Kaveh works himself to near sickness.

--

Kaveh works himself to near sickness.

It is both admirable and annoying. There is something to be proud of when it comes to such a drive but it means so little if the health of the individual is sacrificed.

Alhaitham knows that he is, in part, to blame. It is easy to joke about rent and kicking him out. It is harder to admit that he doesn't want Kaveh to leave, that the entire reason he welcomed him back is that this has always been his home.

Kaveh likely wouldn't believe him anyhow, thinking it is a joke.

He is the sort of artist who hit his peak too young and will spend the majority of his years chasing after it. Kaveh is stubborn—too stubborn when it comes down to things. Unable to see the good bits that he has because he's focused on the end, not the bigger picture.

Alhaitham struggles with this too. Work-life balance. He is the same in the way that he throws himself into his studies. They are familiar and comforting. He knows that it is the same for Kaveh who finds angles and protractors better friends than those actually around him.

Still.

Alhaitham sighs as he leans against Kaveh's drafting table. Kaveh is draped over it, cheek cradled by his forearm. He drools a little. There's a nib of charcoal by his black-stained fingers, making it clear that he fell asleep mid-work. Alhaitham can imagine it. "Just a moment," Kaveh would have told himself. "I should rest my eyes for just a moment."

Kaveh's plans are simple: design something that will inspire and pay, and then he can be out and on his own.

Easier than done. The problem with Kaveh is his bitter stubbornness and his inability to meet halfway when it comes to his work. It must be exactly as he sees it and nothing more nor less. Alhaitham isn't good at compromise either but it is something that he at least recognizes.

He brushes Kaveh's bangs back. "And you wonder why," he mutters. So many things that Kaveh doesn't have the answer to can be found with one simple realization.

Kaveh's problem is that he'll never see himself as something of value. It will always be about his work, his trade, his artistic impact, and how Teyvat will remember him when he is long gone. But what good is a palace when the man behind it is a mess? Alhiatham admires his tenacity and is vexed by his lack of care.

There is a blanket that he gave Kaveh years ago, back when they were still students. A silly gift that Alhaitham was surprised to see he kept. "Who's the senior now?" he asks himself, moving to unfold the fabric from the back of Kaveh's chair.

It often feels like he is the one who babysits. He shakes out the blanket and drapes it over Kaveh's shoulders. He cleans his fingers with a cloth and puts away his charcoal and tools in the box beside him. One last brush of his bangs, a lingering touch as Alhaitham regards him.

In the morning, Kaveh doesn't question his actions, he just hands Alhaitham a fresh cup of coffee, brewed by hand with the pour-over press. Something he doesn't have time for. An indulgence he rarely entertains.

And yet.

Alhaitham thanks him with quiet words that make Kaveh smile.