peepo | the morning sun and the night sky.

[ kaveh brings alhaitham's hand to his forehead. alhaitham allows it. how can he not? a rainy spring, a flower pressed within the pages of a long-forgotten book, and kaveh, who had been the first to take alhaitham's hand all those years back. alhaitham does not fully remember the context. the ignition of kaveh's passions have always come without warning nor rhyme - the opening of a fantastic new restaurant, the exhibition of a new work by a promising herbad, the sight of the stars above. but kaveh's hand has always been warm and sure in his. the illness cannot take that away.

so he allows it. his fingers slot between kaveh's. he lets himself be held there.

how will you pull me up from the dark well of despair? ]

Have you not always said that hope is the counter to despair? [ is what alhaitham says. ] I have already given you the solution. I will remember for you the faith you have for the world. I will keep the memory until you are ready to have it again. Is that not hope?

[ yes, he has. yes, it is. had this situation been in reverse, an alhaitham plagued by eleazar (archons forbid), an alhaitham who posed him the same question, it's exactly what kaveh would have said: he would give him the hope to believe. it could be a well-crafted lie, in a way. what hope is there for an illness that will consume him, little by little? what hope is there, when they are well aware of what the future holds for them?

kaveh, then, thinks. it is the hope of living every day like it will be his last. that is what it means to have faith in the world he loves so dearly. the sun comes and goes, seasons pass by. time does not stop for anyone. not even kaveh, once light of kshahrewar. ]

Then. [ a choked up start, and kaveh realizes he's shaking. his grip tightens. ] ... It's fine, right? For me to be scared. It's fine if sometimes I feel like everything is just meaningless, right? You— You will be there. To remind me to have hope?

[ where does a lie begin? does it begin with the lips, forming sound and phoneme? does it begin with the mind, with the first spark of thought? does it begin with intention, the singular flashpoint of momentum? how can the words that are coming out of a person's mouth make untrue reality? and from where does this falsehood arise: the person speaking, the person hearing, or somewhere in between? alhaitham has an answer. it is not, in fact, the answer that kaveh would arrive at. because alhaitham, who has never lied to kaveh, thinks - of course it's fine, because kaveh has lived in fear all his life. because kaveh has believed the world to be meaningless all his life. because alhaitham cannot give kaveh permission for what he has always done; and it so follows that alhaitham cannot give him permission to stop.

his hand curls in kaveh's. their fingers intertwine into their most natural configuration - palm to palm, valley to valley. he brings kaveh's hand back to him, to press first his knuckles to his lips, and then his palm. kaveh trembles, and it's as if the world trembles with him. perhaps it does. the eagle in the sky no longer soars. the padisarahs no longer sway. the world fragments along its edges like silverine stars in a dying galaxy, and alhaitham thinks, this dream will end soon. for kaveh, it has always been a nightmare. for alhaitham: ]

I am here, Kaveh. [ is what he says, quiet and resolute. alhaitham's lips pressed against the warm dip of kaveh's palm, his words hope-made-form, ] I am here.

[ for alhaitham, it has always been a promise. ]

[ alhaitham's touch is deadly, he finds. so gentle they feel like a dream in itself, and with each kiss, his skin burns, as though the eleazar rejects it by inflicting pain. as though that kindness is something kaveh is not allowed, because after all, why would he? the illness is, by itself, karma. that he loses all he holds dear is karma. a perfectly crafted nightmare for himself. that is why, he thinks, this still cannot be his dream.

and kaveh, once light of kshahrewar, does not cry for himself. if they were characters in a fictional book, this would be his cue to cry. shed tears of joy, tears of sorrow, tears that would serve as windows to his heart. but he does not cry. the desire is there, to cry at last, to unbottle his feelings and let them all out.

even in this dream, kaveh does not cry. ]

I know. I know. [ because when is alhaitham not? ever since they met, one faithful day in the house of daena, when has his life been without alhaitham?

they would come together, time and time again. find each other even when they did not wish for it. find each other when they did. in the real world, in dreams. alhaitham is there. warm, kind. ] I don't want to wake up.

