#a literate lizard

[tae-ffxiv]

Prompt #9: Lend an Ear

He can't help but stare at the round little fleshy bit that sits where a horn ought to be, sticking out through the dusting of Ayla's red hair.

He looks a little closer.

There's a hole there. There shouldn't be a hole there.

"What it is like to have hole in your head?" he asks.

("Khai, you have holes in your head.")

"It's good for letting music through!" the bard answers cheerily.

Khai gasps, "It goes through?" He leans down to try and see through, but he can't. Just a black hole.

He 'hmmmm's.

"You ever have anything stuck in it?"

"One time I got a bug stuck in there and I still have nightmares about it."

Khai shudders - he wants to ask 'what kind of bug?' but notices the bard's face seems to have paled slightly.

There's a brief silence while they both recover from - for Ayla, the memory - and for Khai, the thought, but Khai can't help but return to investigating the bard's ear.

"What will happen if…" he mutters to himself. Then he blows in it.

With a yelp, the bard launches herself a good ten yalms into the air.

"Oh. I forget she can do this." Khai comments as he watches her ascent.

[tae-ffxiv]

Prompt #1: Cross

It’s fine. It’s just an empty glass jar. Just a little bit of food. Not even food, really. Barely costs a noteworthy amount of gil. It’s just… a very disappointing breakfast.

“Khai, I hate your damn beetle.” Ambaghai slams the jar down onto the counter, quickly regretting the decision as sound makes him wince. 

Khai pauses in the door of the bedroom he’d just emerged from, rubbing his eyes and clearly not yet fully awake, “Eh? What?”

Ambaghai makes a gesture at the empty jar, which - judging by Khai’s expression - clarifies absolutely nothing.

“He’s been staring at that thing and sulking for a solid five minutes at this point,” Dayir comments. He sits beside the fire pit, contentedly sipping on some milk tea as he arranges fresh biscuits on a large dish.

“What? I’m not sulking.” Amba objects, gaze fixed on the cat as she her nose into the jar curiously. He feels the urge to swipe it away from her, as though that will somehow restore what was lost, and instead crosses his arms against the impulse.

Khai looks questioningly at the jar, and then at Amba, “But what did Sparky do? She’s innocent!”

Amba uncrosses one arm to briefly gesture at the jar again before folding it back under the other. “She ate my jam!”

Khai looks at the jar again. “How do you know it was her? Look! Puffball likes it too!”

The cat raises her head from the jar momentarily when she hears her name, licks her snout, and then immediately returns to licking the interior of the jar. 

Amba only frowns, “The floor - and the walls - are covered in sticky jam prints that were definitely not made by a cat.”

Khai looks to the ground and spots the prints in question, then looks up to Amba with a sheepish smile.

“Uh… you have more jam?”

Amba takes a long breath, and lets out a similarly long breath, accompanied by a low growl. He picks up the jar, staring down at it as he speaks. “This was apricot…”

Khai’s smile lingers a moment longer then drops as he realizes, his gaze sliding over to Dayir, who offers him a sympathetic smile and a single-shouldered shrug, a hint of amusement lighting his eyes.

Puffball meows loudly at Amba, indignant at having her snack taken away, and he looks at her, then sighs and relents, placing the jar back on the counter for her before he turns toward the fire pit to take a seat.

“It’s my favourite,” he grumbles quietly. Dayir slides a cup of milk tea in his direction, and he frowns at it for a moment before accepting it.

Khai takes this as a sign that his brother’s done sulking - mostly - and heads over to join the other two for breakfast.

“You owe me for putting up with that thing,” Amba says as he reaches over for one of the biscuits.

As Khai laughs, Amba finds himself wondering how long beetles live for.

[tae-ffxiv]

Prompt #6: Onerous

The pain never fully went away. If Dayir was lucky, it would be nothing more than a dull ache that he could almost tune out and ignore. If he was unlucky…

Today he is unlucky, waking with the pain radiating throughout his torso, spreading to his shoulders. He lets out a half-groan, half-whine as he rolls onto his back, grateful there’s no one else in the room currently to hear it. It’s all he allows for himself as he lies there, preparing to get up, wishing he didn’t have to.

You don’t. 

He could lie here all day, but that would lead to questions. So he sits up slowly. He folds the mattress and the blanket and stows them in the usual place. The process is slow, slower than normal, the pain weighing down his movements. 

There’s nothing physically wrong, he knows that already, but it’s hard to put the same energy into his actions when the aching (is that even the right word) demands his attention. A physical parallel to someone shouting in his face. 

