Chapter Text
The house has been quiet as of late.
Alhaitham’s only company for two weeks is the sound of the occasional spells of rain that pelt Sumeru at this time of year, drumming rapid patterns on the roof and windows. Occasionally, he will give a sigh as he settles into the couch with a book or make the requisite sounds of effort as he does his stretches in the morning, but for the most part, not a single word goes spoken inside the house while Kaveh is away on his Fontainian holiday. (He doesn’t count the brief interaction with the two-tailed delivery clerk at the front door.)
It’s… peaceful, Alhaitham supposes. But the appeal of peace can easily become stale when it is all that you know. Even his job consists of largely the same happenings every day. Not even a week into sitting in a quiet house, he finds himself in the odd position of wanting someone around while not actually wanting to be around other people. He has never been the kind of person who doesn’t know how to be alone, so the urge is strange to him.
On the day Kaveh comes home, the skies have cleared, streaming unobscured daylight into the house. He carries on him a tired but pleased smile, a tan that reaches down past his collar, and an extra bag that Alhaitham is certain he’s never seen before. He would have noticed the tasteful but distinctly Fontainian pattern and construction, contrasting Kaveh’s other Sumeru-made luggage. His suspicions are confirmed when Kaveh sheepishly admits that he had to buy a new bag for the new clothes, trinkets, and souvenirs he purchased over the last two weeks.
It wasn’t long ago that Alhaitham might have berated him for spending his money so frivolously. But it hardly seems fair now, having witnessed Kaveh saving up for months prior to taking this trip—meticulously budgeting his expenses, stretching his Mora, and building upon a sum of money he had already set aside thanks to a lucrative contract from last year. All of that hard work has evidently paid off. And even for all his visible exhaustion, Kaveh looks so eager to show Alhaitham everything from his trip. After two weeks of silence, Alhaitham is actually open to some novelty.
First, he thumbs through a small album of photographs that Kaveh places in his hands. Most are of landscapes and landmarks, buildings, and places of interest, with some including Kaveh or his family in the shot. Alhaitham lingers on a picture of Kaveh with his mother, both with an arm around each other, heads leaning together as they smile identical smiles at the Kamera. Nothing else in the photograph jumps out as anything special or worth capturing—it looks like it was taken in someone’s home, the subjects seated on a plush blue sofa with brocade drapes hanging behind them. But Kaveh and Faranak appear comfortable and happy, their eyes full of warmth and laughter, and something about the sight of them curls a hook into Alhaitham’s chest and twists. He closes the album and sets it aside, perplexed by such an odd reaction.
“Look at what my sister drew,” Kaveh says proudly. He takes out a crude but charming drawing of a tall blond figure and a short brunette, holding hands and smiling amidst a field of flowers. The round, wobbly letters scrawled above their heads read Kaveh et Clémence in Fontainian script. “Cute, isn’t it? I think I’ll put it up on my wall.”
The picture is indeed very cute, and the joy on Kaveh’s face is nothing short of radiant. Alhaitham finds himself smiling slightly at his roommate’s infectious good mood, that odd sensation quickly forgotten.
Next, Kaveh pulls out various trinkets and souvenirs, some that he intends to keep and others that he wants to wrap up for their friends: a pearlescent seashell that he and Clémence stumbled across during a day at the beach; a Casket of Tomes decorated in a Fontainian style; a small globe that is intended more for decoration rather than education; and a set of metal puzzles, among others. He seems to be looking for something specific, giving a huff of frustration as he digs through his bag.
“Aha,” Kaveh says triumphantly, looking up at Alhaitham. “Here, I got you something.”
Kaveh hands him something neatly wrapped in paper—a book, upon reveal; one with a cover the colour of conifers, and details debossed in contrasting gold foil. Delicate leaves of ivy form a frame on the front cover, the book’s title written across the centre and along its spine. Alhaitham’s eyes widen when he realizes what he is looking at. “This is…”
“The fourth and final volume of Bashir’s Secrets of Botany,” Kaveh confirms. “First edition.”
Alhaitham can read the words perfectly well, but it’s as if Kaveh’s voice casts a spell of permanence. Yes, this is real, you’re actually holding this in your hands. He manages to pick up his jaw from the floor and shake off his brief trance, turning the book over and around to inspect it. “I’ve looked everywhere for this—where did you find it? And in such good condition…”
“My stepfather owns a secondhand bookstore. He comes into a lot of these sorts of things. Imagine my surprise when I was browsing his personal collection and saw this volume sitting all by its lonesome.”
“How much did he want for it?”
“He didn’t want to take my Mora.”
Something about Kaveh’s words makes Alhaitham’s mouth turn down in a frown.
“Knowing you, you would have insisted on paying anyway. How much did it run you? I’ll pay you back.”
“Don’t worry about that, Alhaitham.”
