#Happy birthday to Alhaitham

[writing-badger]

The Drifter and the Stationary One

Pairing: Al-Haitham x Cyno

Summary:

The Mausoleum of King Deshret is a shrine to the dead; haunted by the mistakes of a man driven into madness. Only the dead linger there, waiting for the end of time to finally relieve them from their duty. At least, that's what the scholars who reside in Sumeru City are told.

After being exiled after a failed coup, Al-Haitham finds himself wandering into the abandoned mausoleum and inadvertently stumbling across something that he had never expected.

"Genre": Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting

Word Count: 3,946

Warnings: None

Ao3 Link

You and I are different. I'm a drifter; you're stationary. That's what it boils down to. When you're incompatible, you can't live together. You should know this. 

- Atsuko Asano, No. 6 (Volume 9)

~ ~ ~

It is often difficult to find beauty in dangerous things; fear manipulating the beautiful into the revolting. What was once a source of comfort can quickly become an intolerable nightmare, threatening to consume everything it touches. 

 It's a survival tactic; nothing more, nothing less. 

 Human perception has very little effect on physical reality outside of itself. A spider is a spider, no matter how much a certain roommate claims that it is some incomprehensible abomination. The Akasha is simply a system, not the replacement for a supposedly absent archon that the sages keep claiming it to be. 

 No matter how much Al-Haitham rationalises it, however, he can't shake the revulsion he feels when he thinks about Sumeru City. In all the ways he knows it, the city is the same now as it was when he was a child... and perhaps that is what causes him the greatest discomfort. The idea that, if only a few weeks ago, you had asked him to describe the city he calls home, he would have called it one of the most beautiful places in Teyvat makes him nauseous. 

 Sure, his reasonings would have differed from his roommate who would have pointed to the architecture, or his colleagues who would have focused on the views offered by the lush landscape. Al-Haitham would have looked to the countless books which line the House of Daena, or dwelt on how his home always has a warm glow emanating from deep inside. If he had been in a particularly sentimental mood, he may have even gestured to the divine tree which caresses the sky, or the crystal waters which lap at the harbour. 

 But the root of the problem is still there, buried underneath a fanciful illusion that there was ever beauty to be found there. 

 Now the very thought of the place sends a shiver running down his spine. He can only see Sumeru for what it truly is; a façade to hide the self-absorbed arrogance of the sages who yearned to become more than what they ever deserved to be. Even the divine tree, once a shelter from the roughest storms, ended up holding a prison for an archon who was never given a chance to grow.

 Is it possible for something so corrupt to ever be beautiful? How could the word even hold meaning when it is so loosely used and so easily defiled?

 These would be the types of discussions he would roll around in his head, sometimes seeking the opinions of others be them from the scribbled ravings of scholars from long ago, or from Kaveh’s impassioned ramblings about the most recent infringement on his artistic sensibilities. They would inform him of his own opinions, adding depth to his understanding, and anchoring his thoughts. 

 All he has left is desert which spreads out in front of him. The only sound which breaks through his thoughts is the sand-dusted wind, whispering in an illegible tongue. Small grains sneak under his clothes and bite into any exposed skin they can find.

 It irritates his skin, but he presses onwards. 

 There’s no telling how far he would have to go to escape the shadowy claws of the Akademiya. 

 The desert is the only place where he can have at least some guarantee of safety, with the Traveler pointing him to the Mausoleum of King Deshret. Apparently, they had opened up a path through the previously inaccessible temple, one that no scholar would be able to set foot in thanks to a copious amount of red tape.

 Perhaps, he muses to himself, that is one of the few advantages of his self-banishment. The laws of the Akademiya now hold little meaning to him. And with nothing to hold him back, a once muted curiosity begins to stir under his skin. 

~ ~ ~

From the instant he crosses over the threshold, Al-Haitham feels a chill sweep over his body, wiping away all traces of the scorching sun. Only the sand clinging to his skin remains. He readjusts his cloak, rubbing the exposed parts of his arms in an attempt to smooth the goosebumps which cover his skin. His attempts prove futile, however, as the unsettling sensation only becomes more prominent. 

 In an effort to distract himself, he begins working through the Akademiya's protocol for entering unexplored ruins. It's exceedingly long and mostly pointless. Still, it makes him feel a little more sure of himself; rooting his thoughts back to reality. 