He prepares some tea, and Ambaghai and Khai join him soon enough. Amba notices something off almost immediately. Dayir brushes it off with a smile when he asks. He portions out the tea. He tries to relax, to return his posture to a normal one, rather than the slightly-hunched one he didn’t realize he’d taken on. 

But it’s too late, Amba’s aware something is wrong, even if he hadn’t pushed any further after Dayir’s initial non-answer. He’s watching Dayir like a hawk, with poorly hidden concern. 

After breakfast he settles onto the couch with a book. The book is mostly cover. He doesn’t want to read it. Can’t. Too hard to concentrate. Each sentence gets away from him and he finds himself starting over repeatedly. Until he gives up. He watches Khai and Amba feed the pets, smiles at the little dance Mouse does when Panther makes it to the food first. He turns down Khai’s offer to join him to walk the dogs. 

More concern from Amba. Still, he doesn’t push. Dayir almost wishes he would. Maybe there’s something he can do. But what? He can’t fix a wound that isn’t there. 

Later in the day he finds himself in the bath, hoping it might help. Perhaps the right oils, the right temperature. There’s little change but he feels no desire to leave.

A knock comes at the door, and Amba slips into the room, takes a seat on the low counter beside the bath.

He finally brings it up a second time, “Something is wrong.”

“I’m alright,” Dayir smiles at him. Mostly genuine - a little forced.

Amba looks unconvinced, “Are you hurt?”

“No, I’m not.” Nothing physically wrong. It’s not really a lie.

“You just seem -”

“Amba,” Dayir stops him, “Please.”

Amba’s mouth snaps shut. It looks like a struggle, but he takes a breath and nods. His eyes roam about the small room before he eventually settles them back on Dayir, “Do you need anything from me?”

The question takes him by surprise, though welcome. It takes him a second to respond, a softer, less-forced smile on his lips as he does, “Your company is just fine.”

Amba blinks at him, fidgets subtly as though trying to resist saying something. Another deep breath and another nod, a small smile, “Alright.” He relaxes where he sits, leaning back against the wall. 

Dayir shifts a bit to sink a little deeper into the bath. “Actually. Is it appropriate to drink tea in a bath?”

Another small smile - amused. “I can get you some.” Amba replies, standing from the counter. 

He considers asking for something with the tea. Something for pain - if it would even work. But then he would have to tell Amba. And he can’t. The way he would look at him if he knew… pity and concern and guilt, and he clearly felt all of those things enough already.

So Dayir just smiles at him. “Thanks.”

It’s only a few minutes before Amba returns, handing Dayir some tea and the sitting back on the counter with his own. They sit in amicable silence as they sip at it.

It doesn’t help.

[tae-ffxiv]

Prompt #4 (Bonus Day): Teeth

CW: sexuality

They didn’t always need words to communicate. One could ask a question even when the mouth was occupied. It was a simple gesture - one that had become a familiar one from Dayir. To catch Amba’s lip lightly between his teeth while they kissed, run his tongue along it before releasing it again. 

A question. A suggestion.

Do you want to…?

The answer would come in a similarly wordless fashion:

… Breaking off the kiss. Staring softly back at him, not quite making eye contact. 

No.

Usually this was followed by Dayir with a ‘sorry’, and then a ‘don’t be’ before they resumed what they were doing. These words sometimes spoken aloud, sometimes not.

… Pausing the kiss,  a thoughtful purse of the lips and tilt of the head before resuming.

Undecided. We’ll see.

And Dayir would smile against him, happy to accept either outcome.

… Deepening the kiss. A tightening of his hands wherever they lay on Dayir’s body, pressing him in closer.

Yes.

There were other ways that answer could come, but this was one of the most definitive. Hands would wander, kisses stray away from each other’s mouths. They’d fall into familiar motions and rhythms until they both lay side by side, content and satisfied, a lazy conversation drifting between the two of them.

It had been so easy, back then. 

Now they sit in the living room, on separate pieces of furniture, no communication passing between them, spoken or otherwise. Dayir wonders briefly what would happen if he were to kiss him now - catch his lip between his teeth like he used to. But he doesn’t move. And Amba - for his part - seems entirely oblivious to the thoughts cycling through his husband’s head.

[tae-ffxiv]

Prompt #26: Break a Leg

Ambaghai comes to the matches, but that’s all that can be said.

He doesn’t wish him luck, nor congratulate him on any victories. He doesn’t sit in the stands to watch, only waits in the rooms beneath for the match to be done. 