“Kaveh.”
“I said don’t worry about it, alright?” Kaveh repeats, hands on his hips. “Consider it a gift. Don’t insult me by refusing it.”
Alhaitham cannot challenge that. “…Thank you,” he says, still reluctant to accept the gesture, but grateful all the same. He looks down at the book once more, tracing his thumb across the grooves made by the illustrated vines. “I’ll… be right back.”
He makes for the study, dropping to one knee before the bookcase at the farthest corner of the room. Shelving the book in its rightful place—in between the third volume of its series, and the first volume of another—feels like slotting in the last piece of a puzzle, like crossing off a final item from his list. He doesn’t notice the breath held in his chest until it leaves him in a long exhale.
The doors to the study creak open behind him. Alhaitham should give his thanks again. But he is reluctant to look back, and uncertain of why. Kaveh comes to stand off to his side.
“Everything in this bookcase belonged to your grandmother, right?”
“Yes,” Alhaitham answers, eyes skimming across the titles for what must be the thousandth time as he rises to his feet. “She was still looking for this last volume up until she passed.”
“Was there any particular reason why? Bashir’s works aren’t that rare. I remember perusing The Hidden Lives of Desert Flora at the Akademiya.”
“Bashir’s Secrets of Botany received a single print run at an independent publishing house before they closed business due to the abrupt death of their founder. The rights to the series and many others were signed over to another, larger publisher thereafter. But my grandmother made a point to seek out the original first editions. That first publishing house belonged to her sister, you see.”
“Ah…” Kaveh regards the entire bookcase now, and from the corner of his eye, Alhaitham sees him lifting a hand to his chin in thought. “You know, I always wondered why the books here don’t follow the same system by which you organize the rest of your books. Were all of these published by your grand-aunt’s publishing house?”
“Yes. They’re organized by publishing date and series, just as Grandmother kept them.”
Kaveh hums, the sound one makes when everything is falling into place. “I see. Now I’d like to know how this copy ended up in Fontaine to begin with…”
Ended up in Fontaine, of all places; for Kaveh, of all people, to stumble across. For Kaveh to take home. The house had felt terribly empty for the last two weeks, too big for one person alone, all because Kaveh hadn’t been there to fill the gaps in space and silence. And now that he has returned…
Alhaitham feels as if he is on the precipice of something. Peering over the cliff’s edge, wondering what awaits him if he were to take the plunge.
“I don’t recall ever telling you that I was searching for this book,” Alhaitham realizes, finally turning to his roommate.
“You didn’t.” Kaveh smiles—not smug or triumphant, but small and almost bashful as he averts his gaze. Alhaitham can’t look away. “When I first moved in, I noticed the empty space that was waiting for it.”
Within the short space of a few heartbeats, a soft rush of breath fills and fills Alhaitham’s chest until he feels like he could burst at the seams.
“Anyway—I’m going to unpack the rest of my belongings,” Kaveh says, stepping away. “Sorry, but do you mind taking care of dinner tonight? I’m exhausted from the trip home.”
“Sure,” Alhaitham says mechanically, as if someone had stuck a Mora coin in him. Kaveh could ask anything of him right now and he would agree.
Kaveh smiles gratefully. “Thank you. I’ll make it up to you.”
Later—much later—Alhaitham will name this incident as the moment he realized how much Kaveh truly meant to him, as well as the day he began to hope and wonder if he meant just as much to Kaveh; and Kaveh will lift his hand to brush back Alhaitham’s hair, smiling warmly as he says “of course”, his other hand already folded with Alhaitham’s.
But in the present, Kaveh simply leaves the room, wholly unaware that he is leaving Alhaitham to ponder his beating heart.
::::
Alhaitham is not completely clueless.
He has always harboured a certain fondness for Kaveh. He wouldn’t have offered his senior a place to stay if he didn’t at least tolerate his company. That was what he’d told himself at the time, and for long afterward—that Kaveh’s company was merely tolerable rather than the missing piece that made his empty house a home.
But now that the complete truth of it has settled in, thoughts of Kaveh seem to dominate his every waking moment. Whenever Kaveh is near, Alhaitham doesn’t quite know what to do with himself—he feels ungainly and awkward, like a boy experiencing his first growth spurts again, hyperaware of every inch of space he takes up. When he and Kaveh are apart, all that Alhaitham can think about is when they will see each other again. He finds himself looking forward to going home, more so than he already did before, because home is where Kaveh is. And even if Kaveh is away, Alhaitham will still be able to look around the house for signs of his roommate. The dutars in the living room. Their cloaks hanging on the coat stand. The paintings Kaveh insists on hanging up so that they may bring new life to their living space. This is home for Kaveh too, and Alhaitham has never been gladder for it.
