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Chapter Text

When he finally returns home after a long day of working hard but accomplishing absolutely nothing, Kaveh starts talking before he’s fully through the door. “I know, I know I’m late,” he says. “But you will not believe what Aisha-aunty told me today about–”

Then he finally looks up, sees someone utterly unfamiliar sitting at their table, and stops dead in his tracks, Mehrek almost crashing into his back but righting herself at the last second. “What,” he says.

The kid sneers at him. He looks pale and underfed in a way that makes him look a little bit like a doll, but mostly makes Kaveh want to feed him a million meals and also punch him in the face.

“What, you’ve never seen another person before?” the kid mocks.

First of all, Kaveh thinks, rude. Of course I’ve seen another person before. And then, but never one as scrawny as you.

Out loud he says, “First of all, rude. Second of all, who are you? Don’t tell me Al-Haitham has more than two friends.”

“Wrong as always.” Al-Haitham takes that spectacular moment to walk out of the kitchen. He’s just wearing his undershirt, which means Kaveh has to quickly glance away before he does something embarrassing, like gaze at him. “He’s definitely not my friend. But I do have more than two friends, not that it’s any of your business.”

Kaveh scoffs. “Who? If it’s not this kid”—“Hey,” the kid interjects, but Kaveh ignores him—“Then it’s just the Traveler and–”

His eyes finally drift down past Al-Haitham’s waist to the little white-clad figure by his side, and his mouth snaps shut as if the hand of God itself reached out to close it. And maybe it did, because the figure at Al-Haitham’s side—Al-Haitham’s friend???—is–

“Hello Kaveh.” Lesser Lord Kusanali smiles. “I’ve heard a lot about you.”

Distantly, Kaveh hears the kid snicker behind him. But he can;t focus on that right now, because he’s too preoccupied doing the sensible thing and fainting.

—

Kaveh wakes to the sound of Al-Haitham’s voice, which is both grating and, unfortunately, rather soothing.

“Don’t bother, Nahida,” Al-Haitham is saying, which feels vaguely blasphemous to Kaveh. “He’ll wake up soon. See? He’s awake, he’s just not bothering to open his eyes. Hey.” Al-Haitham has the nerve to nudge him. “Wake up. You’re worrying God.”

That makes Kaveh’s eyes snap open, just like Al-Haitham probably knew it would. The thought makes him want to slam them shut again, but he very maturely resists the urge, and instead sits up and plasters on his best grin.

“Lesser Lord Kusanali!” he says, as if he were greeting her at the door instead of while on a divan, having just, you know, fainted. “Welcome to our home.”

Al-Haitham huffs. Kaveh ignores him.

“Please,” Lesser Lord Kusanali says, smiling sweetly. She reaches out a small, chubby hand. “Call me Nahida.”

Kaveh takes it and shakes it gingerly. Her hand is too light, as if she has hollow bones like a bird. “Er,” he says. He’s never played host in Al-Haitham’s house before—he’s usually too scared to greet people at the door, let alone invite them in.

“They’re eating dinner here,” Al-Haitham says. His lips twitch at Kaveh’s shocked glance, unnoticeable to anyone besides Kaveh. “They invited themselves over.”

“Well then, you’d better get cooking,” Kaveh says. He snorts at Al-Haitham’s deadpan stare. “Don’t pout, you big baby, I’m helping.”

In the kitchen, Kaveh washes the rice and puts it into a bowl to soak. Then, he peels the skin off the onion, potatoes, and carrots and cuts the florets off some cauliflower, while Al-Haitham pulls out the lamb and the spices.

They usually take turns making dinner, or Kaveh will pick something up, but they’ve cooked together often enough for them to quickly settle into a familiar cadence. Kaveh will prepare the vegetables and grains because the feeling of raw meat makes him nauseated, while Al-Haitham will do everything else. Al-Haitham is, unfortunately, a better cook than Kaveh, though neither of them like to talk about it.

Al-Haitham likes to tap on Kaveh’s lower back whenever he passes behind him—nothing dramatic, just a second of pressure and then a quick one-two. It saves them from more than a few accidents, when Kaveh will back up without looking.

Nahida claps her little hands together when they bring out the biryani, which is either an expression of joy or actual applause.

“Thank you both for your hospitality,” she says.

The kid just looks at the biryani and scoffs. Nahida gently elbows him in the side, and he mutters a “thanks” into his bowl. Kaveh is reminded of why he never wants kids.

The table is silent for a few minutes as everyone tucks in. Nahida clutches her spoon in her fist, while the kid does some weird thing with his hand that makes Kaveh think he’s never eaten a meal in his life.

Nahida swallows her final bite delicately and pats her mouth with a napkin. “This is delicious,” she says. “What’s your secret?”

“If we tell you, it’s not a secret,” Kaveh says, at the exact same time Al-Haitham says, “Chopped mint in the yogurt.”

Kaveh groans. “Do you really have to tell everyone?”

“I told you, didn’t I?”

From the way light dances in Al-Haitham’s eyes, Kaveh can tell he thinks he’s being incredibly funny right now. The sight almost makes him smile. Almost.

“And besides,” Al-Haitham continues, unrepentant, “they’re our first dinner guests.” He turns to Nahida and the kid. “Not to rush things, but was there a reason you wanted to come all of a sudden?”

“Yes, actually,” Nahida straightens up. “I know this is a big ask,” she says, “but I’d like him to stay with you two for a few weeks.”

“What?” Kaveh says.

“What,” the kid says.

Al-Haitham doesn’t say anything, just arches a brow.

“He’s been studying in Vahumana,” Nahida says, looking proud. “He’s written some great essays on international relations—you guys should read them. They’re about Inazuman trade policies. I want him to be the Vahumana representative for this year’s Akademiya Extravaganza, but you see, he’s not very used to interacting with other people.”

That’s the understatement of the year, but Kaveh holds his tongue.

“I’d like him to live with you until the festival, just so he can get more… adjusted to things,” Nahida continues. “I hope it won’t be too much of a hassle, but if it is, please, feel free to decline.”

Kaveh’s about to ask why Nahida chose him and Al-Haitham of all people, but then he realizes that they, as objectively insufferable as they are, may be the only ones willing to tolerate this kid right now. It makes a discomforting amount of sense.

He squints at the kid. “What’s your name, anyways?”

The kid glares back. Nahida nudges him. “Would you like to tell them your name?” she asks.

“No,” the kid retorts.

“Well, I’m just going to call you ‘the kid’ then,” Kaveh says.

“Whatever. This whole thing is silly anyways. I don’t need this,” the kid sneers, and that really seals the deal for Kaveh.

“We’ll take him!” he says.

Nahida looks between him and Al-Haitham. “Are you sure?”

“Yes, it’s fine,” Kaveh says. Al-Haitham turns to look at him, his brow furrowed. Are you sure? Kaveh nods, just slightly. Not really, but don’t worry. “He can stay. We have plenty of space, really.”

They don’t, but that’s besides the point. Kaveh has enough self-awareness to recognize that this is an impulsive decision, and probably a bad idea. But he knows this will annoy the living daylights out of this kid, and right now, that’s all Kaveh’s petty self cares about.

Kaveh follows Al-Haitham into their bedroom after he’s settled the kid into his old room. Al-Haitham had seen Nahida off at the front door; with his refusal to crouch or bend over to be on her level, his head was tilted down at a comically sharp angle to meet her gaze.

By the time Kaveh enters, Al-Haitham has already changed into his thin sleep shirt and pants, his hearing aid off and placed on the dresser. Kaveh nudges Al-Haitham to get his attention.

“Hi,” Kaveh signs.

“Hi.”

“You’re not actually super bothered, are you?” Kaveh says. “Because if you are, it’s not too late to kick him out.”

Al-Haitham shakes his head. “But we’ll reassess in the morning,” he adds, and Kaveh knows it’s a joke even though Al-Haitham doesn’t laugh.

They crawl into bed. Al-Haitham takes the side closest to the wall, because he likes pressing his back against the cool plaster during the hot Sumeru summer, and Kaveh takes the side open to the room, because he always has to use the bathroom in the middle of the night. Once they’re settled, Al-Haitham slings one heavy arm over Kaveh’s waist, and Kaveh draws mindless patterns into his wrist until they both fall asleep.

They don’t talk about it. They never do.

—

The kid doesn’t do much over the next few days. He just skulks around, doing his homework and trying to look menacing but only coming across as petulant. He feels vaguely evil, but not in a bad way; it’s hard to explain. He also keeps resisting Kaveh’s attempts to put some meat on his bones, but Kaveh’s persistent—so much so that he finds them running low on groceries much earlier than he’d planned.

“Hey.”

The kid looks up from where he’s been glaring an essay into submission. “What.”

“I’m going grocery shopping. Do you want anything?”

“Nothing from you,” the kid sneers.

Kaveh rolls his eyes. Teens. “What do you like? Sweet things? Pistachios? Cakes?”

The kid wrinkles his nose. It looks reflexive. “Nothing too sweet,” he says.

Kaveh hums. “Just like Al-Haitham,” he says, and leaves before the kid can utter what would have undoubtedly been a scathing reply.

Kaveh loves going to the bazaar, which is good, because Al-Haitham hates it. He loves weaving through the jam-packed maze of stalls and goods and people, loves gossiping with all the aunties, loves the aroma of freshly-ground spices and cooked meat and sugar and parchment in the air. He loves sifting through all of the rumors to find the ones that will intrigue Al-Haitham, loves finding the highest-quality ink and paper and the best deals on fish, rice, and fruit.

“Kaveh!” A woman with violet gems studded in her large golden earrings waves him over. Her table strains under the piles of candy and pastries stacked on large round plates.

Kaveh grins, delighted. “Nour-aunty!” He heads over to her stall, careful not to trip on the dogs and children that run underfoot.

“You’re here early,” Nour-aunty says when Kaveh reaches her. She clucks her tongue. “You’re lucky I still have some of your favorite snacks. And that boy’s.”

‘That boy’ refers to, of course, Al-Haitham. Kaveh’s talked about Al-Haitham’s antics enough times for all the aunties and uncles to know of his living situation—and be squarely on his side, thank you very much—though they’d never say anything to the high and mighty scholars over at the Akademiya. Not that those scholars would ever come here, anyways.

“Thank you, aunty.” Kaveh accepts the wrapped package gratefully, pushing the proper amount of Mora into her hands even as she tries to refuse it. Then he pauses, thinks. “Actually, could I have one more pastry? One of the pistachio ones, not too sweet.”

“Oh?” From the stall next to them, Aunty Zeena leans in, her husband looking over amusedly. “Why all the changes?”

“Well,” Kaveh hedges, hesitant to divulge anything about the kid. Either that kid will find out or Al-Haitham will, and he’d rather not listen to the lecture on ‘security’ or ‘privacy’ or ‘sensitivity’ or ‘tact’ or whatever else Al-Haitham will try to throw at him. “Let’s just say I’ll be buying groceries for three from now on.”

Aunty Zeena gasps. Nour-aunty’s hand flies to her mouth. Even Zeena’s husband goes still. Their little bubble of the Grand Bazaar goes quiet, more and more merchants and shoppers beginning to look over.

“Kaveh,” Aunty Zeena begins delicately. “Do you mean to say that the Dendro Archon visited your home recently?”

Kaveh thinks about it. Surely that’s not too sensitive of information to divulge. “Well yes,” he says. “Lesser Lord Kusanali was actually there a few nights ago. Al-Haitham invited her.”

The air erupts into noise. People Kaveh doesn’t know are crowding in, patting his back and yelling something that sounds like “congratulations.” Confused, he bids a hasty farewell to the aunties and books it to another section.

Thankfully, the shopping trip goes smoothly after that. The stall owners adamantly refuse to let him pay for things, which makes Kaveh feel bad but his wallet happy, and they give him the best cuts of meat and the peaches that will take the perfect amount of time to ripen. People keep coming up to Kaveh to congratulate him, too. Kaveh doesn’t really know why, and he’s a little too scared to ask at this point, so he heads back home, content if not a little bemused.

He plans on asking somebody about it when he gets home, but then the kid accosts him at the door, bragging about the grade on his latest essay, and all thoughts fly out of Kaveh’s head in favor of totally proving him wrong.

—

He is, unfortunately, reminded of it the very next day, when the door slams open and Al-Haitham stalks in. His eyes aren’t narrowed, just flat, and his jaw is clenched in a way that tells Kaveh that he’s more confused—and irritated that he’s confused—than actually angry.

“Why,” Al-Haitham starts, voice much too loud. He cuts himself off, exhales sharply through his nose, and tries again, softer this time. “Mind telling me why everyone was congratulating me today? About your pregnancy?”

Kaveh freezes, looking up at Al-Haitham from where he’s sitting on the divan. Then it hits him like a raging Sumpter Beast, except with less horns and fur and gross saliva. “Oh,” he says faintly. “Oh no. I told them Lesser Lord Kusanali was here a few nights ago.”

Al-Haitham looks at him like he’s grown two heads. “What?”

“Lesser Lord Kusanali! The Dendro Archon! I told them she was here, and they thought I meant it, but I actually meant it in the literal way.”

“What other meaning can there be?”

“Al-Haitham!” Kaveh stands and grips Al-Haitham by the shoulders, shaking him slightly. “I accidentally told all the aunties at the Grand Bazaar that I’m pregnant! And that you’re the father!”

“I studied ancient runes in Haravatat, not the latest street slang.” Thankfully, Al-Haitham seems more annoyed about not knowing the euphemism than the fact that everyone now thinks he’s knocked Kaveh up.

The kid is laughing, which, listen. There’s a time and a place, in Kaveh’s humble opinion, and now is certainly not either.

“This is not the time or place,” Kaveh snaps at him, which doesn’t help matters at all.

“Just tell them you’re stupid, then,” the kid snaps back, “and that you’re actually not pregnant.”