 Since there are no immediate traces of activity, it’s likely that Al-Haitham is the only one wandering the mausoleum aside from the remnants of Deshret’s technology which sluggishly continue their endless patrol. It doesn’t necessarily mean that he is safe, but it is a damn sight better than wandering aimlessly in the desert.

 The Traveler claimed that there would be a vast network of barely explored hallways beneath his feet although Paimon had been quick to warn him of the primal constructs. Her attempts to mimic the machines had almost been enough to bring a small smile to his face. It was the best she could do to try and alleviate the consequences of their failure to usurp Grand Sage Azar. 

 The others tried to play it off, sharing responsibility and placing the blame at Azar’s feet. Dehya spent their last hour together cursing the man’s name while Candace sat next to her, sometimes brushing her partner’s arm in an attempt to calm her down. Nilou was still in Sumeru City, rallying all those she could, smuggling out updates whenever she could for the desert-based group. Tighnari had returned to Gandharva Ville in order to recover from his inures, but promised to help the second he felt able to. Al-Haitham knows that the blame lies at his feet. All he can do is put his trust in them now, leaving them with as detailed of a plan as he could conjure in the short time he had before his escape.

 Placing his trust in others, however, is something far easier said than done. He finds himself wondering if the Traveler was going to abandon him in the mausoleum, to add him to the collection of forgotten souls consumed by the desert. It’s a silly thought, one he acknowledges as nonsense, yet his mind still toys with it.

 Usually, he would turn up the volume of the music that plays through his headphones, but they ran out of power a couple of hours ago. If he's lucky, he might be able to repurpose one of the non-functioning constructs which litter the halls to become a makeshift battery. Some must have been taken out by the Traveller, based on the scratches which cover their metal coats. Others appear to have simply stopped working, perhaps giving up or running out of power.

 For a moment, Al-Haitham wonders what they must have looked like when they were first built, diligently guarding a near-empty Mausoleum.  

 They wouldn’t have been lonely, being machines created for a rather singular purpose, yet there is something rather… Al-Haitham can’t quite find the right word to describe the sensation in his chest as he thinks about it a little too hard. He can feel the vestiges of Kaveh lingering in the sentiment, perhaps born from one too many rambling speeches about Mehrak and the Akademiya’s callous approach to machinery. To be condemned to a fate that they had no control over, patrolling the halls until they grind to a halt, it doesn’t sit right with him. Those were the words he had used and Al-Haitham finds himself agreeing with them.

 Shaking these thoughts from his mind, he finds himself at a crossroads.

 Ahead is what he assumes to be the central chamber, a place where all of King Deseret’s wealth would have been hoarded. It would certainly be a spectacular sight although Al-Haitham isn’t the type of man to be impressed by gold. To his left and right are doors, leading to some other chambers which could be filled with who knows what treasures. What stands out most to him, however, is an elevator pad which is almost inconspicuous save for the dull blue button which juts out from the floor. While it would appear to not have any power, he can spot recent disturbances around the edge which means it’s been used recently. The Traveller hadn’t mentioned any underground passageways, which makes him wonder if someone else had dared to step foot in the Mausoleum. It piques his curiosity enough and, with a little bit of tinkering, he manages to get it working again.  

 The lower levels of the Mausoleum are far less well-kept than the upper level. Sand pools in the corners, wild fungi pop out every couple of metres, and the walls are marked by deep scratch marks. If he had to compare them to something, he would say that they resembled claw marks before immediately pointing out how foolish of a comparison that is. The only beings that would be capable of making such damage, in Sumeru at least, would be the consecrated beasts and, even then, they would lack the power to cut through stone.  

 It would be wise to proceed with caution, he ends up deciding. The last thing he needs is to inadvertently piss off whatever creature calls the mausoleum its home.

 The thought of returning to the safety of the upper Mausoleum never once crosses Al-Haitham's mind. 

~ ~ ~

There are dangerous creatures that scour the Mausoleum of King Deshret, some more so than others. It’s something that Al-Haitham is aware of, but he had no idea how much danger he was in until he came across a room that he suspects lies directly underneath the grand gallery. 

