Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

Alhaitham had not planned to become one of the most successful comic book authors in Teyvat. That particular misfortune was the result of poor judgment—his—and even poorer taste—everyone else's.

Five years ago, he had read Friendjutsu: Path of Eternal Bonds, the best-selling action manga of the decade. It was praised as a generation-defining story, the kind of work future scholars might reference when describing the era.

However, in practice, it was formulaic trash.

The protagonist's strongest technique was screaming about friendship in bold, italicized font as if that made his point any more clear than taking up 5 pages doing just that. Villains abandoned entire life philosophies after being punched once, sometimes twice, if they were particularly stubborn. Every arc introduced a new threat with world-ending stakes, only to end in a sermon about destiny and the transformative power of having classmates who cared about you. 

Readers declared it profound. Alhaitham thought it to be simpleton propaganda for codependency.

Certainly, anyone with a functioning hand could do better. 

So, as anyone with enough free-time would do, he submitted a one-shot parody to that same publisher.

It's not like he tried to make it subtle in the slightest. The protagonist had two dead parents, three hidden bloodline powers, and a prophecy vague enough to apply to anyone within a ten-kilometer radius. His rival was contractually obligated to appear shirtless once every five chapters, their "brotherhood" indistinguishable from repressed homosexuality. Every line of dialogue was deliberately overwrought, with a name so aggressively long it could barely fit across the magazine's cover, the kind of nonsense string of words that sounded profound only if one ignored the fact that none of them meant anything. 

He had assumed no editor alive would publish something that already read like a self-parody.

The point should have been obvious.

It was not.

The editors at Vision Jump Weekly, a magazine already infamous for mistaking volume for quality, hailed it as "bold" and "revolutionary." They praised its "subversive energy" and "unflinching emotional depth."

Within weeks, his joke had been serialized under the title 

Infinite//Requiem//Fate

Legend of the Forsaken Brotherhood: 

The Ultimate Beginning.

Re:birth.

Within months, it had become one of the magazine's leading properties.

And for five years now, Alhaitham had been trapped by his own parody.

No one knew. Most certainly not his roommate. That was for the best. The series had never been meant to matter.

If Kaveh ever discovered the truth, Alhaitham suspected he would not survive the fallout.

"Tragic nobility," Kaveh was saying now, gesturing at a sketch pinned to the wall. "You can see it in the way Rion holds himself. The restraint, the suffering—"

Alhaitham stepped carefully over what might have once been a pile of laundry but now contained an alarming number of pins and other things he didn't quite know the purpose of. 

"Now will you explain why it looks like this? It might be contagious. I'd prefer it not spread to the dining area."

Kaveh spun around, affronted, golden hair falling across his face in a way that might have looked charming, if not paired with the smear of silver paint on his cheek. 

"It's cosplay. You know this."

"That explains what it is," Alhaitham said. "Not why it looks like a fabric merchant was murdered in here."

Kaveh threw his arms up, nearly knocking over a prop that had been drying on his desk. "Because I'm working! Do you think twenty-seven embroidered fastenings just sew themselves?"

Alhaitham glanced at the garment draped over the back of Kaveh's chair.

"No. But I assumed no rational person would attempt it either."

"You have no appreciation for detail. You think Rion would be caught dead in something sloppy?"

Alhaitham folded his arms. "Considering Rion isn't real, yes."

"He is real. He's real in here." Kaveh jabbed a paint-stained finger at his chest.

"In your chest cavity?" Alhaitham asked. "Concerning."

"Condescending," he snapped back, cheeks flushing. "What you don't understand is that cosplay is a medium. It's—" he waved a hand at the scene around him, glittering under the lamplight—"self expression."

"This casserole of fabric you're lying in?"

"You," Kaveh huffed, turning back to his sketch as if dismissing Alhaitham outright. "Do you know how many hours it takes to get an embroidered trim just right? Do you know how hard it is to replicate armor plating with EVA foam so that it doesn't look like a children's toy?"

"I would say too many, judging from the state of our carpet." Alhaitham nudged an abandoned glue stick with the toe of his slipper. "And considering you've just described work with no practical function, I'd add: wasted."

"No practical—? It's performance art! You wouldn't look at a painter and say their canvas has no function!"

"I would if the painter spilled everything into the hallway."

"You are simply insufferable."

Alhaitham allowed himself the faintest shrug. Kaveh always worked himself into a frenzy when defending his so-called art, and experience had proven that any attempt to reason with him was futile. Letting him rant until he collapsed under his own dramatics was faster.

But, predictably, Kaveh wasn't finished. He swept the half-finished coat off the chair and thrust it forward. "Look. Just look at this stitchwork."

Alhaitham studied the coat. It was a maze of brocade, layers, and embroidery disturbingly elaborate. While technically impressive, Alhaitham couldn't help but wonder what purpose any of this served. Costume design had nothing to do with what he watched poor teenage Kaveh pour his blood, sweat and tears into for all of those traumatizing years in school. 

He considered pointing out that actual architecture, unlike cosplay, had to obey the laws of physics. He decided against it. Kaveh's voice was already climbing.

"Rion deserves accuracy," Kaveh declared, hugging the coat against his chest, his own priceless relic. "Do you know what it means to embody someone whose every panel is a study in restraint? To capture not only his suffering, but his dignity?"

"Yes," Alhaitham said. "It means my dining table will remain buried until next week."

Kaveh groaned, throwing the coat onto the same table, feeling wrongfully persecuted. 

"You mock because you don't understand. But when the time comes, and people see this, they'll understand. They'll feel it."

Alhaitham sat down in Kaveh's chair, ignoring the glitter on the cushion. "I'd feel it more if you vacuumed."

Kaveh opened his mouth to argue again, then stopped. His shoulders dropped, and he picked at a loose stitch instead.

"…I will," he murmured. "Obviously. I wouldn't make you do it."

Alhaitham raised a brow. "Are you admitting it's ridiculous?"

Kaveh's head snapped up, glare half-hearted. "I'm admitting it's my ridiculousness. Don't twist it."

That hung for a little bit. He turned back to the desk too quickly, rifling through scraps like they needed urgent attention, ears pink.

Alhaitham leaned back in the chair. "That explains the three a.m. sewing."

Kaveh shot him a look over his shoulder. "You notice that?"

"I notice anything that interrupts my sleep."

Kaveh brightened immediately, indignation replaced with triumph. "See? You do understand."

"I said it explains your questionable choices," Alhaitham corrected.

Kaveh muttered something unintelligible under his breath at that, rolling his eyes. 

"If this mess spreads any further, the coat goes in the dumpster."

Kaveh clutched it protectively to his chest, affronted. "Over my dead body."

Before Alhaitham could reply, a knock sounded. Courtesy taps delivered a second too late, because the door was already swinging open. Moments like this made him regret letting Kaveh give his friends a spare key.

"Dead body?" Cyno asked from the threshold. "Do I need to file a report?"

Tighnari leaned around him, taking in the mess. "No, but you might need a hazmat team."

Collei peeked in last, her wide eyes immediately landing on the discarded fabric across the floor. "Wow, it's… sparkly."

Kaveh groaned. "Do none of you understand boundaries?"

"We knocked," Cyno said.

"While you opened the door!"

Tighnari stepped inside anyway. "Wait—don't tell me. This is for LuminaCon, isn't it?"

Collei brightened. "The cosplay contest? You're entering, right?"

Kaveh straightened immediately, coat still clutched dramatically to his chest. "Of course I'm entering. Do you think I'd spend eighty hours sewing for no reason?"

"Statistically," Cyno said, "yes."

Alhaitham didn't look up from his book. "And irrationally, still yes."

Kaveh spun on him, hair flying. "You—! You have no vision." He turned back to the others, eyes wide with fervor. "When I step on that stage, embodying Rion, people will feel it. The weight of his role—"

"Alright," Tighnari interrupted with a hand before the speech could begin devolving. He stepped closer, peering at the coat with a practiced eye. "I'll admit… the embroidery's clean. It's remarkable. And the fabric choice… good call. Rion's design falls apart if you pick something too shiny."

Collei's eyes widened. "You sure do know a lot about this."

"…I've judged three. Not professionally, but. You know."

"What?" Kaveh gawked. "And you mock me?"

"I mock everyone," Tighnari replied smoothly. "But I'm also qualified." He lifted the coat, inspecting the seams. "If you finish this properly, you'll place. Maybe not first, but—"

"Blasphemy," Kaveh cut him off, horrified. "First is the only option."

Cyno, who had been relatively quiet until now, shifted against the doorframe. "First is unlikely. One contestant's costume involves a full fiberglass chestplate. It already went viral."

"You've been following the thread too?" Collei gasped.

Cyno's expression didn't change. "It's intriguing."

Alhaitham finally glanced up. "You all sound deranged."

Collei ignored him, beaming at Kaveh. "I think you'll look amazing anyway."

Kaveh preened, vindicated, until Tighnari hummed under his breath. 

"Though honestly, I never understood why people love IRFLOTFBTUBRB so much. The pacing is—"

Kaveh narrowed his eyes. "How dare you."

Tighnari raised a brow, shrugging. "I'm just saying, it drags in the middle arcs. All those flashbacks—"

"…What is Irflo…tofu…asdfghjkl?"

"They're integral," Kaveh shot back, glaring. "Every flashback adds depth. You don't cut the spine out of a story because you're impatient."

Cyno leaned slightly toward Collei. "Infinite Requiem Fate, Legend of the Forsaken Brotherhood, the Ultimate Beginning, Rebirth."

"Oh," she murmured. "Right."

Tighnari crossed his arms. "You can call it that, sure. However, I call it pushing more tragic backstory to distract from how nothing ever happens."

Kaveh bristled. "You're just mad it ended Friendjutsu's 1st place streak at the Celestia Choice Storycraft Awards."

Tighnari squinted. "That was rigged and you know it."

"Rigged by taste," Kaveh laughed. "Sorry Fraudjutsu got dethroned by actual writing."

"And maybe if Requiem-Blood-Whatever-The-Fuck didn't dedicate five entire episodes to the same dead sibling memory loop, it would've earned that award on merit."

"Remind me who won and who didn't?"

"You know damn well!"

Collei, caught in the middle, raised her hand timidly.

Kaveh reared back, tone dropping to something gentle and inviting. "Yes, Collei? You had a thought?"

"I liked the flashbacks. Especially the one where Rion remembered his third cousin-in-law's betrayal during a rainstorm. The lightning forming the clan insignia in the background was powerful."

Kaveh softened immediately, taking her hand with solemn gratitude. "Exactly. Thank you, Collei. You actually understand."

Cyno cocked his head. "To be fair, the series spends more time in flashback panels than in the present timeline. Entire volumes are just memories."

"That's the point! Memory shapes identity—Rion is defined by his past!"

"So is his fanbase, apparently. Let's move on." Tighnari shot Kaveh a sidelong glance. "Speaking of which, are you going to throw yourself at the author if you ever meet him? Or just build a shrine?"

Kaveh froze, color rushing into his cheeks. "Excuse me?"

Collei giggled. "No, it's true! You talk about him like he's a prophet. You've quoted his author notes at least ten times this week."

"I appreciate genius, I guess," Kaveh said stiffly.

"Appreciate?" Cyno snorted. "That's not the word I'd use."

Kaveh's ears went pinker. "I admire his craft, alright? He's elevated storytelling to an art form—his command of structure, his mastery of theme—"

Alhaitham chimed in there. "His fondness for shirtless rivals."

Kaveh whipped toward him. "You wouldn't understand. Don't butt in."

Collei leaned against the desk, grinning. "I still think you'd faint if you met him in person."

"I would not," Kaveh insisted. "I'd thank him for his work, politely, like any civilized admirer."

"Then collapse afterward," Tighnari said.

"Face down," Cyno added.

Collei burst out laughing, and Kaveh groaned, burying his face in the coat.

Kaveh muffled into the fabric, "Not that it matters. He's not even coming to this convention, so you can all stop—"

"Yes, he is," Collei cut in gleefully. "They just posted it like an hour ago. Special guest appearance, signing session, all that."

Kaveh's head shot up, eyes wide. "What?"

Tighnari pulled out his phone, scrolling. "She's right. Official account. Meet & greet and fansign on the last day." He tilted the screen toward Kaveh, who promptly gasped. 

Cyno, never one to waste words, said simply, "You're going to embarrass yourself."

Kaveh gaped over Tighnari's phone. "He's really coming here. To our area. Do you know what this means?"

"That you'll make a scene," Cyno said.

"That I'll make an impression," Kaveh corrected. 

“Uhuh,” Cyno replied, passively.

"Okay, but objectively," Kaveh started, pacing back and forth across the living room rug, "do you guys think he's hot?"

Tighnari didn't look up. "We've never seen his face, Kaveh."

"That's not the point! It's about the aura." Kaveh gestured vaguely toward the ceiling. "I need to know if the vessel matches the prose. If the writing is that good, the man has to be at least a solid eight, right?"

"You're objectifying him," Collei said, though she was grinning. "He's an author, not a piece of meat."

"I can appreciate his mind and his face simultaneously," Kaveh argued. "I'm very good at multitasking."

