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2025-12-03
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The Empirical Language of Love

Anonymous

Summary:

When Alhaitham learns that Kaveh has never felt truly seen or loved in a relationship, he approaches the problem as he would any other: with a rigorous, five-week experiment based on the concept of love languages. It is a perfectly logical plan to discover what makes his roommate feel cherished.

The only flaw in his methodology? Failing to account for his own heart, especially when a certain serious-minded Mondstadt winemaker named Diluc takes an interest in Kaveh's genius.

Work Text:

The idea, Alhaitham would later insist to a profoundly unimpused Cyno, had been academically sound. It possessed a clear hypothesis, a structured methodology, and a control group of one: Kaveh.

It had all begun in the dim, comfortable quiet of their shared home, long after the midnight oil had burned down. The air was thick with the scent of ink and parchment, and Kaveh, fueled by coffee and frustration over a client’s impossible demands, had slumped over the divan with a dramatic sigh.

“It’s futile,” he’d moaned. “They want a palace built from dreams and paid for with mora they don’t have. They don’t see the work, the soul, the… the love that goes into it. Not that I’d know what that feels like anyway.”

Alhaitham, who had been annotating a text on ancient Liyue linguistic structures, looked up, his stylus pausing. “What feels like what?”

“Being seen like that,” Kaveh gestured vaguely, his voice losing its theatrical edge and turning genuinely weary. “Loved. Not for the facade of the Light of Kshahrewar, not for whatever idealized version people project onto me. But for the… the messy, inconvenient, financially irresponsible reality. I don’t think I ever have. I certainly don’t know what would make me feel that way. What is it those popular psychology texts from Fontaine go on about? A ‘love language’? I have no earthly idea what mine would be.”

And just like that, the experiment was born.

Alhaitham, a man who believed all of life’s chaos could be ordered and understood with sufficient data, saw a fascinating puzzle.

If Kaveh, a man of profound and obvious emotional needs, could not identify his own primary receptor for affection, then Alhaitham would simply discover it for him. It was a project. A logical, dispassionate, and highly organized inquiry into human emotional response.

He’d even mentioned his proposed methodology to Lesser Lord Kusanali and the Wanderer during one of their weekly discussions in the Sanctuary of Surasthana, framing it as a study in interpersonal dynamics.

The Wanderer had snorted, a sharp, derisive sound. “So your grand plan is to romance your roommate without calling it romance. How utterly predictable.”

Nahida, however, had tilted her head, her large, wise eyes twinkling with amusement. “An interesting approach, Alhaitham. But are you prepared for the variables your own heart might introduce into the data set?”

“The source of the data is irrelevant to its validity,” Alhaitham had replied, though the statement felt flimsier than usual. “It’s the response that matters.”

 

 

Week One, Acts of Service, was, by Alhaitham’s metrics, a success. He didn’t merely perform tasks; he executed a systematic elimination of Kaveh’s primary stressors.

He quietly settled Kaveh’s outstanding tab at Lambad’s Tavern, organized the chaotic explosion of blueprints and sketching tools in his room into a meticulously ordered system, had his prized but often-breaking claymore professionally sharpened and maintained, and ensured the pantry was consistently stocked with Kaveh’s favorite coffee blend.

Kaveh’s responses were a series of bewildered, grateful looks.

“Did you… organize my pigments by hue and saturation?” he’d asked, standing in the doorway of his now-spotless study.

“A logical system improves efficiency and reduces creative friction,” Alhaitham had stated, not looking up from his book.

Internally, he noted: Positive reception. Notable decrease in irritable outbursts. Subject appears to feel supported.

Week Two, Words of Affirmation, was intellectually challenging. Alhaitham dealt in facts, not flattery. But for the sake of the experiment, he persevered.

He left a note tucked into Kaveh’s sketchbook: ‘Your structural solution for the Port Ormos extension was elegant. Efficient.’

He remarked, during a shared silence, “Your capacity for empathy, while often leading you to financial ruin, is a rare and potent form of intelligence.” The words felt foreign and clumsy on his tongue, but the effect on Kaveh was profound.

He’d stared at Alhaitham, a faint blush coloring his cheeks, before looking away and muttering, “Did you hit your head during your morning training?” But the protest was weak, and he’d seemed quietly pleased for the rest of the day.

Alhaitham’s internal log grew more complex: Reaction is stronger and more volatile than to Acts of Service. Subject exhibits signs of emotional fluster. Data suggests a high sensitivity to verbal praise.

