Then the air shimmered with familiar warmth, and Cael materialized in the doorway with careful solidity. His footsteps were audible as he crossed the threshold.
“Thank you,” Cael said quietly, something in his voice suggesting the invitation meant more than mere politeness.
Damian closed the door behind them. “I'm making tea. The bitter stuff you complained about last time.”
He prepared the tea with unusual care, warming an extra mug and measuring the herbs with attention usually reserved for medical preparations. When he offered the cup to Cael, their fingers brushed during the transfer.
Cael's fingers tightened around the mug, a soft sound escaping him. “It doesn't burn. Heat without pain.” He cradled the cup. “This feels like being wrapped in something soft.”
Damian's throat tightened. How many basic human experiences had Cael been denied?
They settled in by candlelight, Damian's routine transformed by Cael's presence. Damian reached for a book of poetry, its pages worn soft by handling.
“Do you mind if I read aloud?”
“I would like that.”
Damian began reading verses about longing and connection. With every stanza, Cael leaned closer. When their knees brushed, neither pulled away.
“Why do you let me stay?” Cael asked during a pause between poems. “Most mortals would be terrified to have Death as a regular visitor.”
“Because you're the first person in twenty years who's chosen to really see me rather than just my blindness or my healing abilities.”
Cael drew in a careful breath. “You think I see you?”
“I know you do. You listen to what I actually say. You argue with me when you disagree, which most people won't do because they think blind people are too fragile for honest conversation.”
“You are many things, Damian, but fragile is not one of them.”
The conviction in his voice made Damian smile. “Corrin would disagree. They think I'm one bad day away from complete breakdown.”
“Corrin sees your compassion and mistakes it for weakness.”
The evening stretched into comfortable silence. Neither wanted to break the spell of ordinary intimacy they'd created.
“This is nice,” Damian said softly.
“Nice?”
“Companionable. Having someone here who isn't bleeding or dying. Just... sitting together.”
“I have never experienced 'just sitting together.' It's more pleasant than I expected.”
Damian laughed softly. “Welcome to friendship, Cael.”
“Is that what this is? Friendship?”
The question hung in the air, weighted with implications neither was quite ready to examine.
“I don't know,” Damian said finally. “I've never had a friend quite like you.”
As their comfort deepened, Damian found himself sharing stories he'd never told anyone. “People assume blindness makes you helpless. They speak to whoever's with me instead of talking to me directly.” His voice grew raw. “But the worst part is how they treat my Paincraft. Like it's some kind of miracle that makes up for my disability.”
Cael listened with complete stillness, his attention focused like being held.
“Sometimes I hate it,” Damian continued, his voice quieter. “The Paincraft. It lets me feel everyone else's agony, but I can't stop the systems that cause their suffering. I just absorb the consequences while the real problems continue.”
He'd never spoken these doubts aloud, never given voice to the secret resentment that grew in dark hours.