 It was probably once a subterranean chamber. Nowadays, the crumbling of its walls means that twisting roots have invaded it. The natural world, so opposed to the technology that King Deshret had once pioneered, entangles itself with the deactivated constructs. It's difficult to tell what its original purpose was. He only manages to light a small handful of torches with the equipment he has on him. 

 Al-Haitham would have spent time trying to light the room properly, but his attention is drawn to a pile of consecrated beasts that sits in the centre of the room. Each one has been torn to pieces, deep wounds marking any flesh that hasn’t been torn away from the bodies. Serpents, scorpions, and vultures make up most of the corpses, but he can spot the remains of a few crocodiles towards the base of the pile. With such a mix of elements, Al-Haitham is aware that his dendro vision may end up being of little use if he ends up confronting whatever was able to tear through the monsters as if they were little more than paper. 

 He's aware that there are two options for him. 

 The first would be to return the way he came, heading back towards the elevator and hoping that he doesn't run into whatever caused this carnage. The second would have been to try one of the other doors which line the hallway. If he had the time to think about it, he would have chosen the former. His curiosity may have been riled up, but he has the self-awareness to know when he is completely outpowered.

 Unfortunately, before he had been given the chance to consider his next course of action, his skin begins to prickle. Following it, the hairs on the back of his neck begin to stand up, accompanied by a faint whiff of ozone. It’s such a crisp smell that it cuts through the stagnant air of the mausoleum and almost makes Al-Haitham feel like he is outside, waiting for an oncoming storm. 

 The vision clinging to his cape glows in warning as he summons his weapons, knowing that he stands little chance without them. As he begins to slowly back up against one of the crumbling walls, his eyes darting around in an attempt to prevent an ambush, the faint sound of crackling electricity fills his ears.  

 “You should not have come here,” a low voice warns, drifting through the room with the same enrapturing energy as rolling thunder.

 Al-Haitham turns his eyes to the chamber’s entrance just as a purple glow begins emanating from the once-dark corridor. He starts to move toward the most collapsed area of the wall, thinking that he might be able to make a quick escape to whatever underground cavern the underground chamber intrudes upon.

 There are no distinguishable sounds, most being buried under the sound of crackling electricity, for him to be able to figure out how close the threat is. Instead, he finds himself relying on his instincts. The only reassurance he has is that the voice sounds remarkably human, perhaps giving him a chance to reason his way out of trouble. For now, he decides to keep his mouth firmly shut.

 “This is not a place for the living.”

 It’s closer now, and Al-Haitham readies himself in response. His ears ring in warning, drowning out the crackling sound and making it even more difficult to concentrate on the entrance. Then it falls silent, the thunder disappearing which leaves only the lightning to strike its target. 

 The room is plunged into darkness, the torches lining the chamber blowing out in an instant. It disorients the scribe, but not enough to completely dull his instincts as the ozone smell gets stronger. 

 Without wasting a single second, Al-Haitham launches himself towards the door; dodging a flash of lightning which lands where he had just been standing. The impact is so solid that the reverberations shake the ground, dislodging sand from overhead, and crumbling the wall he had previously had his back to. Stifling the burning urge to turn around, Al-Haitham keeps moving forward, managing to dodge a couple more strikes as he goes. 

 Based on his estimations there should only be a couple of metres left to the elevator, but he doesn’t make it.

 Claws latch onto his shoulder, piercing his skin as he is dragged backwards, spun around, and pinned against the wall. The impact of his head against stone sends a sharp pain shooting through his body, his eyes screwing shut in response.

 “Who are you?”

 The voice is so close that Al-Haitham can feel the words brush against his skin as whatever it is on his shoulder tightens its grip. He knows that he should look his attacker in the eye, otherwise, he risks looking weak, but he feels something he hasn’t felt in a long time. 

 Fear. 

 No part of his body seems to be doing what he wants it to. His eyes won’t open, his breathing won’t steady itself, and his heartbeat is so loud that he can barely think. He knows that he could die in an instant, and no one would know where he went. 

 “There is no bravery to be found in death,” his captor says as if Al-Haitham isn’t already acutely aware of this. 

 The thing seems to scoff at the lack of response, loosening its clawed grip on Al-Haitham’s shoulder as the sound of crackling subsides. For a moment, he finds himself able to breathe when a more human hand wraps around his neck and lifts him up, raising him off the ground. His feet swing limply in the air, not even trying to kick his attacker.