For a brief while, it’s enough. Brewing coffee for two every morning is enough. Sharing the study or the living room in comfortable silence as they work or read is enough. Making Kaveh laugh with a well-placed joke, running errands for the household together, bickering in the way only two people who have known each other for years can—it’s enough.
Until Alhaitham wakes up one morning and finds himself wondering what it would be like to love Kaveh openly. To kiss him. To hold him close. To hold his hand and weave their fingers together like lovers do. Alhaitham has never done any of these things with another person, and the sudden ferocity of these new desires is dizzying. He yearns to reach out, fingers aching to touch.
But more than anything, he simply wants to be by Kaveh’s side. To be the one Kaveh comes home to for the rest of their shared lives. No more nights of struggling to understand the bitter taste in his mouth whenever Kaveh would go out on a date or to the tavern alone, sometimes not returning until the next day. Kaveh only needs to ask, and Alhaitham will give him anything he wants.
This is absurd. Is this really what it feels like to be in love? How does anyone stand it? Logically, Alhaitham knows he is not the only person in history to hold such feelings, but logic doesn’t stop him from feeling as if he is breaking new, undiscovered ground. He has no experience with matters of romance. Are there books on this topic? Journals, studies? How is anyone supposed to know what to do?
He could ask his coupled friends under the guise of curiosity. There is no need to even mention Kaveh or his own feelings. But it wouldn’t take long for Tighnari and Cyno to put two and two together, and after that, things would inevitably turn weird in their group of four. Perhaps Dehya and Candace are the safer choice? They’re not as close—quite literally. Candace’s responsibilities keep her at Aaru Village at all times, and thanks to the unpredictable nature of Dehya’s work, sighting her in Sumeru City is often left to chance.
Alhaitham’s head genuinely starts to hurt, a faint but persistent ache at both sides of his skull. Maybe this is a problem with no clear path. But he refuses to scrabble around in the dark until he stumbles his way into a solution. Kaveh deserves better than that.
Kaveh deserves exactly what he wants: to be romanced, and shown without question that he is cherished. His occasional, half-drunken rants to Tighnari and Cyno following a failed courtship or a bad date have made Alhaitham startlingly familiar with what Kaveh wants in a relationship. He would find himself listening intently to Kaveh’s every word, even if it never crossed his mind why the topic was so interesting at the time.
So what on Teyvat’s green earth is Alhaitham supposed to do about it?
::::
His answer arrives quite literally at his doorstep as he picks up the mail in the morning.
The Steambird is renowned the world over, but the Sumeru Sounder has long held a respectable reputation for keeping the people of Sumeru abreast of the nation’s news every Monday, Wednesday and Friday. Stories from the capital and Port Ormos dominate their content, but news from a smaller village or settlement will make its way into their pages every so often. The articles are typically concise and well-written, devoid of the usual bloat associated with academic writing, all thanks to the eye of a discerning editor-in-chief.
The Sounder is not only a purveyor of news—one of their most popular features is an advice column called The Wanderer’s Advice, written by an anonymous figure known only as the titular Wanderer. All that is known about the Wanderer is that he uses he/him pronouns, is well-travelled but has chosen Sumeru as his current residence, and has an almost single-minded determination to “tell it like it is”. Such a statement would be a red flag for many, in the same way that one should stay away from the types of people who proudly declare themselves “brutally honest” in the sole interest of being brutal. But for whatever reason, the readers of Sumeru seem to eat up the Wanderer’s detached persona, blunt words of advice, and incisive commentary.
If asked, Alhaitham will admit to reading his column every so often. There is something refreshing about Wanderer’s candidness. He does not mince words, nor does he couch his advice in meaningless reassurances that everything will work out perfectly. Kaveh, on the other hand, can’t stand him.
“Would it kill him to be a little more tactful to his readers?”—Kaveh used to huff something along those lines every week, before a particular response from the Wanderer became the final straw and put him off reading the Sounder almost completely. That was months ago; these days, he prefers getting his news from the bulletin boards.
And so Alhaitham is confident that he can turn to Sumeru City’s most popular advice column for help without fear of being discovered by his roommate.
In the study, he takes his favourite writing paper—imported from Inazuma, it is one of the few non-essential things he allows himself to splurge on—and begins to compose a letter.
Or rather, he tries to.
A blank page stares back up at Alhaitham for what feels like ages as he finds himself at a loss as to where to begin, what to include, and how to phrase his request for advice. He will avoid going into detail or giving identifiable information, of course. It’s a tricky task, writing just enough to differentiate himself from the no doubt countless other lovelorn readers who have asked for help, but not so much that he reveals more than necessary. And despite his career and credentials, Alhaitham doesn’t consider himself a strong writer. He knows how to use compelling language to write an academic paper or proposal, but in any other context, he all but struggles to put his thoughts to the page.
