Chapter Text
We must follow where the winds of freedom blow.
There are some sentences you do not want to hear the night before a debate tournament. One of them is most frequently spoken by one of your teammates, Charlotte, being: “Let’s go do something fun!”
Unfortunately, these too are the words you find yourself most acquiescing to the night before a debate tournament.
At this time of evening, only golden lamps keep this city’s pulse alive. The ambering is a sweet scene, but your mind is somewhere else— what awaits you and your trusted debate trio tomorrow’s following days: the biggest, truest, highest-stakes test of wit and acuity. You can’t recall how many thankless nights you’d spent preparing for it— filling your mind with history lessons and economic jargon or sparring over late night coffee cups with your friends. It feels more surreal now that it’ll all come to a head tomorrow.
Charlotte’s bubbly declaration of “We’re here!” snaps you away from your thoughts and here at the moment: here being this cafe with quite the lavish exterior: large sweeping gables in deep green, hoisted over peach-colored bricks. Within it emanates the scent of fresh coffee beans and homemade pastry— it seems as if these plans would fulfill the concept of fun— or at least the relaxing one achieved over a hot drink and a hearty dessert.
But alas. There must be some kind of record for how quickly someone can be proven wrong, and surely you had just won it. What you thought was her refusal to occupy the various empty tables because she knew a spot in the café turned out to be her half-baked plan to rope you into socialization with the groups of people you could not bear to think about, let alone see.
It takes all the patience in you to not let your irritation show as you stand in the doorway of a private conference room, populated by debaters from all across the continent.
Whatever idea you had conjured up for the night has gone down the drain. The only question in your mind was: who in their right mind could possibly say that being surrounded by these people— of all nights— would be fun? Even without all the intellectual load that came with forcing yourself to listen to people drabble all night— attending was certainly not worth what little respite you enjoyed before you and your peers are confined to classrooms for intellectual discussions for the rest of the week.
As you found yourself nearly dragging your unwilling body through the door, you realize that the real blame is only on you.
Who in their right mind wouldn’t ask what they were getting dragged out to do?
This is where you have found yourself in this auspicious evening in Sumeru city. It’s eight p.m., nearly nine, and you could be anywhere else on Teyvat, but you’re here, more or less against your will. The cold of the night is not bitter, but it’s not kind either— thick drafts blowing through the windows praising song to the jingling chimes. Amihan, as the Sumerians call it— the lovely season where the cool Snezhnayan wind prevails over Sumeru’s tropical heat. The room feels anything but harshly cold with how golden lamps color the whole room with a soft yellow. There was some kind of balance between the two elements, and for this you were silently grateful for. Archons know how difficult it is to debate— or do anything at all— in environments of sweltering heat.
You were originally never all that averse to it, though perhaps your move to Fontaine has left you feeling particularly disdainful of warm weather.
“Charlotte, you could’ve at least told me that we were going here,” you begin absent-mindedly as you regard the room and its many people. There are some faces you recognize, like the duo in the far back who stole a championship from you, like a rug beneath your feet. Most faces are a blur to you now— though you feel like you can recall them by voice instead. What with all the times you've subjected yourself to hearing it.
“Had I known that we were going to be here then I would have— ”
Turns out your pink-haired companion had eluded you now, gliding off at the far side of the room. She’s chatting with your other teammate Chevreuse— whenever did she get here too, you have no idea— leaving you to chat with the brick wall.
Right— totally not embarrassing to have spoken to yourself for what felt like several minutes. You are halfway through crawling into a hole and dying there until a smooth feminine voice calls out your name— and you’d recognize that velvet-like cadence just almost anywhere. You turn your head around and catch the sight of golden-brown locks and green eyes— and relieved is not enough to describe the thankfulness that passes you.
“I must say, I didn’t quite expect you to be here, but I’m still happy to see you,” Lisa remarks, as she hands you a glass of punch.
“Charlotte dragged me here without telling me…” you take a swig of the glass, face pulling down into a frown at the absence of liquor, “so I felt like I should humor her.” Another sip, as you direct your gaze to the distant pair to avoid Lisa’s sympathetic eyes.