 “Open your eyes,” the voice orders and Al-Haitham obeys immediately. 

 If he hadn’t already been struggling to breathe, Al-Haitham is certain that the sight in front of him would have knocked the air out of his lungs. 

 Rather than a monster towering over him, he finds himself staring down at a shorter man. White hair flows down from a jackal-shaped headpiece, and red eyes stare up at him, narrowed in warning. Al-Haitham can’t be sure whether it is fear, adrenaline, or some unknown feeling that stirs within him, but he feels like he is falling. 

 “I will only ask once more, who are you?” 

 The man loosens his grip briefly, allowing Al-Haitham to take a choking breath in. 

 “A lost scribe,” Al-Haitham struggles to answer, bowing to the implicit authority that the other holds but cryptic enough to maintain a sliver of control. 

 “I’ve known many scribes,” the man’s eyes are cold, “and they’ve always had a name.”

 “Al-Haitham,” he cedes. 

 “Scribe Al-Haitham, you must leave this place.”

 If it wasn’t for the precarious position Al-Haitham finds himself in, he would have made a snarky comment about his attacker not knowing the meaning of the word ‘lost’. Instead, he settles on a far deadlier response.

 “A name given deserves one in return.”

 The man frowns, his grip remaining loose, but Al-Haitham doesn’t move. 

 “Cyno.”

 “That’s it?”

 “You expected more?” 

 The muted surprise in Cyno’s tone doesn’t go unnoticed. 

 “Well, I figured you would have a title,” Al-Haitham clarifies. 

 “Most would call me ‘Monster’,” Cyno says, fully releasing Al-Haitham who collapses to his knees and his hand shoots to his throat. He doesn’t need a mirror to know that bruises are already forming where the man’s hand had once been. Cyno, for his part, considers his words for a moment before adding, “I suppose, before that, it would have been something akin to General.”

 As Al-Haitham steadies his breathing, he finds himself looking up at Cyno and wonders how anyone could dare call the man a monster. Everything about him is as close to ethereal as you could get, from his piercing eyes to his overwhelming strength. He hesitates when the word he should use graces his tongue, stung by it one too many times, but there is nothing else that fits. 

 Beautiful. 

 Cyno looks so very beautiful. 

~ ~ ~

Al-Haitham was quick to tell Cyno his story, detailing the events that led to him wandering the desert in search of shelter. He spins a tale of a traveler, mercenary, leader, and dancer who are putting their lives on the line to save an archon. He mentions a forest ranger in Gandharva Ville, and sprinkles in some other things that may be interesting. He complains about a hapless architect, and an overbearing professor who is far too passionate for her own good, sharing a couple of anecdotes to illustrate his points.

 Cyno, for his part, simply listens. At points, Al-Haitham is certain he has transformed into a statue with how still he could be. Not even the slightest muscle twitch, or feigned acknowledgement, makes its way to his face.  

 It’s understandable, Al-Haitham reasons, with how long Cyno must have been alone. Practising conversation must be extremely difficult when all you have are fungi and machinery to call friends. It would also explain why Cyno still struggles to talk for long periods of time, his throat growing hoarser after only a couple of minutes. Al-Haitham can’t help but muse to himself about how endearing the general is, especially when he starts talking about his passions. It took only one stilted conversation about ley lines for Cyno to spill his heart out, relaxing far faster than the scribe had anticipated. Although it still took some effort on his part, carefully choosing his words to avoid having a spear tip shoved in his face. 

 Still, the mausoleum wouldn’t be able to shelter the scribe for long. All the water sources had been depleted, and food was running scarce. After only three weeks, Al-Haitham finds himself standing at the main entrance to the large pyramid with a heavy decision to make. 

 He could try returning to Sumeru, braving the threat of the Akademiya... and end up putting the others in danger. He could flee to another nation; Inazuma or Mondstadt being the safest bets... leaving him completely. Or he could stay, allowing the Mausoleum of King Deshret to claim another soul but at least having company in his final moments. 

 “You’re leaving already?” 

 Cyno’s voice cuts through Al-Haitham’s thoughts, drawing his attention to the shorter man who now stands beside him. 

 “I won’t last here for much longer,” he says, acutely aware of the other man. Cyno doesn’t say anything for a moment, his hair swaying in the sandy breeze. 

