Archive of Our Own ^beta

There’s a valley of flowers where a goddess once danced—a floral paradise filled with beauty frozen in time that lies at the very heart of the harsh, unforgiving desert. Legends say the oasis is a symbol of her love for the land, her people and the one who holds her heart. 

The goddess of flowers once danced in a lovely garden; the flowers bloomed at her feet in arrays of colours that matched every shade of her dress, every hue of her eyes and each petal as soft as her hair but it wasn’t her heart that grew such a beautiful, grandiose garden. 

Because while the flowers are beautiful and each bud that blooms sings with love for her, the soil beneath her feet feels like blood as she dances. Her tears, full of heartbreak, are what water this tragically grown garden.

A garden that grew from the depths of the dry dune for her was akin to a heart beating for her love—a rhythm she never heard, a rhythm she could not dance to. Soon, that heart that blooms so beautifully for her could not contain the petals that threatened to overflow.

A heart that becomes a garden, a valley of flowers sprouts from the corpse of the one who loved her dearly in secret. 

Nabu Malikata loves dancing in this garden that Amun so lovingly grew and hid away, a manifestation of his love for her, a garden, his heart.

She never thought of the stoic being as capable of cultivating something so lovely and delicate; she wished she knew of this garden before it had overtaken the heart it was sown in.

“O’ heart of blooms, speak thee truth of the flowers lies within. Lest a tragic garden bloom from a heart led astray."

Kaveh hacks a cough, and a groan rumbles from his throat from how sore and raw it feels. The man is certain that the dessert is especially dry this time of the year, although he has been having coughing fits these past few weeks, even before the trip.

The whole situation nearly got him booted from the project trip and he had to pull all stops at persuading his team to let him come along and that he’s not terribly of anything of the sort. It’s one of his biggest projects of the year; he couldn’t just not be there over a little flu. 

Kaveh downs a dose of cough drought after every meal as instructed; however, he’s quickly burning through them with a few bottles left and they still have much to do. And his cough hasn’t worsened or anything, but it still won’t go away. 

‘Ugh, this is so annoying!!’ He mentally laments, dragging his feet out of his tent and walking towards the camp’s bonfire, where everyone is trading stories as they sit around the flames to eat after a productive day.

"Is your throat still at it, Kaveh?” Maya worriedly inquires, seeing the man mindlessly massaging his throat every now and then. 

Being the group's eldest by almost a decade, Maya tends to fret over their well-being, especially when they're out here in the middle of the desert with hazardous weather and dry climate.

“Just a bit of itch, nothing really.” He readily assures her, forcing his hand to stop gnawing at the itch. “I’m planning to head down to Gandharva Ville after the trip to see if a friend of mine can see what’s wrong.” 

“If you say so….” The fellow researcher shakes her head; an exhale leaves her lips at his words of insistence. She goes back to listening in on Farid’s enthusiastic voice, regaling the group about some tragic love story of a goddess and her retainer he grew up hearing as dessert dweller child.

Curious, he is able to catch the ending of the tale, “..unable to withstand keeping his love for her within his own heart, the besotted retainer burst with flowers, choking on them, vines, thorns and all till all that remains of him is a flower garden in the midst of the sands, much like the feelings for her he grew in his heart.”

Kaveh shudders; that did not sound pleasant at all; in fact, the image makes his stomach churn. Granted, it is a tragic love story but why did it have to be so morbid when something as pure and precious as love is the theme? 

However he's sure a certain scribe would have much criticsm to say about such a nonsense tale. The guy would have begin picking apart at every detail that he deems illogical.

“It was then that the Mistress of Dreams learned of his love, but she was much too late and thus could only spend the rest of time caring for this garden, a symbol of his love for her. Forever wandering, if he had only shown this beauty that he hid within his heart, would she have been able to love the man instead of the garden he left behind?"

Farid concludes his impromptu performance with a bow as a chorus of claps precedes his tale.

“That is so sad!” Weeping, Zarjit lets out a cry and wipes his tears. “She has loved him all along and he never knew!!”

"It is nothing more than a myth, a story built on hoaxes.” Nemeth scoffs, rolling her eyes. “If unrequited love is enough to damn someone to death, we’d be left with a sorry number of people in the world." 

The woman always reminded him of his scribe roommate in that way, so even though her words are objectively true, Kaveh can not help but cringe at them. People fall in love all the time, as fast as a blink of an eye and as many times as a raindrop would fall from the skies in Apam Woods.

If it’s true that love could kill, then humanity would have been doomed a long time ago. Kaveh would like to throw in his own two moras about the story but his throat burns too much for him to bother. 

Farid bristled, “Have you not been listening?!” Sounding majorly offended, the man crosses his arms and huffs. “That is not the point of the tale at all! His heart grew and overburst with flowers because he kept all the love he felt for her a secret!”

His face is red with anger as he passionately goes on in his rant, “He choked on his feelings because he believes so vehemently that it's better not to seek an answer to soothe his heart; it wasn’t unrequited love that killed him but his fear of her rejection."

With a subtle grip on the edges of the log he is sitting on, Kaveh feels the words like lead straight to his stomach. He knows a thing or two about fearing rejection; if he hadn't, Kaveh would be on great terms with his mother as pen pals by now.

"So the lesson of the story is... do not bottle up and confess your feelings?" Maya frowns and meets Farid's bright smile.

“Precisely Madame Maya!” 

"Do not be a coward, more like." As Estelle continues, she abruptly looks up at him. “Kaveh, what do you think?”

“I think love stories can keep deaths out of them, as if unrequited feelings aren't painful enough.” When he rasps, the strain in his voice draws in listeners with worried gazes.

"Maybe you ought to go to bed early tonight, Kaveh." Maya suggests, looking every bit like a worried mother hen. “I'll sneak in a thermos of ginger tea in your tent later; get some rest, dear."

Kaveh admits that he feels weak from exhaustion and that his throat is killing him. He bids the group goodnight and stumbles into his tent. Upon putting on some nightwear, he realizes it is not what he brought with him.

A note with the all too familiar neat handwriting of a certain scribe on it unexpectedly fell out of his pants pocket. 

The worn-out rags need to be replaced because they are ineffective for wearing at night in a desert. If at all possible, avoid bringing back dessert fever; otherwise, it will be very inconvenient. These clothes will aid you in that.”

The man hacks out a few more coughs, and the note nearly crumples in his grip. Feeling a buzz of irritation as he reads the small parchment, he tucks the note back in and tucks himself into his sleeping bag. 

What's his problem anyway, looking through Kaveh's things without telling him just because Kaveh had placed his packed luggage in the living room the day before the trip? The blonde is sure to give that man a piece of his mind once he returns. 

Although he can't argue that the new pair of cotton pajamas are worlds more comfortable and snuggly than his old ones, yet the architect is certain that the man will only add this to the dozens of other things he's already holding over Kaveh. 

He doesn't want to sound ungrateful; Al-Haitham did give him lots of leeway that Kaveh knows most landlords don't grant their tenants. But the blunt arse of a man is often so difficult to get along with, requiring only a few words to ruffle his feathers. 

Sometimes it has Kaveh wondering why Al-Haitham even puts up with him. Maybe the bastard has a sadistic streak of watching Kaveh be humiliated.

Another cough burst from his lips; the horrid itch scratched his pipes like a frenzy. Shaking his head, he downs a chug of water from a water bottle and lays his head down to sleep.

The team rises early tomorrow to continue their expedition. Their task is to survey and report back on the state of the old abandoned ruins and form plans to restore them. 

"Guys, be careful; we don’t want to trigger any death traps.” Valentine reminds her teammates, the preppy Fontainian woman causing the entire team to groan.

“Valentine, don’t jinx it.” They chorus together in sync.

While inspecting the site, a weird shine between two particular slates in a rather empty cervice has Kaveh breaking off from the group. The man carefully reaches between the openings, giving it a slight tug, only for the slate to give and crumble to dust from it's hundreds of years of erosion.

His teammates’s voices are far and distant now; they must have ventured to another side of the ruins. Kaveh pays them no mind, peeking in through the opening, and the sight that greets him takes his breath away.

The room features a skylight that shines brightly on a half-broken statue located in the center of the space. And there are vibrant flowers and verdant foliage all around the aforementioned statue. 

Roses, lotuses, lilies and more crawl out of vines and bushes from the cracks in the floor, creating a most morbid looking flower bed. The lush plants covering the room are of beautiful nature.

It's a mausoleum, that much he can derive from the architectural structure of this entire ruin and the slightly raised platform below the statue. But at the same time, he's never seen such a beautiful garden, especially in the middle of nowhere in a desert.

Yet somehow there's something inherently sad about this scenery, tugging at his heartstrings with an odd sense of longing and anguish over a loss.

