sunbird

by caniculeo

Summary:

This is how Kaveh grows up—well-loved and loving, with a pencil in his hand and starlight in his eyes. This is how he grows up, until his father leaves for the desert one day, and never comes back.

kaveh, through the years.

When Kaveh is six, he cries because his drawings are ugly.

There is no other way to put it. In his mind’s eye, he’d pictured something breathtaking, something magical, but the traitorous pencil and his treacherous hands have mauled to death any possibility of beauty. And so he cries his little heart out. His mother comes to him and wipes his tears away, kisses him on the forehead.

“Kaveh,” she says, “don’t cry. It’s lovely, really.”

She isn’t lying. She is his mother, after all. To her, everything he does is lovely. He is old enough to know this, and so her answer does not quite appease him.

“No, it’s not,” Kaveh says, petulant. “I hate it.”

“I don’t think you should,” his mother says, picking up a pencil. She holds it gracefully, like it is part of her. “But if you don’t like how it came out, you can always try again. Shall we?”

So together, they try again, and draw his palace. The palace will have wings for flying. It will have windows for sunlight. And on rainy days, it will take off from the ground like the world’s largest, most incredible bird, and soar through the thick cloud cover to find the sun.

Kaveh needs this palace because it has been raining for far too long, and the little potted plant his father had gifted him is yellowing at the edges from lack of sun. Once he is finished building it, which is hopefully soon, he will place the plant gently in the room with the most light, such that it will never want for sun again, and send it off into the heavens.

He says all this and he believes it, because he is six years old, and has not yet learned that it takes much more than wings for something to fly, nor has he learned that the sky above the clouds is much too cold for any plant to survive. But even so, his mother listens and nods; she does not laugh, although it would be easy to. By the time they finish, it is past lunchtime, and Kaveh has long forgotten the tears he shed earlier. His mother is smiling, gazing out the window.

“Look up, Kaveh,” she says. Her fingers are gentle under his chin, guiding his gaze skyward. “Look up. The sun is shining.”

 

Kaveh has his mother’s hair. His father’s eyes. When he smiles, a dimple appears on his left cheek, not unlike his father; when he laughs, he sounds like his mother. He grows up on blueprints and star charts alike, a true child of the nation of wisdom. By day, he watches his mother design beautiful buildings, and tries his hand at it himself. By night, his father takes him out to see the stars, teaches him their names and magnitudes, and the strange, unbelievable truth that the sun is a star, also.

“Can you see it, Kaveh?”

He sits on the roof of their house with his father, taking turns to look through a small telescope at the night sky. Kaveh squints. His father is pointing at Paradisaea, the constellation he was born under, the bird-of-paradise.

“Not yet,” Kaveh says, feeling a little ashamed. Astrology is not his strong suit. In this, he takes after his mother, although it never stops his father from trying, nor does he seem disappointed when Kaveh admits that all the constellations kind of look the same, in that they all look a bit like nothing.

“Here,” his father says, moving his hand. Tracing the silhouette of a celestial bird. “This, here, is the wingtip. Here, the head. Do you see?”

It takes a moment, but Kaveh does, finally. “Yes,” he says, “yes, I see it!”

His father ruffles his hair, proud. “Now,” he says, “next to your constellation—a little higher up—there’s another bird, Vultur Volans…”

Soaked in starlight, Kaveh raises his gaze and listens. The night sky is fascinating, but in truth, Kaveh is here simply because he loves the sound of his father’s voice. When his father speaks, the distant lights in the sky become stars, and the stars become constellations, and the constellations become fate. When he points, stars gather at his fingertip, and he knows them all by name, like old friends.

One day, Kaveh thinks, he will design a beautiful tower that reaches into the night. It will be so tall that his father will be able to open a window and speak to the stars. Perhaps he will tell them about Kaveh, just as he tells Kaveh about them. Perhaps they will shift their heavenly bodies a little closer, a little lower, to listen.

 

This is how Kaveh grows up—well-loved and loving, with a pencil in his hand and starlight in his eyes. This is how he grows up, until his father leaves for the desert one day, and never comes back.

 

They say it was most likely quicksand that killed him.

Kaveh knows better. Because it wasn’t quicksand who’d said, look, Father, look how pretty that diadem is! It wasn’t quicksand who had grinned, eyes sparkling, when his father had responded: Why don't I win it, so I can let you play with it for a few days? It wasn’t quicksand who’d said nothing to stop his father from leaving for the desert on that fateful day. No, Your Honour, the quicksand is innocent in all this.

Very well, then. But if so, who was the true killer?

It was me, Kaveh wants to scream, it’s my fault! He wants someone, anyone to ask him: how do you plead, Kaveh? Guilty, I’m guilty! How do you plead? On his knees, next to his grieving mother, crying, begging: please, Father, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, please, come back—

 

After the death of his father, his mother forgets how to smile. This is alright. Kaveh learns to smile for her, to hold her hand when she cries. Sometimes, she forgets to cook. This is alright, too. Kaveh will open a cookbook and follow the instructions clumsily, burning his wrist on the side of a pan. When his mother’s hair is tangled from neglect, he sits behind her and braids it, like she’d once done for him.

On the days where his mother is lost in her grief and Kaveh’s throat is hoarse from comforting her with words, he falls asleep early in the evening, exhausted. When he dreams, he dreams of being lost in the desert, with no way to return home. The sand rushing over his face, quiet. The hot, chafing wind on his skin. And yet he is not afraid. Rather, he cannot help smiling at this, because—because if he is here instead, then his father is home safe. Then his mother will not weep. Then he will have been a good son. Then he will have been forgiven.

 

Unfortunately for all the world’s bereaved, grief does not stop time. Life goes on. The living must continue to live.

After a period of mourning, Kaveh’s mother manages to pull herself together and raise Kaveh by herself, to provide for the two of them. Kaveh, for his part, has never quite set down his pencil, has kept drawing and designing and studying alongside taking care of his mother. His drawings are much less ugly now. In fact, they are so much less ugly that people start paying him compliments. And then they start paying him money. And then they ask, Kaveh, are you going to study in Kshahrewrar?

“Am I?” he asks his mother, a little later.

“Are you?” his mother responds.

For some reason, this makes both of them crack a small smile.

“I don’t know,” Kaveh says.

“It’s your choice,” his mother says. “Don’t feel pressured to follow in my footsteps. But don’t feel pressured to do the opposite, either. Just… follow your heart.”

Kaveh considers. He is still young enough to remember the palace of sunlight, of the desperation and excitement he’d felt while imagining it. He knows that his mother has guided him here, but his love for beauty, for architecture, is also something unquestionably his own.

And so after Kaveh passes the Akademiya entrance exams, he enrols into the Darshan represented by the great white lion. The beast’s magnificent teeth are bared, as if in a smile, as if in greeting.

 

On the morning of his first day at the Akademiya, Kaveh’s mother sits behind him and braids his hair as she’d done when he was a child. You don’t have to, Kaveh had said, but she’d insisted. When she finishes, she takes one of the two teal feathers that she wears on her own head, and tucks it delicately into his hair.

“It suits you,” she says. And then, her voice tinged with bittersweetness, “You’ve grown up so fast. You used to be so small.”

Truth be told, Kaveh still feels small. Sometimes, he still feels like that child who’d watched as the world fell apart around him. But the boy staring back at him in the mirror can hardly be called a boy anymore, and the world outside his window seems bigger and perhaps just a little brighter.

“Are you nervous?” his mother asks, taking his contemplative silence for something else. She touches his face, gentle. “Don’t be. You will be wonderful. I am very proud of you. So would—” Her voice wavers. “I am very proud of you,” she says again.

Kaveh smiles and takes her hand, just a little heartsore. “Thank you, Mother,” he says.

 

During his first two years of higher education, Kaveh learns a lot—theories of architecture, practices of design, newer and more modern than those in his mother’s books. How to craft beautiful things with his own two hands. How to take criticism on a design he’s poured his whole heart into without feeling like he’s been mortally wounded. He learns other things, too: that the second-cheapest wine at the tavern is the best-tasting for the price, that coffee is as integral a part of a student’s budget as food and board, that he really quite likes helping anyone who needs it.

While he is studying, his mother leaves to visit Fontaine, and after a time, she comes back. She says to him, a little nervously, that she might want to leave again—that they are offering her a position there. Kaveh puts on a smile and congratulates her, and tells her to go. He tells her that he is all grown up now, that he will be fine on his own, that so many his age look forward to living independently. At this, his mother looks relieved, and he sees her off at the port a week after.

Kaveh never tells her, don’t leave me. Please, Mother, not you too. I’ll be so lonely. Please, don’t go. And so she never hears him say it, and so he returns home to an empty house, and so he lets the loneliness fall on his shoulders like the weight of a small planet. And perhaps this, too, is a kind of atonement.

 

From then on, Kaveh often finds himself staying late in the House of Daena, reading. Finishing assignments. Sometimes, he will be with a classmate who’d asked for help; most times, he will be alone, simply putting off the return to his empty home.

Here—among the quiet company of old books, under the fading sunset that shines, filtered, through stained glass—here is where he meets Al-Haitham.

 

Kaveh’s first words to Al-Haitham are hi, I’m Kaveh. In response, Al-Haitham’s first words to Kaveh are not interested.

“In what?”

A vague gesture at Kaveh’s entire being. “Anything.”

At this, most people would’ve left. But unlike most people, Kaveh is devastatingly lonely. He tries again.

“I just wanted to say,” he says, gesturing to the tome Al-Haitham is currently reading, “that book. It’s really well-written.”

A pause. “How so?”

“Well,” Kaveh says, brightening up at the apparent display of interest, and begins talking excitedly about the unique perspective the author had on the accessibility of ancient architecture. When he finishes, he is a little breathless.

“Wow,” Al-Haitham says, after a moment. “Thank you. That was enlightening.”

“Really?” Kaveh says, delighted.

“No.”

Alright, that’s enough. Kaveh’s lonely; he’s not desperate. He turns to leave, sufficiently offended and infuriated. But then a hand closes around his wrist.

“Come with me,” Al-Haitham says. “Kaveh, was it?”

“What? Where are we going?”

“Outside. We can’t keep talking here; it’s a library.” And then, “I’m going to tell you why you’re wrong.”

 

He does. It’s terrible. Kaveh argues back, and neither of them manages to convince the other. They keep each other so late that by the time Kaveh returns home and passes out on the bed, he’s too tired to even feel lonely.

 

The next time they meet in the library, Kaveh learns Al-Haitham’s name. Learns a few other things about him too, most of which are quickly forgotten in the heat of a new argument. All Kaveh remembers is that Al-Haitham is an underclassman in Haravatat, two years his junior, but with the brazen audacity and infuriating brilliance of someone much older. All he knows is that they will see each other again tomorrow, because there’s no way he’s letting this debate end as it is, not when Al-Haitham thinks he has the upper hand.

Al-Haitham, it seems, feels similarly. Every time Kaveh sees him, he’s reading a book that’s just relevant enough to Kaveh’s area of study for him to have an opinion on it. Every time, their opinions will be opposing. Perhaps it says something about Kaveh that despite the inevitable spike in his blood pressure, he begins to look forward to his evenings with the world’s worst underclassman. At any rate, it’s much better than returning to the silent loneliness of his home.

“You aren’t going to ask me what I’m reading today?”

They’ve been silent for a while, ever since Al-Haitham had sat down next to Kaveh and conspicuously taken out a particularly controversial volume on contemporary building design.

Kaveh shakes his head. “Not now,” he says. “I’m tired. I have to finish this book for tomorrow.”

Al-Haitham hums, sounding dissatisfied. “Were you helping your classmates with their assignments again?”

“What if I was?”

“It’s obviously a waste of your time. You should’ve prioritised your own homework first. Or get paid to help, at least.”

“Don’t be ridiculous.”

“I don’t think I’m the one being ridiculous.”

Kaveh doesn’t dignify that with a response, choosing to continue reading instead. He isn’t sure when he falls asleep, but he blinks awake to Al-Haitham looking at him impassively.

“What are you staring at?” Kaveh says, his voice hoarse.

“You’re drooling,” Al-Haitham says. “You drooled on your book.”

“What—” Kaveh wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, and then tries to clean up the book hurriedly. “You couldn’t have woken me up? This isn’t mine!”

“That would’ve been rude of me,” Al-Haitham says.

Kaveh glares at him. “Now you care about being rude.”

“Go back to sleep,” Al-Haitham says, moving Kaveh’s book away. “The library won’t close for a while.”

“What about you?”

“What about me?”

“Won’t you be… bored?”

“What, because you won’t be awake to bother me?” Al-Haitham raises an eyebrow. “Don’t flatter yourself.”

