Archive of Our Own ^beta

It’s been a while since he’s seen Lambad, Kaveh thinks to himself.

He tries to think of the last time he’s visited. Foggy memories cloud his head, many of them featuring a back sore as he hunches over a table, vision blurring, a dull, muted emotion fighting against the alcohol. Kaveh shakes such memories from his mind. They feel far away now, with how much better things have become. 

Now, he has somewhere to return to, rather than a tavern table where he designed blueprints for homes while he himself had none. Now, he has a place to call his own, both in the little house in a quieter part of Sumeru City near the Akademiya and in Sumeru’s artistic history as his buildings stand tall and beautiful in the skyline of the city. It seems like a lifetime ago, all that shivering he did in the corner of that tavern; a lifetime he can hardly remember— and doesn’t want to. 

A singular memory stands out, piercing the cloud of melancholy that surrounds his memories of the tavern. In this one, he’s not alone. Kaveh, Tighnari, Cyno, and Al-Haitham had been gathering at Lambad’s with Collei to celebrate her birthday. They sat far away from Kaveh’s usual table in the corner, instead opting for a seat near the middle of the tavern, where the whole room could see their joy. And joy there was. A steady thrum pulsed throughout the tavern as forks clinked, glasses were set on tables, and laughter rang through the air. The place felt alive, the heartbeat of a story as it drew to its end and the characters faded away into the mundanities of their happy endings. 

The corners of Kaveh’s lips lilt up at the memory. 

And he supposes he has been happier lately. Kaveh has no trouble getting commissions now. His clients have long since learned his worth and give him little trouble. The arts are flourishing in Sumeru, so much so that it’s hard to walk throughout the city without hearing the tune of some bustler on the street. It’s a beautiful thing. 

And of course, there’s Al-Haitham. 

Now, Kaveh is unsure if the day will ever come when he can describe what he has with Al-Haitham as “peaceful.” Not with the way they fight: over the couch cushions, their favorite coffee beans, the intentions of a writer. But their bickering is tamer now, without the harsh insults they would spit at each other before. Well, Kaveh couldn’t say that there weren’t insults thrown around now. He was called a fungus just this morning. But that was the difference—these insults are silly, harmless in their ridiculousness, a far cry from the scalding attacks of their past, or worse, the biting sting of winter silence that settled into their walls when they could no longer look at each other without sourness on their tongues. No, this petty name-calling, these playground insults, were nothing but playful, so much so that when Kaveh thinks of them, he feels the golden warmth of laughter bubbling on his tongue. 

So it’s not peaceful. But it’s nice, this waking up to Al-Haitham’s coffee, made just the way he likes it (although he’d be reluctant to admit it). As much as Al-Haitham’s ridiculous furnishing decisions make Kaveh’s blood pressure rise, he has to admit that a part of him loves dragging him out to the bazaar to rectify his transgressions. Al-Haitham does something stupid, like leave his books everywhere or comment on Kaveh’s blueprint, and Kaveh no longer feels like crying or wishing for death. Instead, he looks at him, laughs, and thinks of sweeping his stupid bangs out of his stupid beautiful eyes. It’s ridiculous, this giddy feeling he gets just thinking about it. Kaveh wouldn’t trade it for the world. 

So yes, Kaveh is happier. Yes, Kaveh isn’t lonely anymore. But tonight, he misses Lambad and decides that something must be fixed. Not the happiness part, gods know Kaveh’s been through enough. But Al-Haitham is working overtime tonight, so there’s no one waiting for him at home, and he’s walking past Lambad’s tavern on his way back from his client meeting. It doesn’t sit right with Kaveh that he should see a friend less when he’s happier, so he steps inside, delighting in the way the warm lights and the buzz of people welcome him. 

“Kaveh!” calls the rich bellow of Lambad’s voice. “What brings you here this evening?” 

And Kaveh can’t hold it in; he laughs, the sound unrestrained as it fills the tavern. “Oh, nothing. I just felt like dropping by. It’s been a while since I’ve seen you.” 