Ambaghai checks over Dayir’s gear before the match, avoiding meeting his eyes as he ensures there’s nothing wrong with it. There’s a heavy silence between them when Dayir speaks to him he receives only one-word responses. 

It’s a poor attempt to try to mask his disapproval. To act like he’s fine with Dayir being here. But Amba’s an even worse actor than he is a liar.

Before he leaves for the match Dayir offers him a half-smile. He tries. “Wish me luck?”

Ambaghai gives him a long look, and Dayir pretends he doesn’t see the resentment in his eyes before he crosses his arms and turns his gaze away.

“Don’t get hurt.”

And then it’s time for the match.

—

It’s not just about winning, but putting on a show. He’d had that drilled into him after his first few wins. He’s not just here to fight, but to entertain.

Now he draws out the fights, dodging around opponents and striking with motions not commonly seen in Eorzea, throwing in unnecessary and often impractical acrobatics to the mix. He usually has his opponent panting before he delivers a winning blow.

He’s had to learn to take a fall. Both because - as he’s learned is common in Ul’dah - some of the matches are rigged, and because of his own oddities. To take a blow and act as though it affects him the same way it would anyone else. A gash to the leg that should bring him to a knee. A blow to the abdomen that should leave him writhing in pain. Not that it doesn’t hurt. It just doesn’t stop him. So he puts on an act, playing it as dramatically as he can - a valiant resistance in the face of defeat, or an unlikely victory pulled from the last moment.

The crowd cheers, and he retreats to the rooms beneath the stands. 

Ambaghai waits for him, checks over him. He’s convinced the Colosseum staff and some of the other fighters that he’s a proper magical healer, so that they don’t question the rate that his wounds heal, hoping they don’t notice the inconsistency between himself and Khai.

Amba doesn’t comment when he finds a wound, wraps it in bandages. He had the first few times, but in the end, he doesn’t want to fight. 

Dayir knows that Ambaghai would be happier if he quit the Colosseum altogether, but in truth, he doesn’t want to. There is something satisfying to holding his blades - one more familiar to him than his own reflection in a mirror - in each hand. About fighting an opponent that he isn’t expected to kill, or maim, or slaughter. The fact that he’s chosen to be here, fighting against people who have - for the most part - also chosen to be here. Not against some farmer’s son forced to take up arms in a fight that neither of them even want to fight. 

The physical fight comes with a sense of release that he needs at present. And the choice brings him a sense of liberty he’s craved for years.

Perhaps he should tell Ambaghai that, but he doesn’t. Because he doesn’t want to speak about the intervening years. So the words and the reasons go unspoken.

— 

Usually when they return from the arena the tension disappears. He can joke with Amba the way he used to, hold lazy conversations, or simply lean up against him with a dog or a book or both. 

Sometimes it remains and spurs another fight. 

“-- Not made of glass, Amba! And I’d appreciate it if you’d stop treating me as though I were!” Frustration laces Dayir’s tone, his voice raised, though not quite at a shout.

“Well, if you’d stop acting like you’re invincible -” Amba retorts, and Dayir cuts him off.

“You don’t know that I’m not!”

“And you don’t know that you are!”

Dayir clenches his jaw, takes a deep breath as he directs his eyes at the ceiling, “That doesn’t mean you can just bundle me up in a pile of woolen blankets and tuck me away into a corner somewhere where nothing can ever touch me!”

“I wasn’t - I’m not -” A clench of fists as Ambaghai works out his words, “It doesn’t mean you should be willingly putting yourself in positions where you can get hurt!”

“Amba, why are you -”

“Because you died, Dayir! I can’t -” Ambaghai’s mouth continues to move for a second even after words stop coming out. He snaps it shut, twists some rings on his fingers and - when he notices what he’s doing - clenches his hands into fists.

Dayir has no response, and Ambaghai turns toward the door.

But Khai’s there already, blocking Amba’s path.

Amba freezes.

“Move, Khai.”

“No! You only ever run away when there’s an issue! Why don’t you talk? You used to talk!”

“Khai, move.”

“No.”

Ambaghai makes a grab for Khai’s shirt, attempting to drag him away from the door, but only prompting Khai to grab him by the shoulders and push him backward away from it.

“Okay, enough, enough!” Dayir makes a grab for Amba - the easier to corral of the two - and drags him away from Khai.

“Let go!” Ambaghai moves to brush Dayir away, but Dayir’s already released him before he can get the full request out.

Abrupt silence falls over the room, both Dayir and Khai’s eyes trained on Ambaghai, who makes for the door again. Khai blocks his way again.