Kaveh, entranced by such beauty and curiosity at what this part of the ruins could mean, steps into the room with careful footsteps. The dendro energy in the room buzzes against his skin, as if greeting him like an old friend.

“Woah…..” 

Butterflies flutter about, his gaze following one of pink and purple hues till it lands on an oddly shiny surface. One that’s half covered in the mass of greenery, curious, Kaveh moves towards it for a better look. 

The butterfly wings steadily opened and closed, flapping as if they were beckoning him over. “What is this place?” The architect murmurs; the atmosphere feels different in a way that feels like the space is separated from the rest of the ruins. 

Standing in front of that surface, Kaveh could see bits of his reflection staring back at him. Raising a hand, he pulled away the vines and growth growing above it, the butterfly that was his impromptu guide flying away. 

He wipes away the thin layer of dust and dirt, revealing a large mirror before his eyes. The huge shiny surface curves upward in an arc; its shine is smudged with dirt and sand. 

And yet there is a very clear reflection staring back at him. Kaveh softly gasps and subconsciously staggers back with his crimson orbs wide with shock. 

In the mirror is a reflection of himself, and yet not. The figure is slightly smaller in stature than his build, and their blonde hair drapes behind them in two twintails that are so long it nearly reach their ankles. 

They have on a dress of purple and white silk, accessorizing with a variety of items, the most striking of which is the elaborate necklace set with deep blue sapphires.

There is a thin white veil that falls to her shoulders, and on their head is an almost ceremonial-looking headpiece made of black horns adorned with gold. 

However, the eyes are the most noticeable difference; the one in the mirror has rich amethyst eyes, which strangely remind him of padisarahs, in contrast to his red ruby orbs. 

The person in the mirror wears his face yet nothing about them feels like him; there’s just something oddly inhuman about them, a shine that feels much like a divine.

The person in the mirror is someone he recognises only from the books he read in his childhood, tales and wonders of legends from the old days.

The goddess of flowers, once ruled by Sumeru’s deity side, her stories aren’t as popular as those of their Lord Kusanali but Kaveh always felt drawn to her tales of wonder and heartbreak.

The Nabu Malikata in the mirror has a sad expression on her face, and droplets of tears are dripping down her cheeks; Kaveh has no idea what to make of it or anything else that is happening in front of him right now.

His chest begins to burn; the pain is more uncomfortable than agonising. Coughing with a hand over his mouth, the man places a hand on the mirror to hold himself up for support as his throat itches something fierce. 

Then a voice echoes in his head, melodiously sweet like nectar and gentle as a flower petal's touch. “O’ heart of blooms, my reborn sprout, speak thee truth of the flowers lies within. Lest a tragic garden bloom from a heart led astray."  

Between the awful itch in his throat and the weird prophecy-like voice ringing in his ears, Kaveh is willing every bit of his willpower to stay conscious and coherent, the hand over his mouth now stained with red and bits of green.

It feels like forever before the pain goes away and the architect finds himself hauched over against the mirror while on his knees, heavily breathing to pull more oxygen and his nostrils flare at the strong mixed scent of blood and floral that assults his senses. 

He lays there frozen in his shock while trying to process what in the actual fuck just happened to him. His reflection in the mirror is no longer that of the goddess from before.

Yet a palm mark in dark crimson is left smudged on the shiny surface where he had placed his hand to steady himself.

But nothing could pull his mind back from what happened in that haze of pain and agony; so many things, from the scent of flowers to whispers and words spoken in a tongue so old he doesn’t recognise them, images of valleys and rusted crowns and old, ancient thrones flashed in his mind. 

There were flashes of a man draped in white garments, blood dripping down his lips. A calculating look in his gaze reminded him so much of a certain junior.

Then there’s the searing pain of something bursting from inside of his insides, like a seed taken rooted and sprouting up his lungs, and then clawing up his throat. 

A singular flower stalk is laid on his lap, drenched in his blood yet beautiful all the same. 

He doesn’t know what to think of how he pulled it out of his mouth or how he could feel it growing in his chest. The flower itself is quite recognizable—a lovely specimen grown lovingly all around the city and especially at Pardis Dhyai. 

“A padisarah….?” he shakily mutters, his hoarse voice hinged with weariness. 

What a coincidence it was that after whatever that was, here was a flower popularly known as Nabu Malikata’s most lovingly made creation. One that she bloomed to show her love, which was said to never be reciprocated, grown from his lungs so it seems.

The man chuckles darkly, empty and humorless, which would soon slowly turn into sobs. Because of course this would happen to him; of course, this is the sort of stroke of dumb bad luck he would walk into just because he was drawn by his damned curiosity.

A flower fucking grew out of his throat; he fucked with something alright and now he’s about to find out. While he hasn’t identified the issue yet, he can tell this is all kinds of bad omen. 

He’s looking at his bloodied hands, holding that bloody flower in this bloody mess he somehow got himself tangled in and wonders what kind of crimes could he have possibly committed in his past life to deserve this. 

Yet a single simple thought darts through his mind amidst his frustration, making the blonde groan and wish he could kick himself in the head for giving that man ammo to mess with him. 

He’s going to get an earful from Al-Haitham isn’t he? The most condescending kind, as Al-Haitham dresses him down for bringing weird diseases back home and now has to adjust their meal plans of whatever to fit his dietary needs while recovering.

Kaveh mourns his peaceful return already, “At least it’s not dessert fever like he asked…”

With some effort, he found a small pond in the far corner of the room and cleaned himself, all the while dreading how to twist this tale to his team members and hide the fact he’s not just down with the flu but one that makes him spit flower petals.

As expected, when they're back at the campsite and Maya is fussing over him, he doesn’t get two words in before they hear how his coughing is now less coughing and more choking on air and demand he head home to recuperate.

He can already imagine the future headache inducing conversation of Al-Haitham berating him and making some quip about him not knowing how to care for his own health while working.

Not everyone is in a capable position to maintain a good work-life balance but does he care? No, of course not! 

Although a small, annoying part of him wonders if the scribe would worry, and an even tinier part of him has this disgusting wish that he would.

Al-Hiahtam had shown him concern before but Kaveh has long gotten accustomed to his brand of those; empathy has no place in his logic so the care he extends is more daunting than pleasant.

Kaveh is not stupid; the man does care, of course he does. Kaveh simply wished it was more comforting than a jab. Maybe then he would feel less like a burden or a side project that Al-Hiatham would one day grow tired of.

Maybe then they’ll patch up whatever went wrong with them all those years ago.

The man coughs into a tissue, his trusty sentient toolbox fluttering around him and making a variety of worried sounds.

Mehrak has been urging him to sit down and rest what seemed like every five steps forward; he, on the other hand, insisted they couldn't keep stopping in their journey or they wouldn’t make it to the city in time.

They’ve taken a traveling cart from Caravan Ribat all the way over to Pardis Dhyai; from there, it wasn’t too far to Sumeru City, so Kaveh decided it was a good idea to travel the rest of the way on foot, despite his condition, just to save a couple mora.

 It was also mostly to avoid the questioning looks he gets when he ultimately coughs up a storm and somehow has flower petals in his hands; he’s been bluffing that it was his vision acting up but the more he needs to lie, the sinking feeling in his gut worsens.

They just passed the junction to Gandharva Ville, and about thirty more minutes north, they would have reached their destination. Would have being the statement because, upon seeing Chinvat Ravine is up ahead, Kaveh relents to Mehraks’s pleas and takes a breather at the sde of the road.   

“Oi you,”

Here he is, minding his damn business, chugging down the sweet relief called water, when someone suddenly startles him, causing the blonde to choke and cough. Thankfully,  this time no flowers spit out from his lips. 

The man whips his head over to the source of the sudden intrusion on his peace, ready to teach them a thing or two about scaring people like that, but his words are cut short when he notices an unlikely face. 

Half his height with the large hat and blue getup paired with those distinctly Inazuman dainty features that is so unfairly pretty for someone so….. him. its been some time since he’s last seen this person, and the last time they’ve interacted, it was less of an interaction and more him flinging Kaveh half across Mawtiyima Forest.

“Eh? Hey you’re Hat Guy!” He gets a wry stare in return.

The man is wearing that default expression that gives the impression he’s perpetually annoyed with anything and everything. It makes Kaveh wonder if the guy knows his roommate; they look like they might get along. 

Words on the streets are saying he works practically right under the Dendro Archon herself, like some kind of PA, although he’s still technically a student under Vahumana.

Some even speculate that he’s not even human, although Kaveh thinks people should stop labeling every pretty face they see as inhuman.

Yeah, the guy is pretty as hell but that’s no reason to claim he’s not human. 