“Well, what do you expect? She’s two years your junior, and we know how much…energy they have.” She lightly slaps you on the shoulder— some reminder that is for patience that you supposedly should have— then clasps her gloved hand around it and continues. “At least you’re here now.”
Perhaps you should grant Charlotte more grace. If not for her and her odd plan to get you out of the lodgings, you would not have found the comfort again of a familiar face— that embarrassment lodged in your ribs easing off you.
Minutes pass fruitfully in this practice of catching up, with more acquaintances coming in and forming conversational bubbles. There’s laughter within your circle as you recount your first out-of-country tournament experience— that interesting time you and your cohort-mates were given inaccurate directions by a local, causing the tournament to delay its schedule by a whole hour to accommodate your group’s tardiness.
At some point, you were midway through laughter when Lisa— when did she even pull away from your side— coasts through the crowd with… a girl in tow? Your eyes nearly didn’t catch the manner in which their fingers interlocked when she then declares, with a voice nearly commanding the attention of the whole room: “This is my girlfriend, Jean!”,
You’re not sure what surprised you more, the fact that Lisa— a woman notoriously disinterested in relationships— now has a girlfriend, or the fact that her girlfriend is involved in debate just as she is.
Perhaps it is indeed possible to find love in this field where everyone seems to be totally fine with being your friend one day, and absolutely willing to cut your throat the next for their gain of short-lived prizes.
Then, something else commands the attention of the room— you guess so with how their eyes flit to the buzz growing around the entrance— and you can only discern by spoken tongues that the new arrivals must be the stars of the night: students of the Sumeru Akademiya— with their great patronage did pre-tournament socials of this size become possible. What with all their deep pockets…and insatiable desire to establish themselves as the central hub for academics (and the accompanying tendencies for fun) in the continent.
Lisa briefly departs from the group yet again, muttering a quick “I’ll be back!” upon spotting the sea of green and white tunics, and you can only watch as she glides her way smoothly over to the group of students.
“I had no idea she knew them,” you passively remark, sipping into your third liquor-less Gray Valley Sunset of the night.
Mona perks up quickly, explaining, “She studied in Sumeru for two years before transferring to Mondstadt. I believe she was in their debate team for a while before she left, hence the connection.”
At this very interesting piece of information— that your paths with the Mondstadtian debater could have crossed earlier than realized— you muster a nod, and mind trails to map out the many ways that the debate circuit remains interconnected.
Then, Lisa calls your name from behind you. You spin around to greet her, but what you did not expect was another man she seemingly dragged beside her— standing a few inches away. Your brows furrow as you regard him, trying to pique a familiarity in his features.
But when his piercing, viridescent gaze meets yours, it takes less than five seconds for you to realize who you’re looking at.
“You’ve met Alhaitham before, haven’t you?”
────── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──────
( A few years ago . . . )
Beneath the glaring lights of the largest theater he’d seen, Al-haitham stood upon a podium, and strung together the words he prepared nearly his whole life to deliver. Nothing could come close to this—this feeling of fire that shook his vessels and kept his mind alight with. Once, these were concepts that were foreign to him now— now they made real sense as he strung together words with beyond-sufficient explanations— all this in an effort to secure the tournament’s championship. A title that everyone else had contended for.
The last monolith to topple sat opposite from him, a monolith held up by a person he cannot bear to fell. This wasn’t the first time he saw you in this tournament— hell, his team was matched against yours three times during the preliminary rounds, but this was certainly the most bittersweet moment for the two of you to share.
Speaking in the grand finals of your last secondary school tournament was once a mutual dream too, between you and him, until your shared trail had suddenly cleaved into crossroads. While he knew his course continued right into the forest, you left and strayed away to sea. So here you two are onstage, bearing emblems of different schools— the closest you’ve been and the farthest you’ll be.