Cyno, who was now sitting on the floor leaning back against the sofa, looked up. "You're nervous."

"He's never been in public before," Kaveh waved his hands. "What if we make eye contact and I die? What if he's weird? What if he has a nasally voice?"

"His writing voice is distinct," Cyno said. "It's likely his speaking voice is similar."

"That doesn't mean anything! I have a great internal monologue and my speaking voice is—" Kaveh cut himself off, glaring at them. "Stop looking at me like that. I just want to know if he's handsome. Is that a crime?"

"It's not," Tighnari snorted, finally looking up from his phone. "But you're acting like this is a blind date. Try to focus on the character you're representing. You can impress him that way."

"I can focus on both! Rion is beautiful, therefore the creator must possess some inherent aesthetic awareness—"

Thump.

Alhaitham, who had gone very quiet, snapped his book shut. The sound made Kaveh jump.

"I need to make a call."

Kaveh blinked at him. "A call? To who?"

"Work."

Tighnari frowned. "You've never mentioned what you actually do for work."

Alhaitham was already halfway to the door. "Because none of you would understand it."

He shut himself in the hallway and dialed the only number he knew. The line rang twice before a small, bright voice answered.

"Hey, what's up?"

"Dori," he closed his eyes. "Why am I hearing that I'm scheduled for a public appearance?"

There was a brief moment, followed by the sound of a click. 

"Oh. So you saw the announcement."

"Saw—? I had to overhear it in my own home. Five years of stipulating anonymity, and suddenly you decide to parade me around?"

On the other end of the line, Dori hummed, completely unphased about dismantling the fragile scaffolding of his anonymity. 

"Parade is a strong word. It's just a few handshakes. And a signing. And maybe a short Q&A session, depending on how the crowd feels."

The edge of irritation was already pressing against his skull. "You're describing three different events."

"Well, technically four, if you count the photo-op rotation." Pages shuffled around. "But that one wasn't my idea. Marketing insisted. You're very photogenic. Whenever you come to the company building, you get many, many looks."

The sheer audacity of that statement nearly knocked him off balance. 

"Unsolicited. I am not photogenic. Remember, I am unpublished."

"Unpublished faces can still be photogenic. You just don't take photos, so you wouldn't know," Dori countered with airy certainty, a simple axiom of the universe. But, more than that, a shameless betrayal of every condition he had hammered into her inbox over half a decade of contract renewals.

"I have been clear," he said, slow. "No interviews. No appearances. No photographs. No publicity stunts. The anonymity clause exists for a reason."

"True," Dori replied lightly, "but so does the popularity clause. And you're… very popular."

Alhaitham glanced at the closed door to the living room, where muffled voices still rose and fell. Collei's cheerful lilt, Tighnari's dry cadence, and Kaveh's impassioned declarations. They made him think briefly, viciously, about defecting to another continent.

"Absolutely not," he said finally. "Whatever plan you've concocted, cancel it. I won't sit beneath sickeningly bright lights while fans line up to—" 

He stopped, unable to finish the sentence without visualizing it, imagining the expression on Kaveh's face if he ever put the pieces together.

Wide-eyed, alight, the sort of joy that came so naturally to him it bordered on recklessness. Kaveh would look at the author of Infinite Requiem the same way gold leaf wore thin on stone, fragile and delicate, but cherished all the more for it. Alhaitham could picture it with absurd clarity: lips parted in astonishment, cheeks flushed, the kind of smile that seemed to burn right through indifference.

And all of it would be built on a lie.

He knew Kaveh admired a genius who didn't exist. 

He worshipped words that had been strung together in mockery. If he ever discovered the truth—that the great architect of Rion's suffering was the man he couldn't stand to share a kitchen with—what then? The betrayal in his face would replace that brightness, glow souring into disillusionment.

Inconvenience of social interaction be damned, he had worse to worry about. 

"—No," he asserted. "Never mind. I'm not doing it. Absolutely not."

The faintest smile threaded through Dori's voice. 

"I thought you might say that. Which is why I've already arranged something."

Alhaitham's eyes narrowed. "Arranged what."

"Don't worry," she said, far too cheerfully for his liking. "You'll still be anonymous."

The line clicked, and Alhaitham was left staring at his own reflection in the darkened phone screen, the hollow ring of her reassurance echoing. 

The prelude to disaster.

After weeks of what Dori optimistically called "negotiations," Alhaitham had assumed her "arrangement" meant a screen, and if not, a partition. Something functional would have cut it, really, but his capacity to keep his expectations low failed him this time.

The universe had called his bluff. This brings him to his current predicament. 

Puffy, or neon-yellow-anthropomorphic-squirrel, was a corporate mascot too cheerful for its own good, and a bastardized parody of motivational sidekicks that told children to believe in themselves while doing nothing particularly useful.

He tried to speak. The internal mic gave him a squeaky, pitched-up echo that didn't sound at all human.

Dori brightened. "See? Anonymous."

Across the van, Lisa, senior editor at Vision Jump Weekly, flown in from Mondstadt, pressed a knuckle to her mouth. A small laugh slipped out anyway.

Faruzan, their PR manager, didn't bother hiding hers. "Okay," she said, already out of breath, "okay, I'm sorry. It's just—wow."

Alhaitham lifted a paw to adjust the head. 

A tiny preprogrammed chime went off in the suit.

Puff!

Lisa blinked. "Does it… do that every time you move?"

He stilled, the head bobbing a little on its own.

Puff!

Lisa lost the rest of her composure, shoulders shaking. She tried to turn it into a cough. It wasn't a cough.

Faruzan dragged air in, trying to reset. "Right. Focus. Logistics. You go on at eleven. Quick walk across the concourse—no stairs. We're fine."

"Define 'fine,'" Alhaitham squeaked.

"We're ahead of schedule."

The head slipped again and he made the mistake of correcting it. The motion sensor caught it and the suit chirped, bright and relentless. 

"Believe in your dreams, little star!"

Silence rolled through the van. Even the driver glanced back in the mirror.

Lisa made a strangled noise into the stack of event programs. "I'm sorry," she said, not convincing at all. "Please don't—keep—moving."

"I have to breathe," Alhaitham said.

"Longer breaths?" Faruzan suggested. "Like… elevator breaths. Floor one… puff! Floor two…"

He stared through the mesh at her.

"Okay," she said, hands up. "I get it! That was unhelpful."

Dori looked pleased in the way that this had gone exactly to plan. "No one will connect Alhaitham to your pen name, you know. You're completely covered."

"That was the point of the pen name," he said. "To not be inside a rodent."

Lisa choked. "Goodness. Don't say rodent."

"Technically a squirrel," Dori said, as if that solved anything.

"Squirrels are, quite literally, rodents."

"Every setback is just a puff forward!"

Faruzan thumbed her phone screen, then thought better of it and set it face-down. "I'm not recording. For the record."

"Thank you," he sighed.

She scratched her cheek. "I… did try to, uh, book you for the black-glass panel option. Budget said no."

"Ah," he said. "The classic creative solution."

"For what it's worth," Lisa said, "the piece will be fair. You come off like a guy with boundaries who lost a bet."

"I didn't lose a bet."

"Right," she said. "But that's the vibe we're going for."

Dori checked her tablet. "We should go over the route one more time."

There was the clunk of the van slowing as it pulled into the convention front drop-off zone. Through the tinted windows, they could already see the spill of people crowding the entrance. Cosplayers balancing absurd props, clusters of fans with badges swinging from their necks, and banners plastered with characters Alhaitham recognized with grim familiarity.

"We just did," Faruzan said, fingers hovering at the handle but not pulling it yet. "No new variables unless Puffy tries a sprint."

"I will not be sprinting," Alhaitham said.

"Good. Because you can't. There's… tail."

He angled the head for a clearer line of sight.

It puffed again. Lisa bit her lip hard.

"Alright," Faruzan said, professional again. "We walk, then wave. And we don't talk unless prompted, because the mic is—"

"—unforgiving," Alhaitham said.

She nodded. "Yeah."

Dori smoothed a wrinkle on the suit's sleeve that didn't exist. "Thank you," she said, quiet and sincere. "I know this isn't what you had in mind."

"It was never what I had in mind," he said. Then, because he could feel her looking for more, "But you kept me anonymous, somehow."

The head wobbled with the nod. Puff.

Lisa's mouth twitched. "I truly am trying," she said. "I swear."

"Try walking on my left," he said. "If I can't see you, I'm less likely to speak."

"Copy," she said, shifting immediately.

Faruzan took point, peering through the glass toward the entrance and scanning for barricades and low signage. "Two minutes to the green room through the lobby. Security meets us at the curb. If you need to bail—tap my shoulder twice."

"And if I need to breathe?"

"Once, in and out," she said. "Small breaths." 

He didn't answer. The suit did.

"Reach for the stars!"

Lisa snorted into a fist. "I hate this little guy."

"Everyone does," Alhaitham grunted. "That's why he sells."

"Last check," Dori said. "You good?"

"No," he said, and then, because he knew what she was asking, "Yes."

"Showtime," Lisa sing-songed, nudging the foam shoulder.

Faruzan leaned toward the entrance. "Oh, look at them packing in. They definitely think you're going to wave."

"I'm not waving," Alhaitham said flatly.

"You're waving," Faruzan corrected, already lifting the giant paw into position.

Alhaitham's first step onto the pavement was unsteady. The foam head blocked most of his peripheral vision. The air inside was hot. 

Like, hellishly hot. Punishment, maybe, for bearing the sin of birthing something so blasphemous. 

The second step found its rhythm, and the screaming got louder. Not learning his lesson, he raised one paw automatically, perhaps to adjust—

The suit gave a cheerful hiss. 

Puffy loves you!

The crowd screamed even louder. It was amazing, mostly for the fact that he didn't know it was possible. Someone shouted, "It's Puffy!"

He froze in place. The problem was that the longer he stood still, the more it looked like he was doing it on purpose. Which only escalated the cheering.

"Spin, Puffy!" someone cried. "Do the spin!"

Oh, absolutely not.

But then Faruzan's voice cut through the din, far too clear. "Yeah, Puffy, give 'em the spin!"

Alhaitham realized, with grim finality, that he no longer had a choice. It had already been decided for him.

Slowly, stiffly, he pivoted in place. The suit squeaked as the foam shifted, his tail catching the side of the van door before bouncing back into shape with a humiliating boing.

The crowd roared.

"HOLY SHIT! PUFFY! PUFFY, I FUCKING LOVE YOU!"

A wave of high-pitched squeals rolled across the sidewalk. Phones shook with the force of people filming. Wait… is someone actually fucking crying?

Yes. Yes, they were. Right at the barricade, a grown adult, in full cosplay, plastic wig intact, had both hands clutched to their chest. Sobbing, ugly, so, so very ugly.

…Are these people insane? He’d seen Kaveh’s level of insanity, however, it did not account for this. He was nowhere near the experience level required to interact in this setting.

Alhaitham stiffened. The heat of the suit pressed against his skin, suffocating, but the heat of the embarrassment was worse.

"Puffy, do the heart hands!" another voice bellowed.

The crowd echoed it, a chant now. 

"HEART HANDS! HEART HANDS! HEART HANDS!"

He would rather be tried in The Akademiya's disciplinary court. But the evil chant only grew louder, rhythmic, almost cultish.

Dori's voice filtered faintly from the van behind him.

"Might as well. Resistance only makes them louder."

Grinding his teeth, Alhaitham lifted the oversized foam paws and pressed them together over his chest.

The speakers chirped again. "Puffy loves you!"

It went crazy.

So, on cue, Dori slipped out of the van, hands folded neatly behind her back. "Please make way," she said, and the crowd actually did.

Lisa stepped down next, adjusting her glasses with a lazy smile. "Clear a path, people. Mascot incoming."

"Move it along, give Puffy some space."

The sea of bodies finally parted, and Alhaitham lumbered forward, each step muffled by foam and fabric. 

The oversized head wobbled with every movement, the tail catching briefly on someone's tote bag before snapping free with yet another humiliating bounce. Entering the hall, he kept his eyes forward, or what little he could see of forward through the mesh mouthpiece, determined to endure this march with as much dignity as a squirrel could muster.

However, he made the mistake of turning his head. What he saw stopped him dead in his tracks.

…Kaveh?

Surrounded, naturally, by his own orbit of admirers, fangirls already clamoring for selfies, phones tilted at flattering angles, voices overlapping in eager shrieks. He was in full costume, and for the first time Alhaitham saw the product of all those nights of fabric, glue, and sleepless muttering about stitchwork.

It was Kaveh, as Rion.

The black wig fell in artful disarray across his brow, strands cut to frame his face. The black coat, layered, embroidered, fitted within an inch of its life, hung open just enough to reveal the deep V of a bodysuit that looked more decorative than practical, chest half-bared in the ridiculous way only ridiculously slutty male protagonists could justify. Alhaitham had no way of defending himself. 

Every agonizing detail had been reproduced with obsessive devotion. And somehow, against all reason, it suited him. 

Under the harsh light of the convention hall, Kaveh still managed to look incandescent. 