Crossing his arms, he speaks with authority that Kaveh isn't sure he has. “Buer summons your presence; move it.” He demands curtly with a glare.

Sputtering, Kaveh jumps to his feet. “What? Lord Kusanali wishes to meet me? Why?” It’s curious that he uses their deity’s true name rather than her title, but then again, he is Inazuman.

But Hat Guy is already moving. “Stop talking; start walking already." Turning around to walk ahead while Kaveh scrambles after him along with Mehrak. 

The toolbox begins to angrily beep up a storm at the blue clad wanderer. To which it gets a glare in turn, “What are you yapping about?” he snarls, but still listens as Mehrak furiously beeps some more and shakes its entire body at Kaveh.

Curious, to Kaveh’s knowledge, only Al-Haitham could keep up with Mehrak’s language, much to his dismay. But it seemed like Hat Guy could just as easily understand his friend too, which sucks because Kaveh has yet to master the ancient code language Mehrak speaks in.

“Mehrak behave; I’m fine; let’s get going.” The architect insists only to start coughing right after; petals of purple flowers lay in his hands, which really doesn’t help his case.

Hat Guy watches the entire sequence with increasing irritation, which is impressive since he already looked annoyed five minutes ago.

“Tch, what a nuisance," the short man mutters, throws a little wind ball at Mehrak then abruptly swoops towards Kaveh with his anemo powers, picking him up in bridal style.

“Hey! That’s my friend, you’re—Woah woah woah!! What are you doing!?!” The blonde shrieks, clinging to whatever he can as the lunatic shoots off into the fucking sky because the guy is half his goddamn height; there wasn’t much to hold onto in the first place!

Mehrak chirps happily despite Hat Guy’s little stunt, eagerly flying after them. “I’m not going to waste time waiting you drag on your feet; don’t let go or move for I will drop you.” 

The man, the shithead, the fucking bastard , had the audacity to smirk while threatening Kaveh mid-air like this wasn't his own doing?!?!

“You will put me down this instant asshole!!”

But of course, who ever listens to what Kaveh has to say?

Kaveh has never been in the Sanctuary of Surasthana, but he does know the general layout of the place from the official blueprints of the entire Akedemiya from the few times he's caught a glimpse of it.

Entering the space, he wonders if Lord Kusanali ever feels lonely because of how big, empty, and distant it feels, and if the walls have ever seemed excessively tall and cold.

It makes him want to tear the place down and rebuild it to be more personalized and welcoming for the nation's Archon.

In addition, he had never seen Lord Kusanali in person. He had heard that she had assumed the form of a child, but he was not expecting her to be so adorable.

Sure, Kaveh can feel her divine presence and see how wisdom practically gleams in her eyes but she's still the most adorable looking little girl he's ever set eyes upon.

The goddess takes them to a shared living area furnished with couches and acoffee tables, sends Hat Guy off to get refreshments, and then, as if she were his caregiver, apologizes for his actions.  

Then, her expression hardens into seriousness, and they quickly get to the point—the reason she called for him as soon as he's in the city’s range.

“The Flower Mistress’s Regret?” Kaveh repeats the words and it makes him feel queasy inside, “Isn’t that what the legend calls that….. story of a goddess and her retainer?”

The small goddess hums thoughtfully, “That story is not passed down quite as accurately.” Her eyes are downcast as she says this, looking near grief stricken. 

“Oh?” Kaveh feels rather sheepish at the display, especially since he caused it and swallows down the urge to pick her up and hug away the sadness she wears.

“It’s true she was the Goddess of Flowers, but he was not just any retainer of hers; the silent love was actually the Scarlet King.” She explains mournfully, “His love doomed them and the land, so she cursed herself.”

“She…. cursed herself?” Kaveh inhales sharply, his throat cinsticting as deard fills his gut. He could imagine it, torn by the grief of an unrecognised love, a punishment she placed on herself.

How awful, and yet Kaveh feels as though it was exactly what he would have done. Ironic that. 

“So long as her soul and essence of existence find itself nursing love for another, she would choke on that love so long as she kept it hidden.” Nahida finishes; her face, etched with the pain of memories she can’t quite call hers, says it all.

Kaveh chokes on this revelation, “It's not a disease; it's a curse.”  

And therefore, this ailment has no cure . He thought it was some weird leyline-related disease and that he had no need to worry too much since Sumeru has one of the most advanced healthcare advancements in Teyvat. Eleazar was cured, so why wouldn’t this be?

But this is no disease; this is a curse. If Kaveh is following along as accurately as he is, then it means his life just got significantly shorter.

The Dendro Archon reluctantly nods. “Indeed, it’s a curse... I could sense it the moment it took root in your being." 

He gasps suddenly, remembering his recent weird encounter in the dessert. “There was a ruin, a mausoleum, I think. It was beautiful—a garden in a ruin at the heart of the desert. There was a mirror and I think I saw her, the Goddess of Flowers.”

It all makes sense now; her pitiful gaze and saddened expression are for him, who somehow contracted the curse. Her words had seemed like a random string of gibberish to him back then, but now he understands.  

“I think she was warning me….” He says it with a tremor, because it still doesn’t explain how he got the curse. 

Kaveh remembers her face, which was so much like his yet nothing like either of his parents, and the way his heart just knew how similar they were.

"Why is it that she... looked like me?" The goddess of his nation recoils as if she has been struck when he whispers his question unconsciously. 

Hat Guy, who had been watching their interaction, jumps down from the whirlwind he’s been perching on at the first sign of her distress. He’s glaring at Kaveh with a warning glint, conveying an unspoken threat to drop the topic. 

Nahida, however, shakes her head, waving off the boy’s concerns. Kaveh feels a little bad for unknowingly causing her distress; it must have been painful to reminisce about her friends that have long passed on. 

"Nevermind that. How... is there a way to break it?” He asks instead. 

“To remove the flowers, you must remove the feelings that grew them. To remove the feelings, you must remove the roots that began them…… She explains; her young voice veberates with wisdom but chimes like a doom bell. 

Kaveh frowns. “Roots? I don’t understand.”

Nahida looks up to him, and her small, sorrowful voice asks, “How does one fall in love Kaveh?” 

And isn’t that a question of the century? How does one fall in love?

Kaveh thinks of the things and people he’s loved—his father for his kind support and patient heart. The way he gently sang lullabies to Kaveh during bedtimes when he was a toddler, the joys they shared in the kitchen cooking together and the tears he wipes away when his son is hurt. 

How he had loved Kaveh but it wasn’t enough to keep being by his side. How Kaveh had loved him and still does for the moments and time they had together and for the man he was, even if his ideals eventually became his demise.

Then there was his mother, whom he loves deeply because she taught him how to read and draw and showed him a world of kindness that is laid with thorny disappointment. He loves her because there was nothing else to do when they lost a family—a strong love forged through tragedy.

She loved him too but much like his father, it wasn’t enough for her to stay; at least this love was lingering warmth behind bitter, painful memories.

Kaveh loves his passion but also hates it somewhat. What is right and what he wants often clash and in the end, he would treasure the result of his work but always wonder if he could have done better. 

The hours he spent pouring into blueprints, sometimes losing rest and skipping meals for the perfect work, only to be met with dissatisfied looks. He loves his work, his passion and craftsmanship, but by the gods does he wish it doesn’t hurt so much.

Kaveh loves a lot of things, the taste of bitter coffee in the morning breeze, the smell of incense that Al-Haitham lets him burn in their living room, the sight of children playing while walking home from work, and the solitude yet not quite silence of their house library during the evenings.

He loves the laughter shared with his friends in Lambad’s tavern, the thrill of having new inspirations, the way grey hair and green accented clothes mean safe, the comfort of home despite the books that pile everywhere and the burst of ignition from words spoken to rile him up that takes his mind off things.

The way tea is prepared with lemon and mint by careful hands, soups cooked by a man who has no taste for them or coming home with takeout knowing he’s expected. 

He supposes love is knowing he always has a place to go home to, someone who would still indulge him and poke at his temper for fun, where concern is given under the guise of something harsh because even he knows he won’t accept it otherwise.

Love is waking up some days after all-nighters to a breakfast at the table, despite the one who made it long gone to work. It's getting chided for adding and moving decorations in a house not quite his yet never told to stop or undo them. It’s crying alone in the silence without feeling lonely, and was never pried about it because they know it wouldn’t help him.

It’s new pajamas that he never asked for and annoying notes in obnoxious cursive writing.

Love has red orbs within green irises who care yet always lack warmth, a soft shade of grey, the thrum of dendro and noise canceling headphones that are never fully turned on when at home.

Love is snide remarks yet a constant presence. Needless arguments with no real heat behind the words spat, the memories together are not always happy but never lonely. 