“Ugh,” Kaveh says, annoyed. He lays his head down, turning away from Al-Haitham, and closes his eyes. “Forget it.”

He drifts off quickly. When he wakes up again, it is almost midnight. Beside him, Al-Haitham is asleep, his head resting on his arms. His book flipped open to the middle, unfinished. Kaveh blinks, taking in the sight of him. Don’t flatter yourself, he’d said.

Kaveh can’t help himself. He laughs.

 

After that, there are similar occasions where they don’t debate anything at all. Instead, Al-Haitham reads; Kaveh works on his designs. Sometimes he can feel Al-Haitham watching him silently, curiously. Strangely, Kaveh finds that he doesn’t quite mind the attention. Rather, he comes to feel a little lonely without it.

 

It’s been a long time since Kaveh’s seen his mother. They write to each other occasionally; the two of them share an understanding of deadlines, and so neither of them ever takes offence at a late reply, as long as it comes.

He sends her sketches, assignments he’s proud of. Tells her about his professors who’d once taught her, too. How he’s excited to graduate and apply all that he’s learned. He even tells her about the infuriating, brilliant underclassman he’d recently become acquainted with, who is currently sitting beside him while he writes, asleep under a warm patch of sunlight. And just like this, Kaveh shares with his mother the bright side of his life, the part touched by happiness.

I miss you, he writes at the end. And then after a moment, he crosses it out. I love you, he writes instead. This, he thinks, is safer. Because—well, I miss you feels a bit like a transgression here, being almost a request in itself: I miss you, so please come see me. This is not something Kaveh’s mother needs to hear, just as she never needs to hear about his nights, sleepless from loneliness and the remnants of grief. And so Kaveh signs off the letter:

Your adoring son,

Kaveh

 

“So you’re saying I should redo my design?”

She’s one of Kaveh’s underclassmen—he’d never quite caught her name, although she’s consulted him a couple of times already. To be fair, he’s approached daily by a large number of Kshahrewar students, underclassmen and otherwise, and it’s a little hard to keep track of them all. By now, it is more than apparent that he is good at what he does. Even Al-Haitham never denies this. And so—

“Yes, you’ve got to do something like—hold on, here,” Kaveh says, and takes a few moments to sketch out a small plan on her notepad. “You can start with this. He really likes things traditional, so it’s best to stick to the basics.”

“Oh, wow, thanks!” she says, brightening. “You always make it look so easy.” She tucks the notepad into her bag. “Well, I’ve got to head out to class. I’ll treat you to dinner one of these days!”

She waves goodbye. Kaveh smiles and waves back.

“Dinner?”

Kaveh jumps. It’s Al-Haitham.

“Gods,” Kaveh says, flustered. “Don’t sneak up on me like that. You’re wearing out my nerves.”

Al-Haitham shows no concern for Kaveh’s nerves. “How many times is that, now?”

“What do you mean?”

“How many times has that girl offered to treat you to dinner without following through?”

“Don’t say it like that,” Kaveh says. And then, more quietly, “Three.”

Al-Haitham raises an eyebrow.

“Oh, don’t look at me like that,” Kaveh says. “It’s fine. I don’t mind; why should you?” He smiles, mischievous. “What, don’t tell me. You care about me now?”

“Don’t flatter yourself.”

“Yes, yes,” Kaveh says, amused. “Well, should we head to the library?”

Al-Haitham seems to consider for a moment. “Actually,” he says, “I haven’t eaten yet. Come with me.”

“Polite, aren’t you?” Kaveh says, picking up his bag. “You know, I am your senior. Would it hurt to treat me with a little more courtesy?”

“Yes,” Al-Haitham says. “It would cause me unbearable pain, actually.”

“Gods, why do I even bother with you? Eat by yourself.”

They eat together. For some reason, Al-Haitham insists on paying the bill. Kaveh fights him on this—what kind of upperclassman would let his junior pay, after all—but Al-Haitham proves to be surprisingly stubborn about it. Strange bird, that one. Who knows what he’s thinking, really.

 

And just like this, life goes on. Kaveh continues to do well in school, so well that it excites him a little. This is only a taste, after all, of what’s to come. The Akademiya comes with its own shackles. Old-fashioned professors, Kshahrewar’s lack of funding, and so on and so forth. Once he graduates, once he becomes a real architect, the world will be his, and he will make it a kinder, more beautiful place. And so he looks to the distant future, a place where he might be happy, where the past is left in the past, where even a single whisper of grief is never to be heard.

 

For his twenty-first birthday, Kaveh’s mother sends him a kamera from Fontaine. To my son, she’s written on the box. For inspiration and amusement.

Kaveh smiles. He holds up the kamera and points it at Al-Haitham, who is sitting beside him, nose in a book as per usual. The shutter clicks. Al-Haitham looks up.

“Can I help you?” he asks testily.

Kaveh laughs, holding out the newly-printed photograph of him. Al-Haitham looks unimpressed.

“I’m keeping this,” Kaveh announces, and tucks it safely away.

“In your wallet?”

“Yes. I’m going to keep this for fifty years, and then when people ask, I’m going to tell everyone you’re my son.”

Al-Haitham huffs and goes back to reading his book. Kaveh opens the letter that’d come with the gift. His mother seems to be doing better. She tells him about the fantastic structures in Fontaine, the art. Compliments him on the designs he’s sent over, gives him some helpful critique. Tells him that she is proud of him, that she is sorry she cannot be here with him. About Al-Haitham, she writes, I am glad you’ve made such a good friend.

Kaveh frowns at this. And then he looks at Al-Haitham. And then back at the letter. A good friend.

“Huh,” he says.

Al-Haitham looks up. “What?”

“Nothing,” Kaveh says. “I—“ He suddenly feels a little embarrassed, and folds up the letter neatly, quickly. He’ll read it later. “Nothing.”

“I see.” And then, “You’re blushing. Why are you blushing?”

“I am not.” This is a lie; he is blushing violently. “Give me back the kamera. Haitham, give me back the kamera, don’t you dare—”

The click of the shutter. A moment, a blush, frozen in time. And this photograph, too, will quietly reside in a wallet for many, many years, although Kaveh will be the last to hear of it.

 

One of Al-Haitham’s many idiosyncrasies is that he never wears his uniform right. More specifically, he refuses to wear the hat. When anyone—student or faculty—points this out, he looks them straight in the eye and says scathingly, “Wow, thank you. I didn’t notice.” After a while, people stop pointing it out. The sun rises in the east, the sky is blue. Al-Haitham doesn’t wear the hat. Once, Kaveh had asked him why.

“I don’t like hats,” Al-Haitham had said simply. “They’re uncomfortable.”

He’d sounded almost childish; Kaveh had laughed. Secretly, though, he thinks this way suits Al-Haitham. It would be a pity, after all, to cover up his hair.

Al-Haitham’s hair is the colour of a raincloud. It curls up fluffily in the back, no matter how much it’s combed, and Kaveh always has to resist the urge to reach out, to touch it. He wonders if Al-Haitham would let him, one of these days.

 

The idea for their collaborative project comes up naturally and unsurprisingly. It’d almost been unquestionable.

“Shall we?” Al-Haitham asks one day, when the subject arises.

“Just pick a topic,” Kaveh tells him, and Al-Haitham comes back in a day with a topic and the beginnings of a proposal. Between the two of them, their application for their research is quickly completed and submitted. They are given a decent amount of funding, considering the lack of financial resources that plagues both their Darshans, and permission for a preliminary research trip to the desert ruins.

“Well then,” Al-Haitham says, looking at the response to their proposal. “I guess this means we can get started.”

For a moment, it almost looks as if he is smiling.

 

It is Kaveh’s first time in the desert. They’ve hired a guide, an untalkative Eremite teenager who is more than used to the wide-eyed Akademiya students tripping over sand to get to whatever archaeological site happens to be the rage at the moment. The desert is hot and dry and the trek is tiring. In other words, it’s exactly what Kaveh expected it to be.

A part of him cannot stop thinking about his father, losing his foothold in quicksand; he tries to ignore this. After all, there is work to do. But when they’ve finished and night has fallen, Kaveh climbs out of their tent to gaze up at the night sky. It is easier to see the stars here, a silvery expanse of lights blanketing the darkness.

Someone settles down beside him. “Can’t sleep?” Al-Haitham asks.

Kaveh shakes his head. It’s cold, even despite the fire—he hugs his knees to his chest. “I’ll be fine,” he says. “I just wanted to see—” He motions at the sky.

“Ah.”

For a few moments, they are silent. And then Kaveh points upwards, traces the tip of a heavenly tail. “Look,” he says. “Vulpes Zerda, the fox.” He moves his hand across the night. “Mantichora. Lotos Somno. Vultur Volans.”

Almost effortlessly, Kaveh finds Paradisaea, its wings unfurled against the midnight empyrean. And he wonders—how could he have ever thought that the constellations looked like nothing? It has been so long; he has almost forgotten that he remembered. Something in his chest aches. He swallows, his hand lowering.

“I didn’t know you took a Rtawahist elective,” Al-Haitham says.

“I didn’t,” Kaveh says. “My father taught me.”

“Oh,” Al-Haitham says. “I see.”

Absently, Kaveh wonders if his father had died at night. If fate had, at least, given him the final kindness to see his beloved stars before he’d left the world. He hopes so.

“Are you alright?” Al-Haitham asks. “You’re shivering.”

“I’m fine,” Kaveh says.

Al-Haitham takes off his cloak and wraps it around the both of them, anyways. Kaveh wishes he hadn’t. After all, he is only human; it only takes so much for him to fall in love.

 

Upon their return and the formal commencement of their project, Kaveh finds himself busier than ever with students approaching him. Truth be told, he doesn’t mind the attention—he’s never been averse to socialising like Al-Haitham is. It’s good, after all, that people are interested in being involved with their research, even if Al-Haitham believes otherwise. At times like this, Al-Haitham never joins in, preferring to wait it out until Kaveh is alone.

“You’re on this project too, you know,” Kaveh says one day. “It wouldn’t hurt for you to get to know a few more people. Make some friends.”

“No. Thank you.”

“Do you even have friends?” Kaveh asks, frowning. “Aside from me, I mean. Don’t you want someone else to talk to?”

“I don’t care about anyone else,” Al-Haitham says. “I don’t need anyone else. Just you.”

There is none of the usual sarcasm in his voice. He says it simply and with such candour that it cannot be anything but the truth.

“Oh,” Kaveh says, his face on fire. Oh, no.

He’s falling faster than a bag of bricks. Crashing downwards, nine point eight metres per second per second, paraglider nowhere in sight. It’s terrible and terrifying. God of Wisdom, please rest his soul. He’s in love, he’s in love.

 

Kaveh hides his feelings for Al-Haitham the same way a wild animal might hide a wound. Frankly, he does not know what else to do with them. This, of course, comes with its consequences.

“Are you avoiding me?” Al-Haitham asks one day.

“What? No,” Kaveh lies. “Why would I?” A traitorous flush is creeping up his neck already. Lately, this happens whenever Al-Haitham is in the vicinity. This is also the reason why Kaveh’s been avoiding him, although it’s been pretty difficult since they see each other at least once a day for their project.

“Yes,” Al-Haitham says, sounding suspicious. “Why would you?”

Kaveh makes the mistake of meeting his gaze. It’s much too intense, much too near; he turns away quickly, but not before he is well and truly blushing. “You’re too close—”

“Oh,” says Al-Haitham, blinking. He doesn’t seem displeased at Kaveh’s discourtesy; conversely, he seems pleasantly surprised. “I see.”

“What?” Kaveh says, perplexed and a little wary.

“Nothing. Don’t worry about it.” And then, “You should go to class. You’ll be late.”

 

After that, Kaveh gives up on avoiding Al-Haitham. It’d been a stupid idea, anyway, and it isn’t as if he enjoys being apart from him, either. And so things settle back to normal between them, or as normal as they can be. Al-Haitham, too, never speaks of it again, although he starts acting a little strange. Staying around longer than usual, inviting Kaveh to accompany him when walking to classes, or to meals. By Al-Haitham standards, he’s almost… clingy.

“Are you… alright, these days?” Kaveh asks one day, when they’re eating together.

Al-Haitham pokes at his food. He doesn’t seem hungry, although he’d been the one to ask Kaveh to dinner. “Of course I am.”

“So you aren’t—lonely, or something?”

“Lonely?” Al-Haitham’s brow is furrowed. He looks perplexed and a little offended.

“Never mind,” Kaveh says. “Well, if there’s anything you want to talk about, you—you can.” Just because he’s stupidly in love with Al-Haitham doesn’t mean he can’t be a good friend.

