Work Text:
A foot taps, bounces against creaky floorboards. Half-finished designs devoid of color, lay strewn across a bedroom. Only one sheet holds the honor of being laid out upon a drafting table in poor lighting. Stubby pencils and a crusty eraser nearing the end of their tenure lie beside it.
It's a slow day. No meetings with clients. Deadlines still well off in the future. His roommate isn't even around to bother him right now.
Seated before his workplace, Kaveh rests his face into his hands. Though he has every right in the world to be lazy today, he grows anxious in the mundane, afraid of becoming complacent with the certainty that hours of daylight can be wasted away with little consequence. There's also something else on his mind—a nagging dread that he won't shake off easily.
Messy strands of hair catch in the crevices between his fingers. It's as he expected—he won’t be getting any work done today.
The sun hangs high in the sky outside, illuminating what little can be seen of Sumeru City through the room’s closed curtains. It must be about noon now. Too early for the tavern. Too late to be rotting away in the apartment. Alhaitham would get on his case for either. But perhaps there's something he can do about that seasonal pressure against his chest, the one that nips away at him today.
Brushing aside an assortment of drafting tools on his desk, he reaches across for a tiny calendar propped up at the top of it. He leans it into dusty rays of sunlight that manage to leak in through closed curtains, revealing marks and notes across its page of the month. His gaze lingers on the little number of the day, wearily.
It’s a familiar date—one that he should be proud of.
Fancy gatherings with friends for anniversaries, silent mourning for things that once were—such are the little rituals that people have for special occasions. Kaveh, a creature of habit, has his own. It will be a day spent in solitude, away from the commotion of Sumeru City.
With a grunt and heavy heart, he forces himself out of his chair lest he grows too comfortable in the stifling comfort of home. Then begins a routine rehearsed a million times over, limbs and digits moving as though they’re ushered by gears.
Standing before a full-body mirror, a turquoise belt embraces his torso not long after an extravagant cape has been drawn over his shoulders. A brush runs through the mess amok on his scalp, the product later meticulously shaped by a fine comb. Earrings, a stout blue feather, hair clips, a gem-studded necklace—those go where they belong. Gloved hands delicately fix his braid and clip his Vision to his pants. Powder over the wrinkly half-circles under each eye. A hand over the creases on his clothes.
His appearance would be perfect if it weren’t for the single cowlick that sticks straight up on the back of his head. As much as he pats and combs away at it, the strands of hair refuse to work with him.
That's just how things are for Kaveh—he’s accepted it by now. He’s about done, anyways.
He bounds back to his desk to shove a draft revised four times over into a drawer. Frustrations mostly put away, it’s about time to step out of his abode for the day.
In brisk step, Kaveh makes his way down the apartment’s hallway. Ready to breeze through the living room and out the front door, he stops when he notices there’s a tiny note on the living room table. He begrudgingly reads the painfully neat print as he rubs the grime out of one eye.
“Don’t forget this again.”
Something props up the note at a slight angle. Kaveh lifts up the paper, unveiling his house key.
He scoffs. Insufferable, as always.
He slings the goofy lion keyring through a finger in one smooth motion.
—
It’s impossible to avoid the haze of senses that envelops Kaveh the instant he steps out into Treasures Street. No longer sheltered from the afternoon sun, the light blinds him for a moment. It begins to nip away at his exposed skin. A never-ending sea of people crowd the roads under a flapping rainbow of tarps. And the noise—the clatter of metal against hissing metal from the blacksmith’s, merchants yelling down the street, the grunt and shuffling as pack animals pass him by, loud shouts here and there. It’s almost too much to take in at once on a bad day.
Kaveh’s head spins, and he has to take a second to collect himself. That’s what he gets for sleeping in, he supposes.
Disoriented, he treads past storefronts and fellow Sumerians as fast as a pair of wobbly legs can take him. He passes by a cute toy stand on his right, a gang of burly caravan guards to his left. A whiff of fried foods and desserts makes his stomach growl. Everything seems to pass by as quickly as it comes.
Fortunately for him, there’s no hassle as he marches off to the outskirts of the city. No one recognizes him or pulls him off to the side for a conversation that he’d rather not feel obliged to hold. No clients, either. He’s not going out of his way to run into them.
He manages to find a side avenue with only the occasional passerby to wait out his dizzy spell. The bustle of the town center is now little more than a faint murmur where the sounds of domestic life linger.
A refreshing breeze blows in, catching comfortably against Kaveh’s face. Less subject to the stuffiness of crowds, it retains its natural crisp. It also helps that there’s a nice, wide view of the city to stare off at as he downs gulps of air under the shade of a crooked tree. Keeps him from completely losing his bearings, at least.
He scours over some points of interest. Lambad’s is off to one side, just opposite to the Adventurers’ Guild front desk. Well-equipped individuals, mercenaries and explorers alike, drift to and from both. Alhaitham’s house is obscured from this angle, lost in a sea of other homes. There’s a wider variety of structures to scrutinize past these: food stands, lavish restaurants, homely stores and business fronts.