His most inseparable debate partner now another obstacle to overcome. Another tree to fall, to reach the title that had always been more your dream than his. Even if you never said that part out loud, he knew it already from the lit sparkles in your eyes— akin to fire— a fire he hated himself for wanting to put out now for his own gain.
When he concluded, resounding praise from the crowd met him soon after, and he only grimaced when some schoolmates of his leapt from their seats in a loud whistling cheer of his name— in proud, classic Akademiya fashion.
When you stood for your speech, he risked at a glance at you and dared his fear of your acknowledgement or rejection. Within him lived a tiny morsel that hoped for anything more to end the pooling torment within his ribs.
But like always, only silence from you, not even a glance at his direction. Nothing more than that until you began your list of rebuttals against his team’s case.
Before you began, Al-haitham knew that the fight was far from won— but for a brief moment he had convinced himself of the truth that his speech was perfect— enough to clinch the victory that him and his teammates had been working so tirelessly towards.
And if Al-haitham did not feel the heat from the pointed lights, he felt it then, as it crept up his neck and settled in his bones as he watched the arguments he took seven minutes and fifteen seconds to construct, seemingly fall apart in the first three minutes of your speech. It was only when the theater yet again erupted into applause when he closed the growing distance from his mind and his physical body in an attempt to redeem a victory.
Could they have lost at this point already?
Perhaps it was his fault. No, it was definitely his fault.
The thought rang in his mind and shook within him like a bell. Doubt is a recurring noise— he notes— a commanding sound reverberating beyond the ruckus of the world around him. He prayed that his face does not betray him now, but ultimately it is his actions that do. It took Al-haitham a moment to rise from his chair to approach the opposition bench, but even longer to reach his hand out to shake their own.
When he finally crossed over to you, hesitation flared within him and, in spite of himself, rendered him motionless. You looked at him, eyes unreadable, and skipped his hand altogether. He is not sure what to name the emotion that distended within him— but he knew it was some torment that pooled around his feet and nearly swallowed him whole right there. Whatever emotion existed in that fleeting moment, he wanted none of it anymore— the same way that he no longer enjoyed the privilege of being your teammate.
Mentally, he grabbed it— whatever it is— by its fibers and flung it down the ravines of his mind so that he no longer has to deal with its repercussions, even though said repercussions still played out before him like a taunt. He needed only to get through the grueling awards ceremony, a period that felt longer than the debate itself.
Al-haitham hated noise of applause, he was sure of that, but it now tied with the same disdain he shared for the pin-drop silence blanketing the theater. He was not quite sure what to expect, if he would snag an award again this time as he usually does— but nothing quite prepared him for the sight of his name alongside Overall Best Tournament Speaker. All the air from his lungs escaped him in a sigh, now replaced by a trickle of glowing confidence as he approached the stage.
────── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──────
You were glad, really you were, that you made it this far without tripping over your words more than twice. Making it to the finals series had always been your standard, but felling three of the best teams in Teyvat after each round was much easier said than done. But what you had always prided yourself on— and your teammates can attest— is your dedication. Perhaps it bordered on obsession.
The words you spoke upon seeing your team ranked first after the preliminary rounds return vividly to you now: it’s certain, we’ll be grand finalists.
You had been sure of that much— you owed it to your stubborn nature— but what you were even less sure of is how fate orchestrated the entire matchup to what it became: where you were up to battle for the title against an all-too familiar group: The Sumeru Akademiya’s first-ranked team, one that you too had been part of in a distant past.
Truth be told, an intense fervor overtook you each time that you went head-to-head against them, even in the training rooms you shared. Perhaps it was only a greater manifestation of the passion you experience while speaking, though you attested it to the very human desire to simply be better than your peers.
To be better than the ashen-haired boy who stood atop the podium.
That was absolutely the best opportunity for you to seize, especially with the deep familiarity you have developed for the speaker who preceded you. You almost predicted the formulaic manner in which Al-haitham delivers his case: he typically begins with somewhat unreasonable rebuttals to your case, then using the three-point reasoning method to establish his own, and ends with pandering rhetoric to appease the panel.
