Chapter Text
Summer in Sumeru had always been hot.
Kaveh should have been used to it by now, but the air in the room is stifling because the windows can't be thrown wide open, and so dragging himself out of bed is unbearably hard. He wants to stay lying on the sheets until his stomach cramps with hunger, the way it used to be — half a year ago, when Kaveh lived the life of an ordinary architect.
Back then he could afford practically anything he wanted, but now— all he has at his disposal are a few hours, spent either on sleep or on blueprints that simply won't let him forget who he really is and how he ended up here. In a cramped chamber of the castle belonging to Crown Prince Alhaitham — who, for some unknowable reason, did not let the young architect be thrown behind bars for his multi-million mora debt after the project's failure.
That project was supposed to be the Palace of Alcazarzaray, envisioned as a monument to the flourishing of Sumeru's arts, if not for one single moment of folly. If, of course, you could even call it that — considering Kaveh was not at fault: his calculations and blueprints were perfect down to the last detail. The only bad luck was with the client, who vanished with the funds in an unknown direction and left behind only forged estimates, for which blame fell, naturally, on Kaveh. Young, ambitious, devoted to his craft and — in a single moment — having sincerely resigned himself to spending the rest of his life in a dungeon, when suddenly...
Kaveh still replayed that scene in his head: the grim courtroom, the guards preparing to clap him in irons, and then — an unexpected, indolent figure in royal attire. At that moment, it had seemed like the Queen herself, but then the silhouette took on more masculine outlines, and his mind unerringly identified the prince. Beautiful, tall, statuesque, and looking at the architect with some strange spark that, Kaveh felt, should have been followed by contempt. That would have been perfectly in the spirit of high society, after all — to laugh at a poor guy at the most shattering moment of his life.
Alhaitham, however, did no such thing.
That day, half a year ago, he stood calmly at the courtroom doors, studying Kaveh intently with his eyes, and then, after the judge's long speech, finally spoke. Kaveh doesn't remember what exactly about — his ears felt like they'd been stuffed with cotton from the stress, and that, probably, is why he so easily agreed to the deal, whose terms seemed frightfully simple: the debt would be cleared if he became a servant. Or rather, Alhaitham had called it some other, more elegant court position back then, but the essence remained the same: Kaveh had traded a prison cell for a gilded cage, where his primary task became attending to His Highness.
One good thing — the prince is not cruel.
Alhaitham doesn't resemble a typical royal at all: his voice is always calm; his gait is unhurried but devoid of excessive pomp; his cyanite eyes are always full of warmth and something Kaveh could never quite define; and the orders he gives are not designed to humiliate. Moreover, he is surprisingly patient and gracious, and at first, this was disorienting. Later it became more familiar, though, perhaps, it would be easier if things were otherwise, because cruelty is simpler to hate. But as it stands— Kaveh felt defenseless every time against His Highness's kindness. Especially when His hands — accidentally or on purpose — would brush against each other, sending tiny impulses skittering over his skin.
"Master Kaveh!" the knock at the door abruptly yanked him from his thoughts. "The prince is already awake and awaits you in his chambers."
"Yes, I'm coming," he nodded, smoothed down his unruly hair, and stepped out of the room to meet the maid.
In her hands lay fresh attire for His Majesty, and if half a year ago Kaveh hadn't known what to do with it, now his movements were honed to perfect automaticity. His legs, too, carried him on their own toward the corridor, at the very end of which lay the grand chambers. Kaveh had been inside them a hundred times already, but every time his heart still skipped a beat before he knocked with his knuckles and pushed the door open:
"Good morning, Your Highness."
"Good morning, Kaveh," Alhaitham's voice sounded slightly drowsy, as if hinting he had risen from bed just a few minutes ago. "You're earlier than usual today."
"Forgive me, I came right after the maid delivered your attire. If you wish, I can come in later."
"No, stay."
