Archive of Our Own ^beta

At some point, Kaveh had to acknowledge the fact that every artist gets burned-out. It's scientifically proven that people working in creative fields are more susceptible to it, too. The more you try to be original and innovative, the more you  feel like everything you do is unoriginal and stale. It's somewhat of a crisis when you can't get out of said burnout, though. A more practised artist may develop certain skills to ease the worst of it, but truth is, Kaveh is not immune to the mundane routine of life. 

Alhaitham would probably never understand, if only because he always keeps himself busy, be it a new book or assignment. Or maybe he would, but he'd rather die than admit that to Kaveh. That's just how it is. And since the way they dance around each other works so well, Kaveh doesn't see that fact ever changing. 

Hence why burnout hits so much harder this time. It's a little too easy to pretend that the world doesn't turn bleak and lifeless. All too easy. Perhaps that's why when he's faced with a problem, he doesn't hesitate before looking the other way. The root of it always seems too overwhelming, at least at first. And after–

Well. 

Kaveh doesn't tell Alhaitham that he feels under the weather, he just stays inside of his room. He doesn't “beg” for attention (as someone rude once said to him) and he doesn't hammer away in the middle of the night at projects that bear no fruit, so maybe Alhaitham is actually welcoming this change of mood instead of wondering what's so wrong about it. That's what Kaveh thinks. He lays in his bed, under the soft covers that feel like the ones he had back home in the past and doesn't try to find out if he's right. He doesn't know what he would do if he were wrong. 

The ceiling stares back at him. 

Then darkness. 

Then the silence. 

Kaveh doesn't do well with silences, truth be told. They grate at his nerves the way loud noises do at Alhaitham's sensitive hearing. They invite thoughts that are not pleasant; that dig into his wounded pride or things he usually avoids acknowledging. It's no big deal if it happens when he's in a good mood, it's not even a bother when those creep in when he's working. 

When he's idle, however… 

Silence and darkness mean standstill, and standstill means no money and no money means no way of acquiring things that you want. And Kaveh has braved many mountains, muddy swamps and vultures in his career and life in general – so many of them that he refuses to give up halfway, to leave all that unfinished. 

And yet–

Yet–

There comes a time when the blank paper haunts him and when the lines become too messy and too uneven to even read. When the idea is too outlandish, even to him. It's not like he can't overcome the obstacle of a project too grand, but not like this, not when he can't blink through the drowsiness and sand in his eyes. Not when the paper crumples in his hand. Not when his own mind turns against him. 

Annoying. 

Too true. 

Pathetic . 

Kaveh hasn't been granted too many chances to rest in the past. There's always been a deadline, an assignment or an exam, or an associate who wanted his help. There had been bills to pay and thesis to turn in. And among all other things, Kaveh just never stopped moving. 

Stopping… It doesn't–

It doesn't work. For him, that is. 

And yet–

Yet –

There's a sound, then. It barely registers over the shouting in his head but when it does, Kaveh can clearly make out the loud noise of someone patiently, yet insistently knocking on the door. And then the door just unceremoniously swings open. 

Kaveh sits up on the bed and glares. It does nothing to the intruder. 

"That's rude," he says. Then, because he's feeling petty, he adds, "I don't invade your privacy like this."

"You do." Alhaitham doesn't wait for him to invite him in, but he does hesitate before coming closer to the bed. It's probably the first time he's near Kaveh when his self-esteem is at the level of sea depression. "Every two weeks, when you go on a cleaning spree." 

"That's your fault. If you cleaned–" 

"Yes, yes," Alhaitham waves his hand, finally close enough for Kaveh to properly sneer at, "I will do better." 

Except you never do anyway. That's a thought that appears in his mind and disappears among the thousand of other little thoughts that gather around his brain and dance around the campfire that is his passion and creativity. 

There is a certain routine to life. You just can't go on without developing one. 

You wake up, and you dress up and you eat. You sleep, you bathe, you–

Thing is. Kaveh had tried very, very hard to not become a slave to it. He changed the brew of his tea and coffee often to make sure it never tasted all the same to him; he wore different hairstyles in the comfort of his house; he sketched and sketched until the tip of the pencil pierced through the paper. There are few things in life that you can control and so Kaveh did. 

So why–?

A thud resounds in the room. Kaveh realises all too late that it's because Alhaitham set a plate on Kaveh's nightstand. 

"Food," is all he says as an explanation before sitting down on the floor with a book, silent once again. And Kaveh doesn't know what to do or say, so he lets the man settle on the ground and he doesn't kick up a fuss when in doing so, Alhaitham kicks one of the stray papers under the table in the corner of the room. 

Food. 

As if that were so simple. As if that–

Kaveh is a being made out of emotions. They brew and stew, and they swirl around in a colourful halo until the paint runs out and they become black stains on an otherwise blank slate. It's not enough for Kaveh to acknowledge certain things, he needs to feel them, understand them. While words on the paper can be deceiving, the artistic value in them can't. Kaveh–

Kaveh wants to feel so much, and he burns himself on the scalding stones of reality every time. 

World doesn't operate that way. It refuses to. 

Kaveh hates it, hates it so much and yet… 

"I hope you didn't make it," he rasps out and Alhaitham only hums, turning a page in his stupidly thick book, "I don't want food poisoning." 

"I was supervised." 

"That's not reassuring," Kaveh murmurs, taking the plate. The food, at least, doesn't smell burned or overcooked. "Who supervised you, anyways?" 

"Auntie down the street." 

"How charitable." 

"Mhm." 

Kaveh doesn't want to ask why Alhaitham was even at her house, why he cooked and went through the trouble of bringing it to him. Or maybe he does want the answer, but he fears the answer will strip him and devour him raw. It's that kind of thing that makes Kaveh all too aware of the state of their relationship. 

Instead of asking, Kaveh eats. 

He doesn't taste much of it, although when he thinks back on it, he can actually recognize that it tastes exactly how Alhaitham prefers his meals. A little too bland and a little too much as if all of the ingredients were meant to stick together in a mass. He puts the plate back on the nightstand, but Alhaitham is still sitting on the ground, engrossed with his book. 

"What are you still doing here?" 

A beat of silence. 

"Reading." 

Kaveh's eyebrow twitches in annoyance, "I can see that," he says dryly. 

"Then–?" 

"Are you trying to get me to argue with you?" Alhaitham asks, a bit too honestly, "I can do that, but we both know the end result is going to be me winning the argument and then you will just sulk the whole day." Then, a bit quieter, he mutters, "Not like you're not doing it now." 

"You–" Kaveh sits himself up even straighter if only to glare down at him more efficiently, "You think I'm sulking?" 

"Are you not?" 

"That's–" Kaveh has no words. Anger dances at the bottom of his gut, like a firework ready to go off any minute, "You've seen me sulk. That is not sulking. Don't stick your nose where it doesn't belong." 

Alhaitham is quiet. It never bodes well when he actually shuts up. 

"Why is it not my business?" Kaveh doesn't answer. For the first time, it's not because he doesn't have a good answer, but because it would simply lead to more discussion that he's not in the mood to take part in. "Kaveh?" 

It's weird when Alhaitham cares. Because he does so in such a way that Kaveh has a hard time ignoring or even explaining – and most of all, because when Alhaitham looks at him, knowing that something is wrong, it feels like everything in Kaveh wants to overflow and seep out of him. He's, of course, usually filled to the brim with various feelings and problems, it's him, after all, and he would lie if he said that today is just one of the bad days where he just can't seem to get the water level under control. But this–

This hurts. Just plainly hurts . 

Because the worst kind of pain is when you're hurting so much, and yet you can't actually explain it to someone. That kind of hurt is not physical and usually, people don't understand that not every wound can be treated and bandaged. Since every person is different and their individual perception of earthly matters varies from one to another, they essentially don't work the same way you do; nor do they see the world like you do. They do not grasp at the paper the same way and so, instead of seeing colours they often see lines instead. 

Those lines can be fixed. 

They can be written. They can be copied. But you can't perceive the colours the same way someone else does.

"Perhaps it isn't my business," Alhaitham starts to say when Kaveh closes his eyes and turns away, "You should be free to ruin your life or improve it as you see fit. It matters not as long as it doesn't involve my money or my job." 

Kaveh has an urge to sigh. 

"I just don't understand," he admits and it's a painfully honest statement that makes Kaveh plop back down on his back, exhausted. "I don't like that feeling." 

"I must be way worse off than I thought," Kaveh mutters to himself, still not looking at him, "because I swear I can hear you admitting that you actually have feelings. And that's worrisome." 

"It's not like you haven't heard me do that before." 

"You never told me that. To my face."

"I didn't do that today, either. Seeing as you are adamant on glaring at the ceiling instead." 

So pedantic. 

Kaveh wonders if Alhaitham's carefully structured world would break in half, if he ever had to live the way Kaveh does. If he would cry and break down just as easily; if he would let something other than his mind guide him through his life. There are so many differences between them and so little similarities. Kaveh with his lack of steady connection to his relatives and Alhaitham with his lack of family; Kaveh with his struggle of bowing down to the standards of Sumeru and Alhaitham who's so preoccupied with his own life that he cares very little for the social structure of the nation he lives in. 

Why do you have to care so much and yet so little? 

How do you never feel like it's too much? 

Those are meaningless questions and stupid theories – after all, Kaveh never actually asked him. Maybe Alhaitham also feels crushed under the weight of this dim existence. Or he doesn't. 

Maybe it's just Kaveh. Maybe it's just–

He opens his eyes. 

"You worry too much," Kaveh whispers, tired. He doesn't look at Alhaitham and yet the subtle change in the atmosphere allows him to feel the way the other man stiffens, "And you never tell me you do. And what am I supposed to do, then? Alhaitham, you don't like the way I do things, so what's the point of telling you all about it? So you can complain?" 

That's so unfair. Kaveh is just plainly playing dirty. 

"I don't like the way you do things," Alhaitham says carefully, "because I wouldn't do them that way. That doesn't mean I don't appreciate your perspective." 

Bullshit, he wants to say. 

He doesn't. 

"You tell me how inconvenient it is to see me drink. How rebuilding the palace ruined me and everything I’ve ever worked for. How I'm wasting my potential. How Kshahrewar–" 

"Kaveh, you never once listened to me when I told you that. Over and over again. You never once agreed." 

"Well. Maybe you were right." 

"Or maybe you're just too sleep deprived to think otherwise. Is it so much easier to accept my point of view?" 

"Your point of view is always so shitty," Kaveh suddenly comments, instead of answering. "You go on and on about logic and rationality. You hide yourself in your books–" 

"Hide–" 

"And then you go and do something, ugh–" Kaveh sits back up and instead of just glaring at the man, he shifts so he's closer to him, able to slap him upside down if he wished to do so, "You're so annoying. You're right. I don't think your point of view is better, I think it's absolutely outrageous to think that everything I've done is useless and meaningless. Archons, you are just–" 

Alhaitham glances at him with a frown, "Well, that escalated." 

Kaveh's eyes pierce right through him, "Is that what you came here to do?" 

Finally, Alhaitham looks away, his book closed and resting in his lap, "No." 

"You managed splendidly if you wanted to get me mad enough to stop, as you've put it, 'sulking'," Kaveh tells him and then in a burst of energy, he throws his covers away and then himself off the bed, swaying only a little bit. It's actually a miracle that he doesn't collapse on the spot. "It helped nothing when it comes to an actual problem, but I wouldn't expect someone from Haravatat to understand–" 

"Help me, then." 

Kaveh, who was right in the middle of searching for his hair brush, stops. 

Something thuds loudly, a rabbit-like heartbeat that has no place in this situation, and yet. Yet . 

"What?" 

"You claim I can't understand," Alhaitham tilts his head, "Help me understand then. Make me. Maybe that will–" 

It goes unsaid. Whatever it was supposed to be is left up to the interpretation of yours truly.

And Kaveh, he–

He's used to feeling bad. Of seeing the light and wondering if it's his last time seeing it. If only to make the day feel a bit more special, Kaveh would go lengths to acquire a new brush or try another type of paper, or even just cook something out of his area of expertise. He'd take a walk through Sumeru City's streets, or he'd travel all the way to Sumeru's borders to see the faint silhouette of Liyue Harbor. 

To feel bad is to be alive, and to be alive is to see another day and another sunset. 

People like him wither away if they are not inspired. And he's tried thousands of ways to just rekindle his passion every time it threatens to flicker out completely. 

So maybe–

But no. 

Kaveh himself does not understand his own very existence well. How could he ever hope to explain it to anyone else?

He does not belong to him. Alhaitham’s care or love or any kind of compassion. It belongs to the Scribe himself and Kaveh would never try to claim that the man behind the job would ever look at Kaveh that way. 

However, there is this horrible feeling in Kaveh’s chest. It starts from the tips of his fingers and then starts to travel up his arms, only to settle right in his mind and above his heart – the heart that would throb every time Kaveh tried to force it into action. There is no forcing it to do anything, that he knows. It acts wherever and however it wants. 

And yet. Yet –

Alhaitham would probably not understand. Maybe. Or maybe he would, and Kaveh just doesn’t have the bravery to let him see the dark, jagged pieces of his own life. Because Alhaitham carries himself with the air of confidence that Kaveh sometimes envies. How is it to walk through life and not wonder at the grey scale of justice? How is it to look at the world’s mechanics and not wonder at their creation? 

Alhaitham does not seek the depth of the knowledge. He seeks the knowledge itself, in its purest, rawest form and that is what Kaveh cannot stand behind. The source of it has nothing on the emotion behind it. The cold truth cannot replace the feeling. 

‘Kaveh, you are such a young, promising man… Maybe you should quit…’

‘You should stick to the basic structure for this. Do not force uniqueness where it doesn’t belong.’ 

Everyone has  certain pessimistic people in their corner; people who look at you and have this thought: “Your differences will finally be your downfall.” Because standing out is not safe, playing it risky and hoping for the best is not safe. And Kaveh still finds himself chasing that flicker of happiness in the faces of his clients, still trying to commit to the impossible task of making everyone satisfied. 

You strip yourself. Layer after layer, you lay down the groundwork. And they all will walk over it with their dirty shoes and laugh. 

Do not force uniqueness. Yes, but do not limit it, either. 

‘Senior Kaveh, your approach to this project is just as unorthodox as your personality.’

‘Senior, this is a bit… too much.’

When you are born, you don’t try to fit in. All babies behave the same way, and after they grow up, they’re shaped by their environment and the people that surround them. At some point, there begins the endless circle of expectations. 

Kaveh does not have any close family anymore. And even if he did, they still wouldn’t understand his need to loop his own body around the bare bones of something someone bold might call an invention. He does not attach himself to the concept of knowledge and manoeuvres around the thin edges of the nation he lives in, for the sake of something he calls creativity and yet–

How is it that he finds himself stuck?

How is it that Kaveh’s mind turns against him, turning his thoughts into a frantic race against time? 

When at the end of the day you find yourself alone, why must everything become an enemy? Peaceful existence turns into peaceful misery as you wallow deeper and deeper into the unknown and the known. Blank pages become crumpled and thrown in the trash bin. Pencils get snapped. And the heavy feeling inside of you prevails above all that you are. 

You do not get burned-out. You become it and it becomes you. 

Kaveh, the Light of Kshahrewar. Kaveh, the master builder. Kaveh, the Architect of Sumeru. When you strip yourself of all of your layers, what and who are you? An empty shell? A vessel for the whims of your mind? 

Who is Kaveh? A seed gone wrong or a tree that grew into something it wasn’t supposed to, doomed to be cut down and scorched to ashes? 