And despite his frustration, Dayir feels a pang of concern run through him as he watches Ambaghai. He doesn’t try again, only stands, seemingly rooted to the spot, as he moves his hands about as though he doesn’t know what to do with them, fists clenching and unclenching. 

A hand moved to the back of his neck, fingers digging in briefly before he moves it away again, finally crossing his hands - both fists clenched tight - under his arms.

Signs that he’s reached the point of emotional stress that steals the words out of his throat.

Ambaghai whirls on a heel brushes past Dayir on the way to the bedroom.

“Amba -” Khai starts to go after him, but Dayir holds his hands up to stop him.

“Khai, I know you mean well, but you can’t just force Amba to talk. He doesn’t work like that.”

Khai’s frustration vanishes immediately as his expression twists into one of upset, “I know, I just -”

“I get it, Khai.”

Dayir looks toward the bedroom and a memory flashes through his mind.

Ambaghai’s forehead pressed against his clavicle, clinging at him like a lifeline while Dayir tells him to breathe. The breath is long and ragged, as though even breathing has become a struggle. His thumb brushing over Amba’s hair, holding him close as he tries to help him through whatever’s happening in his head.

Dayir rubs a hand over his face. “He really hasn’t gotten better, has he?”

“Huh?”

“With the emotions.”

“Worse,” Khai answers, and unhappy frown on his face.

Dayir closes his eyes and nods. “Okay,” he takes a deep breath. “Alright.”

He turns toward the bedroom.

Amba sits on the edge of his bed, hunched over with his arms crossed on his knees. He doesn’t so much as twitch when Dayir drifts over to him.

“Amba,” Dayir kneels in front of him, placing a solid hand on his shoulder and trailing it down his arm, “I’m still pissed, but we’ll deal with that later. Right now I just need you to breathe, okay?”

He moves his hand over one of Amba’s fists, brushing a thumb over his knuckles.

It takes a few moments for Ambaghai to even respond to his presence, but eventually he unclenches his fist enough to wrap his fingers around Dayir’s, clutching at them tightly as he leans forward to press his head to Dayir’s. Dayir raises his other hand to Amba’s shoulder.

“Breathe,” he repeats.

Amba does. 

It takes a while, but eventually he breathes normally, his grip on Dayir’s fingers loosening.

By the time he speaks again, they’re both sitting on the bed, backs against the wall. Close, but not quite touching. Puffball has invited her to curl up on Amba’s lap, and he massages her fur absently.

“I’m sorry. I just -” a sigh, “I don’t-”

Dayir places a hand on Amba’s knee and Amba looks over at him. 

“Later. When you’ve thought it out.”

Ambaghai looks conflicted, but eventually he nods, dropping his gaze to Puffball.

Dayir gets up to leave, but Amba grabs his hand before he can.

“Thank you.”

Dayir squeezes his hand in a silent, ‘you’re welcome.’

“I’m still pissed at you.”

Ambaghai nods, “I know.”

“We’ll talk about it.”

Another nod. “Promise.”

“Good.”

Ambaghai lets go of his hand so he can leave. Dayir pauses. He reaches a hand to the side of Amba’s neck and leans in. A quick kiss to the forehead.

“Well figure this out,” he says. Then slides off the bed and leaves.

[tae-ffxiv]

Prompt #2: Bolt

The night looms dark, and the enemy looms darker. A twisted monster that had once been human - a civilian he had tried to save - while a man screams in the background for his father. Too late. 

Dayir should have been dead three times over with these wounds. Anyone else - anyone normal - would have been, but for him the blood comes slowly and never seems to run out. Pain is another story, slowing his movements and finally driving him to a knee in the onslaught of not just the former-man, but the other creatures - other blasphemies - that had converged on the small group. 

He wonders just how much even he can survive as the looming figure raises a claw as large as his arm to strike him down. He thinks of the voice over the linkshell that he’d not heard in years, and has his answer:

More than this.

A hand tightens around the hilt of his blade at the same moment that his vision goes white.

He doesn’t hear the shout over the thunder that accompanies it - lightning that splits the night and lights the sky like day. A vision of another’s fury, and fear, and rage that blinds him and brings him back briefly to another night where he’d seen much the same - one of the last visions that he had ever seen. He’d been here before. 

His vision returns as the lightning fades, no trace of the monster that had stood above him. There’s the sound of  footsteps pounding through the snow and a figure drops to a knee before him.

