Archive of Our Own

Kaveh is, in all honesty, very wary of what he’s reading. 

One leg tucked under him and the other stretched out with a stack of papers balanced precariously against his knee, he can’t help but frown as he reads over the thesis request from his seat on the divan.

“This is ambitious even for my tastes,” he drawls.

Across the room, Alhaitham hums from where he’s seated on the desk. He picks up a piece of sliced peach from the bowl Kaveh had laid out for him earlier. “That’s one way to describe it,” he says.

Kaveh hadn’t known what to expect when Alhaitham dropped these papers onto Kaveh’s lap without so much as a greeting — because apparently a simple hello, how are you, Kaveh? is far too much work for his junior. It’s not the first time Alhaitham’s inadvertently asked for his opinion regarding Akademiya students’ thesis proposals, but Kaveh finds himself uniquely affected every single time. Whether it be for better or for worse. 

This one in particular is a joint project from two students from Haravatat and Rtawahist, a proposal to fund their investigation on reinterpretation patterns in celestial bottoms of Teyvat as naming traditions. It’s dense, ambitious, and, in Alhaitham’s words earlier, “structurally unstable in its current form.”

Kaveh, unsurprisingly, disagrees.

“Ambition isn’t something to be punished, though,” he adds. “Sure, it’s… kind of incomplete, but instability is fixable. Rejecting it outright is hardly fair.”

Alhaitham doesn’t look up from the journal he’s writing in, hand moving in steady, perfect swoops. “Their voice is inconsistent throughout the pages. If their terminology cannot remain coherent, neither can their conclusions.”

“That assumes they’re static structures,” Kaveh says. “Which they’re not.”

Alhaitham turns a page. “Explain.”

Kaveh adjusts his position on the divan, making sure to keep a good hold of the papers. “The entire thesis is about reinterpretation across generations, right?”

“Yes.”

“Then why are you treating it like the meaning of constellations is supposed to stay fixed in the first place?” Kaveh holds up one of the pages, one of a chart with star patterns mapped carefully in ink, and smacks a hand over it for emphasis. “What they’re arguing is that names change over time because people change. That’s the point.”

Alhaitham finally looks up, thumb brushing over the journal. “Their argument is that cultural distance produces semantic drift,” he says. “They do not sufficiently distinguish between drift and intentional reinterpretation.”

Kaveh leans forward to lay the stack down on the coffee table. “That’s exactly what I’m talking about, though,” he scoffs. “You’re treating it like decay.”

“It’s a deviation from the original reference model.”

“And I’m saying that the ‘original reference model’ stops being useful if it no longer reflects how people actually experience it,” Kaveh counters.

Alhaitham abandons the quill altogether and leans back against his seat to cross his arms over his chest. “Then your position is that reinterpretation is not degradation, but adaptation.”

“Yes,” Kaveh says immediately. “That’s exactly what I’m saying.”

“Adaptation requires criteria,” Alhaitham replies. “Otherwise it becomes arbitrary. If meaning is allowed to shift indiscriminately, if every individual alters it to suit their own interpretation, then the term ceases to function altogether.”

Kaveh exhales through his nose, settling deeper into the cushions. “That’s your recurring issue, then? You assume change has to be justified by stability first?”

“And yours is assuming stability unnecessary.”

Kaveh opens his mouth, then pauses. Because no, that is not what he means and Alhaitham knows it. Archons, who does he take him for?

“No,” Kaveh scoffs. “I don’t think it’s unnecessary. Just… not sacred.” Alhaitham’s brows do the stitching together thing that always transfixes Kaveh, and so he continues, “Of course stability is useful. It gives structure, why wouldn’t it be? But it shouldn’t override function. If something isn’t serving the people using it anymore, then it has to be adjusted.”

Alhaitham watches him for a long moment. Eventually, he huffs amusedly. “You’re applying architectural logic to linguistic systems,” he says.

“What, is that a problem? Wasn’t it you who said that everything is connected?”

Alhaitham shrugs. “I suppose it’s consistent with your field.” A pause. “But it assumes the purpose is serviceability.”

Kaveh tilts his head. “Isn’t it?”

“That depends on whether you prioritize usage or preservation.”

“You’re seriously telling me that?” He frowns. “Alhaitham, preservation without use only turns it into decoration,” he says. “And usage without adaptation turns it into something that breaks under pressure.”

Alhaitham considers that with a quiet hum, not tearing his gaze away from Kaveh, who matches him readily. “…That’s a fair dichotomy.”

Kaveh blinks. “Was that— you’re actually agreeing with me?”

“I’m not unreasonable, Kaveh,” Alhaitham deadpans. “You should know by now that acknowledging validity is an important trait for any scholar.”

“It’s agreement. Just say it’s agreement.”

“Hm, not exactly.”

“Semantics.” Kaveh waves dismissively. 

Alhaitham’s gaze travels to the stack of papers on the coffee table. “The proposal fails to properly address that distinction… between reinterpretation as a passive drift versus active revision.”

“Is that not exactly what I said?”

“You said it informally.”

Kaveh rolls his eyes. “You’re unbelievable,” he grumbles. He doesn’t know why he bothers, really. Still, he adds, “You know, you treat language like it should stay in its ‘original reference model’ too.”

