Chapter Text
Haitham didn’t like being stuck in bed. It felt the same as being caged in a prison someplace. He always thought that that was because without knowledge, the world felt infinitely smaller, intimate, and he didn’t like the vulnerability of being crippled. With something to read, something to find out about, he could go anywhere! Except maybe reaching out far enough to get that book on the nightstand that’s practically begging to be read. At least, painlessly. His back ached even in rest but there was a chance his wounds would open up, should he try to reach out for it. After taking a moment to think, he decided.
“What are you doing?”
Or not. Haitham winces, pulling back his arm to his side and putting on a half-affable smile. “Nothing. No funny business here. None whatsoever.”
The blonde lady sits down by his side whose name is, he learns, Jean. Jean Gunnhildr. She’d said it after the sermon of his life on the way back to the city, how someone should’ve warned him against summoning the spirit of an ancient warrior, warned him against touching the projected vision of that greatsword, and— a pause because, wait, she did and he didn’t listen. Haitham could admit that much, that Ms. Gunnhildr’s wrath was not unwarranted. Still, he found it strange how she was reserved even in expressing her anger and frustration. That made it all the more terrifying, actually, but she has simultaneously earned his endless respect.
Not just because of that either, but how she fought. Haitham wasn’t familiar enough with sword art to know know where she learnt the precise style in which she swung her blade, but he considered asking. Not right now, though. Maybe he could try again once he gets on her good side.
Jean sighs. “I understand that you would much rather be anywhere else than sitting here but—“
“What? No, I just—“
“Put yourself in the eye of the storm, yes. You only have yourself to blame for the situation we are both in right now.” That is to say, him bedridden and her having to stay home to treat his wounds. Haitham didn’t understand the logic behind that. She acknowledges that it is his responsibility but refused to let his wounds rot away at him in the wilderness. “Allow me to vent my frustrations a tad.”
And with barely even a forewarning, Jean pressed the wet, lukewarm washcloth into his bandaged wounds. A gesture that should be gentle and careful was rough and, just like she said, weaved with frustration. Haitham hissed, tensing up as he felt his open flesh resist the liquid.
“I’m sorry,” He hurried to say. “There was no information pertaining to Andrius in the Mondstadian books shipped to Sumeru, only baseless rumors about wolves and whatnot. As a scholar from the Haravatat of the Akademiya, I’m always in pursuit of knowledge and hence, you see, I had to confirm it for myself! Don’t you think it’s good that I will come back having proven something?”
Jean eyed him with a deadpan stare.
“I’m sorry.” Haitham said again. Something changes in Jean’s expression but he doesn’t know what that means for him. A frown is not a frown, concentrated with anger or contemplation, but when one’s lips are pressed tight almost in a terrifying blank stare, even he could not read its meaning.
That is, until she sighs and says: “Hold still, this might sting a little.”
It does, in fact, sting perhaps more than ‘a little’ but he doesn’t have the heart nor the right to tell her of underestimated pain. After all, when he was clawed in the back, the damage doesn’t sink in until he was crippled against Wolvendom bark.
“If you stay still, it won’t hurt as much.”
He wasn’t even aware he moved, twitched, maybe, but the body was always one step forward the brain. Even if his father’s mind was willing, his body was not. Haitham considers it one of nature’s greater horrors.
“I’m sorry.” He says, like a dejected broken record.
“Come now, it hurts me when you apologize so much. It’s as though you hate me or something.” Jean says, and he can’t help but raise an eyebrow. With the coming of modern times and especially in the ever-competitive music industry, it became increasingly difficult to encounter genuinely compassionate people. Senior composers have told him about how the more your name becomes known, the more you can’t tell if the people around you approach with good will or ulterior motive.
Haitham himself was not known so he couldn’t have understood and yet chose to distance himself from any prospect of his vulnerability being wielded as a weapon. Still, it couldn’t hurt to bend an iron will a little, right?
“It’s not that.” He clarified. A scholar in pursuit of enlightenment will not stand for misunderstandings.
“Then what is it?”
Haitham paused. Leaps of courage were not made for the strictly disciplined, he learns. “I really just wanted to read earlier, so…” He turns to look at the book, and Jean puts away the wet washcloth, apparently finished. She gestured for him to go on.
“Could you read it to me?”