[ kaveh does not cry. alhaitham, who has never seen kaveh cry, holds kaveh's hand, and allows him to not cry. alhaitham is not the one dreaming. king deshret dreams of purple padisarahs, and kaveh lives out the consequences. but this dream does not belong to king deshret alone. if it had, alhaitham would have been able to carve the dream from king deshret's head, to reduce it down to its base components and to rip the purple from the padisarahs here. he knows it can be done. king deshret is hardly so omnipotent when forced into the flesh of a man. there is a second dreamer who dreams of the selfsame padisarahs, and that is the one that alhaitham has tasked himself to find.

because he must. because he will. the nexus of dreams will take this, dream, too. the akasha harvests them with the ravenous ease of a predator in spring. alhaitham has no lies for kaveh. he has no more words of comfort. what he can say is this: ]

You will.

[ kaveh will wake up, three days ago. he will have remembered nothing. alhaitham has remembered, and will continue to remember. this is not the first time he had kaveh has had a conversation on hope; this will not be the last. his hand tightens around kaveh's. the sky shivers above them. ]

And when you do, I will find you.

[ reassurance. alhaitham has always been good at them, in his own way. oftentimes, he reassures with actions, no words. he gives kaveh a key. he pushes kaveh forward when kaveh takes a step back. he catches him when he falls. he holds his hand, and never lets him forget that alhaitham is there, for him. in the real world, in the world of dreams.

the beautiful purple of real padisarahs is something kaveh has always dreamed of seeing. the outside world is gorgeous, a painting crafted by the gods. the eagles dance in the sky above, the grass is at its greenest. the fish on the lake thrive on clear water. this dream is the embodiment of hope. it is a reminder that life is ever so precious, and that in spite of his own circumstances, kaveh loves it dearly.

his fingers squeeze alhaitham's. ]

I will wait. [ choked up, still. tears do not fall. ] I will always wait. No matter when, or where, or in what lifetime. I will be waiting.

[ kaveh is waiting. alhaitham knows. it had been winter when that letter from fontaine had arrived by courier. that week, senior kaveh could not be found. not in the lecture halls, not in the kshahrewar studios, not in the study rooms, not in the house of daena. he was not in line for the terrible cafeteria coffee, he was not working by moonlight in his cramped dorm shared with three other people, he was not in the haravatat dormitories, making a sorry excuse out of alhaitham's bed while his hands gestured to life beauties the world still has yet to see. on the sixth day, alhaitham had sat down, and walked himself through the well-worn corridors of kaveh's mind. nowhere that reminds him of his mother's work. nowhere that prying eyes could see. what if they judge? what if they ask? nowhere that would get in the way of other's work, and nowhere that allows kaveh to slack, because even at the height of his grief, the guilt of inadequacy and inaction haunts him. somewhere where he feels free. somewhere where he can see the sky. alhaitham had risen, and walked. he walked from campus to the top of the divine tree. he had parted the leaves near the north-easten skyline. he had said: there you are.

and has it not always been this way? kaveh never hides well. an architect knows nooks and crannies, the hidden paths and the quiet, unnamed rooms never quite finished. if he did not want to be found, he would not be. but kaveh always hides in the way of someone waiting to be found. kaveh, lost in the depths of his own thoughts, spiraling towards an unnamed destination whose darkness even he cannot see. alhaitham, dragging him from his drafting table, a cool hand against the warmth of his temple, until his eyes refocused from a distant, terrifying future to the current, grounded present - there you are. kaveh, fifth day into what should have been a three-day trip, eleazar like spines along the curve of his legs and elbows, curled up in a shelter of stone and sand as he waits out the pain with delirious patience. alhaitham, tearing down the barrier of sand with dendro, prying past the guard runes to shed light into the alcove - there you are. kaveh, nine years old, and in a dream of a empty house, hiding in a cupboard from the hollow echo of that resounding silence. alhaitham, reaching into the nexus, pulling aside the curtains and tracing his footfalls, opening that cupboard with the careful tug of a hand -

there you are.

