Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Alhaitham had always prided himself on his ability to maintain control. Logic was his fortress, emotions mere variables to be calculated and managed. But tonight, the fortress was crumbling, logic failing him in the face of despair. His once-clear mind was tangled in a web of anguish, each thread pulling him deeper into darkness. No amount of reasoning could unravel the chaos that had taken hold.

The change was gradual at first, creeping in unnoticed. At first, it was just a nagging sense of emptiness that he couldn’t shake, even after accomplishing everything he had set out to do. He had the job, the reputation, the intellect. He had everything he was supposed to want, but none of it felt fulfilling anymore. Every victory felt hollow, every achievement meaningless.

And then there was the isolation. Alhaitham had always been comfortable on his own, thriving in his solitude. But somewhere along the way, that solitude had begun to morph into loneliness. He found himself questioning the connections he had with others. Were they real? Did they truly see him, or just the image he presented to the world? Did they care at all, or was he just another fixture in their lives, easily replaced?

The questions gnawed at him, day and night, until they became a constant hum in the back of his mind, an inescapable presence that he couldn’t outrun. The once-comforting silence of his home had become suffocating, a place where his thoughts turned against him, where the quiet only amplified the darkness lurking in his mind.

And then there was the weight of his own expectations—the relentless pressure to be perfect, to always be in control, to never falter. Alhaitham had always prided himself on his rationality, on his ability to keep his emotions in check. But the more he tried to suppress the darkness within him, the more it seemed to consume him. The more he tried to ignore the gnawing emptiness, the louder it screamed for his attention.

It was exhausting. The constant battle against himself, the relentless effort to maintain the façade of the unbreakable scribe now acting grand sage, even as everything inside him was falling apart. He couldn’t let anyone see. He couldn’t let anyone know how weak he had become, how much he was struggling just to make it through the day.

And that was the worst part, wasn’t it? The weakness. The fact that he, of all people, couldn’t fix this. No matter how many books he read, no matter how much logic he applied, he couldn’t find a way to make it stop. He couldn’t make himself feel… anything.

So when the darkness whispered to him, telling him that it would be easier to just… stop, to just let go… it became harder and harder to ignore. The thoughts had started as fleeting suggestions, easily dismissed. But over time, they grew louder, more insistent, until they became a constant, unrelenting presence in his mind.

He hadn’t wanted to burden anyone with it. He hadn’t wanted to be seen as someone who needed help, as someone who couldn’t handle his own problems. But it had all become too much. The loneliness, the emptiness, the suffocating weight of his own mind—it had all piled up until there was nothing left to hold onto.

And so, that night, he had decided to end it. To finally silence the thoughts that had been tormenting him for so long. But even in that, he had failed.

The blade reflected the moonlight, casting a cold gleam across his skin. It felt like an anchor, something solid in the midst of the swirling chaos in his mind. He turned it over in his fingers, feeling the weight of it, the sharpness of the edge. It was almost comforting, in a way. Finally, something that made sense, something that could cut through the numbness he had been drowning in.

"It would be so easy," he whispered to himself, his voice barely audible in the silence of the outside world. "Just… one cut."

He pressed the blade against his wrist, testing the sharpness, feeling the cool metal against his skin. His breath hitched slightly at the sensation, and for a moment, his mind was clear—focused entirely on the edge of the blade, on the thin line that separated life from death.

He wasn’t afraid. That’s what struck him the most. There was no fear, no hesitation, just a quiet acceptance of what this meant. The emptiness in his chest was unbearable, and this… this was a way out. A way to finally stop the thoughts, the relentless pressure that had been crushing him for so long.

Alhaitham closed his eyes, letting out a slow, shaky breath. The blade trembled slightly in his hand, hovering just above his skin, as if it was waiting for him to make the final decision.

But as his grip tightened around the handle, a small voice at the back of his mind whispered, What if this isn’t the answer?

His fingers twitched, and for a brief moment, doubt crept in. What would happen after this? Would there be peace, or just more darkness? And what about the people he would leave behind? Kaveh, with his endless frustrations and arguments—Would he even care? Would anyone care?

No one would notice, the darker thoughts replied, their voice stronger now. You’ve always been alone. It’s always been you against the world, Alhaitham. No one would miss you.

But that voice… it felt hollow now. Empty. Something deep inside him resisted, even as his logical mind screamed at him that it was the truth. He had built his entire life around self-sufficiency, around the idea that he didn’t need anyone. And yet, here he was, hesitating. Why?

He gritted his teeth, angry at himself for faltering. He had come this far—why stop now? Why not follow through? He pressed the blade harder against his skin, feeling the sharp bite of the metal, a thin line of red beginning to form.

But then… Kaveh’s face flashed in his mind. The way he would storm into their shared space, always full of life and passion, always pushing Alhaitham to engage, to feel something. The arguments, the banter, the fleeting moments of something like camaraderie, and the nights where Kaveh’s voice would fill the silence of the house with stories and laughter, even if Alhaitham never responded.

Would Kaveh care? The question lingered in his mind, refusing to let go. Would Kaveh notice if he was gone? Would he regret all the times he had stormed out, frustrated with Alhaitham’s coldness? Or would he be relieved, finally free of their constant clashes?

Alhaitham’s grip on the blade faltered. His hand trembled, the steel slipping dangerously against his skin as the edge seemed to blur, his vision swimming with tears he refused to let fall. He hadn’t cried in years—perhaps ever, not in a way anyone had seen. Crying meant yielding, meant opening the gates to feelings he had spent a lifetime locking away behind logic and control. He didn’t cry. He didn’t allow himself that weakness.

But here, in the hushed stillness of the forest, with only the whisper of leaves to bear witness, the weight he had carried finally pressed too heavily against his ribs. The burden of expectations, of choices he had made and ones he hadn’t, of silence so absolute it had begun to consume him, all of it bore down with merciless force.

For the first time in longer than he could remember, the walls cracked. And in that breach came memory: his grandmother’s voice, warm and patient, guiding him through words and books when the rest of the world felt empty. She had been the anchor in his childhood, the steady presence in a life marked by absence. When she died, he hadn’t let himself grieve. He had packed away her belongings, closed her door, and told himself logic demanded acceptance. But the truth was that grief had never left him—it had only buried itself deeper, waiting for moments like this to rise and remind him.