It was during Week Three, Receiving Gifts, that the first significant anomaly appeared. Alhaitham presented Kaveh with a set of custom-made, high-quality drafting tools from Fontaine, their precision and balance far superior to his old, worn set.

Kaveh accepted them with genuine, gasping delight, his fingers tracing the exquisite craftsmanship. But it was Tighnari, visiting to drop off some medicinal herbs, who provided the confounding variable.

“Another gift, Kaveh?” he’d said, a knowing smirk playing on his lips. “My, my. Alhaitham is being unusually… courtly lately. Should I be expecting wedding invitations soon?”

The word ‘courtly’ had hung in the air, thick and disruptive. Kaveh had sputtered, his face turning a brilliant crimson. “Don’t be absurd, Tighnari! He’s just… being less of an insufferable roommate than usual!” But he hadn’t met Alhaitham’s eyes.

The experiment was beginning to feel less like a controlled study and more like a game of Generals' Ambition where the rules kept changing mid-turn.

And then, Diluc Ragnvindr entered the equation.

The Master of the Dawn Winery from Mondstadt was in Sumeru to discuss a potential trade expansion, and his path crossed Kaveh’s at a gathering of artists and patrons. Diluc was handsome, serious, and financially stable—everything Kaveh’s clients usually were not.

They struck up a conversation about Mondstadtian architecture that stretched for hours. Alhaitham, who had observed this from a distance, felt a strange, cold sensation coil in his gut. It was illogical. Diluc was simply a data point, a potential external influence.

But when Kaveh mentioned a few days later that he’d agreed to have dinner with Diluc to further discuss "aesthetic principles," the coil tightened.

The blurring of the lines became a chasm during Week Four, Quality Time.

Alhaitham planned it with the same rigor he applied to his work: a visit to a new art exhibit in the Grand Bazaar, a collaborative trip to the markets to source ingredients for a meal they would cook together, and even offering to listen to Kaveh’s lengthy, impassioned rants about his clients without once interjecting to point out their logical fallacies.

The pinnacle was a full day spent hiking to a remote, scenic overlook south of Gandharva Ville, a place Kaveh had often talked about sketching but never found the time for. It was hours of quiet companionship, punctuated by the rustle of leaves and the shared silence that was, for once, not charged with tension.

As the sun began to set, casting long shadows over the rainforest canopy, Kaveh sat on a rock, his sketchbook forgotten in his lap.

“You know,” he said, his voice softer than Alhaitham had heard it in years, “this is… peaceful. I don’t think I’ve ever just… existed with someone like this. Without feeling the need to fill the silence or justify my presence.”

Alhaitham’s heart, that unreliable, unquantifiable organ, performed a sudden and violent arrhythmia in his chest. The data was becoming overwhelmingly contaminated by a variable he had foolishly discounted: himself.

He wanted to be the one Kaveh existed with. He wanted to be the silent space where Kaveh felt no need to perform. The realization was as terrifying as it was intellectually dishonest. His entire hypothesis was flawed from the outset.

 

 

It all came to a head during Week Five: Physical Touch. Alhaitham’s original plan had been simple: increase casual, non-invasive contact.

A guiding hand on the back to steer him through a crowd, a brief touch on the shoulder to get his attention, sitting closer on the divan in the evenings. But his focus was shattered. He was hyper-aware of Kaveh’s proximity, the warmth of his skin through his thin shirts, the way a stray strand of golden hair would fall across his forehead.

He was in their living room, attempting to read while Kaveh frantically packed a bag for an overnight site visit to a project in the desert, when the subject of Diluc resurfaced.

Kaveh, muttering about forgetting his good ink, said offhandedly, “I’m meeting Master Diluc for a drink tomorrow evening when I get back. He said he has a business proposition that might interest me.”

Alhaitham’s book lowered a fraction of an inch. “I see. He seems… persistent.”

Kaveh shrugged, not looking up from his bag. “He’s a serious man with serious mora. You should be pleased; if this proposal is lucrative, I might finally be able to pay you back for… well, for everything.”

And something in Alhaitham snapped. The cold, logical jealousy he’d been cataloguing, the sheer, unbearable thought of Kaveh sharing his time, his genius, his smile with that brooding Mondstadtian winemaker… it overflowed, breaching the confines of his experiment.

“He’s not doing it out of business acumen,” Alhaitham said, his voice dangerously low.

Kaveh finally stopped packing and looked at him, confusion etching his features. “What are you talking about?”

“Diluc. He’s not interested in your architectural skills. Not primarily.” Alhaitham closed his book with a definitive snap and stood up. “He’s interested in you. Romantically. It’s patently obvious.”