He comes upon a dreadful building. That one’s his—designed by him, anyway. It’s nothing to be proud of, not when he thinks about what it took to make the building more than some entrepreneur’s idea of a housing complex. Lengthy negotiations. Compromises made, not in his favor. A budget cut. Backhanded insults hurled his way. It now stands as a plain, conforming product. It’s not hard to miss among the uniform green and gray of the city, around buildings tall and short.
He’d rather not stay on this one for too long.
His eyes now skim over the stone roads that intertwine the space between buildings and stands. The winding urban mass cradles the towering Divine Tree, the centerpiece of Sumeru City. Between its branches, the grand edifice of the Akademiya rests over all else. It’s only fitting that the fruits of scholars’ efforts hang far above the various other happenings in the Nation of Wisdom’s capital city.
Someone else could draw a deeper meaning from this scene, perhaps. Literature was never Kaveh’s strong suit.
He turns away before he can indulge in the sight any further. Looking at the hike before him, there’s just a short length of the city roads to traverse just before the forest.
These shoes weren’t meant for a trek through the wilderness. He slips a little with each step against the dirt path; the soles must be worn out. He grumbles once his feet begin to ache, pinched by a design meant more for show than use.
Regardless, he still finds some comfort in a stroll through the forest, opposite to the flow of a gentle stream. It’s rare that he gets the chance to venture out into Avidya Forest, bar a unique commission or an invite from an acquaintance.
Stopping for a long-awaited stretch, Kaveh’s reminded of the melody of life that permeates through the forest. Leaves rustle in the wind, accompanying the vibrant chirps of birds and cicadas. A herd of Fungi bounce about on the opposite riverbank, a few daring to make a couple of splashes in the running current. The cacophony of Sumeru City well behind him, the only echo of civilization that reaches Kaveh comes from a rowboat that floats lazily downstream. Sounds like two friends having a chat, paddling as often as a leisurely time demands of them.
At his feet, a couple of fish dart past in a fleeting moment. His reflection shows just above them. It’s but a big blond blob on the surface as he wipes a bead of sweat off his forehead, proportions warped by the entropy of ripples. It’s hard to tell where he begins and ends for a second.
Swatting away a persistent couple of bugs, Kaveh’s eyes trace down along the last stretch of the trail. It begins to dip downwards along a slope, eventually winding off to an end right where a short stone ramp begins.
And there it stands.
—
The atmosphere is stifling.
Kaveh, dead-eyed, looks down at a dark scene. A black fog blots out any semblance of light, ushering in a dull crimson red that leaks from wilted vegetation.
A pair of Forest Rangers dash past him with pounding footsteps. Hustling with weapons in hand, they're ready to do away with the issue at hand. For them, the Withering is just another fire to put out.
They scramble toward the bare skeletons of construction, decayed as if left to the wild for a lifetime. A visceral feeling urges him to match their pace, to join the fray. But what would come of it? What had been a grand work nearing completion may as well have been ground into a fine dust before being dispersed into the deserts of Sumeru.
A high-pitched voice sounds off behind him. Tempered by a dry hoarseness from cowardly commands and jeers that could have been left unsaid, it is nothing but grating.
“There's no saving it now. Let it go, Kaveh.”
He can't bring himself to face it. The weight that bears down on his shoulders refuses to be thrown off, holding him in place. There’s nothing he can do but stand and stare.
“You've done your part,” it reasons wearily, impatience showing. “No more Mora to be made here. I’m not about to cough up another thousand sales’ worth for it.”
Kaveh shifts but doesn't budge. Money or not, something else anchors him to the palace-to-be. He lets out a long, deep exhale.
This project is unique. Free rein, in his own vision. It ought to be treasured as a diamond in the rough. Though there’s little left but the blueprints in his bag, he can make something out of the remains, whatever he can salvage. As for anything that can’t be pulled out of its carcass—that’s for him to figure out.
A response escapes his tightened chest, weak enough to be scattered by the humid wind that buffets against his face. “I’d still like to finish it,” he mutters, pursing his lips. “Just—just leave it to me.”
“Did I hear that right?” The voice creeps closer, pressing violent crunches into dirt. “Leave it to you? Now, how could you ever hope to afford such a project yourself?”
Kaveh’s knees almost buckle at the mention of cost. It’s such a harrowing factor in the problem that it takes a moment for him to realize that the voice has, in fact, simmered down to a luring coo. Suggestion drips from where venom once spewed, dangling the answer to its own questions over his head. There’s a way out for the two of them, it knows. And so does he.
Kaveh, lured by the prospect of completing his magnum opus, finally peers over his shoulder. A miniscule figure steadily approaches him.
Dori’s bright pink overtones have faded in the everlasting gray. Although the usual glint in her eyes is gone, something about the way her gaze lingers—stalks—upon his form tells him that they’re already in mutual agreement on how to solve this problem.
A smirk grows impossibly wide over her face.
—
Grandiose and adorned with vegetation, the Palace of Alcazarzaray stands as a natural extension of its lush, mountainous surroundings. With curved panels extending from a central bulb that reaches upward, its main structure appears as an abstraction of a blooming flower placed with delicate intent in the foreground of the scenery. Staff shuffle to and from what may as well be its stem, elevated from the ground by a set of steps.
Large and extravagant.
That was all its sponsor had wanted, and Kaveh had delivered.