Now it returned with crushing clarity. If he crossed this final threshold, it would mean discarding not only himself, but the last threads of her he still carried.

The blade slipped from his hand, clattering to the ground with a soft thud. Alhaitham stared at it, his breath coming in shallow, uneven gasps. He couldn’t do it. He couldn’t go through with it. Despite everything, despite the overwhelming darkness, he couldn’t bring himself to take that final step.

He slumped forward, burying his face in his hands as the weight of his failure crushed him. He had come so close—so close to ending it all. But something had stopped him. Something deep inside had whispered that maybe, just maybe, this wasn’t the way.

Minutes passed, or maybe hours—Alhaitham couldn’t tell. When he finally looked up, the silence felt different now. He wasn’t sure if it was better or worse, but at least he was still here. Still breathing. He had wandered the streets in a daze, every step feeling heavier than the last. The city's lights, usually so comforting, now felt harsh and unwelcoming, glaring reminders of a world that seemed indifferent to his suffering. The laughter of passersby, the distant rustle of leaves—all of it mocked him, a cruel contrast to the darkness that had consumed him.

The failure of his desperate attempt to find release gnawed at him. He had stood on the brink, blade in hand, ready to end his suffering. Yet, in that crucial moment, his hand had faltered. Why? Why had he hesitated, unable to complete what he had set out to do?

The question seared through him, a relentless loop of self-loathing. He had failed at even this, failed to control his own fate. His usually sharp mind was clouded with shame and frustration. He had sought peace, but now he returned, empty-handed, unable to escape his own torment.

As his home came into view, it offered no comfort. The familiar sight felt hollow, a cruel reminder of the meaninglessness he felt. The thought of stepping inside, continuing his existence within those walls, tightened his chest with dread. Yet his feet carried him forward, moving through the motions of living despite the emptiness within.

The door creaked open, and the silence of his home greeted him like a mocking echo. The dim light of the hallway seemed to cast long shadows, amplifying the sense of isolation that had taken hold of him. He dropped his keys on the table by the door, their clatter a stark contrast to the silence that enveloped him. It was then that he saw Kaveh.

Kaveh stood there, bathed in the soft glow of the lamp, looking unlike himself—tense, worried, fragile. This was the opposite of the passionate, fiery Kaveh Alhaitham was used to. Seeing him like this, holding a crumpled note with eyes wide in fear, stirred something unexpected in Alhaitham: guilt.

For a moment, Alhaitham wanted to turn around and disappear into the night. He wasn’t ready to face this—wasn’t ready to see the fear and concern etched into Kaveh’s expression. He didn’t deserve it. He didn’t deserve any of this. But he couldn’t leave. His body froze, rooted in place as Kaveh turned to face him.

“Alhaitham…?”

Kaveh’s voice was not his own. It was a tiny, broken thing, a splinter of sound in the overwhelming silence. It was the sound of a heart cracking down its center. It wasn’t a name anymore; it was a question, a plea, a prayer sent into the dark. That single, shattered word held a universe of terror, and it somehow pierced the numb void surrounding Alhaitham, hooking into a sliver of his soul and pulling.

Alhaitham flinched as if lashed, a full-body recoil of shame. The sound of his own name had never felt so much like an accusation.

Kaveh’s hands came up, hovering in the space between them, trembling so violently they seemed to vibrate the very air. They were an architect’s hands, capable of drafting beauty from nothing, now useless, helpless. His face didn’t just crumple; it unmade itself. The light in his crimson eyes guttered and died, replaced by a hollow, gut-wrenching horror. He looked like a man who had just watched his entire life burn to ash before he could scream.

And Alhaitham, the logician, the scholar who prized reason above all, could only stand there and watch the devastation he had caused. The shame was a live wire in his veins, acidic and burning, scalding him from the inside out. His gaze, helpless and traitorous, was dragged downward to the evidence on his wrist.

The marks were not dramatic. They were pathetic. Faint, angry red lines, shallow and hesitant. They were not the clean, decisive end he had calculated. They were a stammer. A failed sentence. A coward’s punctuation. They were a mockery of resolve, a permanent brand of his own weakness etched into skin that suddenly felt like it belonged to a stranger. Pathetic.

Kaveh’s eyes followed his. The crumpled note in Kaveh’s own hand fluttered to the floor, forgotten. All he could see was the proof of the unthinkable.

“What…” Kaveh’s voice was a ragged tear in the fabric of the silence. It was less a word and more a gasp of a drowning man. His throat worked, convulsing around a sob he couldn’t yet release. “What did you do?”

The question landed not like a blow, but like a guillotine. It severed the last thread holding Alhaitham upright. His knees buckled, just a fraction, and he had to lock them to remain standing. His mouth opened, but no sound came out. Just a dry, desperate click. When the confession finally came, it was torn from the deepest, most ruined part of him, each word a piece of glass forced through his lips.

“I couldn’t…” His voice was a ruin, a hollow echo in a crumbling cathedral. It broke, splintering on the truth. “I couldn’t do it.”

The sound Kaveh made was the most devastating thing Alhaitham had ever heard. It wasn’t a scream. It wasn’t a sob. It was a small, choked-off whimper, the sound of pure, unadulterated hope being extinguished. The color drained from Kaveh’s face completely. He stumbled forward, his hand shooting out, then freezing mere inches from Alhaitham’s skin, fingers curled into a claw of helpless agony. He was afraid to touch. Afraid that contact would make this real.

“Why?” The single word was a shattered thing, a plea ripped from a bleeding heart. Tears, already overflowing, traced hot paths down his cheeks, dripping onto the dusty floorboards between them. “Why would you try? Why didn’t you—” His voice fractured completely, a sob ripping through him, stealing his breath. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

Tell him? How could he begin to put words to the weight of emptiness? How could he describe the constant, screaming static in his mind, the thousand voices that were all his own, hissing that he was a flawed equation, an error in the code of existence, a ghost who had overstayed his welcome? He is the Acting Grand Sage. He was logic incarnate. To admit that his own mind was a haunted house, a labyrinth with no exit, was the ultimate failure. The thought of Kaveh seeing that rot, that fundamental brokenness—the thought of being truly known—had been more terrifying than the silence.

