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The House of Daena welcomes Alhaitham with a familiar heavy shift of the entrance doors. It’s day one after the winter break, so the space is back to being a battlefield, uncomfortable and crowded. Akasha gets laggy thanks to the overload. Alhaitham doesn’t pay mind to the distractions—he’s on a mission; no time for distractions.
It doesn’t take long before he finds Kaveh.
It never does. Not for Alhaitham.
He plummets onto the bench opposite Kaveh. It takes an effort to be careful when he places the heavy wooden case he’s carrying on the floor. Timber shuffles against the marble, the sound is enough to pull Kaveh out of his daze, and their eyes finally meet. Alhaitham will bet half his personal library that the heaviness in Kaveh’s gaze just mirrors one in his own. They’re painfully similar—minus all the little things that make them just as painfully different. He hasn’t changed much in two weeks; of course, he hasn’t. Yet, the image is different from the one Alhaitham summoned before his closed eyes on the days Kaveh was in Fontaine.
Eyes not quite as crimson. The emotion behind them not quite as sharp and biting in its rawness. The locs of hair carved out by a lone lamp in the middle of the table not quite as gold. What can he say? Imagination fails to capture the real thing when the real thing is strong enough to blind.
“The trip went well, I gather,” Alhaitham says, folding his arms and squinting.
It takes a split second before Kaveh’s expression shifts into a scowl.
“Hello to you too, Haravatat,” the nib of Kaveh’s mechanical pencil finally moves for the first time in the past few excruciatingly long minutes, the force of the scribble enough to almost tear the hot-pressed paper Kaveh always gets for his sketches.
Good. Alhaitham will take Kaveh’s fury over Kaveh’s melancholy any day, even if it means that he needs to bite a proverbial bullet. Alhaitham would rather have the real reason for Kaveh’s upset be the target of his rage, of course, but if there’s one area where things don’t work out the way Alhaitham wants them to, it’s all things Kaveh.
For instance, Alhaitham would greatly prefer it if Kaveh hadn’t gone to Fontaine in the first place. Yes, it wasn’t his choice to make. Yes, someone like Kaveh would love to see the holiday season in all glory, in a place where an extra spark of glitter wouldn’t count as a ‘frivolous and egoistic pursuit of pleasure and aesthetics aimed at distracting one from the true scholarly duty.’
Still, Alhaitham, for instance, didn’t need hindsight to see exactly what would happen: Kaveh would come back upset. Kaveh would be lost in thought, dwelling on the past once again. Kaveh would blame himself for things he couldn’t control.
To make it worse, nobody would try to stop Kaveh from blaming himself for the things he couldn’t control. No number of shiny objects, and gingerbread houses, and snowy sceneries could be worth that,
Kaveh with that tightness to his brows and that solemn posture. Kaveh, alienated from the rest of the world, not because of a greedy need to spew down new ideas on the sketchbook page before they disappear forever; a mind too quick to be caught up to by mortal hands, no matter how talented they are. Kaveh—alone. All tiny reflections of what Alhaitham warned him of.
It’s ironic. A scholar ought to be happy to find their hypotheses confirmed. If Kaveh were him, he’d be dramatic and say that he feels anything but happiness, but that’s semantically wrong, so Alhaitham doesn’t. He feels something very particular. He supposes a cat must feel the same when it’s getting petted in the direction opposite to its fur’s growth.
“If you want to say ‘I told you so,’ or something equally as groundbreaking, do it so that we can get over it,” Kaveh says.
“Why waste breath on the obvious?” Alhaitham queries.
Kaveh’s shoulders raise slightly, almost like an invisible guard. It’s not a normal thing to witness. His Senior doesn’t hold back or mince words. His Senior isn’t quiet or afraid to take space, ever. He holds his head high and lets his presence be known. He’s gotten reprimanded by the Mahamata for arguing too loudly in the House of Daena more times than Alhaitham can count on his fingers. There’s nothing in Teyvat that can force him to shrivel.
And then there’s his family and its history. Jigsaw puzzle pieces scattered here and there; they’re not enough for the image to be completed, bound by paper glue and framed, but they’re enough that you can see distinct colored blobs and patches if you squint.
Alhaitham patiently waits till he stumbles across more pieces. Asking for them directly risks an explosion.
Granted, an explosion is inevitable with the way they navigate this unnamed thing, but Alhaitham would rather postpone that moment if he could.
He says nothing—he’s said enough. ‘Think before you speak’ should be a rule sufficiently easy to abide by, especially for someone who wants not to ruin things. Yet again, all things Kaveh tend to smash against that wall of all things Alhaitham knows he is and Alhaitham knows he wants with enough brute force to make it crack.
Alhaitham rests for a few heartbeats. It may not be the best moment, but he lifts the case and places it on the table nevertheless. He can’t change Kaveh fundamentally, he can’t convince Kaveh not to do things that would cause him grief, he can’t make Kaveh not overthink—but he can shift his attention for brief moments before the whirlwind consumes him entirely.
Just because Sumeru bared its teeth these days at those stopping in the middle of their stride to look at the flower for too long, or at those who wasted time on celebrations, doesn’t mean that Kaveh needs to escape the nation entirely to have the holiday he wants.