in no universe will kaveh hide somewhere that alhaitham cannot find. in no universe would alhaitham stop searching. and in no universe would kaveh stop waiting. this is alhaitham and kaveh - this is them. alhaitham's hand squeezes back; one, last pulse of warmth as this world sets. ]

Who are you to speak of other lifetimes, Kaveh? You have yet to live this one. [ we have yet to live this one. ] I will find you. Now - go.

[ the scent of padisarahs - and then, darkness, darkness, darkness. ]

[ darkness, darkness, darkness.

kaveh, who loves colors, who loves the light, once light himself, has learned to accept the darkness, faux as it is. when he closes his eyes, he sees a new world. the blue of the sky is lighter, leaning towards green in pigmentation, but never too much to be out of place. there are no whites in the ocean above, and the sun is always bright, much bigger than it should be, but never hotter. on his skin, it is the perfect temperature, and he does not fall victim to it. the grass is a more vibrant green. the padisarahs are an intense purple. the anemones are not red, but pink, at the height of spring. the rosebushes outside alhaitham's home, vahumana yellow.

it is never dark, not when he's awake and closes his eyes, not when he sleeps, and dreams of an oasis so beautiful it is untouchable, unmoving. he dreams of dances, of calloused hands. he dreams of lives that do not belong to him, and then forgets it all.

he rouses, early. it has been one and a half hours since the sun has risen. there are tears in the red of his eyes, and an emptiness in his chest that suffocates him. kaveh cries, without meaning, without reason, unsure for whom his tears shed. kaveh, who never cries, does so until there is no more tears left to fall. he cries, as though in mourning. he cries for a memory forgotten.

today, his legs work. despite the exhaustion, kaveh follows his routine, for it gives him meaning and purpose. he rises, bathes, makes sure the scales still cover his body, and have not, magically, left somehow. he applies balm onto hands and legs, courtesy of tighnari, dresses himself. if he is not too clumsy with his touch, he makes coffee for two; cream, cinnamon, sugar and milk, for himself. black for alhaitham, who sleeps in his room, just across his own.

today, kaveh does not rouse alhaitham. he leaves breakfast ready, but does not eat. he sets the table (cloth matching silverware, silverware matching dishware, dishware matching the chosen flower of the day, that sits in the middle of the table), drinks his coffee, does the dishes, and leaves for the day. he does not, today, knock on alhaitham's door.

the anemones are red, the trees that decorate and support sumeru, orange. it is autumn, and kaveh, whose body no longer feels the warmth of the sun, or the chill of the autumn breeze, finds solace in the colors nonetheless. the eleazar, at the very least, has not robbed him of this. today, his legs do not feel weak, and kaveh braves a trip down to treasure street. he buys five rambutans, greets those who speak with him and those who do not, and spends the last of his strength to climb the divine tree. he greets akademiya students who wish him a good morning, pays respects to former teachers, politely declines their offer to have kaveh teach at the akademiya again, third time this month alone.

kaveh, who was once seen as the sun himself, ever surrounded by people, does not shine the way they remember, does not offer the same warmth. kaveh, who makes it to a secluded spot behind the sanctuary of surasthana, is often seen by himself, with alhaitham, or not seen at all. kaveh, who sits at last, who eats his rambutan, tries to remember. his dream, the reason his smiles never make it to his eyes today, and what brings him the will to cry. kaveh, who bleeds when cut, and bleeds for other people, whose heart is forever bleeding, does not understand the hole in his chest, and the hollowness of it. kaveh, who bears the weight of guilt and regret, finds his shoulders numb. kaveh, who is always a sunburst, can have his light covered by clouds, too.

kaveh, kaveh, kaveh. even his name, too, has lost meaning.

