Lina and Kian promptly fell asleep outside once dinner was over. Kian had draped himself over Lina's shoulder, who had dozed off leaning against her own arms. Aarin didn't have the heart to wake them up and send them off to the Order, so he let them be. He and Nirvan gathered the plates and bowls, and the ghost lord arranged them in a basket to be cleaned by the stream. Aarin looked at Nirvan working. It was clear he wasn't used to this, but he still handled the utensils with such care that it made his chest feel just a little warmer.
Aarin didn't even notice when the ghost lord turned around and caught his wandering eyes. Ah, busted.
"You should just come closer if you want a better look, you know?" Nirvan dusted his hands with a smirk.
Aarin rolled his eyes and walked over. "Don't flatter yourself. Let's go; if we don't wash these early, they'll stain."
Leaving the asleep Lina and Kian on the grass, the two made their way to the stream. The moon was high that night, silver light illuminating their path. They walked side by side. Nirvan, carrying the basket, was sticking to him like a shadow. Aarin didn't mind even if he found it a little strange.
Soon, the sound of running water came from up ahead. The stream was small, humble compared to the many rivers just a bit farther away, but it was the closest water source to Aarin's hut. The ripples of water sparkled in the dim light like pearls and diamonds were caught in them. Nirvan took a seat with his legs crossed and began washing plates without a word. Aarin sat next to him and rinsed the bowls, watching Nirvan's work intently to make sure no grime was left behind. The wooden and clay surfaces soaked in water, turning into darker shades of brown and red.
Once done with his part, Aarin rested his chin on the heel of his hand and stared at Nirvan. The ghost looked rather beautiful in the moonlight, unruly dark hair shining like black glass beads. The flowing water reflected in his gray eyes like a cool, cloudy sky. His dark, warm skin looked even more regal in contrast to the cool blue light from the stream's reflection.
Aarin cleared his throat and looked away before Nirvan could notice, coughing into his fist.
The ghost looked at him. "What's wrong? Are you alright? Should I fetch you some water, or-"
"No, no, it's fine," Aarin cut in hastily and shook his head. He could feel Nirvan studying him for a little while before he chuckled softly.
"My memories don't do justice to how adorable you are," the ghost sighed. Aarin felt his face grow warm. In retaliation, he plunged his hand in the stream, curling his palm; he lifted a respectable amount of cold water and splashed it square in Nirvan's face. The ghost sputtered and fell on his back.
"What-!?"
Aarin responded with a nonchalant shrug. Nirvan pushed himself up and splashed Aarin with water. Cold seeped through the silk of his clothes and pressed into his skin. He gasped, startled that the ghost would retaliate, before a small smile made its way to his lips.
"You picked the wrong fight," Aarin swiftly got up and stepped closer to the water, his stance defensive.
"You started it!" Nirvan laughed, doing the same. Aarin lowered himself to the ground some more, using the difference in their height to his advantage. He cupped both his hands in the water and launched it towards Nirvan. The ghost stumbled back and kicked up, sending drops flying in an elegant arc. Aarin dodged it, gracefully moved towards him, and pushed the ghost lord. Nirvan lost his balance, but Aarin grabbed the front of his clothes, keeping his head right above the water.
"Do you admit defeat?" Aarin asked with an amused smile. Nirvan looked at him and grinned.
"Tough luck."
The ghost grabbed his wrist and pulled him down. Aarin's eyes widened in surprise as they fell. Both of them crashed into the cold, shallow water. Some of it got into his nose and mouth, and Aarin choked on it. Nirvan cackled, but oh, Aarin wasn't done, no, no, no. He wanted to win.
This was… fun.
He didn't want this moment to end.
He summoned spiritual energy, pearly white and divine, and pushed Nirvan backwards with it. The ghost looked shocked for a moment, and Aarin thought maybe he had gone too far. However, the amused smile that slowly spread on Nirvan's lips told him otherwise.
"How cruel, Master Aarin," the ghost sighed, and Aarin could see black and gold matter shimmering in his palm. "Bullying an innocent man like me?"
"What innocent man?" Aarin grinned and leaned forward, his wet hair falling before his eyes. "I see a very dangerous ghost lord in need of discipline."
Nirvan gasped and fanned himself with his other hand. "What if your juniors heard you speak this way?"
"Then they would watch and learn." Aarin lunged with another ball of spiritual light. Nirvan used the proximity to place his hand against Aarin's chest, and the cold, ghostly energy froze him momentarily. He noticed how Nirvan was going easy on him; the attack was weak, and there was not nearly as much force behind the hit as there should've been. Aarin let out a laugh at the thought.