“Good,” Al-Haitham says, and meets Kaveh’s eyes. “That classmate you let join us last week? He’s entirely incompetent.”

Kaveh’s temper flares. “He is not—have you even talked to him?”

“I don’t have to.”

This is not a new argument, nor will it be put to rest anytime soon. And so they go down that familiar, well-travelled road of spirited debate, and Kaveh forgets momentarily about how strange Al-Haitham is acting.

 

“So I’m thinking, we should probably go on another research trip soon—you said you needed to take a closer look at those inscriptions, right?”

They’re in the library. Kaveh is poring through an old book that might prove to be useful to his research on the ruins’ architecture; Al-Haitham is finished with looking for resources, so he’s just here because Kaveh’s here.

“Yes,” Al-Haitham says. Kaveh jumps a little—he hadn’t realised they’d been standing so close together. “That would help.”

Kaveh tries to back up a bit to get some space between them. Al-Haitham steps even closer. Kaveh’s back hits the bookcase.

“What is it?” he asks, a little nervously. With a shock, he realises that Al-Haitham is taller than him now, when did he get so tall? Hadn’t it just been a few months ago when he’d been Kaveh’s height?

“Nothing,” Al-Haitham says, and tries to kiss him. Kaveh stops him just in time.

“What,” he says, beyond flustered, “do you think you’re doing?”

“What does it look like,” Al-Haitham says flatly, against Kaveh’s fingers. Far from looking embarrassed, he seems more annoyed than anything.

“Aren’t I—” Kaveh swallows, his face feeling like a small oven. “Aren’t I too old for you?”

It’s a shit excuse. They both know it. Al-Haitham moves back and gives Kaveh a scathing look. It should be illegally rude for someone who’s just tried to kiss him. “No, you’re not.”

“No, I’m not,” Kaveh says, still floundering. “Well, I thought—I thought you weren’t interested.”

“What?”

“When we met. You said you weren’t interested.”

“I can’t change my mind?”

“You can, you can, but—” Kaveh swallows again. “Why?”

“Why not?” Al-Haitham asks. “I know you like me, too.”

“What? I do not.”

Al-Haitham gives him another look. Kaveh concedes silently.

“Just—I’m not ready,” he says. “Not now.”

“Then when?”

“I don’t know,” Kaveh says truthfully.

Al-Haitham rolls his eyes. “Fine,” he says. “I’ll wait.”

“You don’t have to. I’m not sure when—”

“I know. I’ll wait.”

 

Truth be told, it isn’t as if Kaveh is completely new to these feelings. But to voice them, to have them reciprocated—these are things that he’d never quite considered. Ever since the death of his father, ever since seeing what the loss of love can do to a person, he’s given love a respectful berth, as one would give a particularly fierce dog in the neighbourhood, or perhaps a desert storm.

Not to mention—this is Al-Haitham they’re talking about. For all that Kaveh might chastise him for not expanding his social circle, when all is said and done, it’s not like Kaveh has anyone else, either. There is nobody else who understands him, who knows him like Al-Haitham does. Kaveh has told Al-Haitham everything that he cannot tell his mother, all the parts of him that cannot be shown under the sun. And who else, after all, would treat him like an equal, regardless of his flaws and talent alike? Who else would never even consider putting him on a pedestal, would instead simply step onto any pedestal to stand beside him?

Kaveh cannot deny it any longer: Al-Haitham is his truest, dearest friend. This is the truth; there is no other way to put it. And so, if he decides to go through with what Al-Haitham wants—well, talk about putting all your eggs in one basket. One rude, stubborn basket. Surely, it would be better to go to the market and buy another one to protect his only affordable source of protein. Surely, it would be wiser. But then again—and Kaveh would never admit this out loud—perhaps he likes his rude basket. Perhaps this is the only basket for him in the entire world, just as he is the only person in the entire world for this basket. Perhaps this is a little romantic, if he really thinks about it.

Follow your heart, his mother would say. But Kaveh’s own heart has never been the best guide. It is a flighty, winged thing. Avian in its evasiveness. After all, any child worth their salt knows how hard it is to catch a bird. Al-Haitham is the opposite. Perhaps his heart follows him, instead. Ten steps behind him, trailing after him timidly like a dejected puppy. If Kaveh could, he’d pick it up and hold it gently in his arms, would press a kiss to its poor neglected forehead. Good boy, good boy, you’re doing your best. Al-Haitham would, of course, roll his eyes and keep walking.

But perhaps that’s not quite true. Or at least not for this. Because despite himself, Al-Haitham had taken the first step. Had woken up one day and decided to kiss Kaveh, simply because he’d known that their feelings were mutual, and because he’d wanted to. And even though Al-Haitham would probably never, ever admit it, isn’t that the sole definition of following one’s heart? And if even Al-Haitham can do that, then what does it say about Kaveh, who’s too cowardly to even try?

That night, Kaveh thinks and thinks about this until he drifts off to sleep. He is a child no longer, and so he doesn’t dream, but if he did, there’s only one person he would’ve dreamed about.

 

At the very least, their project is going well. Despite the high turnover rate of scholars, they’ve made good progress, the kind that catches the Akademiya’s eye. And yet Kaveh is delighted and surprised anyways when it’s announced that a research building is being built for them—for them! He drags Al-Haitham out to celebrate right away. Unfortunately, it’s Lambad’s day off, and so the tavern is closed.

“Well,” Al-Haitham says. “I suppose you can come over instead.” Kaveh blinks, taken back. “Oh, don’t look like that. I won’t try anything.”

“That’s not—” Kaveh is hot up to his ears. “I didn’t think—”

“Yes, you hardly ever do.”

“Haitham—”

Al-Haitham’s house is small and cosy. It had been his late grandmother’s, and it shows—as pleasant as it is, none of the decor seems characteristically Al-Haitham. Kaveh sits down on the sofa and Al-Haitham grabs a bottle of wine: the second-cheapest from the tavern, the one Kaveh is partial to. And yet, for some reason, he doesn’t quite feel like drinking anymore. Rather, he’s preoccupied with the way Al-Haitham settles down beside him, the deft twist of his hand as he uncorks the bottle, the brush of his arm against Kaveh’s.

“Here,” Al-Haitham says, holding out a goblet.

Kaveh takes it. “Thanks.” For a moment, he almost forgets what they’re here for.

“Don’t be so nervous,” Al-Haitham says, taking a sip of his own drink. “We’re supposed to be celebrating. Academic achievements, and whatnot.”

“I’m not nervous.”

“Don’t be such a bad liar, either.”

Kaveh flushes and turns away, annoyed, and finds his attention captured by a photograph on the cabinet. In it, a young Al-Haitham stares uninterestedly into the camera, while his grandmother smiles, her hand on his head. It’s unfairly adorable.

“You look alike,” Kaveh says, unable to resist a smile.

“What?” Al-Haitham follows his gaze. “Oh. I suppose so. They do say I favour my father’s side of the family.”

“She looks kind,” Kaveh says. “Your grandmother.”

“She was.”

It isn’t as if he sounds particularly sorrowful, and yet. For some reason, all Kaveh can imagine is a young Al-Haitham, on his own in the otherwise empty house. Taking care of himself silently, alone.

“I’m sorry,” Kaveh says.

“What for?”

For the unkindness of the world. For the oversights of the universe, which had forgotten to include a law alongside that of universal gravitation and motion and so on: that all good parents must be immortal. But Kaveh does not know how to say this out loud, and so he shakes his head instead. “You really don’t get lonely?” he asks.

Al-Haitham huffs. “I think you’re projecting a little.”

“Haitham, I’m serious.”

“Well,” Al-Haitham says dryly, “it’s hard to be lonely when I’m not alone most of the time.”

“So if I weren’t here, you would be lonely?”

“Don’t flatter yourself.”

Kaveh huffs. “Alright, alright.”

They are silent for a few moments.

“I wouldn’t be lonely,” Al-Haitham says quietly, breaking the silence. “But all the same, I would prefer being with you over the alternative.”

His cheeks are tinged with pink; his gaze falls to the ground. Kaveh has never seen him like this. He cannot look away. His own face is getting hot. You stupid, proud idiot, he thinks, and it speaks to how terribly in love he is that he is unable to do so without affection.

“Are you going to say anything,” Al-Haitham says, and he sounds almost embarrassed under the usual sharpness, “or are you just going to keep staring at me?”

Kaveh feels something inside himself give in. He puts down his wine and reaches out for Al-Haitham. Sinks his fingers into the untameable, sacred curls, finally, finally. Al-Haitham lets him.

“Hey, Haitham,” Kaveh says. “Do you still want to kiss me?”

 

Apparently, yes. Yes, he does.

 

The next morning, Kaveh wakes up in Al-Haitham’s bed.

When he sits up, his body is sweetly sore. Muted light is shining through the curtains; if he opens them, he will see the sun. Beside him, Al-Haitham is still asleep, looking uncharacteristically innocent in his slumber, his raincloud hair a mess. And for the first time in forever, Kaveh finds himself thinking that life is beautiful.

Al-Haitham blinks awake after a few moments, meeting Kaveh’s gaze. “What are you smiling about?” he mumbles sleepily, reaching for Kaveh and pulling him back down gently. Kaveh lets him. “You’re being strange.”

“Nothing,” Kaveh says, and smiles wider.

He is young; he is in love. The world is at his fingertips, a strange and beautiful thing.

 

Do they still argue? Yes. Are they happy with each other? If you asked them, they’d never say as much. But you’d know, anyway. One look, and you’d know.

 

Being in love reminds Kaveh a little of being given a box of candies as a child: Wow, I can really have all of this? This being honey, sweetness, delight. This being the press of Al-Haitham’s lips against his skin, his constant, quiet company even when there are no words between them, the rare and beautiful sound of his low laughter. A lover’s privilege.

That month, Kaveh sends his mother a photograph along with his letter. It is a photograph of him and Al-Haitham in the desert, at one of their research sites. Kaveh has his arm around Al-Haitham’s shoulders; he is mid-laugh, perhaps amused at something Al-Haitham just said. Al-Haitham is much less exuberant, no doubt unnerving the misfortunate underclassman who’d taken the picture. And yet he is looking at Kaveh. And yet his hand rests, gentle, on Kaveh’s waist. And that says more than enough, really.

 

In light of their relationship, Kaveh ends up spending a lot more time at Al-Haitham’s place these days. When he stumbles upon some lovely, old blueprints and expresses his appreciation, Al-Haitham offers them to him.

“Are you sure?” Kaveh asks, hesitant. The blueprints can’t have been by anyone other than Al-Haitham’s grandmother, after all.

“I have no use for them,” Al-Haitham says. “I’m not considering a career change anytime soon, after all.” A pause. “And she would’ve liked you.”

“Ah,” Kaveh says. “I think my father would’ve liked you, too.”

“Would he have, though?” Al-Haitham says dryly. He’s surprisingly self-aware when it comes to his own personality.

Kaveh cracks a smile. “Yes,” he says. “He liked everyone. I’m sure he would’ve liked you even more if you smiled more, though.”

“And for him, perhaps I would’ve tried.”

Kaveh huffs. “Not for me?”

“Well, I don’t need to make you like me, do I?”

“Cocky bastard,” Kaveh murmurs, reaching out to ruffle Al-Haitham’s hair. Al-Haitham smiles. And for a moment, Kaveh can't help imagining a slightly awkward dinner, Al-Haitham sitting prim and proper at their table. Trying to be polite. Failing. Kaveh’s mother bemused, his father laughing. It is a lovely, impossible scene, and Kaveh suddenly finds himself unbearably heartsore.

“Come here,” Al-Haitham says, reaching out, almost as if he knows how Kaveh is feeling. Kaveh settles on his lap, leaning against him.

“Haitham,” he says. “Haitham.”

“What is it?”

Really, Kaveh had just wanted to say his name, wanted to feel the syllables on his tongue. “I’m tired.”

“Then sleep.”

“The research—”

“Sleep,” Al-Haitham says. “I’ll wake you up later.”

Truth be told, he is Kaveh’s true first love. And any sufficiently wise man can tell you: first loves never last. But Kaveh is only twenty-two. Twenty-two and lovestruck and the furthest thing from wise. And so he closes his eyes and presses his cheek against Al-Haitham’s hair, and makes the terrible mistake of thinking that, perhaps, they alone are an exception to the rule.

 

When they fight—whether about their project or their lives outside of it—their arguments can always be boiled down to the differences in their personalities: Kaveh’s selflessness, Al-Haitham’s selfishness. And despite all the repetition, it never quite feels like they come to a resolution. It doesn’t help that their thesis ties them together, forcing them to cooperate even if they’re both upset at each other.