he sits, eats, mourns, and waits. he has left his heart behind, somewhere he does not recall. it will be found. it will be brought to him, if only he waits. ]

[ he finds kaveh atop the divine tree.

it is not the first time, nor will it be the last. alhaitham rouses, and the house is empty. he knows it as well as he knows the beating of his own heart and the cadence of his own breathing. when the house is empty, it is still. even at the height of his illness, kaveh expends energy through motion and sound. the house resounds with it. the floorboards creak with it. the doors slam shut with it. the cutlery clinks with it. the house is alive. kaveh's nightmares are dealt with with the barest of bated breaths, ice-cold floors that alhaitham traverses to make his way to his bed. kaveh's pain is announced with the agitated creak of its lumber, the tormented groan of which draws alhaitham to kaveh's side. kaveh's absence is hollow. the house is filled with his silence. alhaitham breathes in, and out, and closes his eyes. seared into his eyelids is the purple of the padisarahs; seared into his eyelids is the red of kaveh's eyes.

within him, deshret murmurs. he ignores him. alhaitham has never needed the ghost of deshret to tell him what he needs to do.

it is still morning when alhaitham's sure steps take him up the pathway to the divine tree. he walks the well-worn corridor's of kaveh's mind, and comes to such a conclusion. the autumn leaves are like fire from heaven. the rambutans are jeweled and sweet. he would have seen the cockerels in their cages and thought of the sky. the divine tree could not possibly be closer to the vapid blue of today, barely hidden behind the faintest wisps of white clouds. a real sky. no sky is ever as ravishingly blue as the one in dreams. alhaitham, who has never had much of an opinion on colour, knows that this sky resonates. it's under the watchful eyes of reality that alhaitham makes his way to the carved out hollow of the sanctuary of surasthana, and then, following kaveh's instincts, looks for the one place where prying eyes would not.

there you are.

kaveh sits. his feet curl against the sallow pale of his skin. he is just beneath the overhanging arch of a resting palm leaf, cradled in perfect frame as if the very breath of surasthana herself seeks to hide but a single petal of a withered flower. alhaitham's feet take him there. he says nothing; there is nothing, after all, to say. his gaze flicks over the peel of the rambutans, the careful plait of kaveh's hands, the tone of his skin and the clarity of his eyes. and then, because he is alhaitham, he takes the cloak from his own shoulders, and slips it around kaveh's.

bodyheat lingers. he looks. of course alhaitham does.

today, too, he has found him. ]

[ reality is not perfect, and as such, neither is the sky's blue, the leaves' orange, kaveh's red. in the shelves of his mind, he finds nothing, searches and looks and exhausts himself to recall a dream that might not exist. something in him tells him to keep fighting, a gentle feeling as though a second being who shares a body with him. there is hope in searching, and if humanity gives up hope, what is left? so he continues, closes his eyes, thinks. a dream so perfect that must be recalled, a dream he did not experience with himself.

a dream that touches his skin, and this, he can feel. the weight of alhaitham's coat, and when the red of kaveh's eyes meet with the many colors of alhaitham's own, he thinks, for a moment, i found it. ]

You know I'm not— [ cold, but kaveh cuts himself short to give room to a defeated smile, and he pulls the cloak closer to him. ] Good morning. [ he decides to start over.

his eyes fall back onto his lap, where his fingers had been halfway into peeling a second rambutan before they had grown too weak to do the job. kaveh attempts still, again, finds distraction in it. his eyes, he knows, are swollen, tired. other people may not have noticed, may mistake it for makeup. alhaitham is not as naive. try as he might, there is little to none that he can hide from him.

kaveh does not look at him, and gestures with his head for alhaitham to sit. ]

How was breakfast? Not cold by the time you woke up, I hope.