“I can’t,” Kaveh wails. “Do you know how long it took for them to warm up to me? I’m a regular! They give me all the best deals now! If I go back on it, they’re going to think I’m a liar! We’ll never get a discount again!”

“Ugh,” Al-Haitham says. He sounds peeved, but Kaveh thinks his ears just hurt. “Fine. Whatever. I’m not thinking about this anymore.” And with that, he stands and slinks into their room.

Silence reigns. Kaveh and the kid share a look. “Want to make dinner?” Kaveh offers, and the kid shrugs.

“You’ve been feeding me too much,” he grouses. “I actually get hungry now.”

Al-Haitham doesn’t say anything about it at dinner, instead letting the kid complain about his annoying classmates and Kaveh chatter about some potential clients. He doesn’t say anything about it that night, either, just slides in bed behind Kaveh as usual.

But Kaveh shuffles himself around until he and Al-Haitham are nose-to-nose, so close that Kaveh can pick out the stripes of color in Al-Haitham’s eyes.

“Haitham,” he says. “Are you still mad?”

“I wasn’t mad.”

“Oh, so we’re talking about it now?”

Al-Haitham narrows his eyes. “I wasn’t ever not talking about it,” he says. Then, “So what are we going to do when people expect you to start showing?”

Kaveh hasn’t even thought that far ahead yet. “We’ll cross that bridge when we get to it,” is what he finally settles on.

“Fine by me.” Al-Haitham shrugs.

Then, without letting Kaveh roll back over, Al-Haitham pulls Kaveh into his chest, tucks Kaveh’s head under his chin, and goes promptly to sleep. Kaveh wriggles in protest, to no avail. He muffles his groan into Al-Haitham’s unfairly muscular chest.

—

In the morning, Kaveh packs up the last of what he and the kid made last night—a Sumeran twist on what he’s learned is a traditional Inazuman dish—for Al-Haitham’s lunch. The kid appears at his elbow while he’s packing a spoon, takes one look at what Kaveh’s doing, and snorts.

“You’re packing a bento?” he sneers. “What, you get fake-pregnant and you’re his housewife now?”

“Shut up,” Kaveh hisses. “There was only enough left for one person, and he was the one who liked it the most.”

“Because I’m a good cook?”

“Because he likes versions of food that aren’t actually anything like those foods at all.”

“Touche,” the kid shrugs. His second night there, Al-Haitham subjected them all to his version of Sabz Meat Stew.

When Al-Haitham prepares to leave, Kaveh follows him to the door and presses the lunchbox into his chest.

“Here,” he says. “I know you’re not one to skip lunch, but at least you don’t have to waste time walking down to Puspa Cafe.”

“It’s actually a good opportunity to stretch my legs and get some fresh air,” Al-Haitham says, but then adds, “though I suppose I can take the time to read.”

Kaveh smiles at that. “Maybe read some of the kid’s essays,” he says. “He’s starting to get insufferable about them.”

“Starting?” Al-Haitham’s eyes dance.

They look at each other for a long moment, until it’s time for Al-Haitham to leave before he crosses the line from ‘just on time’ to ‘actually late.’ He turns towards the door, but just as Kaveh moves closer to see him out, he turns back, so that they’re standing closer than they were before.

Al-Haitham hesitates for a fraction of a second, then leans down to press a firm kiss to Kaveh’s mouth. His lips are dry and cool, and he smells like perfumed oil. When he pulls back, his expression is carefully unreadable.

Kaveh opens his mouth. “What was that?” he means to say, but what actually comes out is, “Is that my fragrance?”

Al-Haitham seems to relax—though Kaveh hadn’t realized he was tense—and actually has the nerve to smirk. “Don’t push yourself too hard today,” he says. “Wouldn’t want to stress out the baby.”

And with that, he leaves.

When Kaveh turns back, the kid is staring at him from the entrance into the kitchen. There’s something indecipherable in his eyes.

“What,” Kaveh says, just to be contrary.

“Ugh.” The kid rolls his eyes exaggeratedly. “You two are going to be so disgusting now.”

—

When Kaveh himself leaves their home, he finds himself repeatedly congratulated by the people of Sumeru on his pregnancy—or rather, for being visited by the Dendro Archon. It takes everything in his power to keep the smile plastered on his face.

He’s so stressed about the whole fake pregnancy situation that he manages to forget all about their biweekly TCG night until the day before, when he gets a letter in Tighnari’s rushed, slanted handwriting asking if he’d rather they go to Puspa Cafe instead of Lambad’s Tavern.

I’m sure Al-Haitham has been chiding you plenty, the letter reads, but I’ll also warn you to stop drinking wine, Kaveh. Looking forward to seeing you two tomorrow.

Kaveh stares at the words. It’s too late to reply, but he hates the thought of having this conversation in person. Then the idea hits him—bring someone new, so Tighnari will feel the need to be polite and won’t have the chance to ask anything about anything. Besides, Nahida said the kid needed to interact with more people anyways. He turns towards the kid, who finally looks a little scared of him. Good. Maybe Kaveh needs to be eager more often.

“Hey kid,” he says.

The kid leans away. “What.”

“Want to come to game night tomorrow?”

Tighnari and Cyno bring Collei to Puspa Cafe, which is very nice, because she’s a sweet kid, but also very awkward, because, well. Collei, bless her soul, is a little bit of an awkward kid.

“Congratulations!” Collei says as soon as Kaveh’s in earshot.

Out of the corner of his eye, Kaveh sees Al-Haitham’s mouth flatten just slightly, which is the equivalent of a full-body cringe for him. Kaveh tries to beam the thought, I’ve got this directly into Al-Haitham’s mind, but from the way Al-Haitham’s expression doesn’t change, he can tell he isn’t very successful.

“Thanks!” Kaveh chirps back, but his mind is swimming with thoughts.

He waits until they’re all inside before he broaches the subject. “Sooo,” he says, “how did you guys find out?”

“How do you think?” Cyno shrugs. “I heard it from the aunties at the bazaar and told Tighnari and Collei.”

Of course he did. Considering he’s the General Mahamatra, maybe the aunties’ definition of “Akademiya folk” is a little bit looser than Kaveh had thought—which makes sense in retrospect, given their acceptance of Kaveh himself.

Kaveh opens his mouth to reply, but Tighnari, whose keen eyes have been scanning Kaveh since they all walked inside, takes the opportunity to cut in.

“I don’t mean to pry,” he says, prying, “but Kaveh, you’re not actually pregnant, are you.”

Kaveh freezes. He’s overestimated Tighnari’s sense of decorum—or rather, overestimated how much Tighnari cares about decorum. “Well,” he says, scrambling for an excuse. If they find out he accidentally told everyone he’s pregnant when he’s not anything at all, he’ll be the laughingstock of biweekly TCG game night from now until the end of time.

Then, Kaveh has the best idea he’s ever had in his life. He places a hand on the kid’s shoulder and smiles brightly. “No, but Al-Haitham and I just adopted! This is the kid!”

The kid stiffens under his hand, which is good, because it means he’s too frozen with rage to throw Kaveh’s hand off. Tighnari blinks rapidly, and even Cyno looks taken aback.

Collei is the first to shake off her surprise. Maybe Kaveh misjudged her. “Awww, that’s very sweet,” she offers.

Kaveh brightens. “Thank you, Collei,” he says. What a good kid. He turns to the kid. “Why can’t you be more like her?” he asks rhetorically.

The kid glares and opens his mouth, but Kaveh cuts him off before he can say something truthful and incriminate them both. “Why don’t you two go and play? The adults are talking,” he says.

“Wait,” Cyno says, and it’s Kaveh’s turn to freeze. To his relief, though, all Cyno says is, “What’s his name, anyways? You just called him ‘the kid’ so far.”

Um. “...That’s his name,” Kaveh tries. Beside him, Al-Haitham huffs, barely audible.

“Your son’s name is ‘the kid,’” Tighnari repeats. His ears twitch, which means he’s either amused or suspicious, or maybe annoyed—Kaveh can’t always tell.

“It’s spelled ‘W-A-N-D-E-R-E-R,’” the kid offers, diabolically. “But it’s pronounced ‘Thekid.’”

Collei looks incredibly confused.

“It’s very modern,” Kaveh adds.

Before Tighnari and Cyno can pry any further, Kaveh hastily turns towards the kid. “Off you two go, now. You guys can talk about school and stuff.”

As expected, Collei appears visibly uncertain while the kid looks downright furious, but they both head to a nearby table after a little more nudging from Kaveh.

Once they leave, Cyno crosses his arms. “He’s too old for Collei,” he says sternly.

“What?” Kaveh stares at Cyno before he realizes. “Oh, ew, no! It’s just”—he lowers his voice to a whisper—“you’ve mentioned Collei wanting more friends, and the kid doesn’t exactly have that many either, so I thought it’d be nice. For both of them.”

“Huh,” is all Cyno says, but Tighnari seems pleased, tail wagging slightly.

“That’s very thoughtful of you,” Tighnari says. He elbows Cyno in the ribs pretty hard, if Cyno’s answering wheeze is anything to go by. “Sorry we misunderstood at first—Cyno was so sure he heard the aunties say you were pregnant. I didn’t realize you two were looking to adopt.” Not with how much you’ve complained to me about your relationship, he doesn’t say, but Kaveh hears him loud and clear.

Kaveh laughs awkwardly. “It may have come across that way,” he says. “And we weren’t actively looking, but we let some people know we were open to taking someone in. We didn’t really want to share it just in case, you know, we ended up disappointed.”

Tighnari nods, looking sympathetic. “So what will you tell the aunties? Since you’re not pregnant and all.”

Kaveh shrugs. Then he slides his eyes over to Cyno.

“No,” Cyno immediately says.

“Come on,” Kaveh says. “You already go to the bazaar. You just need to tell all the aunties that I wasn’t actually pregnant, and that we just adopted a son, and that it’s all a big misunderstanding.”

“Isn’t it just easier for you to say that?”

“Absolutely not.”

Cyno shakes his head and groans, but he doesn’t outright say no, which is promising, so Kaveh takes it as a yes.

—

Kaveh still receives congratulations whenever he steps outside, but Cyno must have actually done it, because people start talking about his son instead of his baby and about his adoption instead of his pregnancy. And whenever someone does seem to be unaware, Kaveh corrects them.

“Thank you so much,” he’ll say, “but Haitham and I actually adopted!”

And then he’ll pull out a picture of the kid that he took while the kid wasn’t looking, one where he’s not scowling or sneering or snarling and actually looks kind of sweet, all things considered. And then the people will apologize and coo over the picture, while Kaveh magnanimously accepts their apologies.

“He’s very cute, isn’t he?” he’ll say. And, “Well, I didn’t realize the misunderstanding at first, honestly, because Haitham and I still call him our blessing from the Dendro Archon. Yes, yes, exactly right—our little blessing!”

These are all things the kid would hate if he ever heard them, which is why Kaveh keeps saying them. And if his smile becomes a little more genuine each time, well. That’s nobody’s business but his own.

The other benefit of convincing people he’s not actually pregnant but still with child is that it nets him a few more clients, ones who want extravagant family homes and have the money for it.

But instead of using the hours between his meetings to catch up on work, Kaveh takes the time to read through the kid’s essays himself. It wouldn’t do for Al-Haitham to actually read them and mock him for slipping behind.

They’re pretty good. Kaveh can see why he’s a rising star in Vahumana, though he catches a few spots where the kid’s arguments could be strengthened and his language tightened. He pulls his quill from behind his ear and scratches notes in the margins. Once or twice, he crosses out a sentence entirely. It feels great.

The day he finishes the kid’s essays is the day he comes home and finds Al-Haitham with a matching stack of papers in hand, each page covered in red ink. Kaveh grins. Dinner is going to be fun.

The kid comes back from a day out with the Traveler to find Kaveh and Al-Haitham sitting at the kitchen table. Kaveh looks openly gleeful, and while Al-Haitham’s face seems stoic, both of them can see how he’s thrumming with gleeful energy.

“What?” the kid says suspiciously. Then he notices the twin stacks of paper in front of them, and his eyes widen. “You actually read them?” he asks, suddenly sounding years younger.

And Kaveh realizes he’s got this kid all figured out. He just needs some acknowledgement and validation—just like Kaveh does—and someone who knows how to read him—just like Al-Haitham does.

To be fair, the kid’s more expressive than Al-Haitham most days, but sometimes, his face seems frozen, as if he’s still learning how to emote. As if he really is a doll. Then, it’s only the years of practice Kaveh has at reading Al-Haitham that allows him to parse the glint in the kid’s eye, the way his fingers curl at his side.

“Yep, and we’ve got feedback.” Kaveh grins, though it feels more like he’s baring his teeth. “So sit down, mister, because we want to get through this by midnight.”

The ensuing debate lasts until the early hours of the next morning, and all three of them sleep through their alarms and spend the morning rushing to get ready. At the front door, Al-Haitham catches Kaveh by the chin and reels him in for their now-routine morning kiss, before all of them dash out the door.

“Have a nice day at school,” Kaveh yells as the kid leaps into the air.

“Screw you,” the kid yells back, but he’s laughing as he flies away.

—

When Kaveh wakes a few days later, he knows it’s going to be a bad day. The light gives him a migraine as soon as he opens his eyes, and his head hurts so badly he can’t do anything but lay there and groan pitifully.

Then a large hand covers his eyes, feeling blessedly cool against his overheated skin.

“Shh,” Al-Haitham soothes. “Go back to sleep. I’ve already contacted your clients.”

Head hazy from sleep and muddled with pain, Kaveh lets his eyes fall back shut. He hears Al-Haitham leave, the door gently shutting behind him.

“What’s wrong with him?” The voice is muffled through the walls. Kaveh presses his head against the cold plaster and sighs in relief.