His smile, brilliant and unguarded, sent the crowd into fresh squeals as he leaned easily into each photo, every movement fluid where Alhaitham's were clunky. 

If Rion had ever walked off the page, this would have been him: dramatic, devastating, and absolutely too much.

Alhaitham froze mid-step, tail wobbling to and fro.

Lisa, walking just behind him, raised a brow. "Keep it moving, Puffy," she murmured, giving the oversized head a tap with one manicured finger. When he didn't budge, she followed his line of sight.

And there— ah.

Her lips curved.

"Well, well," she purred, leaning close enough for him to hear through the mesh. "Looks like our tragic hero has caught your eye."

Alhaitham's hand twitched, useless in its foam prison.

Lisa's grin widened. A cat toying with a mouse, she pressed one hand firmly to the back of his puffed-up costume and shoved. He lurched forward, arms flailing.

"Excuse me!" Lisa sang, voice honey-sweet as she cut through the cluster of fangirls. "Puffy would just love a picture with Rion."

Kaveh turned, still smiling from the last round of selfies, and then stopped.

The crowd screamed again, phones snapping up in unison.

Kaveh blinked at the giant yellow squirrel, then laughed. "Puffy!" he said, delighted, as though greeting an old friend. "Of course we can take a photo."

The fangirls squealed harder, the camera shutters going rapid-fire afraid they'd miss even a fraction of the moment.

Before Alhaitham could retreat, Kaveh slid effortlessly into pose, one arm draped across Puffy's padded shoulders. From what little he could see, the cosplay was devastating as it is, but the makeup only deepened it: kohl at the corners of his eyes, a faux beauty mark under his bottom lip, and shading along his cheekbones to give him the kind of gaunt, suffering beauty Rion was known for.

The costume itself was obscene in its craftsmanship. Layers of black and silver brocade clung tight across his waist, flaring into sweeping coattails embroidered with excruciating detail any other person would surely get carpal tunnel from. Armor plates—foam, Alhaitham reminded himself, foam—hugged the curve of his shoulders, painted to mimic steel. And, of course, the bodysuit, or what little there was of it, gaped just enough to reveal the deep line of his chest, unblemished skin carved by shadow.

Alhaitham's gaze landed there before he could stop himself.

For one humiliating second, he thought about how the neckline dipped lower when Kaveh leaned in, the subtle sheen of his body cream accentuating muscle, the catch of silver chain against his sternum—

He jerked his head away so fast the oversized Puffy mascot swayed dangerously. Heat prickled at the back of his neck. 

This was absurd. He wasn't ogling Rion's cleavage. He was ogling his roommate's.

With his free hand, Kaveh lifted his fingers and shaped half a heart.

The crowd screamed. Alhaitham realized too late that the other half of that heart was expected of him.

Lisa's voice sang out behind him. "Don't keep him waiting, Puffy!"

Grinding his teeth, Alhaitham lifted one foam paw and completed the heart. The roar of approval nearly cracked the glass walls.

Kaveh leaned in, affectionate. "So cute." 

Then, with a kind gentleness, he patted Puffy between the oversized ears as one might soothe a beloved companion. Alhaitham then shuffled inside of the suit, caught off guard. It was a poor choice. 

The suit speakers chirped without mercy.

"Puffy loves you!"

Alhaitham, for the first time in years, begged for the ground to swallow him whole.

Lisa's grin widened. 

"Oh, that one's going online," she said, already pulling out her phone.

Faruzan chimed in, too gleeful for her own good. "Trending tag by tonight, guaranteed."

Kaveh, oblivious, or worse, perfectly content, pressed closer for another angle, smile dazzling. 

He tilted his head toward Puffy's oversized one, voice pitched warmly for the cameras. "He's so cute, isn't he? They really outdid themselves this year."

Alhaitham's stomach dropped. This year?

Which insinuated that there had been other Puffys before. This wasn't a one-off stunt Dori had concocted out of cruelty, it was an established mascot role, and he had just inherited it.

And judging from the way fans screamed for him, they expected Puffy to appear at every convention stop.

Lisa snapped a photo just as Kaveh leaned in again, then leaned toward Faruzan. "Imagine his face if he knew."

Alhaitham stiffened under the suit. Exactly.

Dori's voice cut in. "Alright, Puffy, let's go. Don't keep your fans waiting."

The crowd erupted again.

Alhaitham had never wanted less to walk into a room in his life.

Hours later, Alhaitham was fairly certain he was on the brink of heatstroke. The booth lights cooked down in the same daunting, pressuring way interrogation lamps did, and to make matters worse, the air inside the suit was humid enough to drown in. Sweat trickled down his forehead. The line out front hadn't shortened once.

He'd thought the Puffy reaction had been bad. He was wrong. 

The reveal that Puffy was, in fact, Sage, the anonymous author of Infinite//Requiem//Fate, had triggered something closer to mass hysteria. Three new lanes of security tape had gone up. 

He took another postcard, scrawled his neat, economical signature in the corner, and slid it down the table to the next fan. The voicebox chirped something idiotic, "Dream big, little star," and the room convulsed with delight.

He was about to signal for a break when movement caught his eye four ropes back.

Even with makeup that stood hours of wear, he still looked stage-ready. If anything, the wear made it more convincing, like the protagonist had staggered directly out of a mid-arc battle.

Their eyes didn't meet at first, to Alhaitham's pleasure. Kaveh was laughing at something one of his fangirls said until he glanced forward, toward the booth. His gaze landed on the placard, Special Signing: Author of Infinite//Requiem//Fate (Appearing as Puffy), and froze.

Shock. Real, frank shock. His eyes widened enough to give him away before he snapped back into composure, stepping neatly into line again.

Alhaitham forced himself through the motions: handshake, postcard, signature. Again. Again. Again. But each repetition felt thin, his focus skewed to the corner of the line where Kaveh now hovered closer, closer, closer, until he was there.

"Hi," Kaveh said, nervous, and somehow managed to pack enough warmth into one syllable to set the crowd squealing again. Then, directed at Puffy's fixed grin, "Sage."

Alhaitham lifted a paw.

Kaveh looked at the paw, then back at him, then at the paw again, hesitated, before words tumbled out in a rush.

"I didn't know it was you under there. Honestly, I'm… kind of embarrassed. I was just—acting normal, I guess? Treating you like… like any other mascot… oh… oh. I called you cute. But I really did think it was cute, I wasn't pretending. I meant it. Oh, but, maybe ignore the head pat. Actually, forget all of it. Except—not really forget, because I did mean it, it's just—I didn't know it was you. If I had known, I—Archons, I don't even know what I would've done. Probably something worse."

He exhaled once then promptly tripped into more words before Alhaitham could interrupt.

"But you were—well, Puffy was—really good! Convincing. Like, the voice thing, and the way you moved, it was—oh, never mind, that sounds ridiculous, I just—yeah. I'm mortified. Completely mortified. Please don't hold it against me."

Kaveh's hands fluttered once at his sides before he crossed his arms tightly, as though restraining them from more incriminating gestures. His eyes darted up, then down again, the color in his cheeks spreading fast beneath the wig.

"Could I—" Kaveh hesitated, eyes flicking to the handlers, then back to the mascot's face. "Not a question. Just… can I give you something? I mean—it's not much. It's silly, really. I wasn't sure if I'd even get the chance to—well, I didn't think I would get the chance, and now I have, and I'm standing here trying to figure out if I should actually do it or just keep it, which might be less embarrassing. But then again, if I don't give it to you, I'll regret it forever, which is even worse—"

Alhaitham shifted in the suffocating suit, aware of every camera, but more agonizingly aware of the earnest brightness in front of him. 

His voice filtered through the modulator. "It's fine. Take your time."

Kaveh startled, then gave a nervous laugh, soft and shaky. "That's—you're being horrifyingly patient with me. I feel like I'm wasting your time. I swear I'm not… usually like… this."

Oh, boy.

Alhaitham let a beat hang long enough before answering, careful to sand down the edge of his tone. "You're not."

"I—"

Alhaitham stopped him, paws hesitantly nestling over Kaveh's gloved hand.

He shut his eyes, took one baited breath, and pushed all of the cringe in his body out. 

It's better this way. To be emotionally literate in public for once, then lower the paws so the intent reads more human than squirrel. It's humiliating and necessary in the same beat, which, annoyingly, is the exact note he was trying to hit. 

"You don't need to be embarrassed. Nothing about it was wasted," he shifted the oversized paws against the table, lowering them slightly, as if to make the hulking suit a little less absurd between them. "I appreciate it."

For the first time that day, Alhaitham willingly squeezed his paw around Kaveh's.

No battle is too toughy when you've got Puffy!

Oh, that might be the worst one.

However, it was enough to still the restless flutter of Kaveh's hands, the nervous curve of his mouth morphint into something smaller.

Kaveh's shoulders eased, but the color in his cheeks only deepened. "Then—then I'll give it to you." 

Dori's almost imperceptible nod cleared the way. Kaveh handed over a scrap of card, edges torn from his con badge backing. Three short lines in his handwriting. Nothing dramatic. 

Alhaitham tucked it under the clipboard with a nod.

Kaveh's shoulders eased. Relief, before the dazzling smile returned for the crowd. "Photo?"

Of course. One arm around Puffy's padded shoulders, half a heart raised, again. Lisa hissed in his ear, "Complete it," and Alhaitham obeyed, the foam paw meeting Kaveh's fingers. The hall roared again.

Kaveh lingered just long enough to murmur, too low for anyone but him. 

"Thank you. Really." 

Then he was gone, swallowed back into the current of fans.

Alhaitham signed the next postcard mechanically, his hand already damp inside the paw. Only later, when the line finally slowed, did he pull the card out from under the clipboard.

There were only three lines.

Your story kept me making things when I wanted to quit.

If you ever get tired, remember someone's still here because you didn't.

Thank you.

A few weeks later, Alhaitham discovered a new category of fatigue. Dori's "arrangement," it turned out, had not been a one-time concession but a tour—multiple conventions, multiple regions, multiple instances of children sobbing into his foam belly while costumed teenagers filmed him as if a migrating spectacle. By the seventh weekend, he was certain Puffy needed paid time off.

Tonight, at least, he was home. Barely. His manuscripts fanned across the bed, red tabs marching across it. He skimmed a page, decided he hated it, and closed the stack.

He reached for his phone, just to clear his head. Five minutes—ten at most.

"This isn't weird," he told the empty room. "I'm only curious."

Curious enough to type Kaveh's full name into the search bar and scowl at the predictable flood of alumni registries, old project tags, and several heated comment threads about his last architecture showcase. 

He tried again. 

"Kaveh + cosplay" was rewarded with fragments: reposted photos, candid clips from conventions, shaky videos taken from far too great a distance. Always someone else's commentary.

Alhaitham clicked through anyway. One led to another, then another, until he was three layers deep into tags and usernames, half the screen filled with edits of Kaveh as yet another Handsome Fictional Man with flashy transitions that began to melt his brain. There were so many.

He pinched the bridge of his nose, reminded himself he was doing this for "context," and kept going.

The trail looped back eventually. He found himself on a smaller personal account with grainy cat photos and sketches posted months apart. One handle in the following list stood out, tagged too often to be coincidence. He pressed it.

Bingo.

Username @kaveh.archives, follower count in the high six figures.

His jaw worked once before he remembered how to close it.

Wow.

Alhaitham's thumb hesitated over the screen, then scrolled down.

The grid was impossible to mistake. Full-body shots, detail close-ups, and the occasional behind-the-scenes disaster framed with self-deprecating captions. 

He tapped the latest post.

@kaveh.archives

Rion // Infinite Requiem

still can't believe i met the author (!!!). i'll keep trying to be worthy of your time.

and THEN, as if my brain wasn't already fried i somehow… won? i can't believe it but… FIRST PLACE at luminacon's 5th annual cosplay contest ❤️ still feels unreal, this costume took months off my life but wow!!! worth it :)

shoutout to everyone who yelled "RION!!" across the hall or asked for pics LOL you made my entire weekend

special love to @iron.leon for taking 3rd!! your leon was stupidly good as always and if we don't do a proper rion/leon shoot soon i will CRY

thank you, thank you, thank you 🫶 still overwhelmed hehe

#luminacon #cosplaycontest #infiniterequiem #rion

@sable.scissors: omg the detail,, who gave rion the right to be this pretty,,, >:(
@inkwell_rose: kaveh. you have done it again, constantly raising the bar for all of us and doing it flawlessly. i'd say i'm surprised but i know who you are i've seen it up close and personal
@JohnMartinLewis638: You are absolute,astoundingly gorgeous and that´s the less interesting thing about you. You are Ethereal. A Heavenly Angel that God send down to Earth to put a smile in people in the worst days. You are so beautiful that you holy light cures depression itself. You are the pinnacle of perfection.Did i mentioned that i love yoy?/
@cynooooo: perhaps it should have been the 8th? because you 8 ;)
   @tigh_na_ri (reply): Stfu
@tigh_na_ri: So clean!!! Congrats!
@coollei: you look amazing!! sosososo proud of you my sweet boy!!! 🥹💚
@Puffy.official: Puffy believes in you! ⭐
   @kaveh.archives (reply): thank you, little star 🫶

…

Alhaitham stared at the screen.