 “This is a place of death,” he acknowledges, “it wasn’t built to keep people alive.”

 “Yet here you stand,” Al-Haitham mumbles, his gaze tearing away from the endless sand to stare at the captivating walking contradiction. 

 “Would you really say I’m alive?”

 “I can't say that you're anything else,” he says, watching as Cyno’s gaze turns to the floor. It is as stoic as ever, but Al-Haitham knows it’s because he’s feeling a little bit flustered. It's a look the scribe has learned to recognise, usually after the general shares a particularly painful pun that stops a conversation dead in its tracks.

 Al-Haitham knows that this should be the moment he leaves; delivering a last verbal jab before walking into the desert never to return. It would be the best option for both of them, yet he can’t move an inch. 

 “Don’t you ever want to leave?”

 The question falls from his lips before he can fully process what he is doing, the last vestiges of logic and reason fleeing from his grasp. 

 “I am bound to this place as the last remaining general,” Cyno finally says, an uncertainty briefly flashing through his eyes but not escaping Al-Haitham's attention, “I cannot abandon it so freely.”

 “But there is no one left,” Al-Haitham counters, playing on the general's momentary doubt, “you owe this place no loyalty. They condemned you to… to this loneliness.”

 “You see it as their condemnation, I see it as my duty,” he says, his tone not quite matching the feigned smile which falters on his face, ”of course, I would never expect a scribe to understand. Your loyalties are as fickle as your interests.”

 “My interests are not so fickle,” Al-Haitham argues, although he doesn’t push his previous point any further. He can recognise when someone is deflecting from the real crux of the issue. 

 “Oh, only yesterday you were obsessed with a bunch of scrolls, and now you’re talking of abandoning them without a second thought,” Cyno counters, briefly glancing at Al-Haitham from the corner of her eyes. 

 “You got me,” he says, holding his hands up in mock surrender. The scrolls may have been left at the wayside, but that's only because he has something far more tantalizing in his sights.

 A comfortable silence falls over them as they watch a lone construct drift across the sands. It spins in a lazy circle before continuing on its predetermined course. 

 Cyno is the one who breaks the silence, his voice far softer than anything Al-Haitham had heard before.

“Even if I wanted to leave, I can’t live anywhere else…”

 Al-Haitham is quiet again, his mind turning those words over in his head as he gathers all the courage he can muster. In a swift movement, he turns to Cyno and reaches out his hand, leaving the palm turned up in front of the other.

 “Then will you die with me, Cyno?”

 It’s a selfish question born from a desire that Al-Haitham doesn’t fully understand. Later, when time has taught him and taken more in exchange, he would come to truly comprehend what he felt in this moment. But, as Cyno places his trust in the palm of Al-Haitham’s hand, he can only think one thing. 

 Falling alone is a terrifying thing, so it would be best to drag someone else down with him. 

[rissaito]

hm, the commotion isn’t unwelcome… just this time.

[genshin-impact-updates]

Happy Birthday, Alhaitham!

[iiping]

kaveh snapping at alhaitham for buying another ugly wood carving… except he forgot it was his birthday 👀

read my short fic on twitter here or see more below! 🫶

—

“This looks absolutely nothing like me!” Kaveh snaps at the rough-out Aranara carving that suddenly shows up one morning, looking so blonde and angry.

Alhaitham comes out of his room at this moment and walks over to their common shelf where the architect stands.

Kaveh has a meeting with a particularly frustrating client today and he’s feeling so anxious that he cannot help but snaps at Alhaitham too, “How many times do I have to tell you not to bring ugly wood carvings into our home!?”

Alhaitham looks at Kaveh, his lips tightens. Something unfathomable flashes across his eyes and disappears just as suddenly.

“Do whatever you want with it then,” Alhaitham says finally after an awkward silence. Then he grabs his key from the shelf and turns his back to walk towards the front door without saying another word.

Kaveh looks at him leaving the house in puzzlement. It is not a rare occasion to see the Scribe not bothering to argue with him but Alhaitham never walks away after saying only one sentence before. He looks as if he’s angry or even…pouting? Kaveh is not sure if that word can describe Alhaitham.

Maybe Kaveh did something wrong? He gasps at the thought.