Looking down at the finished product is almost surreal to Kaveh, even after all this time. For the longest time, it was little more than a few blueprints validated by a handshake and obligation. But it's done now—been done, for years now. Today adds another year to the count.
It’s a shame that it now serves as a poignant reminder of a bittersweet time.
—
Completing the length of the trail, he begins to scale an inviting stone-paved ramp. The perpetual dribbling of water grows louder as he climbs the shallow slope, and he gets close enough for the Palace’s caretakers to notice him. Though it feels as though their looks burn holes against his body (as they certainly recognize him), he gives each of them a shy wave. A couple do the same in turn.
He breathes a sigh of relief when it doesn’t seem like Dori’s around—she’d stick out despite her short stature. Seeing her once a month for payments is bad enough.
Stepping closer to the heart of his life’s work, he catches the attention of the butler, who stands by the Palace’s fountain. Acknowledging his newly-arrived guest, a refined stride brings the bespectacled man within a couple steps of Kaveh.
“Welcome, Kaveh,” he says, dipping his head down.
Kaveh returns the gesture, a practiced habit. “Greetings, Goshtasb. How goes the Palace these days?”
“The same as usual,” he answers politely. “It’s fitting that you decided to stop by. The Lord has requested that the staff put in some extra work to tidy up the premises for the palace’s anniversary today.”
Though it's an annual tradition for him to wander back to this work, he's thrown a bit off balance by the mention of the occasion. It’s as if he’s been caught red-handed stealing sweets from Dori’s pantry, though with less caramel in his pockets. Though most know him as the one responsible for planning the Palace, few seem to remember the significance of today to Kaveh.
Goshtasb continues, a beat ahead. “The Lord has prepared some treats for visitors today. Would you be interested in any sweets? ”
Kaveh’s stomach grumbles, though his resolve holds strong. “I’d rather not, thank you.”
“I assume you would like to send your regards to the Lord, then.”
“That I… of course,” stumbles Kaveh. “Do send them, please.”
It would probably be impolite to not, in any case.
“Very well. Have a nice day.”
And with that, Goshtasb seems content enough to give him a curt nod before stepping away. Having avoided his faux pas for the day, Kaveh lets out another huff of relief. Goshtab, for all his dignity, was never a person he ever felt the need to get particularly close to. He watches the butler walk off for good, and he’s already busy berating a couple of caretakers over a few leaves that haven’t been raked.
Left alone, finally.
A couple of tropical birds, squawking, coast down to perch on a towering petal-shaped gazebo in a corner of the estate. He follows along; it seems like it could offer him some much-needed shade.
En route, Kaveh coasts along a low-hanging display of colorful flowers kept in check by a vigilant pair of shears. Purple petals outstretched among a river of green, these plants fill up the edges of the garden nicely. These ones had been picked out before the Withering had run through the site.
They’re native plants, he remembers. Might as well be fresh from the forest.
—
“We wouldn't have been able to pass through here a couple of weeks ago. The Withering came through this area.” Tighnari clicks his tongue sharply, treading lightly against a beaten path. “A real pain in the neck, really.”
“I can imagine,” sympathizes Kaveh, a step behind his friend. “Extra work with nothing but less beauty to show for it. Sounds like handling a bad client to me.”
“I see,” nods Tighnari, aloofly. “That sounds… unpleasant.”
The Forest Watcher looks around as if he's misplaced one of his tomes in the woods. Head on a swivel, he seems to be a bit more concerned with scanning the wilderness than discussing occupational troubles right now.
Kaveh winces and bites his tongue. That's just how Tighnari is sometimes.
Tighnari kneels down on one knee, then points out a low-hanging natural arrangement of flowers only a few steps off the path they’re on. “What do you think about these?”
He refers to the plant with a couple of words that Kaveh can’t quite remember in the moment. A scientific name, maybe. Probably.
Kaveh strolls closer to the object of attention, to the point where he's almost looking straight down at the natural beauties. Their vines and leaves embrace the lower portion of a tree trunk. Each flower in bloom adds another dash of color to the mix, highlighting an otherwise mundane section of the forest with purple. Walking at that usual brisk pace of his, he would've missed these on the wayside.
“They’re… perfect,” he concludes, still staring at the plant. “I could use these for anything, really. Lining the exterior, perhaps.” Kaveh tilts his head down a little in gratitude. “Thank you.”
Tighnari winks, hands on his hips. “Glad a Forest Watcher could help, for once. Now, as for how you’re going to get your hands on more of these…” His tail, no longer hanging limp, traces circles in the air as he hums in thought. “I don’t exactly keep in touch with flower farmers in the city, but I could write to some Amurta friends to see if they know anyone.”
“That would be appreciated.” Kaveh shakes his head, one hand rubbing his neck. “I… don’t know how to repay you.”
Tighnari waves him off with a restrained smile. “Think nothing of it. Just part of my job. If anything, it was enjoyable to bring a friend around the forest.”
He’s painfully humble in spite of the fact that he’s one of Kaveh’s most accomplished peers. Free from the demands and conflicts of academia, he’s carved out his own life out in the forest and has much to show for it—more than a job or a title, Tighnari’s dedicated himself entirely to his own craft out of passion. Coming from the expected snootiness of the Akademiya, it would be hard to believe if he didn’t know him personally.