“I didn’t want you to see me like this.” The words were a ghost of a whisper, a confession meant for the darkness alone. He felt flayed, every layer of intellect and composure stripped away, leaving only a raw, pulsing nerve of shame. His next words were even softer, a breath against the shell of Kaveh’s ear. “I didn’t want you to know what I really am. Beneath it all.”

Kaveh’s trembling hand finally, finally closed the distance. His touch was not hesitant, but infinitely, heartbreakingly gentle. His warm, calloused fingers brushed against the shame on Alhaitham’s wrist—not in horror, but in a reverence that stole the air from Alhaitham’s lungs. It was a touch that said, I see your worst, and I am still here.

“But I didn’t know,” Kaveh cried, his voice raw, gutted, every word a struggle. A fresh wave of tears fell, unchecked. “I never knew how deep it went. And I was afraid every single day, Haitham.” The name was a sob. “Afraid that one day you just wouldn’t come back. That I’d find this house empty. That you’d be gone, and I’d never get to stop you. Never get to say goodbye. Never get to tell you that—” His voice broke, the end of the sentence lost to a guttural, heart-wrenching sob that seemed to tear him apart from the inside.

Alhaitham’s body began to shake uncontrollably. The sight of Kaveh’s utter devastation—a devastation he had caused was a pain worse than any blade. He had thought he was sparing him. He had been a fool.

“I’m sorry,” he choked, the words wrenched from the very core of his being. His own tears, hot and shameful, spilled over, carving paths through the dust on his cheeks. His composure, his fortress, was dust. “I’m so sorry, Kaveh. I’m so sorry.”

“Don’t,” Kaveh said fiercely, his hand tightening around Alhaitham’s wrist. “Don’t you dare apologize for feeling like this. Just… just let me help. Please, Haitham. Let me be here for you.”

The way Kaveh said his name ‘Haitham’—not his title, not his full name, but the name only he used, the name spoken in late-night arguments and rare moments of quiet understanding—it shattered the last of his defenses. It was a key turning in a lock frozen shut for a lifetime.

“I don’t know how,” he whispered, the admission leaving him utterly naked and exposed. He trembled violently, a leaf in a storm. “I don’t know how to stop it. I don’t know how to be… better.” The word ‘better’ was a pathetic, hopeless thing.

That was when Kaveh broke completely. He surged forward and pulled him into a crushing embrace, his arms locking around Alhaitham with a strength born of sheer, desperate love. It was not a gentle hug; it was a claim, a tether, an anchor thrown into a hurricane.

And for the first time, Alhaitham stopped fighting. He collapsed. His forehead fell against Kaveh’s shoulder, his body wracked with great, heaving sobs that had no sound, only the violent, shuddering expulsion of a pain too vast for noise. He clung to Kaveh’s shirt, his fists twisting the fabric, holding on as if it were the only thing keeping him from being swept away into the void.

Kaveh held him through it. He held him tightly, one hand cradling the back of Alhaitham’s head, fingers tangling in his hair, the other a firm, steady band across his back, holding the pieces together. He murmured into his hair, a litany against the storm. “I’ve got you. I’ve got you. I’m here. I’m not going anywhere. Just breathe. Please... Don’t leave me…”

He could feel the frantic hammer of Kaveh’s heart against his own chest, a frantic, living drumbeat against the silence that had nearly consumed him. It was the most real, the most anchoring thing he had ever felt.

Slowly, agonizingly, the storm began to subside, leaving behind a hollowed-out exhaustion so complete it was its own kind of peace. Alhaitham’s grip on Kaveh’s shirt loosened, but he didn’t let go. He leaned into the solid warmth, his breath evening out against Kaveh’s neck.

Kaveh held onto Alhaitham like his life depended on it, fingers digging into his shoulders. Alhaitham had always seemed distant, unreachable behind his logical façade. Now, in this moment of raw vulnerability, Kaveh could see the cracks—the pain, loneliness, despair that Alhaitham had hidden. It terrified him.

When Alhaitham finally sagged against him, Kaveh’s heart twisted painfully. Relief and fear warred within him. Alhaitham was still here, but the thought of what could have been—of almost losing him—made Kaveh’s stomach churn with dread and guilt.

What had he missed? How had he not seen how bad things had gotten for Alhaitham? Kaveh prided himself on reading people, but with Alhaitham, he had been too focused on their bickering to notice the storm brewing beneath his calm exterior. The guilt was a lead weight in his chest, making it hard to breathe.

“I’m sorry,” Kaveh whispered, his voice breaking. “I’m so, so sorry.”

Alhaitham stiffened slightly, confusion evident. “For what?” His voice was hollow, as if he couldn’t grasp why Kaveh would apologize.

“For not seeing this,” Kaveh said, tightening his grip on Alhaitham’s shoulders. “For not being there when you needed me. For not realizing how much you were hurting.”

Alhaitham shook his head, his forehead pressed against Kaveh’s collarbone. “It’s not your fault,” he murmured. “I didn’t want you to know.”

“But I should have known,” Kaveh insisted, his voice growing stronger. “I should have seen it. I should have—” He choked on the words, his throat tight with regret.

Kaveh had been so focused on understanding Alhaitham, bridging their gap, that he hadn’t seen how deep it had grown. The thought was a black hole in his mind, sucking all light. That he could have lost Alhaitham forever, not to some grand enemy or epic tragedy, but to this quiet, internal decay—and that his own ignorance, his own self-absorption, might have been a thread in the noose—was a regret so profound it felt like his soul was being torn in two. He had almost lost the most important person in his life, and he hadn’t even known he was standing on the edge of that cliff.

“I’ve been so caught up in… in everything else,” Kaveh admitted, his voice cracking under the weight of his self-reproach, each word a struggle, a penance. “In my own projects, my own debts, my own… stupid, meaningless pride. I didn’t see what was happening right in front of me. I thought you were just being you. Distant. Self-contained. I never realized… I never dreamed it was this bad. That you were in this much pain. That you were so alone.” The word ‘alone’ was a whisper of utter heartbreak.

Alhaitham’s hand found Kaveh’s, their fingers intertwining in a desperate, clinging gesture. He could feel the warmth of Kaveh’s skin, the strength in his grip. It was a small comfort, a tether in the storm of his emotions.