Is it because the smell of the cream soup he made yesterday was too strong? Or maybe it was the fact that the house is now so messy because he’s in the middle of tidying up things? Or maybe he moved or touched some books he wasn’t supposed to?

Kaveh ends up thinking for the whole day. He even spaces out during the client’s meeting and almost drops the model when he tries to present his plan.

He thinks and thinks but nothing comes to his mind. They have been on unusually pretty good terms lately, so he cannot think of something recent that might have made Alhaitham upset.

Kaveh is so deep in thought he almost bumps into Collei on the way home.

“Ah! Sorry!” Kaveh exclaims then realizes who it is, “Collei! I didn’t know you were in town today!”

Somehow, the trainee Forest Ranger looks shocked to see him. She quickly picks up something that fell to the ground when they bumped into each other earlier. Kaveh catches a glimpse of a small green box with yellow ribbon before Collei swiftly hides it behind her back.

“It’s so good to see you! Wanna grab something to eat?” Kaveh asks, ignoring her suspicious behavior. He’s not ready to go home just yet, not when he still hasn’t figured out what he did wrong.

“Uh, sorry I have somewhere to be today,” Collei replies nervously, avoiding to meeting his eyes, “If you will excuse me, I really need to get going.”

Then she takes off before he can say another word.

Kaveh ruffles his hair in confusion. What is going on today?

After wandering around aimlessly for a while, he decides that he has no other place to go except the good old Lambad’s Tavern.

He sits down at a table and orders a drink even though it’s merely 5PM.

“Hey, Kaveh!” Lambad shouts his name from behind the counter, “That one’s on the house! Happy Birthday!”

Oh. Shit.

A realization strikes him like a bolt of lightning.

“How could I forget!” he cries, standing up abruptly, “It is my birthday!”

He tells Lambad that he’ll take a raincheck on that glass of wine before leaving the tavern. Kaveh rushes home as fast as he can and finds Alhaitham standing in front of the shelf with the Aranara carving on one hand and a bag on another.

Alhaitham raises his eyebrows when he sees Kaveh practically flying from the front door.

“No, wait—-“ Kaveh tries to catch his breath, “D-don’t throw that away!”

“Oh?” Alhaitham puts down the Aranara and turns to face the architect. “Seems like you finally remember something.”

“Sorry for what I said this morning,” Kaveh blurts out, “I know it sounds like an excuse but that client’s project kept me frustrated all night and I shouldn’t have taken it on you.”

Alhaitham looks at him silently.

“Alright, alright,” Kaveh puts two hands in the air, “I apologize for calling it ugly.”

The Scribe lets out a chuckle right this second. It is clear that he does not intend put up any fights with Kaveh on his birthday.

Alhaitham hands him the Aranara in question and asks, “Will you also stop calling my other wood carvings ugly?”

“Well, I wouldn’t go that far,” Kaveh replies with a beaming smile. His eyes light up as he takes the wooden figure in his hands.

Alhaitham gives him birthday presents every year but they are usually books or drafting tools. This is the first time Kaveh has received something custom-made. Well, from anyone, really.

“I don’t know what’s gotten into me this morning,” he mumbles, feeling the rough wood under his fingers. “Sure, it looks a bit cruder than that one in your bedroom which I kind of like, but the more you look at it, the mor—- Hey!”

“I changed my mind,” Alhaitham announces with a straight face, the Aranara is now back to his hand. “I’m taking it back.”

Kaveh blinks.

“What did you just say!?” he raises his voice.

“I don’t see any reasons why it should be in the possession of someone who doesn’t appreciate it,” he replies simply while putting the wooden figure in the bag, then starts to walk to the entrance hall.

“How do you know I don’t appreciate it!?” Kaveh follows him, trying so hard not to yell at his back, “This is ridiculous! You just gave it to me literally a second ago!”

That does not make Alhaitham slow down one bit. In the heat of the moment, Kaveh charges at him without thinking.

Next thing he knows, they are both on the floor with Alhaitham being beneath him. He quickly snatches the bag from the Scribe’s hand and sits up.

“Ha!” Kaveh exclaims, raising it in the air in victory. “You cannot walk away from me this time! Don’t you know that it’s rude to take back what you have given!?”

When there isn’t any response, Kaveh glances down, only to see that Alhaitham is covering his face laughing.

Kaveh looks at this scene in disbelief.