“Migraine,” Al-Haitham replies. “I keep telling him to not strain his eyes as much, but.”

He starts to say something else, but at that moment, Kaveh falls into a deep and dreamless sleep.

He drags himself back to consciousness a short while later, his migraine quelled to a dull throb and his mouth feeling like sandpaper. He swallows a bit and grimaces, before that same cool hand is tilting back his chin and a cup of water is held to his mouth. Kaveh drinks gratefully. The water is warm and tastes mildly sweet.

“How long have I been out?” Kaveh attempts to ask after swallowing, but it comes out more like “eurgh.”

Al-Haitham seems to understand anyways. “Six hours,” he says. His hand on Kaveh’s chin remains firm even as Kaveh jolts in surprise. “I already rescheduled your meetings to next week.”

Kaveh catches Al-Haitham’s hand as it starts to drop and presses it to his cheek. He nuzzles in, closes his eyes, and sighs, content.

“And the kid?”

“Here,” the kid says, walking in. Kaveh cracks open his eyes a sliver to see a proffered cup. “Tea.”

Kaveh takes it. “From Inazuma?”

“No. Nahida made it for me when I was–” The kid cuts himself off.

Kaveh pretends not to notice and takes a sip. He can tell it’s supposed to be bitter, but the tea has been generously sweetened to mask the astringent aftertaste.

“Shouldn’t you be calling her something else?” he says. “She is older than you, you know. How about Aunty Nahida?”

The kid rears back. “Ugh, gross. Not a chance,” he says. “And she’s not older than me, by the way.”

He spins on his heel and stalks back out the door. “I hope you get an even worse migraine,” he spits, but closes the door softly on his way out.

Kaveh looks at Al-Haitham, and can tell he’s amused by the way his lips purse and the light gleams in his eyes.

“Do you think he’s going through puberty?” he asks, and Al-Haitham lets a huff out that, for him, is just as exuberant as peals of laughter.

—

A few weeks pass. The kid goes to school; Al-Haitham and Kaveh go to work. They keep experimenting with Inazuman recipes at night, and Kaveh and the kid go to the bazaar together to find passable substitutes for ingredients like Naku Weed and Seagrass.

“He’s far too skinny,” Nour-aunty chides the first time they visit, Aunty Zeena nodding in agreement.

“I know, right?” Kaveh says, feeling vindicated. Al-Haitham always says the kid is perfectly fine, but that’s because he was also a too-skinny kid before he got buff. “I keep trying to put some meat on his bones, but it’s like he burns fat faster than he puts it on.”

“Ah, the privileges of youth,” Nour-aunty sighs. “Enjoy it while it lasts, dear,” she tells the kid, and presses extra candies into his hands. “Not too sweet, right?” She winks, taps the side of her nose. “Just like your father.”

A few folks comment on how doll-like the kid looks, but Kaveh notices how the kid’s eyes shutter at that and immediately resolves to do something about it. The next time someone mentions it, Kaveh shrugs.

“Is that so?” he asks blithely. “I think I like him much better as a person than a doll.”

When he looks to his side, the kid is staring at him like he’s hung all the stars in the sky. When he catches Kaveh looking, he pastes on a scowl and looks away, and Kaveh has to bite back a victorious grin.

Besides that, the kid bears all the cheek-pinching and coddling remarkably well. Kaveh points out the particularly good stalls to him, and he learns to play those folks like a lyre.

“Oh, I always wanted something like this when, well, you know,” he’ll say, sounding sad and wistful, and they’ll get 40 percent off a painting that Kaveh was eyeing for the living room.

“I never managed to have fresh peaches as a kid,” he’ll sigh, and the uncle will pile on peaches until the basket is close to overflowing.

“You’re so diabolical,” Kaveh will laugh once they’re far enough away from the bazaar to be safe.

The kid will grin in that self-satisfied, knife-sharp way of his. “It’s their fault they’re stupid enough to fall for it,” he’ll say, and Kaveh will pretend to scold him for it.

—

Before they know it, it’s time for the Akademiya Extravaganza. Nahida nominates the kid and, well, all of Kshahrewar nominates Kaveh. They’re accepted fairly quickly as representatives, while Al-Haitham gets roped into playing commentator. He’s paired with Nilou, a nice girl who spends a long time cooing over the kid and how sweet it is for him and Al-Haitham to adopt a kid so old.

“A lot of teenagers just age out of the system,” she tells him. “It really is so sad. You and Al-Haitham have done such a great thing.”

“Yes, absolutely,” Kaveh says, chancing a glance at the kid, who’s too preoccupied with eating the spicy Harra Fruit candy Nilou gave him to react. “Such a shame, definitely. When Haitham and I got this opportunity, we knew we couldn’t refuse.”

“Hm? What’s this?” Another contestant is walking over, whom Kaveh vaguely recognizes. Madam Faruzan, from Haravatat—Al-Haitham’s talked about her research before. “This is your son?” she asks.

Kaveh slings an arm around his shoulders. “Yes, this is my kid!” he says brightly. “Say hello, kid.”

“Screw you,” the kid says, shaking Kaveh’s arm off. He tucks the candy into his cheek so it bulges out like a chipmunk and sneers at Madam Faruzan.

Kaveh laughs, a little awkwardly. “So cute!” he says. It is, actually, incredibly cute.

Madam Faruzan doesn’t seem impressed. “He looks your age,” she points out, which is either very rude or a very nice compliment. Kaveh chooses to believe the latter.

“Thank you,” he says magnanimously, “but I’m not that young anymore. And he’s–” He stops and looks at the kid consideringly. “How old are you?”

“Five hundred years old,” the kid deadpans.

Kaveh laughs again, even more forced this time. “Kids these days, right?”

But Madam Faruzan doesn’t seem to hear him. She’s looking at the kid critically, with something like understanding in her eyes. “No, no,” she says. “I see.” She turns to Kaveh. “You’ve done a good thing here, boy.”

Kaveh nods like he knows what’s going on. “Yes,” he agrees. “Haitham and I think adoption is very important.”

That’s apparently not the right thing to say, because Madam Faruzan scoffs at him. “He’s not the brightest, is he,” she says to the kid.

The kid looks back at her levelly. “Don’t talk about my mom that way,” he snarks, and Kaveh chokes on his spit in surprise.

—

When the Traveler asks him about the prize money, Kaveh says he wants to buy a place of his own. He doesn’t know why he says it, not really, doesn’t even know if he means it anymore. He doesn’t know if Al-Haitham hears it, but he can tell the kid does, because he stiffens and his expression slides back into that cursed blankness.

The thing is, Kaveh knows. He’s too good at reading Al-Haitham to not know they have… feelings for each other. They sleep in the same bed together, for goodness sake. It’s always been frighteningly easy to fall into this pattern together, of sharing space, of buying groceries for two, of kissing inside the privacy of Al-Haitham’s house. Kissing only in his bedroom, at night, in the dark.

If they had started this years ago, while they were both still at the Akademiya, maybe Kaveh would have wanted to talk about it. Would have demanded that Al-Haitham define what they are, delineate the boundaries of what they are to each other. But when they’d fallen together, years after they first fell apart, he was happy with the way things were.

And he’s happy with the way things are now, he truly is. He likes how he and the kid are the only ones who can read Al-Haitham, the only ones who can really rile him up. He likes how he and Al-Haitham and Nahida are the only ones who can read the kid.

Kaveh likes how good Al-Haitham is with the kid, how he’ll listen to the kid practice his presentations and offer unsolicited feedback on his essays. He likes the way they’ll have debates over the dinner table. He likes buying groceries for three.

He likes how he and Al-Haitham will kiss in the daylight now, and at the door before Al-Haitham leaves for work.

They still haven’t talked about it, because they’ve never talked about stuff like this. But if he had to be really honest, Kaveh would say that he’s always wanted to say it: I love you. They’ve never said it, not to each other. It wouldn’t be ‘them’ to say it, if there’s a them that can be defined in such a manner. But Kaveh thinks about saying it often to Al-Haitham, thinks about how he’d react, how his mouth would twitch and his eyes would brighten. Perhaps it’s more accurate to say he dreams of it.

Against all odds, Kaveh wins, albeit with a few scrapes. He listens to Sachin. He smashes the diadem. He finds Al-Haitham and learns about his father. He heads home with takeout, leaves it on the counter for Al-Haitham and the kid without a word, and crawls into bed and falls asleep quickly.

They don’t talk about it when Al-Haitham climbs into bed. Nor do they talk about it the next day, or the next, or the next. Kaveh is quiet and Al-Haitham is quieter. Even the kid stays out of his way.

Finally, the kid walks in one day while Al-Haitham’s at work and Kaveh’s wallowing in bed. “That was stupid,” he says. “You’re stupid.”

“Hey,” Kaveh says, but he’s a little relieved. Visible anger is better than that blankness he knows the kid wears like armor.

“Were you actually going to do it?” the kid asks. His voice very carefully does not wobble. “Buy another house and leave?”

Kaveh sits up and thinks about it for a long, long moment. “No,” he finally says, and he’s relieved to see that he means it. “I think I would have always donated it. Or spent it all on a project.”

The kid walks up and punches Kaveh in the arm. Hard.

“Ow,” Kaveh yelps, and studiously pretends not to see the tears welling up in the kid’s eyes.

“Don’t say you’re going to do something you’re not even going to do,” the kid snaps. He drags his arm across his eyes roughly and turns to leave.

“Hey,” Kaveh calls after him.

The kid stops but doesn’t turn.

“You know I love you, right?” The words fall off Kaveh’s tongue as easily as his name.

“Yeah,” the kid says, roughly. He turns enough so Kaveh can see his face, can see the smile tugging at the corner of his lips. “I know.”

After that conversation, Kaveh showers, gets dressed, and leaves the house for the first time in days. He stops by the bazaar and makes his rounds with all the aunties, but he doesn’t buy much this time. He just buys sweets from Nour-aunty and picks up something from the merchant with the expensive but high-quality stationery.

Then he swings by Lambad's Tavern and picks up some fish rolls and their Sabz Meat Stew, which Al-Haitham secretly likes even though he says he can make it so much better himself. Then he goes home.

When he steps inside, he sees Al-Haitham sitting in the living room. Kaveh finds that he’s not surprised at that.

“I got a new pen from the market,” Kaveh says in greeting. “From that stall you like. It’s supposed to have a heavier inkflow without smudging. And I got pastries.” Al-Haitham simply looks at him, which makes Kaveh nervous. “The ones that aren’t too sweet, from Nour-aunty,” Kaveh adds. “You know, I think she’s really warming up to you. Or, at least, the idea of you.”

Al-Haitham stands, puts down the book in his hand, and walks over to Kaveh. He stands close enough that Kaveh can see the fading scar on his cheek, his chapped lips. Can see the way Al-Haitham’s eyes dance.

“Kaveh,” Al-Haitham says. “I love you too.”

Chapter Text

Kaveh manages to last three weeks after the conclusion of the Akademiya Extravaganza before going on another work trip, becoming a veritable whirlwind of last-minute packing and suitcases and honestly, Haitham, where did you put my hairbrush? Of course I know where I put it last! It’s not there, obviously; why else would I bother asking you?

It’s his first work trip since they adopted the kid, following a rare period of being stationary that Al-Haitham privately calls Kaveh’s maternity leave, though he knows verbalizing that thought would earn him a smack to the chest.

The kid sulks fiercely up until the morning of Kaveh’s departure, when Kaveh reels him in by the shoulders and smacks a kiss to his forehead. Mwah!

“Bye, I love you, be safe,” Kaveh says. “Be extra bratty to Haitham for me, okay?”

“Urgh,” the kid says, wiping at his forehead with his sleeve, but seems mollified.

“And you,” Kaveh says, turning to Al-Haitham. “Don’t let him go to the bazaar alone, you know how those aunties get. And make sure he eats some vegetables, not just fruit. And make him put on sunscreen, or he’s going to get burnt, and then it’ll be a problem for us all.”

Up close, Al-Haitham can see the faint freckles scattered across Kaveh’s face, the kohl hastily smudged in the corner of his eyes. Kaveh has features that can most accurately be described as leonid, fitting of his darshan: lidded golden eyes, a wide nose bridge. Full lips and full cheeks. A freckle dotting his lower lip.

Al-Haitham can’t help himself. He leans in, but is stopped by Kaveh pressing the pads of his index and middle fingers against Al-Haitham’s mouth.

“Haitham. Did you hear a word I just said?”

“Don’t let him go to the bazaar alone, feed him vegetables instead of just fruit, and make him wear sunscreen,” Al-Haitham rattles off, muffled by the fingers over his mouth. Then, a little impatiently, “Can I kiss you now?”

Kaveh rolls his eyes but drops his hand, which is as good as a yes. Al-Haitham ignores the retching sounds in the background.

“I love you,” Kaveh says when they break apart. There’s a healthy flush climbing across the full apples of his cheeks.

“I love you,” Al-Haitham echoes. “Don’t work too hard. If the clients keep asking you to redesign it, just drop them. And actually make them pay this time, don’t just do it for free.”

Kaveh rolls his eyes again. “You should’ve stopped at ‘I love you,’” he says.

Then, with a wave of his hand, he has Mehrek pick up his suitcase and is out the door.

The silence in the absence of his frantic energy rings like a bell. Al-Haitham turns and studies the kid. The kid glares right back.

It wouldn’t take very much prodding for Al-Haitham to admit aloud that he likes the kid. Of course he likes the kid. He’s temperamental, belligerent, and intelligent. These are all traits that combine to make for some incredibly funny situations—and part of maximizing his personal enjoyment in life, Al-Haitham has found, is doing things because he finds them funny.

(“Yes, yes,” Kaveh had said when Al-Haitham had first told him this, rolling his eyes exaggeratedly. “We all know you think you’re the funniest person in all of Teyvat.”