He ramps up a slow start but hits his stride eventually, his pen sailing in steady paths across the page. Kaveh even walks in at one point to fetch a book, paying no mind to the unremarkable sight of his roommate writing at his desk. Alhaitham is so engrossed in his task that he doesn’t so much as flinch, doesn’t hurry to shield his work from Kaveh’s eyes.
Satisfaction is not quite the word to describe the feeling he gets when he finishes the letter. Closer to relief, perhaps.
The following morning, Alhaitham passes by the offices of the Sumeru Sounder and surreptitiously drops a plain envelope addressed to The Wanderer directly into their mailbox. Even if his efforts don’t result in a response, he hopes that his letter will at least reach Wanderer’s eyes. The thought of someone—even a stranger—reading about his closely-kept secret feels strangely freeing, like a weight off his chest.
The days pass. The Sumeru Sounder remains in print. Alhaitham collects all three weekly issues and pretends that he doesn’t immediately flip to the “Advice & Opinions” section the first chance he gets. Though the Wanderer wears his self-supposed lack of personal relationships almost proudly, he dispenses advice for all sorts of matters: missed connections, familial relationships, even parenting. There doesn’t seem to be a topic he can’t tackle in some way.
The Wanderer must get dozens of letters every week. Either Alhaitham’s letter slipped through the cracks, or it was deemed not noteworthy enough to merit a response.
As Alhaitham begins to think that this might have been a fool’s errand—that he never should have written to an advice column, of all things—he opens the latest issue of the Sounder to find a series of familiar words on the page, followed by a response that doesn’t exactly inspire confidence.
Dear Wanderer,
It has recently come to my attention that I am in love with my roommate, and have been for a very long time.
Despite our shared background as scholars, some say we couldn’t be any more different. I think that is precisely why I care for them so much—they’ve shown me alternate ways of looking at our world, a kindness that I’m not certain I’ve amply returned. We have known each other since our youth but went our separate ways for a time. The decision to live with them was once an experiment on my part, but now, I realize that it has also been a privilege. I have learnt a great deal about myself almost as much as I have discovered about them.
They are exactly the person I remember them to be, so much more than I thought I already knew, and above all, everything I didn’t know I wanted.
Unfortunately, I have no other romantic experiences from which to draw, and thus have no idea how to proceed with this development. This is all entirely new to me. I never had so much as a childish crush when I was younger, and now I find myself deeply in love. On the other hand, my roommate is a romantic in every sense of the word. They have expressed an interest in being romanced, and I know I would like to try courting them, but I have no idea where to start.
All I know is that I must do something with these feelings of curiosity, anxiety, and excitement that I feel whenever I think of my roommate. They deserve the very best of what I can give them. Any words of advice would be helpful.
Sincerely,
Ardent Admirer
AA,
Some people might claim that I’m the wrong person to consult about matters of the heart, seeing as my readers frequently accuse me of not having one. I don’t experience romantic attraction of any sort; nor do I seek the companionship of others. In my professional opinion, this makes me the perfect person to ask.
You call yourself a scholar. That means many things to many people. In this case, I’m going to assume you mean that you’ll keep an open mind and try anything once. (Within reason.)
You’re in luck. I recently stumbled across a book called The Good Gentleman’s Guide to Courting a Lovely Lady. Each chapter details the methods which the titular gentleman should undertake while establishing a courtship with the titular lady. I wasn’t about to read all of that, so I’ll only summarize part of the table of contents. Since you didn’t specify your and your roommate’s genders, I’ve modified the language from the original writing. Heartless I may be, but I am not inconsiderate.
- Shower them with compliments.
- Give a thoughtful gift.
- Embrace chivalry.
- Initiate physical contact.
- Pay attention to their quirks and desires.
- Make a good first impression on their parents.
- Write them a poem or a song.
It is up to you whether you think any of these will flatter your roommate or not. I don’t really care either way. Write back with the results. Or don’t. Whatever happens between you and your roommate is your business.
– The Wanderer
Alhaitham scans this brief list repeatedly. What does “embrace chivalry” even mean? What exactly are one’s “quirks and desires” and what is he supposed to do with Kaveh’s? The rest of the items on the list sound either simple enough or potentially problematic. Perhaps this was a fool’s errand after all. He hangs his head with a sigh.
What was he thinking?
After a long minute of silence, he moves to close the newspaper when his eyes catch on some of the Wanderer’s words.
You call yourself a scholar.
This time, it reads like a question. A challenge. As if there is a voice that asks him: You call yourself a scholar, and yet you’re throwing in the towel already? Without even trying once?
Alhaitham has no idea what Wanderer sounds like, so the voice sounds much like Kaveh’s. It’s vaguely disconcerting. It makes him laugh. It makes him ask himself, once more: what am I supposed to do?
This time, someone has been kind enough to give him some answers.
And Alhaitham has never been one to let knowledge go to waste.