That was what he fell asleep to that night but since he could not recall Jean calling the idea silly or childish, Haitham thinks he might return the favor someday.
/
Why must sunlight be so blinding? Dawn cracks through the clouds like some tyrant and Haitham would’ve stayed in bed for longer were it not for the overwhelming urge to pee. He figured braving the light was better than wetting himself, which it definitely was, so he quickly found relief in removing himself of the pent-up excrete. He made sure to keep the bathroom fragrant afterwards out of respect.
When he comes out, Jean is right in front of him. Startled, yes, but devastatingly embarrassing it mostly was for the great Al-Haitham to scream and nearly collapse into the water faucet which would in turn stab at his wound— a horrifying prospect. He was doing better, yes, for just the second day of his recovery but pain was awfully akin to a terrifyingly strict teacher. That is to say, it is a great lecturer but he’d rather not encounter it too often.
But yes, he nearly opened his wound when a pair of strong arms caught him. Right, the fair lady had killer biceps. It was merciful of her to never utilize them by punching him in the face.
“Um,” Jean began, steadying him with ease. Her eyes looked a little fresh but other than that, Haitham would’ve thought she had woken up hours before he did. “Good morning.”
“Good morning to you too, Ms. Gunnhildr.” He said back, bowing. Raising his head, he surveyed her outfit, as well as the faint fragrance of coffee she brought. Despite technically being somewhere he needn’t be presentable, he felt underdressed. Underdressed in a literal sense— all he was wearing for a top were bandages in correspondence to his injuries and a pair of sweatpants. “Are you going to work?”
“Yes,” Jean answers, brightening up. “I was about to go put on makeup when I heard you. It seems you’re feeling better.”
She didn’t phrase that as a question but judging from the way she looked up at him and raised her brows, it probably was. Sounded a little hopeful too. Well, it’d make sense she’d want him out of her house as soon as possible.
Haitham nodded. “I think I’ll be able to leave tomorrow afternoon. I’ll make sure to keep the house clean until then.” He offered a small smile and Jean wordlessly made way for him to get out of the bathroom. Having forgotten something, he didn’t walk far before turning on his back. “By the way, the water and dressing—“
“I have it right here.”
Haitham blinked. “I thought you needed to put on makeup.”
“I still have time.” Jean dodged the question. He decides not to press the issue any further and sit down on the bed, making it easy and comfortable for the both of them.
Unlike the first night, she pressed the washcloth gently into his side and though it still stings enough that he can’t stifle a wince, Haitham thinks that there’s no frustration this time. A nice development, he thought. He also notices that the bandages look newer, less bloodstained that before. She probably switched them out.
“You’ve been asleep for around two days, Haitham.” She says suddenly. At first, Haitham thinks she’s lying, exaggerating, maybe, but he’d woken up so energized this morning despite the blinding sunlight. Much more energized than he’s been in all his up-all-night-studying years. It would make sense.
“How unbecoming of me.” I’m sorry, he wanted to say but It hurts me when you apologize so much, comes faster. “So where did you sleep?”
“The couch.” Jean said simply. “Where else?”
“Beside me?” Haitham narrowed his eyes. “It is technically your bed.”
“That’s,” She looks blindsided as she offers him a nervous, apologetic smile. “I don’t like sleeping with someone else.”
“Ah, I see.” He said, not quite understanding the issue but deciding not to pry. Knowledge is a sacred art, invasion of privacy and gossip are not. Silence falls over them after that and it gives Haitham space to think. His first thoughts are how he is hungry and how it had gone unnoticed until now, why had he trained his stomach not to growl again? Some argument over a lack of agency and—
“By the way,” she broke the silence, apparently having finished treating his wounds. It hurt way less this time. “Thank you for saving my life.”
Haitham laughs a little, thinking it a joke. “There’s nothing to thank me for. I was merely pretending to be chivalrous. It’s clear you could’ve defended yourself from that.” He paused, surveying Jean’s face for reactions, thinking maybe genuine praise will earn him her favor. Instead, something in her eyes makes him reconsider what he just said and he adds: “… You’re welcome, Ms. Gunnhildr.”
/
As predicted, by the next morning, he is feeling better. Jean advised against taking off the bandages just before she left for work. Of course, Haitham followed. She seemed to have been an experienced medic, after all, whereas he could only heal plant wounds. The cactus she keeps in her study was decaying, so he gave it a little more life as thanks for letting him stay here. It didn’t look like it was from Sumeru so he didn’t know how to give it advanced improvements, but at least he was able to do enough to keep it from dying.