Maybe…

Maybe, at the end of the day, you’re just the undecided child who dared to dream in a nation that up until now regarded dreams as a myth. 

Cooking isn’t art, not really, but takes a certain amount of skill to master it. To Kaveh, cooking is a skill needed to survive. You can’t really get through the Akademiya or the rest of your life, if you don’t at least make your own food when you have the chance. Taking whatever sweet free time you have to make something nice for yourself is essential to not losing yourself to the stress and agony of living through hours and hours of academic research required for you to pass the courses. 

Kaveh took up cooking early in his life, however. 

Be it the need to be independent or just the fact that he had to be independent, whether he liked it or not, Kaveh found himself quickly growing fond of preparing the vegetables, various meats or even just light grilled snacks. You could quickly get used to using a knife and at some point, you’d be able to go through the motions of cutting food up, even if your mind was elsewhere (he does not recommend that to someone without experience though, losing your fingers to the sharp blade is real concern here). And years later, when Kaveh is no longer a starving teenager, making food became somewhat of a second nature to him.

It doesn’t change the fact that just eating food is not what makes the whole process of preparing it special. It’s sharing it that made Kaveh truly love it. 

What is the point, really, of going through the effort of making something if at the end of the day, you’re the only one to enjoy it? Where would be the joy? 

Alhaitham wouldn’t understand that one for sure. If there’s something Kaveh is sure of, it’s that. Someone like him may appreciate the gesture of being served something tasty, but the meaning behind would surely get lost in between the bites. That's what happens when you take certain things for granted. Maybe that’s why it’s so much easier to pretend with that man around. He never reads too much into anything Kaveh gives him. 

Yet–

The first time Kaveh took time to cook something for him, it was because Alhaitham’s semi-healthy habits made Kaveh cringe away. That’s all there was to it. For a man who supposedly stuck to the schedule at his work and outside of it, Alhaitham sure had a nasty habit of taking a bit too much on his plate, only to pretend that it’s no big deal. It’s not that he can’t handle it, it’s that Kaveh thinks Alhatham would do well to stop trying to prove his superiority, because sooner or later he ends up sick in his bed anyway. 

That time, Alhaitham came into the kitchen and squinted at him as if Kaveh were skinning an animal on his counter and then proceeded to accuse him of burning the kitchen down, just for the sake of the argument and when Kaveh put food on his plate, he just. He what, exactly? Kaveh still doesn’t understand the reason behind it, but Alhaitham just stilled back then, taken aback.

"What's that?" He had asked. A stupid question. What else could it be? Seriously. 

"Biryani." Alhaitham had stared at it, suspicious. "Is it poisoned?"

"What? No!" And because Alhaitham seemed genuine in his confusion, Kaveh had just sighed and explained. "It's food. For you."

"You made me food?"

"Yes." Kaveh at that time had felt a little like he was dying inside at the question. "I did."

"Why?"

"Because, I felt like it."

At the end of the day, that’s all there was to it. Alhaitham, who suffered so much from headaches and random bounds of migraines and inhaled pills like air; Alhaitham who would probably deny being in pain; and who preferred to accept something as a part of routine than fight against it and make some effort. Kaveh cannot change that man. He tried to, at some point, and he’s learned his lesson. But something stirred inside of his chest every time Alhaitham cringed away from the harsh light coming through the windows, a kind of pain that couldn’t be associated with injury. 

There’s nothing more to it. Really. But when Alhaitham ate something after a day of not touching even a light snack, something inside of him felt lighter. That man who would rather spend days on the divan reading; whose face was usually twisted into a condescending grin when Kaveh was reminded of his own failures – that man’s face softened with each bite. 

And at that time, Kaveh didn’t understand it clearly but now it seemed so obvious. That Kaveh, although he’d argue with everyone if they brought it up, really, really wanted to take care of him. If only so Alhaitham wouldn’t have to give up that easy life of his; if only so he’d have something good to eat when his mind tried to cut him in half. 

There wasn’t much reason to that, actually. 

In fact, that’s why Kaveh knew Alhaitham wouldn’t get it. 

Sometimes, you just want to comfort the people closest to you. And just because Kaveh spent most of his life without such luxury, doesn’t mean he’s not capable of extending it to others. It just conveniently happened that Alhaitham was, and is still, one of Kaveh’s closest friends. 

“Do you ever think that maybe I shouldn’t have built that palace?” 

The question is so out of blue that Alhaitham who has been peacefully reading a book on the divan for the past few hours, startles and shoots him an annoyed look, “What’s up with that?”

Kaveh glances at him from his own seat on the opposite divan, before he looks away because that way, at least he can pretend that Alhaitham is not piercing him with his own eyes. There is a coffee table between them, with cups and snacks that neither of them touched yet, and it shouldn’t feel like a barrier to them, and yet it somehow is, anyway. 

The question… Well. 

Kaveh has his own doubts. Everyone has their own worries about the future and it’s not possible for anyone to just go about their life without encountering at least one big issue along the way, but usually, Kaveh knows better than to dwell on those. His own pride doesn’t let him, after all. He fought with everything he had to graduate, to make something that he would be remembered for. He wouldn’t just ignore all of his accomplishments for a mere self-doubt. 

There is something, though, that creeps in once or twice. 

“Just a stray thought,” he mumbles out, and Alhaitham huffs. “No need to get so–”

“So?”

Kaveh waves his hand, “So uptight about it.”

Alhaitham doesn’t grace him with another reply, but his eyes stay on his form for longer than it is socially necessary. It makes Kaveh feel like he’s being scrutinised somehow, like he’s being picked apart by the careful observation. One part, then another and another, and then when Kaveh is no longer deemed interesting enough–

That’s all it boils down to, isn’t it?

A person just stops… being…

His thought trails off when Alhaitham clears his throat and then loudly closes his book. He still hasn’t looked away from him. 

“Do you regret it?”

And it’s so strange, because normal people don’t ask that. They know better. Such a topic is just too sensitive to pick up in a conversation and people who know Kaveh draw their own conclusions from the way Kaveh avoids talking about the aftermath of the construction. Not Alhaitham, though – he does not bow down to the social concepts of decency. 

Maybe that’s for the better. 

“No.”

That’s all there is to it. 

Kaveh does not regret the Palace of the Alcazarzaray. He does not regret spending his years at the Akademiya in the least funded Darshan and he does not regret moving in with Alhaitham. There are some things he wishes he could take back; words spoken in anger, arguments that had no clear basis now that he thinks back on them, but never this. Never the actions that led him straight here where he’s sitting across from Alhaitham, letting the coffee get disgustingly cold. 

It’s a little embarrassing to admit such a thing, but nonetheless, Kaveh is not a liar. 

“Then what does it matter what I think?” Alhaitham shakes his head, almost in an admonishing way but this time Kaveh doesn’t feel his anger spark up. “Stupid.”

“Asshole,” is what Kaveh ends up saying in reply, but with no heat. 

Alhaitham settles back on the divan, book opened right back up and a hand reaching up to his headset, most likely putting the mute option back on. Honestly, he should have expected that from him. It’s somewhat endearing that the man at least waited for Kaveh to speak his mind before he did that. Small mercies. 

He looks away with a sigh, leaning backwards until he’s entirely on his back. The same, boring design of all of Sumeru’s houses' ceilings stares back at him, perhaps even mockingly. Such an offence, even in the comfort of his own home. 

He scowls. 

If he had his way, the interior of this disaster would be renovated. Wholly. He doesn’t know what Alhaitham sees in all of the atrocities that he brings home – from ugly wood carvings, questionable shaped lamps or even poorly made furniture that creaks wherever someone puts anything on it. That man wouldn’t know value if it went and hit him in the face. 

And yet–

He frowns. 

He can’t help but think that if he were to live somewhere else, the last of the warmth that Kaveh desperately tries to keep kindled would burn out faster than Kaveh’s own creativity. 

Faranak remarried not so long ago. 

It’s been a while, Kaveh knows. It’s probably been six years, seven maybe, since she left and settled in Fontaine. It could have been longer than that. Most likely it's been a shorter time and Kaveh just never noticed because he's usually so busy that any stray thought about the past never makes it through his defences. It's so much easier to just… not think about it and pretend that everything is as fine as it should be.

The thing is–

Kaveh knows she deserves happiness. She deserves many things that staying in Sumeru would never give her, if only because it reminds her too much of more painful events. She'd never be able to build anything here anymore. Grief changes a person – changes the perspective that one may have of a place, makes it unrecognisable and barren. An architect is supposed to design and the only thing his mother was able to design after her husband's death was a cemetery full of wilted flowers in her mind. 

He'd never be able to live with himself if he stood in the way of her getting her much needed peace, and if it just happened that her peace was somewhere far, far away from him, then…

Well.

He understands. That's the thing – he gets it. He cannot resent her, shouldn't resent her but when the news of her marriage had reached him, Kaveh had wanted to rip up the letter and throw it into the fireplace. There isn't a word for how he felt at that moment. Perhaps now Alhaitham might be able to find one, the language nerd that he is – if Kaveh were to tell him the whole story, but ultimately Kaveh just locked up that knowledge inside of him, never to be spoken about to others. Maybe, if he really thought about it, the news of the marriage was to serve as a reminder that his Mother didn't abandon him; that she still wanted him in her life. 

Younger Kaveh would probably weep in the quiet of his room, where no one could see. Anything to get rid of the suffocating urge to crawl into a hole, and he would curl up to rock back and forth until everything around him settled down. But younger Kaveh was more naive, more stupid, and he didn't quite understand that in order to be respected, to not be called a child, you needed to hide your true feelings. Nothing good ever came out of crying, did it? 

He knows. His Mother upon receiving the news of his father's demise doubled over and ran to the bathroom. She sobbed until her voice was hoarse, and when that didn't change the fact that her husband was dead, she threw up all of her emotions. Kaveh brought her back into her bedroom when she passed out and couldn't manage that on her own. And after that, she was never the same. Dark circles, pale skin and unwashed clothes clung to her frame. Dinners that consisted of days old rice or chicken from someone down the street who took pity over a woman who almost brought herself to ruin. Once Kaveh was able to enrol in the Akademiya, she started to take trips to Fontaine. 

At that time, although Kaveh tried and tried, over and over again, he could not take care of her and she could not take care of him, not really. He taught himself the basics of cooking and attempted to feed her, so she'd at least stop collapsing in the middle of the day. He entertained the thought of making her a dish that his Father passed down to him, but when the plates returned to him with only half-eaten food, Kaveh decided against it. He had learned how to brew her brand of coffee so any time he'd see her sitting in the living room, eyes blank and expression haunted by the other, empty seat at the table, he'd bring her a cup. He took up the task of getting chores done around the house and when even that wasn't enough, he'd just sit down next to her and let her grieve in silence. 

She was a shell. Empty shell not unlike those you'd find at the shore by the beach; one that would echo back your words without adding anything to it. 

She would try. Archons, she did. Kaveh would never discredit her entirely, because she stuck around for long enough for Kaveh to become independent, and she raised him as a single mother instead of just out right leaving, but the walls of their house did not make a home, anymore. 

In a way, when she left, Kaveh was kind of relieved. And when relief hit him, he also felt the familiar ember of hate lick up inside of him. 

How dare you be happy about this? How could you be so selfish? 

For a long, long time, he heard nothing of her. And the next time that he did, she sent a letter to tell him that she's getting married and that life in Fontaine served her so well she might stay there indefinitely. That she's been cleared by a doctor a while ago, that she hopes he's eating well and that life in Sumeru treated him well. How funny, was his first thought, that you mention this. Mom, I am not fine at all . 

I miss you , was his second thought . I hate myself for despising you , was his third. 

In the end, Kaveh went out the door, drank the evening away, then came back and shut himself in the room. 

His Mother never hurt him in her grief. She stopped initiating hugs, stopped cooking dinner, stopped talking to him unless she deemed it important and then just left, but she never raised her hand or her voice at him. A ship took her to Fontaine one morning and when she didn't come back, all Kaveh could think about was the fact that upon coming home, he didn't even realise she's gone. That's how the quiet has become a companion and silence a torturer. One day, he'd realise that he no longer remembers her voice and he'd quietly mull over that by himself. And even so, she never hurt him and still he hates her in a way someone might hate themselves – for something he cannot name. 

One thing is certain, that Kaveh knows. The time passes you by and the longer you go on, the sadder you become. 

I'm sorry , he thought, watching the letter burn , I can't be genuinely happy for you. 

The paper burned all the same. It didn't matter that the quality of it was high, that it smelled like she used to, that it contained words of affection and joy. 

All that remained after was bitterness.

Fontaine was beautiful and toxic and yet his Mother smiled wide when she saw him at the reception. She hugged him tight, tighter than she ever did and there was not even a trace of sadness in her eyes. Her clothes were a pretty shade, he remembers. He cannot recall which colour exactly, but she was stunning and happy, and Kaveh realised all too late that it stung. 

The way they all danced. 

The structure of the buildings that rekindled his Mother's love and passion. 

And her husband who looked at Kaveh for a total of five seconds before he was focused back on his wife; Faranak who laughed amongst the crowd of a family that wasn't and could never be Kaveh's. 

It should have been enough to see her recover from the tragic death of her last love and he shouldn't have had to fake his smile. Shouldn't have had to pretend that everything is fine, that there is no resentment between them and unspoken words. Or rather, not resentment, no. A lingering hurt . 

Guilt followed him all the way back to Sumeru and never left.

Because why does he feel so bad about something so good? Doesn't his Mother deserve to feel happy after everything she's been through? It goes without saying that Kaveh is glad that she no longer looks at the world seeing the ghost of her suffering, but–

When his Father died, Kaveh blamed himself. 

If only he never said a word back then–

If only he kept quiet –

There is a saying that goes like this: when you think about the 'what ifs' too often, you can and you will eventually go insane. But isn't Kaveh a scholar? Isn't he an inventor? The world would stay black and white if he, as a scholar of the Akademiya, never wondered about the endless possibilities of various mechanics that surrounded them. Madness has never been a taboo there, after all, only people who let others see said madness seeping out of them. 

Truth is, Kaveh is a jinx.

It would be fine if his misfortune affected only him. If he were the only one in pain. 

Bad luck, however, has no favourites. It causes Kaveh to lose his money, his Father, his Mother, and his peaceful childhood. His pride is the only thing that remains of what once made Kaveh a man and he clings onto it a bit too hard nowadays, but what else can he do? 

His Mother wants to forget that Kaveh was a child and that he didn't have the luxury of travelling to ease his soul. She forgets that there's no way Kaveh was old enough to take care of himself properly when she left for good. That there's no way he wasn't disappointed when she settled down there, without him. It's my fault, he reminds himself. He never told her. And again, hasn’t she tried enough to raise him all on her own? Sure, she struggled so much and there were moments when Kaveh ended up hurt more than comforted by her presence, but she attempted to take care of him, somehow, although she was in pain herself. Shouldn’t that count for something?

But Mom, couldn't you see? 

I was grieving, too.

The facts remain: Kaveh's Mother now lives with her husband, she works and designs beautiful chapels, her new family supports her and loves her – and Kaveh lives on, alone, burdened still. 

Even today, Kaveh has to swallow down the acid when he sees Fontaine.

Kaveh is an architect, but he has gotten pretty good at building facades and grins that fool the people around him, too. Clients will beam at him and he will return their smile; they will frown and he will mimic them, so he wouldn’t look out of place. Kaveh as Kaveh is not wanted, that he knows, because somewhere in the past he shattered and jagged pieces that are glued with the cheapest glue you can find will not survive long as a whole. So he poses as someone for whom a failure and pain is something unfamiliar. And so, some scholars say that Kaveh has lost his mind a long time ago when the truth is, sometimes the most effective way of making sure that no one pries too deep is to make them think that a concerned person is too shallow. That way they will not see the scars.