So. Everyone knew? Cyno, Tighnari, Collei, even Puffy, apparently, which was just some social media intern doing whatever they pleased. 

Somehow, the only person left in the dark was the one forced to trip over all sorts of gadgets and gizmos in the hallway every other night.

The more he scrolled, the more he saw thousands of strangers praising him, half of them flirting, and somehow Kaveh had thought to share it with all of them but not the person who slept one door down.

He tapped through the highlights. One labeled "wip hell" stopped him cold. It was their dining table—his dining table—covered in fabric and pins. 

The caption read: my roommate says this is a safety hazard! he's not wrong but he IS dramatic!!!

Alhaitham frowned at the screen. That wasn't dramatic. He was merely being practical. A safety hazard was a safety hazard.

Q: do the people you live with know about this account?

Kaveh: They know I cosplay! They obviously don't know I post my face on here lmao. I like having one corner that's just mine.

One corner that's just mine, huh.

Apparently Cyno, Tighnari, and Collei were all invited to that same, specific corner.

He clicked away. 

Of course. Privacy. Sensible. Rational. 

He respected boundaries; he was practically made of them. Still, a petty part of him took attendance. Cyno, present; Tighnari, present; Collei, present; Anonymous Mascot Intern, mortifyingly present, and marked himself absent with an unnecessary flourish.

He wasn't done. Not when everyone else apparently knew more about his own roommate than he did.

As his roommate, he had a right… okay, well, an obligation, or, uh, something—to know just as much as the rest of them. 

His motives were dignified.

This is strictly maintenance of balance. Context. Nothing more.

He scrolled. Slowly at first, then faster, his thumb flicking with impatience. Until—

@kaveh.archives

Rion x Leon // "weight of your hand"

small preview from a mini-shoot with @iron.leon 🖤❤️ 

more soon 🙏

@iron.leon: It was a pleasure grabbing your wrist gayly and erotically 
    @kaveh.archives (reply): shut up LMAO
@brainreont: THEY'RE SO MARRIED
@tigh_na_ri: This is insanely gay
    @coollei (reply): agreed but y'all look amazinggg hehe
@Puffy.official: Friendship is powerful! ⭐

The photo filled the screen rather offensively. Kaveh as Rion, chin tipped up in defiance, Leon's arm locking him close at the waist, the other hand braced against his throat. Their bodies angled tight together, foreheads nearly pressed, Kaveh's lips parted just enough to make it look like the next frame might have been censored.

He couldn’t continue after the second slide. Leon's grip had shifted, fingers digging into Rion's hip, Kaveh leaning into it, eyes half-lidded in sweet surrender, sweat-sheened under the lights, mouth curved in a tragic smile.

Restraint, Kaveh had called it.

Restraint, apparently, looked a lot like a blatant disregard for censorship laws. He did not remember writing the scene in Kaveh's post.

Alhaitham set the phone down, snatched up the nearest manuscript draft, and flipped straight to the most recent arc. Margin notes already littered the pages in sharp, precise handwriting, but this time, he dug his pen in aggressively.

[CUT] Leon entrance. Redundant.
[TRIM] dialogue. Too many panels wasted.
[MOVE] monologue to Rion solo panel. Leon unnecessary.
[END] Rion defeats villain alone.

He underlined alone twice.

The tip of the pen nearly tore through the page.

Now, satisfaction nestling in his chest, Alhaitham's thumb twitched, ready to scroll past before the growing irritation could crystallize into something worse.

Tap tap.

The heart icon lit up red.

…

Fuck.

Fuck me.

Oh, fuck me.

For a second, he couldn't breathe. 

His life, or at least what scraps of privacy he had left, flashed mercilessly before his eyes. He yanked the screen closer, stomach dropping.

Which account. 

Which—

He checked. Twice. Three times.

…his author account.

Oh, good. 

Wait. Why was he relieved?

This is worse!

Oh no, no, no.

His pulse stuttered, nausea creeping in. 

That account was supposed to be nothing but announcements, series delays, the occasional "volume release next month." A like from that account carried weight, in other words, implication.

Unliking it was out of the question. Everyone knew that left a notification trail, a digital scarlet letter announcing not only that he had seen it, but that he had thought about it long enough to regret it. He would rather die fighting than die a coward.

So, there. There it was. Permanent. The account's first-ever public interaction, stamped squarely on a half-naked photo of his own roommate pretending to be seduced by a rival.

Alhaitham closed his eyes. 

He should delete the account. Burn it down, vanish, let Dori deal with the backlash. Or better yet, fake his own death.

His phone buzzed in his palm. 

@kaveh.archives (reply): NO WAY????????

Alhaitham slammed his head.

He was royally fucked.

The next morning, Alhaitham padded into the living room, mug in hand, and found Kaveh already on the couch. He was grinning at his phone, and for that matter, grinning so damn hard it looked like his face might split. Alhaitham felt his skull squeeze his brain a little, juicing it slowly. 

Lisa had wasted no time. The moment his ill-fated "like" went public, she'd rung him up and spent forty minutes alternating between hysterical, manic laughter and scolding.

"Do you realize what you've done?" she'd said, wheezing through what might've been tears, but he had no way of confirming that. "Five years of telling me it's subtext, 'ambiguous brotherhood,' and then you, the elusive author, the paragon of such restraint, go and publicly endorse foreheads touching and hands on throats?!"

"It was an accident," he managed, weakly.

Lisa barked a laugh so sharp the line crackled. "Accidentally liking homoerotic groping? Sure. Happens to the best of us!"

"…I never wrote that scene."

"You don't have to write it. The implication is enough. Do you know how many forums are talking about this? Entire essays! Good and bad." She snorted again, then all traces of amusement were gone. "We can't have this spiraling out of control. Do you know how crazy these fangirls are? You've already alienated your core fanbase! What will we do? Our sales! Oh. Oh Gods. I can't. I can't. Ough. I'm going to yak. What did I have earlier? I had deviled eggs. I’m gonna yak up an omelet, thanks to you."

"I—"

"Alhaitham. Listen. If you're going to lean into homoeroticism, we'll market it. But if you're going to keep insisting it's brotherhood, then for Celestia's sake, stop liking posts where Leon practically has his hand down Rion's pants."

Really, she did have a point. It was a solid point. There was no point in arguing. Silence was his only defense. 

Now, presently, in his living room, Kaveh's grin only widened, cheeks pink with giddy delight as he refreshed his screen. 

Alhaitham watched him for a moment, then took a slow sip of his tea.

Of course Kaveh was happy, and heartbreakingly so. He didn't know the fallout involved a very real woman shouting "you might as well have liked gay porn!" into his ear for half an hour, but, it wasn't like he could say that. He couldn't exactly sit down at breakfast and announce, little known fact, by the way, I'm the author you've been fawning over for five years, and I may or may not have just outed myself by liking a thirst trap of you in half of a shirt.

He had to settle for something else. Something indirect. He wasn't above brute force. There were many ways out. Annoyance, persistence, needling remarks until Kaveh slipped. If the so-called "corner that's just mine" was going to stay hidden from him, then he'd wedge himself into it anyway. One way or another.

If that meant feigning ignorance, dragging the conversation sideways, or asking the same question six different ways until Kaveh cracked—well. Alhaitham was very, very good at being insufferable.

He cleared his throat. 

"You're awfully cheerful today."

Kaveh jolted, trying and failing to shove his phone under a pillow. "I—what? No, I'm perfectly normal. This is my default state."

"You've never been normal a day in your life," Alhaitham replied, plainly. He sipped his tea. "So. What's the real reason?"

Kaveh huffed, clutching the pillow tighter. "Why do you assume there has to be a reason? Maybe I woke up with a renewed appreciation for the beauty of existence."

"You cursed that exact same beauty yesterday."

"That was yesterday!" Kaveh snapped, cheeks reddening. He shifted on the couch, defensive. "People are allowed to change their perspectives."

Alhaitham raised a brow. "In twelve hours?"

"Yes!" Kaveh shot back. "Besides, not everything has to do with you."

Alhaitham set his mug down. "So it is about something."

Kaveh's smile returned before he could stop it, blooming unbidden across his face as he glanced at his phone again. "…Maybe."

Alhaitham leaned against the countertop. "I suppose congratulations are in order."

"For what?"

"For whatever has you smiling like an idiot."

"I am not smiling like an idiot."

"You're grinning at a screen," Alhaitham said, deadpan. "It’s logical enough to conclude that someone has done something to make you feel that way."

Kaveh blinked, then clutched his phone tighter. "Maybe I just like being happy on my own."

Alhaitham let out a short, amused exhale.

Kaveh's eyes narrowed immediately. "What was that?"

"A laugh."

"No, it wasn't."

"It was."

"You don't know how to laugh."

"But I just did."

Kaveh bristled, mouth opening and closing. "You—ugh. You're doing it on purpose. Making fun of me because I'm in a good mood."

Alhaitham tilted his head, studying him. "So you admit you're in a good mood."

Kaveh faltered, caught in his own words, then waved his free hand dramatically. "Fine, yes! Is that a crime now? Am I not allowed to be happy in my own living room?"

"Allowed?" Alhaitham repeated. "Of course. Expected? No."

Kaveh groaned, burying half his face in a cushion to hide how red his ears had gotten. "You're horrible."

Alhaitham let the silence linger, just long enough to watch him squirm.

He had come closer, leaning back against the arm of the couch, arms folded. "You're smiling like that for a reason. So what happened? Lottery win? Secret admirer? Free coffee punch card finally filled?"

Kaveh peeked up from the cushion, huffing. "Why do you even care?"

"Curiosity."

"You don't care about me like that."

"I do. Depending on the day."

"That's not—ugh!" Kaveh sat up straighter, clutching his phone until his knuckles went white. "Fine, maybe someone noticed my work. Maybe someone important. Maybe—" he stopped, biting down on the words, cheeks already heating.

Alhaitham's gaze became curious. "Someone important?"

Kaveh groaned and flopped sideways against the couch, burying his face again. "Never mind, you incorrigible bastard. Forget I said anything. You twist everything I say."

Alhaitham allowed himself the faintest smirk. "Then I'll just keep asking until you tell me."

A muffled noise came from the cushions, somewhere between a growl and a whine.

Alhaitham sat back, satisfied. He didn't need the answer yet. He just needed Kaveh to keep squirming.

Until he decided squirming wasn't enough. 

He shifted forward, leaning until his shadow cut over Kaveh's shoulder, eyes narrowing at the glow of the phone in his hands.

Kaveh gasped. "Hey—!" He twisted immediately, clutching the phone to his chest. "Don't you dare—"

Alhaitham didn't even touch him before Kaveh shoved, hard. The push caught him off balance, and the sharp thud of his back hitting the floor rang out across the apartment.

Kaveh froze. "Oh gods—" He scrambled upright, panic already bubbling. "I didn't mean to—are you okay? I didn't think you'd actually—"

He lurched forward to help, but in his haste his foot caught on the edge of the rug. The stumble pitched him forward, momentum pulling both of them down until the two collapsed in a graceless heap.

Kaveh landed half across Alhaitham's chest, breath knocked out of him. The silence that followed hummed in his ears.

Alhaitham glanced down. Kaveh's shirt neckline had slipped with the fall, fabric sagging just enough to reveal the faint dip of skin beneath. 

The flush climbing Kaveh's face only made the view more obvious.

Kaveh realized it at the same time, hands flying to cover himself as his ears turned crimson. 

"This is—this is your fault!" he snapped, voice tripping over itself. "If you hadn't been so nosy, none of this would've happened!"

Alhaitham's reply came unbothered, with just the faintest edge of amusement. "It's my fault that I want to know what makes you happy?"

Kaveh blinked, mouth parting, but the words jammed in his throat. 

His flush deepened, heat running all the way down his neck. "I—You—That's not—" 

He broke off, sheepish.

Alhaitham raised a brow, waiting.

Kaveh groaned, covering his face with both hands. 

"Fine," he mumbled through his palms. "But—you can't make fun of me. Promise."

Kaveh lowered his hands, cheeks still pink. He sat back on his heels, fidgeting with the hem of his shirt as if that might somehow help him regain his dignity.

"…You know Infinite Requiem?" he asked, finally, hesitantly.

Alhaitham gave him a blank look. "You never stop talking about it."

Kaveh ignored the jab, pressing forward, words tumbling faster as his nerves caught up. "Well—the author. He—uh. He liked a post."

Alhaitham tilted his head. "A post."

"Yes," Kaveh said, as if that clarified everything.

"A post about what?"

Kaveh hesitated, twisting his fingers together. "About… a ship. Together. In a—um. Certain light. That basically confirmed, well, it's as close to confirmation as anyone's ever gotten." His eyes lit up, excitement breaking through his embarrassment. "It means the ship might actually be canon!"

Alhaitham blinked once, slow. "You're being vague."

Kaveh groaned, dragging a hand through his hair. "Fine, fine, it was a cosplay photo. There may have been… intimacy." His voice dropped to a whisper. "Like, a wrist grab."