Alhaitham lifts an eyebrow wordlessly as he reaches for another peach slice.

“Like, with words. Meaning, definitions… you want them to stay fixed, but even constellations don’t stay the same in how people understand them. Nothing does.” Kaveh goes to rub the back of his neck, and stops himself just short of it. “…If that were the case, wouldn’t my name still be nothing more than a string of characters to you?”

Alhaitham’s expression shifts a fraction. “Your point being?”

“My point,” Kaveh stresses. “is that people don’t just use names. They shorten them, or they can… change them depending on the context, familiarity,” And hesitantly, “…relationship.”

“You’re extending the thesis framework to interpersonal language.” Kaveh nods. “And you’re using the nature of our relationship as your evidence.”

Kaveh smiles lightly. “Am I wrong?”

“It's a colloquial application,” Alhaitham says.

“Yeah, well, so is every name once people start actually using it,” Kaveh replies. “It’s not the same to call you Alhaitham as it is to say your name knowing how utterly infuriating and blockheaded you can be.”

“Is that the only meaning you place on my name?” Alhaitham asks, sounding amused.

Kaveh sniffs proudly. “No, it’s just the most relevant one at the moment.”

“I see. Then your argument hinges on selective semantic emphasis.”

Kaveh points a stern finger at him. “Don’t twist it, you know that’s not what I mean.” He shakes his head. “Look, the point is that you should give them a chance, alright? There’s potential here! Even you can admit that, can’t you?”

“Potential can’t be prioritized over integrity, Kaveh. If their argument cannot withstand scrutiny, its value loses purpose regardless of intent.”

“They’re not mutually exclusive,” Kaveh pushes, though not harshly. “Some people just need the right tools, that’s all.”

Alhaitham pauses. “You’re really willing to go this far for them?”

Kaveh smiles knowingly. “Oh come on, don’t tell me you aren’t curious to see what they come up with.”

“I’d garner better results from conducting the investigation myself.”

“Gatekeeping?” Kaveh gasps. “Is the Akademiya’s Scribe really promoting such a thing?”

Alhaitham shakes his head, smiling a little, too. “Do you not want me to apply that same openness to our own use of language?”

“…What?”

Alhaitham pushes his seat back, the legs of it scrapping against the wooden tiles as he stands up. He takes the bowl of peaches with him. “Your argument is that meaning evolves through use, yes? That it should give room to develop rather than be dismissed for lacking refinement at the outset.” He stops in front of Kaveh and holds out the bowl.

Kaveh eyes it suspiciously, slowly taking a slice. “Yes?”

“Then it follows,” Alhaitham continues. “that we should allow the same flexibility in how we address one another.” A beat. Kaveh just stared at him. “Though, I suppose you already do that with all the creative adjectives you attach to my name.”

Kaveh pops the fruit into his mouth. “You say that like you don’t regularly mock my titles every chance you get,” he says through a mouthful.

“That’s an example of interpretation,” Alhaitham points out.

“Are you trying to weaponize my argument now? Is that what this is?”

“You’re avoiding the question.”

“I’m not avoiding it! I’m just… trying to make sense of why you’re turning this into a formal exercise.”

“So you’re objecting to the method, then?” Alhaitham asks with a tiny tilt of his head. “Not the premise.”

Kaveh gulps. “That’s not what I—“

“You’ve already demonstrated the premise. Your usage of my name varies based on perception.”

“It’s based on truth.”

“Which is subjective, not to mention contextual.”

“Well, it kind of has to reflect how you see the person,” Kaveh says sarcastically. “Isn’t that what makes it special? When it comes from a genuine place of care instead of only focusing on what technically works?”

Alhaitham's gaze remains steady on him, unflinching under the warm light of the lamp hanging above them. Kaveh feels hot all over. “Then the determining factor is not whether it can be chosen, but whether the selection aligns with both perception and acceptance.”

Kave frowns faintly. “Acceptance?”

“Yes,” Alhaitham replies. “If the term does not align with your perception of yourself, it would be ineffective.”

“You want me to get a say in what you call me?”

“It would be counterproductive otherwise.”

“Of course that’s your reasoning,” Kaveh mutters, taking another peach. A small silence settles between them as he leans back against the divan again, watching how Alhaitham tracks his movements. “…I can’t believe you’re actually considering this.”

“What can I say,” Alhaitham says, voice lilting. “you’ve piqued my interest.”

“Oh, lucky me. And I guess you’re already thinking about it, aren’t you?”

Alhaitham nods. “I have preliminary considerations. Any preferences?”

Kaveh turns the peach over his fingers and ducks his head to hide a smile. “You aren’t supposed to make this feel like a thesis defense.”

“It doesn’t need to be.”

“I meant what I said,” Kaveh huffs. “It should feel natural. There’s no point if you just pick some random word from a list and call it a day.”

“In case you've forgotten, this falls under my area of expertise.” Alhaitham starts walking into the kitchen, empty bowl in hand. “I’d worry more about whether you can meet the standard you’ve set.”

The nerve!

“You haven’t won anything yet,” Kaveh calls out.

Alhaitham turns the faucet on. “I didn’t say I did. But if that motivates you to produce a result, you’re free to interpret it that way.”

Kaveh glares at his back, crossing his arms tightly. “Oh, I’ll produce a result. Just you wait.”