After all, one thinks to look for a treasure that is hidden in plain sight; no one thinks to check underneath a mask that makes you look like an open book. 

Alhaitham wouldn't get it. Mostly because Alhaitham doesn't care – opinions of others are irrelevant to him as long as he can do his job in peace while maintaining his adequate free hours to do whatever… Alhaitham would want to do it in his spare time. While Kaveh would sell off his liver to live up to expectations of their society, Alhaitham would probably take said society down if it threatened his lifestyle. 

They are not alike. Him and Kaveh. 

He wouldn't get it because people like him genuinely are incapable of understanding the mental baggage that growing up too fast does to a person. Alhaitham never really had to fend for himself in his childhood, because his Grandmother took care of him and while it is certainly sad to never have met your own parents, Kaveh cannot imagine Alhaitham losing much sleep over it. From what he found out, Alhaitham's Grandmother made sure to introduce them by retelling their various adventures, research projects and giving him their stuff for Alhaitham to peruse at his own leisure. Even now, the house is stacked with books and papers that Kaveh knows belong to Alhaitham's family. Meanwhile, everything that belonged to Kaveh's family at some point had been sold off when he tried to pay off the entirety of his debt, with the exception of a few photos and trinkets he stashed in his bags and some things that his Mother had taken with her when she moved out.

Not to mention the fact that it is Kaveh who– who was the cause of everything bad that's ever happened to his family. Alhaitham can never claim that it was his fault his parents died, but Kaveh can without hesitation say that he brought ruin to his loved ones. 

Ironic. 

All that time spent trying to prove Alhaitham wrong, that Kaveh's ideals have merit that goes beyond monetary value, that chasing after the impossible isn't the worst decision he could have made, only to be brought down by his own memories. 

You are not worthless. 

You are not a nobody. 

Your ideas have a place in this world. 

Kaveh may have lost quite a lot – but he refuses to stay at the bottom. After all, once you reach the depths of pain, the only way left is up.

Right? 

"You know you don't have to do this, right?" 

"Do what?" 

"Sacrifice everything for other people. They won't thank you." 

"If I did all that just to get a word of appreciation from someone's mouth, I'd never clean the kitchen or the living room for you. You wouldn't know what a sincere 'thank you' is even if it hit you in the face with a hammer." 

"..." 

"Stop rolling your eyes at me, hey! It's not as if that isn't the truth!" 

"See if I try to be nice to you again." 

"Nice–! Nice, what the hell! If that is you being nice, then–" 

Being on your own prepares you for a lot of things, because you only have yourself to rely on. Something that could be easily called a curse may as well be a hidden blessing sometimes. Kaveh had time to perfect his routine and lifestyle; had just enough resolve to graduate so he wouldn't end up jobless at the end of the day – built up a network that still serves him well, full of former classmates, colleagues and previous collaborations. No one ever told him to do any of that and no one told him how, either. He did it all, by himself.

(Except, at some point, his Mom–) 

Although, it's very easy to pretend like everything is fine when the alternative is someone's judgement or mockery. Some people instead of building someone up would rather knock them down, and even though Kaveh knows it, he still finds himself hesitant to admit that. 

Shouldn't people help each other? 

Shouldn't they be kind? 

Why would anyone even want to be cruel? 

Kaveh is aware of his faults, he just doesn't relish in the act of acknowledging them. He is overbearing at times, too loud and too much of a nuisance. He offers a helping hand to those who don't need it, then he offers it to those who do and ends up losing said hand. 

' You get scammed so often, one would think that you'd learn the difference between a real deal and deception.' 

Yes. 

He knows, he knows, he knows –

'Kaveh, remember – when you see someone in need, it is always better to help than to walk by. You never know what someone is dealing with.' 

Here's the thing:

He is often called gullible. His naivety is the first trait his friends think of when they mention him. Is this it, though? Is it his fault that some would prefer to deceive others than to be truthful? Does the fault lie in Kaveh thinking the best of everyone? Doesn't the blame lie in the one doing the deceiving and not the recipient? 

Kindness is a double edged sword. 

It is a weapon he's well-versed in. 

He refuses to be cruel. Mother would—

'A single Mora to us could be a thousand to them,' she would say. She would always see the good where others may only notice the evil, the dark-stained words. His Father encouraged it, and Kaveh thinks now that maybe it's because they were so well off that they could act like that without much care. Could it be that he picked that up from them? 

'Your good deeds only serve to elevate the guilt you put on yourself,' Alhaitham had told him, 'Are you really kind or are you just seeking the validation that you are from others?' 

He wouldn't get it. 

Kaveh knows, knows, knows –

Alhaitham doesn't have to share his limbs, his skin, his heart with anyone simply because he himself feels whole, meanwhile Kaveh walks the world with a gaping, bottomless hole that he tries to fill in. It does not make him a bad person. No matter what Alhaitham says, no matter what Tighnari or Cyno insinuate – Kaveh does not have to do anything that he does; he is not forced. 

Those who do not think to be good are those privileged enough to feel complete by themselves – they are the ones who pass by those who need help and think, 'someone else will surely lend a hand? ' and no one else ever does. 

Maybe they lack the motivation. 

Like Alhaitham who does not search deeper into somebody's dilemma; like Tighnari who has his own people to care for; like Cyno who's care extends to another group, one that needs him more than a homeless person who should, by all means, be taken care of by the Akademiya itself. 

Kaveh has walked those streets as someone with and without money. He knows two sides of this magnificent city, this archive of knowledge both ancient and new, and he knows that the cruelty of Teyvat far outweighs its kindness.

When you are on your own–

When you don't get to ask, when your throat tightens if you try to reach out, you find yourself in the place of those people. The overwhelming helplessness, the heaviness in your bones and the sting of tears that slide down your cheeks. You feel humiliated by a mere thought that you need help, because how could you? Shouldn't you be better than this? More resourceful? 

Kaveh rarely finds himself hopeless. 

There are times when his thoughts crush him, when the burden of living makes him crawl into his bed and hide under the blankets, hoping that everything will go away if he wills it hard enough. It's impossible to go through your life without feeling the pressure of existence, but oftentimes, the pain is more of a mental fight than a physical one, far easier to ignore. He’s far more used to that kind of pressure.

It's a little laughable, then, but not all that surprising, that he's brought down by a simple case of wrist pain. 

In his profession, it's a common alignment. If not taken care of properly it could lead to something way more serious, could evolve from severe pain to a debilitating pain. For a hot minute, doubled over and clenching his wrist in his hand over his desk, Kaveh thinks: this is it. I'm done for. That's what I get for not getting it looked over. 

Nothing works. Sometimes Kaveh would ride out the pain. He'd rub at the sore spot for hours, lay down on the floor or the desk, or sometimes the bed, and he'd rub and rub and then fall into a restless sleep that was the only thing close to relief he'd get. 

Once, when he was fed up with pain, he hit the offending limb. It only made the frustration worse. 

Right now, however, Kaveh wishes he'd gone with it to Bimarstan. 

Then, there's a knock. And another one. And another, until the sound stops and Kaveh looks up to check what the source of the noise is. Only then he realises that the door is open and the culprit is standing in the threshold, looking uncomfortable. It shocks Kaveh so much that he forgets about the pain and raises up, dry tear marks in full spotlight as he reaches the other man. 

Alhaitham only ever looks uncomfortable when something bugs him enough to get past his ten-meter thick walls of emotional denial. 

"Are you okay?" Words are out of Kaveh's mouth before he can stop and think it through. There's something underneath his skin, an instinct or a habit maybe, that begs him to reach out and pat him down for possible injuries. "You look pale." 

There's a bit of silence, a stunned silence, where Alhaitham stares at him then drops his gaze to the hand that's been causing Kaveh's trouble for the past hour or so. It makes him clear his throat and reach out with his free hand to wipe at the stray tears. 

"You're hurt," is what Alhaitham says and his voice is awkward, as if he forced himself to say that. 

Kaveh stills. 

"That?" He waves his hand, gritting his teeth and letting out a choked up laugh, "That happens."

Silence.

Kaveh clears his throat again, stepping closer to him. Alhaitham's eyes are yet to look away from Kaveh's hand and it starts to make him feel a little bit self-conscious. "It's nothing," he tells him weakly, "It will pass. Why are you here?" 

Why are you here? 

Why do you look like you're in pain every time you're near me? 

Why bother at all? 

"The walls in the house aren't as thick as you think," Alhaitham says, voice strained. 

"I know," Kaveh tilts his head, blinking, "I helped design those, remember?" 

Then it hits him. 

Ah. Right. The noise. 

Alhaitham is opening his mouth to say something more, but Kaveh beats him to it, glancing away and hiding his hand behind his back, "I will try to be more quiet next time. Sorry to disturb you." 

There. All polite and without  even a hint of heat. 

But Alhaitham doesn't look placated. If anything, the expression on his face becomes even more pained. Why? Kaveh would ask, but he doesn't, because truthfully, it's not his business anymore, is it? That peaceful cohabitation that they have, it is not based on their friendship. Not since that one day, back at the Akademiya. 

At last, Alhaitham gathers his bearings and looks up. His eyes are blank as he says, "You think the noise bothered me?" 

Oh. 

There's a change then. In that space that they're sharing, something horribly important has changed and Kaveh feels as if a rug has been swept from under his feet. Alhaitham doesn't show his emotions often and his opinions, whether they're scathing or soothing, are usually the only indicator of his mental state. This time, though, Kaveh doesn't know what's wrong. And if he doesn't know, he can't fix it. 

"Doesn't it always?" His voice raises a bit, "You nag at me when it's too loud. Excuse me for assuming that is the problem." 

His hand starts to tremble. Holding it behind his back only makes the pain stronger. He grits his teeth harder, almost hearing them grate at each other. His throat locks up against his will, and he closes his eyes when a wave of burning heat runs through his wrist.

Alhaitham shifts. Kaveh can sense that even with his eyes closed. 

"Have you taken any medication for the pain?" 

Something stops in the air.

"What?"

"Medication," Alhaitham repeats, patience wearing thin. Kaveh is so surprised he actually opens his eyes to gauge whether the man is joking. "For the pain. Did you take anything?" 

"No," He planned to, of course, but that was before it got too much and he just decided to wallow in self-pity at his desk, "Why?" 

And then, Alhaitham turns away and walks out, just like that. Kaveh looks at the spot where he stood for a short while before he steps back, far enough to reach the bed and sit down. Only then he brings his hand towards his chest again, squeezing around the skin as if that could help. It never did, but it made him feel more in control. So what if he can't claw the pain away with his nails? So what if squeezing only made him hurt more? 

You deserve that. 

Tears prick at his eyes, more bitter than anything else he's ever tasted before. 

Everything that happened to you, every wound and every obstacle – you deserve all of that. 

Sometimes, he really hates himself; he stares at the mirror hoping to see something more, something that isn't him. He sees every scar, every imperfection and wonders when pain became the only comfort in his life. 

Nothing that was good lasted – nothing that was kind was genuine, not when directed at him. A person like him could only clutch at the only thing that he's ever known and it just happened to be misery. 

Pain starts to spread towards his arm and higher. He stops noticing new tears, numbly staring forwards. At some point, he glances at the door, wondering if getting up for a painkiller is worth it when it doesn't even work most of the time. 

He stays where he is. Time passes by. Blank papers remain blank and the pencil remains where Kaveh let it fall. The motivation to get up and try to do something about the predicament he found himself in never arrives. And when the sunlight dims and Kaveh falls back onto the bed, he realises with a hollow smile, that Alhaitham never came back to the room, either.

The worst of it eased by the time Kaveh was pulled under by exhaustion. Had it not been for the harsh light streaming into his room in the morning, he would probably sleep through the day as well. And by then, the pain would maybe be nonexistent. Maybe. 

Even so, the day had begun with Kaveh stumbling out of the bed with all of his hair in disarray and pins stabbing him through his scalp – and once he got all of them out, it only made his hair more unbearable. He made a note to never fall asleep fully clothed again. 

Other than almost breaking his perfectly functioning hand upon his fall to the ground from bed, the day proceeded as normal. That is, until he walks out of the room and he doesn't find Alhaitham in any of the rooms. His study is empty, the bedroom as well – not to mention that it doesn't look as if Alhaitham slept there at all last night – and there is no sign of coffee having been made in the kitchen. 

It makes his skin crawl. 

Did he… leave last night? 

It almost never happens – that kind of break in routine, that is. Alhaitham doesn't just leave without his morning coffee. When Kaveh wakes up, there's always a dirty cup in the sink, and yet there is nothing. He doesn't find a note, either. 

Maybe… he got fed up with me? 

Kaveh's heart comes up to his throat, but he shakes his head. Alhaitham is human as well, isn't he? He's not immune to changes in routine. Things just happen sometimes. You get called into work for an emergency and you don't have time for breakfast or to write a note. That kind of stuff is spontaneous! 

… Then why does it unsettle him? 

And yesterday, he looked so… different– 

"Ah, you're up. Good." 

Kaveh stiffens up, an empty cup in his hand falling back onto the counter. He swallows thickly, slowly turning around with an anxious heart beating fast in his chest as if it wanted to speed through his ribcage and splatter onto the floors he mopped two days ago. Right there, in the small threshold of the kitchen, stands Tighnari and right behind him Kaveh can see Alhaitham dropping his key into the bowl by the door. 

For a good while, Kaveh just stands there. 

Only when Tighnari opens his mouth to say something more, Kaveh snaps back into focus and sends him a wide smile, "Tighnari!" 

Tighnari doesn't look amused. 

"Did… something happen?" Usually, Tighnari's calm and collected demeanour fools people into thinking that he's some kind of heavenly being wearing a human disguise. The man doesn't get angry. He gets irritated and annoyed at people who don't follow the rules, sure, and at those who walk into the Avidya Forest and decide that they will consume the poisonous mushrooms for fun. But he never raises his voice. Instead his tail sometimes likes to swish back and forth angrily and it’s usually a tell-tale that something is wrong. "Is Cyno okay?" 

"Would I be here, if he wasn't?" That's a genuine question. Kaveh gulps and shakes his head. "Exactly."

He doesn't elaborate. He just looks at him. Tighnari just stares at him for so long that Kaveh is reminded of the fact that he's quite fragile and Tighnari probably knows all the best, hidden spots to hide a body in, should he decide that someone is too much of a nuisance to save. Except, Kaveh didn't ask him for anything stupid and he hasn't complained to him lately, either. 

Then, when Kaveh begins to wonder if he's just hallucinating the whole thing, Alhaitham walks into the kitchen, picks up the cup that Kaveh put down onto the counter and he casually walks to where the coffee maker is. Silent. Ever so mysterious. 

Kaveh wants to bang him with a pan, suddenly. 

"It's just that," Kaveh starts with a smile a bit shaky at the edges when he turns to look at him again, "You only look so serious when something has happened. So, if Cyno is fine, then…" 

"Cyno is not my only friend," Tighnari cuts him off, not unkindly. "In fact, my other best friend is right here and I'm very mad at him." 

Kaveh glances subtly at Alhaitham, "What did he do?" 

There's a beat of silence. A heavy, almost pregnant silence in which Kaveh is a victim of both Tighnari's glare and Alhaitham's exasperated, mildly tired gaze. It takes him a moment to piece all the clues together and then, his smile trembles so much it might as well be a grimace, "What did I do?" 

"You tell me." 

Kaveh blinks back the tears, "Huh?" 