Kaveh stared at him, a flush of irritation rising on his neck. “And what business is that of yours? You’re my roommate, not my keeper. Since when do you care about my romantic prospects?”

“Since I launched this farcical experiment!” The words were out before Alhaitham could stop them, raw and unedited. He took a step forward, the space between them crackling with the energy of a thousand unsaid arguments. “This whole endeavor, Kaveh, this ‘study’ of your love languages… it was a lie. A pretense I constructed to justify the data my own senses were already providing.”

The silence in the room was absolute, broken only by the distant sounds of the city. Kaveh’s eyes were wide, his anger replaced by sheer, unadulterated shock.

“The acts of service?” Alhaitham continued, his voice dropping, losing its clinical edge and gaining a rough, emotional texture that was entirely new. “It was because I see how you run yourself into the ground for a world that rarely appreciates you, and I wished to ease your burden. The words of affirmation? Because I find your mind, your passion, your ridiculous, beautiful heart to be the most brilliant thing I have ever encountered, and you are criminally unaware of it. The gifts? Because I see objects of utility and beauty and my first thought is always that you should have them. The time?”

He was standing right in front of Kaveh now, close enough to see the flecks of crimson in his carmine eyes. “The time is because my world is ordered and quiet, and yours is a glorious, chaotic storm, and I find I no longer have any desire for the silence you leave behind.”

He was breathing heavily, his own confession hanging between them like a physical entity. Kaveh was utterly still, his lips slightly parted, his expression one of dawning, terrified comprehension.

“And the touch…” Alhaitham’s gaze flickered down to Kaveh’s hands, then back to his eyes, and all pretense of scientific detachment vanished. “The touch is because for years, I have had to consciously stop myself from reaching for you. The thought of you… feeling that kind of connection with someone else, with Diluc or anyone… the data was unequivocal. It was intolerable.”

Kaveh was silent for a long, agonizing moment, just looking at him, his chest rising and falling rapidly. Then, a slow, wondrous, and slightly tearful smile broke through his shock. It was a smile Alhaitham had never seen before—completely unguarded, stripped of all vanity and performance, and radiant with a hope so fierce it was almost painful to behold.

“You… you absolute fool,” Kaveh whispered, his voice thick with emotion. “You colossal idiot.”

Alhaitham’s heart, which had been pounding a frantic rhythm against his ribs, seemed to stutter to a halt. “The experiment is concluded, then,” he said, the statement feeling hollow.

“Concluded?” Kaveh let out a wet, shaky laugh.

He reached out, his hand, calloused from drawing and building, coming up to cradle Alhaitham’s jaw, his thumb stroking over his cheekbone. The touch was electric, a final, catastrophic data point that obliterated all previous findings.

“You found the answer on day one, you moron. It’s you. It’s always been you. All of it. Every single ‘language.’ The only thing I ever wanted was for it to be you.”

The last of Alhaitham’s restraint evaporated. He leaned in, closing the distance between them, and captured Kaveh’s lips with his own. It wasn’t a gentle, questioning kiss. It was an inferno, a release of years of intellectual rivalry, of shared living space and unshared feelings, of bickering that was a poor substitute for this, for the devastating rightness of their mouths moving together.

Kaveh’s arms wrapped around his neck, pulling him closer, his fingers tangling in the hair at his nape as he kissed back with a desperate, joyful fervor. It was a kiss that felt like the final, missing axiom in a complex theorem, making sense of everything that had come before.

When they finally broke apart, foreheads resting together, breathing in the same air, the world had been fundamentally rewritten. The packed bag for the desert was forgotten on the floor, the book lay discarded on the table, and the house that had been a tense shared space now felt, irrevocably, like a home.

“So,” Kaveh whispered, a giddy, disbelieving laugh shaking his frame. “No more experiments?”

Alhaitham shook his head, a genuine, uncalculated smile—a rare and precious thing—touching his lips. “No more experiments.” He kissed him again, softly, a promise. “Just this.”

 

 

Weeks later, while sharing a pot of tea with Zhongli and Venti at a quiet table in Liyue Harbor, the Archon of Contracts and the Anemo Archon would observe the two scholars from Sumeru bickering fondly over the merits of a particular glaze on a vase.

“It seems a new contract of the heart has been forged,” Zhongli remarked sagely, sipping his tea.

Venti giggled, strumming a cheerful chord on his lyre. “Oh, I’d say it was less of a contract and more of a hypothesis that was spectacularly proven true! The winds of change smell particularly sweet on those two.” He winked. “Took them long enough.”