[ kaveh is not cold. kaveh has not felt cold for such a long time; the eleazar dulls the senses, focusing the body's tremendous capacity for sensation down to the singular focal point for pain. alhaitham does not know eleazar. he, however, knows kaveh. the point of comparison tells a tale about the hollowing of a disease as old as sumeru is young. the kaveh of before and the kaveh of today share the bleeding red of his eyes. and the rest -

alhaitham is not blind. the rest, too, is kaveh.

alhaitham's head cants. kaveh has not felt cold for such a time, but that does not mean his body is no longer affected by it. the lack of sensation implies the lack of a warning system, a body that no longer knows how to orient itself with reality. so alhaitham lets his cloak rest there along kaveh's exposed back as he sits where indicated. ]

It was cold. [ night had taken its toll; but it is alhaitham. there is nothing that indicates so in the set of his shoulders, in the deliberate way he takes a rambutan from kaveh's little cohort of them and begins, steadily, to peel. ] The coffee, however, was hot. The grind was fine. I will expect a dash of cinnamon, next time.

[ the loss of something to keep his hands busy, he finds, makes him uncomfortable. it is nothing new. kaveh cooks when he can, cleans when his body allows him. when it does not, it is alhaitham who does both, and kaveh sits there, uncomfortable, inadequate. he is, after all, already imposing on alhaitham's hospitality. if he cannot do the bare minimum, what is there for him to do? if the eleazar takes away he last of his worth, what reason is there for him to keep living?

he replaces those thoughts with thoughts of breakfast. cold — he would make sure to wrap it next time with a cloth, to preserve some of its warmth —, and cinnamon next time, which kaveh imprints in his mind, and makes sure to remember.

his hands, kaveh rests on his lap. he does not know what to do with them. ]

Tomorrow. [ not next time, because next time implies the next time the eleazar allows him to cook without breaking or dropping anything. tomorrow. ] I should have at least woken you up. [ ... ] Sorry.

[ the eleazar has robbed him of the cold, but it has not robbed him of smell. alhaitham's cloak smells familiar, and it weighs in his heart. ] You didn't have to come after me, you know. I'm sure you are busy.

[ tomorrow, kaveh says. alhaitham thinks - next time. the objective fact does not change simply because willpower dictates it so: that the eleazar is worsening, that the cycle of the sabzeruz continues. tomorrow, kaveh will once again find a place to hide; tomorrow, once again, breakfast will be cold. the unending cycle of the festival takes the mundane and turns it into the living cold of an unattainable future. but once again, today, alhaitham has found kaveh in the realm of the living. he has found his kaveh, even if he is but a shadow of himself. the disease has hollowed him. it has hollowed sumeru. alhaitham's priority has never been sumeru.

kaveh apologises. alhaitham does not bother to look up. he deposits a peeled rambutan into kaveh's hand. the peel is crushed into his palm. he takes up another. ]

Does there seem to be much work that needs to be done on the day of a festival?

[ it is not the first time they have had this conversation. it will not be the last. ] You seem more eager for me to work overtime than the staff of the Akademiya itself. If you were truly worried about my schedule, you should have chosen to stay in bed.

[ as usual, it is said without censure; a mere statement of fact. ]

Busy doesn't always mean with work. You sound more like you miss it.

[ busy could mean plenty. busy enjoying the birth of lesser lord kusanali, and the festivities that come with it. busy browsing the house of daena, always quiet but quieter still today. busy, not babysitting kaveh, not peeling his rambutans.

(its weight, light as it is, is welcoming on his hands. he does not eat it just yet.)

there is, however, guilt that comes with it. yes, perhaps if kaveh were to be truly concerned about alhaitham's schedule, he would have stayed in bed, not wandered alone through sumeru city without a word spoken to alhaitham. but staying in bed has never been something kaveh enjoyed doing. staying in bed meant giving up, meant giving in to feelings of hopelessness. he may not have the strength to peel a rambutan, but the sky is gorgeous, the people celebrate, and the leaves are a beautiful orange color. it feels, at least, far less lonely.

it should feel less lonely. the hollow feeling in his chest is not gone in the least. ]

You worry too much. Just enjoy your day. Or what, you're scared I will just suddenly disappear?