As their research proceeds, Kaveh finds himself more worn out than he’s ever been in his life. Although he’s loath to admit it, his workload has actually increased since they’ve brought more people onto the project. Almost every student will, at some point, say some variation of I’m sorry, Kaveh, but it’s too much. I've got other projects and classes on top of this, too. I can’t keep up. And Kaveh will rush to say: no, no, don’t worry! I’ll help. And so he does, to exhaustion. These days, Al-Haitham seems to have given up on reprimanding him for this. He’ll just watch silently, his lips pressed together in clear disapproval. Kaveh ignores him.

This all changes when Kaveh finds himself in the Bimarstan being treated for a sprained ankle and a few cuts and scrapes from a cave-in at a desert ruin. He’d pushed the other students out to safety first, but was left in a bind on his own. In the end, he’d narrowly escaped by squeezing out through a small entrance before it got any smaller. And so here he is, a temporary cast on his foot, wincing a bit from the antiseptic they’d put on his wounds.

“Kaveh.”

Kaveh looks up, pleasantly surprised. “Oh, Haitham—”

“Are you,” Al-Haitham snarls, “an idiot?”

Kaveh blinks. He has never seen Al-Haitham like this; truth be told, it’s a little frightening. “Haitham, calm down—”

“I am calm.” He very much isn’t, even if his voice is even. His jaw is clenched—he looks livid. “I heard all about your little adventure. You could’ve died. And for what?”

Kaveh bristles. “People were in danger—”

“Yes, and that includes you,” Al-Haitham says. “You should’ve taken care of yourself first.” He says this so often to Kaveh that it’s almost become his personal adage: yet another reminder of Al-Haitham’s self-centeredness, a reminder that although his care extends to Kaveh, that’s as far as it’ll ever go.

Kaveh turns away, too tired to argue. “How are they?” he asks. “The others.”

“They’re wonderful,” Al-Haitham says. “Not a scratch on them. Oh, and they’re leaving the project.” Kaveh’s heart sinks. “What? Why?”

“Just how they express their gratitude, I suppose,” Al-Haitham says cuttingly. Kaveh flinches. “Kaveh. Don’t tell me you’re upset. Who cares about them?”

“I do,” Kaveh says. His ankle throbs; everything hurts. He feels like he’s on the verge of tears. “I do.”

Al-Haitham exhales. “Just—don’t do that again,” he says. “Tell me—promise me you won’t do anything stupid like that again.”

Kaveh meets his eyes. And because he has always been taught not to lie, he does not say a word.

 

It’s all downhill from there. Perhaps it’d been going downhill for a long time, now. Despite all the effort that Kaveh had put in, the last remaining student on their project leaves, for much the same reasons as the tens of others who had done the same. And then there’s just him and Al-Haitham left, just as it had been in the beginning.

“Good riddance,” Al-Haitham says, when Kaveh tells him. “Now we can finally get some work done.”

Kaveh can stand it no longer. “What is wrong with you?” he demands. “You know, if you’d actually helped out, maybe people would’ve stayed!”

“I’d like to ask you the same thing,” Al-Haitham says coldly. “How is it, after all these months of wasting your time and energy, that you never even thought to eliminate the cause of your exhaustion?”

“This is a group project. That’s not how it works.”

“This is academia. That’s exactly how it works.” Al-Haitham is infuriatingly calm, frigidly judgmental. “It’s not a charity; neither are you. And if you keep going like this, someday you won’t have anything left to give. What then?”

“Then—then that’s my problem. Not yours.”

“So you want me to just sit here and watch while you ruin yourself for no reason?”

Kaveh bristles. “I am—I was helping others, which I know is incomprehensible to someone like you, but believe it or not—”

“Oh, as if you’re doing that for other people,” Al-Haitham says.

“What?”

“You’re not helping people to help them,” Al-Haitham continues, merciless. “You’re helping them to make yourself feel better, to absolve yourself of guilt. It’s foolish, you’ll never—”

“You think—” Kaveh blinks. “You think I did all that out of guilt?” He is stunned, perplexed. “Guilt for what—”

“Your father.”

Kaveh cannot speak for a moment. “Is that what you’ve always thought of me?” he finally says. He feels himself shaking. With anger or sorrow, he cannot tell.

“Well, yes,” Al-Haitham says, although quieter. Perhaps he knows that he’s gone too far this time, but like always, he doesn’t back down. “It’s obviously true.”

He may as well have struck Kaveh across the face. And the terrible thing is that Kaveh cannot even deny the accusation. Now that it has been spoken, the truth is unquestionable, even though he’s tried to hide it from himself all this time.

“I see,” Kaveh says, soft.

Once, when he was a child, he’d gotten into a stupid fight with one of the boys in his neighbourhood. The other boy was bigger and stronger, older. Kaveh had been losing. Blinded by fury and pain, he’d struck out with all his desperation, looking to wound. He does so again now, but not with his fists.

“You know, Haitham,” he says, his voice hoarse, “I wish I’d never met you. I would’ve been so much happier.”

Al-Haitham flinches. For a brief moment, he looks as hurt as Kaveh feels. But then his jaw tightens, and any emotion falls away, leaving behind a frigid mask.

“Is that so,” he says. “Well, I hope you can be happy now.”

He leaves. Kaveh does not follow him.

 

Back when Kaveh was still mourning his father, he was careful not to let his mother see him cry. She was already fragile enough as it was, and so Kaveh had learned to hold his tears back in front of her, no matter how terrible he was feeling. But now, there is nobody here to see him, and he cries so hard his head hurts and his eyes burn. In a daze of sorrow and fury, he grabs his copy of the thesis, and tears it in half straight down the middle. He almost keeps going, until his mind catches up with his hands, and he drops the pieces on the table.

Gods, he thinks desperately, what have I done? What have I done?

Truly, what has he done?

Not a day later, he tapes the thesis back together. Puts it somewhere out of sight. And so the once-promising thesis he'd worked on with his once-beloved friend becomes just one of the thousands of abandoned Akademiya projects, never to see the light of day again.

 

Everything happens quickly after that. Their research facility falls into disuse and is offered to the two of them as a residence; Kaveh turns it down without a second thought. He never sees Al-Haitham in person again, although they clash regularly in scholarly journals. He works himself to the bone to supplement the credits he’d lost by abandoning their thesis. It helps, in a way—after all, when he is this tired, it is hard to feel anything else. But one night, when he is eating candied ajilenakh nuts in his kitchen at an ungodly hour, he happens to catch sight of the flowerpot near his windowsill, a gift from Al-Haitham he’d forgotten about. That’s all it takes for a sharp, sudden sorrow to cut through the numbing exhaustion. And then the memories come, unbidden.

“What’s this?” Kaveh had asked.

They’d been together for a few months by then. But neither of them were particularly in the habit of giving each other gifts.

“Strelitzia,” Al-Haitham had said simply, as if that explains anything. “For you.”

“Okay,” Kaveh said. “But why?”

“You don’t want it?” Al-Haitham said. “I can take it back.”

“No, no,” Kaveh said, taking the plant from him, “don’t be like that. You gave it to me. It’s mine.”

“Yes,” Al-Haitham said, sounding exasperated, “that’s what I’ve been trying to tell you. It’s yours.”

And so Kaveh had accepted it, happy but trying not to show it too much. Later on, he’d asked one of his Amurta friends about how to take care of it: strelitzia, have you heard of it? His friend had considered a moment, and then realised: oh, bird of paradise! Yes, I know it.

Kaveh had blinked, then burst out laughing. He’d blushed a little—a lot. Had resolved to tease Al-Haitham about it, but life had gotten in the way, and the idea had slipped from his mind. In hindsight, it’d probably been the pinnacle of Al-Haitham being romantic.

Pity, then, that Kaveh had been so busy with their project that he’d forgotten to water it. Now, its leaves droop, yellowed and withered; it stands there despondently in the pot, a dead thing.

 

To the surprise of absolutely no one, Kaveh graduates with flying colours. His graduation is not a lonely ordeal, even if his mother cannot make it.

Al-Haitham, of course, doesn’t come either. This is alright. Kaveh has a job lined up. He has his life ahead of him. How long had he known Al-Haitham, anyways? Two or three years? A waste, a pity, but that’s a blink of an eye in the grand scheme of things. The world is big and its people are many. He’ll find someone else, anyone else. It doesn’t have to be Al-Haitham; it never had to be Al-Haitham. Like most people in their early twenties, Kaveh had simply made a mistake, that’s all. Loved the wrong person, as you do. It’s alright—he won’t make that mistake again.

So he celebrates exuberantly with his Kshahrewar friends, drinking himself stupid. Bids a messy, passionate farewell to his years of study. And yet the next morning, he wakes up in his bed to the usual solitude, the usual silence. When he looks at himself in the mirror, his reflection stares back at him hollowly.

“Happy graduation, Kaveh,” he says.

 

It takes a few years of hard work, of late nights and uncountable cups of coffee, but Kaveh makes a name for himself eventually. Light of the Kshahrewar, they call him. He’s not sure how he feels about it. Or perhaps he is. It’s a little embarrassing, really.

He's gotten used to working for clients by now. And this is all well and good, until the idiotic idea that the arts are expendable begins to spread. And then, all of a sudden, the projects that come his way are utterly bland. His plans are rejected, one after the other, for no other reason than being “too beautiful” and not functional enough. Never mind that there is function in beauty. Never mind that every single one of these clients would find solace in art—a song, a story, a painting—during their times of need, and not some soulless thing made only for practicality.

And so Kaveh finds that working becomes much like trying to fit a tiger into a candy box. He has to do it, and so he tries coming up with the most painless ways to do so. Shrink the tiger. Make it a house cat. Make it a kitten. Cut off its whiskers. Oh, you actually wanted a house cat, sir? My mistake. I’ll get on it right away. But no matter how he does it, the tiger always is, in some ways, diminished. No matter what, Kaveh always feels as if he has done the tiger a disservice.

Perhaps it is foolish of him to be so easily discouraged. Perhaps it is childish of him to struggle against the prevailing views of society. But before being the Light of Ksharewar, before being an architect, Kaveh is an artist, first and foremost. And so this soulless work comes to be unbearable for him, even though the projects pay well and are not so difficult in themselves.

It’s just a job, some would say. But it never has been just that, not for him.

Kaveh is tired of making house cats out of tigers. He goes on vacation.

 

He travels—all around Sumeru, from the edges of the desert to the eastern rainforests. Searches for beauty, for inspiration. Eats delicious things. Drinks a lot of wine. Meets new friends, temporary companions.

Sometimes, people ask to kiss him. To share his bed for a night, or even less. Sometimes, Kaveh lets them, and tries not to think about Al-Haitham when it happens. He is very bad at doing this. He knows, of course, that this is pretty screwed up of him. But then again, he’s never claimed to be otherwise.

Is this adulthood? he wonders sometimes. Is this all it will be, for the rest of his life? When he thinks of this, it horrifies him a little. He cannot say he is unhappy—after all, he is successful, he is famous. His life is not without laughter or light. This is much, much more than many people have already. And yet to call this feeling happiness would be nothing short of a lie.

Nobody had taught Kaveh about this as a child. He’d simply thought there were two types of people—happy and unhappy. Nobody had told him about the vast expanse in between, the purgatorial middle ground that he now finds himself inhabiting. Nobody had told him how to escape it, either.

And so here he is, not altogether lost but not altogether found. Just—in the middle, waiting for something, anything to change.

 

When Kaveh returns home, there is a letter from his mother waiting for him. He reads it, and his heart does something funny in his chest, twisting in a strange mix of happiness and sorrow.

A week later, he leaves for his mother’s second wedding.

 

Kaveh arrives at the bustling Fontaine port a little disoriented. Everything here is much louder, more industrial, lacking the familiar greenery of Sumeru. For a few moments, he scans the crowd, waiting. Wondering if he’d gotten on the wrong ship, if he’d written the wrong time in his letter, somehow—

“Kaveh!”

His mother’s voice. He turns, like one turning towards the sun, the light.

“Kaveh!” She is waving; she is smiling. How long has it been since he last saw her smile? Her dress is the colour of buttercups in spring. “Kaveh, over here!”

Kaveh is a grown man now. In a few months, he will be twenty-six. He drops all his bags and runs to his mother, leaping into her arms.

 

Her fiancé is kind. A good man. He introduces himself in a lilting accent, accepts Kaveh’s gift of expensive Sumerian wine with a smile, gifts him an evermotion mechanical painting in return. He is an engineer, and so Kaveh finds it easy to speak with him about old projects and shared interests.