Lambad grins in return. “And here I thought that once your career has been taking off, you’d be too busy to hang out with little ol’ me here. How about a drink on the house to celebrate your success?” 

Kaveh looks to the side, an old habit to hide his guilt. 

“Please, you’ve done enough for me already, Lambad. I can’t thank you enough for the kindness you’ve shown me back then, really. I’ll buy my own drinks tonight, as thanks.” 

Lambad only snorts at that. “Don’t give me that, Kaveh. You think just because you’re some renowned architect now that you’re too good to accept a free drink from a friend? Please, here’s a glass. Dandelion wine, we just had it imported from Mondstadt. Don’t you dare try to pay for it.” 

And Kaveh can feel the affection welling in his chest as Lambad pushes the glass to Kaveh. Gods, he’s missed him. He shoots the bartender a grateful smile. 

“Well, I’m not one to say no to a free drink, am I?” 

Lambad throws his head back as he laughs, and Kaveh feels giddy all over again, despite having yet to take a sip of his wine. It feels good to make someone happy. 

“Like you haven’t tried to repay every favor I’ve done you, don’t give me that. Though I suppose it’s a different case with that roommate of yours, huh. He pays more for your drinks than you do, even when he isn’t here, ha!” Lambad grins as the tips of Kaveh’s ears turn pink. “And where is Sumeru’s beloved scribe tonight?”

Kaveh snorts at that. “Beloved? Please. With his work ethic, half the country doesn’t even know he exists, and those who do think he’s insufferable. He’s working overtime tonight, if you can believe that. Quite unhappy about it too, but who’s surprised?” 

Lambad grins. “And here you are, sneaking off to the tavern while he’s stuck at work. Can’t blame you, though. It’s no fun going home to an empty house, huh. Nothing like what we’ve got here. Have a seat, Mister Kaveh.” 

Kaveh does, a spring of joy in his step. He takes a sip, and the wine tastes sweeter when he’s not drinking troubles away. Kaveh finds himself swirling it in his glass, watching the rich red reflect the light, its beauty dazzling through eyes unblurred with tears. 

He’s always been a bit of an emotional drunk, and when no one was there to wipe his tears, the alcohol helped to get them out, letting him be sad without remembering why. Tonight, Kaveh sits at the bar, facing the people as whoops sound throughout the tavern, happy circles celebrating engagements, birthdays, love. Tonight, the emotion being enhanced is joy. 

Somewhere, between drunkenly spilling his secrets about his fall from grace to his estranged best friend after years of not speaking and all the nights he’s been towed home by said best friend, Kaveh’s learned to drink with some self-control. There’s no dancing on tables or sobbing his heart out, but the blond’s laughter bubbles like champagne as he watches the people around him, and he feels a little fuller with each glass. 

“You seem to be enjoying yourself,” remarks Lambad, voice rich as velvet. 

Kaveh laughs at that too—it’s hard not to when he feels like Pop Rocks.

“Can’t say otherwise!” 

And there’s no need to fake smiles between him and Lambad, not when the poor bartender has seen all of Kaveh’s lows: slumped over yet another failed blueprint, trying his best to scrape together some semblance of the golden grandeur expected of the Light of Ksharewar, speaking through dry sobs as he hides from Al-Haitham and the house he’s deemed inhospitable before they learned to live together. 

Lambad chuckles, the sound blossoming as it reaches Kaveh’s ears. “It’s good to see you happy. And I suppose aside from your success with your career, Al-Haitham is treating you well?” 

Kaveh pretends to scowl, but can’t keep the grin off his face, giddy with the mention of Al-Haitham. 

“Ugh, don’t bring him up. Here I am in a celebratory mood, and he has to work overtime! I had to come see you all by myself.” Kaveh sighs, not meaning any of it. “Whatever, just means I get to spend some more quality time with my favorite bartender! I see too much of his face anyway.” 

Lambad only hums in acknowledgement, a knowing smile on his face.