[ he just might, one day. ]

[ a second rambutan deposits itself in kaveh's hands. there are now two beaded fruits there, the colour of a small, pink universe unto themselves. alhaitham presses another thin stack of rambutan peels into the palm of his hand, and begins on a third. the edge of his nail pries apart the thick, hardened rind. the pads of his fingers break apart the pliable skin and shred it along the contours of its flesh. the final fruit sits, glistening, against the curve of his thumb. he eats it. the pit is a stone in the back of his mouth. the fruit is overly sweet. it is the season for rambutans, just as it is the season for autumn, and the season for the celebration of a birth of a god. alhaitham takes his handkerchief and discards the pit into it. then, he looks to kaveh.

in the thing, silverine strands of morning light filtering from the canopy of the divine tree, kaveh's skin is sallow. the pallid of his complexion is accentuated by the thin wisps of flyaway hairs along his forehead, framing the sunken pits of his cheeks. he has lost weigh. he has lost vitality, which has little to do with weight. the morning light is a halo. one would not be surprised if the light were to consume kaveh; one would not be surprised if kaveh were no longer whole.

alhaitham, who remains unsurprised, simply looks at him. he continues to look. ]

Fear suggests that I anticipate danger and uncertainty. [ is what alhaitham says. ] What is uncertain or dangerous about your state of being? I know where you are. Where would you go that I cannot find you? Where would you go where I cannot follow?

[ the green of his eyes flicker down, to the handkerchief. alhaitham holds it up, with a shrug of a gesture. ]

Eat. They are unbearably sweet. Though the illness has decreased the sensitivity of your palate, you will find them just so.

[ and discard the pits here. ]

[ two rambutans. kaveh, who graduated a kshahrewar, not a haravatat, finds poetry in it. two, never one. alhaitham says, where would you go that i cannot find you?, and it adds to the sentiment. always two, never one, never kaveh by himself, never just alhaitham. he waxes poetry on the red rambutans, gives himself the weight of guilt, to replace the weight he has lost, too. he bleeds for those who breathe and those who do not, and wonders, then, how he is supposed to eat one fruit at a time.

he does not eat, again, just yet, but does not say anything either. there is an answer at the tip of his tongue, but kaveh does not dare voice it.

there is only one place he could go that alhaitham would not be able to follow. sooner or later, he knows, he would have to leave him behind, and be met with loneliness once more. the sky is a beautiful shade of blue, the leaves are sunset-orange, the rambutans are unbearably sweet. it is a good day. kaveh would not spoil it. ]

... Omar must have personally sorted them for me, then. I should thank him later.

[ he bites into one of them, eventually. for kaveh, whose taste buds are not what they used to be, the rambutan tastes just perfect. not overly sweet, he finds. not for him.

he bites into the second rambutan after, and decides to eat them together. ]

Do you remember what you dreamed of last night? [ in between bites, kaveh asks, a quiet voice so light the wind carries it with ease. ] Tell me about it if you do.

[ kaveh consumes two rambutans. flesh, blood, pit. alhaitham knows. deshret had not been a man that the gods could rob. in the end, he, too, watched the downfall of his kingdom, as catastrophe beyond his control took what he loved and held dear, and tore it into the smother of golden sands. inevitability, scholars would say, pouring over the relics of a civilisation lost to time. folly, alhaitham says. if deshret had wanted, truly wanted, to keep his civilisation, he would have gone with it. there had been an eagle soaring high. there always is. but eagles can be made to land. an eagle is known to roost. and there is no destruction on teyvat quite like choosing self-destruction. kaveh would know.

instead of answering, alhaitham observes. the rambutans were picked appropriately given the season and the circumstances. it follows that tomorrow's rambutans would be much the same. the confluence of time and space continues in a cycle. however, it's in the differences that the cracks form - if omar the stallkeeper were to sell mangoes instead of rambutans, if the rambutans were any less sweet, if the weather were any less ravishing and the colour of the sky any less blue. kaveh eats his rambutans, and alhaitham looks to the future for a permutation of kaveh who will not.

there is only one place kaveh would go where alhaitham cannot follow. but alhaitham, whose name is not synonyms would the improbable, knows that he will, regardless.

so instead, alhaitham shrugs his shoulderless shrug. ]

Are you aware that the purple of the padisarahs of the past are different than the ones of the present?