A pair of silver eyes that he’s seeing only now for the first time since he woke - a sight that threatens to freeze him; to stop his breath just long enough for him to realise he doesn’t even need it. They move from the blood in the snow to his face with worry, and Dayir stares right back into them, and sees everything reflected in them. The thoughts and the feelings that he’s even now trying to process. Then he remembers the sword in his hand.

“Later,” he whispers.

Ambaghai’s brow furrows, before his gaze snaps into focus and he offers a nod. “Later.”

He rises to his feet, turning to face the enemies that remain, and Dayir stands with him.

He’d been here before. His blood in the snow and lightning in the sky in the dark of the night. Only this time, the enemy was greater.

Only this time, he’d still be breathing by the end of it.

[tae-ffxiv]

Prompt #8: Tepid

Khulan made good company, even if - they had found - company was all they really wanted from each other. 

She sits humming a lazy tune nearby, while Dayir stares down into his tea. As he had been doing for the last five minutes.

Eventually the humming comes to a stop, and the absence of the noise almost snaps him out of his reverie. Almost.

What ultimately does it is her voice inquiring, “Something on your mind? Your tea’s getting cold.”

“Huh,” Dayir whips his head around to face her. “No.” He takes a large, long sip of tea.

She stares flatly at him, “Okay, yeah. That’s a lie.”

He lowers the tea after another long sip, and admits, “Yeah, it’s a lie.” 

“So… anything you want to talk about?”

“Not important, really.”

She prods him with a foot, hard enough that it almost knocks him over and some tea splashes from his bowl onto his clothes. “Liar.”

“Hey!” he wipes at the spilled tea, “Fine! Fine, it’s uh. I noticed Chanar’s been… I think he’s taken an interest in Amba?”

Khulan scoffs, then laughs, “Oh, good fucking luck on his part. Amba’s interest in other people is tepid at best. Don’t think it’s even that, really.”

The statement helps loosen the uneasy feeling in Dayir’s chest and he lets out a laugh as well. “You’re right. Nothing to worry about, I’m sure.” He takes a sip of his tea. Khulan was right. It was getting cold.

She raises a brow at him, her laughter dying off a little. “Are you concerned for him?”

“No? Like you said, not like Amba’s going to be interested.” Right? He feels his brow crease.

Somehow Khulan’s brow managed to arch even higher, “Hm. What if he was interested, though?”

Dayir frowns, traces the edge of his bowl with a thumb, “Well, I guess… that’s not really my business.

Khulan gives him a long look of disbelief.

“What?” he asks.

“Wow,” She shakes her head. Then gives him an uneven grin and asks, “Would it bother you if he kissed him?”

Dayir’s mouth drops open just a little, and he snaps it shut almost immediately. “Well, I -” he pauses to consider, brow knitting in the process, “I… guess it would. Huh.” He stares blankly into space as he ponders the revelation, but Khulan interrupts his confusion.

“What if Chanar kissed me, then.” 

Dayir looks at her questioningly. “Do you even want to kiss him?”

“Not the point, Dayir.” She crosses her arms.

He considers for a moment, “I guess I’d say good for you? Not like he’d be able to kiss you if you didn’t want him to. You’d deck him.”

“Hmmm…” Khulan hums in a playful tone.

“What?”

“Well…” she tilts her head at him.

“... What?” he isn’t sure he likes the mischief on her face.

“So,” she points a finger to her chest, “We’ve fucked, and you’re okay with me kissing someone else. But not so okay with Amba kissing someone else.”

“I…” Dayir stares at the wall, puzzled, “Yeah… You’re right.”

“Hmm…”

“Huh.”

Khulan sighs impatiently.

“What?”

An amused eye roll, and she directs her eyes up at the roof ring, “I wonder why that is.” The statement is half sung.

“What do you mean?”

“Think about it.”

There’s a long silence as he does so, staring blankly at her.

“Okay, fine. Let me make it easier. What if you kissed Amba?”

“I -” the quizzical smile drops from his face. And a few moments later a realization sinks in. 

“Okay. There it is.” Khulan stands up, “I’m just gonna leave you with that.” She pats him on the shoulder and heads out of the yurt.

Dayir is left in silence with the new revelation. He thinks it through for some time, and is left with a single thought. 

Amba doesn’t seem to like anyone.

Well. Shit.

[tae-ffxiv]

Prompt #7: Pawn

It’s a little shop not far from where he works, one Amba had run across by chance some weeks back. He’d wandered in to try and find something, a gift, but hadn’t stayed long, uncomfortable with shopping just for the sake of shopping. But he had picked up a stuffed toy in the shape of an animal he’d never come across before for Khai. He didn’t expect he’d ever have come back. But as it turns out, it is one of the few shops in the city where a used item cost nearly the same as new.