“Speaking of Al-Haitham,” Kaveh groans, burying his face in his hands. “Can you believe him? You know I don’t like it when people buy me things, and what does he do? He gets the expensive markers from the Bazaar, the ones I was saving up for, and puts them on my table right when I’m in the middle of working on a commission! Rude, if you ask me, distracting me like that. I told him he shouldn’t have, since he’s always berating me about being more responsible with my finances, but then he went on about how he’s allowed to make purchases like that because of his ‘financial freedom’! Outrageous.” 

He glares at Lambad, who is trying to hide his smile behind his hand. “I don’t know what you’re finding so funny. It really is exhausting dealing with him, flaunting his affluence in front of me like that. There’s nothing to smile about.” 

Lambad swallows and looks away, unable to hide the way he shakes with his laughter. 

“As I was saying,” Kaveh continues. “I swear he does it just to spite me. There’s more! Just wait until you hear what he did the other day. I’ve told you about how he leaves his books everywhere—I’ve lost track of the number of times I’ve almost died walking around my own house! That place is inhospitable, I swear, but I suppose that can be said of anywhere Al-Haitham walks. Anyway, I was telling him off for it the other day. I’ll admit I was a little harsh, but don’t give him the satisfaction of knowing I feel remorse for anything regarding him. The next day I come home, and you won’t believe this—the books are picked up and arranged on the shelf by subject! Even mine, which I left on the table—but only for a day, and they weren’t a tripping hazard, unlike someone’s. He sees me looking around, and instead of saying something normal like a normal person would, he just looks at me and goes, ‘Looks like I can change after all.’” 

Lambad snorts from beside Kaveh, turning away to avoid the architect’s glare. “Seems like a lot of effort just to spite you.” 

Kaveh sighs. “Right? He’s so horribly lazy with just about anything else, but as soon as it comes to pissing me off, he’s moving mountains just to hear me yell at him. So weird.” 

“Was that a smile I saw?” 

Kaveh’s facial muscles immediately tighten into a scowl. “Don’t scare me like that. Me? Smiling at the thought of Al-Haitham? Horrifying.” 

He downs the rest of his glass, head spinning a little. 

“Careful, Kaveh. You wouldn’t want Al-Haitham to have to come carry you back home now, would you?” 

“Don’t remind me,” groans Kaveh. “So embarrassing when he does that! And he’s so annoying about it, too, complaining about it like I asked him to bring me home. If I’m such a burden, then he should just leave me here. I’d be out of his hair, then.” 

Lambad purses his lips, though Kaveh is too busy resting his head on the table to notice. “I’m having a hard time believing Al-Haitham would be able to sit comfortably at home without you there.” 

Kaveh snorts, his lips curling up at the corners yet again. “You’re right. Don’t be fooled by his cool demeanor. I was getting groceries a while ago when I heard one of the ladies who works at the Akademiya talking about how Al-Haitham never talks to anyone there and hides from everyone. At home, though, he follows me around like an overgrown house cat, like he’s trying to maximize the time he has annoying me or something. But here I am, all alone at the tavern since he’s too busy holing himself away at the Akademiya to spend time with me.” 

At this point, Lambad’s given up on responding to Kaveh, moving to collect some glasses left near the architect. Kaveh sips on his wine, absorbing the atmosphere of the tavern. The world whirls to the rhythm of his racing heart. Curiously, he feels like turning to his side, although the seat beside him is empty. He sees a former client walk in with a new ring glistening on her finger. A rather nasty boy from their Akademiya days sits with his head bowed, a bottle of something strong beside him. A waitress sits in the corner, working on what looks like to be an essay on politics. Kaveh remains on his stool, watching, itching to share the world with someone who isn’t there. He watches Lambad’s figure, fighting the urge to call him over just to talk about Al-Haitham some more, to fill the space with the thought of him, if not his presence. And maybe it’s not normal to feel this way about your roommate, but he supposes it’s not normal to move in with someone you haven’t spoken to in years, either. Nothing is normal about whatever’s going on between him and Al-Haitham, so what does he care?