[ the answer is not one he expects, and caught halfway through a bite, kaveh finally turns to look at alhaitham. the purple of the padisarahs, he says. alhaitham does not care about flowers the same way artists do. he does not see them with the same eyes, with the same mindset. yet, he asks nonetheless, and kaveh blinks once, twice.

the purple of the padisarahs. ]

I have read something of the kind, I believe. [ he has not. ] Or Nilou has told me about it. [ she has not. ]

[ kaveh bites into one of his rambutan, and recalls the memory. it comes, instead, so vivid in his mind, as though he has seen them himself. a perfect purple, from stalk to petals, dots of purple that decorated land in imitation to the sky and its stars. they are soft to the touch, softer than the padisarahs close to their house. he's sure, too, that he has a memory retelling their smell, sweeter, often used as an aphrodisiac. the padisarahs are flowers of love. kaveh recalls reading about that somewhere, perhaps a poetry book of liyuen origin.

no such book exists, no.

the thoughts, he realizes, make him acutely aware of the lack of padisarahs come autumn. it is not their season. time and time again, kaveh reminisces about them. ]

Am I to believe you have dreamed of padisarahs so purple they are rumored to glow come nightfall?

[ kaveh, who has neither read about or been told about the padisarahs, bites into his rambutan. alhaitham peels another. he eats it slowly as the memory unfurls between them - purple of the land, framed against the blue of the sky. the sweet scent of something warm and alive, alight with laughter and dance. alhaitham has never liked purple. kaveh does, as he does anything with colour. between the two of them, they sit against the divine tree, kaveh thinking of padisarahs that he has never seen, alhaitham seeing the padisarahs that kaveh has never seen.

the flowers of death.

the comment amuses him. only kaveh - bold, beautiful, impossible you - could come up with a thought like this, to a person like alhaitham, whom nobody in sumeru would believe could dream anything with colour, let alone with delicacy. but it is kaveh, and it is alhaitham. the sound that comes from alhaitham is one of consideration. he presses the last peeled rambutan into kaveh's hand. ]

It had not been nightfall. But the flowers defied shadows. Dreams are not meant to make sense, but their purple was not a colour that I had seen in this world. I identified them as padisarahs through that alone.

[ the beautiful purple of real padisarahs. alhaitham speaks of them, and kaveh can almost picture them himself. anyone would be more inclined to believe that is a dream kaveh had, not alhaitham. but alhaitham, he knows, is a person like everyone else, who bleeds when cut, and bleeds the exact same red color. dreams are not meant to make sense, no, and they do not distinguish between a romantic idealistic man and his seemingly insensitive, cold roommate.

kaveh, whose world is much brighter than everyone else's, had not been given that same beautiful dream. alhaitham, who sees the world much like other people, deserves an unforgettable sight.

the first rambutan, kaveh discards its skin onto alhaitham's handkerchief. the second, as he bites its final bite, follows along. he does not start on the third. ]

I'm jealous. [ he is, of course. ] I should sit you down and teach you how to draw, one day, so you may replicate their likeness. I would have loved to see them.

[ jealous, kaveh says. it is but a dream, alhaitham thinks. a figment of the imagination of a long-dead king. it does not bear jealousy. not kaveh's. not anyone's. but this, he does not say. kaveh's head tilts with the peel of his rambutan. alhaitham's handkerchief rises to meet him halfway.

amused, and quietly so: ]

Do my hands seem like they are meant to draw?