"I understand that you may have some hang ups from all of those years of being on your own," TIghnari's tail stills for a moment before picking up speed, "I understand it's hard to ask for help when you're so used to dealing with everything yourself. I get it. But there is a limit to how patient I can be." 

"I–" 

"Alhaitham came to get me yesterday. It's honestly a wonder why he didn't do that sooner." The edge to the man's voice makes him think that Alhaitham wasn't spared from that lecture as well. "Why you didn't come to me earlier is a mystery. I don't understand you." 

His hands are shaking so much he decides to cross his arms and look him in the eye, "I don't see why I should? It's fine. Alhaitham dragged you in for my wrist pain, is that it? I know everyone thinks I'm shit at taking care of myself," His tone unintentionally becomes a bit colder, "But I'm dealing with it."

He doesn't hear the coffee maker being turned on. 

And Tighnari doesn't get annoyed like he thought he would. Instead, he just… he… 

"You're not a charity case." 

Sweat trickles down his back and he sags against the counter, "What?" 

"I was wondering why you never seek me out unless Cyno invites all of us for a game at the tavern. Even before, if I didn't show up or you weren't called to the Avidya Forest, I thought about why you don't come to visit regardless." 

Why isn't the coffee maker being turned on? 

Why is it that–? 

"Do you think I talk to you because I think you're a charity case?" Tighnari's lips pull into a grimace, "Did you think that if I knew you're in pain… that I'd only take care of you because I think you're unable to? This isn't a social obligation of mine, you know."

No. 

No, he doesn't know, actually. 

"Right," he manages to say, "I know that." 

"So," Tighnari also crosses his arms, "Why am I finding out that you've been dealing with that wrist pain alone for months from Alhaitham, out of all people? Do you want to injure yourself to the point of no recovery? You know better than this." 

Yes, he does. Yes, he's aware. 

' You self-sabotage yourself,' something tells him, ' For the sake of feeling like you're worthy of living.' 

"Kaveh?" Tighnari's voice turns concerned and Kaveh cannot bear it, the feeling behind that concern. It burns through the skin, settles over the bones in a vice grip. Who knew that genuine kindness can cut through so deeply? 

"It's just wrist pain," he says, feeling terrifyingly empty. 

"Kaveh." 

"Something so little," he doesn't see Tighnari anymore, "Something so insignificant. Don't you think after everything that–" 

That I deserve it? 

Except he wouldn't think that. No one would. Because they are not like Kaveh they could never comprehend the misery behind a smile. At this point, he thinks that even his Mother wouldn't understand the weight of it. If she saw him now – if she still cares, that is – Kaveh thinks that she wouldn't get it anymore. She left, married, and had her passion rekindled by the love of everything that surrounded her; meanwhile Kaveh is choking on any kindness that is returned to him. She would look at him, maybe, and she would smile sadly and maybe, maybe she would say that she understands, but Kaveh knows better. 

Although she certainly tried her best, it was not her who took care of him when she was at her lowest – he had to do it all by himself. When everything fell apart, it was Kaveh who blamed himself and a small part of him thinks that she probably blamed him as well, and that was why it was so easy for her to move to Fontaine. 

"You wasted your time coming here," Kaveh tells him, turning away, "It's best if you leave." 

He's incapable of accepting this. 

"I'm not leaving." 

"Fine." Kaveh throws over his shoulder, stalking towards his room, "Then Alhaitham can keep you company, seeing as he brought you here over nothing."

"You were crying at night for the past few weeks." 

Kaveh stops. 

"You may think that I'm doing this out of concern for myself," Alhaitham continues, "That I'm bothered by the constant noise at night, but you cannot seriously think that I'd involve others in the matter if I didn't think it's something serious."

"You would," Kaveh bites out. "You always do."

"Not when it comes to you, not when–" 

"You always do that!" The sudden shout cuts Alhaitham off and makes Tighnari's ears press down on his head, "What, you think that because you're not in debt and that you have a steady job, it suddenly makes you so much better than me?" 

"I never–" 

"I didn't ask for any of it. I didn't ask for your help and I didn't want it. You don't get to decide whether I'm taking care of myself and upholding the standard for self-care that you have in your mind. That's not how it works!" A vice wraps itself over his ribs, squeezing and burning. Kaveh shakes all over and hates himself for even letting anyone see him in such a state. 

His breath hitches and he lets out a laugh, "Then–then you go behind my back, and you bring Tighnari over as if you thought that I wasn't able to make a decision about my own health–" 

"It's because you aren't," Alhaitham cuts him off, "And it's exactly because I know that you never value yourself the way you should that I brought him over."

A pause. 

"Excuse me?" His voice is not louder than a whisper. 

"The care you put in yourself is not equal to the care that you put in others." Alhaitham tells him, breathing out, "I didn't make a fuss when you made a detour to Avidya Forest after your trip to the desert, and you went there for the same reason I did last night. You–" There's a pause. Then, he picks up again more confidently, "You saw a friend in need and knew that there is something that can be done, so you did. And so did I." 

All of the fight leaves him. 

Kaveh's glare softens. 

"Now please," Alhaitham never asks for anything. Not if it isn't important. "Let Tighnari take a look at your wrist. You've been in pain much more often lately and if you lose your hand because you were too stubborn to accept his help, you will beat yourself up over it."

Sometimes, you just want to comfort your friend. 

That is something Kaveh was certain Alhaitham would never understand.

And yet–

Yet–

"Alright," he slumps in his place, "Fine. You do whatever you need." 

"Thank you," Tighnari says, and it sounds so sincere that Kaveh doesn't waste his time trying to decipher whether it's sarcasm, "Now, please sit down on the divan and quiet down. I'm getting a headache and I've only been here for ten minutes." 

Alhaitham locked him out of the study. Up until now, Kaveh didn't even know that the door to the study had a lock. 

"That's unnecessary." 

"Is it? Tighnari was adamant on letting me know that if I let you work, the consequences will be dire. For you as well as for me." 

"Are you afraid of him?" Kaveh throws him a disbelieving look, because the notion that someone like Alhaitham could be afraid of something or someone honestly throws him off. It isn't like him. People like him feel so confident in their lives that they don't waste their time on something as silly as fear. "That's news to me." 

"Obviously," Alhaitham's dry remark makes Kaveh roll his eyes, "If you spent a little less time inside of your head, maybe you'd realise that your perception of things is often skewed." 

"That sounds like an insult." 

"Is it?" 

Kaveh narrows his eyes at him, "You tell me." 

In the space of their kitchen, with Kaveh at the counter, cutting up the vegetables and with Alhaitham leaning against the doorframe with his arms crossed, it feels a little bit like a repeat of the earlier events where Tighnari dragged him over to the divan and performed a physical exam that ended up with Kaveh having an ultimate ban on lifting anything heavy. Or lifting a pencil. Or a pen. Or even thinking about doing any of those things. 

It feels unfair. When Alhaitham got physically sick from his migraine, Kaveh didn't force him to rest in his bed when the man felt too restles s. Alhaitham, be honest, would you like it if someone took away all of your books and told you to entertain yourself with other means? No? Exactly. 

"There is a limit, you know," Alhaitham says when Kaveh dumps the vegetables onto the pan, "One of these days, I won't be able to follow where you go." 

Kaveh doesn't look at him, "Pardon?" 

"How long will it be until you stop pulling yourself together?" Alhaitham's voice doesn't tremble – he's above such things as he usually detaches himself from the problem, but this time, it is soft and meek, and hesitant in ways that makes Kaveh's stupid heart clench, "How long until I walk into your room and find you cold?" 

People don't ask questions like that. Not out-loud. Not to your face. The uncomfortable misery that waits underneath the skin of the victim is never welcome – there aren't people who would want to cut you up and find out whether you actually want to heal or not. That is entirely up to you. 

"I have no plans to end my life." It sounds heavy. Sounds surreal. 

'Kaveh, will you truly be alright when I'm gone?' 

'Don't worry, Mom. I'm old enough.' 

Old enough to know that the pain in your chest never goes away and you just find ways to cope with it. Day after day, sunrise after sunrise, until one day you wake up and you don't want to face the sunlight. 

"Don't you?" The question is cruel. "If you truly wanted to live, you would stop throwing yourself into danger. You would stop acting like everyone you know is nice to you out of some made-up social obligation. You would actually look into my eyes and mean it when you say you have no plans to end your life."

"Archons, do you ever–" Kaveh glares at him, abandoning the pan, "I'm not going to kill myself!" 

"Then why does it feel like you will one of these days?" 

"Maybe, because every day is a fucking struggle!" Kaveh snaps. "Maybe, because nothing feels right! Maybe, because I feel like I should have died and I just never did, because someone else took my place!" He lifts his hand up, reaching towards his hair, gripping the strands and twisting them. It sends a sharp pain through his skull. "Do you think I'm not trying?" 

Something that has been tightly wound around him, snaps. 

"Kaveh–" 

"Haven't I tried enough?" Angry tears threaten to slide down his cheeks, "Aren't I trying hard enough? I took care of my Mom even though I wanted to cry myself. I pulled myself together when she picked up her stuff and left for Fontaine." His breath hitches every two words as he tightens his hands more and more, pain radiating from the top of his scalp and down to his neck. "I graduated with honours from the Akademiya and I built up a career out of it. I survived on the streets when I had to sell my house, even though I just wanted to give up. What more should I do, huh? Tell me, Alhaitham, haven't I done enough already? When will it be finally enough? What more do I need to do for you to acknowledge that I’m not this miserable for fun?" 

It hurts. 

Hurts, hurts, hurts–

"How could Tighnari ever get it, huh?" He turns away, fingers scraping against the skin of his head. "How could you understand? That I'm waiting for the day it all falls apart again?" 

Alhaitham is silent, eyes wide and posture unsure.

The pan sizzles in the background. 

"The day I let myself be happy will be the day I ruin everything," Kaveh's voice shakes, breath coming out unsteady. "Don't you see? You're so smart, you should figure out the pattern already. Every time something good happens in my life, I ruin it. It's better," he twists his hair, tugs at it, "It's better if I don't try. I–I deserve it. For what I did. For what I–I–" 

Somewhere in between Kaveh putting out the fire and his speech Alhaitham had to move from his spot in the threshold, because there is a beat of silence for exactly a minute before Kaveh's hand is grasped and pulled away from his hair. Then, his other one is caught and pulled down. 

"You're hurting yourself, Kaveh," Alhaitham tells him, something indefinable in his voice making Kaveh close his eyes tight, "Easy," he shuffles closer, almost hesitant, "It's alright."

Kaveh is not pathetic. 

That he knows, he knows, he knows –

He's capable and creative, and he's strong in ways others may not notice, but he is! He can take care of himself, has done it for years and never once bothered anyone. To be reduced to a sniffling, teary-eyed creature pains him. He's not like that. He doesn't need coddling or special medicine because his wrist is on the verge of breaking, or someone to check whether he's still alive in his room. 

"I can do better," he chokes out, trying to calm himself, "I can do it."

"I know," Alhaitham sounds regretful. 

He sounds sad. 

"I've done it before," he says, trying to convince him. "Only sometimes, I—I forget. Sometimes, I–" 

He watched his Mother walk onto the ship to Fontaine; watched his Father walk away in the direction of the desert; watched Alhaitham walk away after their fight during that project – and every time, Kaveh broke down into pieces and then taped them all back together, because he's stronger than that. Stronger than the anguish ripping him apart, stronger than the guilt that plagues his dreams. 

"I spoke out of turn," Alhaitham says, "I know you don't want to kill yourself." 

He doesn't. He doesn't want that. 

There's a fine line between a suicidal wish and a wish for his heart to finally settle down into something resembling peace. 

Kaveh wants to live. 

And yet–

Alhaitham's hand settles gently over Kaveh's, bringing it closer to his chest. It is warm in a way that reminds Kaveh of slow mornings in his childhood, when everything was still okay. When a house was a home not because it sheltered him but because there was love and acceptance. Because there was someone waiting for you to come home. 

Slowly, ever so slowly, Kaveh's other hand joins Alhaitaham's at the centre of his chest. The heart underneath beats, slow and reassured. 

It is quiet. Here, in the kitchen, in that space that is theirs. 

"I'm sorry for yelling," Kaveh whispers. 

"I prefer that over you keeping it to yourself." 

Kaveh blinks, looking up, "That doesn't fix anything. It doesn't change anything." It never does. Kaveh is a stone at the bottom of the ocean, heavy and still. 

"It doesn't have to," Alhaitham admits, "Haven't we given up on trying to change each other?" 

"It's annoying." Kaveh tells him, as if Alhaitham doesn’t know that already. "You will get mad at me again, and we will fight again, and nothing will ever resolve itself." 

But it's different, somehow. 

There is a change in the air, anyways. Because Kaveh had never spoken those words out-loud. They were always written down, or drawn down on the pages that only he could see and revisit. No one beside himself ever heard them before, and Kaveh never tried to explain to someone that there is a weight inside of him, a hole that is six feet deep. 

Before, Kaveh would let the situation escalate and if it put him at disadvantage, he'd feel sick with relief. 

Before, Alhaitham would never know that the reason Kaveh never puts himself first is because he's learnt that he isn't worthy of comfort. Alhaitham would assume that there is something wrong and unspoken between them and his sharp words would cut deep, deeper than anyone else's and he'd never wonder if there is something else. Because how could he know that sometimes, Kaveh wishes he’d been the one who walked into the desert and never came back, and not his Father?

When will you get tired? 

And in the quiet of his room:

When will I get tired enough? 

There is guilt and regret swirling at the bottom of his gut every time Kaveh thinks of years past gone, of things that he had said and not meant and decisions he can never take back. Alhaitham could listen to him all day and night, and every day and night after that, and he would still find questions and paradoxes and irony at the misfortune Kaveh brings upon himself, and he would still not be able to fix or remend what Kaveh had broken. 

"I am not here to resolve anything," Alhaitham whispers, "And you don't want me to, either."

"Then what?" 

"I will stand by you." 

Kaveh stills. 

"Then what?" 

"I will remind you that I'm here in a way you did for me."

"And then?" It sounds desperate. Maybe it is. 

Give me an answer. 

It doesn't have to be the right one. 

"Then, one day, you will stop looking at the shadow behind you." Alhaitham steps back, taking a breath and looking away. There’s something vulnerable in a way he lets Kaveh hear him speak in such a way, "We will… work on that." 

'Don't worry,' Kaveh had told him, laughing, 'We will work on that.' 

Shocked still. Embarrassed. Mortified. 

'I will be proud of you,' his Father said once , 'No matter who you become.' 

Do you hate me now that you're gone? He wondered. Picked at his skin, at his hair. Didn't eat and drank the nights away because it was so much easier to forget than to remember. 

It is painful, Kaveh thinks, stunned. The emotion in his chest makes him rell back in shock. It is painful to be happy. 

Alhaitham glances back at him, almost determined. Determined to do what, exactly? 

"Work on what," he echoes, dry. He turns away, taking his hands away and swapping at his eyes. He takes a deep breath, then another. He rubs at his skin and just knows that the next day, his face will be all swollen and red, if it isn't already. "Asshole." 

"Are you…"

"Fine," Kaveh cuts him off, not unkindly, "I will be fine. Just–" 

Just give me space. 

Let me pick myself up again. 

And maybe next time, when I pick up my broken pieces, I will use a dustpan and a broom instead of my bare hands. 

You are stuck in a loop of your own doing. 

And it starts like this:

"Why did you dye your hair?" 

The question sounds unreal. And because it is so unusual to hear Alhaitham ask something so personal, seemingly out of his own volition, it breaks the careful silence and makes Kaveh's hand freeze over one of his blueprints. If he doesn't finish it before the deadline, it will be Alhaitham's fault this time. 