The wedding is small and quiet and beautiful. After the ceremony, Kaveh’s mother sits next to him, putting an arm around his shoulders. Kaveh leans on her gently.

“Thank you,” she says, “for coming.”

“Of course.”

“I was afraid you might be… upset at me.”

“For what?” Kaveh says, smiling. “For moving on? How could I be?”

His mother reaches out to straighten the feather in his hair. “You are a good son, Kaveh,” she says. “A good man.”

Kaveh wants to believe her. He wishes he could.

“Try to be happy,” she says. “I am, now.”

She holds his face in her hands and smiles at him. Kaveh smiles back. They both cry a little. And then the music begins, and she is called away to dance, which she does with joy. She has, after all these years, finally stepped back into the dominion of sunlight.

Kaveh is happy for her. He is happy for her even when he leaves the ceremony. He is happy for her even as he returns to Sumeru, to the empty, lightless house that is now his in name, to the crushing silence that makes it hard to breathe. After all, this is all he has now. Happiness, by proxy.

 

It’s a day like any other when Kaveh meets Lord Sangemah Bay for the first time. Call me Dori, she tells him. It’s what her friends call her—or, as she refers to them, her business partners. Had Kaveh kept his ear to the ground more often, he would’ve known that Dori is fantastically rich, and at least a little bit unhinged and ruthless, just like all fantastically rich people are. But he hadn’t, and so the only thing he knows about her is that she wants him to make her a mansion.

This, of course, is almost unnervingly vague. Most of his other clients nowadays are so specific it makes his head hurt. And so he asks: what style would she like? Where would she like it? Are there any structures that she dislikes in particular—

“I don’t care, Kaveh,” Dori says. “Build me something beautiful. Something magnificent. I trust your judgement.”

Kaveh blinks. And then the entire world opens up before him.

 

Finally, finally, he can let the tiger out of the box! Let it roar, let it run, let it have its tigerish freedom. Kaveh sets upon his drafting paper feverishly, like a madman. Draws up a blueprint with the same unbridled joy he’d once felt as a student. As a child, even.

Here, he doesn’t have to worry about any tasteless client’s complaints, doesn’t have to dwell on the current attitudes of the Akademiya—Dori, for the most part, gives him free rein. And Kaveh runs with it like a creature that has just tasted freedom for the first time. The mansion will be beautiful, perched on a cliff, close to the sky. Immersed in a magnificent garden, a world of flowers. The morning light will shine in through its stained windows; it will be easy to navigate, a joy to live in. And any living soul who looks upon it will never be able to think less of art or of beauty ever again.

 

Soon enough, the construction begins. Kaveh supervises it with all the diligence of a new parent. All he can do is look forward to the future, when the palace will finally be finished.

 

He hears the news on a beautiful day, and does not believe it. It is so terrible that it beggars belief, that it sounds more like a cruel joke than anything else. And yet everyone says it’s true, so Kaveh rushes to the construction site to see it with his own eyes.

When he arrives, there is a crowd of people around it, looking. Staring, like one would stare at a dead thing, at what used to be the foundations of his palace. The beautiful, half-finished structures are no more—they are falling, sinking into the ground, the Withering taking them all in its clutches.

Kaveh wants to scream. Without thinking, he sprints past everyone, right into it all. As if he could stop the buildings from decaying, from crumbling right before his very eyes.

There are people calling after him. “Stop, sir, you can’t!”

“I have to!” he shouts, hoarse. The toxic air inside makes his eyes water; tears blur his vision. “I have to, this can’t happen, this can’t—”

He’s forcibly pulled back, his body is so weakened that he cannot even struggle. And so Kaveh falls to his knees, and watches his great, beautiful dream collapse to dust before it is even finished.

 

Dori is furious.

“It was your idea to move the site,” she snarls. “We could’ve done the safe thing, but you insisted—insisted! I never should’ve trusted you—”

Her words fall like blows, and yet Kaveh cannot blame her. She is telling the truth, after all. How much of her Mora has he spent by now? Millions, tens of millions? All for a pile of rubble. If he lets this go, he will be no better than a thief.

“Please,” he says. “Please, give me another chance. I won’t fail this time, I promise.”

“You must be mad,” Dori says disparagingly. She gestures at the scene before them. “Look at this. Would you give yourself a second chance, if you were me?”

“I made a mistake,” Kaveh says desperately. “I know, I know. But you saw it, didn’t you? It was going to be beautiful, if not for this. I know what to do now. I can make you something just as wonderful again. Please, let me. I beg of you.”

Dori sighs. “Even if—if—I agreed to that, who would pay for it?” she asks. “Who would cover for our losses?” She smiles, mirthless. “You?”

Kaveh blinks, taken aback. Momentarily speechless.

“Yes,” Dori says. “That’s what I thought.” She turns away. “Goodbye, Kaveh. Let’s not do business together again.”

 

After that, Kaveh spends at least an hour sitting there on the ground, staring at the forest rangers finishing up their work. Numb to the world. He would have sat there a lot longer, if someone hadn’t tapped him on the shoulder.

It’s one of the forest rangers, the one with a magnificent pair of ears on his head. He looks young. Put-together. Kaveh is already envious.

“Hi there,” the forest ranger says. “You must be Kaveh.”

Kaveh stares at him blankly. “I’m sorry,” he says. His voice is hoarse. “Have we met?”

“I’m Tighnari,” the forest ranger continues, holding out his hand. “I believe we’ve already corresponded, although not in person.” Kaveh blinks, confused. “You wrote to me?” Tighnari prompts. “About which flora to use for the palace’s garden.”

“Oh,” Kaveh says, and realises why the name had sounded so familiar. So this is the Amurta genius he’d been referred to previously. They’d had a few interesting back-and-forths; Kaveh had enjoyed writing to him. He tries to smile. “It’s nice to meet you, finally.”

“Likewise,” Tighnari says. His tail twitches gently. “I’m sorry it wasn’t under better circumstances.”

Kaveh bows his head. “I’m sorry,” he says, his throat tight. “I’m really, truly sorry. I’ve caused you all so much trouble.”

“This is our job,” Tighnari says. “And unless you’re the cause of the Withering, I think we can confidently say this wasn’t your fault.”

His words should be comforting, but Kaveh is too far gone to appreciate them. “Is there something you need from me?” he asks. “I’m sorry, but I don’t think I'm much for conversation at the moment."

Tighnari hums, his tail waving calmly. “How about some dinner, then?” he asks. "Respectfully, you look like you need it."

 

Kaveh isn't sure why he says yes. After all, it isn't as if he's particularly hungry. But he finds himself accompanying Tighnari to Gandharva Ville anyways. Thankfully, Tighnari seems like the thoughtful type—he doesn't say anything to Kaveh about the failed project. Really, he doesn't say much at all. Kaveh is grateful.

The meal is hot and delicious, tasting of the forest. After a few bites, Kaveh’s appetite returns, and he wolfs down the rest of it quickly. He feels alive again, feels the warmth in his fingers, the pain in his chest. The terrifying numbness is gone, finally. As if reading Kaveh’s mind, Tighnari smiles, pleased. His tail wags a little.

“There,” he says. “Now you’ve got a little colour in your face again.” He takes a sip of tea. “My mother always said that as bad as things can get, they’re much worse on an empty stomach.”

“Thank you,” Kaveh says quietly. Grateful and guilty. Absently, he wonders how long it’s been since he’s had a homemade meal, since anyone’s cooked for him. “Really, if there’s anything I can do to repay—”

Tighnari’s ear flicks. “No, no,” he says. “That won’t be necessary.”

Kaveh opens his mouth to protest again. Tighnari gives him a look. It’s surprisingly severe for someone so young and kind. Kaveh closes his mouth. Once he’s done eating and the sun is about to set, he prepares to leave.

“Be careful,” Tighnari tells him at the door. “The Withering should be dispelled for good at the site, but leave immediately if you feel unwell, and send word to me or another forest ranger.”

Kaveh nods. “Thank you, Tighnari,” he says.

“Not at all.” Tighnari smiles. His smile is just as warm as the meal was. “Take care, Kaveh. All the best.”

 

Kaveh finds his way among the ruins of that great, unfinished palace, eventually settling down on what was supposed to be a pillar for the great hall. It is terribly dark by now—the only light comes from the moon and stars above and the soft glow of fireflies.

Really, Kaveh thinks, he should have expected this. All of it. After all, nothing truly good and beautiful in his life ever lasts. And so it follows that this lovely dream, too, would abandon him. And he can never say that he doesn’t deserve it, because he has deserved everything that has come his way since he was a thoughtless, foolish child who’d done the worst thing a thoughtless, foolish child could do, but it doesn’t mean he mourns it any less. It does not mean that his heart doesn’t break so deeply that he wonders if every time will be the last, and if one day he will wake up and find that it can no longer mend itself even with the balm of time.

And so—he should let this go. The same way he’d let his mother go, had let Al-Haitham walk away. But perhaps despite this, despite everything, Kaveh is tired of losing things for once. Because—he’s still here, isn’t he? Here, among the ashes of his dreams, thinking of what he can do to bring them back to life. Thinking of necromancy. Because the palace is more than a palace, more than a status-symbol mansion of an eccentric billionaire. At heart, it is an ode to that kinder, more beautiful world he’d dreamt of as a student, the realm of dreams he’d been yearning for almost as long as he can remember. And really, isn’t money a small price to pay for something like that?

Who would cover for our losses? Dori had demanded. You?

Well, Kaveh thinks, why not.

On the horizon, dawn is breaking. Kaveh gets to his feet, almost stumbling from the stiffness in his muscles. But he manages to stay upright, and breathes in the morning sky. He takes one step forward, and then another.

 

Kaveh manages to do it all the next morning.

His savings accounts are emptied. His house has been sold. Come tomorrow, he will be a trespasser if he remains here. But he does not mourn, because here has ceased being his home for a long time now. He hopes, however, that it will bring happiness to its next inhabitants. That it will be filled with laughter and warmth and love. That those who live in it will look upon it with nothing but joy. That’s the loveliest fate imaginable for a house, after all.

“I’m sorry,” he says aloud, to the walls and ceilings. He pats the door of his bedroom. “I hope you’ll be treated better, soon.”

Before Kaveh leaves for good, he decides—a little impulsively—to make himself a snack. He has never been the best cook, but today the fatteh comes together almost naturally in his hands. As if his father were watching over him, teaching him, just as he’d done when Kaveh was a child. Kaveh adds his own touches too, and perhaps his father would have laughed at this: an intricate flatbread palace on a field of yoghurt. But then again, perhaps he would’ve praised it, too.

Under his fingers, the flatbread palace gives way and just becomes flatbread again. But then Kaveh blinks, because within its ruins lies—

A Vision, the hue of leaves after rain. Kaveh picks it up and wipes it off. It still smells a bit like yoghurt. But he feels the pulse of its power under his fingers, sees the way it flickers, as if to say hello. As if to say, it’s nice to meet you.

Perhaps this should be a cause for celebration. But there is nobody here to celebrate with, so Kaveh simply closes his fingers around the smooth surface and holds the Vision to his chest. Any remnants of doubt have fled, replaced by a calm determination.

After all, the gods are watching over him. He has to be doing something right.

 

When Kaveh drops the Mora and banknotes on Dori’s desk, it makes quite the sound. Even Dori looks taken aback. And then she exhales, as if resigned.

"Artists," Dori says. "You're all mad." Kaveh bristles. "Oh, don't look like that," she adds. "I don't mean it in a bad way." She takes out a single golden Mora from the pile and holds it up to the light. It glints sharply, a momentary miniature sun.

"After all," Dori continues, smiling, "this world would be terribly boring without a little madness, don't you think?"

 

This time, construction of the palace goes smoothly. Kaveh keeps an even closer eye on things. Pours his heart and soul into every aspect of the building. Loses a lot of sleep. Makes a friend in Tighnari, who proves to be kind and goodhearted, though with a tongue as sharp as his arrows. And then one day, when the sun is high in the sky, Kaveh looks out at the beautiful building below him, and sees that it is finally, finally finished.

“You’ve really managed to do it, haven’t you,” Dori says, and for once she doesn’t sound shrewd, or calculating, or anything like Lord Sangemah Bay should sound. “It's beautiful.”

“Yes,” Kaveh says, unable to look away. He is heavily in debt. Come tomorrow, he will be destitute. He is finally done. “I know.”

If he says any more, he knows he will cry. And so he simply sits there and gazes at this structure that somehow doesn’t belong to him at all, and yet is so undeniably his that it feels almost like a second heart. He stares for so long that the sun sets, its dying rays glancing off of the windows brilliantly, and Dori has long gone to prepare for moving into her new home.