A house cost enough money without also being gouged for the items to put in it.

Khai tries out every other piece of furniture there, happily proclaiming whether or not it is comfortable enough to adorn the future house, and Dayir joins him, minus the exaggerated enthusiasm. Amba starts to wander the little shop. He’s not terribly concerned about furniture - the couch they have now is about the only thing he ever sits on, and it’s perfectly fine. 

He finds himself looking at a glass showcase filled with trinkets. Some reading glasses - Dayir already has those. A pair of tinted glasses - hm. Maybe. He glances over a shoulder to where Dayir and Khai are inspecting a footstool. A hollow one, it would seem, as Dayir pulls of the upholstered top, piquing Khai’s interest, who decides he ought to sit in the hollow stool. His ass doesn’t quite fit, and Dayir laughs as he has to help Khai remove himself from it.

“Need something?’ Amba blinks, and turns to the source of the voice. He stares at the shopkeep awkwardly for a moment, then down at the display. “Um.” He points a finger at the tinted glasses, “Do those help you see, or are they just dark?”

The shopkeep looks into the display, “Well, let’s see…” they open up the display, checking the accompanying tags, the pull a pair out to show to Amba, “Looks like these are the only ones that do both -” they offer the glasses for him to inspect. A set with perfectly-round, pink mirrored lenses and brass wire frames. Amba tries to picture Dayir in them, and the image is entirely ridiculous.

“Hm. Perhaps just a regular pair,” he points at a much more normal-looking pair in the display, and the shopkeep pulls them out for Amba to take a look at. They seem fine. He asks the price and pays, slipping the glasses into his satchel before wandering back over to the other two.

Khai is in the middle of inspecting a shelf, standing on the bottom rung to test its strength (presumably). 

“I can put all the stuffed toys on it,” he states, looking at Amba. “It’s a perfect size.”

Amba shrugs, “Buy it then.” 

Khai grins. “I need to find more stuff to put on it.” He starts to browse around the store, poking at random trinkets.

Dayir turns to Amba, “Oh hey, found this.” He pulls a book from under his arm and presents it to Amba. “Now you can know how long to bake your cookies. And how to keep them from doing… whatever the hell that was that they did the last time.”

Amba grimaces at the reminder of the spiky cookies, and considers the cookbook. “I can’t read it.”

“Oh.” Dayir thinks a moment, then shrugs, “I could teach you to read it.”

Amba frowns, “It’s an annoying language.”

“Yeah, written Eorzean is bullshit, but once you learn it, you’ve learned it.”

“Hmmm…” Eventually Amba takes the book and places it on Khai’s shelf. There’s an odd sculpture there that wasn’t there a few moments before, an abstract depiction of what he assumes is meant to be an aldgoat. Or maybe it’s not meant to be anything.

They continue browsing the store, Amba keeping a closer eye on Dayir than any of the merchandise, only paying attention to the things Dayir seems to take an interest in. There’s some floor cushions they pick up, a few dog beds. A pole wrapped in twine that the shopkeep tells them is meant for cats. A few more odd trinkets for Khai. 

Amba stops for a moment to inspect a blanket - rusty orange-red in colour covered in a faded pattern of stars. He takes a mental note of it, and leaves it where it is. He finds a black hat made from wool - likely not well suited to the heat, but the brim is wide. It ends up on the shelf as well.

Eventually they tally up their items and leave, the price burning a somewhat larger hole in their collective pockets than Amba would have like, but it could certainly be worse. 

Dayir winces as they step from the low-lit shop into the sun, hand on his brow to shade his eyes, and Amba remembers his earlier purchase, pulling the glasses from his satchel and offering them over.

“Try these.”

“Oh. I hadn’t thought to look…” Dayir puts them on. “Actually a big help, than - oh.”

The glasses are quickly joined by a wide-brimmed hat that Amba puts unceremoniously on his head. Dayir grabs the brim and adjusts it.

“Okay, well. That also helps. Have to say the sunburnt scalp is one of the reasons I stay inside so much.”

They head back to the apartment, grateful the landlord lets them store the shelf in a basement room until they have their new space.

Amba returns to the shop the next day for the blanket, bringing it back to his workplace for Yuhei to embroider. It’ll be a surprise for the new house, and Amba hopes by the time that it’s ready, they won’t be needing the spare mattress any more.