Chapter Text
To a person of few delusions, Kaveh’s escapade to Fontaine was nothing short of lunacy. And those with their heads screwed on correctly would argue that the blonde was either delusional, or carrying a burden of heaviness that warped his perception into the idealisation that he did not deserve the love of another.
At least, those were Tighnari’s words when he intercepted Kaveh as he was trying to flee to the harbor of Port Ormos.
“Everything’s already ruined, Tighnari. At least Fontaine respects the motifs of art and a respect of symbolism…” the architect had continued his march towards his ship, Mehrak and a small suitcase, (that still managed to fit all of his belongings, how sad,) in hand, paying little mind to what the Forest Ranger had to say to him.
“Kave-”
“I’m sorry, Nari.” Kaveh’s voice wobbled, but only for a moment, “I’ll miss you, and the others,” and Alhaitham.
Then, he climbed aboard, and though he glanced back several times, the appearance of the soft, silver hair strands, nor the captivating hues of steely sage and adorned with the ochre tinting would never come.
Inhaling sharply - and pinching his nose bridge to prevent a cascade of salty embarrassment - Kaveh headed inside the ship’s hull.
One Week Later - Court of Fontaine.
Fontaine was everything yet nothing of what Kaveh expected for the land of hydro.
Despite this, many of the new anomalies in Kaveh’s new life were not unwelcome.
For one, the frequent operas, plays and dramatics in the Opera Epiclise were something that Kaveh attended religiously whenever he had free change. Perhaps it was the stunning architecture of the place, or- or it was the tension and mystery that unraveled throughout every second of a particularly juicy court case?
No matter what it was, Kaveh was here for it.
Another point of interest was Fontaine’s awe-striking clockwork and machinery. While Kaveh had studied and seen small scale replicas while studying at the Akademiya, he had never witnessed their marvels first hand. The law-enforcing meka were certainly fascinating on the eyes… if only he had the opportunity to pick one apart himself - understanding each and every component - and incorporate it into his next piece.
However, not all was sunshine and rainbows.
Kaveh, in his first week, had been stopped no less than three times to be belittled by officers of the Maison Gardiennage about the puzzling law about flying objects. Supposedly, said objects were not permitted in public during the first three days of the month… If you asked Kaveh, Mehrak was anything but an object, and such description was rather blasphemous to his hard work and the sentient briefcase.
Unfortunately, despite the blonde’s best arguments, he didn’t really want to stay in the Fortress of Meropide for the prolonged future, and decided to leave Mehrak, (to the briefcase’s fury) in his miniscule apartment.
At least the apartment was actually his.
Despite this inconvenience, Kaveh was actually fairing pretty well in Fontaine.
Well, at least until he was trying to find a job.
Despite his artistic desires, Kaveh understood that taking up the role as an architect would most likely not pay enough to stay in the city for long, and he really did not want to end up on the streets, or in some bar, or with some handsomely annoying, well-put-together, intelligent man that sent him into cardiac arrest whenever he-
No Kaveh, no.
Get over yourself.
He doesn’t love you.
You didn’t start a new life just to get homesick.
Long story short, Kaveh had to search for new jobs.
Why did being a fruit seller have to be the only available one again?
It really couldn’t be that bad though, right? It’s not like it serves as a constant reminder of the last time he saw a certain “feeble” scholar in a market full of fruit where Kaveh had an existential crisis about his abandonment issues through a cucumber or when somebody bought the perfect apples for him or even when he got threatened about being left in the frozen section-
Kaveh let go of a breath he didn’t know he was holding.
Well, at least it paid well… and the customers and suppliers were very nice people! (And great to gossip with.)
For example, one of his suppliers, Varesa. She was always very sweet and respectful towards the architect, she always provided the store with Natlanese fruits and vegetables of the highest quality, and gave him advice on the best foods to eat. Who knows, maybe he could ask her to take some photos on a kamera of Natlan’s architecture?
Another example was one of his buyers, Escoffier. She too, though a little more closed off, was also a very respectful woman. Escoffier - whom Kaveh soon discovered due to the not so hushed whispers of other customers - had been the esteemed head chef at the luxurious Hotel Debord. However, following an incident at the hotel, she decided to accept responsibility and carry out a sentence at the Fortress of Meropide. According to her, nevertheless, Meropide had ‘a fairly inaccurate repor’ and was ‘actually not half bad for a prison.’
Yet, despite all, nothing quite quenched the unrelenting homesickness that twisted and clawed at Kaveh’s heart.
So - naturally- the thoughts attack while the man is isolated amongst the confinements of his apartment. Moonlight cascading through the sticky note sized glass panel.
Kaveh missed his projects.
Kaveh missed the Akademiya.
Kaveh missed his friends.
Kaveh missed home.
Kaveh missed… Alhaitham.
Kaveh missed his stupid yet beautiful face. The small acts the man would do for him… it didn't matter if it was hugging the blonde when he was drunken and defeated, nor simply buying him the best fruits from the market, Kaveh wanted it.
Fuck, he even missed Alhaithams sarcastic ways.
He'd give anything for an argument about art's practicality.
Kaveh's gaze trudged to the left. Then the right. That's where he spots it.
A Sumerean wine case.
One he brought from home .
A single drink couldn't hurt right ? If anything, it would probably help?
Shaky hands reach for the case, retracting after the retrieval of icey glass.
Kaveh pops the cork.
Of course he doesn't have the money for a glass.
The burgundy liquid within matches his eyes. At least that's what Alhaitham would say - if he were here.
Kaveh sniffs, stamping out the thought.
But at least the wine smells like home. And that is enough to throw him overboard.
Upturning the bottle, Kaveh's nostalgia collided catastrophically with his taste buds. It was chilly from its time in the heatless housing, yet warmed the coldest corners of his soul.
Yet it warmed in the most painful way, like throwing a sufferer of hypothermia into the desert.
Cruel. Harsh. Unforgiving.
Wine tastes of memories. The good. The bad. Those that remain undecided… Things that hurt to remember, but feel addictive all the same.
So another wine bottle vanishes.
Then another.
At some point, Kaveh loses track. His skull rests upon the rotting wooden desk, cradled by his quivering hands. Hot tears - whether the offspring of animosity, loneliness or melancholy - serves as a fountain. The flow is infinite. It grows further hysterical the longer it goes in for.
Why did Kaveh have to lose control of his tongue?
Why did the archons make him spill his confession?
Why did he have to ruin everything? Always?
Somehow, it almost felt reminiscent of that night in the tavern.
Alone, failing.
This time, Kaveh knew one thing for sure.
There was no scribe to take him home.