Love, to Kaveh, are words that go unspoken out of a fear that these moments will end. 

Love is a man he calls roommate.

With that in mind, he answers her, “By experiences shared with them..." and just as the words left his lips, Kaveh’s eyes went wide as the realization dawned on him. 

“Wait, you mean..." Horror like nothing before fills his voice, a surge of denial bubbles in his mind.

The goddess pitying expression falls further; she nods and it’s the nail in the coffin. She could have plunged a blade into his heart and that would have hurt less.

“Remove the roots and no flowers can grow; remove the memories of your loved and you will not love him anymore.”

Kaveh can feel his heart shatter then and there. 

Of course, she knows who was the one residing on the throne of his heart. 

One moment he’s trying to process his heartbreak; the next he suddenly drops to the floor on his knees, petals of bloodied flowers drip from his lips and the most agonising sounds of coughing echo throughout the large room.

The archon sprints towards him worriedly, her small hand gently patting his back while muttering words of comfort as he hacks out the curse blooming in his lungs with tears streaming down his cheeks. Hat Guy disappeared off to who knows where; its not like Kaveh cares anymore.

Helplessly, the man sobs between the coughs; his throat burns and yet its nothing compared to the sheer pain and fear that plague him in that movement of relization.

“I…. the only way is to forget him?” 

Uttering the words out loud felt sickening because it’s terrifying, it's awful and completely unfair. Kaveh tolerates Al-Haitham on the best of days and desperately needs him on the worst; he thinks of the memories, the nights, the conversations and everything that was them that’s kept him stable all this time.

The thought of losing it all and forgetting is unspeakable. He would not survive it any more than he would survive this curse taking his life.

The Dendro Achon lowers her head with shame. “I’m sorry, Kaveh,” she whispers guiltily for being unable to be more of a help, even though she had gone way beyond anything to help explain things to him and provide options. 

It's not her fault that the solutions won’t save him.

Hat Guy returns to the room with a tray of cups and a pitcher of water. The man pours each of them a cup and glares at Kaveh to chug the liquid down. Kaveh briefly wonders if he truly cares that he’s choking on flowers or if he just hates seeing the goddess upset and would do almost anything to eliminate her source of sadness.  

The water does slightly help his throat. “H-how would that work?” he asks her. Would he completely forget who Al-Haitham was or just the memories that made him grow fond of him?

Nahida holds out a hand, projecting images with her powers. “Once I erase him from your memories, you may reason to others that the illness you took to gave you amnesia. You will be confused and disoriented, but you will be aware of this entire process and that I took a part of your memories.”

The images swirl and dance above her palms, showcasing how things would play out. The architect, however, feels nothing but a numbness at such a fate. 

“You’ll still know that you live in a house with the Scribe but nothing further.”

He could not live like that; he wouldn’t.

“I….” He tries to say something, but words fail him. 

“It is a cruel thing to do, to you and to him.” So solemnly says Nahida. 

“Is there no other way?” He begs, and if he had been stronger, he would have prostrated himself before her, his head on the floor, in complete reverence. 

With that, she takes his bloodied hands, stained with crimson and petals. “Tell him the truth; show him the garden you have grown in your heart before it chokes you.” She softly tells him, and Kaveh must be losing his mind because did his goddess just plead to him?

Hat guy made an offended noise at the way she conducted herself then, but a stern look from the Archon has him shutting up before a scathing remark leaves his lips. But Kaveh is beyond hysterical now, tears freely streaming as he sobbed. 

“And then he rejects me and I die anyway! Fantastic!”

Its such a humiliating thing to break down so pathetically in front of his goddess and to lose himself in his emotions so easily. But that’s the cusp of their situation; he can’t erase his memories, and he won’t be able to live on otherwise. 

He can’t confess either because these feelings are most definitely unrequited and even if they somehow miraculously are, Kaveh is too much of a coward to risk losing what he has now with Al-Haitham.

Falling out of love is nigh on impossible; in short, his fate was sealed the moment he saw Nabu Malikata in that mirror and spit out the first stalk of many flowers. 

“That may or may not be true,” Nahida tries to convince him and it's then he’s reminded she doesn’t know him or Al-Haitham, she doesn’t know nor understand them.

“Of course it's true; he doesn’t even like being around me! Let alone love me.” Kaveh scoffs through his sniffling and tears, the man curling in on himself and hyperventilating in panic when the very reality of his not so distant death sinks in. 

“Oh gods, oh seven I’m going to die. I don’t want to die, I don’t— ”

A small pair of arms loops around his neck while white, fluffy hair nuzzles into his cheeks. 

The small body pressed against him is not quite warm yet not quite cold either, but the shock of his deity, the Dendro Archon of Sumeru, Goddess of Wisdom, giving him a hug through his panic attack is enough to shock him into stillness.

“Breath in, out, in, out. You can do it Kaveh,” She chants and he easily finds himself following her soothing voice, breathing normally between a few hiccups of coughing. Hat Guy doesn’t look too pleased but he makes no move to stop her.

Once he’s breathing normally again, she pulls away, looking bashful and red. “Oh, um, f-forgive me I just, you really look like you could use a hug…? I think…? Is that—oomf!” Her words are cut off when Kaveh scoops her into another hug, this time with fewer tears.

They genuinely do not deserve such a gentle and considerate god; he only gets a few moments of it before Hat Guy is glaring at him angrily and mouthing to let her go, which he eventually does. He’s so overprotective of her; its kind of cute, if not a little ridiculous, since she is the goddess of this land.

Nahida gives him a resolute smile and says, "I will help you, Kaveh. You will not die. The memory erasure wouldn’t hurt at all; I promise I'll..." She starts to speak, but stops when she notices the expression on his face—as if she could tell what he was trying to say without actually hearing it.

“You don’t want to forget him.” 

Not a question, but a statement. Kaveh smiles, a sad, defeated thing. 

“It would hurt you more than loving him." 

It was as though she had taken her words straight out of his head. He nods, a broken sounding chuckle bubbling from his lips, because that’s what it feels like—a sick joke. 

“Aren’t I selfish?” He asks through his heartbreak and pain, for even he knows his death will cause grief and pain to others, he’s willfully denying himself the means to save himself.

Out of the blonde's line of sight, the Inazuman puppet nods; it was selfish, of course. Kaveh's choice makes no sense at all, and in the end, he would die a coward and harm the people he cared about. His dying won’t solve anything or do any good; he will only bring suffering to others. 

It’s a useless path, one that he knows intimately. The puppet snorts, humans are always doomed to pick the most foolish of choices.

Regardless of her ward's response, Nahida knows, on an objective level, that she should persuade Kaveh to allow her to erase his memories. She knows for a fact that the scribe feels the same way about him, even though he is not quite aware of it yet, so objectively, she should not allow him to waste his life so carelessly.

Objectively, she knows she’ll never truly understand the depths of love humans are capable of, and that’s why she’ll never call his love selfish when it is such a pure, wonderful thing. 

Nahida remembers past acquaintances of a past life she can’t quite remember and how they never got to love in their lives, how time was never in their favor. 

“No, not at all. You are just in love.” She answers him warmly and knowingly. 

All of it was a part of the destiny she had once witnessed. The world of Teyvat runs in a loop; if not in that samsara, then hopefully, in this one, they can have that fate they were once denied. 

Kaveh is not naive or pessimistic—in fact, he is usually the exact opposite. That being said, there is only so long a man can conceal the fact that he has been cursed with an ancient flower vomiting disease when he has a roommate like Al-Haitham. 

That and he has weekly appointments with the Dendro Archon to help manage his symptoms and hopefully slow the growth of the curse.

Despite Kaveh's meticulous cleaning, their bathroom is beginning to smell like blood, and occasionally he misses a petal or ten. It is really only a matter of time until Al-Haitham confronts him about it.

His constant proximity to the object of his affections does not help at all; they soon discover that if Kaveh even slightly allows his thoughts to dwell on the man, the flowers will bloom more quickly.

It’s kind of borderline torture because Kaveh is being shoved in the face with the fact that he’s constantly thinking or talking about the man all the damn time like some kind of lovesick Akedemiya freshmen. 

It's embarrassing .

“You have been periodically visiting Lord Kusanali."

So Al-Haitham is onto him; this is decidedly not good because Al-Haitham is annoyingly efficient at investigating and getting the information he wants, no matter the means. 

“And how’d you know that?” Kaveh asks the dumb question, like the dying idiot he is.

And like the fucking lovesick idiot that he is, he goes on to hack into his hand. Kaveh clenches his teeth, wipes the blood from his palm, and stuffs the bloody padisarah stalk into his pockets. It looks like a mocking from fate itself.