“I didn’t want to burden you,” Alhaitham said softly. “I thought if I could just… keep it together, I could handle it. I didn’t want to drag you into this mess.”

Kaveh’s heart ached at the admission. He could see now how Alhaitham had been fighting his own battles alone, believing he had to shoulder everything by himself. The thought of him enduring so much pain in isolation was a heavy blow.

“I know,” Kaveh said gently. His hold tightening possessively. “But that’s not how it should be. I should have heard yours. I should have known it was a scream.” He pulled back just enough to look at Alhaitham, his eyes red-rimmed and puffy, but blazing with a fierce, unwavering certainty. “Never again. Do you hear me? You never carry this alone again. Your silence is mine. Your pain is mine. We bear it together. We’re supposed to be in this together. That’s the only logic that matters now. I want to be here for you, Alhaitham. I need to be.”

In that moment, looking into Kaveh’s tear-streaked, determined face, Alhaitham felt it. The first, fragile, terrifying flicker of something he thought had died forever: hope. It wasn’t a solution. It was a hand in the dark.

For a long while, they stayed like that—locked in an embrace, sharing the silence that spoke louder than words. Kaveh’s tears soaked into Alhaitham’s clothes, mingling with the remnants of the pain that had led them here. Alhaitham’s breathing was ragged, each breath a reminder of how fragile his hold on himself had become.

In that quiet moment, Kaveh realized that healing would be a slow process. It wouldn’t come from grand gestures or sweeping changes but from small, steady steps. From being present, from offering support, from showing Alhaitham that he wasn’t alone.

They had reached the edge of something profound, something that could either tear them apart or bring them closer together. For now, Kaveh chose to focus on the latter. He would be there for Alhaitham, through the darkness and the light, no matter how long it took.

Alhaitham slowly pulled away, his eyes red-rimmed but clear. He looked at Kaveh with a mixture of gratitude and vulnerability that was both foreign and deeply comforting. For the first time, he allowed himself to truly see Kaveh—his unwavering support, his genuine concern, his love.

“I don’t know what the future holds,” Alhaitham said quietly. “But I want to face it with you. I don’t want to go through this alone.”

Kaveh’s eyes softened, a small, determined smile breaking through his tears. “We’ll face it together,” he promised. “One step at a time.”

As they stood there, holding onto each other, the weight of the past seemed a little lighter. The path ahead was uncertain and filled with challenges, but with Kaveh by his side, maybe he could find a way through the darkness and emerge on the other side.

Chapter Text

The first thing I noticed was the silence.

It wasn’t the usual comfortable, mutually agreed-upon quiet that often settled between us, a ceasefire in our perpetual war of words. This was different. This silence was heavy, a thick, suffocating blanket that seemed to absorb all sound and light from our home. It was the silence of an empty cathedral, vast and echoing, and it centered entirely on Alhaitham.

He had always been a man of few words, but his silence had a language I’d prided myself on understanding. The contemplative silence of a reader lost in a text, his fingers subtly tracing a line on the page. The dismissive silence of someone who deemed a conversation unworthy of his energy, often accompanied by a slight, almost imperceptible raise of his eyebrow. The tired silence that followed a long day, where he’d slump just a fraction more in his chair.

I was fluent in all of them. Or so I thought.

This was a new dialect. One I couldn’t parse. This silence was… hollow. It wasn’t that he wasn’t speaking; it was that the person who would speak seemed to be absent. The light behind his eyes, that sharp, analytical gleam that could feel like an interrogation or a challenge, was simply… gone. Extinguished.

It started after the whole Grand Sage incident had truly settled. The adrenaline had faded, the chaos had been organized into tidy reports, and normalcy or what passed for it in our shared life had resumed. But for him, it seemed the return to routine was not a relief, but a sentence.

I tried to rationalize it. He’s decompressing, I told myself. The weight of running the entire Akademiya would crush anyone. He just needs time. My own pride whispered that perhaps he was finally, truly bored of our arguments. That the thrill of the debate had worn off for him. The thought stung more than I cared to admit.

I am a man who feels everything too much, too loudly. My emotions are a palette of vibrant, clashing colours, splashed across a canvas for all to see. He is or was my opposite. A study in monochrome, all clean lines and sharp contrasts. Our dynamic was a constant, furious, and yes, often enjoyable, clash of those two worlds. It was our equilibrium.

Now, my colours were met with a void. My attempts to provoke a comment on his terrible taste in decorative ceramics, a strategically placed book on a controversial theory were met with a blank stare or a non-committal hum. It was like shouting into a deep, dry well and hearing no echo. It was terrifying.

The guilt began to coil in my stomach, cold and heavy. I am a master of reading people, of understanding the unspoken language of emotion in a client’s frown or a patron’s hesitant smile. It’s essential for my work. But with him, the person I know best and yet not at all, I was blind. Was I too self-absorbed? Too caught up in my own debts and dramas to see the collapse happening in the room next to mine? Had our entire relationship been so superficial that I couldn’t recognize a true crisis in my own… roommate? Rival? Whatever he was.

After a week of this escalating, suffocating silence, my own worry became a frantic, caged thing. I needed an outside perspective. I needed someone who saw a different side of him, someone whose vision wasn’t clouded by our complicated history.

I found Cyno first, at the Akademiya’s training grounds. He was a statue of focused intensity, observing a unit of Matra run through drills. He dismissed them with a sharp gesture and turned to me. “Kaveh? Your posture is unusually tense. Is there a problem?”

The directness was a relief. “Yes…” I admitted, wringing my hands. “It’s… it’s Alhaitham.”

Cyno’s expression didn’t change, but his focus intensified, his crimson eyes sharpening. “Explain.”

The words tumbled out of me in a rushed, anxious heap. “He’s… not himself. He’s quiet. Withdrawn. It’s like all the light has gone out of him. He doesn’t argue, he doesn’t engage. He just… exists. It’s a different kind of quiet, Cyno. It’s wrong. Have you noticed anything? At work?”