Kaveh frowns. His eyes scan pieces of plywood stained in contrasting colors coming together to form a floral ornament on the top and the sides of the case, the two gilded opening mechanisms keeping the lid secure.
“What is this?”
“Your New Year gift,” Alhaitham toys with the sleeve hem under the table, where the rough and itchy evergreen fabric meets the gilded ribbon that does nothing to make the uniform more comfortable or functional.
He’s about to add that Kaveh doesn’t need to open it here, because it’s alright if he wants to do it in privacy, but Kaveh’s fingers are already pressing on the opening mechanisms of both locks, releasing the lid with a soft ‘click.’
“Alhaitham, that’s…”
There he is. A half-smile plays on Kaveh’s lips, his eyes looking like two crescent moons as his long calloused fingers run along the narrow neck of the dutar.
It’s not the best Alhaitham has seen in the store, but it’s a vast improvement compared to Kaveh’s current need to rent one of the Akademiya theater’s instruments if he wants to practice.
“I can’t—”
“You can. Unless you don’t like it, of course,” Alhaitham is quick to cut the gibberish short, and even quicker to regret that because the pause that follows is nothing short of torturous.
He waits.
“You shouldn’t have,” Kaveh says. His voice is chastising, but it’s also half-resigned.
“No, I shouldn’t have. But I did. Happy New Year,” Alhaitham avoids looking at Kaveh directly, but he can sense the eyes on him.
The stitch attaching the ribbon to the sleeve is coming undone. Alhaitham could undo the thread quickly enough, given some time and a correct tool. Would Kaveh lend him his precision knife? But then again, what if detaching the ribbon is some ridiculous violation of Akademiya's dress code?
He can’t wait to graduate and continue his academic career, free from at least some of the foolish rules. He doesn’t see the point of violence against objects, normally, but he may burn the robe. It’s probably like this on purpose, a tool to remind the students of their place, because how does one unintentionally come up with something so itchy, and rough, and hot, and—
“Thank you,” Kaveh somehow appears next to Alhaitham, gloved hand placed on his arm. He has this look in his eyes that he gets whenever he hugs his other friends, but Alhaitham isn’t exactly the touchy type, and Kaveh has always respected it. “I love it.”
The robe doesn’t weigh as much anymore.
Later, Kaveh is in good enough spirits to invite Alhaitham to his dorm room, and tell Alhaitham about the ballet Mother took him to, and how the Snezhnayan troupe is just as good as rumors claim, and how the way the Fontainian opera hall is constructed has immaculate acoustics, serving as a perfect frame for the gem that the performance was.
He also hesitantly gives Alhaitham the book the ballet was based on in its original, Mondstadtian, along with a snow globe with two main characters trapped inside in an infinite moment.
“You’ve been really enjoying tales lately, so I thought you might like these,” Kaveh’s voice is sheepish as Alhaitham gently shakes the dome, watching the snowstorm rise before the pieces of iridescent plastic slowly float to the bottom, swirling and reflecting the light of Kaveh’s nightstand lamp.
“I do. Thank you, Senior.”
⋆꙳•❅*°⋆❆.ೃ࿔*:･*❆ ₊⋆
The ceremony for winter semester graduates is on the first Friday following the winter break, which is today. Alhaitham contemplates skipping it.
Technically, attendance is compulsory, but it’s also convenient that he interns at the Scribe’s office—he knows by now how to fill a form that’s more likely to get approved. He’s constantly updating his Akasha, waiting for the status to change from ‘pending’ to anything else.
“Why are you at the office?” Samira Khanum’s voice distracts him.
Ah. He supposes he can get his answer now.
“I’ve sent in a request to keep working today.”
Samira Khanum’s eyebrow flies up. She places her handbag on top of her desk and grabs her reading glasses.
“Explain.”
Alhaitham knows he’s not the most diligent intern. He does just enough to have a slightly better record than Aisha, who has a job secured at her family venture and couldn’t care about rune translations if her life depended on it, and Emil, who will be going back to Fontaine at the end of the month anyway. Suffice to say, that’s not much, but with Samira Khanum vacating the Scribe’s office soon to join the research group in the Chasm, it’s enough to make Alhaitham the best candidate for the position.
Does Alhaitham want the position? Yes. Does it mean he’s going to work a minute longer than necessary to increase the chance of getting it? No. That will do nothing but jeopardize his work-life balance if he gets the job. Samira Khanum sees right through it.
“I don’t want to attend the ceremony,” he’s honest and brief. No need to elaborate on the reasons.
“As eloquent and short as ever,” Aisha huffs a laugh from her desk.
Her fingers are pressed to her Akasha terminal, eyes directed into nowhere. She’s either working or browsing for new gems for her personal collection of awkwardly phrased requests in the forms. The line between the two is thin; Alhaitham will give her that.
“I don’t want to waste my time participating in nonsensical rituals.”
“And there you are, aiming for the position of someone who is going to make sure everybody else keeps participating in nonsensical rituals. The irony.” She mutters with a smirk directed at whatever she’s reading as she speaks.