With a deadpan expression, the scribe says to him, "Kaveh, I am not so blind as to not notice that something is clearly wrong with your health. What is going on with you?” 

Truly this moment is one for the history books for being the most confrontational he's ever been of Kaveh's more private business. 

This usually means he is exhausted all of his options and reached a dead end, so he is fishing for answers directly from the source. It is a deviant from his normal approach, but it demonstrates how stuck he is.

Kaveh opens his mouth, ready to lie like the asshole he is becoming with an impending death over his head. 

"It's... a rare disease.”

And his mouth, against all odds and his sanity, spits out the truth. He really can't do anything properly.

“She saw it fit to monitor me as I recover from it,” he continues to say, which gets him a bemused look from his roommate.

“You mean the Dendro Archon of Sumeru, Goddess of Wisdom, is getting herself involved in the treatment of your disease because it has not been getting better; in fact, you are progressing worse, if only at a slower rate than before."

He grimaces, but does not back down. “What’s it to you anyway?” he needs to change tactics, or, by other means, deflect like his life depends on it.

“Look, I have no family or relatives and for everything I own, I already made arrangements in my last will and testament. Did you know there's a funeral parlor in Liyue that actually makes preparations for these kinds of things in advance and—”

His digressing is interrupted when two hands seize his shoulder blades. Al-Haitham is rarely angry and he never shows it, so Kaveh swallows hard at the intensity that simmers in his roommate's gaze.

“....Al-Haitham?” He whispers, a tad afraid of the look in the man's gaze.

Al-Haitham looks angry—No, he is livid .

“You are dying,” He snarls accusingly; the fury in his voice is so foreign, much like the tenseness of his posture and the near painful grip he has on Kaveh.

Fear starts to grow because, for once, Kaveh does not know how to respond to an Al-Haitham who is genuinely enraged, something he has never dealt with before. 

“What? No, I mean, aren't we all? I just—” 

“What's the disease?”

Feeble scholar he may claim to be but he's really anything but, “Look, Al-Haitham you are being very odd and I have—Ack! let go; it hurts!” Kaveh yelps at the stinging way his hands dig into his skin.

With a startled expression on his face, he releases his hold on Kaveh but then turns Kaveh so that he is trapped against a wall. This time, he pins Kaveh in place by grabbing him by the wrists. 

The blonde suddenly feels very hot for an entirely different reason that is so inappropriate for the context of their current interaction. 

“What. Is. The. Disease. Called?” 

With their faces inches apart, he speaks in a deep, husky whisper. Kaveh caves in so fast it's a little more than embarrassing, his face is a hot red mess and if Al-Haitham doesn't move away he's going to throw up flowers in his face. 

What's his business getting up close and personal like this anyway?!

“The Flower Mistress's Regrets! It's practically ancient! I doubt you—”

His green and red eyes narrow sharply, and he asks, "Who?" with obvious distaste.

Kaveh gapes, "How do you—Ah, right," the man asks, cringing inwardly at how quickly he found himself in a tight spot.

Sometimes Kaveh forgets this man graduated with honors from his darshan. His darshan which is one of the three most likely darshan to know about his curse.

The architect murmurs grudgingly to himself, "Damned Haravatats."

With this new knowledge, the scribe's expression is nothing less than patronizing. Kaveh does not think he has ever looked so... contemptuous of something; it was sheer disgust, and it gives the blonde newfound anxiety.

Why does he look like that over this curse?

“Who is it that has you choking on your feelings? That you're so willing to die for instead of forgetting?”

Oh the irony is so strong it might as well choke him like the flowers and vines in his lungs do. The sheer audacity of that question! Of this man to ask such a thing so crudely.

How dare he, Kaveh angrily shoves him off and pushes himself a distance away from the scribe. 

“You….you know nothing, you don’t get to say that!” His voice is cold and his face is scowling as he glares spitefully, hopes to Nahida the man does not see through his heartbreak.

With equal ferocity, the man glares back, "I get to say it when you are wasting your life away so carelessly. Can’t you see sense ?"

What right did he have to be so angry? So frustrating and confusing that it makes Kaveh's head spin. Why is it that he is incapable of realizing how valuable love is and how Kaveh could never give up on it?

That he could never give up on loving him?

“Maybe I can’t! Maybe I don’t want to! I love him and I would sooner drop dead than forget that!”

The entire house fell silent as a result of his outburst. Al-Haitham is staring at him with an unreadable expression, but whatever it was, it looks…..wrong.

Then he delivers the cruelest thing he has ever said to Kaveh in the most venomous tone he has ever used. 

“You, are a fool of the astronomical order. And you wonder why people don't stick around in your life; Archons knows why I bothered.” 

It was like a backhand to his face. Kaveh gasps and his shattered heart splinters further. His legs feel weak and the rapid beating of his heart is no longer out of attraction.

That hurt, that was genuinely painful and he can feel the tears springing from his eyes. Had Al-Haitham declared that he did not love him, it would have hurt far less.

Gods, it would have hurt less if Al-Haitham had slapped him.

That went so far beyond what either of them had ever done before that even Al-Haitham is clearly in disbelief, his eyes widening as he such hateful words left his lips. 

No matter what the topic of the disagreement, Kaveh would never exploit Al-Haitham's worst fears against him. Those biting remarks have left the blonde with a deep stabbing wound of betrayal. 

The fact the scribe had no such qualms only solidifies the belief that he does not love Kaveh. You wouldn't twist a knife into the back of someone you love, you wouldn't betray them like that no matter how angry you are.

The only sound in the suddenly quiet house is Kaveh's increasingly rapid breathing. His eyes are watery with tears and the growth in his lungs is bursting to get out.

It hurts, it hurts. He needs to get away .

Al-Haitham's anger vanished as he looked at him with remorse and regret, his face turning pale with his own shock and disbelief. 

“Kaveh, I….that was uncalled for—”

Watery and painful, Kaveh's sobs cut through his words. “I really hate when you’re right, you damn bastard.” He mutters through the pain, the tears and the sickening bite of betrayal.

“No, Kaveh I'm sor—”

Kaveh bolts for his room, swinging in and snapping the lock to close it behind him. The man drops to the floor, burying his face into his knees as the flowers are ripped out of his throat through the tears.

He does not hear the knocking on his door that becomes frantic with concern, or his roommate's voice echoing through the door.

“Kaveh, I'm sorry. Kaveh, please let me in; you sound awful in there." 

He sobs, wails and hacks out the blooming curse and prays it'll take the sting of betrayal with it too. Because why is it that even after hitting Kaveh where it hurts the most, why does he still love that man?!

By the end, he's a mess of blood, tears and flowers on his bedroom floor. The knocking on his door is like a faint thunder from afar; he was warned a bad episode would cause serious blood loss if he's not careful, or maybe his time is up faster than he expected.

A shame, he didn't even get to write the goodbye letters yet. He hopes his friends know how much he loves them.

“—veh! Ka—!! Da—it!”

Is the room slanted to one side or is there something in his field of vision? That's not right. He should get to fixing it soon, rooms aren't supposed to look like that.

A blur of black and green dances in his gaze but he's really tired, and a nap sounds really good right now. Black dots fill his vision, making it difficult for Kaveh to stay awake, and there is a muffled sound in his ear, but he is too exhausted to care.

There's a sudden flash of bright Dendro green, his vision? No, not his, someone else? Who cares? He's dying anyway, or maybe he's already dead.

“Not quite yet, my child; sleep for now. You are not death's just yet. Sleep~”

A voice, young and soothing, lulls him sweetly, and Kaveh slowly lets go. 

He opens his eyes to find himself in an overgrown garden with drooping lotus petals, prickly roses, and thick growth of weeds and vines covering once-beautiful patches. 

He laments his garden's tragic loss, which was once so lovely and blooming with his nursed love. 

What rotten thing his love turned out to be. A miserable garden that is flourishing for all the wrong reasons.

“Kaveh, what is this I heard from Al-Haitham of all people that you’re dying? And I'm only learning of this now?”  

Tighnari’s indignant voice echoes off the walls with such prominence, fury and worry that Kaveh could see his tail swishing wildly with distress before he actually sees the guy.

Kaveh groans loudly from his bed, wishing it would swallow him whole into the roots of Irminsul itself, and whips his head towards the culprit of his incoming lecture, who is currently doing his paperwork on Kaveh's work desk.

The day he passed out from blood loss was luckily one of his appointment days so when Hat Guy heard the yelling when he came by to escort him, the Inazuma had the foresight to turn around and report back to Nahida, who immediately knew Kaveh would react badly and they rushed over just in time to stop Al-Haitham from alerting more people to Kaveh's condition.