Haitham liked doing stuff like this. He was never materialistic in the first place, the people of Sumeru never are, but for him, the thought of such a busy lady coming home to a clean house made him a little less lazy. Plus, it was the most civil thing to do after nearly getting both himself and her killed. Plus, he wasn’t even sure if they were going to meet after this. Best he leave a nice impression.
But that is what vacation should be, right? On vacation, one meets different people, learns from them, become different persons themselves. A new outfit, hairstyle, acquaintances, these are all things vacation endorses. Still, he does not change much. Hopefully Ms. Gunnhildr doesn’t too, lest he gets himself in trouble in Mondstadt again.
Haitham stops cleaning once he thinks the house is clean enough and begins to pack his things. He’d be leaving before Jean can come home, which only made sense since this space wasn’t really that spacious anyway and she pretty much didn’t have anything she didn’t need. It was easy to clean and comfortable but a little too serious for his liking. He’d never say that to her face though.
/
Mondstadt is bright and bustling, its buildings a little old-fashioned and the streets reeking of alcohol. Despite the sunshine, Haitham sees beggars on the street every now and then, the most peculiar of them all the ones who appear miserable in an odd way. It’s as though those ones weren’t pursuing survival but another dose of something. But of course, everyone passes by them without a word. Every nation has its horrors, perhaps this was theirs.
But despite this, the city remains bright. Haitham finds himself a cheap place to stay in until he has to go back to Sumeru and write all about his experience. He does this with the purpose of drawing inspiration in mind, unlike those bloggers who review places they visit, exposing it all to the something thousand people following their respective accounts. He could never understand how that felt, these places feel sacred to him, his experiences so good that he’d want people off the area. It becomes a little secret, and secrets were intimate.
There is also the noncommittal thing about vacationing. You could theoretically talk to anyone, strike up a conversation no matter how awkward because, well, who cares? It’s not as though these were people you’d see again. It’d be a nice twist of fate, like a movie. After all, perfect lives didn’t exist but that didn’t mean all of it was terrible.
This however was terrible. He’d just began setting foot outside days after being freed of (technically) hospitalization and before he could go even halfway through the things he’d like to do, it starts raining. It starts raining so hard it’s all he could hear even through earphones. Did Barbatos happen to anger Inazuma’s all-powerful archon?
The most irritating thing about it is that Haitham cannot even read. He has devoted himself to the art of knowing, and in the process has developed some sort of affinity for navigating through printed lines and feeling the paper beneath his fingertips. Nothing but the paper turning, rustling. Except the serenity of the activity is robbed by this downpour. So Haitham decides to take a shower, and then change into something a little less homely, and make his way to a bar that was (thankfully) adjacent to his convenience afterwards.
On vacation, the water is different. The shampoo, too. When he gets out of the bathroom, Haitham realizes that he actually might smell like local Mondstadt flowers found on high mountaintop, as told by the shampoo product. Of course, he had no way of knowing for sure but he knew what Mondstadt flowers smelled like, despite not knowing what this one in particular. He paid a visit to Floral Whisper yesterday and found none of this kind, instead hearing of Flora’s, the owner, brother who collected flowers from the wild. Haitham thought he’d have the opportunity to seek out this brother of hers today but one look at the clouds painted an incorrigible black would tell him otherwise.
Once Haitham arrived at the bar, a little wet, the first thing he notices is that they brought in the chairs that would normally be outside on the beach sand. Upon actually entering, which let in a cool breeze for the sweaty customers, he also notices that they have a jukebox near the corner of the bar, haloed in neon green light, playing some old hit song. It sounds like something Mondstadt bards would sing, touched up with a little modernity.
Aside from the music, the place was… loud. Well, of course. It was a club, after all, but it wasn’t as loud as he expected it to be. If anything, there might even be some places remotely silent in this space, despite the pressing of bodies on the dance floor, the loud and lazy whirling of the giant ceiling fan above.
And then it gets quiet. Everyone is as startled as he is, but then suddenly there is someone behind the mic near the jukebox, a tall, blonde woman and at her side, someone with a guitar. It’s so somber all of a sudden that it’s almost funny. When the lady starts to sing, however, Haitham recognizes her immediately.