Collection it is, then. Alhaitham has half a mind to ask her for a copy.
“I call it completing a full circle. I’m becoming what I wanted to see destroyed. You need to appreciate the poetic component as a fellow Haravatat.” Alhaitham says dryly.
A curt smile cuts through Samira Khanum’s sharp features, and for a second, Alhaitham thinks of all the people who are ready to make little favors for those who manage to amuse them.
“Consider your request denied. The presence is compulsory for a reason.”
…Ah. Not happening. Alright.
Alhaitham wants to clarify the reason in question, or to hit his head against his desk, but neither will change the ruling. Means, to get his graduation papers, he’ll have to sit through a three-hour-long ceremony in the overcrowded acting hall, just like everybody else.
Means, today, for the first time in months, after successfully avoiding a particular gazebo in the Razan Garden, and the familiar spot in the House of Daena, and all of Puspa Cafe after eight in the evening, and anything Kshahrewar, Alhaitham is going to see Kaveh.
When Alhaitham decided that enough was enough and started speeding through the classes to meet the graduation requirements quicker, he contemplated whether avoiding this very day was worth keeping the same leisurely pace. He had burnt the seeds of cowardice before they could reach the surface.
It was bound to happen. The vastness of Sumeru is merely in its physical scale, but beyond the birds-eye view of Teyvat, it’s crammed, even more so when it comes to specific cities and places. The motion of particles is chaotic but limited, and if you bounce off of someone once, it’s strange to lose sight of them forever.
Alhaitham walks to where the angry beehive buzzes behind the heavy door of the acting hall.
The margins they're destined to navigate expand today. Maybe it means they’re less likely to bump into each other from now on? That should be a consolation good enough to justify the one final sting that Alhaitham shouldn’t feel, given that almost a year went down the drain. Wounds must be healed. Scabs must grow thick, itch, and fall off. Scars may be left, but there shouldn’t be any bleeding.
The light in the acting hall is too bright. An embarrassed Rtawahist getting smothered by a woman double his age, a thick lipstick smudge left behind on his cheek, students from other nations cheering each other on, and underclassmen hiding in the crowd to support their friends all mix into the cacophony of loud sounds and flashing images. Alhaitham needs a seat and a moment to have his eyes closed to get rid of the feeling of his nerves being strung, plucked, and strummed.
Alhaitham slowly rocks back and forth. The monotonous movement doesn’t calm the assault of sounds, but soothes him enough for the time being.
Then, Alhaitham hears Kaveh’s voice, the familiar cadence to the words and the slight drag on hissing sounds. It’s not directed at him, but it helps to coax and guide Alhaitham back to the acting hall without it getting overwhelming.
He wishes Kaveh didn’t have this effect on him, not after the months that made it clear how the severed bridges wouldn’t be rebuilt.
Alhaitham slowly opens his eyes; Kaveh stands a few strides away, none the wiser to Alhaitham’s presence. He’s wearing the emerald robe, and it’s the last time Alhaitham is seeing him in this attire. If Kaveh’s life goes according to his plan, this may well be the last time Alhaitham is seeing him at all.
Kaveh bursts into laughter and flashes someone the cheekiest grin. Alhaitham can live with the thought that one of those won’t ever be directed at him again, or he can die trying. Something is pressing under his lungs the way it did when Grandma didn’t recognize him for the first time.
But this time everything is right.
Alhaitham is an observer. This is his role. He’ll sit in the distance, and one day, when the time comes, he’ll see Kaveh shine the brightest. And if Kaveh is lucky, he won’t be burned by his own fire. If he’s lucky, when he accomplishes everything, he’ll have this same content smile on his lips—all teeth, eyes shaped like crescent moons. Alhaitham will be there to record Kaveh’s triumph on paper, not that his Senior would care.
He will be proven wrong about everything and will happily raise a cup of wine to celebrate it.
Hope is irrational, but Kaveh looks hopeful; Alhaitham will never admit to it, but he also quietly indulges on Kaveh’s behalf.
Back at his new house, Alhaitham stares at the figures in the snow globe. He’s freshly graduated with no one to congratulate him, a week after the first New Year’s he’s celebrated alone since one upperclassman harassed him into a friendship years ago.
A young girl in a light blue dress, two looped braids tied with huge satin bows, holds a toy soldier with a comically big head and mouth, as if it were her most prized possession. The story tells that the toy is ugly, but the girl loves it nonetheless, finding beauty that others miss.
They’ll journey together. It will be beautiful and wondrous, and it will end in a heartbreak that can only be captured by the great Snezhnayan composer grieving deeply for his beloved sister.
Alhaitham shakes the dome, and a storm rises around the two before slowly settling down. The chandelier light above his head reflects with red and green flickers onto the tiny plastic rectangles as they make their way to the young girl’s feet.
Hope is irrational. Alhaitham’s one hope had been shattered months ago.
Maybe this time will be different against all odds.
⋆꙳•❅*°⋆❆.ೃ࿔*:･*❆ ₊⋆
An autumn morning is dead quiet until it isn’t.