Explaining the situation they're in and keeping this curse private is to not incite mass panic; it is not a transferable disease and Kaveh is uniquely the only one capable of contracting it. Why that is they refuse to elaborate, saying only Kaveh has the right to divulge such information. 

Since then, Al-Haitham has taken the initiative to nurse the blonde architect back to health so while his health is still so fragile, the man has taken to working from home to give him round-the-clock care.

He had apologized a number of times to Kaveh for stepping out of line with his previous words and none of them had any true sincerity. The whole deal was so weird and oddly sweet of him that Kaveh forgives him instantly, if only so the man will return to his normal shenanigans.

He doesn’t need more motive to fall for the man even more.

He doesn't think Al-Haitham is the snitching type though. 

“Quit telling people that! I am sick, not dying!” He yells and immediately regrets it because his throat burns and his voice croaks so hoarsely that it even sounds painful to his own ears.

His self-appointed caretaker throws him a deadpan look. “You are sick with a terminal illness you are refusing to treat, which is synonymous with dying.”

And on cue, two guests entered his bedroom and neither looked pleased with him. 

Tighnari marches up to his bed, a huge medical bag on his back. Cyno follows after and is oddly solemn; his trained mahamatra eyes widen slightly at the sight of Kaveh's state but otherwise look more sad than angry.

Kaveh isn't sure which reaction is worse.

“You have so much explaining to do, Mister.” Kaveh braces himself for the mother henning session of the century as he witnesses the frightening sight of the Valuka Shuna's wrathful face and lashing tail.

Al-Haitham’s lips are curved slightly upwards and of course he'd enjoy this, the bastard. Keveh suddenly coughs, holding a hand over his mouth, knowing it'll be another Padisarah stalk.

The petals are growing less these days; some days he only coughs out full stalks that are enough to tie a bouquet. 

“Why are you— Oh? " The whimper catches him off guard, and Kaveh is more surprised at how fast that anger melts into fear.  

The architect quickly pulls the bloodied flower out of his mouth and tosses it into a quarter filled bucket set by his bed. He makes a grab for the paper towels and tries to ignore the horrified gazes his two friends are watching him with.

“It looks worse than it is,” he tries to assure them, but Tighnari is cupping his mouth and steadily losing color from his face, while Cyno looks so pale with terror that it's like he's seen a ghost.

“You have two months before the flowers overgrow in your lungs and ultimately suffocate you to death; it looks much worse than it is.” Al-Haitham unhelpfully supplies, bitterly while clicking his tongue. “Can you take this any more seriously?”

Tighnari flinches, a distressed whine escaping his lips as he appears more frazzled than Kaveh has ever seen him; it is a little unnerving to see the normally composed ranger on the verge of tears.

A stern "Not helping!" glare is given to the scribe by the architect.

Tighnari shakily exhales deeply, hands coming alive to unpack his tools. “ Kaveh , oh goddess help us all. How on Teyvat could you have gotten it, Kaveh? It’s an ancient curse from a lost time!” he exclaims incredulously.

“You recognise this?” Kaveh shrieks, to which both the General Mahamatra and the Forest Ranger nod. “Oh, of course you both would; just my luck that almost everyone I know seems to know this supposedly mythical ancient disease!”

"I am a Valuka Shuna, I grew up with those tales as history ," Tighnari sneers offensively at him. “And it shouldn't be possible for you to even get the curse. What did you do? ”

"Actually do not answer that, shirt off," he growls as his eyes give the scribe a fleeting glance. 

He starts putting the blonde through the checkup process. In the corner of his gaze, Tighnari could see Al-Haitham subtly watching them with rapt attention. 

“You’re both imbeciles, blind as fruit bats during the day, unbelievable," His gloved hands trembled with every word, the last of which came out as a sob.

“You, you are unbelievably an idiot.” He sniffs, his ears, tail and face drooping with sadness, and Kaveh is overwhelmed with a wave of guilt for causing it. 

"Nari, it is alright, really. I'm okay.” He pulls his older friend into an embrace; the man clings to him as he cries and Kaveh feels unnerved at how much Tighnari is broken up about his ultimate demise. 

Of course he knows they would grieve him, but he hadn't thought his death would cause this much pain for them.

“Kaveh, Kaveh you have to….. to do it. Let it out Kaveh , save yourself,” he pleads in shallow, near incoherent whispers that only Kaveh could possibly hear. “I can't—I can’t cure this, Kaveh, I can't save you from this. But you can , I know you know how.”

He's a little disturbed by how much Tighnari knows about his curse—that he could possibly know Kaveh had a way to nip it in the bud without confessing these bottled up feelings but willfully choosing not to.

“I don't want to lose you; please don't make me lose you, not like this.”

With his tail curled, Kaveh cradles him while he sobs. Cyno does not even bother to sit down, and nobody interrupts them; instead, the man stands over his bed, his face cast in a dark, melancholy shadow.

“Cyno?”

Reaching forward, the man puts a hand on Kaveh's shoulder. He tells him, "Do not die like that, Kaveh," with a somber tone that seems to be filled with pain.

He moves away, and while Cyno does not cry, it is a close call. “Don't make me watch it…. Again.” The final word rings like a doomsday bell as it echoes off the walls of Kaveh's bedroom.

Tighnari gasps in shock at the same moment as the architect, who has his mouth hanging open. His words' implications caused the dots in their minds to connect on their own.

It seemed like an obvious clue to everyone in the room but the scribe, Al-Haitham’s head all but snapped towards the general with such ferocity that Kaveh would have thought he’d snap his neck. 

“Cyno, do you know something?” His eyes narrowed grimly from the look on Cyno’s face, he does.

“I know why he has it, although I'm not at liberty to share how I know this.”

"Name your price," Al-Haitham hums critically.

And he says it without even the slightest falter or beat. 

“Al-Haitham!” Kaveh hisses warningly. The man is unrelenting in his pursuit of information, despite Kaveh's repeated attempts to get him to stop. 

The scribe ignores his call because he has a target now and will get something from the general, even if it means bribing him or annoying him to death.

Cyno looks decidedly amused at Al-Haitham’s eagerness, and he can respect his determination to see things through. “I'm sworn to secrecy, however nothing about this knowledge will help him anyway." But his will is an integrity unshakable by threats or annoyances.

Al-Haitham gets up from his seat and says gravely, "General, you might be wrong; someone’s life is on the line, your friend is dying ." 

The mahamatra's eyes immediately narrowed in caution, his hand poised to call forth his weapon should the need arise.

Furthermore, Kaveh has had about enough of this absurdity. 

“If it’s why and how you want to know so badly: I was related to that god!” he shouts before Tighnari is about to step in himself. All three heads turn to look at him with varying reactions of intrigue, shock and assurance.

“Somehow, I don't know the exact specifics, as Lord Kusanali is unwilling to divulge and I didn't want to pry... She looked really pained about it and we all know she doesn’t need more suffering on her plate.”

Besides, he has a theory, but the more he thinks about it, the less he wants to know. People wonder who they were in their past lives all the time; some just don’t get near-concrete proof they were a deity that once ruled alongside their current archon.

“My connection to the Lord of Flowers of the past is why I'm like this.” Kaveh explains, and Cyno nods in acknowledgement while Tighnari looks at him with curiosity. 

“Nabu Malikata, Goddess of Flowers, Lord of Flowers and Mistress of Dreams?” Al-Haitham asks to confirm, listing off the goddess’s titles with the fluency of a Haravatat.

With a roll of his red eyes, Kaveh nods in response to the question, then looks on in confusion as Al-Haitham practically dashes out the door to do Kusanali knows what.

He’s been more confusing than ever since learning of Kaveh's curse, and Kaveh wonders if he even knows the man anymore.

"Oh, what is he up to now?” He mutters sarcastically, "Honestly, he is got himself worked up for what?" His two friends shake their heads. 

With a sigh, Cyno crosses his arms and says, "You never see it. Not then, not now.”

Kaveh bristles, “What are you on about?” He says, while pretending to not know at all what Cyno is implying, he doesn’t even want to think  about it. 

"Nothing; I just hope it's not too late this time.” The general mutters thoughtfully; his husband is throwing him all sorts of questioning looks but he waves them off for later.

They waited until Al-Haitham returned before leaving the residence. The couple bid the two roommates farewell before going on their way out the city gates and towards the small village a little down south. 

Night travel is nothing new to Tighnari or Cyno—Gandharva Ville was not all that far from the city center, after all. Tighnari offers the theory he has come up with after piecing together the clues while they are by themselves surrendered by no life but the nature around them.

“He's her incarnation, isn't he? That's why he has that disease, or, I guess, that curse.” Cyno smirks proudly. His husband has always been smart; it only took a few small nudges for Tignari to come to the truth. 