“Were you just teasing me!?” he asks with a high-pitched voice, “Oh my god, who are you? What have you done to my Alhaitham?”

“I couldn’t help,” he is still laughing, “You should’ve seen your face.”

It’s extremely rare for Kaveh to see a silly side of Alhaitham, let alone seeing him laughing like this. Kaveh stares dazedly at him, completely forgetting why he was mad in the first place.

“You can have the Aranara,” Alhaitham says with a smile, “Will you get off me now? Although I don’t really mind—-”

Kaveh interrupts this sentence with a cough, just realizing what a dangerous position they are in. He shifts to move out of the way, but at this moment, a small piece of paper falls of the bag and lands on Alhaitham’s chest.

The Scribe’s eyes widen as he moves to reach for it, but Kaveh is quicker.

Seeing what’s on there, he is speechless.

Alhaitham covers his face again, but his ears are turning visibly red. The worse thing is, Kaveh can also feel his face burning too.

“You carved this,” he asks softly, “for me?”

After a while, Alhaitham admits with a sigh, “Yes.”

Kaveh is dumbfounded. He assumed that it was merely a commission. Never has he ever thought Alhaitham would go that far to do something like this for him.

“That’s why you’ve been coming home late for the past week!” Kaveh just remembers how unusual it was when he said that he needed to work overtime.

“You knowing this wasn’t part of the plan, I was too careless.” he says flatly and decides to pull himself up, unintentionally getting closer to Kaveh. “Now it’s good time for you to forget you have seen that workshop receipt.”

“Nuh-uh,” Kaveh pokes his chest, “This Aranara is now worth a million mora to me.”

“You have just burdened yourself with a new enormous debt then” Alhaitham teases.

“Hey!”

“I think wood craving has grown on me.” Alhaitham smiles, “So I’m afraid you’ll have to put up with these ugly figurines for now.”

“Come on, they are not that ugly,” Kaveh chuckles, “But we do need to set up a proper corner for them so they don’t disrupt the current aesthetic.”

The Scribe can’t help but roll his eyes at this comment.

“Seriously though, thank you” Kaveh softly touches his shoulder and looks directly into his eyes, “It’s the first time someone did something so special for me. I will always treasure it.”

The Scribe stares back at him and without a warning, Alhaitham pulls him into his arms and whispers to his hair, “Happy Birthday, Kaveh.”

After that, Collei, along with Cyno and Tighnari, burst open their front door right when they are still hugging in the hallway. Kaveh’s face turns as red as a tomato as Alhaitham helps him up on his feet.

The night cannot be more perfect. The house is filled with the smell of good food, laughers and joy. His most favorite dishes are laid out on the table and the gifts are waiting for him to open. Wine never tastes better and even Cyno’s jokes are funnier than usual.

Kaveh watches as everyone starts to eat and cheerfully discuss about what games they are going to play tonight. His heart aches a bit thinking of how much he does not want to ever lose this; his friends, his happiness, his home.

And when his eyes accidentally meet with Alhaitham’s, he cannot help but wonder, would things turn out differently if he hadn’t met the Scribe at the tavern that night where he had taken Kaveh in?

He tries harder now to stay happy, to actually listen to some of Alhaitham’s advice, the sensible ones at least.

“Don’t burden yourself with something unnecessary from the past and from the future”, he would say.

So instead of dwelling on the past regrets and unknown future, Kaveh thinks he is ready now to find comfort in the present happiness.

(END)

[waltyamart]

happy birthday haitham 🌱 !!

[anime-grimmy-art]

I got blindsided by Alhaitham's bday, so I went into a frenzy and churned this out in a day.

I could just have made a really simple drawing but noooo, I had to do a comic with freaking geometry/background, I hate myself

Anyways, happy birthday Mr. Scribe, I will pull for you one day and reunite you with your hubby!!

[battleonthebigbridge]

So uh... Haha... Ha...

I'm sorry for being a SHIPPER on main but like. It's the way that Kaveh is so casual about it, the mention of a home, the casual "we compared" "we decided" as if it's just natural????? I'm so. Normal.

[ama-kuri]

HAPPY BIRTHDAY, KAVEH!!!

[kazumist]

A BELOVED BIRTHDAY .ᐟ

✩ — in which alhaitham just wants to go home on his birthday.