"How scandalous."

Kaveh swatted at him. "You don't get it! The author liked it. He never interacts. Ever. Do you know what that means?"

Alhaitham kept his tone even, though his stomach was already twisting. "…Enlighten me."

Kaveh leaned in, practically vibrating. "It means he saw it. He saw that interpretation and didn't reject it, didn't ignore it, didn't scroll past. Like, he hit like. It's monumental. My timeline is going crazy."

It's worse than he'd imagined.

Oh, Kaveh, if only you knew.

Alhaitham kept his expression neutral. It was harder than usual with Kaveh glowing as if he'd just received a divine revelation. 

"…You're all making a lot out of a single button press."

"A single button press that speaks volumes!" Kaveh shot back, jabbing a finger into the air. "Do you know how long we've been starved for crumbs? Years. Years of dancing around subtext, of denial, of people saying we were imagining things. And now, validation of said delusions, direct from the source."

Alhaitham resisted the urge to pinch the bridge of his nose, opting to lean back against the couch instead. "You're certain it wasn't accidental?"

Kaveh gasped, scandalized. "Accidental? Do you think someone like him just… fumbles around on his phone like the rest of us? Please. He's meticulous. Precision incarnate! If he liked it, it was intentional."

Alhaitham coughed into his hand to hide the way his pulse jumped. Precision incarnate? Intentional? Seriously. If only Kaveh knew.

"And now—" Kaveh pressed on, oblivious, eyes sparkling— "the discourse is crazy. People are making thinkpieces."

Kaveh was fully on a roll now, pacing a little. His hands flew everywhere while he sketched invisible diagrams in the air.

"Do you understand? That one like reframes everything. All the rival panels! Those looks, the unfinished lines, the—it's canon-adjacent. It's—" he broke off with a dramatic groan, pressing his palms to his temples. "And people say it's just 'fanservice'—like, no. This is narrative design! He's been building up to this all along, waiting for us to notice, and now—"

Kaveh looked up from where he was miming, only to see Alhaitham’s unimpressed expression looking back at him.

He stopped short, arms falling to his sides. 

"…And I've been talking too much again, haven't I?"

Alhaitham didn't know what to say to that, so he made the mistake of saying nothing at all.

Kaveh's arms locked across his chest, elbows drawn in. They were crossed tightly, braced for something he didn't want to hear but clearly expected.

"I know you think I'm being annoying. I'm ridiculous for getting worked up over likes and posts and—and all this irrelevant nonsense you don't care about," his voice thinned halfway through. He glanced away too fast, and when Alhaitham caught the faint gloss at the edge of his lashes, something in him sank. 

Kaveh looked like he was waiting to be embarrassed. 

Oh. 

Alhaitham hated how much of that was his fault.

Did Kaveh really think that? 

That he hated him?

He knew Kaveh thought him critical—fine, that much was true. They bickered daily; Alhaitham pointed out flaws, Kaveh overreacted, the cycle repeated. But that was habit, routine, a rhythm they'd both fallen into without effort. He had never once thought his irritation meant hatred.

Kaveh, though—Kaveh was sitting there with his arms crossed tight, voice small under the sharpness, like he'd already convinced himself he was nothing more than an inconvenience in Alhaitham’s daily life. Every dry remark, every pointed sigh, had stacked up into proof.

The realization sat uncomfortably.

Did he really look at him that way? 

Did he really believe it?

"It's fine, you don't have to say anything."

Kaveh was already pushing off the couch with a too-casual kind of movement he tried to pass for normal. His hand caught on the edge of a cushion, nudging it. He didn't bother fixing it. 

"Wait—Kaveh."

Alhaitham reached for him before he could leave the room.

Kaveh paused. His hand was hovering near the doorway, growing irritated. "What now?"

Alhaitham exhaled.

"I don't think it's stupid."

"Really now—" Kaveh started, until Alhaitham cut him off.

"—And I don't think you're ridiculous." He looked at him directly this time. "I'm not as much of an asshole as you've convinced yourself I am."

Kaveh blinked, caught off guard.

"It's fine to tell me things," he added, growing quiet. "You don't have to apologize for being enthusiastic."

"You don't mean that," Kaveh spat out immediately, words tripping over each other. His voice wavered.  "You always roll your eyes when I talk too much, or you make those faces—don't pretend you don't, I see them." 

So defensive, only because it was uncertain.

"I just look like that. That's how I listen."

Kaveh blinked again, visibly thrown. "…Listening looks a lot like judging."

"Only because you assume I'm judging."

"That's because you usually are!"

Alhaitham hesitated, then sighed. 

"Maybe I am," he admitted. "But not now. And if I've made you think I was, if I ever made you feel like what you care about is beneath me, that wasn't the point. I’m sorry."

Kaveh looked like he wanted to argue. The words tangled up in his throat before they could leave. His grip on his phone tightened, knuckles white, until finally he looked down at the screen instead. 

"…You really don't think it's stupid?" 

His face told that he was thinking too hard about what to say next. The way his teeth caught on his bottom lip, eyes darting sideways. For a second, it seemed he might let the silence take him.

Alhaitham tilted his head inquisitively. "You look like I told you the sky's green."

"You sounded like it too," Kaveh muttered. "As in, you were trying on sincerity to see how it fits."

"I think it suits me."

"You wear it like a rental," Kaveh said, arms folding again. However, it was not as defensive this time. "I don't doubt you'll return it after three sentences, tags still on."

Alhaitham made a small, thoughtful noise. "That long? Generous."

Kaveh scowled. 

"See? That's exactly what I mean. You can't even give me a compliment without being smug about it."

"I didn't realize 'I don't think you're stupid' qualified as a compliment."

"It does when you say it," Kaveh snapped, then looked annoyed with himself for admitting it. It counted as a loss. He sank a little lower on the couch. "I hate when you do that."

"What, speak?"

"No. Make fun of me for being vulnerable."

"I'm not making fun of you."

"You're smirking."

"This is just my face."

"It's a rude face."

"You seem to tolerate it anyway."

"I've made several questionable decisions in life." Kaveh glared. "Don't act like you're special."

"I never do. That's your job."

Kaveh gasped, deeply affronted. "Excuse me—"

"You're excused."

He threw a pillow at him. Alhaitham caught it with one hand and tossed it back, expression unchanging.

Kaveh sighed, running a hand through his hair. "You are so incredibly annoying."

"Against all odds, here you are. Here we are. Making conversation."

"Against my will."

"You're welcome."

Kaveh let out a sound of protest, both a groan and a laugh, flopping backwards with drama. He sat there for a second with his lips pursed, clearly thinking something over.

"…If you really don't think it's stupid… can you do me a favor?"

Alhaitham quirked a brow. 

"That depends. Is it something that'll get me publicly humiliated, arrested, or force me to make small talk?"

Kaveh groaned again. "Why do I even bother—no, none of that. Well. Probably not the first two."

"That inspires confidence."

"Archons, shut up—" Kaveh waved his hands, flustered. "It's not a big deal. I just… need a handler."

Alhaitham blinked. "A handler?"

"Stop making that face," Kaveh warned. "A lot of cosplayers have one."

"Because they require supervision?"

"Because conventions are extremely chaotic and it's nice to have someone making sure you don't, I don't know, die."

Alhaitham nodded with mock-consideration. 

"I do know you quite well. Still wouldn't say I could handle you."

Kaveh's face scrunched up. "That's not—shut up—I meant like carrying props and—"

"Mm, no, I heard 'handle Kaveh' and I think I've discovered a new limit."

"I can't tolerate you."

"But here you are. Asking so sweetly."

"I regret asking."

"No, I don't think you do." Alhaitham snorted. "You love the attention."

Kaveh crossed his arms, face scrunching up in all of his annoyance. 

"…You're not funny."

"Luckily for you," Alhaitham said, "I'm not trying to be."

"Ugh. Just—it's because we're lugging around twenty pounds of fabric amongst other things in fifty-degree heat surrounded by sweaty nerds who don't understand personal space." He sniffed. "A handler carries props, keeps people from getting handsy, and reminds you to drink water so you don't pass out from dehydration or ego. It's a noble profession."

"And you want me to do it."

"You're tall, mean-looking, and terrifying when someone touches your stuff. You're perfect."

Alhaitham gave him a long look. "You're asking me to spend a weekend as your chaperone."

"I'm asking you to be useful for once."

"That's funny. I was just about to say the same to you."

"You're the worst," Kaveh muttered, pouting harder.

"I'm still your first choice."

Kaveh lifted his chin. "Only because Cyno would laugh, Tighnari would also laugh, and Collei would let me die in a crowd because she found something cute on sale."

"…Fair."

"So?" Kaveh asked softly. "Will you?"

Alhaitham sighed. "I'll do it."

Kaveh blinked in surprise. "Wait—really?"

"I expect compensation," he said smoothly.

"It's called friendship."

"I thought you said I was insufferable."

"You are. This is your punishment."

"…Harsh terms for a favor."

"Get used to it."

"It won't sit right," Kaveh groaned, half dressed. His wig cap was already askew, blond hair stubbornly leaking out in soft waves. "If the hairline doesn't lay flat, the whole silhouette is ruined. People will notice."

"People won't notice," Alhaitham said, ever the contrarian, sitting calmly on the couch with the day's burden: a sword taller than Kaveh, currently resting across his lap. The world's most inconvenient house pet, by far.

"They will notice," Kaveh snapped, tugging the wig forward and then backward, eyes narrowed at his reflection in the blackened TV screen. "Cosplayers always notice. Cosplayers can tell when you cut a lace front too short from across a crowded hall. They hunt for flaws."

"I see." Alhaitham adjusted the strap on the sword. "What are they, jackals?"

Kaveh spun, pointing a hairbrush at him like a weapon. "Don't mock what you don't understand."

"I understand that this wig has already consumed thirty minutes of my morning."

"Perfection takes time!"

"Perfection could take less of mine."

Kaveh scowled and turned back to the screen. "You have no aesthetic integrity."

"I have a very clear aesthetic," Alhaitham replied. "It's called 'leaving the house on time.'"

"You can't rush the importance of detail."

"I'm not rushing it. I'm begging it to leave."

"You're begging me to leave."

"I'm begging you to stop itching at your hairline."

Kaveh ran his fingers through the silver wig again, muttering. "It still looks slightly uneven on the left—"

"It looks fine."

"It looks worn."

"It looks like it's going to kill me if we don't leave soon."

"You have no eye whatsoever."

By the time they left, Kaveh was fully assembled in a baroque nightmare of black lace, ruffled cuffs, more cascading coattails, and a corset that Alhaitham privately thought belonged in a historical reenactment of "How Not to Breathe, 1600–1800." Every step made the silk catch light menacingly.

Today, Kaveh was Seraphiel, the Fallen Saint, a character from the cult-classic RPG Aegis: First Blade of Dawn—a game infamous for having ten different final bosses depending on your dialogue choices.

Seraphiel's whole deal, according to Kaveh (and Kaveh had lectured him about it for three days straight), was that he was an exiled angel cursed with carrying the "Windowblade," a cathedral-sized sword. Alhaitham compartmentalized the rest. His core character traits were:

1. Being sad.
2. Being sad, like, beautifully?

Kaveh's clearly got a type.

At least, that's what Alhaitham got from it. The costume reflected that.

Alhaitham had been conned into carrying Kaveh's sword in a custom strap because it was just about as tall as Kaveh and wide enough to double as a stained-glass door. Every time it shifted, it caught the light and sent little rainbows onto the wall, like a disco ball.

At the venue, his initial mental list snapped into muscle memory. Shield Kaveh from backpacks. Tilt the sword vertically in crowds. Adjust the hem when it snagged on things. Intercept overeager fans.

As they stepped into the convention hall, the girl at the check-in table clutched her chest. "Oh my gods. Seraphiel."

Kaveh smiled. Alhaitham could have sworn he saw a tooth dazzle.

"My lady. Your dawn is mine to carry."

Whatever that meant. It worked, because she nearly fainted on the spot. 

Alhaitham, who had not been warned that his morning would include secondhand cardiac arrests, shifted the Windowblade on his shoulder before it took out the registration booth entirely.

"Handler badge?" the girl squeaked, still starry-eyed.

Kaveh gestured gracefully toward Alhaitham without looking, as one might gesture toward the sun rising behind them. "My blade-bearer."

Alhaitham dropped the laminated card on the desk. "Handler."

The girl gave him a look that was equal parts sympathy and appreciation for the effort, then slid their badges over with trembling hands. "Good luck," she whispered.

"Photo?" someone asked, camera already raised.

"Of course!" Kaveh beamed, striking a pose with an arm arched above his head.

Alhaitham tugged the cape straight, nudged his belt into place, then stepped out of frame.

"Boyfriend?" the photographer asked, half distracted.

"No," Kaveh said.

"Handler," Alhaitham corrected.

"Mm," the photographer said, unconvinced, then snapped the picture.

They moved twenty feet before the next mob descended. "Can you do the kneeling pose?" "Wait—one shot with the cape spread?" "Please, just one, you're perfect—"

Alhaitham ended up crouched on the floor, spreading velvet around Kaveh's boots while Kaveh posed for multiple photographers at once.