With a raised eyebrow, the Valuka Shuna addressed his mate, adding, "And you were someone too; more curious, you remembered."

"I was... someone close to them in that life," Cyno could only respond with a nod. “Their tale was told in tragic legends that, while inaccurate, are somewhat true. 

"Their tale, the retainer and Nabu Malikata?" Tighnari asked, his ears perking up with curiosity. 

"Even you, huh?" Cyno chuckles and shakes his head. “Common misconception, that. No, it was King Deshret; he was him too.”

The irony dawns on Tighnari, who hums, "Oh.. oh ." His own laughter echoes through the night. "Well, that's... unexpected.”

"Yeah, but I still hope the story has a different ending this time," Cyno says, nodding with a sorrowful glint in his eyes as he looks up at the starry sky.

Two weeks passed and Kaveh regained enough rest to be released from bedrest; he is, however, officially on leave from work, not that he'll ever be able to go back. The sight of his work table nowadays just makes his guy churn with sickness.

He really is dying, isn't he? His body and mind both. 

To Al-Haitham's dismay, his friends would occasionally pay him a visit during those bed rest weeks. Madame Faruzan came by with a get-well present, a device of some sort that he was still unable to understand and she would not explain. Insisting he finds out himself.

Subsequently, Cyno's interactions with him resembled check-ins rather than visits. He also assumed Hat Guy's role of escorting him to and from his weekly appointments with Nahida. On occasion, Tighnari would bring Collei along, and the girl would always have this knowing look in her eyes and words that made Kaveh feel completely understood.

He recalled Tighnari said she used to have Eleazar, and suddenly her words and looks are less pitying and more understanding. 

“It's easy to lose hope, I know I did….. so many times. But in the end, it worked out and it still sucked because I didn't think I'd live. So….. so what I'm saying is…… I get it, I get it Kaveh. But tomorrow is waiting and getting there is enough. Forget the future, just, tomorrow, tomorrow is more than enough. One day at a time.” 

They shared a tearful embrace and Kaveh learned that maybe, despite his bleak chance at survival, he could still have hope, if not for the future, then for the next sunrise.

Once he's off bedrest, not having work poses a problem in the form of boredom. He's constantly restless and he's not encouraged to go out with such a fragile lung and immune system. So he spends the day doing chores, reading books or playing with Mehrak.

One particular day he took an afternoon nap and woke up quite late with blood and flower petals on his lips, which is his typical routine by now. Groaning, he cleans himself with the water bowl and washcloth freshly prepared next to his bedside by Al-Haitham.

Dragging himself up, he walks out of his bedroom door only to see the house in a frazzled state of disarray. 

“Al-Haitham?” With annoyance, Kaveh calls out while gathering up multiple books that are strewn all over their living room.

He's been doing that more often lately, binge buying multiple books and reading them in one sitting. Kaveh has no qualms on what he does with his money but would it kill the bloody man to keep things tidy around here?!

The scribe may not have responded, which could indicate that he is either not at home or that he has his noise-canceling headphones fully on, though the former scenario is more likely.

The architect thus has no choice but to place these books in the house library, except there's no room left on the shelves or table. 

Truly a testament to how fixated he's been acting lately on the topic of….. Sumeru Ancient Gods?

Well that's odd, the divine has never been a subject Al-haitham particularly has interest in. But maybe that explains the near-obsessive way he's been collecting these books.

“Ugh that man, he suddenly goes on a shopping spree, buying too many books than any of us know what to do with and then what? Leave it around!” Huffing, Kaveh strides out of the room and towards the scribe’s own quarters.

Pushing the door slightly ajar, he's planning to just leave the books on the dresser near the opening when something in the room catches his eye. Just at the back of his bed is a board that's definitely new, but what's surprising is the content pasted on it.

Although pasted is a bit of an understatement,. Pictures, notes, and ripped pages likely from those books he bought—all of these are wildly pinned everywhere on the board, connected by a red string and in the middle? 

A picture of Kaveh—more oddly, a picture of himself sleeping on his desk—that he had no idea existed. When did the fucker even take it?!

It's like some kind of scene straight out of a detective novel.

Kaveh's throat burns and he nearly buckles over coughing, trying and failing to stop the near full buds of flowers drenched in his blood from dropping to the floor. 

“Kaveh,”

The deep rumble of his roommate’s voice startles him out of staring at the board. Sheepishly, he's about to spew some nonsensical defense about him entering the man's room without permission until he remembers there are more pressing things to address.

Like the fuckery of a board that's in front of them.

“What is all this? Are you…. Are you trying to find the person I'm in love with?!”

Al-Haitham grabs the other by the shoulders, an urgency in his eyes that is unlike his usual self.

“Kaveh, I need you to be completely honest with me," he emphasizes, and under such a tense gaze, Kaveh could do nothing but nod with a gulp.

Al-Haitham isn't usually so….. assertive, yet now the man stands before him, seemingly cracking at the seams, trying to keep calm.

Whatever emotions are brewing underneath those heavy eyes are paralyzing, so much so that Kaveh barely notices the petals sticking to his lips from a cough.

The tension in the air breaks with three simple words that will soon change everything forever. The architect holds his breath, and the words ring in his ear like a bad omen.

“Is it me?”  

Stern and concise, does he not know that it's a question that's quickly destroying whatever remains of peace Kaveh still has?

Because, of course, Al-Haitham would figure it out; if the board of clues being tied together hasn't said it already, then Kaveh's inability to speak a word at the moment is deadass giving him away.

“I..I….” He tries to say something to force the lie out of his lips but his voice fails him. 

The truth is, Kaveh doesn't want to lie, not about this. Lying to Al-Haitham is just something he never does for the man is always able to see through them. Especially now when his days are numbered and he hopes to spend his last moments on a pleasant note. 

However, it was easier to just not tell but now, held in place by the arms of a not-so-feeble scholar with no means of escape, demanding him to tell the truth, Kaveh doesn't find himself any able to say it out but some might say his silence is loud enough of an answer.

Apparently it's enough of an answer for the scribe demanding it because, next thing he knows, he's yanked forward and a pair of lips are pressing against his.

What the absolute fuck 

Kaveh backs up with a jump, his eyes wide with shock. “Hey! Wait a second—” He nearly shrieks but is silenced once more by Al-Haitham grabbing his waist and pulling him into another deep kiss.

Kaveh gasps between the abrupt kiss, his hands coming alive and grabbing onto Al-Haitham to push him away out of shock. His heartbeat is thundering loudly and his head is dizzy. 

Is this really happening right now?!!

Yet the moment the little yelp leaves his mouth slightly open, Al-Haitham takes the chance to slide his tongue in, tasting the older man with the fervor of a man starved.

It's nothing like Kaveh ever fantasized about their first kiss; it's messy, all teeth, and completely exhilarating .

The blonde man isn't given time to process what's going on; suddenly he could vividly smell the shampoo in Al-Haitham’s hair, the faint taste of coffee from his mouth, and all of his senses screaming for Al-Haitham .

Al-Haitham presses in closer, hand moving from Kaveh's shoulder to the back of his head to keep him in place and it's all getting way too much that Kaveh's heart might just give out now with the burst of hope. 

It's cruel and unfair; how can he give Kaveh a taste of this bliss now when death is coming for him? 

The man pulls away softly, panting for breath, his lips glazed as his eyes don't dare to stray away from his roommate.

He exhales a sigh, fingers reaching to caress the tears streaming down Kaveh's face, wiping them away. He just kissed the man within the inch of his life and now he looks like Al-Haitham had betrayed him with his red rimmed eyes and downcast gaze.

The blond’s fringes messily stick to his head with sweat. “What are you…? Why….?” He mutters quietly, confused and heartbroken, as he's unable to understand Al-Haitham’s actions.

“I don't love you, Kaveh,” the scribe admits bluntly and it's like a knife to the chest. A dam bursts open inside of him and Kaveh is sure the flowers will act up soon and he'll be a mess. 

A part of Kaveh wants to speak up and say that's enough, that he doesn't need to say anything further.

The architect tries to pull away but Al-Haitham’s grip is too firm, forcing Kaveh to stay and listen. “But I do care for you; I do not want you to die, least of all because you caught feelings for me.”

He sounds earnest, and Kaveh really wants to believe him.

“I don't think I love you, but I can try.”

But his heart is a stubborn foolish force of nature, it wants what it wants. “I don't want you to force yourself to love me, that's not…. that's not what…” he pants, tears in his eyes hurt and agitated about the situation they're in.

Frustrated, Al-Haitham continues to bulldoze further, “Kaveh, I am truthfully not opposed to it. Loving you,”

‘Then why didn't you? Why must I be dying for you to love me?!’ the blonde wants to scream. It's not fair, it's so unfair!!