“Ms. Gunnhildr,” he murmured. She sings? What can’t she do?
Jean’s voice is a little shaky, not from unprofessionalism but likely nervousness, but as the song carries on and people start to dance along to the slow, tender beat, she becomes steadier. Her voice wraps around him like a warm blanket, akin to how she read that book to him but different altogether. She takes liberties with the song like how a vocalist of a band would, implying that this setup is new to her, but of course, she adapts quickly and whatever fault there might have been is quickly forgotten.
Just like that, those entire four minutes passed.
Is this creepy? Haitham thought to himself, tearing his eyes away as Jean made her way back to her table. To stare, he meant. When you work in music, you get curious about voices. Her voice is warm, tender, and she was clearly naturally talented, but even then, she had a carefully developed vocal technique that suggested more than natural talent. What had she gone through? What did she use her voice for?
Suddenly, there’s a tap on his shoulder. Haitham spins and sees Jean, who regard him with a smile which he tries to return, a crooked effort amid all these thoughts.
“You sing.” is the first thing he says to her. The crowd is still excited in the background, nominating others to take her place, some demanding an encore.
“You’re in music too.” Jean says, trying to deflect the question. She is successful because he is beyond puzzled on how she figured that out. “I saw your self-composed song trying to find you a change of clothes. I know I shouldn’t have looked through your stuff but I—“
“It’s not as though I was trying to hide it.” Haitham assured her.
A relieved sigh escapes her. “Good, because I really liked those verses.” She says, then goes on to sing it for emphasis. Her voice is magical, he thinks.
“Thank you, I composed that with all my trips thus far in mind.” Haitham said, sincerely grateful. Compliments were always welcomed, especially the sincere kind. He paused, then moved on. “You didn’t tell me you sang.”
“I used to. I wrote the songs I sang too. It’s been a long time, but my coworkers said I should go for it.” And a normal person would probably think or say Shouldn’t you go back to your table then? but Haitham wasn’t a stickler for the rules and if Jean found him interesting enough to leave her table for then he considered that a thorough win. Her story, or what little she tells him of it, is interesting too. It provoked his curiosity, made him want to ask about it, but instead he says:
“Would you be willing to sing the guide to my song?”
“But you’ve only heard me sing today.”
“Your voice is what I’ve been looking for all this time.” Haitham explained, a hand to his chest. Jean still looks unconvinced and rightfully so, he wasn’t a big-time producer that anybody would agree to or something, nor a friend that she’d comply with just for the sake of it. “At least come to my studio once. I rented a place with one in it. If you don’t like it, it remains between us.”
When Jean looks up, the vulnerability in her eyes tell him that it had nothing to do with him being famous or not. He opens his mouth to apologize, sincerely this time, no longer treading on eggshells, when she beats him to it.
“Promise?”
Haitham smiled. “You have my word.”
/
Without a doubt, Jean had definitely undersold her musical skill. Haitham had a vision for how the song should sound like, how it should be sang, but she had her own insights from how she perceived it. She told him that the music she works with greatly differ with his, and yet the unfamiliarity settles down after a while. Once she’d gotten used to it, she made the song better than it could ever be.
Haitham took pride in this. Working with other talented individuals fascinated him so. It bothered him that some others would want to hog 1st place all by theirselves— if they are capable, should they not help others up? Then again, he was in no place to lecture his seniors, much less people more talented than him.
Instead of being at a loss when the directing stopped at certain times due to his novice skill, he’d asked her ‘How do you think should this line be delivered?’ and even at times she could not give him a definite answer, dregs of an idea were enough to nurture a proper, full one. Two heads were better than one, after all. Well, perhaps one better than the other but Haitham considers this a learning experience, that maybe in the future he could make another song suited to her range and style and they could work together again.
When Jean comes out of the recording booth, she shudders. Haitham learnt from experience and unbridled curiosity that it is cold in there, perhaps even more so now with their days filled with heavy rain. He didn’t get to do most of the things he’d planned in advance but before he left, Kaveh told him that vacation could also be spontaneous and full of unexpected winds. It doesn’t always have to be meticulously planned, which he couldn’t argue with but it was 5AM in the morning at the time meaning Haitham was cranky, sleepy, and low on energy. Kaveh didn’t seem to mind though and only laughed, as if he knew that his roommate would come to the eventual acceptance of his wisdom or whatever.