Alhaitham’s bed vibrates, and the books jump and shake in rhythm with the rattle coming from every piece of glass in the room, from the windows to the panels covering the bookshelves. He’s just peeled his eyes open, so the swinging chandelier registers as a moving patch of darkness above his head—for a second, Alhaitham has no idea what in the Abyss is going on except for two things: one, this isn’t right.
Two, he needs to run.
It’s hard to structure pieces of information amid the chaos. The trail of Dendro lingers between the bedroom and the hallway, and another shock, a stronger one, catches Alhaitham as he’s pulling the cape over his shoulders—it’s moist and cold, running outside without anything on is reckless at best. He needs a moment, but the tilt under his feet is deaf to his needs, and, as a loud cracking sound follows the rumble, an invisible force almost tips Alhaitham off his feet.
His fingers are clenching the mahogany shoe cabinet tightly when the earth exhales and comes to a stop once more. This time isn’t a warning. Some objects are scattered on the woodboards, the floor lamp that Alhaitham always keeps on, flashes—light and dark, light and dark, an erratic pulse cloned by the sound of the crinkling cable and shut off when Alhaitham gathers enough strength to reach the kill switch.
There may be other tremors. This one may have been the last.
Alhaitham slowly straightens, forcing himself to breathe normally—he’s not helping himself if he panics, that much he knows—and resolutely heads to the exit. He’s not going to be in the house to find out whether the Rainforest had more surprises in store for today.
The last thing he sees before pulling the entrance door closed is the snow globe coming to a halt as it bounces off the short coffee table’s leg. He ignores the lump in his chest and focuses on keeping his hand steady. The door needs to be locked, and then he needs to find a place to spend the day (a day off, Alhaitham notes sourly).
Alhaitham toggles his earpiece to let through just enough sound. The city is anxiously buzzing, but there’s barely any real destruction, not around the Divine Tree at the very least. It’s really for the best when the worst consequences of something like this are lingering fear and a mild indignation at the forced early morning.
People slowly scatter across the Grand Bazaar and Treasure Street. No one is spending the day at home now, not the next few hours at least. Alhaitham’s Akasha is silent, but a few of the Akademiya staff gather and head to the lower gate.
There’s a consensus among the citizens, and, although part of Alhaitham puts everything into question, another yearns to agree with the majority ruling: this was no regular earthquake.
By noon, the official version is an Amurta experiment in the Avidya Forest gone wrong. Alhaitham checks Akasha constantly, but there’s barely anything reliable. Whispers persist. General Mahamatra is involved, and so are a few Forest Rangers.
They speak in hushed voices and refuse to answer any questions, which citizens have plenty of. It’s not every day that scholarly oversight reaches the point where people are forced to live through a nightmare come true; how many lose loved ones to things like these? Alhaitham looks through a status report that says almost nothing but the time and the approximate epicenter location. How very helpful, given that the Avidya Forest, parts of the Chasm, and the Lokapatla Jungle are all highlighted.
One second, Alhaitham’s frowning, wondering if the Mahamata responsible for the reports think the inhabitants of Sumeru City are fools—next second, the image that’s been still for half an hour blinks, and the holographic screen fades.
[CLASSIFIED]
Alhaitham’s frown deepens. He tinkers with Akasha, trying to get to the file using his Akademiya employee data. How sensitive can information about a group of reckless kids be, anyway?
[ACCESS DENIED]
…Well. Patience is rewarding. Alhaitham deems it safe enough to return home and resume his life. He eats, and sleeps, and exercises according to his regular schedule. He pulls some strings, talks to some Eremites and merchants.
Most importantly, Alhaitham waits.
The investigation report in the hard and rigid form of a nearly hundred-page folder appears on his desk seven weeks later, give or take, just when Alhaitham thinks he’s done dealing with poorly written applications for the day and would rather read something.
Alhaitham flips through pages and freezes, his heart heavy.
…Kaveh.
It’s been years. He shouldn’t be surprised. All that he warned Kaveh of has happened. Unfortunately, Alhaitham yet again fails to rejoice at the sight of his predictions coming true.
A Withering crept under the cliff where the palace he was working on stood. It happened overnight, defying the projected growth rate and multiple land surveys that deemed the area safe for construction. The building collapsed in the early hours of the day, the aftershocks reached Sumeru City. Three people on site died, one was left permanently injured. Had it happened later in the day, when more workers were present, more casualties would have been almost inevitable.
The investigation by the Matra had quickly concluded that neither the architect nor the commissioner are responsible for the incident. No documentation was fabricated. Victim families agreed to settle. No charges were pressed. The story should have ended there.
It didn’t.
Someone has pulled the strings to keep it all under the covers. Someone has found funds to keep the project afloat. Alhaitham keeps flipping through the pages before closing the folder shut. He presses on his eyelids, waiting for the familiar dance of colorful shapes to appear.
How much is ambition worth?
Where does the border between conviction and mania lie?
It’s too far beyond the territory of detached academic debate. Alhaitham exhales and slowly gets up. He could ask these questions, but no one is there to respond. And just so that they don’t linger unanswered, Alhaitham pushes them back to the darkest depths. If he’s lucky, they won’t resurface.