Then he’d added, in a mutter, “though how you can think that is beyond me.”)

But Al-Haitham knows that between him and Kaveh, there’s a clear favorite parent, and it’s not him. The kid’s taken to Kaveh like a duck takes to water, even though he tries to do everything in his power to make it seem like he hasn’t. He’s imprinted, Al-Haitham thinks.

Al-Haitham doesn’t mind it, not really. Though no one who truly knows Kaveh would call him soft in any sense of the word, he’s kind where it counts. Kinder than Al-Haitham, at least.

This is not to say that Al-Haitham feels nervous about looking after the kid by himself for an extended period of time, of course. He’s just cognizant about the potential pitfalls of doing so. Rationally wary.

“Do you want coffee?” is what he finally settles on.

The kid sneers. “I don’t want your coffee,” he says, which Al-Haitham takes as a yes.

In the kitchen, Al-Haitham mixes coffee grounds with water—no sugar, not with Kaveh out of the house—then puts the cezve over the fire to heat. He pulls it off the heat just as the coffee begins to boil, skimming off the foam into their cups before returning it to the fire. When the coffee foams up again, he pours three-quarters of it into his cup and mixes the remaining fourth with a generous serving of milk.

The kid, who had been watching in silence at the kitchen entrance until now, pipes up at that.

“I keep telling you, I don’t need milk. I’m older than your great-grandparents, you know,” he grouses, then looks sidelong at Al-Haitham.

He’s been doing that more and more often, lately—saying something that indicates his age, his time before he came to Sumeru, then daring them to pry. Al-Haitham still isn’t sure whether the kid actually wants them to push. He’s still cataloging and categorizing these encounters, sorting them in neat rows in the portion of his consciousness reserved for the kid.

Unlike Kaveh, who seems to read the kid with a sort of instinctive intuition, Al-Haitham has to approach his behavior methodically, parsing the patterns and variations to unlock meaning.

Al-Haitham refrains from asking, for now. “If Kaveh finds out I fed you full-strength coffee, he’ll complain for a month,” he says instead.

“Are you a coward or what? I thought you weren’t scared of him.”

“I’m not. I’m scared of the person I’d become after hearing his ceaseless nagging for that long.” Al-Haitham drains his cup, savoring the bitterness on his tongue. “Finish your coffee quickly. We’re going shopping.”

—

Contrary to what Al-Haitham lets Kaveh believe, he doesn’t actually hate the bazaar that much. Sure, it’s loud and crowded, but Al-Haitham can turn the volume on his hearing aids down—which he usually does on the streets, anyways—and he’s tall enough that navigation isn’t an issue.

It’s not to say that he likes the bazaar. He’s more than happy to pretend he hates it. It’s convenient for both him and Kaveh, because while Kaveh is not as extroverted as his chattiness would suggest, he genuinely likes doing the groceries. Likes finding the most interesting bits of gossip and the best deals, holding both aloft triumphantly as he returns home. Like a lioness returning home with a fresh kill in her mouth.

They don't actually need groceries, but Al-Haitham has an ulterior motive with this trip. Kaveh has been complaining for weeks about one of the merchants at the bazaar, a woman with a painfully mediocre son at the Akademiya who apparently likes to brag as if he were the most brilliant scholar in existence.

“You won’t believe it, Haitham,” he has said on more than one occasion. “All she does is talk about how well he’s doing, when everyone and their mother knows that he’s a dud. And she has the nerve to ignore the kid when he’s right there. Right there! Not a single question about how he’s doing or how school is, not even to seem polite. It is so unbelievably rude, Haitham, you don’t even know. And I know she knows our kid is better than hers, because why else would she ignore him? Ugh, I can’t stand her!”

“Why don’t you just brag about the kid yourself?” Al-Haitham has responded, also on more than one occasion. “You don’t actually need anyone’s permission to do that, you know.”

And Kaveh has, every time, painstakingly explained the intricate social norms and procedures of gossiping at the bazaar. In a land fixated upon conventional markers of intelligence achieved through standard channels, where thousands of students apply to the Akademiya each year only to be summarily rejected, one cannot simply brag unprompted about their child’s impressive academic achievements. Especially not in a bazaar shunned by the Akademiya itself.

One has to be asked, first of all, then answer with euphemisms and allusions and insinuations. But Sabiyya, despite slyly parading her own son’s achievements, never asks about their kid’s.

“That’s silly,” Al-Haitham had said once, but Kaveh had shaken his head at that.

“It doesn’t matter if it’s objectively silly or not. What matters is whether people believe it, and act on that belief.”

That may be true. But while Kaveh is bound by the inexplicable conventions and customs of interacting with the aunties, Al-Haitham most certainly is not.

The noise of the bazaar isn’t that bad, all things considered, though Al-Haitham could do without all the people that stop and do a double take at the sight of him.

“So you’re Kaveh’s boy,” one older woman says, looking him up and down. She’s evidently unimpressed, but her face softens and crow’s feet appear at the corners of her eyes when she turns to the kid. “Hello, dear.”

The kid waves, looking cherubic. It doesn’t suit him. “Hi aunty.”

“And where’s your mother?”

“He’s off on a work trip,” the kid says. He adopts a downcast expression and big, rounded eyes, which makes him resemble a soaked kitten.

It’s terribly effective. The woman coos and passes over a handful of dried dates, and then a piece of halva studded with pistachios and Sumeru rose petals.

The kid pops a date into his mouth. “Thank you, aunty.”

The woman turns back to Al-Haitham. “You need to make sure he eats more,” she chides. “Don’t put it all on his mother. Pah! Fathers these days, I swear. Not your husband, Zeena, and thank goodness for that. But too many of them. Too okay with their children being skinny. It’s all study, study, study and no eat. How do you think kids get the energy to learn, hm? Now, are you buying anything or not?”

Al-Haitham bites back a sigh. So this is why he never goes to the bazaar—and why Kaveh likes it so much. Next to him, the kid is openly laughing around the date in his mouth.

“Not today, but I’ll keep that in mind,” he deadpans. “Thank you for your wisdom, ma’am.”

“Please,” the woman sniffs, already turning to the next customer. “Call me Nour-aunty.”

The kid drags Al-Haitham to a few more stalls after that, where he cajoles unsuspecting stallowners into giving him handfuls of nuts and fruit and a glass of goat milk. But he stiffens as they approach another stall, elbowing Al-Haitham in the side repeatedly until Al-Haitham leans down.

“That’s Sabiyya,” he whispers in Al-Haitham’s ear. “The one Kaveh hates.”

Al-Haitham hums. Of course the kid would know the real reason why they’re there. He strides up to the stall and pretends to examine the bundles of dried herbs Sabiyya is selling.

“You’ve picked a fine time to come,” she calls, walking over. She appears a few years older than Al-Haitham himself. “I’ve just finished drying these this morning. There’s fresh saffron in the back, too—came in from Port Ormos last night.” Then she notices the kid at Al-Haitham’s side, and her demeanor noticeably cools. “Ah, so you’re Kaveh’s husband.”

Al-Haitham doesn’t bother to correct her, simply hums in agreement. “Al-Haitham,” he says. It wouldn’t do to appear rude too early.

“Sabiyya.”

With that, Sabiyya turns away and strikes up a conversation with the owner of the stall next to hers. Then, with an eye cast in Al-Haitham’s direction, she loudly remarks, “Why yes, Kaaram has been doing very well in his Akademiya classes lately, sister, thank you for asking.”

Funny. Too bad Al-Haitham’s not in the mood to play games—though he is here to win.

“Oh?” He raises an eyebrow. “I didn’t realize your son was at the Akademiya. What publications does he have?”

“Sorry?”

“Publications. Papers, treatises, experiment findings. No?" he asks when Sabiyya shakes her head. "Well, there are plenty of opportunities to get them published—which I’m sure your son is familiar with. His darshan’s personal review, for one. The Akademiya-wide student publication. Various inter-Darshan, subject-specific journals.

“Of course,” he continues, voice flat, pretending to study a bundle of dried sage, “those all have rigorous selection procedures. Fortunately, our son has papers published in—how many is it? Five? Six?”

“Eight,” the kid says. He’s struggling to keep a straight face.

Al-Haitham flicks his eyes over, warning him to keep it together.

“Eight different publications, that’s right. Though I believe the number of papers he's actually published is closer to twelve or thirteen. A little low, to be sure, but not bad for only six months at the Akademiya. Maybe it’s because he was selected to represent Vahumana at the Akademiya Extravaganza—it kept him quite busy for a time. But he couldn’t refuse. The ‘Rising Star of Vahumana,’ they call him.”

The crowd around them is murmuring now, and Sabiyya has gone very pale. Al-Haitham smiles to himself, then swoops in for the kill.

“How many publications does your son have, sister?”

“I’m not quite sure,” Sabiyya stammers. “I’d have to check with Kaaram.”

“Oh? You haven’t read any of them? How long has he been at the Akademiya for?”

“Two years.”

“Well,” Al-Haitham says. His work here is done. “Since he’s such a good student, I’m sure he must have at least one. Now if you’ll excuse us.” He nods to Sabiyya, then to the people clearly listening in. “My son has some papers to finish up. You understand.”

And with that, they leave.

The kid takes one look at Al-Haitham’s face as they exit and groans.

“Ugh,” he says, with feeling. “You look so weird when you’re happy.”

But he’s smiling too—not that odd, angelic smile he’d pasted on in the bazaar, but his true smile, the knife-sharp one that looks a little cruel, from some angles. The one that Al-Haitham prefers.

—

That night, they eat butter chicken for dinner. Al-Haitham’s halfway through raising the naan to his mouth when the kid pipes up.

“I used to eat something kind of like this in Inazuma,” he says, seemingly lost in thought.

Al-Haitham raises a brow. “Is that so?”

“Yeah. They call it curry, but it’s not like this curry. It’s brown and thick, and you eat it with sticky rice. And it has potatoes and carrots and onions.”

“How do you prepare the sauce?”

“I don’t know,” the kid says. His brow furrows. “We always used curry blocks when we made it.”

Al-Haitham hums and makes a mental note to move reopening trade with Inazuma higher on Nahida’s list of priorities, and that's that.

After dinner, Al-Haitham is reading one of the kid’s essays on the sofa while the kid himself is grumbling his way through an economics problem set. He likes to do his homework in the living room, though he has a desk in what is now his room.

Al-Haitham doesn’t mind it. The kid’s breathing is so quiet that Al-Haitham can’t hear it, and the sounds of his pen scratching against paper reminds Al-Haitham of when he and Kaveh would do their homework together when they were students.

The kid has also taken to leaving his essay drafts on Al-Haitham’s desk, like a cat bringing back the corpses of captured birds and mice. Or perhaps like a cub, to match Kaveh’s lion, showing off its first kill.

Fortunately, Al-Haitham finds reading these essays relaxing instead of onerous, but he thinks he’d do it even if he didn’t enjoy sitting down and cheerfully tearing the kid’s arguments apart. During the day, it has the added benefit of making him look exceptionally busy, and thus deterring anyone from giving him more work.

You hinge too much of your central argument on a single link in your chain of logic, he writes in the margins. With enough time and energy, I could counter your central premise on the origins of the Shogunate’s early protectionist policies, and you would lose access to the last three-quarters of your essay. Then he pauses, thinks, and adds, though I don’t see why anyone with half a brain would actually attempt to do so.

He’s about to write more when the kid starts talking. “So, when are you actually going to marry him?” he asks.

Al-Haitham shrugs. “Whenever he wants to.”

He has the appropriate documents filled out already, and a ring tucked behind some heavy books on Liyuan ore mining practices in his office. Like with most things, Kaveh only needs to ask.

The kid sneers. “So what, you’re just going to let him have a kid out of wedlock until then?” he mocks.

“Keep that up and I’ll start thinking you care,” Al-Haitham warns, and watches as the kid slams his mouth shut, his face turning blotchy and red.

What a funny kid. He makes Al-Haitham laugh.

—

Much like how he departed, Kaveh returns in a whirlwind of energy and noise.

“I’m home,” he sing-songs, whisking in through the door that Al-Haitham had to open for him after he failed to find his keys. “Those clients, I swear. Lovely people, but they kept asking me to stay for longer and longer, and I eventually had to remind them that I have a son, for goodness sake, for them to let me go.”

Maternity leave, Al-Haitham thinks, as Mehrek drops Kaveh’s suitcase into his arms and Kaveh presses a kiss to his cheek. Then, Kaveh swoops towards the kid to drag him into a hug.

“Ugh!” The kid shrieks, thrashing in Kaveh’s arms but failing to break loose. He switches to pushing ineffectively at Kaveh’s face. “Get off me, you’re so gross.”

Kaveh squeezes him tighter in retaliation. “Hi, I missed you, can you not be a menace for like one second?”

He releases the kid after another second, looking around the living room with a critical eye.

“Good, the house didn’t burn down,” he says, as if he isn’t more prone to setting things on fire than Al-Haitham. “How did it go? Clearly, you two didn’t kill each other.”

“Horribly,” the kid deadpans. “He tortured me every night until I screamed for help.”

Kaveh rolls his eyes and turns to Al-Haitham.

“I did do that,” Al-Haitham agrees, just to annoy him.

Kaveh stares at him. “You’re lucky you’re pretty,” he sighs, and stalks into their bathroom, muttering about insufferable boys and travel.

As Kaveh showers, Al-Haitham begins cooking dinner. He chops onions and minces garlic, and cubes raw meat into neat squares. Just as he begins heating oil in a pan, he hears the shower turn off and Kaveh’s voice ring out.

“Five and forty-six.”

“Two-hundred thirty,” Al-Haitham calls back. Then, “Twelve times twenty-nine.”

“Three hundred forty-eight. Forty-seven times one-thirty-three.”

Al-Haitham has to think about it for a second. “Six-two-five-one. Seventy-eight times one-thousand, two hundred and thirty-eight.”