"You're pulling your punches for me?" Aarin raised an eyebrow. "That used to be my job."
Nirvan hummed, "Nothing misses your eye, eh, Master Aarin?"
"Don't hold back." Aarin raised his hand, heavenly light swirling in the outstretched palm. "I can take it."
"Alright, alright." Nirvan slowly stood up straighter, his skin shining with the water, dhoti sticking to his body. "I'll give you what you want."
Water sprayed around them as they clashed. Fists flew. Warm, heavenly energy met cold, ghostly one. Nirvan blocked every hit, and Aarin dodged gracefully. It was like a dance, the singing of the river and their footsteps being the accompanying music. Nirvan blocked Aarin's punch and ducked, rising to wrap Aarin in a headlock. Aarin moved out of the way just in time, using Nirvan's line of motion to shove him down by the nape.
As the ghost fell, Aarin chuckled and leapt atop Nirvan. He pinned him by sitting on his torso, both knees planted on either side. He made sure the ghost's head rested on a shallow edge and not underwater, and grabbed his wrists, holding them down over Nirvan's head.
The stream sang merrily around them. Drenched and cold, Aarin gasped for breath atop the ghost, grinning wildly. His lungs ached for air, and his chest heaved with each exhale. Nirvan smiled back at him, his eyes so full of something warm, fluid in its movement and yet solid in how certain it was. Aarin didn't know how to interpret it, it allured him and terrified him in equal measures.
"You lose." Aarin leaned forward until their noses almost touched. "I've won."
"I admit defeat," Nirvan declared dramatically.
"What happened to those outstanding skills of yours?" Aarin hummed.
"I know my place beneath Master Aarin all too well," Nirvan nodded with a stupid little smile.
Aarin slowly realized where he was, the proximity and the position they were in. Red spread from his ears to the very tip of his nose as he hastily climbed off the ghost and jumped away. He refused to look at Nirvan and began arranging the washed dishes. He could hear Nirvan gasping for breath behind him, laughing under his breath, but Aarin resolutely ignored it.
"Let's- let's go," he muttered, already making his way to the hut. Nirvan called his name and ran to catch up. Both of them were still drenched to the core, but the heat within Aarin made the cold water bearable. Nirvan thankfully didn't say anything and only walked by his side.
By the time they got back, Lina and Kian had changed positions. Lina was curled up where she'd been sitting, and Kian had somehow moved all the way to the entrance of the hut in his sleep, all four limbs spread haphazardly.
Aarin shook his head. "They're going to catch a cold if they stay this way."
Nirvan grabbed a towel and began dapping the cloth on his arms. Aarin pointedly avoided looking at the other and did the same. Once he was moderately dry, clothes now sticking to skin from the evaporating moisture, Aarin scooped up Lina and threw Kian over his shoulder. He staggered a little, but that was probably the light exhaustion. One doesn't become a reaper without some strength after all.
He gently laid both of them inside, carefully avoiding Shimu's napping figure. Once he was satisfied with their position on the cot, Aarin blew out the candles and shut the door. He found Nirvan still sitting by the fire outside, plates and utensils arranged in their place. Still a little awkward, he sat beside the ghost to enjoy the heat from the slowly dying flames.
"The void-like ink," Nirvan started. Aarin turned towards the ghost so fast he almost got whiplash.
"You'll tell me?"
"I promised I'd tell you if you beat me in a duel, right?" Nirvan leaned back languidly, looking at Aarin with his head tilted to the side. It took an embarrassing amount of time for him to realize that Nirvan was considering their little scuffle in the stream a duel. It was so ridiculous it was almost hilarious.
"You're… you're something, alright," Aarin said, bewildered. "But I'm not complaining."
Nirvan shifted his gaze to look at the fire.
"It has a name, the ink. They call it the Molten Night in the ghost realm."
Aarin didn't respond, waiting for Nirvan to continue at his own pace. Once the fire before them halved in size, the ghost finally continued.
"It's a byproduct of a ritual, one to trap a large number of souls in one place." He clenched his fist so tightly his knuckles turned white. "I only know of one person who can perform it."
Aarin hesitantly reached out and softly placed his hand on Nirvan's clenched fist. He didn't know how to help, but he remembered the other would always relax at physical contact when they were still human. It still had effect, apparently, as the ghost loosened his grip.
"Who is it?" Aarin questioned, his voice almost as quiet as the fire's soft crackling.
"It's-" Nirvan inhaled deeply. "It's Navin."
Aarin's eyes widened in horror, and the air was suddenly too thin to breathe properly. "What-?"