Cyno was silent for a moment, a pause I’d learned meant he was assembling his thoughts with precision. “His work remains impeccable. His analysis are as precise and thorough as ever. His efficiency has, if anything, increased. However,” he paused, and this was the Cyno I knew the one who noticed the nearly invisible flaw, “The efficiency is… mechanical. He performs each task flawlessly, but there’s no spark behind it, no sense of intellectual engagement. He finishes and leaves as if the work itself carries no meaning. He’s also declined three separate invitations to review new TCG strategy decks. For him, that refusal is statistically unusual—and to me, it suggests more than just disinterest. It points to a deviation from his usual patterns, one that can’t be ignored”

My heart sank. So it wasn’t just me. It was clear even to Cyno, whose mind so often reduced the world to logic and pattern recognition. Yet what he saw wasn’t just data out of place—it was a deviation heavy enough to unsettle even him.

“It is concerning,” Cyno stated, his voice low and grave.“The General Mahamatra is tasked with monitoring threats to the Akademiya. But when the disturbance lies in one of its most stable pillars… it ceases to be just procedure. But for me as Cyno, it is a matter of personal concern.” He met my gaze, and in his eyes, I saw not just the General, but a friend. “Have you spoken to Tighnari? His perspective may be more biological.” Cyno’s tone was perfectly serious, his face giving no indication that he had just made a pun. “I will maintain observation from my position.”

Kaveh blinked, halfway between exasperation and disbelief. “…Did you just—” He cut himself off, deciding it wasn’t worth the energy. It was as close to an expression of solidarity and worry as Cyno would ever give. I nodded, a lump in my throat “Thank you, Cyno.”

He gave a single, sharp nod. “One card in TCG is powerful not for its attack, but for its ability to force a reevaluation of the entire board state. It creates a pause that can be strategically exploited. Perhaps this is similar. A necessary period of adjustment… though I can’t deny it feels unsettling”

I managed a weak smile. Only Cyno could equate a potential mental collapse to a high-level TCG strategy and still be profoundly, uniquely helpful.

I found Tighnari in Gandharva Ville, meticulously cataloguing fungal samples. He took one look at my face which must have been a truly pathetic sight and set down his tweezers. “Alright. Out with it. What’s happened? Did a client finally drive you to arson?”

“It’s not me,” I said, my voice tight. “It’s Alhaitham.”

I recounted everything—the hollow silence, the empty eyes, the lack of engagement, my conversation with Cyno. Tighnari listened intently, his ears swiveling forward to catch every word, his expressive tail going completely still, a sure sign of his deep focus.

“When was the last time you saw him genuinely express an emotion? Any emotion? Annoyance, curiosity, amusement?” Tighnari asked, his voice shifting into the clinical, diagnostic tone he used for serious cases.

I thought hard, sifting through the recent, grey days. “Weeks,” I finally admitted, the realization like a physical blow to the chest. “He hasn’t even been annoyed with me. He just… tolerates my presence.”

Tighnari’s brow furrowed deeply. “That’s a significant red flag, Kaveh. For someone like Alhaitham, who engages with the world almost entirely through intellectual passion and a very specific, pointed form of social interaction, a complete loss of that engagement isn’t just sadness. It’s a system failure. It’s like a rainforest plant refusing photosynthesis. The mechanisms for sustaining life are shutting down.”

The biological analogy made it sound so much more real, so much more dire. My hands felt cold. “What do I do?”

“You can’t force it,” Tighnari said, his voice gentler now. “You can’t logic someone out of a state that logic didn’t get them into. But you can be present. Make sure he’s eating. Sleeping. Don’t try to drag him into grand conversations or force him to ‘snap out of it.’ Just… be in the same room. Read a book. Sketch. Sometimes silent, undemanding companionship is a louder statement than any words. It tells them they are not a burden.” He paused, his gaze softening. “And Kaveh,” he added, “look after yourself, too. Watching someone you care about fade is its own kind of torture. It’s like watching a masterpiece be slowly erased. Don’t isolate yourself. That helps no one.”

I left Gandharva Ville feeling both comforted and more terrified than ever. Tighnari had given me a framework, a diagnosis. It was a “system failure.” And I, the architect, had no blueprint for repairs.

The night it happened, the air in the house felt charged, like the moment before a thunderstorm. He had come home late, moving through the rooms like a ghost. He didn’t go to his study. He just stood in the living room for a long time, staring at nothing, as if he’d forgotten where he was. Then, he turned and walked back out into the night. The door clicked shut behind him, a sound far too soft and final for the sheer, icy dread it ignited in me.

An hour passed. Then two. The irrational fear I’d always carried that one day he’d simply leave and not come back crawled up my throat, threatening to choke me. I paced. I tried to sketch. My lines were shaky and useless. I ended up in his room, looking for… something. A clue. A reason. A thread to pull that would make sense of it all.

I found it on his nightstand. Not a note, not really. Just a single sheet of paper, crumpled as if held in a fist too tight. My hand trembled as I picked it up, smoothing it out. The words were a chaotic scrawl, a stark contrast to his usual precise script. They were not sentences; they were fragments of a mind in freefall.

—system failure.

—the variables are uncontrollable.

—conclusion: cessation of function is the most logical—

The last line was scribbled out so violently the pen had torn through the paper.

My blood ran cold. This wasn’t a note; it was the raw, unvarnished evidence of a mind turning on itself. The architect in me saw a structure on the verge of catastrophic failure, the load-bearing walls of his psyche buckling. The man who lived with him, who fought with him, who deep down, in a place I never admitted, cared for him more fiercely than I cared for any flawed, beautiful building, felt a terror so profound it stole the air from my lungs.

The front door opened.

I don’t know how I got to the hallway. I was just there, the damning paper clutched in my hand, my heart a wild, trapped bird beating against my ribs.

He looked… empty. Like a shell. His steps were mechanical. And then I saw it—the faint, stark red lines on his hand, the smudge of blood on his wrist. The world narrowed to that point. The crumpled note in my hand, the evidence on his.

“Alhaitham…” His name was a plea, a prayer, a sob caught in my throat.

He flinched, his gaze slowly focusing on me, and the shame that flashed in his eyes was more painful than any insult he’d ever thrown my way.

“What… what did you do?” The words were a whisper, torn from me.

His confession was a shattered thing. “I couldn’t… I couldn’t do it.”

My heart shattered with it. The carefully constructed walls of our relationship, built on bickering and barbs, crumbled to dust. There was only the devastating truth between us. I reached for him, my hand closing around his wrist, not to trap him, but to anchor us both. To feel the proof of his pulse against my fingers.

