as wonderful as you. I am sure that your life together will be blessed and golden.  

Please believe me when I say I wish for your happiness more than anything in the world. 

With love,

Tighnari