“Well I am! I want you to love me for me and not because you want me not to die from a stupid curse—hey!”

Al-Haitham disregards all of it, pushing the blond man back until his knees give way and he collapses back onto the Scribe's plush bed.

Kaveh is up to his stubborn streak again, and he's not going to believe a word out of his mouth unless he does something really convincing.

Thankfully, Al-Haitham knows just how to be convincing. He tugs off his jacket, setting it on a chair. 

Kaveh’s face is scarlet red with a flush. Is it embarrassment or desire? Well, he's about to find out. The man yelps when Al-Haitham climbs on top of him, caging Kaveh beneath him before diving down to his lips once more, kissing Kaveh as if he's a man desperate with thirst and Kaveh is his oasis.

The blonde tastes herbalic with a slight iron aftermath from the blood he's been coughing. He drags his tongue slowly through each inch of his mouth, showing Kaveh all that is him and how this is something he could readily and voluntarily give if it's all he wants.

It boggles his mind; how could Kaveh even think of leaving so permanently like that if all he wishes is to be loved by Al-Haitham? Like it's a hard task? 

Kaveh, on the other hand, is having a fucking breakdown inside. He finds it almost unbearable to feel Al-Haitham's body pressing down on him through that too thin and yet too there top of his; his whole body is burning with desire. 

The man above lifts his head up a few times, eyes tracing over his work, only to lower them to the architect’s neck, carefully peppering them with kitten kisses and licks.

"If the intended outcome is realized, does it really matter what serves as the catalyst for that outcome? I would still love you sincerely either way.”

He burrows his head into Kaveh's neck, his hand playing with his blond locks, leaving kisses down his jawline all the way to his collarbone.

The man being pampered is shaking with breathy pants, sweat already forming on his forehead at how warm it's getting.

He hasn't coughed once since Al-Haitham figured him out and kissed the life out of him. Al-Haitham tugs at his top collar slightly, giving him more access to the pearly pale skin that's practically begging to be littered with kisses.

“Nghh…..are we….. not moving a little too fast?” He gives a soft moan and breathes in sharply as Al-Haitham gives him a hard, sure-to-be-marked suck on his neck.

The thought of Al-Haitham leaving a mark on him and claiming him is doing things to his heart; he's going to combust.

The man in question frowns critically. “You are dying, this is hardly fast enough.”

How is he able to keep a straight—his hips all the sudden grinded down to give them friction and Kaveh mewls at the pleasure that shot through him at that.

His back was arching as little gasps of breath bubbled from his lips, his legs spread open letting the man hovering above him more access to his most intimate parts.

Unbeknownst to him, the scribe is currently hyper aware of every twitch and subtle crease of his face. Completely entranced by how it changes with each action he does, a part of him is curious to what other noise his lovely flower could make when pleasured.

Kaveh is…… beautiful, it's a fact just as fire is hot, water is blue and Kaveh is enchantingly beautiful.

Beautiful as how his heart could not look away from another's suffering without needing to help, like how his eyes glitter with bright glowing passion whenever he gets a commission he particularly likes.

Like how he's fuming and stomping around, crossing his arms in irritation like a cat with its fur standing.

So sinfully beautiful, laying on Al-Haitham bed spread out like a divine offering from the heavens, not even bothering to pretend to fight back as the scribe does with him as he pleases.

Al-Haitham wonders, if perhaps loving Kaveh is so incredibly easy because it's all he knows and has been doing all along?

“Truthfully, I do not think it'll be a difficult task to do….. to fall in love with you.” he slowly says this, his fingers brushing away the strands of hair on his architect’s face.

His , always his. 

“Maybe I already have."

His hand slides itself underneath the other’s clothes; Kaveh being as active as he is on sites gave him quite the body figure.

Easily ripping open the fabric, his hands begin roaming the firm, tensing flesh underneath, smirking at how it's making Kaveh sing , the man writhing under him beginning to beg his name.

“Haitham!”

The scribe chuckles, “Maybe I already was and just didn't realize it.” Then he lowers his head down and gets to work.

"Haitham, please…...Mmmhhh, Haitham oh, please. " Kaveh hugs the man's head as his tongue does wonderful wonderful things to his chest while the other is occupied somewhere more south, the begging drips from his lips as naturally as breathing.

Spread underneath him, the scribe is beginning to realize that his favorite view is of his roommate, his face flushed red, his back arching forward, reduced to a putty and begging mess by his hands.

Licking his lips, the man whispers, “Show me your garden, Kaveh,”

That night will go on to be filled with sinful sounds of pleasure, and perhaps the next day they will properly sit down and talk things through, but for now, the scribe of a once revered god takes his time to prove his love to his flower, another once god who is just as loved.

The dendro archon sits on her swing of dendro energy, woven with her powers. Next to her is a figure with long blonde hair that dances along to the blowing breeze and crimson eyes that are fondly observing something off in the distance.

A man and two children weave flower crowns in the ring of flowers they're sitting in. Lovely flowers of roses and Padisarahs amongst many other varieties grow in beautiful rings around the field. It was a lovely sight, a most beautiful garden.

The man has long gray hair and is adorned in the old ceremonial robes of the desert dwellers tribes. They look peaceful and happy, muttering how their mother would love their creations.

Kusanali hums wistfully, what a pretty dream.

“Kaveh,” she calls the person next to her, yet they made no movement to acknowledge her presence.

“Kaveh,”

“Kaveh,”

“Nabu,”

With a blink, the person turns to look at him, “Oh? my lord ************. How are you? Amun is there, off playing with the children," they inform her with a soft smile.

The chimes of accessories from their horn headdress fill the air, and the wind is quite nice. Yet with their arms hugging their body vulnerably, they look somewhat glazed with sorrow.

“You seem sad,” Kusanali comments, carefully watching as the joy on her face from before cracks. 

Nabu laughs, a hollow sound compared to the lovely way they're dressed. “Do I? I wonder why……” 

“My lord ************, Amun and I, we love each other do we not?” 

What a peculiar question, the lord of dendro hums affirmatively.

“Very much,”

The winds come to a halt, the man and children get up to their feet, running off somewhere further away in the distance till they are nothing more than distorted shadows against the horizon.

A cluster of dark gray clouds formed above them, cackling with lightning. The air around them starts to blur as a white haze grows thicker till their figures can hardly be made out. 

Nabu’s voice is pained, “So why did it take him dying for me to love him? Why does it take me dying for him to love me?” they clutch their clothes tightly, tears leaving wet splotches on the silken fabric.

Nahida exhales deeply and shakes her head, “You have always loved each other; the looming death only made each of you truly open your eyes.”

She raised her hand to activate her powers and the clouds dispersed away to a beautiful blue sky, the haze followed right after revealing them a valley of flowers, rows and hills of the most beautiful arrays of all kinds of floral stretches out as far as they could see.

Something shifted, changed. They wonder what the goddess did.

The man from before has shorter hair, he is now wearing a black outfit lined with green accents and matching headphones on his head. A dendro vision dangling from his cape and he's sitting on a bench in the middle of the flower field reading a book.

Nabu— Kaveh looks down to his goddess, a hopeful look on his face. He takes a glance around the beautiful valley, wondering if this is truly what his love for Al-Haitham looks like. 

It didn't feel right, it didn't feel like his.

Nahida gently takes his hand, leading him down where the love of his life awaits him. As they walk through the field, Kaveh feels his red cape billow in the breeze and the sway of silk skirt turn into rustling pants.

Buds of flowers bloom as they pass by, his head lighter without the ornate horned headpiece, the red pins in his shoulder length hair keeps it from being messed up, a feather tucked behind his ear as he usually does.

Kaveh stops right before Al-Haitham, no longer the goddess he once was in a past samsara and neither is the other a god from the same tragic fate.

Yet whose garden is this breathtaking valley if not his own and his love for Al-Haitham? 

“Kaveh,” Al-Haitham greets him, a small yet triumphant smile on his lips. “Is such a flower valley sufficient proof of my affections for you?”

Oh , this is not his garden for Al-Haitham. 

This is Al-Haitham’s garden for him.

“ Al-Haitham,” He gasps, throws himself at the man, arms around the other's neck, locking them in a tight embrace with a desperate sob.

“I love you, I love you, I love you so much. ” he chants repeatedly, each time feeling more euphoric than the last.

The younger man chuckles, returning the embrace. “And I love you, as vast and beautifully as this valley we stood in.”

Neither notices the goddess of wisdom making her leave from this pleasant joint dream, whispering some final words of wisdom for her reincarnated friend of long ago and only for his ears alone.

“Kaveh, your garden is very beautiful. And yet so is Al-Haitham’s. Let's not walk around with our eyes closed any longer."

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THE END