His apology was like a knife. He was apologizing. For feeling. For breaking. For almost leaving me alone in a world that makes infinitely less sense when he’s not in it.

“Don’t,” I said, my voice fierce with a desperation I didn’t try to hide. “Don’t you dare apologize for feeling like this. Just… just let me help. Please, Haitham. Let me be here for you.”

I pulled him into an embrace, holding him as if I could physically keep the pieces of him together. I felt him tremble, this unshakable man, and then, a miracle—he leaned into me. His weight against me was the most profound relief I have ever felt.

I apologized too, then. For my blindness. For my pride. For every time I’d mistaken his silence for indifference instead of a cry for help I was too arrogant to hear.

He said it wasn’t my fault. But we both knew I shared the blame.

We stood there for a long time in the dim light of the hall. The silence was still there, but it had changed. It was no longer a void he was lost in. It was a space we were holding together. And for the first time that night, I felt a flicker of something other than dread. It was a grim, determined hope.

The next morning, the house felt different. The air was still thick with the aftermath of the night before, but the sheer, panicked terror had receded, replaced by a heavy, watchful solemnity. I had barely slept, listening to the sound of Alhaitham’s breathing in the next room, each steady inhale and exhale a small victory against the silence that had nearly consumed him.

I moved through the dawn rituals on autopilot: brewing coffee, the rich scent and a familiar anchor. My mind replayed the previous night on a loop—the feel of his pulse under my fingers, the devastating weight of his body against mine, the raw, broken sound of his voice. The crumpled note was now safely tucked away in my own drawer, a dark relic I never wanted to see again but couldn’t bring myself to destroy. It was a testament to how far he had fallen, and a grim reminder of how close we had come to the edge.

He was sitting at the kitchen table when I brought the coffee, staring blankly at the wood grain. He looked exhausted, pale, and utterly drained, but he was there. He accepted the cup with a quiet nod, his fingers brushing mine. The contact was brief, but it was conscious. It was a connection.

It was then I knew I couldn’t do this alone. My presence was a bandage, but the wound beneath needed more. It needed the kind of support that only came from a network, from people who saw different parts of him. Swallowing my pride—the part that insisted this was private, that I alone should be enough— I penned two quick, urgent messages.

‘Tighnari. Cyno. Please come. It’s Haitham. It’s bad.’

I sent the letter to the courier, offering a small tip for their haste.

Cyno received the message during a strategic briefing. The letter landed on the windowsill, its presence with an unusual urgency. He excused himself with a curt nod, his expression giving nothing away to the junior Matra. Outside, he read Kaveh’s scrawled words. His blood ran cold, but his mind, trained for crisis, shifted immediately into a tactical mode.

‘It’s bad.’

Kaveh was prone to dramatics, but he was not prone to understatement. This was serious.The patterns Cyno had noticed in Alhaitham—his unnaturally precise efficiency, his withdrawal from social interaction, the repeated refusal of TCG invitations—aligned into a grim, undeniable picture. This was no ordinary burnout. The system itself was in critical failure.

His first thought was security. Was it an external threat? An attempt on the Acting Grand Sage’s life that had shaken him? But Kaveh’s message suggested something else. Something internal. The most dangerous kind of threat, and the hardest to defend against.

He immediately diverted his path to the Grand Bazaar, bypassing his usual coffee vendor for a specific merchant from Aaru Village who sold a particular, intensely strong blend he knew Alhaitham secretly favored. It was a small thing, a variable. But in a situation where the known parameters were collapsing, providing a stable, familiar variable was a logical first step. It was a token that said, I see you, I know you, and I am coming.

Tighnari was in the middle of a delicate grafting procedure when the letter found him. He finished his suture with steady hands, but his tail gave a single, sharp lash of alarm. Kaveh’s message was unadorned and desperate. It’s bad.

His mind, ever the diagnostician, began running through possibilities. Physical illness? A relapse of Eleazar, despite all odds? A neurological episode? But the phrasing, It’s Haitham pointed to something more fundamental. He thought of their recent conversation, of Kaveh’s description of the “hollow silence.” His own words echoed back at him: “It’s a systems failure.”

A cold dread settled in his stomach. He had feared this. He packed his satchel not with emergency trauma supplies, but with sedative teas, calming salves, nutrient-rich tinctures, and a powerful analgesic balm for tension headaches. He packed for the aftermath of a profound psychological shock. He also packed a small, soft blanket made from Sumeru Rose silk, something comforting and sensory. Treatment wasn’t just about medicine; it was about comfort, about creating an environment conducive to healing.

He left instructions for Collei and set off at a pace just short of a run, his ears flat against his head. His concern was a quiet, focused thing. He needed to assess the patient, support Kaveh, who was undoubtedly at his wit’s end, and provide a calm, stable presence. Panic helped no one.

They arrived within minutes of each other, their presence a balm to my frayed nerves.

“Thank you for coming,” I whispered, my voice rough with lack of sleep.

Tighnari’s gaze softened as he looked at me, reading the panic I couldn’t hide. “Of course, Kaveh.” His hand settled on my arm, firm and grounding, and I felt a flicker of relief. Then he turned to Alhaitham, who hadn’t moved an inch at the table. Tighnari’s movements were careful, measured, like approaching a wild animal—intent on not breaking whatever fragile thread of composure remained. He pulled up a chair beside him, lowering his voice. “Alhaitham… may I see?”

Behind him, Cyno remained standing, silent but alert, his crimson eyes scanning the room with meticulous focus. He didn’t move closer yet, but his presence was unmistakable—a quiet, steadying weight that balanced Tighnari’s gentle approach.

I watched the subtle shift in Alhaitham’s posture, the almost imperceptible tension in his shoulders, and my chest tightened. Tighnari’s presence was calm but deliberate, a silent promise that we were here, and that he wasn’t alone. Cyno’s watchful stance added another layer of assurance—not comfort in words, but a steadfast logic, a signal that the room was safe, and that he was not facing this moment in isolation.

Cyno sees the strategic failure, I thought. Tighnari sees the wounded animal. Both perspectives were true, and both were necessary.