"Dye…" Kaveh trails off, mind still partially focused on the sketch in front of him, "Dye my hair?" 

"Your roots," Alhaitham elaborates, "You're a natural blonde, aren't you?" 

"Could it be?" There's a pause as Kaveh slumps a bit over his blueprint and uses a minute of reprieve from the taxing task of reading through his own handwriting to glance at the man, "Are you interested in me?" 

Alhaitham doesn't blush. Or if he does, it goes straight to his ears and Kaveh never gets to see it. There are no signs of him turning bashful, except for that one small detail that Kaveh always catches after the fact. If embarrassed or flustered, Alhaitham would glance away and his hands would do that little gesture, as if he weren't sure if he wanted to fidget with his fingers or clasp them together. 

He's doing it now.  

"I'm merely curious," Alhaitham says, serious but Kaveh snorts anyway, because there's no fooling him about it now. "I don't think I've ever seen you as a brunette." 

"You probably didn't," Kaveh muses, gaze turning a bit cloudy, "I think I went fully brown for my Mom's wedding. It was years ago, though."

He abandons the sketch and leans backwards on the floor. He's half-lying when he turns to look at Alhaitham, fully intending to be a bother to him when his client gets on his back for submitting his blueprint late again. Alhaitham is already staring at him, a furrow between his brows. Like he's trying to figure something out. 

"Why?" 

What a loaded question. 

A question with backdoors, hidden, secret rooms and an archive with a lock that Kaveh is not fond of picking. 

"Why do you think?" 

"I think," Alhaitham's eyes return to his book, but Kaveh knows he's not reading it. He hasn't turned a page in an hour or so, quietly thinking about something bothersome. "That you have a tendency to do things that are detrimental to your own well-being." 

"How astute of you," Kaveh bites out, sighing. He looks away as well, instead turning his eyes towards the ceiling. Then, he speaks in a hushed voice, "My Father was a blonde, you know. I took after my Mom, but I resembled him a lot."

Alhaitham stays quiet.

"When Mom sent a letter, I didn't want to go, at first," he shares, voice steady although his heart stutters a bit on its way, "And at first, I thought she wouldn't want to see me, either. Because I reminded her of… of him. A lot." 

A fact. Stick to the facts. 

"You know, when he died, for the first couple of weeks, she wouldn't even look at me." His throat gets tight and it's difficult to swallow as he tries to laugh it off, hand coming up to scratch at his neck, "So I thought it would be easier for her if I dyed my hair."

Easier for her, always. You don't want to look at something that brings you so much pain you cry the whole night away, right? He knows–

He knows, because, well. 

For the first couple of weeks, he couldn't stand to look at himself in the mirror, either. 

"That's not like you," Alhaitham breaks the silence, "A brunette. Blonde suits you more." 

"Is that a compliment?"

"An observation."

Is it? 

(He wonders if he could convince Alhaitham to stop wearing his headphones at home more often. It would make gauging the man's emotions way easier.) 

Kaveh sighs again, then picks himself up and dusts off the invisible dust off his clothes. Alhaitham doesn't spare him a glance but his hand twitches on the book, almost anticipating the next move. His fingers glide up and down on the back of the cover, anxious. 

He never thought that he'd be able to call Alhaitham anxious before. 

"Your hair is also interesting," Kaveh tells him, moving towards him and stopping right beside him as he leans down, "The tips, right here," His fingers snag on the teal ends as he twists them around his finger, slowly bringing his eyes to lock on Alhaitham's, "They're a pretty shade." 

Alhaitham is not a being made out of emotions. 

That, Kaveh knows. 

He is the quiet before the storm. He is every second, every minute and hour of tranquillity in the otherwise chaotic order of the world. And although this man before him is successful, handsome and well-read, he sometimes forgets that he is worth every second of people's attention. As if he thought that his character flaws outweigh the kind heart underneath his ribs. As if all of his confidence scattered itself under the stone the moment he senses someone looking through the obvious and clear to see that which is usually overlooked. 

He stares at Kaveh, wide-eyed and stunned. 

It happens rarely. And every time it does, Kaveh–

"That's an observation," Kaveh adds, just to be cheeky and when Alhaitham starts to narrow his eyes in annoyance, he lets go of his hair and steps back, "But nonetheless true."

"Stop it." 

"Stop? I'm not doing anything." And then he remembers the wedding, his Mother's happy face and his grin dims a little. "And about my hair,"  He pauses, then continues a bit louder than he did before, "I didn't dye it again because I realised there's no point if I won't see my Mom again. And then, dye got so expensive that it wasn't worth it, anyways." 

"When…" Alhaitham's gaze seems to pierce right through him, "You lost the house?" 

The house. My pride. My dignity. 

Kaveh smiles, albeit it's a bit pale, "I guess. But being brunette didn't suit me, either."

It's not me. Wouldn't be me, even if I tried. 

Some things you try out of desperation turn out to be just that – things. In the grand scheme of everything, they don't matter and they don't help. There always seems to be some kind of disconnection. Some barrier between what you want and what you actually need. 

His Mother had been happy, anyway. If he didn't show up, or if he showed up looking like his Dad, it wouldn't change anything. 

He understands now. 

You can dye your hair, but you will never get out the black stain that is you. 

Mehrak is not an 'it' nor is it a 'she' or a 'he'. To be completely honest, Kaveh is not sure what exactly was Mehrak supposed to do exactly;  what the original purpose behind its creation was, so despite not having any idea, Kaveh named it and called it pet names, and prayed that inside its mind, it doesn't curse him out. 

Only after some years, Kaveh's Mehrak's pronouns switched  from 'it' to 'she'. On a whim, not some kind of deeper reason. For once. 

Mehrak, against everyone's belief, is not his assistant. She executes simple commands, is excellent at surveying the land where Kaveh's Dendro Vision cannot, and above all, she does not talk back, but she is not someone that could be called an assistant. Although she has something that could be called a face it only switches from sad, happy or angry. She can be as much of a tool as she can be a weapon – that's probably something that makes her special. 

Usually, mechanisms like Mehrak have one purpose only – to attack, to protect, or to calculate. 

Usually, they don't have their own will. 

And usually, they don't go beyond their programming. Something about King Deshret's ancient technology makes it impossible, or at least near impossible to do. 

And yet–

"Your toolbox is making noises again," Alhaitham informs him, eyes not straying from his book. There is a crease between his brows, and his hands are doing circular motions on his thigh. It's the only tell-tale that something is wrong. "Tell her to shut up." Then, after a while, he adds, "Please." 

How polite. 

Kaveh glances at her, sitting in the corner of the living room. Usually, when she's up and active, she seeks Kaveh out immediately and doesn't focus on other people. It looks like she doesn't care for her surroundings if it doesn't concern him and more often than not, she just hangs at Kaveh's side or she's in his hands, silent and expressionless. 

This time, she doesn't glance at him. She doesn't turn towards him even when calls out her name. 

In fact, Mehrak is much more busy glaring at Alhaitham's head which makes Kaveh shift his attention back to him. 

"Are you alright?" He asks. It's a bit of a useless question – Alhaitham doesn't tell other people about his problems or worries, instead they all gather and collect dust inside of his brain until he deems them important enough to deal with. By then, they usually start to really weigh on him or he musters out enough energy to clear them out. Today, though–

"Why wouldn't I be?" 

Kaveh wonders. 

There are some things that Kaveh is always sure about. 

He is in debt, he is hanging by a thread most of the days, and he is passionate about his work no matter how deep he's fallen into a slump. 

He is Tighnari's friend (that one is a bit of a recent discovery, but true nonetheless), he is an accomplished architect and most people respect his craft. 

He knows that he is flawed, above all, but the thing he's most sure about is his accuracy in reading Alhaitham. 

"Mehrak thinks you're not," he decides to say. Alhaitham rolls his eyes from where he's got them trailed on his book. "What? She can't worry?" 

"She's a toolbox," he tells him, flat. "I would think she doesn't have the capacity to worry." 

"How would you know?" 

"Kaveh, she's a mechanism. WIthout a heart." 

"That sure sounds like discrimination to me," Kaveh answers, but he's not all that bothered by Alhaitham's words. Mehrak, however, bristles  in her place in outrage. Kaveh raises an eyebrow at her, then looks back to Alhaitham, as if to prove a point. "See?" 

"Just–" There's a sigh, a heavy one, almost tired, and then Alhaitham tightens his hands on his books, and says, "Just tell her to be quiet." 

"Tell me what's bothering you," Kaveh demands, "And I will reconsider." 

"Kaveh–" 

Instead of listening to him or giving him space, like he usually does when Alhaitham seems grumpy enough to raise his voice or snap in most unexpected places, Kaveh crosses the distance between them and vedges himself between the armrest and Alhaitham. It makes the man twitch away, but Kaveh's done worse things at an impulse so he makes himself comfortable instead of running away, and demands again: "Tell me." 

There's hesitation, then. Alhaitham's hands fidget with the book, although there's a scowl on his  face. 

"There is nothing wrong.” 

He always insists that there isn’t and because Alhaitham is not Kaveh, he will never bring the topic of his troubles up by himself. 

“Alright,” Kaveh murmurs, “There isn’t, but something isn’t right , either.”

There is a well-known fact, and that is that no matter how much they bicker, there is always a second layer of understanding between them. Something intangible. Kaveh does not know what it is, exactly, when it appeared and why it stayed, even though Alhaitham and Kaveh had a fall-out years ago. 

Perhaps, it's like riding a bicycle. You can never quite forget how it's done. 

Years ago, when Kaveh was still a raw wound, barely scabbed over, Alhaitham's words cut deep. He has a way of saying things so bluntly that it would take a ten-metre thick wall to withstand the damage. And despite all of his defences that he puts on to appear unaffected by most things, Kaveh can also see clearly what's going on. Underneath the achievements, the logical reasoning for everything, the accomplished peaceful life, Alhaitham is a lonely man. 

There is nothing wrong with being alone, Kaveh knows. 

Loneliness, however, cuts a bit deeper than words and blows. When years ago they fought, severed their ties and parted ways, Kaveh didn't get it. There was agony, regret and a sense of betrayal that someone so close to him could not mince his words and sting him so badly, but years after, there appeared something else. 

No one else confronted Kaveh about it – his guilt, his kindness, his way of seeing things. People see Kaveh the Architect, Kaveh the Light of Kshahrewar, Kaveh the one who built the Palace of Alcazarzaray and then disappeared for a short while, and they never touch anything under that disguise. 

When Kaveh came to understand something, he did so thoroughly. 

'You are too naive.' 

'You do not behave your age, or of a manner befitting a man of your status.' 

'The debt you accumulated doesn't get any smaller and you keep on picking up commissions that do not serve you at all. As expected.' 

And back then, also:

'Your idealism is a flight from reality and and your altruism is a result of your own inescapable sense of guilt. Sooner than later you will find out that it will become a burden on your existence.  And then, what will you do?' 

You cannot change a friend and neither can you force them to agree with something that goes directly against their own beliefs. Even someone like Kaveh can comprehend that much, and so–

"I'm not going to judge you," Kaveh says at last and Alhaitham barely spares him a glance, "I think we've come so far that we're past the pleasantries and pretending that we are something we've not been for a long time." 

Silence. 

"And although you annoy me to death, I don't want you to be quiet with me."

I like you, goes unspoken, do not let this house become silent again. 

Alhaitham doesn't look at him when he answers, "It's the anniversary of my Grandmother's death."

Kaveh stills, but only for a second. "Alright." He can work with that. "Can I do something?" 

His mind flashes to an empty grave. To a memory dusted over with something he cannot brush off. 

Grief–

It doesn't just pass, does it? 

"No," Alhaitham tells him honestly, "There's nothing you can do. What's done, cannot be undone." 

So factual. 

And yet, Alhaitham's eyes stay on the book. The cover is emerald green. It looks worn from age, from usage. A testament on how often it was picked up, read and then closed back again. Alhaitham had been staring at a single page for what feels like an eternity and Kaveh suddenly feels like he’s a bit too much for his body. 

Kaveh had made peace with pain and loneliness. And he had his Mother and Father for a longer time than Alhaitham had his parents. 

There's little that you can do to ease loneliness. And sometimes–

"I guess…" He starts, making himself more comfortable on the divan. Alhaitham's eyes grow horribly blank, straining to stay clear and not become glassy. Kaveh pretends he doesn't see the way his throat bobs, or the way his breath hitches in some places. It's the least he can do. "I will just stay here, then." 

Did he ever grieve? Kaveh wonders. Or did he just go on about his life, because it was so much easier than allowing death to affect him?

Did he ever stop to shed a tear? 

When Kaveh's Father died, and there was a funeral, people came to give their condolences. His Mother received them all with grace, with a plastic smile that didn't get any less fake even when Kaveh squeezed her hand. People have asked them if they will be okay, if there is something they can do to help. Cooking, cleaning, arrangements. His parents didn't lack friends or acquaintances. Faranak didn't have to go through all of that alone, at least for the official part. 

Kaveh glances at Alhaitham's still form. 

Did anyone ever ask him if he's okay? That kid that never spoke up to others in class, who went out of his way to not get too close to anyone, who was known as an orphan. 

There is a moment of silence between them. Kaveh realises that Alhaitham had no relatives, not anymore. That at the time of his Grandmother's death, he had to arrange her funeral himself. Take care of her property himself. Bury her himself. 

And then, that was it. 

Alhaitham had only himself for the rest of his life. 

"You don't have to," Alhaitham's voice is more of a whisper than anything else. It sounds fragile. "I'm fine." 

Mehrak in the background makes a sad noise. It beeps at Kaveh, circles where she's stationed and her expression looks mournful. 

You are a machine , despite himself Kaveh thinks to himself, why do you look so pained? 

"I know," Kaveh says. He knows that, he does. "When my Father died, I wished someone would sit with me." 

He doesn't know why he said that, but–

Well. 

Alhaitham's fingers twitch again. 

"Why?" 

Kaveh looks away, "I guess… Just to know I'm not alone." 

His Mother grieved for a long time, longer than Kaveh allowed himself. She would sit in places his Father would rest, she would look through the photos and burst into tears. She would sometimes speak to herself as if she was talking to him – she kept asking if it's all a cruel dream. She wasn't as out-going as her husband and she kept herself out of the crowd, so she didn't have as many close friends as he did – so that connection between them; that death was something more than a loss. It was a fracture. And so, there was little time for her to comfort Kaveh when her soulmate perished in the sands of the desert – and although she tried, she would rather focus on moving on than on dwelling on the past. For both of their sakes. 

"She didn't want me to grieve," Alhaitham murmurs. 

So he didn't. 

"She left me a book." 

Emerald cover. Worn from use and cherished. 

"She wanted me to lead a peaceful life."

And he did. 

A steady job, a comfortable house, and an existence where he would thrive even alone, all by himself. 

Always striving for his own goal. Hiding behind a selfish intent and never allowing his emotions to get the best of him, to cloud his own judgement and perspective.

"She's probably proud of you," Kaveh's heart clenches in time with his heartbeat, "You managed just that." 

Alhaitham's eyes gloss over. His fingers stop drumming on the cover of the book, they stop tightening and stroking over the edge.

Maybe, that day when they had fought, Alhaitham was thinking of his Grandmother. It's so much easier to understand what kind of person she was looking at the way Alhaitham held himself now. Do not sacrifice your own happiness for someone else, Kaveh fills in what Alhaitham never told him. Don't be naive as to not see that you are being used; don't settle for less than what you're worth; you strip yourself of everything you own, so at the end of the day, what will you have? 