Not when Kaveh’s having such a tough time doing the same thing, anyway.
“How do you do it?” mumbles Kaveh absentmindedly into the back of his hand.
The fox’s ear twitches. “Botany, you mean?”
Right—big ears. Kaveh should have known he’d hear that. No running from this one now, though.
He sighs, caught in the truth. “Well yes, in a matter of speaking, but I mean… Making your studies and interests work in your life. They certainly don’t, no matter how hard I try.”
Tighnari’s tail sways in thought. “Hmm… I’m not sure. I live in my field of study as much as you do yours.” He pokes at his chin. “Luck of the draw? Perhaps life is just simpler out here. Regardless, it’s not something worth comparing.”
Perhaps that’s just the reality of being an architect, implies Tighnari, unintentionally.
“Maybe you’re right,” Kaveh manages to stammer. “Forget I said that. I was just talking to myself, is all.”
“Well, it’s a valid concern,” Tighnari reassures. “Just my two Mora, but I think you’re making the most of it. Maybe you can make the Palace something you’ll be proud of.”
Kaveh lets Tighnari’s words linger in the air for a bit. Speechless, the architect just gives a single affirmative nod.
“Well, that’s settled. Let’s get you home.” Tighnari takes a step toward the trail, but turns back before Kaveh even begins to move.
“And if you need anything else, you can just write to me.”
—
There’s not much else to see in the gazebo. Aside from the palace itself, there’s little more than the soothing mundanity of the forest to gawk at.
The flowers, petals carrying beads from being watered not long ago, twinkle temptingly at him. He’d like to reach down and pluck one of them to take home, but the watchful gaze of the staff feels omnipresent in this corner of Teyvat. Dori would shake him down for whatever’s left of his worth if he were caught, anyways.
The sun’s begun to dip down below the mountains. Though he should be getting home by now, the thought of having a memento for the day ushers Kaveh to another familiar place in Sumeru. It’s not long before he makes his way back down to the path he took, though not with the intention of retracing his steps for the day. Not yet.
He seems to wander as much as his mind does nowadays. Maybe he can make it home before nightfall if he walks fast enough. He just needs that flower.
—
Somewhere in Kaveh’s room, a drawer holds an undisturbed pile of parchment. He’s never used it on a regular basis—or at all, really. Each piece is too small for etching a design, too well-crafted for scribbling down notes.
They are, however, perfect for inscribing a letter to a good friend.
Writing back to Tighnari hasn't exactly crossed his mind since their exchanges concerning floral decorations. It's not that he’s forgetful, or that he’s lazy on this front. Something else keeps him from doing it—a degree of shame, a belief that there will be a better time for such affairs, a fear that Tighnari just might not understand whatever he’s dealing with. Most of all, he’s just unsure of what he could say without putting a burden on him. Life updates by the day? Complaints about clients? The Watcher already has his hands full with his usual duties in the forest. Last time they had a chat, he was having trouble with bringing Collei up to speed on her studies.
It’s not something Kaveh’s used to asking for—help, that is. Though, the more he thinks about it, it would be nice to check up on Tighnari and Collei every now and then, though. That couldn’t hurt.
The walk to Pardis Dhyai was long. His feet hurt all the more for it, the enthusiasm of daylight all but gone now. He’s most certainly not making it back home on time.
It’s a quiet place out in the forest. Most people don't linger here if they don't have to, not at this time of day. Though it’s a place he knows, it was never really his place to begin with. Tighnari was the one who had brought him out here for a dinner, given this is a space for Amurta students.
Speaking of, there’s one crouched over a garden bed. Although it’s almost evening now, she still seems to work with the same vigor as would be expected of an enthusiastic, yet-to-be-disillusioned first-year scholar. After making a couple of marks in her notebook, the student snips off a familiar-looking flower. Purple, short. It's the one he's looking for.
But he stands. Stares for a moment. Kaveh’s not one to ask strangers for something out of the blue, but he's willing to muster up the guts just this once. A deep breath before he approaches.
“Excuse me,” he squeaks, a whimper in the wind.
The student takes a precious second to tuck the flower into her notebook. She responds without turning to face him, more invested in jotting down some notes than anything.
“Hi. Can I help you?”
She speaks like Tighnari, stiff but not unwelcoming. It's as if she's been expecting him to walk up and ask her this very question for the past few minutes.
“I was just wondering if I could have one of those flowers,” inquires Kaveh, meekly. “Just for a keepsake.”
“Oh. Sure.” The student makes another quick cut deeper in the garden bed just outside of his view. Before he can react, she then raises a closed hand at him and reveals the item he’ll be taking home tonight. Her gaze, now directed at him, is almost entirely blank.
“Here.”
He blinks—she’s a little too straightforward, he thinks.
“Oh. Thanks.” Kaveh plucks the flower from her hands before scampering off and away sheepishly. The uncanny scholar doesn’t seem to mind, turning back to her own business.
He has what he came for, finally. Though he’d like to start on the way home, his legs hold him back. They’re strained by now, and he’s parched. It’s been a while since he’s walked this much.