Kaveh doesn’t miss a beat. “Ninety-six thousand, five hundred sixty-four.” He steps out of the bathroom accompanied by a cloud of steam, hair dripping onto a towel slung around his shoulders. “You hesitated. I win.”

“I’m cooking dinner,” Al-Hiatham protests, but it’s half-hearted; as an architect, it’d be more strange for Kaveh to not be better at math than him.

At this moment, the kid decides to wander into the kitchen, evidently lured by the fragrant smell of cooking onions and garlic. He aims a kick at Kaveh’s shin, which Kaveh dodges without looking.

“Hey kid,” Kaveh says. “What’s twenty-one times three hundred and twelve?”

“Six-five-five-two,” the kid says, then scoffs. “That was too easy. Who do you think I am?” He jabs a finger at Al-Haitham. “Him?”

Kaveh laughs at that, a full-throated, full-body affair that has him throwing his head back and tipping over into Al-Haitham’s side.

“Well,” he says when he’s finished, looking up at Al-Haitham from where his head rests on Al-Haitham’s shoulder. “I guess we know which one of us he takes after.”

That night, Al-Haitham watches from their bed as Kaveh works through his nighttime routine. He hadn’t repinned his hair after his shower, and it curls against his face and neck as it dries. Though his face has gotten tanner and more freckled after a few days of travel, the skin on his inner wrists and upper thighs are as pale and paper-thin as ever. With his eyes, Al-Haitham traces how the dark blue, almost purple veins snake down Kaveh’s forearms up to his palms and his long, knobbly fingers, as Kaveh smooths serum over his face and pats a heavy cream into the skin underneath his eyes.

Al-Haitham has never shown things the way other people seem to instinctively do, had never learned how to express emotions with his lips and jaw and cheeks and brows. He’d been lucky that his grandmother knew how to read him nevertheless. She had been the first person to understand how Al-Haitham could feel amusement without laughing, smile without smiling. Kaveh had been the second.

He sees that in the kid, sometimes. But while Al-Haitham doesn’t emote with his face because he simply doesn’t, it seems like in those moments, the kid doesn’t emote because he can’t—like he’s trapped behind a smooth porcelain mask, its stillness betrayed by his fiercely glittering eyes.

Besides that, the kid resembles Kaveh much more than he does Al-Haitham. Both are loud, fussy, and temperamental. Both can do math without pen or paper or fingers, simply needing to flicker their eyes upward to do complex integrations or plot points in imaginary three-dimensional planes.

And both will sometimes not talk about the things they very much want to talk about, even though there’s nothing stopping them. Kaveh sometimes gets the thought into his head that Al-Haitham doesn’t want to talk about certain things, but that isn’t the case. It’s more that Al-Haitham has already figured it out, and is willing to wait until Kaveh gets on the same page.

“What are you thinking about?”

Kaveh crawls in bed next to Al-Haitham. They’re very nearly the same height, though Al-Haitham has always been the slightest bit taller—save for one brief but intensely irritating period when Al-Haitham was seventeen—so that they’re nose-to-nose while Kaveh’s feet tuck themselves against Al-Haitham’s shins. Kaveh runs hot, as he always does, and smells like rosewater and cardamom.

“The kid,” Al-Haitham says.

“Did everything go okay? While I wasn’t there?”

Kaveh’s eyelashes are long and dark. Al-Haitham knows that the ones near the inner corner of his eyes often irritate the sensitive skin there, causing Kaveh to rub his eyes frequently.

“It went fine,” Al-Haitham says. What Kaveh doesn’t know about the bazaar won’t hurt him. “He was as grumpy as ever, which is good. He talked about how old he is again.”

Kaveh hums, thoughtfully. When he speaks, his sweet-smelling breath brushes against Al-Haitham’s face. “Do you think we should pry?”

“No,” Al-Haitham says, though they both know he’s unsure. “He’ll bring it up when he’s ready.”

And with that, he closes his eyes. Unlike Kaveh, who will toss and turn for hours, Al-Haitham has learned how to fall asleep as quickly and efficiently as possible. He relaxes every muscle in his body, starting from his feet and ending with his face, and tucks his face into Kaveh’s feathery hair. He inhales one last breath, then exhales, and then he is fast asleep.

—

“Thank you for having us for dinner again.”

After rescuing Nahida, Al-Haitham was pleasantly surprised to learn that he actually enjoys her company. They disagree on enough things for their friendship to be interesting, like the best way to prepare Harra Fruit or the intricacies of rainforest topsoil analyses.

One thing they do agree on, though, is the importance of reopening Sumeru’s diplomatic channels. For all that the old Akademiya had exported its scholars to all corners of Teyvat, it did a remarkably poor job of sharing its gathered knowledge. Alchemical breakthroughs, medical innovations, political treatises—all repressed by the Sages’ intellectual protectionism.

And Sumeru needs imports, too. Liyuan dyes, Mondstadt alcohols. Inazuman curry cubes.

Nahida wants to construct ambassadorial suites at the Akademiya, similar to the student dormitories but fancier, of course. She's tapped Kaveh for the job, though they won’t be talking about it at this dinner. Another thing Al-Haitham and Nahida agree on is the importance of work-life balance.

(“You did this,” Kaveh had accused when he’d first gotten the offer.

“Oh?” Al-Haitham had arched an eyebrow in reply. “I didn’t realize that the Light of Kshahrewar needed a lowly scribe’s help to find work. If I had known, maybe you would have gotten out of debt much sooner.”

“You–” Kaveh had started, throwing his hands in the air. “Have you forgotten that you’re the Acting Grand Sage now? Actually, wait, no, that’s not the point. The point is, you are, without a doubt, the most infuriating person I have the misfortune of knowing.”

“Is that so? That makes it very embarrassing for you to be in love with me, I hope you know.”

“You–!”)

Besides Nahida sit Traveler and Paimon. Paimon’s eyes are darting between Kaveh, Al-Haitham, and the kid with dizzying speed.

“Paimon had heard the Wanderer was staying with you, but it’s still hard to believe,” she says.

Al-Haitham gives her a level stare. “We adopted him, actually.”

And they have, legally. Al-Haitham had filled out and filed the forms a few days before the Extravaganza.

“And it seems to be going very nicely,” Nahida cuts in. To her credit, she had taken the news of the kid’s adoption without batting an eye. She turns towards the kid. “How have you been settling in?”

The kid sneers. “None of your business, Buer.” Then he cuts that sidelong look at Kaveh again.

Al-Haitham studies the kid, watches how he watches Kaveh. Watches how he tenses when Kaveh speaks and relaxes when he hears Kaveh’s words.

“That’s Aunty Buer to you, kid.” Kaveh turns towards Nahida. “I am so sorry about him. I’m starting to think his contrary phase isn’t actually a phase, after all.”

Nahida giggles, pressing both hands over her mouth and scrunching her eyes shut. Al-Haitham laughs, too, though he knows no one but his family can tell.

After they leave, Kaveh turns towards Al-Haitham. “So I stopped by the bazaar today to pick up that lamb,” he says.

Al-Haitham and the kid look at each other, then very hastily look away.

“That’s great,” Al-Haitham says. Next to him, the kid chokes on his glass of water.

Kaveh watches him with narrowed eyes, but evidently decides to choose the path of plausible deniability, because he doesn’t say anything further.

—

The Traveler has been enlisted to spread the word about Sumeru’s new diplomatic openness. This may have been a bad idea, given that Guuji Yae, followed by a small retinue of her attendees and guards, arrives at the Akademiya weeks before the ambassadorial suites are finished.

It throws staff members and scholars alike into a frenzy, which doesn’t make much sense to Al-Haitham, considering that the Guuji had been in Sumeru for that fungus tournament and nobody had batted an eye.

Kaveh, though, nearly has an aneurysm over it, and Al-Haitham and the kid have to spend an entire hour talking him down from doing something drastic, like crying, or finishing the suites himself, or both.

That leaves Al-Haitham with almost no time to prepare for his meeting with the Guuji, and Kaveh and the kid are still in his office when the door swings open to reveal the Guuji herself.

“Guuji Yae,” Al-Haitham greets, but she doesn’t seem to hear him.

She’s staring at the kid like she’s just seen a ghost. Al-Haitham whips his head around to check on the kid, who doesn’t look much better, pale skin going bone-white. He looks vaguely like he’s about to pass out.

Al-Haitham stands, putting his body between the kid and the Guuji.

“Why don’t you get Kaveh home,” he suggests, which seems to shake the kid out of his stupor.

“Okay,” he whispers, with an unusual lack of resistance. Al-Haitham shephards him and Kaveh out the door, past the still-frozen Guuji, careful to keep his body between her and them.

When the door closes behind Kaveh, the Guuji seems to snap back to attention.

“I am incredibly sorry that happened,” she says, voice saccharine but still shaky. “He just bears an… uncanny resemblance to a good friend of mine.”

“It’s fine,” Al-Haitham says, even though it’s not.

“Is he your son?”

“Yes. Now,” Al-Haitham says, hastily changing the subject, “I actually wanted to talk about reviving the trade routes between our two countries.”

That meeting takes the better part of three hours, and Al-Haitham is aching and irritated when he finally returns home. The Guuji is smart, sharp in both mind and tongue, and doggedly persistent when it comes to securing the interests of her own country—all horrible traits for brief and efficient meetings.

She kept trying to ask about the kid, too, which Al-Haitham had flatly shut down over and over again. If it weren’t for the fact that being rude was bound to cause more hassle, Al-Haitham would have snapped at her ten minutes in.

When he reaches the front door, though, Al-Haitham hesitates. He cannot smell the spices of cooking dinner or hear any faint strains of conversation. The lights aren’t even on.

He opens the door. Kaveh and the kid are there, alright, but they’re not speaking.

“Haitham,” Kaveh says, and Al-Haitham takes one look at his face and knows. “The kid has something he wants to tell us.”

—

Al-Haitham hasn’t even told Kaveh this, but he’d stumbled across the kid and some Eremites before the final round of the Akademiya Extravaganza.

“What’s going on?” he had called out, though he’d already noted the way one man’s left arm hung at an unnatural angle, and how another man’s chest bore a bloody slash.

The kid had whipped around at the sound of his voice, and Al-Haitham had been taken aback by the look in his eyes. Hunted, the eyes set in a blank, mask-like face.

But Al-Haitham hadn’t let his surprise show, not even in the ways the kid could read. As he slowly interrogated each of the Eremites, he watched, out of the corner of his eye, the fight drain out of the kid’s shoulders and emotion return to his face.

“You sat out the first two rounds,” he’d pointed out, after they’d left the Eremites for the Matra to find.

The kid had mustered up enough energy to scowl. “Did you know?” he’d demanded instead of answering.

“...Know that you sat out?”

“No. That he's going to leave if he wins.” The kid hadn’t needed to specify who the ‘he’ in question was.

“No.”

“And you’re okay with him just—doing that? Just leaving you behind?”

Ah, Al-Haitham had realized then. So this is what we were missing.

Out loud, he had said, “I’m okay with him saying that, because I know he’s not going to actually do it.”

“Are you stupid? He literally said he would.”

“He won’t,” Al-Haitham had said. “Ask him yourself, if you want. He won't leave you behind.”

Even as he said those words, Al-Haitham had known the kid wouldn’t believe him. Not fully, not yet.

The last round had been, to put it nicely, an absolute mess. Though the contestants had been ordered to swap their actual weapons for ones with dulled edges and blunted arrows, the combat still looked—and likely felt—very much real.

Al-Haitham had watched as the kid’s blades of wind grew sharper and sharper, the lone unregulated weapon in the contest.

He’d watched as, when Kaveh flew past him, the kid had reflexively put out a hand to blast him in the side. He’d seen the guilt in the kid’s eyes when he realized what he’d done.

Kaveh had disappeared after the awards ceremony, but he’d left takeout on the counter for when Al-Haitham and the kid had returned. The kid had trailed one step behind Al-Haitham the entire way home, refusing to look up and staying very, very quiet. Like a stray dog, waiting to be kicked. Like a stray dog expecting to be thrown back onto the streets.

Al-Haitham hadn’t done either of those things. Instead, he’d heated up the takeout for dinner and sent the kid to take a bath before they ate.

The blast of wind had left Kaveh with a nasty burn on his torso in a deep, angry red, with sickly green bruises forming on his ribs and stomach.

“It doesn’t hurt,” Kaveh had said, but his voice was subdued, and he’d flinched as Al-Haitham smoothed poultices over the skin.

The kid had refused to meet Kaveh’s eyes. He'd disappeared into the kitchen and soon reemerged with a steaming cup of tea—the same pain-killing tea he’d gotten from Nahida, Al-Haitham surmised.

Al-Haitham and Kaveh had traded glances over the kid’s bowed head. The kid had been an entirely different person in that fight—a vestige, maybe, of the person he was before he was their son. It was the same person that Al-Haitham had seen fighting those Eremites before Al-Haitham had found them, someone who was used to combat. Someone used to facing enemy hostiles.

But Kaveh was still torn up over what he’d learned about his father, and the combination of that and his injury left him bedridden for days. That, in turn, had sent the kid into a guilt-ridden spiral, and he spent the following days picking at his food and pacing the house at night.

Al-Haitham hadn’t known what to do, had simply made lunch and dinner and washed the dishes and held Kaveh at night. And when the silence had stretched on for so long that it would soon start to fester, Al-Haitham had pulled the kid aside.

“Talk to him,” he had told the kid. “He will not say what you’re afraid of him saying.”

—

And now, here they are, months after the conclusion of the Akademiya Extravaganza, months filled with dropped hints and sly, terrified glances.

Al-Haitham and Kaveh sit on one couch, while the kid sits on the divan across from them. His chin is jutted out, and he studiously avoids their gazes. Finally, he speaks.