"Haitham," Kaveh's voice is awfully soft, "A peaceful existence doesn't have to be a lonely one." 

Something snaps. 

Alhaitham raises his hand to cover his eyes, a gesture almost angry and his face crumbles in front of Kaveh, chest heaving. 

In the background, Mehrak finally settles down. 

Sometimes, people's happy endings are not what they have imagined for themselves. If Kaveh had his way then his Mother would still be there, in Sumeru, and his Father would be alive, but none of those things can happen now. Not after everything that took place anyway, so Kaveh is stuck living in a circle where his past doesn't let him sleep and his future is a cause for many, many dark thoughts. And yet at the end of the day, Kaveh thinks that maybe, just maybe, it's all for the better. 

The thing with pain, after all, is that after a while of dealing with it, you start to become intimately familiar with it, to a point of comfortability. If there is no way of easing it, why bother dwelling on it? If all Kaveh is capable of is putting himself through the wringer every time the situation calls for it, then perhaps that's the only way.  

Life had a nasty way of telling Kaveh when he's wrong, however. 

"I can't believe you're living like this," he complains, hands on his hips. His eyes give the mess in front of him a glare, juggling from one stack of books to another, and then to the occupied table where most of Alhaitham's documents are strewn around. "I don't recall you ever being so messy." 

In fact, when he first moved in, Alhaitham had been diligent in getting chores done, and he even cleaned up after himself often, never leaving a precious or ancient looking book behind anywhere. Not like he was obnoxious about it now, it was just like–

"I wasn't," Alhaitham tells him, "I'm a perfect example of a tidy roommate. Always have been." 

Kaveh's eyebrow twitches and he doesn't look in his direction, whether because he doesn't think his patience would hold up or because he just doesn't want to see the man's face is up to interpretation. 

"Those books, right there, can't miss them because they're literally at my feet, tell me something else."

"They're organised." 

"Organized." Kaveh's voice is flat. 

"Alphabetically." Alhaitham sounds so serious and genuine that for a moment, Kaveh really wants to believe him.

"And those papers over there?" 

Alhaitham spares them a glance, or at least Kaveh hopes he does. "They're also organised like that." 

"What alphabet were you using, then?" His hands fall from his hips as he turns to look at him. Alhaitham is staring at him over his mug of coffee, steam partially hiding the man's eyes – how hot is it, anyway? Looks like it's boiling – and he finally blinks, tilting his head. Kaveh raises an eyebrow, "Well? Can't be ours. You have ' Philosophical Debate' at the top of that stack." 

Alhaitham looks away, "Why does that matter?" 

"Because," Kaveh closes his eyes for a moment, "Because for the past few days, I've been seeing books in the bathroom. Bathroom, Alhaitham. And in the kitchen. And in the living room. In fact, for some reason, I found a book in my bed and it wasn't even my book. They're everywhere." 

"Use them, then," Alhaitham says, still not looking at him, "Maybe you will learn something useful." 

"I'll be sure to read the 'Boar Princess' and apply it to my life," Kaveh nods his head, tone bordering on sarcastic, "No problem."

Alhaitham nods to himself, as if that solved the whole issue. Kaveh debates throwing one of the books at him, just to prove a point, but he restrains himself, because sometimes, he has to be the bigger man. Days like that, it just seems unlikely that the mess is not on purpose. And Alhaitham is organised. His mess is always resting somewhere in some kind of pattern, little notes annotating most of the documents, and nothing ever seems out of place. And yet, Kaveh cannot help but notice that it's never been that severe before. 

And also, the book in his room? 

"You have to stop leaving them in random places, at the very least." He puts a hand on his face, massaging it and pulling at his hair in places. "One of these days, I won't notice one and it will become one with the shower."

"We have a bathtub, though." 

"With a showerhead." 

"Actually–"

"It's a showerhead, courtesy of Fontaine," Kaveh cuts in, and Alhaitham takes a sip of his coffee, not even concerned, "And I'm not joking." 

"If that happens, you'll just buy me another one." 

There it is. The nonchalance. The infuriating tone of voice that makes Kaveh want to do unspeakable things to that man. It's never a question of 'if', it's always a 'when' and when Kaveh hits a wall, he will resort to other means of negotiation. Only then, Alhaitham will have to bend that ironstill will of his unless he wants it to snap. 

"This is ridiculous." 

"Glad to know we agree." 

SIlence. 

"Kaveh." 

"What." 

"Put down the rag."

"I can't do this," Kaveh takes a deep breath, steeling himself, "I have to wipe that smirk from your face. The urge is too great." 

"Kaveh–" He can hear a bit of alarm in his voice and a screech of a chair being moved, "You wiped our floor with that. Don't even try." 

"Or what?" 

"I will kick you out. You can crawl back to Lambad, see if he takes you in." 

"It's fine," Kaveh nods sincerely, "I can deal with that." And then he pounces.

"You beat him with a rag?" Cyno's incredulous voice breaks through the judgemental silence in the hut and Kaveh nods, serene. "Because he annoyed you?" 

"No. I asked him to clean up his mess and manage his books better. I only beat him with a rag after he refused." A pause. "And to be honest with you, I didn't even manage to land a hit. I tackled him to the floor, though." Another pause. "I will probably have to clean it again, because he spilled his coffee." 

Tighnari's silence is very telling. 

"He's always been a bit messy from what you've told me." 

"Well, yeah. But not like that. Not even my room has been spared from his collection." 

"Can't be that bad." Cyno pulls out a card, puts it on the table, and says, "I knocked your Jean out." 

"What?  Oh," Kaveh frowns, then sighs and puts the card away. "It wasn't that bad before, but when you wake up with an encyclopaedia sized book digging into your spine, it starts to get a little bit irritating." 

There's something nagging him at the back of his head, though. A context he's missing, a piece of a puzzle that remains unfinished. Is it possible that there's something he didn't quite catch? Perhaps something work related for Alhaitham? An increased workload? Except Alhaitham doesn't let issues like that pile up anymore, so? 

Is it his Grandmother? Or–? 

Tighnari's ears perk up suddenly, "Kaveh." 

He looks up, one hand on the dice and another reaching for a cup with the green tea (Tighnari seems really adamant on making Kaveh stop drinking so much alcohol), "Hmm?" 

"You said he's never been messy before? Not to that kind of extreme?" 

"Not to my knowledge," Cyno knocks out one of his cards again, shooting him a smug grin when Kaveh tries to salvage the situation by playing a weapon card. A useless endeavour, because when it's Cyno's turn, the character it's attached to dies. That's probably a fourth defeat by now. "We haven't–I mean. Maybe he's changed, all those years, but–" He leans backwards on his chair. "He's possessive over his books, you see. He treasures them more than anything. I'm not kidding when I say that he'd trade me for a bundle of them, if it ever came to that."

"He wouldn't," Cyno gathers his deck, confident. 

"Well–" 

"Kaveh," Tighnari interrupts and waits until he turns towards him to continue, "Did you ever think that maybe he's just grown comfortable with you?" 

He stares. 

Tighnari elaborates, "When Collei came to live in Gandharva Ville, her first months were spent recovering. She brought little stuff with her, and everything she possessed, she kept in her bag."

"She didn't know when she would have to leave," Kaveh shrugs, "But it's his house, why would he–" 

"And then, after a year or so, she started leaving her things in my hut. A notebook here, a scarf there. Little things. And then stuff she thought was really precious to her. Letters and all that. During her first months here, she would never do that." Tighnari holds his gaze when Kaveh blinks, "She didn't trust me then. Would you?" 

He thinks back on his debt. About the box of trinkets he never opens. His Mother's diary. 

His thoughts. 

His wrist pain. 

"No," he replies, honest and quiet, "I wouldn't." 

"I don't think he's doing that on purpose," Tighnari murmurs. "A house only becomes messy when you feel comfortable to leave your things out."

A weight settles over him. 

His chest tightens. 

A sentences repeats itself, over and over again – it bounces off the walls of his skull, echoes in his mind:

'How has realising your ideals gone for you?' 

"Would you actually throw his books out?" Cyno asks after exchanging a look with Tighnari, "Look through his documents, even if they were out in the open?" 

"No." The answer almost doesn't leave his throat, the honesty behind them thick and lead-like in his mouth. He wouldn't. He didn't, even if they were right in his face; even when he had to move them somewhere else because he wanted to clean up a bit. 

"He most likely didn't even realise that he's been doing that," Tighnari sighs, tail swishing behind him. He puts his head on his hand and glances at Kaveh, "As much as you complain about him, and how much you two butt heads, don't you also trust each other?" 

Do they? 

"He offered you a place to stay. He sought you out when you were at your lowest."

'You saw a friend in need and knew that there is something that can be done, so you did. And so did I.' 

"You could say that you and Alhaitham," Cyno starts, "Are mint to be." 

SIlence. 

Even Tighnari blinks, then almost offended on behalf of Kaveh himself for ruining the moment, he swipes his hand and wacks him over the head. Cyno doesn't even flinch, although Kaveh knows that the man saw the swat coming way before even Kaveh did. Cyno and his super hearing would probably hear a fly outside the door, if he tried hard enough. 

"Get it?" He asks instead, and Tighnari's piercing gaze only makes him grin wider, "Because–" 

Kaveh's own soul and Tighnari's voice immediately say, "Stop." 

"You're no fun." 

"In any case," Tighnari focuses back on Kaveh, "I don't think it's anything bad. Try talking to him about it again. Preferably without chugging a rag at him." 

"I didn't chug it at him," Kaveh corrects him, "I chugged myself. With it in hand." 

There's another beat of a very judgemental silence. 

"Yeah, okay I'll try." 

Mehrak came into being a little after Kaveh moved in with Alhaitham. Up until now, the core that resides in her only served to make her be able to perform basic tasks like mapping and adding to an already existing scheme. Everyone who knows Kaveh, also knows Mehrak by default and it’s no secret that he built her from scratch. What many don’t know, however, is that Mehrak is what she is now only thanks to the core he bought off of a merchant who found it in the ruins. 

And so, even Kaveh with all of his prowess failed to realise something. That said ruins weren’t just any ruins. 

They were King Deshret’s. 

And although it is a common knowledge that mechanisms can’t evolve, anything that came from Al-Ahmar himself was bound to evolve anyway, at one point. Why? Kaveh has actually no idea. What he does know is that Mehrak was programmed with specific use in mind, and recently she had been going a little bit beyond that function. 

Except when he thinks about the issue for a while, he also starts to understand that Mehrak had never really fit into the whole cold mechanism profile. She never acted like one would expect a toolbox of her specifications to act. 

“You’re an enigma, Mehrak,” he says out-loud, hand hovering over her. She blinks up at him, and seemingly not understanding what he means, she nudges herself closer to him. Like a very small, metal cat. “Do you actually know more than you let on?”

Mehrak doesn’t answer that. She can’t, that he knows. 

Except there’s something. He can’t quite put his finger on it, but Mehrak just has this something around her – an aura of something that is actually far more knowing than one would expect. Alhaitham had told him over and over again that she’s incapable of feeling emotions, of feeling rejection and acceptance, and yet she still chirps sadly at him when he leaves for work and smiles when he lets her rest on his lap as he’s doing something. 

“Do you remember when I first activated you?” 

It wasn’t a good day. Back then, Kaveh had spent a lot of time inside and didn’t bother to accept invitations to hang out, and even though he accepted commissions, they were far and in between – not to mention the fact that most of them never saw fruition. It was, admittedly, an all-time low for him. That mechanical core was just something he tinkered with when going outside had seemed too daunting. 

Mehrak suddenly beeps at him, expression changing to an unhappy one. 

Kaveh sighs, takes a seat at the counter and leans on his elbow, “You were the first thing that worked, Mehrak. After the Palace…” His breath shudders out of his throat, “Whatever I’ve touched, it all got ruined.”

He drank and drank, and then when the day came and it was time to play his art, Kaveh smiled and laughed. A perfect picture of a successful, unbothered person who never had a problem they couldn’t solve. Researchers he knew, classmates he helped in the past, Kaveh had to convince them that he’s fine, that he didn’t break, because–

Because people like Kaveh, those who are named a prodigy and a genius right at the start, they don’t get the luxury of being breakable. They aren’t fragile, they can’t be – there is something untouchable about them; there is an expectation that he will be great. 

After all, who would Kaveh be if he were weak like that? If he gave up halfway? 

If he let everything that transpired in the past get him down?

Tighnari knew some of it, and to some extent Cyno must have figured something out, but there’s a difference. Tighnari could only know because Kaveh had consulted with him before and they bonded over the local flora, and Cyno had his special brand of humour that needed a beer or two to stomach, but those were good people who didn’t pry into other people’s business. Genuinely good people that Kaveh still tried to fool somehow, and to this day he doesn’t know how successful he might have been. But they don’t talk about that. It’s water under the bridge and all that.

So. So they don’t know about–about–

“I was going to end it,” Kaveh whispers. The house is quiet, with Alhaitham at work because he was called in for a last minute meeting and when the Archon herself asks for your attendance, it doesn’t seem polite to decline. The only witness to Kaveh’s confession is Mehrak. “I thought about it even after Alhaitham took me in. I had a plan and all.”

Mehrak stops levitating and places herself on the counter. Kaveh stares at her as her light dims and she chirps at him, quiet and almost hesitant. 

“I wrote a letter to my mom. I asked forgiveness, even though I knew I didn’t deserve it. I apologised that the son she loves so much stopped being her brilliant little boy. That I failed.” A ghost of a smile appears at the edges of his lips, “I was… I was going to send it.”

Does anyone actually know that? 

To Kaveh, the Palace of Alcazarzaray was not the tipping point. It was merely another, very bad thing that happened. Before that, Kaveh had been smothered by the academic pressure from the Akademiya, from the expectations of his peers, by the never-ending guilt about his Father’s demise and then not being able to help his own Mother. He had pushed his friends away. He had stumbled into alcohol and had trouble stumbling out of it. 

Does Tighnari know that Kaveh had already been thinking how it would be easier if the Palace had fallen when he was surveying the site for the last time? That when he asked him for the recommendation because Tighnari’s fauna and flora expertise was superior to everyone else, that he was thinking about the flowers he would want on his funeral? 

Would Cyno realise? That Kaveh finds him at times a bit too much, because Cyno looks at him sometimes like he’s seeing through the facade he spent so much time crafting? 

There is a letter hidden in his box under the bed. One to his Mom and another to Alhaitham. In both, he says he’s sorry. 

Sorry I can’t be strong. And I’m sorry, you were right. 

“I didn’t want to die, Mehrak,” his voice breaks at the end, “I just wanted my Mom. And my Dad. I wanted everything–everything to be the way it was before.”

Nothing is easy anymore. It’s an uphill climb where Kaveh barely has the right equipment for it. 

“And it couldn’t be,” his breath hitches and he swallows hard, looking at Mehrak, “So I thought, maybe if I were gone, the guilt would disappear. I would be–”

Free? Absolved of the guilt he put on himself?

Mehrak’s sound gets distressingly high this time and she launches herself towards him. It’s only thanks to Kaveh’s fast reflexes that he stumbles back and opens his arms just in time to catch her tumbling into his arms. She shakes and trembles there. She can’t speak, but she’s–

She’s wailing. 

Like a child.  

Kaveh can only stare ahead, wide-eyed and shocked. He embraces her, even though it feels silly, and he hugs her tight to his chest. She’s never been warm, she can’t generate heat after all, but something about her in this moment spreads warmth in his chest. Like the first time he held her, that night after he didn’t sleep in what seemed like a week. Dirty, tired, at the end of his rope. 

She sparked to life then. Just like that. 

“Hey,” Kaveh swallows thickly, tears coming to his eyes, “It’s okay, Mehrak.”