It’s on, Alhaitham. 

· · ─ ·𖥸· ─ · ·

If Kaveh’s speaking plainly, bad decisions are nothing new for him.

The worst part is that the dawning, crippling realization always arrives far too late. Way past the point where he can retract his decision, mostly because his pride forbids him from doing it. 

As far as bad decisions go, though, this one is terrible. Deeply unfortunate, entirely unavoidable, and completely self-inflicted. But of course he’d only realize that the afternoon after he declared war. 

Because coming up with a nickname is already hard enough, but coming up with something that will satisfy Alhaitham’s standards? Honestly, what was Kaveh thinking? Challenging the man who graduated top of his class without attending half of his classes, who breaks down words, symbols, letters down to their very core just because he thinks it’s fun? 

Why in the world would he challenge a linguist?

Yes, Kaveh may be good at identifying weak points in a structure, fortifying every corner of a space until it’s functional, lived in, but creating a word that perfectly holds his endearment is impossible.

He’s gone through at least twelve options in his head already, but they’ve all been discarded just as quickly. Too obvious, too impersonal, too constructed — which was exactly what he was pushing against in the first place!

But he’s not giving up. No way! No, if he’s doing this properly, he needs to find someone with the right background. Someone who understands language not just structurally, but historically. Someone who can give first hand accounts of how it’s evolved.

This is how Kaveh finds himself standing outside the Akademiya’s break room, hesitating. He takes a deep breath, fixes the sash around his waist and pushes the door open. 

Inside, the space is quiet as the harsh mid-afternoon sunlight filters in through the big windows overlooking the city. At one of the tables near the middle of the room sits Faruzan, a stack of old documents spread neatly before her as she annotates something with furrowed brows and harsh murmurs. 

So, he walks up, asks her how her day has been, and next thing he knows he’s standing in the House of Daena with a hefty stack of books in his arms.

“—and that’s not even accounting for the regional divergences,” Faruzan is saying, already several steps ahead of him as she rises on her tiptoes to pull another volume from a nearby shelf. “You see, what passes for a term of endearment in the western forests would have been considered deeply inappropriate in the desert regions two centuries ago.”

Kaveh nods, shifting the weight of the books in his arms. “I see…”

“And don’t get me started on outdated honorifics,” she continues, waving the book in the air. “Back in my time, you’d be hard-pressed to find anyone using a bare name in polite company. It was all honorifics! Of course, it would depend on the dialectal framework, but there were quite a lot of suffixes that could soften a name like that.” She snaps her fingers for emphasis. “Or they’d imply possession. Those were always fun to create. You know, that could even extend to metaphors if the speaker was feeling particularly indulgent.”

“Metaphors?”

“Oh, constantly!” She laughs. “I had a friend who was… very creative with them, to say the least.” She lowers her voice into a conspiratorial whisper, “And it wasn’t just flattery, mind you.”

Kaveh chuckles. “I’m sure that led to a few misunderstandings.”

“She was quite the character, that’s for sure,” she says wryly, settling the book on top of the stack. “Shame how many young people today have no respect for nuance! At least the habit of using certain vowel extensions to indicate affection hasn’t gone out of style, but you wouldn’t believe how many sounds have fallen out of favor since then.”

“Do you really think this will help with terms of address?” he asks tentatively.

“Let me tell you something, my dear junior,” she sighs. “What you youngsters lack is context. Nuance! This will ensure that you have plenty of it.”

“I don’t… think I’ll have time to finish all of these.”

She scoffs, hands settling at her hips. “Not loitering around here you won’t. Best get to it, hm?” She points to the exit, and Kaveh doesn’t know whether to laugh or cry. “Although, there are a couple of marked sections that I recommend reading specifically.”

“Do they all have them?”

”Last I checked, yes. Now go on, those books aren’t finishing themselves!”

“Madam Faruzan—”

She’s already turning on her heel and throwing a wave over her shoulder. “Be sure to return them when you’re done!”

· · ─ ·𖥸· ─ · ·

By the end of the day, Kaveh gets back home to groan into the wood of the drafting table after pushing one of his blueprints aside. His pencil rolls uselessly toward the edge, but he makes no move to grab it before it falls. 

The stack of books Faruzan had left him with is… excessive. At this point, he’s flipped three of them open with no luck. Foundations of Etymological Drift in Classical Sumeru Dialects, Onomastic Structures of Pre-Akademiya Forest Settlements, Semantic Preservation in Liturgical Language. All of it is very informative, but not particularly helpful. The dog-eared pages and annotations in the margins of some chapters are interesting, though, and he makes a mental note to revisit them when his mind isn’t scrambled. 

Because the only thing he’s managed to do is cross something off the mental list he’s putting together.

“...Azizam,” he mutters under his breath. He had considered it… briefly. It’s simple and doesn’t require much effort to say, and it carries warmth, sure, at least when his mother said it. But that was Alhaitham’s point, wasn’t it? As much as Kaveh would love to reclaim it and shape it into something new, something that fits into where he is now, it feels forced. He’s an architect, for goodness’ sake. He can remodel old structures and make them live on longer than expected, but even he knows when something is beyond reconstruction. And he doesn’t want that for Alhaitham.