The second Alhaitham got up, someone shoved a halberd into his arms.

"Could you hold this for a sec?"

"I—"

"Thanks." The guy was already gone.

Alhaitham looked at the halberd, then at Kaveh, who was mid-pose for a photo.

I did not agree to this.

The halberd was collected eventually. He shifted the strap of Kaveh's sword, relieved for half a second—until another one appeared.

"Hey, can you hold my wings real quick?"

"I—"

"Pleaaase?" 

Kaveh smiled for another group shot, oblivious.

The wings were replaced by a scythe. Then a shield. Then a cauldron. Each came with the same promise that it was "just for a second," which was, quintessentially, bullshit. 

By the time Kaveh rotated into his fifth circle of fans, Alhaitham had a small arsenal balanced across him. When the crowd finally dispersed, he had six props stacked against him and the sword strap digging into his shoulder.

Kaveh turned at last. "Ready to move?"

"Do you notice anything unusual about my current situation?"

Kaveh glanced once at the pile, biting his lip. "Right. Yeah. That's a lot." 

A photographer squeezed through the crowd, camera already raised. "Can I get one with Seraphiel?"

"Of course."

Alhaitham stood aside, adjusting the weight on his shoulder. Business as usual.

Then the photographer hesitated. "Actually—wait. Can I get one of both of you? Seraphiel and his handler?"

"No," Alhaitham said.

"Yes," Kaveh said at the same time.

Alhaitham turned his head, slow. "No."

Kaveh grabbed his wrist and tugged before he could escape, smile fixed for the camera. "Just one. It won't kill you."

The photographer waved them closer, already circling for angles. "Perfect. Stand just behind him, hand on the sword strap—yes, like that. Guarding him. Amazing."

Alhaitham obeyed only because Kaveh's grip hadn't let go. He flashed a sliver of a smile—any more than that would be overkill.

The shutter snapped three times. Alhaitham shifted back, already pulling his hand away, but the photographer perked up.

"Oh, that's good. Can I get one more—this time with you looking at him? Like, really serious. Protective."

"No," Alhaitham said again.

"Don't be rude," Kaveh hissed, then tugged him back into frame. "Humor them."

Alhaitham exhaled through his nose and adjusted his grip on the strap. The camera clicked.

By the time the photographer left, three more had arrived. The requests spread like the plague.

"Handler and Seraphiel, back-to-back?"

"Could you kneel, like you're tying his shoes?"

"Wait, wait—offer the sword to him. Yes, that's perfect!"

Each time, Alhaitham tried to step aside, and each time, someone shoved him back into the picture. His refusal was but a formality.

He kept his face flat, bored to the point of hostility.

Which, unfortunately, everyone loved.

"Omigosh, he looks so serious," one girl gushed, checking her preview screen. "Like he's really sworn to protect him."

"Totally in character. I love that dynamic."

Kaveh was grinning so hard he nearly broke character. He covered it by tilting his head, whispering between his teeth, "You look like you're being sentenced to death."

"I am."

"Smile, then. Tragic gallows humor."

"No."

That only made Kaveh laugh harder, shoulders shaking. By the time the crowd thinned, Alhaitham had been immortalized in at least fifty photos. Stoic and grim, endlessly put-upon.

Kaveh leaned in, smug, as the last fan wandered off. "Congratulations. You've been promoted from handler to supporting cast."

Alhaitham adjusted the sword strap on his shoulder, starting to walk. "Demotion, actually."

"Call it what you want. The photos speak for themselves."

He'd let Kaveh dodge questions long enough. Now was as good a time as any.

"Are you some kind of celebrity?"

Kaveh blinked, caught off guard. "If I were, don't you think I'd live somewhere better?"

"Maybe this is better," Alhaitham said. "Imagine the alternative."

Kaveh scowled. "You're jealous."

"Not really."

Kaveh crossed his arms, tugging at one of his cuffs. "Anyway, it's appreciation. Which, if you ever tried, you'd know feels pretty good."

He does know.

"I don't need strangers screaming my name to feel accomplished."

Kaveh rolled his eyes. "Right, because for you it's enough to sit in your library tower and glower at the world."

"It's peaceful," Alhaitham stated simply.

Kaveh sighed. "Peace isn't the same as fulfillment."

"And this is?"

"Obviously. For me it is. Can't you tell?"

"I suppose." Alhaitham studied him for a moment, long enough that Kaveh shifted under the weight of it. "You look like you're enjoying yourself."

Kaveh huffed. "It's called having fun. You should try it sometime."

"I'm already trying. I'm here, aren't I?"

"Please. You're here because I asked you."

"Semantics."

Kaveh snorted. "No, that's reality."

Alhaitham tilted his head.

"So if I left right now, you'd be fine?"

Kaveh paused mid-step, then scoffed. "You wouldn't make it five feet before someone asked you to hold their props again. You're stuck."

"That's not an answer."

"It's the only one you're getting."

"Someone’s evasive."

Kaveh shrugged, still walking. "Someone’s nosy."

"That's not news."

"Because you keep pressing."

"Because I want an actual answer."

Kaveh stopped this time, turning fully toward him. The crowd parted and flowed around them. 

"You really want to know?" 

Alhaitham met his eyes. "Yes."

Kaveh tilted his head, pretending to think it over. "Then earn it. Buy me dinner first."

Alhaitham blinked, almost appalled. "…You already spend my grocery budget."

Kaveh's grin widened. "Then think of it as reimbursement."

"What? That implies you've given me something worth reimbursing."

"I have. Companionship. Entertainment. An excuse to leave your cave of a study once in a while." He gestured loosely toward the bustling hall. "Look at you—interacting with people. Almost passing for social."

"Tragic." 

Kaveh leaned in, voice dropping just enough to cut through the noise. "You say that, but you haven't left my side all day."

Alhaitham gave him a look. "Do you want me to?"

"...That's not what I said."

"You implied it."

"I implied nothing. I was making an observation."

"Then clarify."

Kaveh huffed, tugging at his sleeve. "Clarify what? That you're here? You are. That you haven't complained enough to leave? Also true. That maybe, deep down, you don't mind?"

"Speculation," Alhaitham said flatly.

"Correct speculation," Kaveh shot back.

Alhaitham's tone stayed flat. "If I didn't mind, you'd think I was enjoying this."

Kaveh's grin came quick. "Exactly. And that idea clearly horrifies you."

"Not horrifies," Alhaitham corrected. "Annoys."

"I still think you're just jealous."

Alhaitham gave him a slow look. "Jealous of what, exactly?"

"People crowding around me while you're busy pretending not to care."

"I'm not pretending."

"You're not? That's bull—"

"Why would I be jealous of people looking at you?"

"Because—?"

"I get to do that all day."

Kaveh froze. 

"...What is that supposed to mean?"

Alhaitham shrugged, casual. "Up to interpretation."

"Oh," Kaveh said, mouth parting slightly. "So—so you're sick of my face?"

Alhaitham blinked once. "That's your interpretation?"

"You said all day!"

"And you think the natural conclusion is resentment?"

Kaveh folded his arms and looked away, clearly short-circuiting. "Well, I don't know, you say everything like it's a criticism."

"Maybe you still want my attention."

Kaveh crossed his arms tighter, lip jutting out.

"Fine. Maybe you're the jealous one."

Alhaitham raised an eyebrow. "Of?"

"The attention," Kaveh said quickly, "Hearing the praise and the camera shutters. You having to stand there and suffer through it."

Alhaitham exhaled, deeply. 

Kaveh took the silence as confession. His mouth curved.

"So you are jealous."

Alhaitham gave him a look. "Kaveh."

"What?"

"Do you honestly think I'm jealous when I would rather die crushed under this sword than take another picture?"

"You're not convincing me." Kaveh leaned a little closer, his smile edged with triumph. "So? Am I worth all this effort?"

For a moment, the noise of the hall swelled around them in voices, footsteps, the whine of a mic check from the panel stage. 

Finally, he responded. 

"You're certainly persistent."

Kaveh laughed. 

"I'll take that as a yes."

Handler life was, against his better judgment, not all that bad. Alhaitham intercepted wandering children before they faceplanted into trailing fabric, and it had now become instinctual to pass Kaveh water the moment his voice cracked. It seems he has also mastered the art of rejection, without bruising anyone's egos and causing public disturbances, which he considers a feat—especially considering his track record.

Other than that, the rest of the day had been a cycle of Kaveh glowing under every request for photos, Alhaitham hovering just far enough to keep accidents at bay, repeat. He'd been mistaken for a boyfriend four separate times. 

Somehow, he hadn't abandoned the mission.

Now, all that remained was the final event, which was the competition.

Kaveh had informed him earlier—but with a kind of humility—that he'd already won before. Luminacon's annual contest. First place. 

He knew that already. 

Oops.

But, that had been determined by audience vote, all cheering and noise, people screaming his name across the hall and spamming heart emojis on social media until the numbers tipped in his favor. This, Kaveh insisted, was different.

Unlike the dozens of casual hallway photos, this was a stage judged under bright lights and higher standards. The panel was made up of veteran costumers, prop designers, and organizers who'd been running these circuits for years. Winning here was, what Kaveh considered, prestige. 

It would be proof that the endless hours of sewing and sleepless nights actually meant something to people who understood the work.

The convention hall had already shifted for it. There was a stage built at the far end, rows of chairs filling with expectant attendees, volunteers checking badges and calling competitors backstage. Noise swelled and dipped like an unpredictable tide.

Beside him, Kaveh flexed his fingers over his gloves for what had to be the fifth time in three minutes. His smile was still there, though less "pretty boy," as it pulled at the edges. Performance nerves, Alhaitham realized… not that Kaveh would admit it.

The waiting room was cramped, lights buzzing overhead, every surface cluttered with stray props and makeup kits. Competitors fidgeted in their corners doing touch-ups and psyching themselves up with deep breaths.

Then Kaveh began pacing.

Two steps forward, two steps back, boots squeaking faintly against the linoleum. He always tried to make it look purposeful. Alhaitham could tell when it wasn't. He muttered under his breath, the running commentary he claimed he didn't do.

Alhaitham leaned against the wall, watching. 

"You're going to wear a hole in the floor."

"It beats standing still and thinking about tripping in front of three hundred people."

"Honestly," Alhaitham said, "at least one person will trip. The odds that it's you are only somewhat acceptable."

Kaveh glared, opened his mouth for a retort—then froze as he sat down on one of the folding chairs. 

A sharp crack split the air.

Alhaitham straightened. "…What was that."

Kaveh looked down. 

One of the ornate clasps across his chest had snapped clean in half, dangling from a loose thread. The embroidery around it had already started to fray.

For a moment, Kaveh only stared. 

Then his hands moved carefully, pressing the broken piece into place and smoothing the fabric around it.

"It's fine," Kaveh said.

Alhaitham's eyes stayed on the clasp.

"It's just unsecured," Kaveh replied, smoothly. "I'll fix it."

He stood and shifted his body a few degrees away from Alhaitham, enough to block the front of the costume from view. His left hand stayed pressed over the break, holding everything aligned. With his right, he reached for the nearest table and began rifling through supplies.

Kaveh had not asked for help, because Kaveh had a way of taking help as an accusation if it arrived too early. Of course, he would ask for help only if the ceiling caught on fire. So Alhaitham watched Kaveh's hands instead, the quick inventory of tools and options.

Tape. Bobby pins. A compact with powder dusting the lid. Thread spools. A small sewing kit with a zipper that snagged. Kaveh opened it, shut it, then opened it again.

He found a safety pin, lifted it, and set it down again.

"Don't," Alhaitham said.

Kaveh didn't look over. "I'm not putting it on the outside."

"That wasn't my concern," Alhaitham replied.

Kaveh let out a short, biting laugh. "Relax. I've fixed worse."

He bent his head and started stitching. The thread slipped once. He corrected it immediately, when it slipped again, then slowed down and tried again. The fabric pulled against the clasp. He adjusted the angle, pressed harder with his left hand, and tried to force the seam into cooperation.

The room continued around him. A volunteer called a name and waved a competitor toward the door. The sound from the hall rolled in when the door opened and faded when it shut.

Alhaitham assumed, at first, that Kaveh would manage it, as Kaveh usually did, back in school. He also usually paid for that competence later.

When Kaveh paused for a split second, only then did it make Alhaitham look closer.

Kaveh blinked slowly, controlling the amount of moisture in his eyes. He lifted his gaze for a fraction of a second, and the overhead light caught on his lashes. 

They were glossy. He looked away immediately.

"It's fine," Kaveh said again, quieter.

Alhaitham's gaze dropped to his hands. Kaveh's fingers were trembling, enough to make the next stitch dangerous.

"You're going to make it worse," Alhaitham said, hand moving to his wrist.

"I know I am. You think I don't know? I can't go out there like this," Kaveh sniffed, voice breaking at the edge. He tried to pull free, to fuss with the fabric again, but Alhaitham didn't let go.

"You're not going out there yet," Alhaitham said. The buzz of the waiting room pressed in from all sides. Dozens of conversations were overlapping. Kaveh's shoulders were already curling in, cornered.