She doesn’t stop. 

He didn’t think, ever, that he’d find himself in a position of comforting ancient mechanism. 

“I know–” he takes a deep breath, steadying himself, “I know that people who know me are worried about me and how things are going. That they sometimes,” Image of Alhaitham pops into his head, then Tighnari’s expression when he came over to help him with his wrist, “Think I won’t get back up if they don’t help me, but Mehrak, in my life, I think I did pretty well, didn’t I?”

He tries to blink back his tears. Mehrak attempts to nuzzle closer, although it’s impossible at this point. Any closer and she will have buried herself in his ribcage. 

“I did it all by myself,” he closes his eyes, “I did it all. I didn’t send those letters, because I decided against it.”

Sometimes, it’s really hard. Really, really hard. Sunlight hits him and scalds him more than usual, silence sounds taunting and maddening, and food and sleep are forgone in order to chase the expectations of others. He feels lonely, then. Like he’s at the sea, and there’s no one around. Like no matter how much he screams, no one will reach out.

For someone as out-going as him, becoming completely unwanted is a horrifying nightmare. 

“I won’t stop trying, Mehrak.”

Her wails sound like hiccups. 

She never–

She never sounded like that before. 

“You’re my little light,” he tells her as a last resort, “Remember? Light the way for me.”

It takes hours, that Kaveh knows, because when Mehrak settles down, the entrance door opens and he can hear Alhaitham dropping his set of keys to the bowl in the hall. During that time, Kaveh only managed to wipe his own face clean and make some coffee to get rid of the upcoming post-cry headache.  

Only, Alhaitham doesn’t head down to his bedroom as usual. He stops by the kitchen, glances at the counter as if he could see traces of Mehrak’s nonexistent tears and throws him a questioning look. 

“What?” Kaveh asks, lips around his cup.

Alhaitham purses his lips, asks, “Did something happen to make our Great Architect forget he’s on dinner duty today? Shouldn’t your memory be better than this?”

Ah. Right.

That was before he got all sentimental.

“Is that a dig at my age?” Kaveh stands up, placing the cup on the counter. He turns around to open the cupboard, “You’re two years my junior, have some respect.”

Whether it’s the comfort of the banter or the fact that Kaveh seemed to look like something heavy had been taken off of him, he doesn’t know, but one of those things makes Alhaitham’s tense form – Kaveh didn’t even notice he’s been on edge – ease and slump a bit. 

He huffs and starts walking in the direction of his bedroom, “You start acting like you’re my senior and I will consider respecting you.”

And then he’s gone, just like that. Kaveh raises an eyebrow, half-turning to look at the spot where he had been standing, and then he glances at silent Mehrak under the cupboard. Mehrak blinks her eyes at him, almost tired. 

“Youth these days, Mehrak. I swear,” he shakes his head. 

Mehrak stares at him, then almost relieved, she happily beeps at him. 

Kaveh smiles.

Kaveh does not make it a habit to stare at Alhaitham. Not really. The man does what he wants, goes where and when he wants and usually maintains the same position on the divan for hours, unless he’s in the middle of one of his ‘say everything out-loud and doodle on every available surface ’ moods. Observing him when he reads all day would bore him quickly.

Lately, though–

“Is the medicine from Tighnari working well?” Kaveh asks him, interrupting what seemed like another reading session on a lazy morning, “For your migraines.”

A pause. 

A breath. 

Then. 

“Is it?”

“Mhm?”

“For your wrist?” Alhaitham clarifies. “You made a deal.”

The ‘I will take care of myself if you will’ kind of deal, he remembers.

“Ah, right.” Kaveh leans backwards, glancing at the ceiling for a minute, twisting his wrist for another and then looking back down at him, “It’s a wonder, really. Haven’t had pain in a few days now.” When it looks like Alhaitham is satisfied with the answer and is planning on going back to his book, Kaveh presses, “What about you? The migraines?”

“I haven’t had a migraine in a while, either,” It looks like it pains him to admit that, for some reason incomprehensible to Kaveh, “Only headaches.”

“Do you have one now?” He walks up to him, hand reaching out to Alhaitham’s forehead in an automatic action to check his temperature. Alhaitham’s head does a weird tilt as he tries to get away from the touch, “Oi. Stop that.”

“You’re getting too handsy,” Alhaitham tells him, but his voice sounds off. “And no. I don’t.”

“You sure?” Kaveh retreats his hand and stares him down, “I will know if you lie.”

“I’m aware of what you think of yourself.” There’s an unhappy twist to Alhaitham’s lips as he glares at him, “And I’m fine.”

“Well, if you say so,” Kaveh allows that, and when Alhaitham is lulled into false sense of security, head ducking to read the rest of his book – as if he didn’t read that one already,  Kaveh knows that cover because he tripped over it last week – he crouches down to his level, draping himself over him, “You know–”

Alhaitham startles, annoyed, “Must you be so close?”

“–I talked with Tighnari,” Kaveh speaks slowly, not in a rush despite Alhaitham doing his equivalent of squirming around, “And I’ve come to understand some stuff.”

“Well, that’s a first,” comes a tense reply.

“You were never this messy,” Kaveh tells him, as if Alhaitham didn’t know that already, “You never let me near your precious books, at least not those of value. You do know that I notice those things, right? I’m not blind.”

Alhaitham goes still. 

“What about it? You’re not the picture of neatness, either.”

“I didn’t say it’s a bad thing,” Kaveh sighs and stands up. Alhaitham’s form almost slumps from relief when they stop touching. “I just wanted to let you know that I don’t actually mind.”

“It’s my house, after all,” Alhaitham tries to defend, but it comes out weak and unconvincing.

“In fact,” Kaveh pushes, looking at him, “I’m glad you did. Stop being so stuck-up, I mean. In the past I know I–” And there it is, the first wall. Kaveh doesn’t do honesty. Not like he goes out of his way to be a liar, but he doesn’t usually share those tidbits of his life. Not anymore, “I hoped you would change. I’ve called you cruel and lacking sympathy, and I didn’t stop to think how that could hurt you. There are two sides to a person, after all.”

There’s a surprise on Alhaitham’s face. Is it, though? Is it that shocking that Kaveh after all those years would still think back about how close they were and how they split apart? Maybe to Alhaitham that time spent apart was not something excruciating, but to Kaveh it had been a lonely hell of his own making. Of course he’d think back on the times where he actually felt somewhat understood and heard. 

“Why are you telling me this?” Alhaitham’s voice is quiet, careful. 

Kaveh shrugs, “Just an epiphany. Wasn’t it you who said that I’m a prisoner of my own guilt?”

“And now… you decided to agree?”

“Maybe not agree,” Kaveh mutters out, “But understand. A lot has happened. I said something I shouldn’t have and we fell apart, and maybe that was all for the better.”

There comes a time when you realise that to grow up, you first have to become a child again. To understand the grief, the anger and the hurt, because there is no happiness without knowing the anguish. Kaveh had tried to bury that part of himself, the naive parts that gathered so much mockery over the years and kept them close to his chest. But now he sees it, somehow. That young Kaveh tried his best, he knows that now. He tried to take care of himself and his Mother, and then he tried to live through the horrible solitude, and then he had to fight through the crowd of people who long ago gave up their dreams and instead tried to fit into the realm of society’s expectations. 

It doesn’t give him closure. He doubts anything can, at this point, but–

“I don’t regret it,” Alhaitham says, almost remorseful, “What I said back then.”

“I didn’t think that you do,” he sighs, “And maybe that’s why I mistook your kindness for cruelty.”

There it is. 

Alhaitham stares at him. 

‘How has realising your ideals gone for you?’

Kaveh’s lips pull in a thin line and he shrugs, elaborating, “I’m working on myself. I didn’t give up, Alhaitham. Sometimes, I just need to convince myself that it’s worth it. Me. And everything else.”

Speechless, that’s what Alhaitham, the honours student of the Haravatat Darshan, is right now. 

Kaveh does not make staring at Alhaitham a habit, but it’s hard not to, when the man is looking at him as if he didn’t believe that it’s Kaveh saying all that. At the beginning, Kaveh didn’t believe himself either. Because you never ever hear someone say that – that they’re struggling but they will keep on fighting. Those thoughts are usually reserved for their own hearts, the private confines of their soul. 

Maybe Kaveh is just tired of keeping it to himself. 

And when you’re tired, and lonely, and desperate, you hold on to the closest thing you have. 

“I see,” Alhaitham manages to say, blinking and shaking his head, “That’s good.”

“Mhm,” Kaveh tilts his head, curious, “That’s all I had to say.”

“Alright,” is a breathy answer, perhaps still a bit stunned, “Alright.” 

And ‘alright’ it seems, because Alhaitham doesn’t berate him when Kaveh sits back on the divan (this time putting some distance, just for Alhaitham’s sake) and he actually sports a smile (a barely there lift of his lips, but it’s there!), so despite everything, Kaveh feels like he accomplished something. 

There’s no such thing as full recovery when it comes to grief. There comes the acceptance and future events that help you properly move on, but the hollow feeling in your chest never goes away – it can only transform itself into something more bearable. For Kaveh, there hasn't ever been a time where he could properly mourn, either. He had to grow up, and then he had to graduate, and then he had to work. 

He doesn’t claim to understand grief better than most. He doesn’t have the capability of telling anyone that it gets easier, because it doesn’t, not really. You only get better at moving forwards, running until there is no air for you to breathe. 

For Kaveh and for Faranak there had been a clear ‘before’ and ‘after’ when Kaveh’s Father died. Before it happened there was a home-cooked meal, a warm bed, a sky full of stars, and afterwards there had been a home where breaths echoed and a sky turned dull and clouded. The safe haven, the sanctuary of love, and Kaveh’s only known foundation for care, had been shattered. Not because Faranak couldn’t take care of him, and not because he bore any genuine resentment, but because when a child is not properly educated on the effects of death and when it’s not explained to them how they do not possess power over who lives and who dies, there is only one way for them to grow up – bearing the burden of guilt. 

It is not necessarily a well-placed guilt, either. Its placement has nothing to do with the child themself. It manifests and festers inside of them not because it is their blame to shoulder, but because they had not the luxury of putting it down when it first appeared. Faranak did not say, “It is your fault” but neither did she say, “It’s not your fault” and perhaps for young Kaveh that had been enough. He could not blame his Mother, and he dared not blame his Father’s impulsiveness, and so the only scapegoat that was left was him. 

Alhaitham doesn’t know that and Kaveh never told him, but it’s exactly because of that guilt that he’s lived up until now. 

You cannot die until you atone. It repeats itself over and over again in his mind.

And even though Kaveh has nothing to atone for, the thought alone allows him to survive one day after another. 

Faranak herself doesn’t know about it, either. Didn’t know about it, that is.  

And then Kaveh wrote to her, in hopes of something he doesn’t dare to name either, after the Interdarshan Championship. He didn’t place any judgement, didn’t try to lead her to believe something that is not true, but somehow his stray thoughts must have come across anyway. He supposes it’s the power of a mother, and not the fact that the paper in his letter had been stained with tears. In any case, what happened next was not something that he had anticipated. Maybe he should have, but he didn’t. He was pretty out of it for weeks, admittedly, and then the whole situation with his Mother’s diary popped up and the weight of all the conflicting emotions didn’t sit well with him, so any logical reasoning went out the window. A letter he wrote in a fit of chaotic attempt at being completely honest with Faranak – for once – slipped his mind entirely.

That is until there is a knock on the door a few days later. 

“I’m not getting up,” Alhaitham tells him. He’s been buried in his documents for the past few hours and refuses to be torn away from them. The situation had grown so dire that Kaveh resorted to putting cut fruit in front of his mouth so he’d at least eat those. At this point, Kaveh even contemplates manhandling the man and locking him in his bedroom, but knowing him, he’d go out through the window or body slam the door. 

This time, though, Kaveh doesn’t fight him. 

“I’m not carrying you to your bed if you collapse,” he says, getting up. Alhaitham doesn’t even grace him with a look. “Ungrateful brat.”

“Hm.” Is the only reply. Kaveh has to physically restrain himself from reaching over and smacking him. 

After the first knock and Kaveh’s slow walk towards the door, there comes another and another. It continues until he picks up the key, twists it into the keyhole and wonders for a full minute if he actually wants to open the door. He does it, but only because he knows Alhaitham would complain if he accidentally turned away one of his packages again. 

A sigh escapes him as he puts on a smile, eyes tiredly looking up to see the visitor, but then he freezes. There is a certain paralysing feeling coursing through his body as he registers the sight in front of him. The simple, recited “hi, how can I help you?’ only making itself halfway out of his mouth before the rest of his words get stuck in somewhere between his lungs. 

His hands turn clammy. 

He feels cold.

“Mom.” The greeting comes out strangled, before he coughs. A blonde woman, beautiful and dressed in an outfit foreign to Sumeru stands in front of him, looking just as he remembered seeing her the day of her wedding and suddenly he realises that the last time he saw her was exactly then. And since then, she had only grown older. “How–?”

“May I come in?” Her voice betrays nothing. After so much time passed, Kaveh would have thought that he’d learned how to read her, especially after going through her diary. It’s his Mother, after all! He’s known her for years. Has been raised by her! But, perhaps that’s another one of the things he got wrong. Time, no matter how much you beg it not to, changes people. “I know this is sudden. But–”

He’s overwhelmed with a sudden, unreasonable urge to slam the door in her face. It makes the ball of guilt in his stomach twist and grow bigger, but he quenches the urge, opens the door a bit wider and lets her through. And then, he stands there for a while, stunned. Long enough for it to be considered rude, but there’s cotton candy in his head, one that doesn’t allow him to act as quickly as he’d like. It’s only when he hears the usual sound of papers being shifted stop that he finally moves, locking the house as an afterthought. 

In the living room, Faranak is standing, looking at Alhaitham the same way the man is staring at her – in disbelief and confusion. Who is this strange man? She probably wonders. Who is this woman? Is what Alhaitham is asking in his head. None of them make a sound. It’s unnerving and nerve-wrecking. Kaveh wishes he never opened that door. 

He clears his throat. 

He opens his mouth. The logical thing to do would be to introduce the two of them. He should… he should definitely do that, shouldn’t he? And yet. 

Yet .

“I’m borrowing the study for a moment,” is what Kaveh announces. Alhaitham’s eyes flick to him, but he doesn’t say a word. 

That’s all permission he needs. He lets himself into the study and his Mother takes a seat in front of the desk, hands neatly placed in her lap and eyes looking around, curious maybe. They haven’t seen each other’s houses yet. Kaveh had seen the wedding venue, but he left before the party at her home and Faranak had been under the impression that Kaveh was still living in their family house. 

He never told her about the debt, after all. Now that he thinks about it, he hasn’t told her a lot. Spare letters that they’ve exchanged were stiflingly formal at times, with Kaveh holding back as much as he could as to not bother her and with Faranak trying to, well. Kaveh doesn’t know. He had always assumed she just didn’t know what to say, or that she had grown tired of corresponding to him, but the last option always left a bitter taste in his mouth, because admitting that would really disregard her love for him and Kaveh would never let himself do that. 

“I didn’t expect you to come,” Kaveh starts unsure, glancing away, “If I knew, I would have picked you up.”

“It was a spur of a moment kind of thing,” she admits, awkward and jittery, “After your letter, I just–” It goes unsaid. There’s a lot of things between them that end up never being said. Kaveh’s lonely life after she left and her happiness that only came after she settled down in Fontaine. “I missed you.”

It chokes him up. 