There’s a nice little spot deeper in Amurta territory where he can rest, Kaveh remembers. It’s a wooden table under an outdoor canopy, not unlike the one back at the Palace. Here, plants border its edges almost wildly, out of some sense of enthusiasm or carelessness. Perhaps both. That’s how students tend to be.
To Kaveh, it's a dining place for the handful of those closest to him. It’s the usual place for the group to linger, whenever Cyno has a lull in his work and the other three think they have the patience to entertain his humor. The last time they ate here must have been months ago.
—
“We brought the dinnerware. It's only reasonable that you two clean up after us,” Alhaitham had laid out plainly.
Tighnari chuckled, then nodded. “Hard to disagree with that.”
Tighnari and Alhaitham, clutching bundles of soiled plates and silverware, now stand by a balcony facing an intensely red sunset. Kaveh can hear bits and pieces of their chat from the wipes away at the table in a drunken stupor. Something about their studies, he thinks. He’d like to join in, but those two had definitely plotted something in the background.
“They got us good,” admits the jackal cap-adorning general, who shoots a sideways glance toward an inebriated Kaveh. The latter uses a thin handkerchief to work away at a dried green stain. The blemish only appears between swirls and spots in his vision.
“Ugh, I might as well be using my sleeve to scrub this off,” he complains.
Cyno perks up. “Heh, then wouldn't you consider…” He flings a fresh, damp cloth lightly in front of Kaveh, landing right under his nose. “Throwing in the tow—”
“I get it,” Kaveh groans, slumping forward. He gives the smug-looking matra a solid look in the eyes—at least, as well as he can while under the influence. He’s not in the mood to entertain this, not right now. “What do you get out of this, exactly?”
Cyno tilts his head, unsure. “Wiping down the table, you mean? Tighnari much prefers if we—”
“No. This,” Kaveh sighs, gesturing at the air with an open hand. “Making your childish quips.” His tone harshens as he forms air quotes.
“Your ‘jokes.’”
The jackal hood-adorning general, for once, doesn’t have a witty response. Through a throbbing headache, Kaveh manages to sense a bit of unease emanating from his fellow table cleaner. He's on the verge of apologizing when Cyno beats him to the punch.
“It makes things easier,” states Cyno, drily.
Kaveh slumps forward over the table, baffled. “What?”
“Most people see me as quite menacing, colleagues and criminals alike. I much prefer if the former don't see me that way.”
“So you rattle off things like this to them,” huffs Kaveh. He can smell the eyewatering fumes of wine on his own breath.
“If that’s how you see it, yes. I find that disarming the Matra of their first impressions is rather helpful,” Cyno explains soberly. “They should feel free to speak their mind around me, at least.”
Kaveh leans back in self-pity, dismayed. “I sure wish I had that problem. What I’d do for an ounce of respect.”
“I could deduce that. From what you’ve been saying at our dinner chats, I mean,” he corrects.
“Not like I hide it,” Kaveh concedes, rubbing the bridge of his nose. “Of course I get stuck with the wanna-be architects.”
Another pause. This time, the drunk doesn’t expect to get a response.
To his surprise, Cyno pipes up again. “I believe that you should be comfortable with pushing for your own views more often when you're with your clients. That could help with your situation.”
“Alhaitham’s always on my case about that,” Kaveh groans. “You don't think I've tried? All it leads to is arguments with my clients, and that’s not something I can afford. Not with my luck.”
“I don’t mean that you should argue, necessarily. But it may be worth it to put up a fight, at least,” Cyno elaborates. “It would be like how people view me differently due to how I constantly make jokes, but the opposite. You'd be telling ‘no-kes’. You know, as in no jokes?”
A forehead lands with a violent thump against the table.
Cyno clears his throat, hoping to get a few more words in before his friend checks out for good. “I apologize. Perhaps that was a bad time for comedy.”
The exasperated one remains motionless in agreement.
“I ask that you hear me out in spite of my crudity.”
Kaveh doesn’t budge.
“In any case, I believe that it's only something worth doing if you're going to stick to it. You need to build a reputation for it so that you can express your own creativity,” lectures Cyno. He seems to believe what he’s saying, if he means it.
It makes… sense? This can’t be a buildup to another joke.
“Speaking from experience, it takes some time to become acclimated to this new behavior, and it might be harder for you than me given your situation. There’s a fine balance to be struck between your own vision and the wants of your client, and I’m sure you tend to favor the latter out of goodwill.”
There’s conviction in his voice as he delivers the final line of his monologue.
“But I trust that you can lean the other way for your own sake, and for your creativity—you’re more than capable.”
Face still against the table, Kaveh feels it rock a bit as Cyno works through one last stain. A warm hand softly lands on his shoulder.
“Come. It’s getting late.”
—
Kaveh fiddles with the stubby stem of the flower. Twilight glances off of its petals. A gust of wind brings the plant to a violent shudder, and he tucks it closer to the protection of his chest.
Purple. Not thorny. Might be wilting the more he deprives it from water and soil.
It’s something beautiful. He’d like to nurse it, at least maintain it for a respectable amount of time. A harsh night outdoors might not do it any favors.
He pushes himself up, off the bench. Some of the soreness from earlier sticks in his thighs, but it’s dulled by now.
That's all for Pardis Dhyai, then. He ought to make it home before it's too late.