It’s alright. The lights will be on when he returns home. A page will turn in time with the creaking of their door hinge, and the air will be filled with what remains of the scent of their morning coffee.

And Kaveh is glad, glad to be going home to a house that won’t be empty, glad to have someone hand him his briefcase on the mornings when he’s rushing to a meeting, glad to be going home. 

He spaces out, noticing, remembering, watching as people come and go. It’s a terrible loneliness, having no one to share his observations with when he’s so used to doing so. But time marches on, and soon, he will be home. 

“Kaveh,” comes Lambad’s voice again, snapping the architect out of his daze. “Your husband is here to pick you up.” 

And Kaveh thinks of Al-Haitham. 

Maybe it’s foolish that he did. Maybe he should have picked up on the way humor colored Lambad’s voice, should have remembered that it isn’t true. But he thinks of Al-Haitham, and all the years they’ve spent together hunched over books, arguing in the bazaar, all their lazy evenings spent next to each other, Kaveh’s legs draped carelessly over the couch, free. 

It makes sense, the way the tension seeps out of his muscles at the thought of Al-Haitham, the irrepressible smile that teases at the corners of Kaveh’s lips. Who else could draw such color to his face, or this unrestrained, true bubble of warmth that comes into Kaveh’s chest when he whips his head in excitement as he looks for him—his husband. 

There stands Al-Haitham, in all his glory, the light of the tavern casting a halo around his head. Kaveh looks at him and feels like giggling, so he does, rushing over to get him under his hands as fast as he can. 

He’s too drunk to notice the sharp inhale Al-Haitham takes at his touch, but he delights in the way those stupid, beautiful eyes of his widen, only making Kaveh giggle some more. 

“Hi, husband!” 

The words ring out across the tavern. Al-Haitham gapes at him, frozen in time. 

Kaveh laughs, picking up his hand. 

Al-Haitham’s headphones lie on his neck, so Kaveh gets the delightful sight of red as Al-Haitham’s ears blossom, blushing. He pulls him closer by the hands, leaning his forehead against Al-Haitham’s collarbones. 

Oh, how he missed him. 

“What are you doing?” Al-Haitham breathes, voice a little off. 

“What?” Kaveh bites back, but the grin remains on his face. 

Al-Haitham sighs, shaking his head. “Whatever, let’s go home.” 

“But you just got here!” sings Kaveh. “Come, don’t you want to have a drink with me? It’s a good night.” 

Al-Haitham rolls his eyes. “I thought you were working on having better drinking habits. Come on, we’re leaving.”

He drags Kaveh away. Unsteady on his feet, Kaveh wobbles, falling against Al-Haitham, who catches him without so much as wavering. It only makes Kaveh giggle some more, caught in his arms. 

“What are you laughing about?” huffs Al-Haitham. “Don’t make this any harder for me, and walk by yourself.” 

“That was entirely your fault, pulling at me like that.”

Al-Haitham scoffs. “I wouldn’t have had to if you had left with me nicely.” 

Kaveh shoves at Al-Haitham, not meaning it. “I wouldn’t be here in the first place if you hadn’t chosen your job over spending time with me.” 

At that, Al-Haitham shakes his head, barely disguising a scoff. “When have I ever chosen my job over anything? I have priorities, you know.” 

“Tonight!” argues Kaveh as he crosses his arms. Al-Haitham huffs a laugh. 

It’s a rare thing, being able to solicit such a sound. It’s nothing too crazy, just a subtle puff of air, but it makes Kaveh’s heart flower nonetheless. 

“Tonight, out of a lifetime of choosing otherwise. An outlier.” 

They make their way out of the tavern, and Kaveh is struggling to walk in a straight line, bumping incessantly into Al-Haitham. He’s handsome in the evening light, the lines of his face made dramatic by the shadows of the moon. 

“Stop,” Al-Haitham grumbles, a warm hand landing on Kaveh’s shoulder. “You keep bumping into me. Stop it.” 

“How?” 