If he’s going to choose something, then it can’t just be warm. It has to mean something, especially when it’s going to be directed towards a man fluent in more languages than Kaveh can count on two hands.

That said, he can’t deny that history is useful. There is one thing he remembers fondly, after all. Something Faranak would say during those rare moments of clarity, something that appears in a later section of the book he’s currently on. He’d once asked about his name, sitting cross-legged on Faranak’s bed while she picked at the food Kaveh had prepared for them. He hadn’t been expecting a response, but he got one nonetheless. One about how his father believed older traditions weren’t just descriptive, but directional. Kaveh’s own name derives from ancient Deshretian legends, a mark of resilience and craftsmanship. His father thought that he should be named after radiance. Not because he already possessed it, but because they believed he could, just like those larger than life figures in his bedtime stories. 

Kaveh leans back in his chair and blows his bangs out of his eyes. It’s incredibly superstitious, many things about his father had been, but it’s not entirely wrong. Choosing what to preserve, what to bring forward… of course they’re things Kaveh has embodied throughout his career. Abtin believed, Faranak said in a wistful tone, that a name shouldn’t just reflect who someone is, but rather what you want them to be. It feels… dangerously close to projection, and Alhaitham would absolutely reject that. And yet, it’s grounded in reality. Humans choose what to highlight, what to soften, what to reshape until it fits something they can hold onto. There are many parts of Kaveh’s story that the general public isn’t privy to, and he wouldn’t have it any other way. But it’s…

Kaveh shakes his head. No, he’s overthinking it. It’s just a name. It’s supposed to be simple. Natural. Something that— but, well, that’s the problem, isn’t it? If names can carry history, intention and expectation all at once, then how is he supposed to choose one that doesn’t feel like he’s deciding something he has no right to decide?

His forehead meets cool wood again with a ragged groan. 

Damn Alhaitham.

· · ─ ·𖥸· ─ · ·

It should’ve been expected, then, that Alhaitham would beat him to the punch.

Kaveh realizes he’ll be meeting his inevitable doom approximately three seconds after he hears a pair of footsteps wandering into the study. Briefly, he wonders if Alhaitham would leave him alone if he pretended to drop dead. Alas, it’s too late to find out.

His blueprint is center focus now, but his mind is undeniably elsewhere. He doesn’t have to look up to know what kind of expression Alhaitham is wearing on his face, the steady way his presence settles into the room says it all. 

“No,” Kaveh says immediately, moving the pen across the blueprint. “Absolutely not. Go away.”

“I haven’t spoken yet,” Alhaitham replies, stepping in closer to the desk.

Kaveh glares at the desk and says nothing. After a moment, he sighs heavily, shoulders sagging as he mutters, “…If you’re here to gloat, at least give me five more minutes to mourn my dignity.”

Now directly above him, Alhaitham huffs a laugh. “It was your proposal.”

There’s a rustle of fabric and jingling accessories as Alhaitham reaches into his satchel, and then something lands beside Kaveh with a neat tap. 

Kaveh glances at it warily, dread pooling in his stomach. 

It’s a sheet of paper. Or, well, two. Deceptively innocent, with folded lines but somehow devoid of significant creases. Just like that, the dread drops into his gut. 

“…What is that?”

Alhaitham doesn’t answer immediately. He pulls out the chair across from Kaveh instead, sitting with the same infuriating composure he carries into everything. “I compiled a preliminary list,” he says at last.

Kaveh stares at him. “A list?”

“Yes.”

“A preliminary list.”

Alhaitham nods, straightening the papers over the desk. “Having a sufficient range of options facilitates the process.”

Kaveh’s mouth opens, then closes. He reaches out hesitantly, like the paper might bite him — and he wishes it would, just so he doesn’t have to admit defeat.

He flips the first page over and there are… sections. Columns.

“What is wrong with you?”

Alhaitham huffs and leans back in his chair to watch Kaveh with smug interest. “They’re grouped by linguistic origin and semantic function,” he explains. “I figured it would make it easier to navigate.”

“You made subsections?!” Kaveh exclaims, voice close to a shrill. 

“For clarity.”

“It’s a nickname! What— are you expecting an evaluation for this? This isn’t a dissertation!”

Alhaitham makes a so-and-so motion with his hand. “Technically, there’s an overlap.”

If Kaveh didn’t cry with Faruzan, he’s definitely going to cry now. A strangled laugh escapes him as he continues. Metaphorical Address, this section reads. Light-based metaphors, celestial references… 

“You’re fond of symbolic framing,” Alhaitham pipes up when he stares at the section for far, far too long. Kaveh has half a mind to ball up the papers and throw them at his face.

But really, in some odd, deranged way, Kaveh is touched that Alhaitham would touch on his history like this. Though Kaveh enjoys astrology and all the connotations it brings, he rarely takes the time to broaden his knowledge on the topic. To have a piece of it roll off Alhaitham’s tongue with the lovely cadence he extends all words he considers dear would be…

Oh, Archons. Kaveh doesn’t think his heart could handle it. 

Still, “You can’t just categorize me like I’m one of your research projects.”

Alhaitham lifts a brow. “You volunteered all of this information willingly.”

Kaveh flushes, dropping the paper to bury his face in his hands. “That’s not—“

“And you’ve compared people to structures on at least four separate occasions this past week alone.”