Kaveh nodded and set about the familiar task: approach the dressing table, carefully lay out the clothes, reach for the coffee-scented cologne the prince liked to apply each day.
"You look more tired today. Was it a bad night?"
"Nothing serious, Your Highness," Kaveh waved it off by habit. "You know how stifling the summer nights here are; falling asleep isn't always easy."
"And what of your window? Does it not open?" the questions sounded casual, but for some reason, they made his skin start to tingle — just like every time the prince attempted small talk.
"It— broke and won't open. But it's nothing serious, I'll survive," he tried to offer a soft smile in reassurance.
"Actually, you need sleep, and if something is amiss with your room, it ought to be fixed. I'll send a handyman around at noon to repair whatever is required."
"You needn't trouble yourself."
"But I want to."
At those words, Kaveh's throat tightened, and his hands froze above the clothes he should have already started presenting.
"Alright. Thank you very much," he said after a long moment, and his voice came out thinner than he would have liked.
"You're welcome."
Along with these words, Alhaitham took a few steps forward, lifting his chin slightly in a silent sign to begin the daily ritual. The first step was usually applying the cologne, and for Kaveh this was the most difficult part. Especially today, when the prince had once again shown care over such a trifle as the lack of fresh air in a worthless architect's cramped little chamber. But Alhaitham did not hurry him or comment — he simply waited, and when the pale hands finally moved toward him, he slowed his breathing just a touch.
Or maybe it only seemed that way because Kaveh himself had involuntarily held his breath at the feeling of warm skin under his own fingers. And the only way not to think about it — was to sink back into the role of an ordinary servant:
"What would you like for breakfast today?"
"You ask that question every day."
"Because it is my duty, Your Highness," he finally put away the cologne bottle and occupied his hands with the gray silk robe. "So, what would you like?"
"The same as you."
Kaveh furrowed his brows in surprise:
"I'm afraid you are entitled to something better than plain porridge."
"'Better,'" Alhaitham tilted his head, catching Kaveh's gaze and holding it. "Sounds as though what you want and what I want couldn't possibly be the same thing."
"Yes, they can't. You are the Crown Prince, and I—"
"And you are an architect, with whom I wish to share breakfasts. At least in terms of taste, so please, do not evade the question. I am tired of guessing."
"Forgive me," even though there was no disappointment audible in the prince's voice, Kaveh bowed his head. "It's just unusual, that someone might actually care about my tastes and interests. But, if you truly want to know, I would prefer— probably, pita with tomatoes, cheese, and chicken."
"Very well," the prince's lips spread into a neat smile. "Now hurry up a little, because I have a meeting with the envoys from the Ashavan Realm soon."
In response, Kaveh silently obeyed.
His slender fingers immediately found the white shirt with wide sleeves and slipped it onto the other's shoulders, smoothing it out a little before reaching for the vest. Today it was made of a dark green fabric with gold threads and matching gold buttons, each of which had to be fastened with maximum concentration.
Alhaitham, meanwhile, stood motionless and silent, seemingly thinking of nothing but the slight figure standing before him. It didn't matter that envoys would soon be waiting in the great hall — Kaveh needed time, and he was ready to give it. Even if it took twenty minutes instead of the allotted five — just so he could watch as those slender fingers carefully took up the cufflinks.
Reaching for them, Kaveh lifted the prince's left hand and involuntarily found his pulse right away. It was steady and calm, as always, and thanks to that, the final touches of dressing the prince proved light and effortless. Except, perhaps, for the fact that at the very last moment, Alhaitham's fingers curved slightly to brush against Kaveh's skin before he pulled away.
"All done, Your Highness."
"Thank you," the prince thanked him quietly, but instead of looking at the mirror, he didn't take his eyes off the architect. "Will you come see me again after midday?"
"Of course."
"Good. Then I shall release you to have breakfast."