“My creator didn’t want me,” he says. “She abandoned me as soon as I was made, five hundred years ago—born five hundred years ago. And I kept living with people, but I thought they kept betraying me, but they didn’t. And now they’re dead, and she doesn’t remember me.

“And then I became part of the Fatui,” he continues, as if the words are being dragged out of his throat. “I was important. I killed a lot of people. I tried to kill the Traveler, a lot of times. That’s why they don’t like me.”

Al-Haitham and Kaveh trade glances. Do you want to start? Kaveh’s golden eyes gleam. No, you go. He’ll listen to you.

“Okay,” Al-Haitham says.

The kid scowls. “‘Okay’? That’s it?”

“What do you expect me to do?”

“I don’t know!” The kid throws his hands up in the air. “Be mad, yell, hit me, anything! I was part of the Fatui. I did a lot of bad things, and I’m a bad person, and that’s why I hurt him”—he points at Kaveh, here—“even though I didn’t want to.”

There’s a long, heavy silence, broken only by the kid panting from his outburst.

“Well, we want you,” Kaveh says. “And don’t think you can use being five hundred years old as an excuse to get out of doing chores. Or not eating enough. Or being rude to Nahida.”

Al-Haitham can tell the kid is still on edge, though, so he stands, walks over to where the kid sits, and drops one heavy hand on the kid’s head. He waits until he feels the last of the kid’s tremors fade.

“Before everything had happened, I planned to retire when I turned 60. With my salary as Scribe, it was feasible, as long as I kept to expected patterns of saving,” he says. “I certainly wasn’t happy when I was promoted to Acting Grand Sage, but I was looking forward to retiring at 55, thanks to the additional income.

“Now,” Al-Haitham continues, “I’m still on track to retire when I’m 60. I prefer it this way.” He smiles down at the kid. “Do you understand?”

The kid nods. His expression looks brittle and cracked open, and his eyes are wide and glossy—with tears, Al-Haitham realizes.

Kaveh stands now, too, and makes his way over to them both. He rests his long, knobbly fingers on the kid’s head, right next to Al-Haitham’s hand.

“We love you very, very much,” he says.

The kid nods, sniffs. “Yeah,” he says. “I love you guys too.”

Chapter Text

They’re working in the living room after dinner—or rather, Kaveh and the kid are working while Al-Haitham is rather smugly following his work-life boundaries—when the kid first brings it up. Actually, it’s more like Kaveh pries it out of him, albeit unintentionally.

“So,” Kaveh asks, completely unaware of the metaphorical bombshell his son is soon to drop on him, “what are you working on?”

The kid harrumphs. “Wouldn’t you like to know.”

Kaveh rolls his eyes, then tips over into Al-Haitham’s lap. “Honey,” he sighs, pressing the back of his hand to his forehead, “did you hear that? Our precious little boy is becoming a teenager. He’s doing what all the cool kids are doing these days. What is it called? Oh yeah—being sassy.”

Without looking up from the book he’s reading, Al-Haitham nods. “They grow up so fast,” he deadpans.

The kid groans, long and loud. Dramatic, Kaveh thinks fondly. Above him, Al-Haitham’s eyes dance in that telltale laugh of his.

“Nothing, jeez, you guys are so weird,” the kid grouses. “It’s just something for a research project with someone.”

Kaveh freezes. A glance up shows that Al-Haitham has similarly gone stone-still. What do we do? Kaveh demands silently. Al-Haitham flicks his eyes down. Stay calm. Play it cool. Kaveh nods minutely. Got it.

And he really does mean to play it cool, but when Kaveh opens his mouth, what comes out is: “A research project with someone? Like, a joint research project?”

The kid shrugs, looking bemused. Next to Kaveh, Al-Haitham drops his face into his hand, letting out a little sound that’s half-laugh, half-groan.

“Yeah,” the kid says. His eyes narrow. “Why?”

“Nope. Absolutely not,” Kaveh says, sitting back up. “You are not working on a joint research project with someone. When did this even start? Why didn’t you tell us earlier?

“I’m telling you now, aren’t I?” the kid retorts. “Why do you care so much, anyway?”

“You want to do a joint research project with someone! Of course I care!”

Al-Haitham chooses that excellent moment to chip in. “So, what’s his name?” he asks, which is not at all helpful.

Kaveh smacks him on the shoulder. “Oh my god, Haitham, it might not be a boy,” he hisses. He turns to the kid. “It doesn’t have to be a boy. It can be a boy! But it doesn’t have to be. Actually, wait, no—it shouldn’t be anyone, because there’s no way I’ll allow you to do a joint research project.”

The kid looks incredibly confused now—and a little huffy, too, about his confusion. “What,” he says, in a poor attempt at seeming menacing, “are you guys even talking about?”

Kaveh stares. “Your joint research project, of course! Trust me. I was your age once, so I know how these things work—it always starts out innocuously, but next thing you know, you’re doing incredibly inappropriate things like– like holding hands!”

“What Kaveh means to say,” Al-Haitham adds, a little more helpfully this time, “is that ‘doing joint research projects’ is usually a euphemism in the Akademiya. For dating.”

The kid sputters, chokes, and starts coughing uncontrollably. This, Kaveh thinks, should have been his reaction to whoever had the gall to ask him to do a joint research project together.

“No way,” the kid says when he recovers, shaking his head violently. “Definitely not. How was I even supposed to know that? The fox guy always talks about doing joint research projects in the Akademiya.”

“Hundreds of people propositioned Tighnari while we were at the Akademiya, and he let them down easy by taking their requests literally,” Kaveh says. “See? That’s exactly my point. If you take their requests literally, you’ll get taken advantage of. And if you take their requests genuinely”—the very thought makes him shudder—“you’ll get taken advantage of.”

That sets off another coughing fit for the kid. “You are”—cough—“so”—cough cough cough—“weird,” he yells.

Al-Haitham vibrates with laughter he doesn’t even try to contain.

A few hours later, the kid brings the subject back up, completely unprompted. “So when will you be okay with me working on a joint research project?” he demands.

Al-Haitham and Kaveh respond simultaneously:

“When you’re 700.”

“Never.”

They turn to look at each other. We will be talking about this, Kaveh’s stare promises. Al-Haitham simply looks back, resigned.

–

Personally, Al-Haitham is perfectly happy with not discussing this joint research ordeal until he knows some critical details—including the kid’s partner’s identity, what their parents do, and everything about their personality, interests, and weaknesses.

But he’s okay with talking about it if Kaveh wants to talk about it, and Kaveh seems very much like he wants to talk about it.

“Am I a bad mother?” This is mumbled into Al-Haitham’s collarbone as they lay in bed.

Al-Haitham sighs, half-exasperated and half-affectionate, and raises a hand to card through Kaveh’s feathery hair. The moonlight glints off the few silvery strands that have made themselves known, evidence more of Kaveh’s stress than his age.

That’s not to say Kaveh hasn’t aged, though. Al-Haitham sees it in the fine, faint lines at the corners of his eyes, the way he’s started to carry his weight a bit differently. As with all things about Kaveh, Al-Haitham likes these changes very much.

“You and I both know you’re not a bad mother,” Al-Haitham says.

Kaveh scoffs, nudging his head into the crook of Al-Haitham’s neck like a particularly affectionate cat. “What, so you think I handled that situation well?”

Well. They both know that Kaveh doesn’t want Al-Haitham to lie. “You can’t coddle him forever,” is what Al-Haitham ultimately settles on.

Kaveh sighs. “No one coddled him for five hundred years, Haitham. Sue me for wanting to do it for a little bit longer.”

“Hm.” Sleep tugs at Al-Haitham. Kaveh is a warm, heavy weight at his side, his soft breath brushing against Al-Haitham’s skin with every exhale. “And that’s good. You’re doing well with him.”

“But what do we do when he doesn’t want it anymore?”

Al-Haitham tugs Kaveh close, wraps both arms around Kaveh’s waist. “We’ll deal with it then.”

Kaveh wriggles half-heartedly, making himself comfortable. “So what, you’ll be perfectly normal and okay with him growing up?”

“Yes,” Al-Haitham says, though he knows they both know that’s not true.

After the ambassadorial suites were finished, each nation began sending their respective delegations to visit Sumeru. Mondstadt sent several knights bearing gifts of dandelion wine and finely carved instruments; Liyue, a group led by a member of its Qixing, holding bolts of richly embroidered silk and polished gems.

Inazuma plans to send a delegation, too—an official, planned, scheduled one, this time. Al-Haitham reads the notice with no small amount of ambivalence: satisfied, certainly, at the prospect of normalizing relations and solidifying trade agreements, but also displeased. Unsettled—though he’s never admitted it, not even to himself.

The news sends Kaveh into a minor, manageable tizzy, just as the news of every visiting delegation does. It’s amplified, of course, by their mutual awareness of their son’s past, though neither of them mention it aloud.

The news also means that Kaveh spends his afternoons personally checking over the suites before the ambassadors arrive, lingering in the halls of the Akademiya not too far from where Al-Haitham works. If Al-Haitham weren’t so good at compartmentalizing, it’d be terribly distracting.

He heads to the diplomat wing after work, hearing Kaveh before he even sees him—the jingling of his various accessories and his loud, throaty voice, raised above the din of assistants hurrying back and forth. One thing Kaveh has learned about since their son arrived is the joys of delegation.

Rounding the corner, Al-Haitham watches as Kaveh strides across the freshly waxed floors, the light of the glass-petaled lamps shining off the gold in his hair. He turns to the worker next to him.

“That’s my wife,” he says, apropos of nothing.

The worker blinks, looking rather nervous at the prospect of talking with the Acting Grand Sage about the Light of Kshahrewar. “Congrats?” they offer.

Al-Haitham nods, satisfied. “Thank you,” he says. They both look at Kaveh, who’s waving his long, bony hands in the air and barking orders at the assistants that run past him holding decorative pillows and little potted plants. “I’m a very lucky man.”

Or, he will be. As soon as Kaveh brings it up, so that Al-Haitham can finally ask, and as soon as Kaveh says yes.

–

But before the delegation arrives, they hold a party.

“Congratulations!” Collei cheers when Kaveh opens the door. She has a gift bag looped over her wrist, and Cyno and Tighnari stand behind her, their arms laden with various plates of food. She smiles at Kaveh. “You look so happy.”

“Thank you.” Kaveh beams back. “I am, I really am.” And he is, he really is.

He helps Cyno and Tighnari carry the food to the kitchen, laughingly scolding them for bringing too much, as always. They’re the last to arrive; the Traveler and Paimon, Nahida and Nilou, and Dehya and Candace are already sprawled across various perches in their now-cramped living room.

Kaveh was surprised by how easily the kid took to Dehya and Candace. Dehya’s dead set on teaching the kid hand-to-hand combat, and Candance has been instructing him on how to fight with a shield. The kid throws it like a frisbee.

The kid is sitting on the floor talking to Nahida, but he looks up when Collei walks into the room and gives her a wave that’s practically friendly.

They get along surprisingly well, him and Collei. The kid is slightly too abrasive and Collei is slightly too awkward for most other kids their age, so Kaveh and Tighnari both appreciate the fact that they’ve become genuine friends.

Collei teaches the kid how to sew and make pita pockets and weave flowers into little crowns, and the kid teaches her how to aim her arrows and write calligraphy and understand the various papers her fathers published. Together, they make fun of the assorted idiots that get lost in the rainforest and make asinine comments in class. It’s a good system.

“Hi, Thekid,” Collei chirps. “Happy Adoption Day!”

Soon after that first biweekly TCG game night, Kaveh had felt bad enough to tell Collei that ‘Thekid’ was not, in fact, the kid’s actual name. Collei had, however, continued calling him that in the world’s most understated, passive-aggressive comedy campaign—very much reminding Kaveh of exactly who she was raised by.

The kid scowls. “It’s not a big deal,” he mumbles.

What a little poser. Kaveh adores him.

Collei powers forward, undeterred. “I got you a present,” she says, and the kid accepts the bag she pushes into his arms with minimal complaint.

He opens the bag, rifles through layers of fastidiously arranged tissue paper, and pulls out his gift: a painstakingly stitched Cuilein-Anbar doll, one made of blue and black cloth and wearing a comically large, floppy hat on its head.

Kaveh coos, while the kid’s face spasms before landing on an expression that’s half-grimace, half-smile, and completely hilarious. In the corner of the room, Al-Haitham’s eyes dance.

“What are you going to name it?” Kaveh asks.

The kid stares into the doll’s eyes, contemplative, before answering. “Super Weapon Explosion Bloodthrasher,” he says.

From across the room, Dehya snorts. And the answer is so incredibly him that Kaveh can’t help himself, just has to reach out and drag his son into a hug. The kid relents for a quarter-second longer than usual before determinedly wiggling away.

And with that, the party truly begins. Kaveh piles the best morsels of food onto the kid’s plate and cuts him the biggest slice of cake, which is more bitter than sweet and has the words Happy Arbitrary Adoption Day Because Al-Haitham Filed Your Adoption Papers Without Telling Us written on it in glittery icing. He trades fond glances with Al-Haitham throughout the night, as he eats and laughs and celebrates with all their friends.

It’s been a year since their son had arrived, one year since their little family became complete. The kid has gotten a little softer, sure, but a little snarkier, too—not like his old defense mechanism, but something more comfortable. More normal. More like a regular kid, one finally able to express himself.

–

Nahida pulls Al-Haitham aside before she leaves, apologetically citing her bedtime to the other guests. Al-Haitham can empathize. The party has gone on for much longer than he would personally prefer, but surprisingly, he’s genuinely content to stand at the periphery and observe Kaveh flit around, glowing with joy.

The kid drifts over to stand with him from time to time, primarily to escape the fawning and congratulations—mostly from Nilou—that he nevertheless bears with unexpected patience. Then again, Nilou does ply him with inordinate amounts of spicy candy whenever they meet, so perhaps the kid’s patience isn’t all that surprising.