Kaveh chokes on a laugh, the sound muffled by his hands. “That’s not the same thing…” He whines. “You weren’t supposed to optimize it. Did you not hear a word of what I said?”

“You said it should feel natural,” Alhaitham says. “I’m only ensuring that any selection made has a higher chance of meeting that criteria.”

“That’s not how that works, Alhaitham.”

“On the contrary, eliminating unsuitable options will help me reach a suitable outcome.”

“There’s no process for affection!” 

“You’re known to get fussy when something doesn’t appeal to you.”

Pot meet kettle, Kaveh thinks with a roll of his eyes. Honestly, does Alhaitham not realize just how much of a brat he is? Nevermind, of course he does. Of course he knows, and he’s probably happy about it. Ugh.

Kaveh’s shoulders sag pathetically. “…You really did all this?” he mutters, dropping his hands. 

“You challenged me,” Alhaitham says simply.

“I challenge you all the time! You don’t usually respond with… whatever this is.”

Alhaitham’s mouth scrunches up to the side, an old habit from childhood that he hasn’t let go of. “This has clearer evaluation criteria.”

Against his better judgment, Kaveh laughs. It’s more of a bark than anything. Across from him, Alhaitham’s mouth twitches. 

Silence lingers between them for a moment. Then, “I’m serious about not just… wanting what fits best on paper.”

“So you don’t care about the term itself?”

Kaveh’s nose scrunches up. “Well— I didn’t say that.”

“But your primary concern is the meaning,” Alhaitham implores.

“Yes!” Kind of. Kaveh’s nothing if not a man of aesthetics, after all.

“So then you understand why I’m seeking your input.”

“But you didn’t even pick one,” Kaveh says weakly. 

“Only because I’m leaving that part to you.”

Kaveh’s jaw clenches. He thinks of saying something. Closing his eyes and picking a random one off the list so they can get this over with already, but… 

None of these feel right. They would sound beautiful in Alhaitham’s register, and Kaveh’s sure he’d come to associate each and every one of them with the man standing in front of him, but they’re too detached. They’re built to function, and they would evoke a reaction from Kaveh, very few things don’t, but they don’t mean anything. 

Kaveh exhales heavily. “I can’t just pick one.”

Alhaitham tilts his head. “Wasn’t it you who said meaning was established through use?”

“This is different,” Kaveh insists.

“How so?”

“It’s— this is personal.”

“Then we establish it.” Alhaitham shrugs. “If meaning is derived from usage, then wouldn’t repetition make it become familiar?”

Kaveh blinks. “What?”

“I’m only using your logic, Kaveh.”

“Just— don’t use any of them yet, alright?” Kaveh curls his lip and holds back a cringe. “If you start calling me any of these in public, I’m moving out.”

Alhaitham laughs, the sound quiet and short and still lovely. “And yours?” he asks.

Kaveh stiffens. “What about mine?”

Alhaitham folds his arms loosely over his chest. “You have yet to present any alternatives.”

Kaveh clears his throat. “Right. I’m, um…” He looks away. “I’m working on it.”

“…Hm.”

“And don’t rush me!” Kaveh adds quickly. “If you’re allowed to– to compile data, then I’m allowed to take my time.”

“I never said you weren’t.”

“You’re not allowed to pester me for hints, either!”

Alhaitham hesitates. Then, “Very well.” Which is exactly how Kaveh knows that he absolutely plans to do it anyway.

He wonders if playing dead is still on the table.

· · ─ ·𖥸· ─ · ·

And so, Kaveh tries a different approach.

After three nights of sitting on his bedroom floor with various annotations from Faruzan’s books scattered across the floor, Kaveh decides that enough is enough. 

He may not be as well versed in the study of languages as Alhaitham is, but he does know the importance of utility… and where better to see that in action than in one of the loveliest corners of Sumeru City?

The Grand Bazaar is always bustling with life. There’s always some conversation or the other, and were Kaveh a better man, he would respect their right to privacy… but it’s not his fault they’re having these conversations in broad daylight.

He may not be as good at eavesdropping as Alhaitham is, but having genuine curiosity for the assortment of items in the bazaar certainly helps him blend in. The voices around him weave in and out of each other until they become something musical, but Kaveh is on a mission and no amount of rugs swaying overhead in strips of gold or spices traveling thick in the air will derail that. 

He and Alhaitham come here often enough that weaving past it is second nature. They usually take turns with errands when they don’t come together, though it’s uncommon for the former to happen nowadays. The aunties have made sure of it, after all. Any time they pass by, something gets pressed into their hands, always with a soft call of Alhaitham’s name. Rounded and worn smooth with use, and other times it wasn’t his name at all — it was some nickname they’d say whenever Alhaitham was being especially polite. 

Today, they give Kaveh an extra pack of saffron and make him promise to bring over Alhaitham next time. 

“You two aren’t fighting again, are you?” One of them asks while adjusting the fruit cartons over her stall. 

“No, auntie,” Kaveh replies like clockwork, dipping his head a little as he picks up one of the peaches to inspect it more closely than necessary. “He’s just busy today, and someone has to run our errands.”