✩ — alhaitham x gn!reader. fluff. no cws. wc: 602. reader and haitham are married in this. clingy alhaitham (he's just tired from work :(). reblogs and feedback are well appreciated !!

if there was one word to describe alhaitham at the moment, it would surely be tired. although, of course, he wouldn’t make it obvious that he is tired. but seriously? working on his own birthday? it pained him. it pained him to leave you so early into the day on the bed you two shared. instead of getting greeted by a warm birthday kiss from you, he got greeted with a cold kiss from the early morning air. 

five minutes.

just five more goddamn minutes—and he’s free.

everyone around him could sense that the acting grand scribe wasn't necessarily in a good mood today. the scowl on his face was good enough to compare it to another scholar in the vahumana department of the akademiya (though please don’t tell either of them that—it might just make their mood go even more sour).

alhaitham’s attention was completely focused on his wrist watch, his eyes following the movement of the hand that indicated the seconds. three minutes. he thought. is it just him or is time just moving faster today? 

alhaitham was always a man who kept his composure. although most of the time he’s just really blunt, it was a rare sight to see the acting grand scribe act so… impatient. 

two minutes.

two minutes and he’ll be out of here.

-

meanwhile, on your part, you were currently preparing a simple cake for your beloved husband. of course, the fact that he had to go to work on his own birthday bummed you out (you were originally planning to surprise him with breakfast in bed but alhaitham was the one who ended up making your breakfast before he left). 

mixing the icing that you’ll use to spell out the words, “happiest birthday, hayi!” you quickly checked the time. your eyes widened when you realized that you didn’t have that much time left before the clock reached alhaitham’s estimated time of arrival. 

swiftly finishing the icing, you poured it onto the icing bag and started spelling out the birthday greeting. surely you could make it in time to decorate, right?

-

finally.

alhaitham can finally go home. he was personally never the one who was that interested in spending birthdays. that is, until he met you, of course. the first time alhaitham spent his birthday with you by his side, he vowed to never spend his birthday without you.

he lets out a sigh. the exhaustion from all the agendas he had to work on today was taking a toll on him. however, he felt slightly better when your shared place came into his view. he’s finally home.

a knock was heard on your part and you knew it was him. luckily enough, you were already done with the cake. however, you were still a mess with flour and other baking ingredients all over your apron. with hurried steps, you went to the door and fixed your appearance a bit.

well, you certainly expected your husband to be the one on the other side of the door but you didn’t expect him to slump against you immediately. “hayi, i’m still covered in flour.” you laugh at him. he buries his face in the crook of your neck, basking in your warmth. he felt your hands play with the roots of his hair by his nape and refused to move.

“...ally home," you heard him mumble.

“hmm?”

“i’m finally home," he says, standing up properly now. a hand finds its way to his cheek, your thumb caressing his skin. “happy birthday.” you greeted him and pressed a soft kiss on his lips afterwards.

welcome home, alhaitham.

[4dango-the2nd]

Happy belated Birthday Alhaitham!

I have neither time nor inspiration to do a proper birthday comic for haitham 😔 so have a hug from your no.1 fan instead, alhaitham! oh, and a grilled flying serpent lmao

[miniemizu]

HAPPY BIRTHDAY ALHAITHAM!! 🌱🏛️🎂 it's my favorite boi's birthday, hope he gets lots of love and kisses today 💞

[harmonysanreads]

ᯓᡣ𐭩 hexagon complete !

[yaepyep]

[ Reference from Kaveh‘s birthday chibi art]

Bonus hehehe

[tsokolatesea]

Happy Birthday to Alhaitham! He got a lot of stuff he wanted from his birthday present!

[genshin-impact-updates]

Happy Birthday, Alhaitham!

"Ah, look! Is Alhaitham taking a nap?"

"Shh... You're too loud, Paimon."

"Th—That's not true... Paimon was definitely whispering..."

"So, what do we do now? Someone opened the door for us, but who's going to wake him up..."

"Paimon heard it was his birthday today and wanted to stop by and say 'hello.' Why don't we leave him a note?"

"Paimon... Paimon isn't going to be the one to call him! If Paimon wakes him up, he's going to start asking lots of impossible questions!"

[teamunee]

alhaitham 🤝 me

feb 11th born kaveh stans