By winter, the Akademiya Sages rule out any end-of-year celebrations or days off, and the Akademiya-approved fairs or events are all canceled. The New Year still arrives as expected—at midnight without fanfares; the only thing that makes it different from the midnight before is the box of cherry liquor chocolates gifted to Alhaitham by a Vahumana graduate from Snezhnaya. He tries two before going to bed.
In the morning, he finds the snow globe on the floor, just like when Alhaitham was leaving the house on that day. He kneels before it, and thinks, and thinks, and thinks. His feet carry him through the windy, clouded streets of Sumeru, all the way to the city gate, then to the road leading to the North-East, and to the cliff hidden behind a thick forest.
The sky is grey and low. It’s trying to press down on the earth with all the possible might, but the trees stand strong in their resistance, the last barrier leaving behind a sliver of space for the Rainforest inhabitants to navigate. The site is still out of sight, hidden behind the curly paths and bushes, when the sounds seep through. The welded metal screeching, the marble sawn, the stained glass cracking like ice under the Sumpter Beast’s legs—everything around is moaning and vibrating, and the thick cloud of construction dust veils the area with a fog, not unlike one characteristic of Withering Zones.
The process of birth is painful.
Alhaitham stands afar. The emerging columns are not yet cradled in ornament, the bags of materials and pieces of slabs are scattered all over what looks to be a garden with a fountain as a centerpiece. It’s all raw and grimy, and smells of something metallic and unpleasant. People work and work, shadowy silhouettes chiseling away at the nothingness, all to make a vision of one master come true. And the master is among them: all these years down the drain, and Alhaitham still sees Kaveh before anything and anyone else.
He’s bent over, full focus, a huge blueprint spread across the pavement, kept in place by a piece of stone in each corner. His pencil grazes across some lines unknown to Alhaitham, and, although his voice doesn’t reach Alhaitham’s ears, he must be speaking because there’s an array of people around him, looking at the movement of Kaveh’s hands like they want to engrave it into the backs of their minds.
Kaveh is still hunched over the blueprint by the time the hive around him is disassembled. He keeps staring at the blueprint without as much as a single motion. He doesn’t even flinch when the welding machine that must be even more excruciatingly loud from where he is wheezes again.
With everything else moving or set into motion by others, Kaveh looks like the only true constant on this site. Like the fountain can be moved, and another disastrous event can demolish the foundation; like the construction can be finished, the palace can be gleaming brightly with lights in the dining room and serious conversations, laughter of children, and ginger smiles from across the garden. Like generations will live and die here, renovating the building till it looks nothing like Kaveh’s vision, before abandoning it entirely. Time will erode it, moss will grow all over the columns, the original and added ones alike. The stained glass will be stolen by marauders and broken by the wind—and even when gilded paint is erased, everything of value taken, no two bricks stacked together, Kaveh will remain right there, kneeling in front of his creation.
Alhaitham takes a step forward. He needs to break this daze and take Kaveh away from here; he needs to convince him to come back home. He needs to…
‘Not yet.’
There’s something green shielding Alhaitham’s brain from the assault of construction roar that clouds and disturbs it. The clarity and quiet are so abrupt that he can hear his own heartbeat. The voice he hears is too gentle and young to be his own, almost as if windchimes could speak human language. It’s strange, but he doesn’t intend to question it.
Alhaitham takes a step back.
‘When the time is right, you will know it.’
He stands for a while. And, when he finally starts walking away, tearing his eyes away from Kaveh’s figure, a few questions return.
How much is ambition worth?
Where does the border between conviction and mania lie?
If the voice is to be trusted, Alhaitham will one day ask Kaveh these questions. If he’s lucky, he will even get the responses.
What will it take for you to stop wasting away?
⋆꙳•❅*°⋆❆.ೃ࿔*:･*❆ ₊⋆
Purchasing a spruce is a ridiculous fool’s errand, and Alhaitham regrets every second of his life he’s spent on it. He tries not to think about the Mora.
It’s not too big, but it’s heavy enough for one, and needles are everywhere—in his hair, mouth, and boots. Alhaitham leans against the doorframe and grabs his keys. He needs to get his foot in before the door shuts, or he will-
Kaveh opens the door wide, sleepy and confused, still in his pyjamas, the bun he always collects his hair into transformed into a messy nest—the spruce shifts in Alhaitham’s hold and slides, squeezing him between the doorframe and the tree. Kaveh eloquently comments on that by spewing out a litany of profanities that puts half the Haravatats’ language skills to shame.
What can Alhaitham say? Push a genius scholar into the construction site hell for a few years, and you’ll see what happens.
“What’s going on?” Kaveh pries, breathless, after freeing Alhaitham. Carrying the damn tree is a much easier task when it’s split between two. “Why in Teyvat would you need a spruce?”
“Why, it’s New Year's,” Alhaitham exhales. Kaveh’s face is half-hidden behind the branches, to the point where he can only make out his eyes wide with bewilderment.
“And ever since when do you care?” He tugs on the tree nevertheless—Kaveh’s physical strength is one of the most inconsistent phenomena Alhaitham has witnessed.
Sometimes this man won’t lift a bag of groceries without getting a vile wrist pain, and other times he’ll move a cast-iron bathtub two stories up all on his own, out of pure spite.