Still, this is a far nicer surprise than he could ever have dreamed up. Kaveh wasn’t in music so he couldn’t possibly have understood the joy of capturing certain themes and emotions he couldn’t have done by himself. The only thing he’d probably remark on is Haitham finally having something to submit to the company bigwigs. There was no guarantee it’d be approved though so he didn’t even think of that until now. Besides, credit they could give him would not equal the personal enjoyment he has derived from all of this.
“There’s a heater somewhere in the living room.” Haitham offered. Truth be told, Sumeru’s harsh weather conditions had trained him for the worst but it wouldn’t do to just think of himself.
“Won’t that add to your bill?”
“I’m not that short on Mora, and besides, you—” He buffered. “ We clearly need it.”
“Are you sure?” Jean asks him again, clarity like a drug he’s been depriving her of all this time.
“Yes,” said he, most definitely sure. “I’ll be leaving in a few days anyway.”
Jean paused, staring incredulously. Had he said something wrong? Her brows furrow upwards like there’s something she wants to say but can’t. Haitham thinks there is nothing she can’t say to him, because he made a genuine effort to defy the absolute control producers had over their artists. They weren’t like that, after all.
( So then, what were they? Some stubborn, quiet part of himself asked. He didn’t pay it any mind.)
She does eventually turn on the heater, and the freezing stops. When their minds were clear of the chill, she turned his way to ask: “What will you do with that?”
“Assuming that that means the recording, I will probably submit it to my company back at Sumeru.” He answered and a flicker of doubt flashes to the forefront of his mind. “Why? Do you not like it?”
“It’s not like that, it’s just… they might recognize my voice.” She drew in a sharp breath, collecting courage from the rain’s rough hums to an otherwise silent space. “I used to be in a band once. Obviously, I might not be at my prime anymore but there’s still a chance they’d recognize me. It was a peaceful separation and I just don’t want them to think that we’re suddenly getting back together for a farewell single or something.”
Haitham listened intently, fingers wrapping around the handle of the ceramic teakettle. Before him were two porcelain white cups, all of which he brought here from Sumeru. It’s a relaxing activity, it always has been, but while he is confident that her worry for this issue was unfounded, that lack of doubt could be chalked up to inexperience. He’d never directly asked for her age but it was clear that she was more experienced than him.
“This is a brand my senior composer recommended to me. He claimed it was soothing to the throat.” He realizes he didn’t ask if she minds tea either, but decides to clear his throat and move on anyway. “And as for that, I’ll relay your words to anyone who might raise a brow. You don’t work under me anyway. I’ll say… err, it was a favor from a friend.” We are at least friends— aren’t we? “How does that sound?”
Jean smiles (perhaps suggesting he had succeeded in reassuring her?) and straightens up (which implies otherwise). Why so tense?
“That’s alright.” She says, like it’s both to answer him and convince herself. Haitham is still when he watches her take in the tea’s steam, take a sip, and then another. “Yes, it’s alright.” She says again, more convinced this time. He decides to take her word for it, because, well, that’s what friends do, right?
He offers her a small, satisfied smile before turning on his back and walking back to his study. That’s when his wrist is caught and he stops to look back. When he does, he registers that Jean is standing too for some odd reason. Before he could ask about it though, she speaks.
“Tomorrow is a Sunday,” which he knew, punctuated by his brief glance at the calendar hung on the wall. “If at all possible, could you come over for dinner?”
Now that was rich! Without thinking, Haitham flashes her toothy, amused grin. “I will just about go anywhere with free food, Ms. Gunnhildr.”
/
Haitham would like to say he doesn’t dwell on it. But when it rains for half the week on your vacation, it becomes easy to have nothing else to look forward to. Kaveh calls him up the moment he puts his status as ‘online’ and asks him to “tell me everything ”. So he does, excitedly too, and he’s pretty sure he’s been talking so much that Kaveh puts him on speakerphone while he cleans their place. There is something thrilling about vacation, about the people he does end up seeing again, or how nothing and everything at the same time changes.
“Can I fly over and see her?”
Haitham scoffs. “Would she want to see you?”
