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Adolin Kholin was very good at patterns.
He could read an opponent’s stance in a heartbeat, predict the flow of a duel before blades ever crossed. He noticed when a tailor altered a seam by half a finger-width, when a horse favored one leg, when someone entered a room carrying more weight than they should.
So it took him embarrassingly little time to notice this.
Kaladin laughed differently depending on the cause.
Not often, of course. That went without saying. Kaladin Stormblessed did not laugh easily, did not waste smiles, did not indulge in frivolity without careful consideration—as if joy were a resource that needed rationing.
But when it happened?
Adolin noticed everything.
There was the polite exhale-through-the-nose laugh. Barely there. Acknowledgment, not indulgence.
There was the small smile that tugged at one corner of Kaladin’s mouth when Bridge Four was being particularly idiotic and Kaladin was trying very hard to pretend he disapproved.
And then—
Then there was the real one.
The one that caught in his chest first, surprised and sharp, before breaking free. The one where his shoulders loosened, just a fraction, like something heavy had been set down without permission.
Adolin had only seen that one a handful of times.
Which, naturally, meant it became his personal mission.
The first experiment was accidental.
They were sparring—lightly, because Kaladin was supposed to be resting and Adolin had learned that pushing him too hard resulted in Teft giving Adolin looks that could peel paint.
Adolin tripped.
Not a dramatic fall. Not even particularly clumsy. Just a misjudged step, a snag on the mat, and suddenly Adolin Kholin—duelist, prince, terror of the arena—went down on his back with a surprised oof.
Kaladin froze.
Then—
A huff.
Barely audible.
Adolin looked up, eyes wide. “Was that—”
“It was nothing,” Kaladin said immediately, face carefully neutral.
Adolin grinned.
Filed away.
The second experiment was deliberate.
They were walking the Tower’s corridors, discussing patrol schedules. Kaladin was serious, focused, already halfway through reorganizing things that did not technically need reorganizing.
Adolin interrupted him mid-sentence.
“Do you think,” he said thoughtfully, “that if a chull wore Plate, it would still be slow, or would it just… bulldoze everything?”
Kaladin stopped walking.
“…What?”
“I’m just saying,” Adolin continued, completely earnest, “if you bonded a spren with enough patience, maybe—”
“That’s not how spren work.”
“Are you sure?”
Kaladin stared at him for a long moment.
Then: a tiny smile. Gone almost as soon as it appeared.
Adolin beamed like he’d just won a duel.
From there, it became a study.
Adolin tested jokes like hypotheses.
Observations:
- Kaladin did not respond to sarcasm directed at him (result: mild frown).
- He did respond—begrudgingly—to sarcasm directed at Adolin (result: huff of laughter).
- He found Bridge Four’s nonsense funny but would never admit it out loud.
- He laughed more easily when tired. Or when he thought no one was watching.
Adolin, naturally, watched constantly.
He learned that Kaladin liked dry humor, delivered sideways. Absurdity treated with complete seriousness. Stories that started grim and took a sharp left turn into ridiculousness.
He learned that Kaladin laughed hardest when the joke wasn’t cruel.
Never punching down. Never mocking weakness.
Always human. Always warm.
The breakthrough came over tea.
They were sitting on the balcony outside Adolin’s rooms, the evening air cool, the Tower humming quietly around them. Adolin had chosen the tea. Kaladin had protested, then accepted it without comment.
Adolin took a sip, grimaced. “Storms. I forgot how much I hate this blend.”
“You chose it,” Kaladin said.
“I know. This is on me.”
Kaladin shook his head, exasperated. “You didn’t even taste it first?”
“I was distracted.”
“By what?”
“You.”
Kaladin paused.
Adolin smiled innocently and took another sip, suffering through it with exaggerated dignity.
Kaladin stared at him.
Then—
A sound escaped him. Sharp and sudden. A laugh, fully formed, before he could stop it.
They both froze.
Kaladin’s eyes widened like he’d just dropped a weapon.
Adolin’s heart did something strange and light and terrifying.
“I—” Kaladin cleared his throat, face warming. “Sorry.”
“Don’t,” Adolin said immediately. Too fast. Too earnest.
Kaladin looked at him, searching.
Adolin softened his voice. “I like it.”
Silence settled between them, gentle and unhurried.
Finally, Kaladin said quietly, “You do that on purpose.”
Adolin’s smile spread slow and unstoppable. “Do what?”
“Make me laugh.”
A beat.
Then Adolin leaned back, utterly unrepentant. “Absolutely.”
Kaladin exhaled, something between disbelief and fondness. “You’re infuriating.”
“I know.”
“And you experiment on people.”
“Only the ones I care about.”
Kaladin’s mouth twitched despite himself.
Adolin watched it happen—watched the tension ease, watched the weight lift just enough to let joy slip through.
He had learned the pattern.
And he intended to keep using it.
Because if laughter was something Kaladin rationed—
Adolin would make sure he never ran out.