—
He’d like to say it wasn’t him berating Cyno, not in such a harsh manner. In his mind, spewing words like those is the responsibility of others: clients, critics. Alhaitham, on some days. But it’s a truth he can’t escape when his issues mount.
It’s not hard to deduce that it comes from somewhere inside him—that creeping feeling that everything wants to get into the way of his life’s work to bring beauty to the masses. Bickering. Costs. Smaller annoyances. The tension seems to build up, then manifest into something worse in Kaveh. It lashes out at those closest to him in an ugly manner.
Back at that dinner, Cyno’s impromptu intervention may have meant something that he hadn’t fully grasped. It was advice that was easy to reject, or even to not fully comprehend in the moment. But after realizing that Tighnari might have been onto something with his suggestion to write to him, perhaps his other companion can’t be too far off either.
In hindsight, the ever-busy Matra had raised an interesting point—there’s a way to stop his frustrations at their source. It’ll take some time and a remarkable amount of effort to convince and cajole his clients into something that he’d like to make. But at least it leaves him something to strive for, lest he loses his way entirely as an architect—an artist, in his own sense.
He can work with that.
It’s dark by the time Kaveh reaches Sumeru City. Lamplight dances in and out of shadows as he trods through its roads, less bustling now that the glimmer of the stars has lulled the town to sleep. Treasures Street would be ominous if it wasn’t for the signs of life that linger in the evening. A few shopkeepers seem to be busy packing their wares, and there’s always a constant buzz that radiates from Tambad’s. A group of students scurry past Kaveh, ready to drink away a week’s worth of troubles.
That’s not where he’ll end up tonight—he’s completely winded after a day marching in the outdoors, and he has a plant to keep alive. Clutching his flower in one hand, the other searches himself for a housekey. Still there, he’s relieved to find.
He gently pops open the front door to his shared residence. Lit candles flicker and make their warmth known as Kaveh enters. There’s someone using their light, naturally.
“I thought you’d already be out at Lambad’s,” quips Alhaitham, unmoved by his roommate’s return. Sitting right in the middle of a couch in the living room, he holds an open book in one hand, still seemingly engrossed in its contents.
Kaveh’s brow furrows. “Just like you to think so lowly of me,” he mutters, voice embarrassingly hoarse from thirst now.
“I was only speaking based on your tendencies. But today’s different, isn’t it?”
“I—well, yes! It’s no secret that today’s the Palace’s anniversary.” Kaveh crosses his arms. “It doesn’t take a genius to figure that one out.”
“Every other year, you’d be more than halfway to being blackout by now. What’s different?”
“I’m just… trying something new. Not that you’d get it.”
Alhaitham manages to seem utterly unconvinced while maintaining his scowl. “Then what’s different about today?”
“Isn’t it obvious what this day means to me? Augh, I’m not in the mood for this. Look, can I just put this flower in a pot without you getting in the way?”
Alhaitham gives the flower a quick glance before returning to his hardcover.
“With what soil?”
The thought hadn’t crossed Kaveh’s mind. Yet, of course.
“Well… I suppose I could just go out and get some now.”
“Now? It’s too late for that.”
Kaveh scoffs. “Well? Then what do you want me to do?”
“For now, you could fill a pot up with some water for the plant. Not enough to drown it, mind you.”
Kaveh’s too tired to put up any more of a fight, though he grumbles as he shuffles over to the kitchen.
“There should be some small pots in the cabinet at your feet,” calls Alhaitham from his cushy seat. “And you haven’t eaten today, most likely. There’s some leftovers on the counter.”
The remark doesn’t faze him—the faint smell of Pita Pockets has captured his senses already. Following the cool scent, he finds them on a platter, just where Alhaitham said they’d be. A quick bite couldn’t hurt. They’re not warm nor particularly well-made, but the familiar taste draws him in. The vegetables have retained their crunch, the bread not too hard or soft. And the meat is savory. Juicy.
Between nibbles, Kaveh’s able to dig up a reasonably-sized container through the clinks and clatter of porcelain. Filling it with a cup of water (after taking a sip of his own), the little flower sits suspended in its newfound home.
Satisfied with the state of his memento, Kaveh trudges straight toward his corner of the residence for a rest. Though he’s about to breeze past the living room to find peace, Kaveh stops dead in his tracks when Alhaitham pipes up.
“Sit.”
It’s just a single gruff syllable—a command, at that—yet he’s drawn to the offer. His legs are tired, shoulders heavy. He might even drop his plant if he’s not careful. All the while, the seat calls for him, and his knees beg for the seat. Though Alhaitham occupies the center of the couch, there’s still enough space on either side of him.
Kaveh finally caves, sinking into the cushion for some much-needed rest. He’d like to tuck his little plant close to himself, but it might spill. He opts to delicately place it on the low table in front of them instead, the makeshift flowerpot now sharing a space with a small tray of melted wax. A small amount of warmth emanates from it, making it easier to ignore the draft that seeps in through a half-open window.
Leaning away from the man in the middle, Kaveh steals a quick look at him. Still busy with his book, it seems. For all the literature he goes through in a day, Alhaitham’s face is as hard to read as ever. The aura around him is recognizably distant. That is to say, in spite of his reservations about discussing the abstract with Kaveh, he wouldn't say anything to him without a good reason for it.