“Is it some impromptu act of contrarianism against the Akademiya policy?” Kaveh huffs. “And where in Teyvat are you intending to place it? Your porch? If the Matra come for your ass, I’m not opening the door!”
“Don’t misplace your motivations to pretend like they’re mine. I’m capable of participating in recreational activities for the sake of personal enjoyment, without considering whether the outsiders are going to have an emotional response of any sort.” Alhaitham leans the tree against the wall. “I’m merely taking an opportunity to exercise my free will, no matter what the Akademiya says. Besides, had I intended to set it up on the porch, I wouldn’t have brought it inside, not to mention that you not opening the door would serve me quite well had I intended to disobey the orders of the Akademiya out in the open.”
If it were the old days, Kaveh would call him a ridiculous man. These aren’t the old days, so Kaveh simply stands next to the tree. Long calloused fingers caress the needles. There are still little wounds around his nails where he was biting the skin, but his eyes are bright, and he looks like there’s a physical effort behind keeping his mouth tight.
“It will look nice in the study… But we spend a fair amount of time in the salon. There’s also plenty of space around the divans that won’t obstruct the circulation in the room… But the window will be blocked. Well, if we move this console to the study for a week or so, I suppose there will still be enough light…”
Kaveh places his hand to his lips. He has this busy frown between his eyebrows. It’s his ‘solving the problem’ face—it looks nicer when there’s no undercurrent of panic about the catastrophic ‘what ifs’. Alhaitham hopes he’s better at hiding his smile than Kaveh is at hiding his interest.
“Whatever could we decorate it with? Have you got any toys?”
…That is something Alhaitham failed to consider.
“Do I look like a child to you?” Alhaitham raises his eyebrow, and Kaveh scowls at him in the way that’s too familiar for Alhaitham’s stomach not to somersault.
“You, in fact, do—an insolent, insufferable—” Kaveh flinches and cuts himself short.
Short nails dig into the skin as he looks away with an expression that Alhaitham neither does nor wants to recognize. Kaveh releases a breath he’s been holding, his speech slower and quieter. He’s holding back.
Alhaitham isn’t quite sure what it is, but he does hold back.
“There are some decorations Mom didn’t take to Fontaine, and I didn’t end up selling. They’re just a few, but I could put them up to not keep this thing naked. If you don’t mind, that is.”
Alhaitham refrains from saying something rash and regrettable.
“Do whatever you want. I just felt like getting a spruce; the rest is none of my concern. Now, I’ll excuse myself. There’s work to be done.”
“Fine.”
“Fine,” Alhaitham grabs his cape.
He wasn’t planning to go anywhere, but there’s this storm inside at the sight of Kaveh, at the sound of the conversation they were having at the— out. He needs out. He doesn’t owe himself any explanations as to why it’s so hard to talk, why it almost feels like everything is normal for a second before Kaveh stops himself, and it’s clear that nothing is, not anymore.
In a better world, he could have chosen more honest words.
“I only got the spruce because I remember how much you loved setting it up. I know it reminds you of home. I want you to feel like you’re home when you’re here.”
But Alhaitham has once been too honest with Kaveh. It has led to them not speaking for years, for reasons that went beyond Alhaitham’s ‘rude and insufferable attitude’.
He walks down the Treasure Street.
Early winter in Sumeru City is windy, cold, and vile. Usually, this time of the year the grey cityscapes are diluted with the glitter and gold, the color and anticipation of the one night that’s supposed to bring miracles to everyone.
Alhaitham thinks it’s sentimental and misplaced, focusing on specific dates, using 'first days of' for a fresh start, building up resolution plans, and celebrating something that’s simply a shift of numbers in the calendar. People should seek the change they want to see every day; still, people should be free to celebrate if they wish so, and this is where the Akademiya’s thoughts on the matter diverge from Alhaitham’s.
Unfortunately, the Akademiya has the power to turn its opinions into laws.
In hindsight, Alhaitham sees how the mantrap has been slowly closing over the years. Not much anyone can do now that the jaws are shut and secure. This year, they came for Zubayr theater, and even the decorations around the Grand Bazaar. Corps of Thirty have been fining vendors left and right for as little as a string of lights hung between the columns of a stall. Houses remain as the last line of defence, but they wouldn’t come for those.
Alhaitham likes to think so.
He approaches the toy seller, who looks moodier than usual. The selection isn’t rich, and isn’t anything thematic. There are no snowflakes or lights, or even tiny bears and gingerbread houses. All he has to offer is a few wooden Aranara that look nothing like the Aranara, a couple of local flowers, and some Akademiya Darshan pins. They’re hardly festive.
“Have you got anything else?” Alhaitham picks up the supposed-to-be Aranara carving. A ribbon and a metal nook would transform it into something they could work with.
Far from ideal, but Kaveh would figure it out.
“All goods are in front of you.” Hushang, Alhaitham thinks, eyes Alhaitham.
Alhaitham is not the target demographic. Hushang knows every child and every adult who’s associated with the said child. Alhaitham has barely been here, even back when he’d have to stand on his tiptoes to reach the stall.
