After the laughter faded and the river's current washed away the sweat and dust of the day, Kiaan climbed out of the stream and offered a hand to Kavi.
The bundle Nahala had left on a flat rock earlier wrapped in a vibrant cloth waited for them.
Kiaan untied it and handed Kavi the pink sari. "Here's yours," he said, grinning.
Kavi stared at the fabric like it had personally insulted him. "Gosh, this is so embarrassing. I deserve a lungi, not a sari," he grumbled, clutching the garment like it might bite him.
"Too late. Nahala already assigned our roles," Kiaan smirked, stepping into his own lungi and tying it confidently around his hips.
Despite his complaints, Kavi unfolded the sari and tried wrapping it the way he'd seen women do in movies.
"How does this even work?" he muttered, tangling the end of the pallu between his fingers. "This is fashion warfare."
"Stop fighting it," Kiaan said, chuckling as he came closer. "Here, let me help."
Between fumbling hands, stifled giggles, and Kavi half-heartedly threatening to throw himself back into the river, the sari finally came together.
It wasn't perfect but on Kavi's frame, it didn't need to be. His lighter skin peeked through where the fabric dipped across his midriff, and his narrow shoulders carried the weight of the pallu like they were born for it.
He stood still as Kiaan stepped back to look at him.
"No abs. Just vibes," Kavi muttered, trying to hide behind his veil.
But Kiaan's voice was quiet. "It looks like it was made for you."
"Shut up," Kavi said, eyes narrowing, though the corners of his lips curled upward.
At that moment, Nahala stepped out from behind a tree. They had waited respectfully the whole time, giving the boys their privacy. Dressed in their own red sari, hair coiled back, earrings swaying gently, Nahala walked toward them with the same elegance they had when they first greeted them in the village.
"I thought you two would take forever," Nahala said playfully, holding up a small metal container between their palms. "But I waited, because something was missing."
They opened the lid to reveal a smooth red paste.
Kavi raised an eyebrow. "What is that?"
"A bindi," Nahala said. "Now stay still."
Kavi blinked but didn't resist as Nahala gently pressed the red dot onto the center of his forehead. It stood out against his fair skin bold and beautiful.
"Now," Nahala smiled, tilting their head, "you're complete."
Kiaan just stared.
Kavi's wet hair curled slightly at the ends, his veil brushing his cheekbones as the breeze lifted it softly. The pink sari hugged his frame, the bindi shining bright on his forehead like a gemstone.
Kiaan gaze was focused on him when he whispered, "I'm trying to memorize you."
Kavi rolled his eyes. "You're such a drama queen."
But he didn't move. He let him look to his satisfaction.
The dirt road leading back to the village was still warm from the day's sun. Kavi and Kiaan walked barefoot, their damp footprints fading behind them in the dust.
Nahala led the way, occasionally glancing over their shoulder to check if the boys were keeping up not that they needed to.
Kavi's sari fluttered with each step, and even though he grumbled under his breath about tripping over it, he walked with a quiet dignity. Kiaan couldn't stop watching him.
Everything about Kavi in that moment the light sway of his hips, the way the bindi caught the light, the soft flush still lingering on his cheeks looked like a dream pulled from some memory Kiaan didn't know he had.
The house was modest mud walls, a thatched roof, and an open verandah lit with a single hanging bulb that flickered now and then. But it felt warm, alive.
The smell of cooking spices drifted out into the evening air, mingling with the laughter of children and the rhythmic clang of metal utensils.
Nahala's uncle greeted them warmly, a wiry man with deep-set lines carved by the sun and years of hard work. He was barefoot, in a plain white vest and a checked lungi, and embraced Nahala like one would a favorite child. "Tumhare dost aaye hain? (Your friends are here?)" he asked with a proud grin, before beckoning them inside.
They sat cross-legged on mats laid over the cool mud floor. A simple spread was set before them steamed rice, aloo baingan (potato and eggplant curry), fresh roti, and bowls of spicy dal. Everything was served with care, straight from clay pots.
The scent of home-cooked food lingered in the courtyard, but Kiaan's appetite had started to fade. He was watching Kavi.
The plate in front of him remained mostly untouched just like during lunch. Kavi toyed with his food, occasionally lifting a bite to his lips only to pause, hesitate, and then put it down.
He laughed at Nahala's jokes, nodded politely to the uncle's stories, but something was off. His eyes were distant. His hands trembled ever so slightly as he broke a roti in half.
Kiaan's stomach knotted. He'd been noticing it all day how Kavi hadn't eaten much since the walk, how he kept brushing it off with a casual smile or a small excuse. But now, under the dim bulb of the village home, Kiaan saw it clearly.
This wasn't just exhaustion.
This looked like something deeper. Something Kiaan didn't know how to name, but it terrified him.
Was Kavi not eating on purpose? Was this something he had been struggling with alone? For how long?
Kiaan didn't know how to ask. Not here. Not with Nahala's uncle watching with kind eyes and generous hands still ladling dal into their bowls.
Not with Kavi already looking like he was trying his hardest to just hold himself together.
So he said nothing.
But he sat closer. He placed his hand lightly on the small of Kavi's back, just to be near him. Just to be a quiet presence.
After dinner, the they all sat outside. The air had cooled, and the village was quiet. Only the soft sounds of frogs croaking in the distance and the occasional insect hum filled the silence.
Nahala's uncle repeated the challenges they were facing low crop yields, rising costs, and lack of proper support. It wasn't the first time he mentioned it, but this time it felt more personal. Sitting there with them, under the open sky, it was harder to ignore.
Kiaan listened, taking it all in. He was already thinking of ways to help. He wasn't just being polite he meant it. This visit wasn't something he'd forget.
They were supposed to head back to the farmhouse after dinner, but when Nahala's uncle suggested they stay the night, they couldn't refuse. He insisted the courtyard would be comfortable enough.
Nahala set it up with care, laying down blankets and a mattress under a mosquito net. They handed Kavi a lightweight shawl. "Gets cold at night," they said with a smile, before heading inside.
Kavi sat beside Kiaan, wrapping the shawl around himself. The sari he wore earlier was still on, and the bindi Nahala had placed on his forehead was slightly faded but still there.
Kiaan nudged him lightly. "You sure you're alright?"
Kavi didn't answer right away. Then, quietly, he said, "I'm perfectly fine."
Kiaan didn't press. He lay back, pulling the blanket up so Kavi wouldn't feel cold. Kavi moved in closer, resting his head on Kiaan's chest. Kiaan's breathing was slow and steady. It helped Kavi relax.
"I'm here," Kiaan said softly, placing a kiss on his hair.
The sari made a faint rustling sound as Kavi adjusted beside him and got more comfortable.
They stayed like that in silence, wrapped up together under the night sky.