“Al-Haitham,” Nahida says, standing on her tiptoes to speak to him.

Al-Haitham sits in a nearby chair to better hear her. He would never disgrace them both by doing something as embarrassing as crouching down.

“I hate to discuss work outside of regular hours,” she begins. Al-Haitham opens his mouth to stop her, but she continues in a rare display of force. “It’s about your son.”

Al-Haitham promptly shuts his mouth. “Understood.”

“The Inazuman delegation has delayed their arrival by a week. Apparently, the Raiden Shogun and Guuji Yae requested last-minute to join them. They would like to speak to your son.”

Al-Haitham feels himself go cold, even amidst the warmth of a too-small room occupied by too many people. “Absolutely not,” he says. Even to his own ears, his voice sounds as icy as the rest of him feels.

Nahida nods. “I respect your decision,” she says. “I just didn’t want to blindside you with this news, and I wanted to give you enough time to discuss this with your family.”

She shoots him a meaningful look at that, which Al-Haitham studiously pretends not to see. There is nothing to discuss, really. Guuji Yae’s unfounded interest in the kid marks a clear and present danger. And Al-Haitham will do everything in his—frankly significant—power to keep his family safe.

–

They’re washing the dishes—or rather, Al-Haitham is washing the dishes while Kaveh is drying, because Kaveh hates the feeling of wet, slimy food—when the kid bursts in through the door.

“Welcome home,” Kaveh calls. “How was study group?”

“Horrible,” the kid grumbles. “They’re all stupid.”

Al-Haitham nods, looking sympathetic. Typical. “You don’t have to attend those groups if you don’t want to,” he advises. “You’d learn better without them dragging you down.”

At that, Kaveh gives into the urge to smack him with the towel.

The kid laughs at that, a little heh heh heh that Kaveh finds, quite frankly, adorable. “At least they said something interesting,” he says, and Kaveh finally pegs his tone as mischievous. “They told me you and mom did a research project together when you were students. Hypocrites.”

Kaveh melts at his son calling him ‘mom’ but stiffens at the subject. It’s an incredibly conflicting combination.

“We did,” he says, chancing a glance next to him, “but we never finished.”

Al-Haitham says nothing, merely continuing to scrub at the dishes, but his carefully schooled expression betrays his discomfort.

Behind him, the kid blinks, whatever dastardly plans he had forgotten in his confusion. “What? Why?”

Kaveh sighs and puts down his towel, then walks over to ruffle the kid’s hair. The kid squawks in protest and bats his hand away.

“It’s complicated,” Kaveh says. “I’ll tell you when you’re older, okay?”

The kid reaches up to fix his hair, grumbling under his breath. “You always say that,” he mutters. “I’m over 500 years old. When am I going to be ‘old enough’?”

“Your father said 700,” Kaveh reminds him, and the kid rolls his eyes so hard he almost topples off the stool.

Al-Haitham watches as Kaveh takes off his jewelry, scattering his various bangles and earrings across their dresser even though they have a perfectly respectable jewelry organizer. Kaveh catches his eye in the mirror and half-smiles, distracted.

“Do you regret it?” The words tumble out without Al-Haitham’s permission.

Kaveh stills, then turns, understanding what Al-Haitham means without him having to elaborate. “No, Haitham,” he sighs, “I don’t. Do you?”

Al-Haitham shrugs, discomforted in a way he rarely is. “Maybe you should.”

Kaveh visibly softens at that, stepping into the cradle of Al-Haitham’s arms like he never should’ve left. “Look, I love you,” he says. “And I love our life together. I mean, we have a home. We have a son. I’m so, so happy with you, Haitham. I don’t need a silly little piece of paper from the Akademiya to prove it.”

They’re very nearly the same height, so that Al-Haitham barely has to tilt his head to see the shadows that Kaveh’s lashes cast on his cheeks, the faint redness at the corners of his eyes and across his skin from removing the day’s makeup. Al-Haitham thinks, not for the first time, that Kaveh is objectively, undeniably beautiful.

“I was the one stupid enough to leave,” he protests nonetheless. It’s only partially half-hearted.

Kaveh smiles at him, slings his arms around Al-Haitham’s neck. “And I was the one stupid enough to let you. So now we’re even, right?”

“Right,” Al-Haitham echoes, thinking again of that ring hidden in his office, those papers tucked away in his desk. “Right.”

Al-Haitham’s not telling the kid about the Shogun's request. He’s already decided that. There’s no reason to inform individuals who aren’t directly involved in the plan—especially those who would be… impacted by the news.

Though Kaveh isn’t part of the plan, either, Al-Haitham truly, honestly wants to tell him. But he knows that if he does, Kaveh will worry, tossing and turning at night more than he already does.

Intellectually, he knows that Kaveh deserves to know, that he’d want to know—that both of them would. But something about his wife and child always makes him act irrationally, motivated less by logic than he likes to pretend, than he’d like to be. According to Kaveh, this is a good thing.

The plan itself, too, is simplistic: Al-Haitham will enter the meeting. He will secure Sumeru’s interests, divert their interest in his son, and go home. Perhaps it’s too simplistic. Again, Al-Haitham knows he’s thinking less logically than he should.

But all Al-Haitham can do for now is look at Kaveh and think about his secrets: I want to marry you. I am protecting our son, and I know I am going against your wishes by not telling you. I want to marry you.

–

They’ve developed quite a reputation in Sumeru City—and Port Ormos, and Gandharva Ville, and wherever else Kaveh and/or Al-Haitham and/or the kid have traveled to and not-bragged about their little family: the overprotective parents, and the kid who really does not need to be protected.

Kaveh would think it’s accurate, if not for the insinuation that the kid doesn’t need to be protected, because he does.

And while the kid isn’t exactly going out to the bar with his classmates every night, he’s been getting out of the house more and more often, lately. He helps the Traveler with their commissions, now that he’s no longer convinced that they actually hate him; he works on increasingly complex projects, ones that require him to stay in the House of Daena for longer and longer; and he’s even joined study groups with his classmates, who probably aren’t as smart or adorable as him.

Sometimes, on the weekends, he’ll even fly to Gandharva Ville to hang out with Collei and the villagers. Apparently, he’s been very helpful to the Forest Rangers. He can fly up and… do whatever the Forest Rangers need to do up there but can’t. Kaveh’s so proud.

Of course Kaveh is proud that the kid is getting out of the house and making friends that aren’t just him, Al-Haitham, and Nahida. That he’s socializing, enjoying himself, doing things he likes to do. But it means that the kid’s out of the house more often, for longer periods of time. Which Kaveh doesn’t mind, per se, but–

Kaveh finds himself at his favorite forum: the Puspa Café Message Board.

He still likes to write little messages on it from time to time, just to rile Al-Haitham up. He knows Al-Haitham likes to do the same.

But right now, Al-Haitham’s hiding something. Kaveh can see it in the long, probing looks sent his way, almost as if Kaveh is the one with secrets. Which he isn’t, unless you count what he’s planning to make for Al-Haitham’s birthday, or the fact that he wants to sell their living room rug to make space for an absolutely gorgeous piece he saw in the bazaar.

But that sort of laundry shouldn’t be aired out on a public message board. So this time, Kaveh writes: I wish my darling son would let me know when he’s coming home. It’s certainly hard work being a worried mother.

So maybe Kaveh does miss his kid. Sue him.

Hopefully, the kid reads it right away—it might actually get him home in time for dinner, and he’ll probably throw a little hissy fit about it. It’ll be great.

But when the kid comes home that night—just in time for dinner, thank goodness—he’s not pouting about the message board. Instead, he glares daggers at Al-Haitham, anger lined with a sharp, serrated edge of hurt.

“You liar,” he says.

Beside Kaveh, Al-Haitham goes very, very still.

“You talked to Nahida,” he says.

“You’re a liar,” the kid repeats, voice thick with frustration.

Kaveh turns towards Al-Haitham. “What’s going on, Haitham?” he asks, but the kid cuts in before Al-Haitham can respond.

“He’s meeting with the Inazuman delegation tomorrow, and he didn’t tell us,” he snaps.

“What? I thought that already happened.”

Al-Haitham sighs. Without looking at either of them, he speaks. “It was delayed for a week. Because the Raiden Shogun and Guuji Yae are coming. They wanted to speak with our son.”

The kid slams his hand on the table. “Yeah, and you didn’t tell me.”

“That’s because you’re not going,” Al-Haitham says flatly.

The kid grits his teeth. “Yes I am. And you can’t stop me.”

“Yes, I can.”

“No, you can’t.”

“I can and I will.”

“No! You’re not my real dad!”

Silence ensues. Even the kid looks shocked by his own words. He stares, wide-eyed, at the both of them, then spins on his heel and runs outside, slamming the door shut behind him.

Kaveh sighs, stands, and places a hand on Al-Haitham’s shoulder.

“I’m furious with you, you know,” he says conversationally.

“I know,” Al-Haitham sighs.

“You should’ve told me.”

“I know that too.”

“And I love you. So you sit here and think about what you did wrong, while I go find our son.”

“Kaveh,” Al-Haitham calls, and Kaveh turns from where he’s almost reached the door. “I love you. I’m sorry,” he says.

Kaveh sighs again, feeling impossibly, ridiculously fond of this impossible, ridiculous man. “I know,” he says, then slips out into the muggy summer night.

Once he’s outside, a sweet voice rings in his head: Check the boughs of the Divine Tree, it says.

Kaveh smiles. “Thanks, Nahida,” he calls up at the sky. From afar, a little bird chirps.

After much effort, copious amounts of sweat, and maybe a little bit of swearing, Kaveh finally heaves himself up onto the branch where the kid sits. Mehrak can help Kaveh with many things, but climbing is not one of them.

“Jeez, kid,” he wheezes, scooting closer. “You couldn’t find anywhere a little more accessible?”

The kid scowls. “That’s kind of the point,” he mutters, but he doesn’t move away, which Kaveh takes as a promising sign.

Kaveh isn’t good at these conversations. Al-Haitham isn’t, either, but he always manages to strike the perfect balance between caring and blasé, the one that makes the kid actually willing to tell him things. Kaveh hasn’t managed to find that balance yet—always ends up too nagging, too fussy, too overbearing.

“You know,” he starts, “Haitham’s grandmother raised him. I always wanted to raise you like she raised him—to not care about what others think.”

Perhaps Al-Haitham cares too little, sometimes. But that just makes him a good fit for Kaveh, who cares too much.

The kid says nothing, just determinedly swings his feet in the air in a clear So what?

“And I know we don’t always do the best job, but you’re growing up so well, and your father is so proud of you. We both are.”

That elicits a reaction. “You always say that,” the kid mutters. “But you guys still treat me like I’m a child. Like you don’t trust me. I can make my own decisions, you know.”

And really, Kaveh can’t relate. He doesn’t know how it feels to have his mother fuss over him until he’s old enough for it to chafe. Al-Haitham doesn’t, either.

Kaveh didn’t even want kids until he had a kid, the kid, whom he ended up loving so much that he wanted to adopt. Whom he ended up wanting to be a parent for. Maybe that’s another way of saying that he’s not doing this parenting thing because he’s already mastered it—he’s doing it because he wants to get better.

With that, Kaveh sighs and wraps an arm around the kid’s shoulder, pulling him closer. Surprisingly, the kid doesn’t protest, just leans his head against Kaveh’s shoulder. Months of dedicated cooking have added a few necessary pounds to his frame, and he feels warm and solid against Kaveh’s side. It soothes Kaveh, makes him feel like the kid won’t vanish every time Kaveh looks away.

“It’s not that we don’t trust you,” Kaveh says. “How could we not? You’re the smartest person I know. And you’re funny, and kind, so kind, even though you like to pretend you aren’t.”

The kid scoffs at that, though he still makes no move to wiggle away.

“Of course we trust you. It’s just”—and here Kaveh hesitates, unsure of precisely how to say this—“you’re so good at taking care of yourself. And you’ve done it for so long, all by yourself. I’m just scared that you’re going to keep putting yourself in these uncomfortable situations, and get hurt, and not ask for help, because you’re used to doing that. Because you can, so you think you should.”

That’s what he’s been afraid of this whole time, isn’t it? That’s what they’ve both been afraid of—the kid thinking he doesn’t need protection, when all they want to do is protect him. But–

“But maybe you’re right, hm? We do trust you, so maybe that means letting you make your own choices,” Kaveh says. “But you have to promise me that you’ll remember your father and I are here to help, if you want it. And that you’ll actually ask for help when you need it. Because we’re your parents, and we love you, and part of that means supporting you no matter what.”

The kid is silent, just for a second, then leans further into Kaveh’s body, almost tipping them both right off of the tree branch if not for Kaveh catching himself with his other hand.

“You’re a good mom,” he says.

And the kid is a chronic crier. But today, Kaveh is the one tearing up.

They’re about to hop off the branch and head home when the kid pipes up.

“Why did you choose to forgive him?” he asks. “For what he did back then.”

Kaveh doesn’t need to ask who he’s talking about. “Because he apologized, and he meant it, and I was sorry, too,” he says. “And because I love Haitham, and I wanted to move forward with him. I couldn’t do that while still being angry about it.”

The kid nods, pensive, then says, “And what about her? Why did you choose to forgive her?”

He doesn’t need to specify who he’s asking about this time, either. Or what he actually wants to know.

“I forgave her for myself,” Kaveh says. “I didn’t want to feel angry every time I thought about my mother, and forgiving her was the easiest way to do that for me.” He smiles at the kid. “You don’t have to forgive her, you know. You don’t have to not forgive her, either. But whatever you do, do it for yourself.”

“Do I have to forgive him?”

Kaveh shrugs. “If you want to. He’s your father.”