She clicks her tongue with a disapproving shake of her head and mutters something about how that boy needs to stop burying his head in his work so often, which Kaveh finds very laughable, really. If only they knew the truth.

Still, there’s the nickname again. The first time Kaveh heard it, he thought his ears were playing tricks on him, but by the second time, he had to ask. It was a shield, they said. A name they created during those days they’d come over to help Alhaitham take care of his grandmother. They wanted to make sure Alhaitham didn’t succumb to the same illness his jadda did. Kaveh knew of that superstition well, how parents would often give their children two names, or a second, lesser one, just to keep the wrong kind of attention away. 

As a child, it would make Kaveh cling to his father’s pant leg and beg him to make up another name for him. His father would gather him in his arms then, holding Kaveh securely as he promised to fend off whatever dangers came their way.

In hindsight, he might’ve been a little dramatic. 

Kaveh shifts, still inspecting the assortment of peaches. He picks four, then seven, because Alhaitham’s appetite is far too large to be satiated by so few of them. He’d just be back for more in a few days, anyway. 

As he’s paying, he notices that a few stalls down, someone is hanging up a rug. Kaveh’s attention catches on it immediately — of course it does! The pattern is wonderfully intricate, almost dizzying if he follows it too closely. The threads of deep red curl into gold and break into something softer at the edges. His gaze traces the symmetry without thinking, the way the design guides the eye rather than trapping it once you know where to look.

It’s beautiful. He almost loses himself in it before a voice cuts through. It’s a woman, speaking to someone just out of sight. Her tone is light, familiar, and there… there it is again. 

That sound.

Not a full name, nor a word on its own. Just the slightest extension at the end, a vowel drawn out enough to soften it. It turns the ordinary into something… closer. 

Kaveh purses his lips. When the other person, a girl younger than her, steps into his line of sight, it doesn’t paint a clearer picture of what their relationship is. He imagines it’s a close one, though. In fact, he’d bet on it being a close one. 

He doesn’t say anything, but he keeps it. Tucks the thought somewhere quiet and warm to leave room for it to grow.

· · ─ ·𖥸· ─ · ·

Kaveh doesn’t underestimate Alhaitham’s appetite, but he does somehow keep underestimating his academic hunger. Which is ironic given that their first meeting was at the Akademiya’s House of Daena. 

They don’t bring up the topic again for a few days. Not for a lack of trying on Alhaitham’s part, though. What a sight it would be to witness the people of Sumeru realize that the former Grand Sage of their nation is a giant meddler. 

The worst part is that he’s subtle enough about it that nobody else notices. 

One evening at Lambad’s Tavern, Kaveh finds himself crouching down in front of the message board with a chalk in hand and an indignant furrow in his brow. 

“This spacing is atrocious,” he mutters, squeezing his reply between two overlapping notices. “Who writes like this?”

“People with limited spatial awareness,” Alhaitham replies from his position next to Kaveh, forearms hanging over his knees and cape heavy over his shoulders.

Kaveh scoffs and reaches up to underline something more drastically than technically necessary. “Well, not everyone can be as attached to margins as you are, I suppose.”

“That almost sounded like a compliment,” Alhaitham muses. 

“Oh no,” Kaveh huffs.

“Besides, legibility is preferable to running the risk of your handwriting slopping downward when you get annoyed.” 

Kaveh narrows his eyes and purposefully straightens the next line out of spite. Beside him, Alhaitham hums, entirely too pleased with himself. 

“Though,” Alhaitham continues in a lilting tone that borders on conspiratorial. “I suppose you’ve been more deliberate lately.”

“Meaning?”

“Less impulsive with your phrasing.”

Kaveh nearly snorts. Oh, he’s absolutely fishing. “Well, forgive me for putting thought into my work,” he says loftily, refusing to look up at him.

“I didn’t say it was a negative development.”

Before Kaveh can formulate a retort, Dehya leans her body over the message board and taps a hand over it to get their attention. “Hey, do you two have any idea what I’d kill for one of Lambad’s fish rolls?”

In all honesty, Kaveh’s only half-listening, but he does hear her clearly say that if they’re not going to wrap this up, she’s waiting for them inside. Naturally, Alhaitham takes their leaving as his cue to lean in close and point out a ‘flaw’ in Kaveh’s argument.

Kaveh almost laughs. Archons, he’s impossible.

There’s a beat where they simply stare at each other, the noise of the tavern and the rest of Treasure Street fading strangely into the background. Alhaitham’s expression remains neutral, but Kaveh knows him well enough to see the intent behind it. Alhaitham thinks he’s so smart. Deliberately trying to goad Kaveh into revealing whatever progress he’s made.

As if he’d give Alhaitham the satisfaction!

Kaveh rolls his eyes and shoves at Alhaitham’s shoulder with just enough force to make the other man’s posture shift. “You’re not as subtle as you think, you know that?” he says with a smile. 

Alhaitham hums, a mischievous glint in his eyes. “You’re the one who voluntarily chooses to remain in my company.”

“Who else is going to stop you from terrorizing half the nation with your semantics?”

Alhaitham chuckles, taking the chalk from his hand. “How noble of you, senior.” 

Otherwise, they continue on as normal. Walking into Lambad’s side by side to seek out a table that will let them engage in conversation without twisting their bodies in odd angles. Seeking out their usual seating placements — Alhaitham, facing the front entrance and Kaveh, somewhere he knows the overhead light hits the space just right. Waving over the bartender to ask for their usual orders. 

Though not tonight, Kaveh finds it strange, sometimes, just how much comfort he finds in that kind of phrasing. There was a time in his life where everything felt temporary. When his mother moved away, he kept expecting a letter in the mail that said that she wanted him out of that house as soon as possible. 

For someone so fixated on permanence, he never truly expected that to apply to him. 

But now there’s this. 

Their keys in Alhaitham’s satchel. Their route through the bazaar, through Treasure Street and back home at the end of every night. Their rug in the living room that desperately needs to be pushed back lest Kaveh wants the coffee table Alhaitham can’t stop pushing in to prop his feet on top to wear. The house still isn’t legally his, but never thought that, somewhere along the way, he’d stopped feeling like a guest within it.

And it’s frightening in many ways, how easily his thoughts started to morph into that phrasing. Their home. Their errands. Their dinners.

Alhaitham himself, too, in many ways Kaveh doesn’t think he’ll ever say aloud. His junior. His roommate. His insufferable, impossible, utterly infuriating partner in every argument. How thrilling it is to have the certainty of knowing that he’ll be there challenging each and every one of Kaveh’s ideals tomorrow, and the day after that, and the day after that.

Every morning, Alhaitham is still here, and every evening, they fall into the same familiar rhythm.

The afternoon after drinks with their friends, they end up cooking together almost absentmindedly, moving around each other with ease. Kaveh handles the cutting while Alhaitham does the seasoning. Their shoulders brush occasionally in the narrow kitchen, yet neither comments on it.

From the moment they met, Kaveh has known that Alhaitham places special care into every word he utters.

He disguises it well, hides it behind practiced indifference, but Kaveh knows better. He’s seen the way Alhaitham pulls things apart, examines them from every angle until there’s nothing left unaccounted for. It’s not so different from what Kaveh does, really. Even if they build in opposite directions. 

All knowledge is kept by looking where others ignore, Alhaitham told him once. It’s one of the few things they’d agreed on. But… if that’s true, then it isn’t much of a stretch to think that the same care carries into his speech. The crisp cadence he says Kaveh’s name in, the weight he places on both syllables, like he understands neither can stand properly without the other.

And if Alhaitham is the kind of man who only keeps what he finds worth knowing, then perhaps… it isn’t so far-fetched to believe that this, his endless search to find a fitting term for him, means that he holds Kaveh in higher regard than he ever says outright.

It makes Kaveh breathless, almost. 

He forces himself to look back down at his plate, pushing a piece of lamb around with his fork aimlessly. Alhaitham continues eating as though Kaveh hasn’t just upended his entire train of thought over something as simple as pronunciation. But that’s the problem, though. Nothing about this challenge has been simple, because names are never just that. Not when they carry weight, intention, not when they’re chosen.

Kaveh’s gaze flicks up again, unbidden. He stares. At the blemishes and acne scarring on brown skin, the moles that sit just above Alhaitham’s upper lip and left eyebrow. Kaveh swallows. Something chosen, softened with a vowel extension that would cost him nothing.

“...Haithoomi,” The word slips out before he can stop it. Silence follows, and Alhaitham’s fork halts against his plate. Well, he’s already committed this far. “Can you…” Kaveh clears his throat. “Can you pass the—”

“Haithoomi,” Alhaitham echoes, a strange crease forming between his brows that makes Kaveh flush terribly.

Kaveh drops his eyes back to his food. “Don’t— don’t say it like that.”

“I’m evaluating it.” Alhaitham sets his fork down. Kaveh tenses. “…So that’s your final choice.”

“Just! Pass the salad over here already!” Kaveh snatches the bowl the second Alhaitham slides it across the table and heaps far too much of it onto his plate. As he’s setting the bowl down, he blurts out, “Does this mean I’ve won?”

“Won?” The furrow in Alhaitham’s brow gets worse.

“Yes, won,” Kaveh scoffs, latching onto it now that he’s said it out loud. “You had a whole list, but I don’t see you getting creative.”

“I thought you found my approach surprising.”

“I found it absurd,” Kaveh corrects. “Surprising is too open-ended for whatever ridiculous standards you seem to have conjured up for this. If anything is surprising it’s the fact you can’t admit that I’ve got you beat.”

Alhaitham fixes him with an unimpressed look. In a painfully dry tone, he drawls, “It meets the criteria you established.”

“That’s not the same as admitting I won.”

“I didn’t agree to those terms.” Alhaitham subtly points the fork in Kaveh’s direction. “Nor was it clear that there would be a singular winner by the end.”

Kaveh gapes. “It was implied!”

“Leaving weak spots in your argument? You’ve gotten rusty, senior.”

Oh, Kaveh cannot believe the nerve of this man. “Okay, well at least I—“

“In any case,” Alhaitham rudely cuts in, bringing the fork to his mouth. “I haven’t finished yet.”

Kaveh’s brows furrow. “What?”

Alhaitham hums around a mouth full of food, swallowing before he says, “I intend to continue until I find something that fits the same criteria.”

Kaveh stares at him, something warm and unsteady blooming in his chest. “You— even now? Seriously?”