Ever the same strategy— you thought, as your throat trembled with an unshakeable adrenaline, ready to fire off and begin your dissection. So long as you could touch on all these points, a win was sure within your reach. It was why you could not even bother with a sentimental message— all the thank-yous and whatnot— when you took to the stage to speak.
It was also why a bitterness crept up your tongue when you were awarded second best speaker, and Al-haitham was yet again awarded the first. From your periphery you watched him ascend to the stage, and knew this is a sight all too familiar for the two of you.
Then and now, it was always a rat race— you and him— for the highest point average; one of you would concede to the higher-ranked speaker, as at least the sweetness of victory was a shared taste.
Beyond you, a silvery voice— the host’s— asked all the awardees to squeeze together to pose for the Kamera. You risked a glance at Al-haitham, who wore a small smile, now on the other side of the stage— and you realized that you two are still rats, but now it’s either or, one or the other, set to win the race.
────── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──────
Al-haitham could not— or did not— suppress the swell of pride within him when he saw that you two still shared the stage for individual awarding.
It could end here, he thought, declare us both winners, though the voice of his own ego scolded himself for thinking in such a passive way. It's not that easy, he knew this.
After all, debate makes enemies out of friends.
Though it is a temporary scar for many relationships, he feared that this one would last longer than any scar would.
(He knows now that it did.)
He did not leave the stage area for long. As his foot hovered on the last step, a small psst shook him back to reality, and behind him, a quiet voice called. An acquaintance of his among the competition organizers called out and held a vague remark: “Don’t leave the stage yet.”
He thought his friend was joking. The man wasn't sure what to expect, but it certainly was not what came next.
In his senior year of secondary education, Al-haitham is awarded with two distinct speaker awards— the overall best speaker of the competition, then, much to his surprise, best speaker among the six grand finalists.
Not the first in competition history, but certainly a first for him.
This was no guarantee of victory, he thought, but he rose back onto the podium with satisfied sparks lit beneath his feet. A pleasant twinkling was produced by the newly-added medal to his person. Still the noise is no match for the hammering of his heart, where the blooming pride in him came with the thorns of anxiety of anticipating the results.
Al-haitham thought he was good at telling when he was too far out in his sea of thoughts— that he’d be capable of rowing back to shore and ground his mind to be where his body is. Turns out that he cannot tell between floating and drowning in the waters.
Not even in this crucial moment— the results announcement of the grand finals— is he able to find his way upstream. It is all too much for him. The voice of the judge is far away, drowned by the thumping in his bloodstream. On a 5-4 split between the panel, the win goes to…Sumeru Akademiya.
The realization of victory— a rush of adrenaline and of eased nerves— pulled him briefly back to surface. Yet, the cheerful ruckus that engulfed him only thrashed around in his ears, like violent tides battering onto the sand.
It is so loud— and so hot now, even more than earlier, as waves of heat seeped into his skin as if he stood beneath the sun— a feeling especially amplified on the elevation of the stage. His jittering hands, which felt like glue, grasped onto the trophy. This was the third time tonight he was onstage, physically, but his mind was someplace else.
This was the pivotal moment in the careers of the lucky few debaters who went the mile to reach. He was meant to burn this memory into his mind forever— meant to feel the relief that all the thankless nights he spent learning stock arguments were not in vain, meant to know that he had clinched an international victory so late into his high school career.
But what he recalls from all of it is a simple conclusion: that he did not deserve any of it.
As he descended from the stage, he mentally catalogued another major dislike to his growing list: the overflow of attention his team receives from the crowd. Acquaintances who rarely ever bothered for his name suddenly called it out from afar, his own juniors swallowing him with praise. Illusions of the mob.
He’s a champion now, yelled someone to the right, but he felt as if he’d lose his grip on the trophy’s handle— still he suffered from the clammy sensation in his palms.
To many, the thieves of joy is comparison.
The person who steals Al-haitham’s joy is himself, knowing that he stole yours entirely.
The word champion rolls around in his tongue, and it does taste a little sweet now, knowing what lengths he took to achieve it, but as he swallowed, only a bitter aftertaste remained.
────── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──────
It felt like you swallowed hemlock at the results— and a wild cocktail of emotions brewed inside the space between your ribs. A large part is the sourness of disappointment, then the lingering bitterness of discouragement. All that it tasted like is a fist to your ribs, and to your pride.
To lose to him.
Internally you traced back to the round— and returned to moments you felt were decisive to determine the winner and cemented your team’s defeat. Was it the absence of sufficient rebuttals? Did you fail to elaborate why your argument was truthful and important?
The worst thing is, unlike ball games and chess matches, there truly was no way to discern a turning point. There were just too many variables to measure, too many factors to consider, that getting better feels like a concept— not something you can actually accomplish at all.
You turned your back to the stage now, and acquiesced to the series of comfort and commiserations from friends and acquaintances alike. A ball of yarn wound within your throat, and each person with their round of sorry, you did well, just pulled it more taut, almost as if you’d unravel right in front of all these people after this awful humiliation of failure.
You swore you nearly came undone at the sight that greeted you when you momentarily turned around.
“That was a good round.”
You had to laugh— nearly did. You didn’t believe what you just heard— or rather, who you heard it from. Your brain lagged shortly behind in realization, and it took all the strings inside you to not let your face show any disdain at this man.
Al-haitham.
Two ideas clashed in your head. Firstly, there was the possibility of him actually being sincere. This would have required vulnerability from him, if he even had such a bone in his body. You could count on one hand the times he’s allowed a slight slip of his mask, a sliver of emotions you know he has pushed down.
Secondly, and this was more likely, is that he was simply showing off; when your eyes caught the glimmer of his dangling medals, you knew this to be the truth. This is the last person you wanted to hear from.
( There was always going to be a winner to this race after all, but it wasn’t going to be you.
Why did he have to remind you of this? )
“You don’t mean that,” you retorted— your voice bled great hints of disappointment, instead of the confidence you wanted to portray.
Al-haitham’s brows pinched. “...What? Of course I mean it.” His eyes betrayed only the surface of his emotions, but you swore you caught an empathetic inflection in his tone. This wasn't a time to swim. So you chose to let go.
“I don’t want to hear praise for the round from the person who won it.”
An awkward silence passed over the conversation as your eyes turned to the hosts reading out a congratulatory spiel, followed by a very polite reminder to vacate the premises as soon as possible.
You hesitated to shift your gaze back, but when you did, it startled you to see that Al-haitham kept his gaze on you, unblinking the entire time.
“You’re just…mocking me.”
“I’m only being honest with you,” he admitted, his turquoise eyes boring into your own.
For a moment, a small hope for his sincerity flared within you—that perhaps he has developed a morsel of humility in the past years.
Unfortunately for you—he doused it immediately with his next statement: “Your teammates were not nearly as good as you.”
You scoffed at the remark. Truly, you thought the continued tests on your patience had already ended. Turns out every Archon in Teyvat wanted to see how you dealt with such arrogance. There’s the average man’s audacity, then there’s Al-haitham’s— fueled by whatever pride he finds from acting he’s better than everyone else. You took a deep breath before responding— to ensure that you didn’t end up strangling the poor man right after his award sweep, lest you look like a jealous ex-teammate.
“I don’t want your backhanded compliments.” You settled for admonishing him— though internally you thought to give the man a little grace; you knew him to be rather obtuse to varying social degrees. But surely, he should’ve made some improvement on reading the room?
Seemingly not, with how this conversation has turned out.
“I wasn’t,” he retorted, and his fingers flew to his temple to quell what you thought was a growing impatience, “trying to compliment you. Don’t take it as one.”
Perhaps being seen as a jealous ex-teammate wasn’t not so bad—briefly you weighed the repercussions you’ll face if you did indeed take his life by hand.
“Thank you, Al-haitham,” you clapped your hands together in a faux show of excitement, “for your unwavering honesty. I knew I could always count on you.” The words are cheery, but your tone was indicative of anything but genuine honesty— more like plain sarcasm.