Alhaitham made a decision. 

"Come on."

"What are you—"

"Bathroom," he said simply, steering him toward the door before Kaveh could argue.

They slipped out into the hall, the noise of the waiting room muffled behind the door. The lights still buzzed overhead, but at least the crowd was gone. Alhaitham guided him to the first empty restroom, shut the door behind them, and the silence was immediate.

Kaveh gripped the sink. His reflection looked worse, makeup smudged faintly at the corner of one eye, color too high on his cheeks. 

Alhaitham leaned against the wall by the paper towel dispenser, arms folded. "Breathe."

"I am—"

"You're hyperventilating."

Kaveh let out a weak, frustrated laugh that cracked halfway through. He swiped at his face with the back of his hand, but more tears threatened to leap out. 

"How ridiculous. I've done this before, I don't—I don't cry over this, it's just—"

"It's not ridiculous," Alhaitham placated him. "I know it's not just a costume. You worked on it for a long time, didn't you? You're stressed. Both things can be true."

It was hard to watch. All of it. 

This time, Alhaitham thought, with an unpleasant twist, Archons, he really means it. 

It wasn't one of Kaveh's dramatic flourishes meant for an audience of one. For all the dramatics, all the complaining, all the overblown speeches, Kaveh clearly cared. 

He only ever saw Kaveh truly break composure like this over two things: impossible deadlines for his most ambitious projects—the sheer emotional weight of his Master's thesis, for example—or genuine artistic failure. The latter, which he took harder than physical injury. The dim memory of Alhaitham looking around a corner to see a disheveled Kaveh, younger, wild-eyed, and exhausted after three days without sleep, nearly sobbing over the final structural analysis for his most elaborate design, flashed through Alhaitham's mind. The same tightly clenched jaw, the same wetness at the corner of the eyes. This look always meant the same thing: Kaveh had tied his self-worth to the perfection of the endeavor.

Enough to shake like this. To cry over fabric and thread. It made every sarcastic remark Alhaitham had ever thrown at him feel even worse in hindsight.

He'd thought the bickering was harmless; Kaveh posturing, him deflating it, as a cycle that never stopped because it didn't need to. But seeing him now, clinging to the sink with his makeup smudged and his shoulders curled in, the sharpness in Alhaitham's own words came back to echo in his head. 

Maybe they hadn't always landed as lightly as he pretended.

And wasn't that ridiculous? 

To feel a twist of remorse over this man, who could argue the paint off a wall, and declared he couldn't stand Alhaitham more than once. Yet there it was, tightening in his chest anyway. 

Maybe he had given him reason to argue the paint off a wall. Prodding when he didn't need to, dismissing things that clearly mattered, poking holes in every speech until Kaveh snapped back twice as loud. 

Kaveh, who always looked ready for a fight, looked defenseless now, undone by the weight of something Alhaitham had never taken seriously enough until this moment.

Alhaitham sighed. 

He stepped forward, tugged a paper towel from the dispenser, dampened it under the tap, and pressed it into Kaveh's hand. "Wipe your face before you ruin the rest of the makeup. I'll fix it."

Kaveh gripped the sink tighter, knuckles pale. His breathing came shallow, almost like he couldn't find space in his own chest.

Alhaitham set the sewing kit on the counter, uncapped a water bottle, and nudged it against Kaveh's hand. "Open."

Kaveh shook his head, half panicked, half embarrassed.

"You'll pass out if you don't," Alhaitham insisted. "Drink."

Reluctantly, Kaveh obeyed. He took two uneven sips, then a third, slower, the bottle trembling in his grip. His shoulders loosened, fractionally.

"That's better." Alhaitham took the bottle back, set it aside, then tapped his chin. "Head up."

Kaveh startled. "What?"

"I can't fix this thing if you're folded in half."

Kaveh hesitated, then lifted his head, still clutching fabric over his chest. Alhaitham pried his hand gently away, examined the damage, then crouched so he could work at eye level with the tear. Something wet landed on his hairline.

Alhaitham stilled. 

He looked up.

Kaveh's face was tilted toward the ceiling, lips pressed tight, but the tears weren't stopping. They slipped down anyway, unchecked, catching the edge of his jaw before falling.

Alhaitham frowned. "You're still crying."

Kaveh's breath hitched with an embarrassed, shaky sound. "I'm not—" He swiped at his cheek with the heel of his hand, the skin coming back wetly. It didn't stop. Another tear fell.

"You are." Alhaitham shifted, setting the sewing aside for a moment. "Does anything hurt?"

"What? No, it's—" Kaveh shook his head too fast, hair sticking to his damp temple. "I'm just overwhelmed. It's nothing."

"Overwhelmed isn't nothing."

Alhaitham hesitated. 

Then, rather dumbly, against all his better instincts, and every fiber of his personality that screamed this is a bad idea, he asked a question. 

"Do you… want a hug?"

Kaveh blinked, caught off guard completely. 

"What?"

"I'm not offering twice," Alhaitham said, already cringing at himself. 

Trying to hug Kaveh, of all people? 

But Kaveh was there, clearly trying to pull himself back together with nothing but sheer willpower, and Alhaitham didn't have any other tools for this. 

So he stepped forward and wrapped his arms around Kaveh, stiffly, and awkward by default. But one hand settled carefully between Kaveh's shoulder blades, the other hesitating before moving in slow, even pats.

"Breathe in," Alhaitham said quietly. "And out."

Kaveh shook, once, then again, smaller. 

His fingers curled into Alhaitham's shirt to hold onto something, anything, and slowly, so slowly, his shuddering breaths began to ease.

Alhaitham could feel it, the tension bleeding out of his shoulders, the way his breathing evened out against his chest. He stood there and let Kaveh lean into him.

There was dampness soaking into the shoulder of his shirt. He decided not to mention it.

After a long, quiet moment, Alhaitham shifted, meaning to move.

Kaveh didn't let him. The moment he tried to pull back, Kaveh's grip tightened with a surprising strength, fists brutally bunching in his shirt. 

He clung like a goddamn gorilla. Alhaitham was momentarily afraid that he would have to stitch his shirt too.

Alhaitham froze, arms hovering mid-adjustment. "…You need a tissue."

Kaveh gave a muffled, wordless noise into his shoulder.

Alhaitham sighed, then awkwardly angled himself toward the dispenser without dislodging him, shuffling sideways with Kaveh still latched on. He managed to grab a paper towel one-handed, all while keeping his other hand moving in slow, steady strokes along Kaveh's back, in a very mechanical way. However, not unkind.

He pressed the towel gently into Kaveh's hand. "Here," he murmured. "Don't let it ruin the rest of your work."

Kaveh sniffled, trying—and failing—to look composed. "Too late for that."

Alhaitham looked down, then gently cleared his throat. "I'm going to try fixing the clasp again," he said quietly. "You'll have to let go for a second. Is that okay?"

Kaveh hesitated, eyes dropping to the floor—then gave a small, almost shy nod against Alhaitham's shoulder. His fingers loosened.

Alhaitham crouched again, picking the needle back up. The thread caught awkwardly on his finger, his motions stupidly unpracticed. He muttered, more to himself than to Kaveh. "Gods, how do you have the patience for this?"

That startled a wet laugh out of Kaveh. "Patience? You? Trying to sew?"

Kaveh's laugh cracked into a hiccup. He leaned against the counter, pressing the damp towel to his face, while Alhaitham kept working—clumsy and overly cautious. For once, it was quiet enough to let the sound of Kaveh's soft laughter linger between them.

Alhaitham tugged the thread through with a lack of finesse. "Don't sound so surprised. I've managed to keep you in one piece this long. Five hours is my current record."

Kaveh managed another small giggle. "That's not the same as embroidery."

"Close enough," Alhaitham said. He tied off the thread with a little too much particularity, as if overcompensating. "You can flail around, and as per my job description, I'll patch you back together. The materials differ, but the process is familiar."

Kaveh pressed the towel to his eyes. "Am I such a disaster?"

"You said it, not me."

Kaveh made a wounded noise that broke into another laugh, thinner now. He tipped his head back against the mirror.

"Most people would try to say something reassuring."

"I am. I'm fixing it."

Kaveh blinked down at him, a weak pout tugging at his lips. "…That's your version of reassurance?"

Alhaitham finally glanced up, still crouched close, and for a moment, neither of them moved.

"Yes," he said simply. "It works, doesn't it?"

Kaveh huffed. "It’ll suffice."

Alhaitham tied off the last stitch, stood, and pressed the clasp flat with his thumb. His hand lingered a second longer than it needed to before he stepped back.

"Done," he said.

Kaveh glanced at his reflection.

A beat passed, before he burst out laughing.

Alhaitham straightened, affronted. 

"What, exactly, is so funny?"

Kaveh snorted, loud and unrestrained, pointing at the clasp in the mirror. 

It was hanging off-center, both halves lopsidedly nudging each other. The thread was uneven, tugging the fabric into a floppy little wrinkle. 

"Your stitching leaves a lot to be desired."

Alhaitham's brow furrowed, lips tugging down. "…It's holding it, isn't it?"

"Barely," Kaveh replied. "I'll give you credit for your effort, but I wouldn't hire you as my tailor."

Alhaitham crossed his arms, quieter now. "Fine. Then fix it yourself next time."

Kaveh blinked at him through the mirror, caught the faint downturn of his mouth, and broke into another fit of laughter. 

"Oh no. Are you pouting?"

Alhaitham's eyes flicked up, vengeful. "Bold of you to critique. Your wig is planning an escape route. I can see the cap."

Kaveh's laughter cut off in a gasp. He fumbled with the edge of the wig, tugging it down in a hurry. "You—! Why didn't you say something sooner?"

"I was busy being mocked for my stitching," Alhaitham looked away.

Kaveh leaned closer to the mirror, finally catching sight of the faint streaks at the corner of his eyes. The liner had smudged just enough to drag his expression down. With the wig crooked and the clasp hanging by a thread, the whole picture was more "post bar-fight" than "grand champion."

He snorted, shaking his head. "I can't go out like this."

Alhaitham straightened, ready to counter. "It's fine. The clasp will stay in place, the wig can be fixed, and the makeup—"

"Let's just go home."

Alhaitham froze, caught off guard. "...Home?"

"Mm." Kaveh's eyes stayed on the mirror, fingers brushing at the edge of his wig. "This one's a loss. Not worth dragging it out."

Alhaitham brows furrowed. "You've been working toward this for weeks. You're walking away that easily?"

Finally, Kaveh turned. His expression had softened into something calm, almost relieved. "Easily? No. But willingly, yes. I don't necessarily need a certificate and a medal to tell me I did good work."

Alhaitham's frown deepened. "That isn't what you said this morning. You practically tied your worth to this costume."

Kaveh sniffed as he tugged the wig straighter and swiped the last of the smudges from beneath his eyes. "Character development? I proved I could make it. Wear it. Bring it here. That's enough for me today."

Alhaitham studied him. There wasn't a bitter edge spilling into his smile. 

It looked like actual relief. It was unnerving. Kaveh, who could spiral into theatrics over a broken glass, was standing here in his crooked wig and patchy stitching looking… content?

"…You're smiling," Alhaitham said finally, unable to stop himself.

"Yes." Kaveh tilted his head at him, amused. "Does it unsettle you that much?"

"It's… unexpected."

"Unexpected that I can be happy without applause?"

"Unexpected that you're happy now," he corrected.

Kaveh heaved, checking his reflection one last time. He looked ridiculous.

"See? Still standing." 

Alhaitham studied him for a moment. 

"That's new."

"What is?"

"You not tearing yourself apart over it."

"First time for everything."

Kaveh pushed off the sink, adjusting his top so it sat a little less obviously crooked. "Alright. We can get out of here."

Alhaitham held the door for him without a word, but before they stepped back into the hall, Kaveh glanced sideways, grin tugging at the corner of his mouth.

"You still owe me dinner, by the way."

Alhaitham blinked. "…For what?"

Kaveh arched a brow. "You've forgotten already? My reimbursement."

Alhaitham exhaled through his nose. "You're still clinging to that?"

"Of course. You think I let debts slide?" Kaveh's grin widened. "Dinner, preferably somewhere with nice chairs. And dessert."

"…You're making demands now."

"Call it compensation," Kaveh said breezily, tugging his wig straight as they walked. "You got a free convention pass. The least you can do is feed me."

They rounded a corner, the noise of the crowd fading just enough. Kaveh glanced up at him, then backed down just as quick.

"…Thank you," he said, with a little bit of hesitance, as if it cost something to admit. "For earlier. I know I was being kind of a mess."

Alhaitham looked at him sideways. "You're embarrassed now, after clinging to me like your life depended on it?"

Kaveh groaned quietly, dragging a hand down his face. "Don't remind me—"

"What makes you think I minded?" Alhaitham asked. "I didn't."

Kaveh glanced at him again. This time he didn't look away as quickly. The edge softened around his features, the playfulness gone, replaced by something a little more honest.

Alhaitham swallowed, feeling the weight of it.

"Still. You didn't have to do all that."