Kaveh is older now. He does not remember the palace above the clouds, the alcazar of sun for a single flower. But if he did, he’d realise that the masterpiece standing true and proud in front of him bears a great resemblance to the childhood dream he’d once pictured in his mind’s eye, all those years ago.

 

For Kaveh, the Palace of Alcazarzaray is a dream truly fulfilled. But as all adults will know, dreams come with their costs—in Kaveh’s case, quite literally. And so he finds himself nearly penniless and of no fixed abode, even as he becomes a household name throughout the nation, and the palace itself a famous landmark.

It feels a little like crashing to the ground after just a taste of flight, broken bones and all. It feels miserable. And so, like many other miserable people, Kaveh heads to the tavern and finds temporary solace in company, food, and a little too much wine. Sometimes, he runs into his old classmates, who greet him with excitement, with respect bordering on awe. They congratulate him on the palace, ask about what he’s doing now, why he’s returned. Kaveh puts on a smile and lies—he’s just staying here temporarily while his new apartment undergoes some renovations, and taking the time to look for inspiration in the big city.

Weeks pass like this. Kaveh tells the same lies, and nobody even questions it. Perhaps, Kaveh thinks dryly, he is a better actor than he thought himself to be. Perhaps he should join the Zubayr Theatre as one of its entourage. Perhaps he’ll get famous for that—his mother is a beauty, so maybe he’s got the face for it, too. Perhaps—

“Kaveh,” Lambad says gently.

Kaveh looks up, blinking blearily. “What?”

“I’m sorry, but it’s closing time.” A pause. “You should go home, Kaveh.”

 

Yes, he should go home. But this is easier said than done now. Go home—to where? To whom? Even the birds of the sky have their nests; the tigers that prowl the forest have their dens. There, they will curl up sweetly when the sun sets. Perhaps they will even share their warmth with another.

Kaveh has never envied wildlife before. But now, he finds himself wanting wings, feathers, a beak. Anything, as long as it means he has a place to lay his head. Anything, as long as it means he can finally rest, content and without grief.

 

It’s the middle of the week and Kaveh is already on his second drink when the universe decides to play another joke on him.

“Kaveh?”

That voice—oh, that voice. Kaveh would know it anywhere. In the dark, in his sleep. He turns and forces a smile.

“Hi, Haitham,” he says.

Al-Haitham stands there. He’s changed a little, his features sharper with age. Perhaps he’s gotten even taller. But for a moment, the only thing Kaveh can think is that his hair still curls up in the back.

 

Al-Haitham sits down next to Kaveh without even asking. Somehow, his lack of politeness is comforting in its familiarity, dispelling any awkwardness that would’ve existed otherwise.

“I heard about the Palace of Alcazarzaray,” Al-Haitham says, taking a sip of wine. “I suppose congratulations are in order.”

Kaveh huffs, amused. “Congratulate me, then.”

“You are hereby congratulated.” And then, “What happened to you?”

“What do you mean?”

“Exactly what I’m asking. What happened, Kaveh?”

Kaveh opens his mouth, but finds that his usual white lie dies on the tip of his tongue. After all, what’s the use? Al-Haitham would see through him right away; he always does. And there’s no need to keep up appearances with Al-Haitham, who already knows everything that’s ever brought Kaveh shame.

So Kaveh just tells him everything. From the beginning. Pours his heart out for the first time in years, all the anger and sorrow and loneliness he’d kept inside for far too long. And Al-Haitham sits there and listens. It is one of the greatest kindnesses he has ever done. Truth be told, he has always been good at listening. Much less so at the talking that comes after.

Kaveh talks until they run out of wine, until the tavern closes and they find themselves on the street outside, under the great quiet darkness of the night sky. It reminds him, a little bittersweetly, of their days as students. For a few moments, they are both silent.

“So,” Al-Haitham finally says, “how do you feel now, having realised your ideals?”

From anyone else, this question would have felt like mockery, like taunting. But from Al-Haitham, it is simply a request for the truth. Tell me, so we both may know. And so Kaveh tries to come up with an answer.

It is no secret that he has always wanted the world to be kinder and more beautiful than it is. For this, he has suffered, time and time again. Because the undeniable truth is that the world simply does not have enough kindness to go around, and so he’d tried to make up for it with his own hands, only to realise that even his own goodwill had come out of something selfish. And yet, and yet—

A flower watered out of selfishness is still a flower watered, isn’t it? Come spring, it will still bloom like any other. And perhaps Kaveh has taken the wrong path, the wrong turns. Perhaps he has been lied to and taken advantage of a hundred times too many, but is it really so wrong to dream of a better world? To believe in angels? It cannot be. After all, take away the dreamers and angel-seekers, and what is left of the world but despair?

Kaveh has had enough despair for ten lifetimes. Call him foolish, mad, unrealistic. He is more sure than ever, now: he has always been right for what he believes in.

 

His throat is parched from speaking. They round the corner together, and Kaveh catches sight of the house that had once been his, bright in the distance. The lights are on—there must be someone inside. Reading, perhaps. Studying. He’ll never know.

“I’m tired,” Kaveh says, stopping in his tracks. His voice is a broken thing. “I’m so tired. I just want to go home.”

A moment of silence. “Come on, then,” Al-Haitham says, and takes him by the wrist, just like he did all those years ago when they’d first met in the House of Daena, young and foolish and proud. Just like all those years ago, Kaveh lets him.

 

The next morning, when he wakes up alone and disoriented on the sofa, Al-Haitham is waiting for him with a lease agreement.

“You’re paying rent,” he says. “I’m not a charity.”

So he says. So he says, but Kaveh knows that Al-Haitham has no want of money. That he values his own space, his own time, above all else. And so Kaveh also knows that for Al-Haitham to give anyone—much less Kaveh—even any of that is, in a way, much more generous than any charity.

Why are you doing this? he wants to ask. And perhaps if he’d been less desperate, he would’ve. But he isn’t, and so he sits down and signs his full name on the line, for better or for worse.

 

Even years after the premature end of their project, Kaveh had done his best to avoid thinking about the subject. Although he’d taken his copy of the thesis with him, he’d hidden it away. Nor had he written to Al-Haitham even once when he began working, although he’d known where to reach him.

Funny, then, that he now finds himself living under the roof of what used to be their research facility, now converted into a residence. Funnier even is that Al-Haitham is the person he’s living with. Their life together is so predictable that it’s almost laughable: Al-Haitham is infuriating, Kaveh is infuriated, and so it goes. At first, Kaveh had tried to be courteous, but a week of living in squalor and being on the receiving end of Al-Haitham’s attitude is enough to put that idea to rest eternally.

“You know,” he says one day, after spending half the morning cleaning, “you could help out with tidying the living room once in a while.”

“Yes,” Al-Haitham says. “I could,” and leaves the room.

If it’s not being blatantly disrespected like this, it’s getting locked out of the house, because Al-Haitham, for all his genius, is apparently incapable of checking whether he’d taken Kaveh’s keys by accident. Nor can he buy his own beer, nor pick out any furniture or decor that isn’t overtly hideous—

“If it’s complaints we’re talking about, I’ve got plenty, too,” Al-Haitham says dryly. “You’re inconsiderate of my sleep schedule. You fall asleep in the bath much too often. You come home drunk and start talking my ear off about problems that you caused yourself—”

Kaveh leaves the room in a huff and wonders how—just how had he ever been in love with someone like that? Predictably, it really doesn’t take long for him to start dreaming about moving out. But alas, this is much easier said than done.

 

At any rate, Kaveh has the solace of Tighnari’s home. Ever since he’s met Cyno and Collei, he’s been regularly invited to dinner at Gandharva Ville, which is lovely, although he always feels a twinge of guilt that he can’t quite return the favour. He compensates by bringing wine—a necessity, since Cyno will inevitably subject everyone to at least four or five jokes per meal—but Collei isn’t of age yet, so eventually he starts bringing juice, too.

Though they’re a little odd in their own ways, they’re good people, all of them. If everyone were half as good as they were, this earth would be a much better place. And for whatever reason, they enjoy Kaveh’s company, even if all he really has to offer is Al-Haitham facts and slander for every occasion.

“Surely you can’t dislike him entirely, though?” Collei asks one day, because she is young and wholesome and has yet to make Al-Haitham’s acquaintance. “You used to be friends, right?”

“Ugh,” Kaveh says, already three drinks in. “Don’t say it like that.”

“I—is there another way I should say it?”

“Maybe just don’t say it at all,” Kaveh says, grimacing. Friends. Al-Haitham. Ugh. “That man is a bastard, Collei.”

“But he let you stay with him, didn’t he?”

“That’s—” Kaveh swallows. “He’s definitely getting something out of it. I’m just not sure what.”

“Have you considered,” Tighnari says, looking up from his game of Genius Invokation, “that perhaps he simply likes your company?”

Kaveh almost chokes on his wine. And then he laughs. And then he frowns. “No,” he says. “Don’t be ridiculous.”

“Just a thought,” Tighnari says, shrugging.

“Your turn, Tighnari,” Cyno says, who apparently can’t care less about anything other than the card game laid out in front of him.

“Really,” Kaveh says, still frowning. “That’s ridiculous.”

“Is it, though?” Tighnari says, sounding amused. “You think Al-Haitham would ever keep someone around aside from you?”

Kaveh blinks, suddenly finding himself speechless.

“Tighnari. Please focus.” If Kaveh didn’t know better, he’d swear Cyno is almost pouting.

“Yes, yes, General Mahamatra.”

“Oh, Mister Kaveh!” Collei says, “I was wondering if you could help me with some drawings, if you have the time.” Her cheeks grow a little pink. “It’s Amber’s birthday next month, and I wanted to make her a card.”

“Ah yes, of course!” Kaveh says, pleased and excited. “I’d be more than happy to.”

And so they all busy themselves with their own pursuits, and Al-Haitham’s possible motives for sheltering Kaveh are forgotten, at least for the time being.

 

It doesn’t take long for Kaveh to find new clients, but they’re just as hard to work with as before. The Akademiya’s disdain for the arts have only increased, and Kaveh finds himself in arguments with his commissioners more often than not. He even turns down a few projects out of frustration, even though it lands him in a tight spot for that month’s expenses.

Al-Haitham, that bastard, is predictably unsympathetic when told about all of this, and so Kaveh leaves fuming for the tavern, where he spends the night ranting to Cyno and Tighnari about this until he apparently passes out, because he blinks awake and realises he’s being carried on someone’s back.

He raises his head groggily. “Al-Haitham?”

“Yes,” Al-Haitham says dryly. “It’s me. The bastard.”

“Oh,” Kaveh mumbles. “You heard about that?”

“I did. Thank you for your honest feedback. I’ll consider it as much as it deserves to be considered.”

Kaveh is too tired to be offended. “Good,” he says, resting his head on Al-Haitham’s shoulder again.

Al-Haitham sighs. Above them, the stars are twinkling. Perhaps they are laughing, in their own luminous way.

 

It’s been a long time since Kaveh had last written to his mother. He’d heard from her after he finished the Palace of Alcazarzaray, and had been too ashamed of his current situation to write back. And ever since then, it’s been a little hard to pick up his quill and respond.

Maybe things are better like this, though. Kaveh had always felt like he was intruding on her new life anyways, ever since she’d gotten remarried. After everything she’s done to raise him on her own, he owes her her freedom, if nothing else.

 

Time passes like this. Kaveh works, sleeps, designs a semi-sentient suitcase. He’s just getting used to things when Al-Haitham is involved in some kind of coup against the Akademiya, somehow freeing Lesser Lord Kusanali and becoming the Acting Grand Sage in the process. The world has gone mad, really.

But it isn’t terrible on the whole, not at all. Perhaps the Akademiya can finally begin to fix its broken ways now. Little by little, its oppressive grip on the arts is loosening. With the Akasha shut down, people are learning how to learn again. And to dream, although all Kaveh gets is blurry, half-forgotten images upon waking.

Another outcome of all this is that Al-Haitham, having made Cyno’s acquaintance during their operation, starts joining them occasionally—very occasionally—at the tavern. Maybe this means Kaveh should stop complaining about him. He doesn’t.

“Really, would it kill you to put your books away properly once you’re done with them? Gods, I found one in the pantry yesterday. Mechanics of Flight or something—”

“Oh,” Al-Haitham says. “Thank you. I was wondering where that went.”

“No, don’t thank me—”

“Then I won’t.”

Tighnari looks like he is trying very hard not to choke on his wine. Kaveh ignores him. “All the things I do for you,” he says, annoyed, “and you don’t appreciate a single bit of it.”