“I’ve considered various options,” Alhaitham admits, gaze traveling somewhere around the kitchen. “And there was an… issue that I ran into repeatedly.”

“And that is?”

“You don’t enjoy being kept,” Alhaitham says. “Or am I wrong?”

Kaveh swallows. That’s not entirely true, but, “No…”

“You object to being constrained,” he continues. “Just as you dislike being reduced to a fixed interpretation.”

Kaveh shifts in his seat. “Where are you going with this?”

“But you wouldn’t be opposed to being understood, would you?”

“...Those aren’t the same thing.”

“I’m aware.” Alhaitham smiles, and it is boyish and charming and so, so lovely. “Then you understand that I have no interest in limiting you.”

Kaveh swallows, hands fidgeting in his lap. “I know that,” he replies, softer than he intends. “But I’m not static, Alhaitham. If this is— if you only intend to catalogue me and keep me on a shelf like you do your books, then you’ll be disappointed by—”

“And you think I don’t value continuity?” Alhaitham interjects.

Kaveh pauses. “I didn’t say that. I just—”

“If I find something worth knowing,” Alhaitham continues, two-toned eyes sharp and imploring. “I don't reduce it to something more convenient.”

A pause. “…You really need to stop saying things like that so casually,” Kaveh grumbles, feeling the heat spreading all the way down his neck. 

Alhaitham smiles. “All this to say… each option on the list was shortsighted. They all isolated single aspects of you.” He leans back in his chair, fingers tapping against the table. If Kaveh didn’t know any better, he’d say he looks restless. “Some emphasized your work, your inclination to the aesthetics, your… dramatics.”

“My dramatics?” Kaveh repeats indignantly.

Alhaitham’s smile grows. There’s a soft edge to it. “You’re proving my point.”

Kaveh scowls, but it lacks any real heat. “Go on, then.”

“None of them were inaccurate, but they all felt incomplete.” And his eyes, gods… always so unwavering, always making Kaveh feel like freshly cleaned glass. “I thought that, if anything, your name already contains associations that no alternative term could replicate.”

Kaveh stills.

“To everyone else, it’s merely your name,” Alhaitham says. “A social identifier, oftentimes a reference point, as well.” His thumb brushes absently against the handle of his fork. 

“No?” Kaveh asks, too quiet and fragile. 

Alhaitham continues in that awful, effortlessly honest way of his. “It refers to the architect who overworks himself on projects he claims not to care about. The man who insists on cleaning our rugs himself because he doesn’t think anyone else could treat it with adequate care.” 

Kaveh frowns. “I stand by that…”

Something unravels behind Alhaitham’s eyes. Brightens, more like. “It also refers to someone incapable of running errands without coming back with twice as many groceries as intended because he felt bad for a vendor.” Kaveh opens his mouth to retort here, but the gentle edge in Alhaitham’s voice stops him. “Then, there’s the senior student who argued with me for three hours in the House of Daena because he thought my interpretation of a text lacked humanity.”

Kaveh’s throat tightens. 

“And,” Alhaitham adds, voice lowering. “the man who rearranges our furniture every few months because he insists it helps his creativity… who doesn’t know that he says my name differently when he’s tired after a long day.”

Silence follows, and it’s complete and terribly, terribly tender. Kaveh looks down quickly lest he blurts out something he can’t take back, likely a three word, eight letter phrase. “That’s not—“ Kaveh lets out a breathless laugh. “You can’t just throw my own arguments back at me.”

Alhaitham shrugs lightly. “It felt appropriate.”

“Archons,” Kaveh mutters, pressing a hand over his face. 

“And that,” Alhaitham says calmly. “is precisely the issue. No substitute carries the same weight because no substitute contains the same accumulation of meaning.”

Kaveh peeks at him through his fingers. “So your conclusion is just… my name?”

“For now, yes.”

“That’s horribly unromantic.”

“I disagree.” Alhaitham’s expression grows amused. “There’s a significant difference between hearing your name from a stranger and hearing it from someone who truly knows you.”

Kaveh hates the effect this man has on him. Were he braver, he’d round this table right now and kiss him square on the mouth. 

“But,” Alhaitham continues after a beat, outright smirking now. “I do find your choice interesting.”

Kaveh covers his face with both hands now. “Don’t start…”

Alhaitham reaches over the table to lower them, thumb brushing over the rings on Kaveh’s fingers as he holds them down carefully. “It softens the phonetics considerably.”

Kaveh wants nothing more than to drop his head down on the table, but Alhaitham has him trapped. “You’re never saying that sentence to me ever again.”

A quiet laugh comes from Alhaitham. “You arrived at it naturally. You used it because, in that moment, it felt right.” His voice loses some of its teasing edge. “That’s the distinction you were trying to explain from the beginning, wasn’t it?”

Kaveh nods wordlessly, and suddenly Alhaitham is grinning. Kaveh, helpless to resist, can’t help but break into disbelieved laughter right then and there as he looks at everything that’s grown to be his. What a slow, terrifying, wonderful act it is to allow another person to know you so deeply that they have no other choice but to redefine you again and again.

There’s still a beautiful world out there that hasn’t been uncovered by human voices, and Kaveh finds himself all too eager to find it.  

Especially if Alhaitham will be there to discover it alongside him.