“But it’s true! You were—” Huh. His cold demeanor shifted suddenly into agitation to what you said. Now, only a disquieting reticence settled in the air as it took a second for him to cool back down. “I mean—they did not fill in the blanks. A good teammate knows how to do that.”
“Right, because you’re absolutely the epitome of a good teammate.”
He scoffed, his turn now. “Well, I always outranked you.”
Some certainly a way to reopen the ego’s oldest wound— now that you felt more compromised, you fired back: “Yeah, like, three years ago. And that was twice!”
You nearly punched the smirk that crept its way onto his face. “Yeah, twice more than you. I was always better.”
A cold silence washed over the conversation again, and you only prayed that the sudden rush of emotions— most of which you didn’t wish not to name— aren’t betrayed by the crease in your brows or the way you avoided his gaze. Internally, you rebuked yourself for continuing this conversation in the first place.
Banter like this was once always friendly and hardly meant.
Now only venom laced the taste where honey once was.
────── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──────
Al-haitham could have filled out a diary cataloguing the excess of emotions that flooded his ribs from those twenty minutes alone. What he felt most prominently, though, was the sheer disbelief at himself for how this conversation played out, all of which was entirely his fault alone. He heard a heavy sigh from your lips, but he was the one who deflated as he actually looked at you— very clearly spent from the weekend’s conclusion, and even more so from the interaction with him.
“Al-haitham,” plainly, you stated his name, and he can’t help his involuntary reflex at hearing you say his name—even though he’s sworn to stop thinking about insignificant moments (such as you saying his name) such as this one. His eyes immediately shot up to meet your own, but he kicked himself internally for always being incapable of determining a person’s emotions from sight alone. It took a beat for him to realize that a gloss has welled up in your gaze, and his heart immediately dropped further than it already did.
You shook your head, eyes now avoiding his. There was the teeter of anxiety present in your voice, like you were on the precipice of falling apart.
“You’re right—completely right. I would’ve just brought you down. You can go off and be the best now since I know you’ve always wanted that.” He flinched internally at your blunt— but not truthful— comment, made worse by the wobble in your tone.
His reflex flared up again— his hand tentatively reached for your forearm, but he scolded himself again and hesitatingly retracted it. “You know that’s not what I meant—”
You interrupted him, tone now dismissive, like you no longer cared for the outcome of this conversation: “Does it really matter what you meant?”
“It wasn’t my intention to make you feel bad. I just wanted to…” he paused, as he searched for the right words, if there were even any left to say, “—to congratulate you.”
As he searched your face for any noticeable reaction, he considered just pouring out all the other letters he wrote for you in his heart—and picked up the thing that he threw down the ravine of his mind.
And to thank you for all the years we had spent together huddled in small tournaments, then come out victorious at all the right times, to thank you for the kindness you’ve always kept for me even when you had none left for yourself. I could not possibly have gotten this far if not for you. And...
He chickened out and said none of it. He feared many things: that all the words would tumble out at the wrong pace, your reaction and the fallout that would follow, and the startling implication at which these words reveal.
His gaze remained set on you, while yours flitted to your school contingent. There was nothing said, and this only deepened the dread within him.
“Thank you,” was what you first say, unusually composed against the backdrop of what may have been the genesis of tears. On your face was a small smile, to which his heart warmed slightly, then, “Congratulations as well. Goodbye, Al-haitham.”
He failed to respond on time— with how quick you were to turn on your heel and head back to your seat, how could he think of anything to say to that, to you, without coming undone?
How awful it is to somehow know all the right words to say to win titles and championships yet fail at conversations like this all the same. For him to be able to understand economics and culture and philosophy yet be completely incapable of developing a concrete understanding of what he’s done for your relationship—or whatever this is—to have soured in this way.
He can only watch you, wordlessly, as you pack up your things, head out the door, and sever the final thread you had shared together for the last time.
Damn his original fears of incapacity, of outcome, of implication. He knew then what his greatest fear was: your indifference.