“I do appreciate it,” Al-Haitham says. “But it isn’t as if I haven’t done things for you, too. The other day, I woke you up when you were about to drown in the bath—”

“Oh, that’s a reach—”

“Kaveh, you should be careful,” Tighnari says, looking concerned.

“Not to mention, I took you furniture shopping and paid for your drinks, which you owe me for, by the way—”

“I’ll pay you back, I already said—”

“And I gave you my virginity,” Al-Haitham says.

It isn’t as if he’d spoken louder than usual, but it feels like the whole cafe hears it and falls silent. Tighnari’s left ear twitches violently several times. One of Cyno’s cards actually falls out of his hand. Kaveh is speechless with mortification; he might die tonight. Maybe he already has.

After a few long moments of silence, Cyno turns to Al-Haitham.

“Congratulations,” he says.

 

“Kaveh. Are you still angry?”

“No.” He is, very much so. He’s lying on the sofa, his back turned pointedly towards Al-Haitham.

“Kaveh.” Al-Haitham sounds like he’s amused, that bastard. After ruining Kaveh’s entire social life. How is he going to face Cyno and Tighnari ever again? “Kaveh, look at me.”

Kaveh does not respond. After a moment, there’s the sudden warmth of fingers against his bare back, reaching in through the window of his shirt. A thrill runs down his spine, and he nearly jolts upright, his face burning.

“You—you!”

Al-Haitham looks much too pleased at this. Gods, Kaveh hasn’t seen him this delighted in years. It’s as disarming as it is infuriating. “Yes?”

Kaveh gets to his feet, mortified. “I’m going to bed,” he announces, and makes a hasty retreat, his face still burning. Whether out of anger or embarrassment or something else, it’s hard to tell.

He hears Al-Haitham chuckle. That bastard, that absolute bastard. Kaveh will get him back one of these days, mark his words.

 

For all his talk, Kaveh hadn’t really expected to win the Interdarshan Championship, not after all the misfortunes that befall him on the first two days. Nor had he expected the malice of the Diadem of Knowledge, the despair and sorrow of a dead scholar determined to drag everyone else down with him.

And if Al-Haitham is to be believed, Kaveh’s father had gone through the same agony, and it had driven him to his death in the desert. It hurts Kaveh deeply. But at least—at least he has shattered the diadem, and nobody will ever have to experience the same thing again. And really, that’s the best he can do, isn’t it?

“Thank you,” he says afterwards to Al-Haitham, “for letting me know all this.”

Al-Haitham looks genuinely taken aback at his gratitude for a moment. And then, because he is Al-Haitham and he is awful, he asks Kaveh to thank him again.

 

Although the competition came with its burdens, it brings about good changes too—the prize money is donated to communities in need, Cyno gets the TCG card he’d been dreaming of, and Tighnari manages to gain quite the sizable audience for his biology lecture. Kaveh also manages to make an unlikely friend in Nilou, whom he chats with occasionally when he visits the theatre.

“I see you here a lot recently, Kaveh,” Nilou says, after one of her performances. “Although it makes me happy, I have to ask—are you doing alright?”

Kaveh laughs. “What, just because I’m attending the theatre?”

“You did say you come here to destress,” Nilou points out.

“Fair enough,” Kaveh says. “Well, I’m fine. It’s just a difficult client, that’s all. So it’s no different than usual, really.”

“That must be hard,” Nilou says sympathetically. She’s much more understanding of these things than anyone else.

“Well,” Kaveh says, sighing. “I suppose it is.”

“It’s strange, isn’t it?” Nilou says, tilting her head to the side. Her hair, brilliantly red, spills down her shoulder. “In a way, what we do—it’s for us, and we shouldn’t need to care about what others think of it. But since we love it so much and we’ve chosen to live off of it, we have to. And when all is said and done, we’ll always want people to share it with, for them to see it and say, oh, so that’s who you are, that’s nice. Sometimes they don’t, and it feels awful, and you never want to try again. But sometimes they do, and then you forget all the awfulness that’s ever come your way, and so you keep going…” She trails off, smiling. “But why am I saying all this? I didn’t mean to be presumptuous. I’m sure you know just as well as I do.”

“No, no,” Kaveh says hurriedly. “No, I’m glad you did. It’s nice to hear that you feel the same, even if—even if what we do is a little different.”

“Just a little,” Nilou says.

“Just a little.”

They laugh.

“Now, I’d better let you go,” Nilou says. She glances over his shoulder, looking amused. “I think someone’s waiting for you. Tell him I said hi, won’t you?”

“Who—” Kaveh turns. “Oh. Will do.”

“Please,” Nilou says, “come again whenever you like. You’re very welcome here, Kaveh.”

“I will,” Kaveh says, smiling.

He bids Nilou farewell, and makes his way over to Al-Haitham.

“I thought you might be here,” Al-Haitham says.

“Why are you—”

“Because you’re late,” Al-Haitham says. “We were supposed to meet up ten minutes ago.”

“Oh,” Kaveh says, blinking. “Sorry. I lost track of time.”

“Evidently.”

“Nilou wanted me to tell you she says hi,” Kaveh says.

“Much thanks to her. And to you, for relaying such an important message.”

“Don’t give me attitude,” Kaveh says. “Come on then, let’s go.”

Together, the two of them leave the Grand Bazaar, and take the familiar path to the tavern.

 

Over the years, Kaveh has learned that there’s one sofa in particular in the living room that gets the best light in the afternoon. Unfortunately, Al-Haitham is privy to this knowledge as well.

“Move over,” Kaveh says. “I want to sit here.”

“There are two other sofas,” Al-Haitham says. He is sprawled out, taking up as much space as possible. “Take your pick.”

“I want to sit here.”

Al-Haitham does not budge. “Good for you.”

Kaveh fumes. And then he makes the brilliant decision of lying down on top of Al-Haitham.

“What are you—” Al-Haitham actually looks a bit taken aback.

Kaveh looks down at him. “You never said I couldn’t.”

“I suppose not.” Al-Haitham puts his book aside and looks up at Kaveh instead. “Well? You’ve made this sufficiently uncomfortable for both of us. Happy?”

“Yes, actually.”

Al-Haitham huffs. For a moment, they just stare at each other, at a standstill. This close, Kaveh could kiss him. He doesn’t. It’s been years, but the wound between them is still tender, fragile. There is an unspoken agreement between them: give it time. Let me heal. And perhaps, if enough time passes, and it turns out that we really are older and wiser, perhaps—

Well, we’ll see where it goes.

 

Life is strange. One day, Al-Haitham brings him to meet their nation’s god. She looks like a radish from a distance, and is probably fifty pounds soaking wet. Closer up, she looks like someone’s niece. She is also very wise, and very kind. They are lucky to have her.

“Kaveh,” she says, absently snacking on the candies he’d brought her as an offering, “how would you like to work on some projects for the Akademiya?”

“Really?” Kaveh asks, blinking.

“There are a couple buildings that need to be revitalised,” Kusanali says. “And the sages are speaking of building some new research facilities in the deserts, too. So, if you’re willing…”

“Well,” Kaveh says. Is he being commissioned by a god right now? Is this what’s happening? “Yes, of course. If—if you’ll have me.”

“It would be an honour,” Kusanali says, and smiles her child’s smile, pure and full of joy.

 

The Akademiya projects pay exceedingly well. So well, in fact, that Kaveh actually manages to pay off his debt to Dori early. Maybe he cries a little when it happens. But he thinks he deserves to, after everything.

“Congratulations,” Al-Haitham says dryly. “Maybe you’ll be able to stay out of debt, if you start getting scammed only once a week instead of thrice.”

“I’m so grateful for your heartfelt congratulations,” Kaveh says, rolling his eyes. “And I’m better about that now, aren’t I? You know I am.”

Al-Haitham hums noncommittally. “So,” he says, “what now?”

“What do you mean?”

“Are you moving out?” Al-Haitham asks. His gaze is fixed on the book in his hand, although he hasn’t flipped a page for a while. “You could afford it in a few months, I’m sure.”

“I don’t—” Kaveh pauses. A year, two years ago, his answer would have been a definite yes, but now… “Do you want me to?”

“That doesn’t matter.”

“It does!” Kaveh says, a little too loud. He lowers his voice. “It does, so… you should tell me. Or I might do something we both regret.”

Al-Haitham is silent for a moment. “If I’d wanted you out,” he says, “you would’ve known a long time ago.”

Kaveh swallows. For some reason, he finds himself blushing. “Okay,” he says. “Okay.”

 

Perhaps if he’d moved out, he would be less annoyed on the whole. The average number of arguments he’d have per day would decrease significantly. He’d be free to do as he liked around the house, and wouldn’t have to pick up after someone else’s mess. But the fact remains—ever since he’s moved into Al-Haitham’s home, not once has he felt lonely.

Here, the furniture is an ungodly mix of his and Al-Haitham’s preferences. Here, a pair of potted strelitzia grow in the light of their living room window. In his wardrobe, there are clothes he’d borrowed from Al-Haitham, which Al-Haitham, to this day, has not asked him to return. A painting chosen by Kaveh hangs in the hallway, held steady by Al-Haitham when they put it up together.

Kaveh hadn’t quite known before now. Maybe a part of him was too proud to realise. But really, what else would you call this, if not a home?

 

For his thirtieth birthday, Kaveh receives a gift from his mother in the mail. Some new architectural tools, made only in Fontaine. A cake, kept cold with packs of Cryo slime condensate. Kaveh shares the cake with Al-Haitham, and reads the card attached.

His mother wishes him a happy birthday. She wishes him happiness, the best of the world. She is proud of him. I know you must be busy, she writes near the end, but I’d love to hear from you one of these days.

“Seems like she misses you,” Al-Haitham says, peering over Kaveh’s shoulder, since he’s never learned to mind his own business when it comes to Kaveh. “You don’t write to her much anymore, do you?”

“Not really,” Kaveh says, piercing a small piece of cake with his fork and holding it out for Al-Haitham.

Al-Haitham takes a bite, chews. “Why not?”

“She has her own life now,” Kaveh says. His heart twinges a little. “I miss her, but I don’t want to bother her.” And he’d been ashamed to tell her of his failures, too.

“So,” Al-Haitham says, “she wants to see you, and you want to see her, but you don’t, because… you assume you’d be bothering your own mother?”

“Well, when you put it like that,” Kaveh says, frowning. He sighs. “You wouldn’t understand, okay?”

Al-Haitham huffs. “Fine,” he says.

“Don’t worry too much about things that don’t concern you,” Kaveh says. He holds out another bite-sized piece of cake. “Open.”

Al-Haitham does so obediently. He doesn’t say anything about it, but it’s pretty obvious—he’s rather enjoying this cake.

 

Around a week after that, there is a knock on the door. Kaveh ignores it. It’s most likely for Al-Haitham, anyhow.

Another knock. “Kaveh? Are you home?”

Kaveh nearly falls off his bed, because—what? How? And then he rushes to the door, nearly slipping in his haste, and swings open the door.

“Mother?”

“Oh, thank goodness,” his mother says, smiling. “I thought I’d gotten the address wrong.”

“No, I—” Kaveh swallows. “What are you doing here?”

“Well,” his mother says. “It’s a bit of a long story. Could I come in?”

 

It is unbelievably strange, almost unreal, to see his mother in this house. It feels a little like worlds colliding. She takes in the house with a quiet curiosity. Kaveh is embarrassed, suddenly—he hadn’t quite had time to clean up the living room this week.

“So this is your home now,” she says, settling down on the sofa. “It’s nice.”

“Thank you,” Kaveh says.

“Oh, you must be wondering why I’m here,” his mother says. “Well, the truth is, your friend contacted me—”

It doesn’t take a second for Kaveh to realise who this friend must be. He jumps to his feet. “I’m going to kill him,” Kaveh seethes.

“No,” his mother says, taking his hand, “Kaveh, no. Don’t. I’m grateful to him.” She smiles. “Here I thought—I thought you didn’t want to see me.”

“What?” Kaveh says, taken aback. “How could I ever—” He shakes his head. “I just didn’t want to intrude, that’s all.”

“Intrude?” She frowns. “Kaveh, I am your mother.”

“All the same,” Kaveh says.

His mother takes a deep breath. “I thought—I thought you wanted to be independent,” she says. “If I’d known—we could have worked something out, Kaveh. I could have come to see you. Or have you come see me.”

Kaveh hangs his head, his emotions a bit of a mess. “Yes,” he says. “I’m sorry, I—”

He is overcome. His mother seems to realise this.

“I’m here for the rest of the day,” she says gently, and smiles. “How about you show me around, if you’re not too busy? It’s been a long time since I’ve been in Sumeru, after all.”