[ to that, kaveh finds purchase to squint, but does not face alhaitham when doing so. he would see it, nonetheless. alhaitham is, after all, always looking at him.

he bites into the third rambutan, first, before he voices: ] There's no such thing. If you want to learn, you can.

[ nothing can stop an artist from pursuing a dream. kaveh believes wholeheartedly, after all, that passion can move mountains. passion overcomes hardships. passion will not bring food to one's table, or money to one's wallet, but it will make you stand out from other people. it is one of the reasons kaveh, and not one of his seniors, nor any of his juniors, is the light of kshahrewar himself. ]

What stops your hands from picking a pencil and putting it to paper? You know how to draw a circle, or a square. Shapes are not hard. With practice comes perfect. Even you can do it. [ a pause, and then: ] Or are you so advert to the arts you cannot bear to try?

[ kaveh squints. he sees it not in kaveh's eyes, but in the set of his neck, in the way he leans forward just so as the gears in his head spin. the eleazar has robbed kaveh of much. the pain in his fingers, the creak of his joints, the shaking of once-steady hands versus the flaky calluses from dehydrated skin. but it has not robbed kaveh of the alacrity of mind and the singular focus of his existence. this much, alhaitham is sure.

alhaitham removes from his pocket the little wooden container of balm that tighnari had put together. the faint scent of jasmine permeates. ]

The same reason that once stopped you from learning another language. [ he puts down the rambutan peels and the handkerchief so that he can twist open its cap. jasmine now flourishes. ] Unless you have suddenly developed an interest in the syntactic topology of Ancient Enkanomiyan? I turn the question back to you: are you so adverse to languages that you cannot bear to try?

[ a parallel conversation, conducted without words: alhaitham holds out his hand for kaveh's. the intention is clear. his unoccupied hand, please. ]

You know that's different. What use will Enkanomiyan have in my life? If I would like to converse with other Haravatats, I could use the language we both speak.

[ he would have once thought, yes, why not give enkanomiyan a chance, why not visit enkanomiya itself? surely with alhaitham's prestigue and position, he could manage a field trip down sangonomiya. he would have much been willing, but this kaveh does not bear the same hopeful dreams. he would not make it across the sea. he would not have the strength in his legs to explore an ancient civilization. he hasn't in a long time.

he bites into the rambutan, and gives alhaitham his left hand. anyone else, he would have hesitated, likely not even complied. alhaitham knows him, however. alhaitham takes care of him. why would he not? ]

With art, you can easily immortalize memories, or translate dreams into paper. It's more about the sentimentalism of it, and not its usefulness. Though, well, I'm certain you could find purpose for art as a hobby.

[ kaveh slips his left hand into alhaitham's. he has always run cool, even at the height of summer. the eleazar affects body heat regulation, or so tighnari had taught alhaitham early on, when the prognosis was still unclear. it affects the stiffness of the joints and the quality of the skin. the skin is the body's largest organ. it regulates body temperature and protects nerves. alhaitham is no amurta, but he learned. he always did. with care, he turns kaveh's hand over so that he can see his palm. the calluses have faded through years of intermittent use, but the pads of alhaitham's fingers, painstakingly searching for traces, still feels the thick nubs of skin that indicate their existence. pulls out a second handkerchief to wipe away any last vestige of fruit juice, and then, with care, begins to rub ointment.

first, kaveh's joints. the long line of bone and the crook where cartilage swells. they're the first to go in the winter, when the plunging temperature brings out the flaky red of eczema. alhaitham says, as he does so: ]

I already have a hobby. [ next, the pads of kaveh's fingers, the ointment worked in with the gentle touch of someone used to working with irreplaceable manuscripts of dubious fragility. the ointment seeps. ] I am hardly in need of another.

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fanfic jumpscare, sorry.....

fanfic good... touches

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immortalize this tag as the tag written during my 70min run rabanaste

i will frame this tag tbh, 'longest 70 minutes of kain's life'

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