Alhaitham slowly, almost hesitantly, extended his hand. The faint, red lines stood out against his pale skin. Tighnari’s ears drooped slightly, the only sign of his distress, but his hands were steady and gentle as he applied the salve. “This will prevent infection and help it heal cleanly,” he said, his voice low and even. “The lavender will soothe the nerve endings.”

He was treating the physical evidence with a matter-of-fact care that stripped it of its terrible power. He wasn’t ignoring it; he was normalizing its treatment, making it a medical fact to be managed, not a horror to be gawked at.

Meanwhile, Cyno placed the bag of coffee beans on the counter with a soft thud. “A new blend from the Aaru Village traders. Its caffeine concentration is 23% higher than standard market fare. I thought it might be… efficient.” It was such a perfectly Cyno thing to say. He wasn’t offering comfort in emotional terms; he was offering a superior tool for a desired outcome, a language he knew Alhaitham understood.

He then turned from the counter, his crimson eyes meeting Alhaitham’s. “The General Mahamatra is aware of no fewer than seventeen ongoing plots against the Akademiya’s stability,” he said, his voice grave. “That is a considerable weight—one not meant for a single person to bear, no matter their capability. Attempting to carry it alone is not a mark of strength; it is a critical tactical error.” He paused, letting the words settle. “Delegation is not weakness. It is the strategic redistribution of resources to ensure the mission’s success.”

My breath caught. He was reframing it. He was telling Alhaitham that asking for help wasn’t a personal failing; it was a logical, strategic necessity. He was speaking Alhaitham’s own language back to him, using it to build a bridge out of the isolation.

Tighnari finished applying the salve and sat back. “Cyno’s right. And it applies here, too. The body and the mind are not separate systems. When one is overtaxed, the other fails. You’ve been running on emergency protocols for too long. Rest isn’t a luxury or a sign of weakness. It’s a necessary balance. A biological imperative.” He looked at Cyno, then at me. “We will handle things at the Akademiya. Consider it a medical order and a tactical reassignment.”

The offer was immense. It was them saying, Your responsibilities are ours now. Your only job is to heal.

Then Cyno did the thing I never could have predicted. He pulled out his deck of TCG cards. The simple, worn box was a symbol of their friendship, of countless hours of silent, focused companionship. He placed it on the table with a soft, deliberate thud.

“A match requires minimal conversation,” he said, his tone offering no pressure. “It provides a focus for the mind that is external and structured. A known variable in an unstable equation.” He paused, his crimson eyes scanning Alhaitham’s face for a moment before adding, completely deadpan, “You could say it’s a… stable form of distraction.”

The pun was delivered with the gravity of a strategic briefing. The air didn’t fill with laughter; it thickened with the weight of the awful wordplay. Tighnari’s ears gave a single twitch of pained recognition. I held my breath, fearing the joke so perfectly, terribly Cyno would shatter the fragile moment and send Alhaitham retreating back into himself. This was the moment. Would he retreat back into the void?

But Alhaitham didn’t withdraw. He stared at the deck, then at Cyno’s utterly impassive, completely earnest face. The struggle was visible in the slight tremor of his hand. And then, something flickered in his exhausted eyes—not amusement, but a spark of familiar, exasperated recognition. A tiny, almost imperceptible connection to the world he had almost left behind. Cyno hadn’t offered hollow comfort; he had offered a piece of their normalcy, however absurd.

With a slow, deliberate movement that seemed to cost him a great deal, Alhaitham reached out and picked up the deck. He didn’t shuffle it. He just held its weight in his hands, his fingers tracing the edges of the box, grounding himself in the familiar texture.

It was a tiny gesture. But it was everything. It was a choice to engage. It was acceptance.

The terrible tension in the room didn’t break; it… softened. Cyno’s perfectly timed, perfectly awful joke was a lifeline thrown in the most Cyno way possible. It wasn’t just an offer to play cards. It was an offer of normalcy. It was his way of saying, I see you are suffering, so I will perform the familiar act of making you suffer through my jokes.

I turned back to the counter, pretending to be utterly fascinated by the coffee machine, to give them a semblance of privacy. I heard Cyno begin to explain the mechanics of a new card in his serious, detailed monotone. I heard Tighnari begin quietly organizing his vials on a shelf, humming a soft, tuneless melody from the forest.

The heavy silence that had threatened to destroy us was gone. In its place was a new, fragile peace: Cyno’s steady voice, Tighnari’s humming, the click of vials, the slow, measured sound of Alhaitham’s breathing. It was the sound of a siege being lifted. It was the sound of friends holding the line.

I brought over the coffee, my hands steadier now, and set down four cups. The simple, domestic act felt profoundly significant. We were not a doctor and his patient, a general and his subordinate. In that moment, we were just four friends at a kitchen table.

Tighnari accepted his cup with a grateful nod. “How’s the pain?” he asked Alhaitham, his tone clinical but kind. “Not just the wrist. Your head? Your shoulders?”

Alhaitham seemed to consider the question, as if taking internal inventory for the first time. “There is… a persistent pressure,” he admitted quietly, his voice rough from disuse. “Behind my eyes. My shoulders feel… weighted.”

Tighnari nodded, unsurprised. “Physiological response to prolonged psychological stress. Your body has been in a state of high alert for months. It’s exhausted.” He rummaged in his satchel and pulled out a small jar of a pale green balm. “This is for the tension. Apply it to your temples and the back of your neck. And this,” he said, handing over a different vial, “is a mild tea for the headaches. Steep it for no more than three minutes. It’s not a cure, but it will take the edge off while your system heals.”

Alhaitham took the offerings, his fingers closing around them. “Thank you, Tighnari.” The words were simple, but they were laden with a sincerity I rarely heard from him.

“It’s what friends do,” Tighnari replied simply, as if it were the most obvious truth in the world.

Cyno, who had been quietly observing, stirred his coffee before speaking in his steady, measured tone. “The Akademiya’s administrative load is a documented stressor. It was never meant to rest on a single person. When responsibility is centralized, strain is inevitable. You weren’t the flaw in the equation, Alhaitham. The system itself was unsound. The outcome was bound to happen, regardless of the operator.”

He paused, his gaze steady, not accusing but grounding. “What matters is that you endured it. That you’re still here.”