 

He brings her to his usual haunts. Shows her how everything’s changed. He takes her to Port Ormos, tells her about how he’d approached the lighthouse renovation. And then they make the journey to the Palace of Alcazarzaray, and the sight of it lights up her eyes just as it did his.

“This is amazing, Kaveh,” she says quietly. “I saw the pictures, but—good gods, this is wonderful.” She grins. “I’m so proud of you, really.”

“Thank you,” Kaveh says, embarrassed.

Together, they sit on the hill above the palace, looking downward.

“I had to sell the house to make this,” Kaveh confesses, because he can keep it in no longer. His mother looks at him, shocked. “Our house. I’m sorry.”

“No, it’s—”

“That’s why Al-Haitham let me live with him,” Kaveh continues. He does not know why he is doing this, after years of keeping his mother in the dark. After years of pretending to be happy. “I spent all my money. Everything. I was in debt for years. ”

His mother is tearing up; she swallows. “That must’ve been very difficult,” she says.

“It—” It was fine, he wants to say. But somehow, the lie catches in his throat, and tears well up in his eyes. “It was,” he says, and starts to cry. He cannot help it. “It was.”

His mother embraces him. She is crying, too. “Kaveh,” she says. “Kaveh, dearest, why didn’t you tell me?”

“I didn’t want you to know,” Kaveh whispers, his shoulders shaking. “I didn’t want you to worry—”

“Kaveh—”

“I missed you,” he confesses, through his tears. “I missed you every day. I was so lonely, so lonely. But if I told you, then you’d come back for me, and I—I didn’t deserve that.”

“Kaveh. What do you mean?”

“Because it was my fault,” he says, his voice breaking. “The Championship, Father—it was—it was all my fault, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry—”

His mother is shaking. “Is that—is what you’ve always thought?” she asks.

Kaveh nods, overcome.

“You were a child, Kaveh,” his mother says. “A child. Would you blame a child for what happened?”

“I—” Kaveh sobs. “I don’t—no, I…”

His mother looks sadder than he’s ever seen her. “I should never have left you alone,” she says. “I’m sorry. I was in pain, and I took your strength for granted. I thought—” She reaches up to wipe away his tears. “You don’t have to forgive me,” she says. “But please, try to forgive yourself. Because there is nothing to forgive, Kaveh. You’ve done nothing wrong.”

Her words fall on his ears like rain in the desert. Kaveh can scarcely believe them.

She pulls him into an embrace again. “You’ve done nothing wrong,” she says.

 

Kaveh sees her off at the port again, just like he did the last time, many years ago. In the distance, the sun is setting, staining the sea gold, orange, scarlet.

“Keep in touch,” his mother says. “Promise me.”

“I promise.”

“Good.” And then, “Should I—should I have met Al-Haitham? He’s not just a friend, is he?”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean,” she says, and pulls out an old, yellowed photograph, and Kaveh is ready to rest in pieces, “I still have this.”

“Oh, gods,” Kaveh says. “Any chance you could burn that?”

“Absolutely not,” his mother says, tucking the photograph back into her wallet.

“Well, he’s—” Kaveh swallows. “He’s just a friend right now, really.”

“Well, I’d like to get to know him, anyhow,” his mother says. “Maybe—next time, we can have dinner together, the three of us?”

She looks hopeful. Kaveh does not have the heart to deny her. “So be it, then,” he says, but he’s smiling. “Alright. Next time, I’ll bring Al-Haitham to dinner.”

This is not an empty promise. Next time his mother visits, which will be in a month or so, this dinner will happen. It will be awkward. Al-Haitham will be Al-Haitham. Kaveh’s mother will blink, speechless and taken aback, more than once. Kaveh will argue with Al-Haitham about the amount of soup that’s been ordered. In other words, it will be wonderful.

Before she turns to leave, his mother reaches out and embraces him, as if he were a child. “My son,” she whispers. “My beautiful son.”

Kaveh hugs her back tightly; he could weep. “I’ll see you soon,” he says.

“Yes. See you soon.”

 

When he returns home, Al-Haitham is there, acting just as he usually would. As if he hadn’t gone and pulled all that behind Kaveh’s back.

“Kaveh, we’re out of wine again—”

“Be quiet,” Kaveh says, a little angrily. He throws his arms around Al-Haitham and buries his face in his neck.

“What's this?”

“I know what you did for me,” Kaveh mumbles. “Thank you.”

“Ah,” Al-Haitham says.

“I still think you’re terrible,” Kaveh says, although he’s sure the effect of the words are diminished. “Just so you know.”

“Many do, I’ve been told,” Al-Haitham says. “You’re not quite unique in that sense.”

And yet his hand comes to rest on the back of Kaveh’s head, anyways. Fingers running gently through his hair. Kaveh closes his eyes, and lets the rest of the world fall away.

 

Later that night, Kaveh’s mother’s words echo in his head: please, try to forgive yourself.

Can it really be that easy?

No, of course not. He has lived this way for years—to get rid of this part of himself feels almost as difficult as washing the blond out of his hair. And yet it would be a disservice not to try, at least. To throw away the guilty verdict he’d sentenced himself to. To live, finally, as a free man. And perhaps, just perhaps— one day, he will finally be able to do a good deed out of nothing but the kindness of his heart. And is that not a beautiful thought?

 

One night a few months later, Kaveh has his first real dream—one that he remembers, all the way through.

He dreams that he is stargazing with his father on that beautiful, tall tower of his own design. The two of them are happy; there are no apologies between them. “Look!” his father says, pointing at the celestial bird in the sky, which spreads its starry wings to glide down, down, close enough for them to touch, only to soar away at the last moment. And Kaveh knows immediately that he should chase it.

“Go on, then,” his father says. “I’ll see you at home!”

Kaveh grins and waves. “See you later, Father!”

And then he leaps from the tower, following the trail of stars across the sky, the clouds under his feet. He follows it through the tops of the rainforest, where a storm is raging, and the thunder scares him so much he tumbles out of the sky and onto the ground. He finds Tighnari standing over him, his tail waving disapprovingly.

“Kaveh,” Tighnari says. “Have you been drinking again?”

“No!” Kaveh protests.

Tighnari smiles. “That’s good, then.” He helps Kaveh up. “There you go. All better now.”

And as if by magic, he is. “See you!” Kaveh calls, taking off again. Tighnari waves.

Kaveh flies onward. Through rain, through sunshine. Over the tops of crumbling buildings. Over beautiful cities, buildings that seem unreal in their loveliness. The bird is always, always slightly out of reach. Finally, it begins to land, and when it gets low enough, Kaveh chases it on foot. But the city is big, and its paths are winding, and he loses sight of it.

Next to him, his mother laughs. Her laughter is like light. “Kaveh,” she says, pointing. “This way!”

Kaveh kisses her on the cheek. “Thank you, Mother!”

“Be home for dinner!” she calls.

Kaveh waves and sets off, following the trail of starlight. It leads him to a house, and glides in almost leisurely through the window. This house is familiar. It has two of everything. And in the living room, seated on the sun-soaked sofa—

“What’s going on here?” Al-Haitham asks, holding the starry bird gingerly in his hands.

“Don’t ask me,” Kaveh says.

“Who else would I ask? Isn’t this your dream?”

Coo coo, says the bird.

“This is ridiculous,” Al-Haitham says, huffing. “Whatever, just take this. It’s yours, isn’t it?”

He hands Kaveh the bird. It is heavier than it looks. Warmer, too. It narrows its eyes in a birdish smile: you’ve found me now. Kaveh holds it to his chest, feeling himself start to wake, feeling the dream start to disintegrate at the edges.

He meets Al-Haitham’s eyes. “I’ll see you soon,” he says.

 

Kaveh wakes up.

It’s still dark out—it must be the middle of the night. And yet Kaveh doesn’t quite feel like going back to sleep just yet. He gets out of bed and makes his way to the kitchen. The light is on; Al-Haitham is there too, book in hand next to the open window.

“Oh,” Kaveh says. “You’re still up?”

Al-Haitham nods. “It’s too hot,” he says, making a face. “Can’t sleep either?”

Kaveh shakes his head. “Slept a bit,” he says. And then, “I dreamt about you.”

“Did you,” Al-Haitham says.

“Yes.”

“Do you do that often?”

Kaveh huffs. “Don’t flatter yourself.”

A corner of Al-Haitham’s lips quirks upwards in something close to a smile. “But what are you dreaming about me for?” he says, setting down his book. “I’m right here.”

He is. He’s right here. Just as he’s been this whole time, ever since they’d met and hated each other on sight and loved each other on ninth, tenth, eleventh sight. He’s been here even in his absence, perched in the sun-seeking palace of Kaveh’s heart, carried with him wherever he goes.

Wordless, Kaveh reaches out and holds Al-Haitham’s cheek. Feels him lean into the touch, ever so gently. Warmth against warmth, a quiet miracle. The moon is shining in through the window, a spill of silver; the night is near-silent. Kaveh’s heart is pounding out of his chest. Perhaps he is going mad. Perhaps he is in love again. Perhaps there is no perhaps.

Al-Haitham’s fingers close around his wrist. Softly. Almost a question.

“If you don’t say anything,” he says, “I’m going to kiss you.”

The moon keeps shining. Kaveh does not say anything. Neither of them do, for a long time after that.

 

The sun rises and falls. The rains come and go. Everyone changes, little by little.

These days, Kaveh finds himself happy most of the time. But he knows there may be no happily ever after. There hardly is, for anyone. Everyone has bad days, bad weeks, bad months. To live is to struggle. To live is to fight, wielding our tiny, little lights against the dark, toothed maw of the indifferent universe.

But at least Kaveh is trying to forgive himself. He is embarking on that harrowing, never-ending journey that we must all make, at some point, to be happy. There are no lectures at the Akademiya on this subject. He will have to teach himself. He will have to be willing to listen.

This is alright. He has friends; he has family. Like all of them, he is a child of Sumeru, a child of wisdom. Learning is his strong suit. And so—

He’ll be just fine.

 

---

 

Looking over a new list of requirements from his client, Kaveh sighs heavily. It’s his fifth sigh in as many minutes.

Al-Haitham looks over his shoulder. “Another idiot client?”

“Well,” Kaveh says. “Yes. Terribly so.”

“Good luck with that,” Al-Haitham says, and presses a kiss to Kaveh’s temple. Kaveh grins despite himself. “I’m going out.”

“See you. Get some wine too, will you?”

“Yes, I will. For myself.”

“Hey—”

But Al-Haitham is already gone. Kaveh rolls his eyes. He’s not particularly upset—odds are that Al-Haitham will buy enough to share. He goes back to work, and finds himself face-to-face with that terrible beast that every creator is familiar with, which stops him in his tracks and makes him want to give up and take a long drink.

Being an artist is difficult. All artists know this, from the little girl who has just picked up a crayon in her chubby hand to the smiling dancer in the square who has danced for thirty years and counting. After all, what makes a thing beautiful? What makes a thing good? And how can we, with our two mortal hands, with our fragile, handle-with-care hearts, best share this knowledge with the rest of the world?

Perhaps Lesser Lord Kusanali would know, Kaveh thinks. But then again, perhaps he would, too.

And so he picks up his pencil, and begins to draw.

 

 

 

Look up, Kaveh. Look up. The sun is shining.

Notes:

me reading kaveh lore for the first time

if you've made it all the way here, thank you so much for reading, truly. i realise this isn't the usual from me, so thank you for giving it a try. hope you have a lovely day.
big thank you to my friends rysa, edlssm, 霧, zel, and sri for encouraging me and allowing me to complain about this fic in their DMs. special shoutout to sri for not believing me when I said I was almost done multiple times--you were right, but i do not respect your rightness.
also, at all haikaveh artists... you are doing god's work, the amount of times i opened a piece just to stare at it for motivation to write... thank you...

more (unnecessary) thoughts below:
i started this around two months ago when kaveh's story first got leaked, and i wrote the first part of it in tears, listening to dreams by the cranberries. in essence, this fic is a love letter to kaveh. this character is very special to me, as he is to many others, because of his humanity and his flaws (of course, he is also terribly beautiful). in a community full of creators and artists, is it any surprise that he is so well-loved?
kaveh is so multifaceted. there's so much more about him i wish i'd been able to include, but unfortunately, this is as far as my current skill level allows me to go. there are many parts i'm not completely satisfied with, but it is what it is. i admit that perhaps i've been overly optimistic with how his story ends. but it is summer here, and the sun is finally out, and i cannot help but hope for happiness. i hope this fic makes you feel the same way, if even just for a few moments.

if you've read all the way here, too--well, i kiss your hand. i wish you sunlight and blue skies. thank you.