He still can swear on his sanity that the stall always looked fuller from afar.
Oh well.
“You’re from the Akademiya, aren’t you?”
“That’s not an unusual place of affiliation for a resident of Sumeru City.”
“Haven’t your colleagues done enough to make this work insufferable? I have no prohibited items.” The tone is so flippant that Alhaitham takes a pause, lifting his gaze to meet Hushang’s.
His fingers move away from the wooden figurine.
“I have no control over the actions of my colleagues, but searching the goods for questionable items is hardly part of my job description,” Alhaitham assures. “Still, we don’t need to continue this conversation if my workplace makes my business unfavorable for you. I’ll contact merchants from overseas in Port Ormos.”
He hopes he won’t need to, but starts walking away anyway. A trip to another city would be unwelcome, so he chooses to rely on the power of words for as long as Hushang’s corner remains in his hearing field.
“...Wait,” the voice hesitantly calls out.
Ah. Aren’t some people predictable?
Alhaitham returns home a few hours later in better spirits, even if his Mora pouch is much lighter once again. Hushang promises to deliver the ready goods in two days, under a certain layer of secrecy that feels both ridiculous and annoying, given that the transaction is based around a batch of handcrafted decorative toys for their tree. Hushang is so excited to get a few blueprints of Snezhnayan-style toys on his Akasha that Alhaitham manages to offer some adjustments to make the Aranara toys more realistic. That’s a small victory. He’ll take what he can.
Alhaitham finds Kaveh sitting on the floor next to the nearly-naked tree. The few horses, deer, and sleighs are barely visible on the dark green canvas, but Kaveh, surprisingly, doesn’t dwell on that; his focus is solely on a snow globe in his hands.
Alhaitham’s stomach churns. He’s been caught. They both have been.
The door slam is intentional, balanced between being loud enough to announce presence and quiet enough not to startle. Kaveh’s head snaps, but the fingers clench tighter around the base that has stacks of colorful gift boxes painted on top.
“Searching through someone else’s belongings is indicative of bad manners.”
“As if you’re the one to talk about manners,” Kaveh bites, but clears his throat.
His next sentence is quiet enough that Alhaitham may pretend he didn’t catch it if he wants to.
“You’ve kept it.”
Alhaitham looks at him, really looks at him. Kaveh’s hair seems to have lost some of its glow and softness; his shoulders are bony when he sits like this, and if Kaveh were an animal, Alhaitham would bet that he’d hiss if anyone dared to approach. The glittery particles inside the dome circle and fall. They catch the candlelight, and if Alhaitham squints, it may feel like the golden warmth is reflected in Kaveh’s irises.
Almost like Alhaitham’s Senior is still somewhere there, hidden deep inside. It’s not good enough, but it’s a little better than when Alhaitham thought that that Kaveh was lost to the brutality of time.
His chest is tight. He has no good excuse to run away now, but he has his books, and a study, and the space he can leave for Kaveh to try and figure out what, if anything, it all means.
Hushang had better make these toys better than the original. And if he doesn’t, Alhaitham will go and try Port Ormos, or Liyue, or even Snezhnaya to let Kaveh have this thing he loves, laws be damned.
“It was a gift. Why wouldn’t I?”
⋆꙳•❅*°⋆❆.ೃ࿔*:･*❆ ₊⋆
Alhaitham almost gets knocked off his feet by a bunch of running kids as he makes his way home. There are some things he misses about pre-coup Sumeru City. Quiet is one of them. A burst of ever-changing colored lights crawls into his peripheral vision from where the Grand Bazaar stretches beneath his street.
Kaveh is already home. He throws himself into holiday preparations with the same vigor he has for every project, so seeing him back earlier this time of year is not unusual at all. At some point, Kaveh changed into a cashmere sweater that does look good, but isn’t warm enough for this weather, even under a coat. Kohl is smeared under his waterline; he did his hair differently, and Alhaitham somewhat wishes they didn’t need to go anywhere.
End-of-the-year in the Akademiya is a bureaucratic hell. It is slightly better than the last couple of years under Azar, and it’s definitely much better than two years ago, before Alhaitham gave up the position of Acting Grand Sage.
Their home smells like cinnamon incense, and Kaveh put up the amount of lights that doesn’t disturb Alhaitham’s eyes, and it’s so warm and calm—unlike the Grand Bazaar that’s brimming with life, unwelcome noise, and the wind creeping in the back of the shirt.
Some of the kohl under Kaveh’s eyes gets into creases that only appear when he’s smiling. He’s giddy with excitement; Alhaitham supposes that for this, he can handle a couple more hours (if it’s just a couple of hours) of discomfort.
“You’ll be cold,” he comments. “I will not lend you my scarf if you are.”
That’s a bluff. It’s baseless and cheap, and makes Alhaitham sound like a petulant, grumpy child even to himself. What’s even worse, Kaveh sees right through it: he knows Alhaitham will lend him a scarf and a coat if he needs it; he just so happens to have enough guilty conscience not to let Alhaitham spend the holidays bedridden with a cold or a fever.