And just like that, the image hit him—clear and unwelcome—

That note, written in Kaveh's familiar hand. It still lived folded in the back of Alhaitham's desk drawer. He hadn't touched it since he received it.

If you ever get tired, remember someone's still here because you didn't.

And now, here he was. Walking beside him, still thanking him, without knowing it was the second time. 

Alhaitham's grip tightened slightly around the convention bag slung over his shoulder. 

He didn't deserve that kind of sincerity, but he kept walking beside him anyway.

Kaveh was sprawled stomach-down on the couch, legs kicked up, ankles crossed, scrolling through his phone with a grin that read far too mischievous. For whatever reason, all prior claims of his exhaustion went out the door once they got home. 

"Oh my god, Alhaitham—you have to see this."

Alhaitham looked up from his book, already bracing for nonsense. "If it's another edit of a brooding animated man, no."

Kaveh ignored him, jumping up and flipping the phone around. "No, no, look. This is about you."

The screen lit with a comment thread pulled from some convention forum.

@c0rrosivecharm: Need Kaveh's handler to rearrange my digestive system

@applecr1sp: big mean handler if ur seeing this I would literally beg for one sniff #NeedThat

@b1oodtea: Ngl if that handler told me to shut up I'd c*m on the spot lol…
   ↳ @urhighpriestess: maybe don't say that out loud next to the security team
   ↳ @srslytho: Ok?

This comment has been marked as spam.
@mochibewii: if kaveh is that tall and he's still taller … omg id b so tiny and smol compared to him ,,, it makes me feel so little!! i'd just b a lil bean next to him <33 and i bet he can pick me up like i'm a feather :3 my feet wouldn't even touch the floor~

@soupbucket99: the handler **** look **** i swear i wanted him to **** me **** grab my **** shove it **** call me a **** worthless **** spit in my **** choke me **** drag me **** make me **** scream his **** name while **** dripping **** **** over my **** tie me **** step on my **** break my **** make me beg **** harder **** faster **** ruin me **** tear me **** apart until i **** shake and **** collapse and **** still **** begging for **** more ************* HARRRRDDDD
   ↳ @teaparty_: Oh that's not
   ↳ @deiuiu_archon: LMAOOOOO ???????
   ↳ @froggylord888: 💀💀💀wtf
   ↳ @rosesandguilt: I think I need bleach for my eyes
   ↳ @urhighpriestess: oh that's… yeah that's a lot
   ↳ @ho3sm4d: @forum_mods this content is extremely inappropriate and violates community guidelines. Please remove it immediately. 
      ↳ @ILUVRION: Nah leave them they're spitting 
      ↳ @leontruthers: this is art actually 
      ↳ @eggwhitesupreme: oh my gods lock the thread

@chinup_buttercup: guys let's not sexualize some random man it's weird
   ↳ @pocketgodslayer: true we should be sexualizing random fictional men instead 🙏

Alhaitham's eyebrows shot up.

…

"What the fuck?"

Kaveh immediately burst out laughing. "I told you! I told you, you should've expected this!"

Alhaitham dragged a hand down his face, debating on confiscating Kaveh's phone.

"This is deranged."

"Oh, come on. They think you're hot," Kaveh sing-songed, clearly delighted.

"I'm never taking a picture with you again," Alhaitham said flatly.

Kaveh gasped, clutching the phone to his chest. "What? No. You can't ban me from free content. Pretty, pretty please—"

Alhaitham raised an eyebrow. "That's supposed to be persuasive?"

"Yes," Kaveh said without hesitation, then flopped dramatically across the couch, one arm thrown over his eyes. "You wouldn't deny me this joy. Not after everything I've suffered. My tragic, tragic life."

Alhaitham leaned back, unimpressed. "Your life is loud, not tragic."

Kaveh peeked at him through his fingers, grin curling. "Both, then." He sat up again, scrolling back to the worst of the thread. "Anyway… let's see what the people have to say about you, shall we?"

"No."

"Yes," Kaveh said, already clearing his throat. He pitched his voice low, faux-sultry, leaning forward in a parody of seduction. "Need handler to rearrange my digestive system."

Alhaitham's expression flattened. "Stop."

"Big mean handler, if you're seeing this…"

"Kaveh."

But Kaveh only grinned wider, emboldened by the sharpness in his tone. He swung one leg up, yanking Alhaitham down on top of him with it, and before Alhaitham could shift away, hooked it lazily around his thigh, holding him there.

"The handler gave me the dirtiest look…" Kaveh's voice dropped low, each word bitten off like he was savoring it. "I wanted him to grab me, ruin me... make me beg—"

He drew the last word apart, a mock-moan pitched high. Almost ridiculous. Except his head tipped back at the same time, lashes low, mouth parted in a way that was anything but a joke. 

His eyes flicked up, glassy and pleading, aimed right at Alhaitham.

"Big Mean Handler…"

At that moment, there was a sudden pang in Alhaitham’s gut. 

What?

What?

It wasn't serious, couldn't have been serious, not with the grin threatening at the corners of his mouth. 

But it didn't matter. Because something in Alhaitham's chest seized up anyway, catching hard before he could clamp down on it. 

Kaveh's voice still echoed in his ears—Big Mean Handler…—and somehow, somehow, that was the phrase currently unplugging every rational function in his brain.

Alhaitham's breath stilled. Heat rushed down, down, down. Oh no. No no no no no. 

What.

What?!

Why was his body reacting to that?

This wasn't sexy. This was the farthest thing from it.

His pants had become noticeably more uncomfortable.

He blinked hard.

“…Big~ Mean~ Handler~…”

Think of something awful. Something viscerally wrong.

Soup while reading.

Drinking lukewarm dishwater.

Microwaved fish in an unventilated office.

Eating a jar of mayonnaise left open in the sun? Maybe? 

Oh no! Surprise maggot infestation!

He swallowed. Nope. Still hard.

What the fuck was wrong with him?

Was there something deeply wrong with him? That had to be it. Some fundamental failing of dignity. 

The grin on Kaveh's face blurred against the sudden awareness of how close his leg was pressed, how casual and reckless he was being. Alhaitham was not about to let him see that he was pitching a tent like some two pump chump. 

"That's enough," Alhaitham said, straining. He untangled himself with more force than necessary, standing in one smooth motion.

Kaveh blinked, caught off guard by the sudden shift, laughter still half-formed on his lips. "What, did I—"

"Enough." 

Alhaitham was already striding down the hall. The bathroom door clicked shut behind him, leaving Kaveh sprawled on the couch with the phone still in hand, the comment thread glowing in his face.

Alhaitham braced both hands on the sink, head up, eyes fixed anywhere but down. 

Useless. 

His body refused to be ignored, the traitorous heat still pressing urgent and insistent against the front of his pants.

He exhaled hard through his nose. "Pathetic."

The word echoed off the tile. 

He tipped his head back down, finally glaring down at his penis.

"You're easy," he pointed an accusatory finger at his pelvis, disgust curling sharp. "Starved for attention. That's all this is."

This was biology. Plain, undignified, inconvenient biology. Months—no, years—without sex, without even the thought of pursuing it. Bricked up over the first halfway provocative thing shoved under his nose. He could've been watching a mediocre romance drama where they knock their lips together like dead fish and it would've had the same effect. That had to be it.

And the simplest solution was obvious. Just… get it over with. Quick, efficient, no overthinking. Take care of the physiological response, and the problem disappears. Reset to normal.

His jaw locked as he braced harder against the sink. The idea of walking back out there like this, with his pulse still hammering, was unbearable. Better to end it here, in silence, than let his body keep humiliating him.

Five minutes. Less, if he focused. 

No need to attach meaning to it.

Hand, cock, climax, done.

He yanked out his cock and pictured the usual: an idealized figure, nameless and conveniently beautiful, writhing prettily as she took him. Her body was everything it should have been: wet, willing, soft where it mattered. She bounced back on him with abandon, sweat sliding down her back, her moans echoing.

It should have worked.

Instead, every thrust in his head looked forced, the moans too polished, and the rhythm too staged. He grit his teeth, jerking his fist faster, but the fantasy kept flickering.

Alright, fine. A guy. Maybe a guy would work. Maybe he's just gay. 

Nameless, conveniently handsome…

"Oh, big, mean, handler…"

His stomach sank rapidly.

What the fuck.

The whiny lilt was unmistakable, pitched higher, cracking like it couldn't hold the weight of itself. His hand faltered. Archons forbid his own mind betray him like this.

But then the image came into view anyway: Kaveh, looking back at him, golden hair stuck damp to his forehead, sweat gleaming at the edge of his jaw. His mouth parted, voice shaky as he whimpered his name—

"Alhaitham…"

Alhaitham cursed under his breath and tried to wrench his thoughts back, but it was too late.

Now he could feel it: the imagined grip of Kaveh's body around him, obscene in its softness. Tight, scorching, the kind of heat that made his chest seize. He couldn't even stop himself from picturing how Kaveh would move: sweet, impatient, wriggling back onto him like he was desperate to take more, whining when it wasn't fast enough.

He'd slide in like it was nothing. Like Kaveh had been made for this, warm and dripping, clenching around him just to keep him close. Slick enough to glide, snug enough to drag every inch with maddening pressure.

He could almost hear the wet sound of it, the lewd catch of Kaveh's breath every time Alhaitham bottomed out, forced deeper. Kaveh would take him with ease, squirming back needily to chase the stretch, crying out when it wasn't enough—when he needed it harder, faster, deeper—

"Oh—hngh—fuck, deeper—"

Alhaitham's fist tightened instinctively, breath stuttering out of him. He imagined Kaveh looking back over his shoulder, hair sticking to his damp skin, hips pushing back to take him deeper. 

"Alhaitham—" 

The sound tore through him again, the whine of it, the way his name stretched high at the end like Kaveh couldn't hold himself together.

His pace faltered—just for a breath—then snapped faster, hand tightening, strokes turning rougher. His cock throbbed in his grip, already flushed and leaking, every drag of his palm dragging the image into brutal focus: Kaveh bent forward just enough to tempt, then grinding back against him, thighs trembling, spine curved with intention.

That tiny waist, the way Alhaitham's hands could bracket it without effort—hold him in place while he fucked into him, slow at first, then mean, until Kaveh was panting, clinging, gasping for more.

His face, his face that was so pretty when it crumpled, all dazed, eyes glassy and mouth parted, voice going sleazy trying to say his name between choked-off moans.

"Alhaitham—"

Heat tore through him too fast to stop it. He grunted, low and ragged, as his orgasm hit—spurting into his fist, some onto the counter, the sound of his own voice breaking loose before he could choke it back.

The silence after was brutal. His hand was slick, chest heaving, cock still twitching with the aftershocks.

And the worst part—the part that made his stomach twist—wasn't that he'd failed to come to the faceless woman or even a faceless man. It was that Kaveh's voice had been the only thing that worked.

Post-nut clarity hit like a hammer.

"Good grief," he muttered aloud, almost dragging a hand down his face. His palm was smeared with his own mess, which only made it worse. "I'm a fucking pervert."

No way he was jerking off to his roommate. His loud, infuriating, melodramatic roommate, who left pins in the carpet and glitter in the drain. 

This was Kaveh.

Kaveh, who had been vulnerable with him—who'd handed him a scrap of card with words he clearly hadn't been able to say out loud. Who spilled enthusiasm like it might run out if he didn't get it all out fast enough, and trusted Sage, no, Alhaitham, not to laugh.

And here he was, imagining him undone. Moaning, begging, writhing for him.

The guilt sat heavy. Kaveh hadn't done anything wrong. He had opened himself up once, carefully, and Alhaitham's brain had already twisted it into filth.

He groaned into his palm, resisting the urge to ram his head into the mirror. "Unbelievable."

Alhaitham stood over the sink, a damp towel dragging across the counter. He rubbed harder, as if he could scrub away the evidence, the guilt, the memory.

Pathetic.

He braced both hands on the sink, and stared down at the porcelain. His reflection in the mirror looked completely unperturbed, as if no one could tell he'd just—

A knock broke the silence.

He stiffened immediately, towel half-folded in his hand.

"…Alhaitham?"

Kaveh's voice, low and hesitant, bled through the door.

Alhaitham's pulse spiked. Of course. Of course now.

"I—uh. Are you okay?" Another pause, he was considering retreat. "I shouldn't have pushed earlier. With the phone. If I made you uncomfortable, I'm… sorry. I take things too far sometimes."

Alhaitham shut his eyes, grip tightening on the sink. The towel was still damp against his knuckles.

Of all the possible moments Kaveh could have chosen to show remorse, it had to be now—while Alhaitham was half-naked, still flushed, scrubbing away the remnants of jerking off to him.

"I'm—" his voice cracked, and he coughed, forcing it steady. "I'm fine. Just—" His mind scrabbled for something. "Taking a shit."

"Oh?"

"…Let's talk about this in the morning. Okay?"

The floorboards creaked faintly as Kaveh shifted. "…Okay. I just wanted to make sure."

"Goodnight, Kaveh," Alhaitham said.

A beat of silence, then the soft retreat of footsteps.

Alhaitham opened his eyes again. 

If there was a hell, it was tiled in this exact shade of white.