“You’re only saying that because you don’t want my people descending to Mondstadt to see your super talented friend. Something about travel blogs being shallow and robbing romantic places of their intimate privacy, was it?”
And he still stood by that but knowing the teasing lilt to Kaveh’s tone, it’s clear that he didn’t bring it up to have a productive conversation. He also doesn’t say what Jean has told him regarding her past band, or her hesitation, or anything too private. On vacation, secrets are made and supposed to be kept.
“You can’t fly,” Haitham deadpanned. “Last we tried going to Liyue, you freaked out mid-flight and elbowed me in the face. You even had the audacity to think that it was the sound of some part of the plane breaking off.”
“That was my first flight!” But he refuses to acknowledge that. It drifts off to meager conversation as the sky got darker and darker, he was so sure he’d be seeing a starless sky later this evening. Kaveh freaks out and says that his battery is dying, that he’ll call later, and they exchange goodbyes before his convenience is entirely silent again. Well, minus the rain.
Thankfully, he wasn’t going to be stuck here or in the bar nearby. It’s like one of Jean’s talents was determining when he’d be bored to death and relieve him of it. Maybe it was a coincidence, just like all the others. Either way, Haitham appreciates the hospitality exposed to him and is practically skipping to her place. She forgot to send him her address but he had a good memory anyway, he could remember the path he took from when he’d recovered.
When he gets there, Haitham is relieved that her house had a guard over its head, something he didn’t notice in the erstwhile dimmed afternoon sunlight. He peers into her home through the crevice, the only thing stopping anyone from coming in the chain lock inside. Jean was surprisingly clumsy, he thinks, having knocked a few times before finally marshaling the courage to twist the doorknob.
“Haitham?” A voice from his side called out. It is Jean, carrying two bags with big supermarket logos on each. Haitham jumps and hurries to explain himself: “Ms. Gunnhildr! I was not trying to break into your house, I promise! The door was just unlocked and you didn’t appear to be home so—“
Jean looks surprised, he probably does too, because he’s never heard his voice go that high before. After a moment, she laughs and shakes her head. “I didn’t even know I left the door open. I suppose I’m getting old.” If she was, he certainly couldn’t tell. Haitham nods and goes to take one of the bags she was carrying. Jean stares but makes no comment about it, instead saying: “And for the record, I didn’t even think you were breaking into my house… but if you say about yourself, I’m inclined to think that you actually were.”
Haitham startles at this, earning a hearty laugh. The gears in his head turn as she passes by him and into the house… that must’ve been a joke. For someone with such a gentle voice, her humor was not as correspondingly kind. He lets out a nervous chuckle and follows her inside.
What awaits them— or really, only him— is a familiar lady holding up a newspaper that covers only half her face. Her hair, a rich brown, is tied into a loose ponytail and hung above her shoulder and she had a pair of soft green eyes. Upon noticing them, the lady puts down the paper and chuckles amusedly.
“I was wondering what the commotion outside was.” She began, glancing over at Jean. “Is this a friend of yours, Jean? He doesn’t look like he’s from Mondstadt.”
“I met him when I was out in Wolvendom clearing out some monsters Springvale citizens put in a report about.” Haitham would’ve been perfectly fine with explaining that it was entirely his fault that they were acquainted in the first place but Jean decides to move on. Apparently it has scarred her more than he thought.
“I’m just here for a vacation.” Haitham adds, hoping that that will be helpful. He puts the groceries on the nearby cushion and dusts his hands, moving on. “That aside, are you perhaps Ms. Minci? The one that studied in Sumeru?”
She looks surprised but recovers quickly, answering languidly: “The very same.”
“It’s an honor to meet you in person!” He exclaimed, voice controlled but undeniably mirthful. “I am also a fellow scholar in the Akademiya, and you are often talked about back home. It’s gladdening to see that you’re in good condition.”
Lisa takes a look at the groceries behind him and suggests they talk more whilst cooking the pasta. Jean is on the other side of the kitchen, cooking the sauce and occasionally taking the time to look over at them. She looked somewhat pleased with this development, and in all honesty, he was too. They chat away while the spaghetti is made, all mirth and smiles until Jean was out of earshot and Lisa fires a question.
“Say, Haitham,” she said. “You and Jean… are you two close?”