“Well? Are you going to say something?” asks Kaveh impatiently, palm on his forehead.
“I was waiting for you to speak, actually. You still haven’t answered my question from earlier.”
Kaveh looks over, confused. “Question?”
“What makes today different from the other anniversaries of the Palace?”
“Well…” Kaveh yawns. “The walk was long and exhausting, as usual. When I was at the Palace, Dori wasn’t there, but the butler was. I said ‘hi’.”
Alhaitham turns a page. “Interesting.”
Kaveh grits his teeth—he knows that’s not the response he’s looking for. Those details are irrelevant, mundane. Behind and beneath Alhaitham already. The proper answer might involve a curious colorful something that sits right in front of them, yet to be explained.
He gestures at the pot in front of them. “This flower’s from the Palace,” Kaveh elaborates. “We used it to line the exterior. Now, before you get on my case, I don’t mean I stole it off the premises. I walked out to Pardis Dhyai to grab one. A student gave it to me.”
Alhaitham nods once in silent acknowledgement, gaze unwavering from the contents of his book. In his mind, that should adequately explain why Kaveh isn’t already half-knocked out at the tavern.
“Why go out of your way to grab one?” Alhaitham continues to prod. “That sounds like a waste of time and energy.”
He raises the book a little, enough for the book’s dry academic title to be revealed to Kaveh in the candlelight—Plants and Punishment: Precedents in Fontanian Environmental Law.
“It means something to me. Not just beauty or a souvenir for finishing the palace, but of our friends.” He swipes his hand outward, gesturing as if the two stand before them. “Tighnari and Cyno.”
“How so?” the scribe inquires, stoic composure unwavering.
“Tighnari helped me pick out the plants for the garden, if you remember. And as for Cyno… I guess I’ve talked to him most at Pardis Dhyai when the four of us have dinner together. Heading out made me think about the two of them.”
“Mhm.” Alhaitham flips back a couple of pages, as if he's missed something important. “And what does that mean to you?”
“Something bittersweet, I suppose.” He rubs an eye roughly, fighting off weariness that nips at his consciousness. “You already know how I feel about the Palace and my job. But thinking back on it, I feel as though I haven't been that good of a friend, either.”
“I could sense that, yes.”
“Wh—How?”
Alhaitham closes his book with a muffled thud, placing it next to the plant. “You usually don't hold onto things that come from good times. If you're mentioning your friends in the same breath as this keepsake, then it's not a difficult conclusion to come to.”
Kaveh sways, a fuzzy darkness eating away at the glow of a dim flame. He’s the readable one, as always. The things he keeps—his mother’s sketchbook, old drafts of the Palace, even the Vision hanging on his hip—they’re all descended from the remnants of painful memories. Always dangling over him are reminders of loneliness and loss. Guilt.
“Do you think this flower will just be another, then?” Kaveh asks, the tail end of the inquiry trailing off.
“Another souvenir from bad times? Maybe.”
“Maybe?” Kaveh slumps backwards into the seat. “Since when were you so uncertain about the way I behave?”
Alhaitham turns just enough to look Kaveh dead in the eye, pupils catching the glint of a candlewick soon to expire. “Not everything goes as you’d otherwise hope. Though I don’t expect you to change overnight, I believe you still have some agency in this matter.”
“You’re being vague again,” Kaveh complains, squirming. “What exactly do I have agency in?”
It’s only question after question from Kaveh, he realizes. Alhaitham doesn’t have the patience to bother with a lopsided exchange like this—he’s about to up and leave at any moment now. Especially this late into the night.
Sure enough, Alhaitham stands straight up, about to waltz off to bed as if they’d never had this talk. “You still have a chance to determine what this flower means to you,” he answers coolly, scooping up his candletray and tome in a single motion. “I’ll be getting to bed.”
Kaveh can’t muster the will or strength to prop himself up, let alone push himself out of the seat. “Yes, but… there’s still more to talk about. Please stay,” he pleads. His voice is faint now.
“It won’t be productive. Not at this hour,” rejects Alhaitham, already halfway to his room. “Goodbye.”
The door shuts firmly behind him. It’s dark without the candlelight. And just that much cooler.
He wants to follow, pound on his door to annoy him a bit, at least. But push and pull as he might, his limbs go under. The cushions behind and beneath Kaveh seem to suck him in like quicksand. It’s not so easy to fight against the temptation of sleep now. Not when he’s stuck like this, each movement causing exertion his body can no longer afford. Another prolonged blink beckons him closer to the end of his day.
Even if Alhaitham were to come back and prop him up, let him rest against his shoulder out of pity, he wouldn’t know.
—
Laughter comes from somewhere. Sounds like it’s from a couple of people, certainly fewer than a dozen. It’s hard to see far beyond the bright pink haze, difficult to tell how sound bounces around in it. He has to squint a little to make sense of anything.
“Anyone there?”
No response. Not even an echo.
Well, nothing to do but walk.
He wanders in the mist, searching for some sign of life. Above, a couple of balloons drift past, up and over. Moving the opposite way, a splash of color swirls through the air, taking its time to descend—confetti. A piece lodges in his hair, the others carpeting the floor at his feet. He picks it out of his hair between two fingers. It’s purple.