At home, the kid walks up to Al-Haitham and pushes him as weakly as a kitten. “I forgive you,” he says. “Stupid.”

Al-Haitham’s eyes soften, relieved, and he pats the kid on the head. “I’m sorry,” he says. “Do you still want to go to the meeting tomorrow?” he asks, and they all know he means thank you.

“Yeah,” the kid says.

“I’m going too,” Kaveh butts in, and glares challengingly at Al-Haitham when he raises an eyebrow. “And before you say anything, just remember you’re still in the doghouse.”

“The couch is comfortable,” Al-Haitham says, but he sighs in the way that means Kaveh has won.

Al-Haitham doesn’t rise to follow Kaveh to bed that night until Kaveh cocks his head in a clear invitation. Only then does Al-Haitham trail behind him into their room, wisely choosing to remain quiet. He stays a steady, solid presence at Kaveh’s back while Kaveh does his skincare, hands hovering over Kaveh’s hips but refusing to land.

How dramatic. Kaveh rolls his eyes, hit with an overwhelming burst of affection. He guides Al-Haitham’s hands, large and bony with writer’s calluses on his fingers, to rest on his waist.

“So much for being perfectly normal and okay with the kid growing up, huh?” Kaveh teases.

Al-Haitham takes the comment for what it is—forgiveness—and rests his pointy chin on Kaveh’s shoulders. “Guess so,” he rumbles. Then, after a bit of hesitation, he asks, “Does that mean you’re still going to the meeting tomorrow?”

“Of course it is,” Kaveh scoffs, and dabs a bit of lotion onto the tip of Al-Haitham’s aquiline nose. “I am his mother, after all.”

Al-Haitham’s hands flex around Kaveh’s waist, a quick squeeze of affectionate pressure. “You are,” he agrees, just the perfect amount of docile and contrite for this situation.

Kaveh never wanted kids until he met the kid. He didn’t want to get married, either, not after what happened with his parents, until he found a man that he loved so much that he wanted to get married. Wants to get married.

And Al-Haitham is brash and blunt and imperfect—tonight has made that very, very clear—but he’s not impatient. Not with Kaveh. He’s content to sit and wait until Kaveh has figured out what he wants, and Kaveh has had it figured out for a while.

But he wants Al-Haitham to ask, even and especially if he still doesn’t know that Kaveh knows. He wants Al-Haitham to push for what he wants, and, like Al-Haitham, Kaveh is willing to be patient until that happens.

–

The meeting is scheduled for mid-morning, perfectly timed so that they can use lunch as a convenient excuse if needed. It also leaves less time for the kid to worry, though he’s still an anxious, jittery mess when they leave the house.

They all walk to the Akademiya together. The kid sticks close to Kaveh’s side, and he barely manages to muster a sneer when Nahida greets them at the door. With an understanding smile, she leads them through the hallways, past Al-Haitham’s office and into the room where they’ll meet the delegation.

The kid turns to Kaveh before they enter.

“What if I don’t know what to say?” he whispers.

Kaveh bends down, presses a kiss to his forehead. “Then we’ll be here,” he soothes.

Al-Haitham rests a hand on the kid’s shoulder and looks down at him, eyes smiling. “We’re proud of you,” he adds.

The kid huffs. “I haven’t even done anything yet,” he says.

If possible, Al-Haitham’s smile grows even fonder. “That’s the point.”

Kaveh startles when the door opens and the Shogun and Guuji Yae walk in. Al-Haitham had told Kaveh about his initial meeting with the Guuji, of course, but it’s still– disconcerting, to say the least, to see his son’s features on a stranger’s face.

Nahida stands and bows. Al-Haitham, Kaveh, and their son do too, with varying degrees of haste and reluctance. The women follow suit, then they all sit.

After his initial surprise passes, Kaveh takes the chance to study the Shogun further, but she’s completely unreadable. Guuji Yae sports a small, faint smile, one meant to mislead and misdirect rather than demonstrate genuine emotion. Even Al-Haitham looks stoic, though Kaveh and the kid can both see how he ripples with something close to anger.

The kid, too, tries to put on that mask of his, but it’s weak now. Paper-thin. A defense mechanism gone rusty because he didn’t need to use it anymore.

And Kaveh doesn’t have a mask, has never tried to hide his emotions. In this meeting, it’s either a weakness or a strength.

“Tea?” Nahida asks, shapes of glowing green energy already moving to serve the fragrant blend.

The Guuji accepts her cup gracefully. “Thank you for your hospitality,” she begins, her voice sweet yet firm. “And for agreeing to accommodate this additional meeting at your request. I will attend the lower-level meetings later today, of course, to continue the initial discussion on trade held last year.”

Al-Haitham nods. “It was no trouble,” he says. His face hardly moves. “It was my son who ultimately agreed to attend.”

The Shogun chooses that moment to interject. Her voice is both deeper and colder than Kaveh expected.

“Tell me,” she says, voice hardly rising above a murmur, “who are you? And why do you look so much like me?”

The kid takes a deep breath. Then, in a show of immense bravery, he speaks. “I’m your creation,” he says steadily. “You made me, and then you abandoned me.”

The Guuji flinches minutely. Next to her, the Shogun stays so still that she seems more like a puppet than the kid ever did.

“How strange,” she says. “I have no memory of this, yet somehow, I believe you. Why did I do it?”

The kid shrugs. “I don’t know, and I hated you for centuries because of it. And I erased the world’s memories of my past, so now you’ll never be able to tell me.” Then, “But if you don’t know me, why are you here?”

“When we met last year, I told the… Shogun what I had seen,” Guuji Yae says. “She wanted to come and speak with you personally. And, if you really were related to her as I had suspected, we wanted to bring you home. To Inazuma.”

No. Absolutely not. Incensed, Kaveh opens his mouth to speak, but the kid beats him to it.

“No,” he snaps.

The Shogun reels back. Kaveh gets the sense she hasn’t been told that very often. “No?” she asks. “But I made you. It’s clear you belong in Inazuma.”

“I’m not going,” the kid retorts. “I already have a home. I have a family here, in Sumeru, and I belong with them. Not you. You abandoned me as soon as you saw me. And even though you don’t remember, you still did it.”

The Shogun shifts in her seat. “I’m sorry,” she offers.

There’s a long pause. “I forgive you,” the kid finally says. “Not because you deserve it, or because I feel bad for you, or because I want to go back with you. Because I don’t.”

The Shogun frowns, opens her mouth to interject, but pauses when Guuji Yae rests a slim, manicured hand on her arm.

“Ei,” the Guuji murmurs, and the Shogun settles down.

Undeterred, the kid barrels on. “I’m forgiving you for me,” he says, and Kaveh feels so, so proud. “I want to be happy. I want to live with my parents. I don’t want to have to feel bad because of you anymore.”

Raiden Shogun looks at Kaveh. “Are you his… mother?” she asks.

And sure, she’s terrifying, but Kaveh has dealt with worse—he’s faced off against annoyed, entitled, paying clients.

“I am,” he says, hopefully sounding calmer than he feels.

“What do you think about this? Did you perhaps instruct him to stay in Sumeru with you?”

The nerve. Kaveh shakes his head, sure that his indignation shows on his face. “If he wanted to leave with you, I would let him in a heartbeat,” he says, and he’s only half-surprised to find that he truly means it. “I worry, of course, and I coddle him, but I have to let him make his own decisions, even if I don’t always agree with them.”

He hesitates, then pushes forward, trying to be as brave as his son. “If I may be so bold, Raiden Shogun, I think family is what you choose. And I choose him, every single day. But I would never, ever tell him—force him—to choose me back.”

Somehow, that seems to get through to the Shogun. She’s quiet as she thinks about it, then looks at her companion.

“Thank you, Yae,” she says softly. “I’ll be out shortly.”

The Guuji nods, unphased. “I’ll wait outside,” she says, then stands and glides out of the room in one smooth motion.

The Shogun stands, too. “I am… very sorry for the inconvenience we’ve posed to your family,” she says.

She moves to follow Guuji Yae outside, then changes her mind last-minute, walking over to where Kaveh sits. Kaveh stands as she approaches. He has a few inches on her; it shouldn’t matter, but it makes him feel a little better, anyway.

“Some have said that the relationship between an archon and their country is similar to that of a parent and child,” she says.

Personally, Kaveh can’t imagine tiny, tiny Nahida as his parent, but he supposes it’d make sense for other nations. He doesn’t say that aloud, of course.

The Shogun looks at him, seeming to take his silence as her cue. “Do you think I can be a good mother someday?” she asks.

Somehow, the question doesn’t faze him. In this life, Kaveh has learned that even gods have human fears and human aspirations.

Her face really does look so much like the kid’s. Kaveh wonders—when she cries, does she look like him? Does she laugh like him, smile that knife-sharp of his? For some reason, he thinks the answer is ‘no,’ and the answer settles him, gives him enough courage to say his next words.

“I think anyone can try,” he says. “I think they have to want to try.” It’s not a yes, but it’s not a no, either.

The Shogun dips her head in acknowledgement. “Thank you,” she says. “I think… I think I would like to try. Perhaps someday, I will become as good as you.”

And with that, she glides out of the room. Kaveh turns to Al-Haitham, stunned.

Did the God of Inazuma just call him a good mom?

“See?” Al-Haitham says, apparently reading his mind. “Turns out you’re not a bad mother, after all.” He turns to the kid. “And turns out you knew exactly what to say.”

In the next moment, Al-Haitham gets the breath knocked out of him as the kid flops over onto his shoulder, boneless. “I’m hungry,” the kid grouses, though he looks lighter. More at peace.

Kaveh laughs, almost dizzy with relief, and leans over to pull both Al-Haitham and the kid into a hug. “We’ll get anything you want,” he promises.

“Curry?” the kid asks. A small, thin hand comes up to clutch at Kaveh’s back.

“Yeah,” Kaveh sighs, relieved. He feels Al-Haitham press a kiss to the side of his head. “Curry sounds great.”

The kid flies off after lunch, yelling something behind him about Gandharva Ville and Rishboland Tigers. Kaveh pouts, though he doesn’t feel as hurt as he thought he would, and heads home with Al-Haitham.

Al-Haitham’s quiet on the way back, even more silent than usual. When they cross the threshold, he looks intently at Kaveh.

“Both of you were brave today,” he says, voice low.

“Yeah,” Kaveh says. “I guess we were.”

Al-Haitham nods, nervous, though Kaveh can’t really see why. “I suppose that means I should be brave too, right?”

“You should,” Kaveh agrees, confused but willing to play along.

It seems to do the trick, because Al-Haitham nods, resolute. “Stay here,” he says, and heads into their bedroom.

He comes out soon after with a thick sheaf of papers in his hands, which he presents to Kaveh. His hands are shaking, Kaveh realizes, minute tremors that an untrained eye would hardly pick up on.

Kaveh takes the sheaf, instantly recognizing its cover. It matches the one he has in his notebook, the one he tore apart in a fit of rage and grief years prior. He inhales, sharp and startled, and flips through the papers.

It’s a copy of their old, unfinished thesis—the parts they’d actually drafted, the outline they had constructed for the rest, and the notes and comments they had left for each other, Al-Haitham’s writing next to his own spidery scrawl.

The outline cuts off where Kaveh expects, at the moment they had parted ways. But the papers don’t stop there.

From the looks of things, Al-Haitham had kept adding through the years, excerpts from books and drafted sentences and tentative outlines, continuing the thesis by himself. The papers become brighter and less aged as Kaveh continues reading, with comments in different-colored inks.

Incorporate Kaveh’s research on load-bearing support systems for unstable terrain here. Applicable to sand even if originally abt rainforest soil? Ask.

Kaveh apparently now taking class on Dsht-era paintings and gilding—include course material?

Kaveh Port Ormos work—ask.

Recent book re: decoding desert blueprints, good source for next part. Share w Kaveh?

Ask Kaveh.

Look at Kaveh Vahumana project.

Kaveh.

Al-Haitham had taken his name off the thesis, Kaveh had thought. Instead, he had worked quietly and continuously throughout the years, always—always—leaving a space for Kaveh. Acknowledging his expertise, remembering his achievements, desiring his input. Thinking of him.

Kaveh clutches the outline to his chest, desperately fighting to smother his smile. When he looks up, he sees nothing where Al-Haitham was standing. But then his gaze drifts lower, closer to the floor, to find Al-Haitham on one knee, holding a ring in his palms.

Al-Haitham has an entire speech planned, one that’s part apology and part confession. But what comes out is simply, “Do you want to get married?”

Kaveh laughs, incandescent. “Silly,” he says. He falls to his knees in a movement that’s more tumble than controlled descent, pressing his forehead to Al-Haitham’s. “Of course I do. Were you really waiting for me to bring it up this whole time?”

“Yeah,” Al-Haitham says, suddenly hoarse with relief. “I was.”

“Well,” Kaveh says. The early afternoon sunlight filters through the window on their door, rendering him golden glowing. “Important things should be said three times, right? I do, I do, I do.”

“That’s four times,” Al-Haitham says, just to be contrary.

Kaveh kisses him to shut him up.

–

Of course, they throw another party to celebrate their engagement.

“Congrats,” Cyno intones when Kaveh opens the door. “Married life has a nice ring to it.”

He’s balancing a large, delicious-smelling pot in each hand, and Kaveh quickly steps aside to let him in before something terrible can happen. Tighnari and Collei follow suit, holding impossibly large platters of sweets.

“Hello, Kaveh,” Tighnari says, then smiles at the kid. “And hello to you too. Are you happy to see your parents getting married?”

And to Kaveh’s surprise, the kid smiles, really smiles, wide and toothy and knife-sharp. It changes the contours of his face, draws lines in his cheeks and causes his eyes to scrunch up. It’s absolutely perfect.

“Yeah,” he says. “I am, I really am.”