[ kaveh rolls his eyes. the look he gives midnight is half exasperation, half whatever it is that conveys the utter madness and disbelief that he now actually understands enough to know the meaning behind that string of what should've been nonsense syllables and, unsurprisingly, has opinions about it. ]

It's only a compliment if it's Lateran. And I'd call you a lovely Sarkaz, except you were one already, and you weren't particularly lovely to begin with.

[ but kaveh shuffles forward anyway. the fabric they have here has the consistency of something silken, though whoever kaveh is inhabiting in this story had stained it with paint sometime this century and proved that you couldn't wash paint of out silk no matter how hard you tried. one wing he stretches towards midnight's beckoning hand, and the other, slowly, he stretches towards netzach. gold-gilded feathers brush against the contour of his cheek, where jaw joins the point of his ears.

midnight and netzach, kaveh thinks, have ears that match. something in him warms at that. ]

It's alright, Netzach. [ kaveh says, and props his chin on a hand. ] It's just a story.