There’s an accusatory lilt to her tone that he can’t help but be curious about. Instead, Haitham guffaws in that distinguished way of his. As much as he wanted to inquire, he notices that there is a kind of spark in Lisa’s eyes whenever she talks about Jean, and he also doesn’t miss the sight of Jean brightening up upon seeing Lisa earlier.
“We’re friends, Ms. Minci.” He said simply.
/
“Do you like wine?” Jean asks him, taking out a bottle out of a cabinet somewhere. It seemed all citizens of Mondstadt liked their alcohol. He probably doesn’t drink as much as these people which might induce the ladies disappointment, but giving out a warning was better than having a killer hangover.
“For the most part.” Says he. “I can’t drink too much though.”
Lisa gives him an understanding hum and Jean doesn’t seem to mind. Upon closet inspection, the wine looked really expensive. Well, going from what little he knows of the industry, anyway. The land of freedom was full of unexpected charms indeed.
“That looks like it’s fine quality,” Haitham remarked. “ Very fine quality. I didn’t know you made that much money, Ms. Gunnhildr.”
He must’ve said something wrong then, because the entire table goes silent. Silent like what pretext he doesn’t know about is screaming into the silence, not quite filling it, but making it suffocating enough that he wanted to take it back, whatever it was, that would mortify everyone so much. Before he could though, Jean beats him to it.
“These were gifts from my lover,” A pause. “Well, ex -lover. He’s with my coworker Kaeya’s friend now.”
There was so much he wanted to know about her because while it wasn’t a surprise that Jean has had a boyfriend considering her whole entire being, it was a surprise however that she would be left. “Do you want to talk about it?” Haitham offered.
“No,” Jean says, politely refusing. “I’d rather not.”
Lisa stifles a wince in a manner so skilled and subtle he barely even caught sight of it. “How about this instead— you tell us about your love life. Doesn’t that sound more fun for all of us, hm?”
Haitham’s not so sure about that but maybe if it’ll take the grief’s weight off of Jean’s shoulders, sure. Then again… “There’s nothing to tell.” He said in a small shrug. “I’ve been single for as long as I can remember. No high school flings either, since Sumeru seems to think that knowledge and romance are mutually exclusive things— I disagree, of course, but the opportunity has never come up.”
“What about prospects?” Jean added, pouring the both of them respective glasses. Gossip seems to be one of life’s greatest pleasures for them, which he couldn’t necessarily argue with.
Haitham smiles amusedly and shakes his head. There really was nothing to tell. He took a sip from his glass, taking in the strong flavor before asking: “What about you, Ms. Minci?”
“Single,” she sighed dramatically. “No prospects either.”
“Not even an unrequited crush?” And Haitham means this as a joke because Ms. Minci was striking despite her languid disposition. She carried herself with a certain kind of elegance than made anyone want to know more about her, and thus masterfully building an intricate mystery.
For him, he was always dubbed as ‘mysterious’ when he was just peculiar, except quiet enough to pass off as mysterious rather than weird. He has devoted all that he was to the art of enlightenment, so much so that his understanding of things like love were lacking, and thus despite them both being scholars, Haitham doubts one of the mysteries to Ms. Minci would be unrequited love of all things.
But even then, his words set off some kind of bomb that shocks the mage enough that her eyes were actually wide, but of course, she does recover. Before she can though, he doesn’t miss the glance she threw towards Jean’s way.
“Of course not,” Lisa said, basically telling them that the topic was off-limits.
Now that it was, Haitham can’t help but wonder what exactly was it that traumatized the scholar so much. He doesn’t exactly have the time to think about that though, when the subject is changed and the night goes on until it’s so late that they have to go their separate ways.
At the door, Lisa gives him a cheek kiss just before he leaves, saying that it was a greeting. It feels surreal, like there’s some part of him that doesn’t believe her but liquid courage and public decency encourages him enough that he kisses her right back. Amused, she went on her way.
Jean sighs and apologizes, saying that she’s always been like that, but he denies her apology and says that he envies their friendship.
/
Haitham goes back to Sumeru the day after that and just before he left, Jean gave him this awfully sentimental look like he was going to die or something. He returned it with an overconfident smile.
“Let’s go out for coffee sometime.” He said. “Since you seem to like it so much.”
“Don’t patronize me,” She said, joking. Haitham shook his head and denied her allegations, but instead of reconsidering, Jean only laughed and told him: “But yes, let’s. When you get back.”