The scribe heaves a huge sigh before letting Kaveh lean on him, carrying him once again. 

A cool breeze blows by them, but Kaveh is warm from the heat that spreads in his cheeks, to the heavy arm solid across his shoulders. The world spins around him, but a deep-seated security lies in his core, his foundation wearing silver hair and headphones around his neck. 

Kaveh lets himself wobble a little, delighted in the way Al-Haitham anticipates it, counters it, keeping Kaveh on his feet. One wrong move, and he’d slip and fall to the ground. One wrong move, and Kaveh’s head meets concrete as he descends, defenseless. They both know this. Still, he leans on Al-Haitham, lets the cloth of his cape brush up against the vulnerable skin of his neck, and trusts him to hold him steady. 

They’re at their door, and this is Kaveh’s favorite part of being brought home, because Al-Haitham lets him stand to the side, a hand resting on his shoulder. Kaveh likes having it there, something steady to lean on. The scribe fishes in his pockets for his keys, and it’s nice knowing that Al-Haitham will have them on him in case Kaveh doesn’t. He forgets them sometimes, but that’s not so bad because then he can find Al-Haitham to let him in, and they get to walk home together. And now that they aren’t walking, the world swirls a little still from the alcohol, but stands still just enough that Kaveh gets to look at Al-Haitham as his eyebrow scrunches and he fits the key into their keyhole. He’s using Kaveh’s key tonight, and although he complains about the lion keychain hanging off of it, his fingers move around it with a practiced grace. 

Al-Haitham takes Kaveh’s hand before pulling him gently through the threshold. The blond can’t hold back his giggle. 

Kaveh is held steady as he takes off his shoes and puts them right next to Al-Haitham’s, removes his cloak and puts it next to Al-Haitham’s too. Al-Haitham lies him on the divan—their favorite one, where they spend their evenings pressed against each other, ignoring the other two seats nearby. 

Al-Haitham takes a seat beside Kaveh’s head, and Kaveh is quick to lay his head in his lap, because he is his husband and he’s decided that he has a right to such things, after everything they’ve been through. 

Al-Haitham tenses, and Kaveh looks up at him inquisitively through his bangs. The scribe shakes his head in return, the hint of a smile tugging at the corners of his lips. 

“Husband,” Al-Haitham whispers as he brushes the hairs out of Kaveh’s eyes. He tucks a golden lock behind the architect’s ears. 

And Kaveh loves the sound of that, loves being this to Al-Haitham. His touch is tender as he removes the hair clips that have just begun to sting as they dug into Kaveh’s scalp. It’s a quiet affair, the rustling of Kaveh’s hair and the snap of his clips soft next to his ears. Wind whistles outside, and although the lights are out and it’s a cool night in Sumeru, the house feels alive. 

Kaveh looks at Al-Haitham and feels his heart beating in his chest. Not the thundering rush of adrenaline, buzzed like a live wire. A pulse of life, a wave crashing back to shore. He wants the warmth of his hand between his fingers, wants to watch the light reflect off his hair as he runs his hands through it. Kaveh looks at Al-Haitham and wants to be held close, kept. 

“How are you feeling?” asks Al-Haitham, in that lovely, quiet murmur his voice turns into when he is trying to be gentle. 

Kaveh loves him. 

“Does your head hurt?” 

Kaveh shakes his head no. 

Al-Haitham raises an eyebrow, and it’s Kaveh’s instinct to pretend to be annoyed, but what he does instead is smile. 

“You must’ve drunk quite a lot, huh.” 

This time, Kaveh does remember to be irked. He gives Al-Haitham a look. “What would you know?” 

Al-Haitham huffs a laugh, and all the fight drains out of Kaveh. Gods, he’s turned soft. 

“If only you could see yourself, Senior,” he says, voice soft as velvet as he runs his fingers through Kaveh’s hair, gentle with the tangles in a way even Kaveh is not. 

Al-Haitham shifts from under Kaveh, and the architect tries to nail him with the most pitiful-looking frown he can manage so Al-Haitham will feel bad for him and stay. Unfortunately, Al-Haitham was never known for his charitable soul. 