Normally, though, Kaveh doesn’t react kindly to Alhaitham’s grumbling, whatever the reason for it may be—today, he’s in good enough spirits to let it slide. And just like Kaveh lets it slide, Alhaitham lets Kaveh drag him along to the Bazaar because there are seasonal flavors at a coffee stall, and they need to purchase some produce for the celebratory dinner tomorrow, and there needs to be a new toy placed on the tree every year—Alhaitham hasn’t convinced Kaveh that they have enough yet.
(There’s a chance he won’t. He’s ready to accept the defeat).
“Pish posh,” Kaveh huffs, “I’ve lived in Sumeru City for long enough to know how to dress according to the weather. There, have a tangerine—hey!” His voice is all scandalized, but he doesn’t mind Alhaitham catching his hand and lacing their fingers together after the tangerine is accepted. The skin under Alhaitham’s touch is smooth and warm. There have been no traces of loose skin and scabs around his nails for years—Alhaitham very much so likes not to think of those times.
“Then why don’t you ever go ahead and apply that knowledge?”
“You—” Kaveh yelps as Alhaitham pulls him closer.
He smells nice, a faint mix of jasmine and bergamot, just a twinge of padisarahs. Alhaitham wants to hide his face in the crook of Kaveh’s neck and spend the next day like this. Kaveh will absolutely not allow it, though, so he will have to pull back eventually. Compromises, all around.
Alhaitham once read a book about the way the New Year is celebrated in Snezhnaya. While the traditions aren’t that different on the surface, there was one proverb mentioned: “How you greet the New Year is how you spend it.” Hence, all the attempts to hold on to the things, valuable and superficial alike: the symbols of prosperity, the extravagant meals, the glitter; more importantly, one’s favorite things.
Favorite people. Joy. Hope.
Something shifted inside Alhaitham after he’d read that; it’s alright if their home isn’t covered in sparkles and if there are no gifts. He’d honestly rather go to sleep at his regular bedtime instead of having a huge dinner. He prefers red wine to champagne.
What he’s not fine with is the thought of not holding Kaveh close when midnight arrives.
(He doesn’t tell Kaveh why. He won’t serve this man a reason to tease him on a silver platter).
Alhaitham… Compromises. He tags along wherever Kaveh wants to go.
He stops next to the coffee stall when Kaveh does and finishes the sample coffees after Kaveh tries them. Alhaitham knows that Kaveh will scrunch his nose at toffee nut and call cinnamon tolerable. He loves gingerbread syrup, but not more than his plain black filter. They’ll grab a cup of that, a cup of rose cardamom coffee for Alhaitham, some dessert for later, and continue walking down the fair.
If there’s a workshop, Kaveh will join. They’ve been to the one on making Natlanese snow candy last year and made lanterns a year before that. They’re meant for groups more often than not, but Kaveh gets so excitable that he tries to do everything, even when he inevitably complains about Alhaitham not doing enough with that little furrow to his eyebrows that makes Kaveh look a bit like an angry chipmunk (Alhaitham may or may not probe at Kaveh whenever he gets a chance just to elicit this expression).
A ginger proud smile will touch his lips when he sees the end product of his love-filled labor (it lights him up more than any makeup or one out of ten creams and serums Kaveh uses daily ever could).
At Hushang’s stall, Kaveh will spend so much time choosing a new decoration and fidgeting that a hairstrand will fall out of place, framing his face. Alhaitham will take the opportunity to tuck it behind his ear just because he likes how soft it feels under his touch, and Kaveh will get that slightly startled expression as he looks back at Alhaitham, open and sincere, so unlike the Kaveh Alhaitham brought home after finding him at Lambad’s years ago. It’ll end in Kaveh asking Alhaitham for his input and choosing something else entirely. Alhaitham will simply reach for his Mora pouch in an exasperated fondness.
After the decoration is selected and just a tad too much produce is bought (Alhaitham practically hears Kaveh complaining that he’s tired of eating the same salad and main dish for the fifth day in a row), he helps Kaveh set up the tree. It’s long, tedious, and they have enough decorations at this point that Kaveh has to select which ones will go on the tree this year, and which ones will stay in the boxes till Kaveh misses them enough.
He watches him wrap the gifts for their friends and handwrite the notes, and listens to his not-so-subtle attempts to guess what Alhaitham is getting him this year. And, of course, one more thing remains constant: the tree is not finished until Kaveh places the snow globe he gifted Alhaitham years ago at the bottom of the tree.
(When Kaveh thinks that he can’t be seen, Alhaitham will inevitably catch him with his fingers lingering on the glass, eyes glued to the two figures captured in that one single moment when everything was right).
Alhaitham then chops, and fries, and roasts in the kitchen till late at night, even if he absolutely must complain about how all of this is unnecessary just to see Kaveh’s eyes glow up the way they do whenever Alhaitham commits what Kaveh sees as sacrilege, a minute before a half-hearted argument ensues.
And when the midnight approaches, the compromises pay off. Alhaitham makes sure to have Kaveh wrapped in his arms and to take a look at his face, trying to engrave him, as he is, into the back of his mind. Because of a Snezhnayan superstition, he also hopes that it’s a promise that he will get to repeat this next year.
Better yet, Kaveh lets him.