A party horn sounds from right behind him. It’s not unpleasant nor harsh nor loud; the noise is just a mild surprise. He pivots to look at who might have blown it.
No one’s there. Some more snickers come from behind the haze.
Looking around, Kaveh spots a table with a green cake placed right in the middle. A single lit candle poked through its center, it stands no taller than waist height. Walking closer, he can see that it's carefully hand-decorated, swirls of color rounding out a tuft of leaves made with frosting on its edges.
It’s his birthday? Must be, with the cake and candle and all. This is the part where he makes a wish.
He should feel… happy? There’s some decorations for him, and a dessert with it. The scenery is surreal, to say the least. But there’s no one to share the treat with, no one to skulk about or clean up the eventual mess with. It’s lonely out here. Now that he thinks about it, almost unbearably so.
Then, I’ll wish for my friends to be here, in good health and in good spirits. I’d like to say hi to them. And to give them thanks for being here.
He blows out the candle with one quick puff.
Before he knows it, some familiar figures emerge from the haze. They’re the source of laughter, it seems; they don’t even try to hide it.
“We were here the whole time, you big lummox,” teases Tighnari between giggles. “Happy birthday.”
“You were?”
“Yeah.” Tighnari points at an opening in the haze. “Right there.”
“To be fair to our friend, we were quite well hidden,” Cyno reassures. “Hidden you think so, Kaveh?”
Hidden? Doesn’t he mean “didn’t”?
Tighnari gives Cyno a playful shove, who takes it in kind. “Okay, that was low-hanging fruit! You can do better!”
Kaveh can’t help but beam at the two, and they flash their own grins in response. They were the ones who set all of this up for him? He hasn’t had a surprise birthday party in… ever, really.
He wells up a little in one eye, then sniffs up an unruly liquid running through his nose. “I, um… thanks for being here.”
“This is the least we could do,” shrugs Tighnari, leaning into Cyno now.
“Quick, we should eat the cake before it melts,” Cyno urges politely. He points at a purple frosting flower that’s beginning to dip precariously over the edge of the cake.
Tighnari jumps in place, ears perking up. “Oh, right!”
Before Kaveh knows it, a plate and cake cutter is shoved into his hands. Was Tighnari holding onto those already?
As the cake is sliced (Kaveh takes a second to figure out how to cut it into even slices first), a third face watches. He's remained silent throughout this whole exchange. Kaveh shoots a curious glance in his direction. His jaw drops to the ground as his eyes dart back for a quick double take.
Is that Alhaitham…smiling?!
—
Kaveh stirs. It is most definitely not his birthday.
He’s lying down now, sideways with his head against a soft pillow. Drafts of designs are scattered along the wall, made visible by muted sunlight. Dusty. It's his bed, his room. How'd he get here?
He runs a finger along a thin streak down his face where the cool crispness of the air feels more pronounced. It runs from one eye down toward his cheek, right into a damp spot on his pillow. Though a tear of joy has made itself apparent in reality, the happiness behind it seems to remain a figurement of his imagination. A familiar sense of pure ennui creeps in, filling the void left by his short-lived dream. It confines him to the shackles of his resting place.
Tossing himself to his opposite side in the hopes of finding more comfort, he comes face-to-face with purple petals that jump out of his ordinary. It’s certainly still alive within its container, its short stem resting stoutly on his nightstand in the shade of closed curtains. It’s almost a comforting sight—it would be entirely so if it weren't for the fact that flowers like this need the sun.
He has to push, heave himself upwards to take his new houseplant to what it needs. In more than a few moments, Kaveh’s able to pry himself from the grip of his bed. Impulsively, he darts to his feet quickly—too quickly. The weight of the world throws itself against him, and he feels it in his legs and his spinning head. But he takes a breath, a much-needed moment. It's not so hard to stand now, not when he knows what he has to do today.
Kaveh finally grabs his plant, taking careful steps through the fog in his head. With a gracious amount of care, he places the flower on his windowsill in front of his drafting table, careful as he tucks the drapes back. There’s something simply satisfying about the scene: his own little piece of the forest in his room, tiny leaves now illuminated by morning light. Well, he’s at his workspace now—it’s almost time to get back to finishing his travail for the day. There’s still some business he needs to take care of before he gets started, though.
He reaches under his table; there’s a cabinet somewhere down there. His fingertips feel a satisfyingly cool metal knob, and before he knows it, he’s extracted two pieces of parchment and a blue quill pen from his compartment. Assuming his usual seat, he sets them on his work station.
Swirling his pen in an ink bottle, he ponders what to put on his page past the expected “Dear Tighnari” and “Dear Cyno”. He has a better idea for what to write for the former—something about plants. The flower in front of him, ideally. It still needs fresh soil, daily watering, for Kaveh to check on it regularly. There’s some specifics he can ask about. But even with the most pristine care, its pretty petals and leaves and stem will begin to wilt someday. It is just another matter of time, a matter of lengthening the days before it shrivels and ceases to be, later replaced by another fledgling plant—or nothing at all, if he so chooses.
The flower thrives for now, facing the sun.