“I’m just getting you water,” says the scribe, and Kaveh hears the amusement in his voice. “I’ll be back.” 

And if Kaveh were sober, his pride would bite back. He would argue that he doesn’t need Al-Haitham to come back, doesn’t need him to nag at him and bring him water. But under the haze of alcohol, he is his husband, and Kaveh likes being coddled, but doesn’t want him to leave. 

“You would desert your husband in his needy hour?” Kaveh whines, the alcohol erasing the sense of shame he usually carries so closely with him. 

Al-Haitham freezes where he has just stood. He huffs, burying his face in his hands. 

“Do you even know what you’re saying?” he asks, and his voice sounds so small it makes something twinge in Kaveh’s heart. 

“Husband,” Kaveh whispers absentmindedly, just to hear the word again. He loves the way it feels, the way it rings true. “Listen to me. You might not hold any respect for your seniors, but you ought to be good and listen to your husband, hm? Don’t you want to stay? I’m here, what more could you want?”

Al-Haitham buries his face in his hands, which means Kaveh can’t look at him. He reaches for him. 

Al-Haitham peeks through his fingers at his hand. “Don’t be cruel,” the scribe says, voice so soft it’s almost imperceptible.

Kaveh cocks his head to the side, confused. Though he supposes, after all the blazing insults they’ve accustomed themselves to throwing around, the time has come to take it easy on Al-Haitham. After all, life hasn’t exactly been kind to either of them.

“I’ll be nice to you, come here though.” 

Al-Haitham sighs, which Kaveh is mildly offended by, but decides not to comment on. Al-Haitham takes his hand, looking at Kaveh through those unfairly long lashes of his, silver glittering from the corners of his gem-cut eyes. 

Kaveh pulls Al-Haitham closer—a little roughly— and the latter gasps as he stumbles forward. Once more, a laugh erupts from Kaveh’s lips. The corners of Al-Haitham’s twitch like he’s trying not to smile, and Kaveh can’t help it—he reaches out and touches his face. 

It’s delightful, the way Al-Haitham bows his head in response to his touch, pink blooming on the tips of his ears. Kaveh traces his fingers over the dips of his dimples, and some prideful part of him flowers from being able to elicit such a reaction from him, to recognize the joy they’ve built together. 

Here Kaveh rests, on a pillow they’d bought together at the market. It was some difficulty getting Al-Haitham to pay for it, but eventually, Kaveh had won him over. Al-Haitham is quiet and pliant in Kaveh’s hands now, the air of playful banter from just moments earlier gone. He’s sweet, like this. 

And maybe Kaveh won’t remember this moment in the morning, in which Al-Haitham is his husband and his hands are on his face. Maybe he’ll lack the courage to call him ‘husband’ once more, and the word will linger in the air, said once and nevermore. Regardless, the meaning will stay the same, a prophecy to be fulfilled. Kaveh will wake up in the home they’ve built together. Al-Haitham’s hair has grown silver since his youth, and one day, he’ll see Kaveh’s grow silver just like his. 

But maybe it’s only a matter of time now before someone garners the courage to say the words out loud once more. One can feel it in the soft glow of their lamp, the gold woven in the whorls of wood that make up their floor. The peace is disturbed, a stone cascading ripples through a pond. In due time, they’ll acknowledge—sober—what they’ve known for a while.

For now, Kaveh sips at the water Al-Haitham brought him when he had collected himself enough to tear himself away from Kaveh’s needy grasp. Al-Haitham pulls him carefully to his feet before depositing the architect into his bed. 

The blond shifts, beautiful, his hair pooling like spilt sunlight as it reflects the light of the hallway. 

“Goodnight, husband,” he murmurs sleepily for the last time, not quite ready to let go of it. 

Al-Haitham watches his eyes close, heart heavy in his chest. His voice hitches from between his lips. It’s only two words. 

“Goodnight, Kaveh.”