"Thank you. A pleasant appetite to you in advance as well, Your Highness," Kaveh bowed and immediately headed for the door, because he could feel it — just a little more and he would melt under the prince's warm gaze, and that was impermissible.
It is his duty to be an impartial servant, not daring to think of anything greater, because the hope that Alhaitham might feel even a fraction of what Kaveh felt was too dangerous to allow. So he simply needed to keep doing his job and now make his way to the dining hall, where servants crowded at long wooden tables while the cooks took turns bringing them bowls of porridge. Today it was rice porridge, with some kind of beans added, and this was the utmost luxury one could afford, and Kaveh tried to cling to that thought as he found a free spot at the end of the table and folded his hands in anticipation.
"Master Kaveh," the cook came over with a tray a few minutes later.
Kaveh lifted his head and had already prepared himself to be served the same as everyone else, save for maybe some one small extra — because for the past four months, at breakfast, lunch, or dinner, they'd also served something little extra, like a couple of dates, beans, or pieces of fruit — but unexpectedly, the smell of warm bread and fried meat hit his nose.
On the plate lay a pita. Soft, steaming, stuffed with slices of tomato, creamy white cheese, and tender strips of chicken. Exactly what he had named today in the prince's chambers.
"From His Highness again?" a whisper reached him from somewhere on the left, too quiet to identify the speaker.
"It's always from His Highness," answered an equally quiet voice, seemingly belonging to the laundress. "Even more lavish than usual today—"
"Wonder what he did to earn that?"
"Maybe it's a mistake?"
"I don't think so."
Kaveh didn't think so either. Not after four straight months, during which the prince's favor was consistently wrapped in just such small daily gestures: something tasty for breakfast; a new set of drafting pencils; a winter blanket made of wool not permitted to a common servant; a small brass lamp with an adjustable wick, perfect for late-night sketches; and so many other things Kaveh had lost count.
What's more, he felt that the embarrassment from all these gestures had shifted into... he wanted to call it gratitude, admiration, or natural attachment to a generous master. But gratitude didn't make his pulse quicken when Alhaitham's fingers touched his. Admiration didn't make him lie awake, replaying over and over one single phrase, spoken in that low, unhurried voice. Devotion didn't make him feel jealous of the empty air, which was allowed to stand beside the prince when Kaveh could not. So that left only one thing, and that was a crush. A foolish, unconscious, and utterly hopeless crush that had settled in his chest a month or two ago, despite the realization that no matter what, Alhaitham would still remain the Crown Prince, and Kaveh a servant, and nothing — absolutely nothing — would change that.
With these thoughts, he finished his pita and hurried away from the kitchen, out toward the fresh air, which carried an especially pleasant floral scent close to the little fountain — a secluded spot in the middle of the royal garden. It is especially quiet there in the mornings, and that's why Kaveh loved to linger there for a while.
"You're here again."
"Nilou!" he looked up and saw the girl with red hair, hidden as always under a pale blue headscarf. "I thought they'd sent you to the city."
"They did, but I'm back already," she sat down next to him and carefully measured him with a look. "Let me guess, the prince was gracious to you again today?"
Kaveh nodded shortly.
"And what was it this time?"
"Pita for breakfast."
"Hm."
"What? He asked me what I'd like, and I said the first thing that came to mind," he began justifying himself, although he understood it was useless to do so in front of Nilou, because she knew him inside out.
"You do realize this won't end well, right? The other servants are already starting to whisper, and if this continues—"
"I know. I know," Kaveh sighed again and shifted his gaze to the water running in the fountain. "It's just— nothing depends on me, you know? Whatever I do or say, he keeps making these— gestures."
"And you don't exactly mind," it sounded without judgment, but with obvious concern. "His Highness is, of course, honorable and is unlikely to pressure you, but you need to be careful, Kaveh. Other people's tongues can be very cruel."
"Everything will be fine. I promise," Kaveh tried to smile in hopes that Nilou would believe him and not come back to this subject.
At least, not today.