And although it hurts to breathe; to speak and look at her, Kaveh swallows all that up just like the old times and faces her head on, because that’s the only thing he knows. To put up a wall and pretend that he’s happy; that her presence doesn’t set him back a few years. 

“How are you?” Kaveh looks her in the eye at last. “How’s your husband? I heard Fontaine–”

“Kaveh.”

He shuts up. 

The heaviness is almost too much to bear.

“My diary,” Faranak taps her fingers on the desk, “What did you think about it?”

That you were resilient.

That you loved my Father too much, too fast and that it killed you when he died.

That you were a witness to many people’s lives, just never your own. 

“That you were lonely.”

He doesn’t know what possessed him to say that, but once the words escape him, he doesn’t know how to take them back. Was she lonely? He would never know. She certainly was after his Father’s death, but before? Maybe for all he knows, she was happy. Content in her solitude, just like Alhaitham. 

Who is he to say anything about her? Who is he to barge into her joyful life with his dirty shoes again?

“I see,” she looks down for the first time, “Perhaps that is true. I never went out of my way to make friends. I was only ever in good company when your…” She pulls her lips into a thin, tense line, “When your Father brought his friends.”

You liked them, but you were never close. 

Stayed on the sidelines, sketched them but never showed it to anybody. 

A person who is so detached from reality and the world can only hope to create connections with more than one person. 

“Are you lonely now?” Kaveh gulps down something big, and tries to sound normal. 

“No,” she shakes her head, “No, I haven’t been lonely for years now.”

Good . 

His chest hurts as he thinks that, regardless of his personal stand on that. 

“I’m glad,” he tells her honestly, “I’m really glad.”

Are you, though? A tiny voice inside of him asks. For all he knows, Kaveh is a vicious, hateful being. Not many notice the ugliness inside of him, too distracted by the outside beauty. They don’t hear his harsh comments, the way he tugs at his own hair, pulling it out. They don’t see the scowls and the silent screams. Good, little Kaveh, the architect of Sumeru and a master builder and the so-called Light of Kshahrewar. Who would ever think him to be cruel or unkind?

The thing with Kaveh is that his kindness does not extend to him. Instead, Kaveh is a creature of self-loathing. He hates himself more than he does anything else. He would spend nights and days cursing himself out, and he’d be so loud about it that he’d never hear anything else. Would never see a gesture of goodwill. He can’t. He isn’t able to. Layered on top of those kind gestures is his hate, and it overshadows everything else. 

“Kaveh,” Faranak takes a deep breath, and steels herself, “Kaveh.”

“Mhm? What?”

“I know that you’re hurting.”

Do you?

“I think it’s too late for any apologies,” she continues as he forces himself to look at her, “And I think you know it best that despite the pretences we haven’t been on good terms.”

“Mom–” His throat tightens up, “Don’t say that–”

“Kaveh.” She gives up on tapping her fingers into the wood of the desk and stands up, taking only a step but not getting closer to him. And yet, Kaveh feels like he can’t breathe, like by being in the same room as her suffocates him; like Faranak who has shown him so much care is taking all the air away from him and a small part of him thinks he deserves to feel that way. “I’ve allowed myself to ignore it for years. I told myself it’s for the better.”

The air gets even thinner. 

Kaveh can’t interrupt her. Wouldn’t be able to make himself do it, even if he wanted to. He hasn’t heard her voice in so long that it sounds like a new, mesmerising song. One you hear somewhere once and it disappears and you do everything to find it again. 

“What are you saying?” His voice is barely audible. “Everything’s fine, Mom.”

It isn’t. It hasn’t been for a while. But she doesn’t need to know that, does she? Except she somehow realises all the nasty things Kaveh went through the effort of hiding, either because she knows him better than he knows himself or because he’s so easy to see through. 

Faranak’s eyes glaze over. 

“Kaveh,” she is all choked up, hands reaching out to him but they look uncertain, hesitant and they don’t touch him at all. It makes his chest all tight and his bottom lip all wobbly. “You’re such a good son. You’re my pride and joy.”

Tell me where it hurts , her eyes seem to say as she takes in his shiny look in his own gaze, don’t cry, tell me. 

Except, some people don’t ever stop crying. They can’t tell you where they hurt, because it’s something that has been buried under layers upon layers of hurt and doubt, and it would take a whole excavation team to dig that kind of stuff out. 

Ah , Kaveh thinks numbly. 

This is it. 

I can’t take it. 

“I’m sorry I never said it before. I thought you knew, but after the letter,” she swallows, takes a step forward. Kaveh finds himself unable to move or even say a word. He isn’t even able to cross the remaining distance between them. “Kaveh, your Father’s death was never your fault.”

Something crackles in the background. Whether it’s his heart, his soul or something in between, he doesn’t know, but it aches deeply. 

“You were a child,” Faranak’s breath hitches, overwhelmed. “How could I ever blame a child for something like this?”

He won’t cry. 

He won’t . 

In his mind, a thought passes.

Then why did you never come to visit me?

Why did you never tell me that? 

Why did no one ever tell me?

It is essentially nobody’s fault, that’s the thing. Sometimes, tragedy strikes, you do everything right and it still feels like you’re doing something wrong. 

“I know,” Kaveh musters out, hands coming up to grip his arms and digging his fingers in, “I know that.”

Maybe it was always the fact that no one said that. 

It never matters, the truth, that is. It’s never the problem of understanding, seeing the truth. It’s always your own perception of it that brings trouble. A young Kaveh saw his Mother mourning and leaving, his Father dying, and the only connection between those two happenings was Kaveh himself. It didn’t matter that he couldn’t have known what would happen – it only mattered that Kaveh had no one to blame and no one to tell him that he didn’t do anything wrong. And if you lack the guidance in it, you turn to the only person that’s left. Yourself. 

Because…

Because if he accepts that it isn’t his fault; that everything happened because of an outside factor, then that means that Kaveh had been wrong the whole time. That he lived for years and never got the closure needed to move on. All because he had been too much of a tall child in an adult’s body. 

“I left you to deal with all that,” Faranak steps closer, “It must have been hard.”

The first hitch in his voice starts there as his vision blurs more. 

“You’ve grown well, Kaveh. In spite of what you think, I know your Father would be proud of you as well.”

A sob escapes him and he folds miserably, falling to his knees. 

I missed you , he wants to say . I spent every day wishing you’d come back for me.

Cries are all that leave his throat. He hasn’t cried that desperately, not even out of pain that one time, in a long, long time. Faranak kneels down herself, calloused hands finally gripping his arms and tugging him desperately closer until he’s all but folded in her lap. 

“I’m sorry,” he chokes on his breath, “I’m sorry, I’m sorry. ”

“It’s alright,” she murmurs, words shaky, “I know I wasn’t there for you before. I know I messed up. I won’t ask for your forgiveness, Kaveh. You have no obligation to let me back into your life, either.”

But I want you in it, he thinks as he clings to her. I never shut the door.

He may be nearing his late twenties, may be able to live independently and make his own adult choices, but deep down, there is an ache that only a mother is able to soothe. For all of their differences, for all the pain and hurt, for all the longing and the deep rooted fear in his chest, Kaveh doesn’t want his Mother to leave his life completely. To think that she also thought she’d be unwelcome in Kaveh’s life is enough to shatter him completely. 

He doesn’t tell her of his debt. 

He doesn’t tell her that he sold their house.

He doesn’t explain why he’s living with Alhaitham. 

There’s a feeling in the space between them that tells him that he doesn’t need to. The way she grabs him back, tugs him close against her chest as if she was afraid he’d fade away says everything. After the Interdarshan Championship, the revelation about Sachin, and then the diary, Kaveh was still tentatively optimistic. Because after living with that kind of burden, just one investigation is not enough to lighten the load, and daring to hope for something he up until now regarded as impossible to attain was a bit too much, even for him.

But. All it took for Faranak to leave her beloved Fontaine, to come back to that place that brought her to her knees, was a letter and a simple sentence that he hadn’t dared to ask her, ever, in fear of her affirming it. 

A smudge of tears, stained ink on the page and words that said, ‘Do you think it was my fault?’ .

It is laughingly easy, after all, to forget that the measure of the person is not how well they prepare for everything to go right, but in how gracefully they stand up and move on after everything goes wrong. And although Faranak had to leave to save herself, it doesn’t mean that it made her any less of a mother and Kaveh any less of her son. 

They don’t speak about that for a week although Faranak leaves a day after. Alhaitham makes himself scarce for a long time, and Kaveh doesn’t chase him this time, opting to stay at home and think everything through. And clean the living room again. Who would have thought that books grow out of the wooden flooring like flowers and mushrooms after rain? Certainly not Kaveh. 

And then the topic comes up by itself when Alhaitham decides that he’s had enough of working past his schedule and he comes home and stays there for a week. Apparently he’s allowed to do that after all he’s contributed to Sumeru, even got the Archon herself to approve his leave. 

“You’re literally the laziest person I’ve ever had the displeasure to know,” Kaveh scrunches his nose at Alhaitham, “What would you do if you had to stay and be the Grand Sage forever?”

Without thinking about it, Alhaitham deadpans, “Perish.”

He says it so seriously that Kaveh actually believes him. 

It’s not exactly a surprise that a man so laid-back and carefree would hate being shackled to a job that requires him to be social and somewhat polite (Kaveh thinks that many people mistake Alhaitham’s deadpan sarcasm for politeness but that is their own fault, to be quite honest) to every irritating member of the Akademiya staff, but it’s always a somewhat of a shock that a man of Alhaitham’s posture is not power hungry. With his intellect and with his personal record of achievements, Alhaitham could gain everything and he wouldn’t have to lift a finger if he wished to. 

Shaking his head, Kaveh sighs. Well, it’s not like he didn’t know that already. As he walks into the kitchen there’s a certain thought that crosses his mind. The fact that Alhaitham is not power hungry and yet he overthrew the whole governmental system – something about that doesn’t quite match. Although that’s a topic totally unrelated to the present situation, Kaveh still wishes he could just open the man’s skull and find out the answers. It would save him the trouble of asking the man and getting through the man’s cryptic words and riddles. 

“How is your mother?”

The question echoes in the house, bringing Kaveh back to the conversation. The sad tangent about staging what essentially was a coup forgotten and left for another time yet again. 

“Fine,” Kaveh answers, frowning as he takes out the vegetables to wash them, “Why ask?”

“No reason,” Alhaitham’s voice is unbothered and composed. “Just curious if you managed to finally think outside of your skewed perception of things, is all.”

“As if you aren’t the same,” he mumbles out, “You regard things as if you weren’t human.”

“It saves a lot of time,” is a confident reply, “Putting in the effort to understand others would prove fruitless in the long run – you can’t really empathise with everyone and not suffer the consequences.”

“Spoken like a true scholar,” Kaveh mocks, “Did you ever even try?”

“I did.”

He pauses, “Oh? Who?”

A beat of silence, then, “You, obviously.”

Obviously, as if that was so easy to admit. The sky is blue, the grass is green, and Alhaitham is using Kaveh as a live experiment to practise his empathy skills. Nothing new here, move along. For someone who claims Kaveh has a skewed perspective, Alhaitham sure proves that his own is round and going in circles with the same result every time someone calls it into question. 

He abandons the vegetables on the counter and moves back to the living room. Alhaitham is still sitting there, but there is something that doesn’t fit– oh .

Alhaitham doesn’t have his headphones on. 

“And how did that work out for you?” Kaveh tilts his head at him, “Any conclusions?”

“Still pending.”

“Ah. Right.”

He observes him for a short while, like one would do with a pet that’s been behaving uncharacteristically. Alhaitham, after all, is not unlike a cat that’s been left unattended for far too long. He will stare at you, leave his things around for you to clean up and engage in a playful banter that usually will involve a clever word play somewhere.  It’s not everyday that Kaveh gets Alhaitham to speak semi-clearly about what he thinks, though. 

So instead of going back to the living room, Kaveh crouches down in front of him, putting an elbow on his bent leg and then resting his head on his hand. It fills him with a sense of deja vu. 

“Say,” he starts, slow, “remember that conversation we had? About building a house?”

“A mansion,” Alhaitam immediately corrects and then averts his eyes, “What of it?”

Sometimes, a hole that is within you cannot get filled out with anything. Not with more pain, not with love or comfort. It is there to stay, for you to remember that you are and always will be incomplete. Except people forget that a missing piece does not make you faulty. If, one day, someone were to find that there’s a weakness in Kaveh, a fragile part of foundation, he would surely crumble, but if they never do, Kaveh will still appear as a perfect jigsaw puzzle whose missing piece goes unnoticed because it blends in the background.

It often goes forgotten, then. That you are worth more than the value you put on yourself. 

“I was serious about it.”

Alhaitham’s eyes do that wide-eyed thing where he appears to look as if Kaveh successfully managed to get ahead of him for once. 

“What’s stopping you then?” He clears his throat as Kaveh leans closer, “You’re more than welcome to–”

“Would you move in with me, then?” Kaveh asks, voice innocent as his other hand reaches over to slide over Alhaitham’s hand. It twitches away, unused to the contact. “If I built it, and I asked, would you agree?”

“And why would you ask me that?” He snaps, still not looking at him. And Kaveh cannot help himself, overcome with something that he is often afraid to name, and he pulls himself up and then above Alhaitham, one leg in between Alhaitham’s and another leaning against the divan. His arms cage Alhaitham against the window behind him. “Hey–” His voice trails off when one of Kaveh’s hands touches his cheek, breath hitching. 

It’s uncommon to see Alhaitham lose his cool. It’s even more uncommon to see the red spreading on his unprotected ears, and the obvious unsteady rise and fall of his chest. Kaveh can’t take his eyes away. He’s utterly mesmerised. 

“Because I want you,” And when Alhaitham trembles, as if he was fighting to not flinch at every movement from him, Kaveh continues, “I want you to move in with me then, and live with me, and annoy me to death. As ridiculous as it sounds.”

“Did you just,” Alhaitham licks his lips unconsciously and Kaveh’s eyes snap to them, “Did you have an epiphany after your Mother’s visit?”

“What if I did?”

“Then I’d say it’s just an emo–emotional reaction to what happened,” Alhaitham stumbles over a word when Kaveh’s hand moves from his cheek to his earlobe.

“Good thing I’ve told you about building the mansion before she visited then, huh?” His finger traces a path over the shape of his ear, ever captivated by the colour and the way Alhaitham squirms on his seat. It makes Kaveh think of things that are more unspeakable and possibly a bit depraved in nature, of how they could bring out such a reaction but they are definitely not for the outside world to know about, ever. “So? What say you?”

“I’d say,” Alhaitham closes his eyes for a moment when it proves the close contact is near unbearable to him. There is a very light rosy tint to his cheeks now, embarrassed or flustered, Kaveh cannot say, but it’s all the same endearing. “Prove your resolve.” And he manages to look him in the eye, almost challenging him.

An emotion rises in Kaveh’s chest and he feels light in a way he hasn’t felt in a long time. 

Elated, he lowers himself more and as Alhaitham closes his eyes again in anticipation, Kaveh drops a feather-light kiss onto his forehead. 

“Wha–?” Alhaitham raises his hand to the touched place and he frowns at him. 

Kaveh only smiles, giddiness spreading through him. There are no big changes between them, not really, and it’s not like what happened with Faranak magically absolved him of all the guilt and suffering he carried for the past few years, but it’s a start. It’s the small step toward something Kaveh can finally try and work toward, for himself, without feeling like he’s running away. A silver lining. 

“I will,” he vows. 

Alhaitham looks at him, annoyance still on his features as he starts to grumble something underneath his breath, and even so, in the light coming through the window, Kaveh can see the edge of his lips pull up in a faint, pleased smile.