It was the most Cyno way possible to say, ‘It’s not your fault.’ Alhaitham looked at him, and I saw a flicker of understanding in his eyes. He could reject emotional platitudes, but he couldn’t argue with a logical analysis of systemic failure.

“The logic is sound,” Alhaitham murmured, almost to himself.

“However,” Cyno continued, his tone gentle but firm, “Even the most capable operator has a responsibility to signal when the system is under strain. A machine that doesn’t show its limits risks breaking down.” He met Alhaitham’s gaze with quiet concern, not accusation. “You are one of the Akademiya’s most important assets. Your well-being matters. This…” he gestured around the room, “…isn’t a failure. It’s a reminder that asking for help is part of sustaining the system.”

It was a careful, compassionate correction—still a rebuke, but delivered with understanding. It gave Alhaitham not just comfort, but a reason rooted in logic for why reaching out was necessary.

Alhaitham’s gaze dropped to his coffee cup. “I… did not want to be a burden. The variables of emotional distress are… inefficient. Illogical. I believed I could calculate a solution.”

“Oh, Haitham,” I breathed, the words escaping me before I could stop them. All three of them looked at me. I felt my face heat, but I pressed on. “Since when have any of us ever found you logical?” I gestured at Cyno and Tighnari. “He argues about the rules of a children’s card game as if they are divine law. He,” I pointed at Tighnari, “will talk for an hour about the migratory patterns of Shroomkins. And I…” I sighed, deflating. “I build palaces I can’t afford and pick fights over throw pillows. Since when did we ever care about logic?”

A profound silence followed my outburst. Then, a sound I thought I might never hear again: a soft, huff of air from Alhaitham. It wasn’t quite a laugh, but it was close. The ghost of a smile touched his lips, there and gone in an instant, but it was real.

Tighnari’s ears twitched in amusement. “He’s got you there.”

“My analysis of TCG mechanics is based on impeccable logic,” Cyno argued, but there was no heat in it. A slight relaxation in his posture betrayed his relief at the small, familiar exchange.

“The point is,” I said, my voice softer now, “we’re not here because you’re logical. We’re here because you’re you. And… we care about you. Illogically. Inefficiently. Deeply.”

The words hung in the air between us. Alhaitham looked from me, to Tighnari, to Cyno. He saw no pity in our faces. Only concern. Only steadfast, unwavering presence. The walls he had so carefully built, the fortress of his isolation, had been breached not by force, but by quiet, persistent care.

He took a slow, shuddering breath. “I… understand.” He looked at Tighnari. “The tea. How many times a day?”

“No more than twice. And only when the pain is severe. Your body needs to learn to manage without crutches,” Tighnari instructed.

He looked at Cyno. “My pending analyses for the Haravatat research committee…”

“I will have them placed on my desk by noon,” Cyno stated. “I will review them and have my conclusions on your desk by tomorrow for your approval. A collaborative effort.”

Finally, he looked at me. His eyes were still shadowed, still exhausted, but the terrifying emptiness was gone. In its place was a weary, fragile acknowledgement, a window into a pain so profound it made my breath catch. He seemed to be gathering the shattered pieces of himself, trying to form them into words that could bridge the chasm between the immense internal noise and the quiet of the room.

“The… silence,” he began, his voice a low, broken thing, barely more than a whisper. It was the voice of a man who had screamed himself raw in a soundproof room. He paused, and a tremor went through his hand where it rested on the table. “It wasn’t… quiet.”

The words hung in the air, heavy and suffocating. I felt Cyno and Tighnari still, their breath held. The air itself seemed to thicken around us.

He swallowed, a hard, convulsive motion, as if forcing down glass. “It was… loud.” The admission was torn from him, a confession of a truth so terrible it seemed to cost him everything to speak it. “A screaming… a static… in my head. A thousand different voices, all my own, all of them… corrosive. All of them… concluding that I was a flawed equation. An error. That the most logical solution was to… to cease the program.”

A ragged, choked sound escaped me before I could stop it. Tears I had been holding back spilled over, tracing hot paths down my cheeks. I didn’t try to hide them.

He wasn’t looking at any of us now; his gaze was turned inward, staring into the memory of that abyss. “It was so loud, it was the only thing I could hear. The only thing that felt real. Trying to think past it, to find a counter-argument…” His voice broke completely, and he squeezed his eyes shut, a single, devastating tear escaping to track down his pale cheek. “It was like trying to… to reason with a landslide. I was… buried alive in it.”

The image was so visceral, so horrifyingly accurate, that a sob shook Tighnari’s frame. He quickly brought a hand to his mouth, his own eyes glistening. Cyno had gone perfectly still, his face a mask of stark, pained understanding, his knuckles white where he gripped the edge of the table.

Alhaitham opened his eyes, and they were brimming with a shame and a despair that shattered my heart into a thousand pieces. “Your voice, Kaveh… the sound of your sketching… the rustle of Cyno’s cards… Tighnari’s explanations…” He said our names like a prayer, like a litany of things he thought he’d lost forever. “They were… distant. Faint. Like hearing something from the other side of a thick glass wall. The silence on my side of the glass was… absolute. And it was… deafening. It was all I had left.”

I couldn’t hold it in anymore. I lunged forward, not caring about pride or protocol, and wrapped my hands around his, clutching them as if I could physically pull him back from that memory. The words spilled out, raw and unvarnished. “I was so scared,” I choked out, my own tears finally falling freely. “I thought I’d lost you. I thought you were just… gone. And I never got to tell you—” I swallowed the sob rising in my throat. “I never got to tell you that you drive me absolutely insane and I wouldn’t have it any other way. That this house is just a building without you in it. That your infuriating, brilliant, logical mind is my favorite sound in the world, even when it’s arguing with me.”

I clutched his hand tighter, desperate to make him understand. “You’re my person, Alhaitham. You’re my… you’re my home. And that silence… it was trying to take my home away.”

My tears fell onto our joined hands. “I’m here,” I choked out, my voice thick with grief and love. “I’m here. We’re all here. You’re not on the other side of the glass. You’re here.”

Tighnari was there in an instant, his hand coming to rest on Alhaitham’s shoulder, his touch firm and grounding. “Oh, Alhaitham,” he whispered, his voice husky with emotion. “That’s the disease. That’s the lie it tells you. It isolates you. It convinces you that the horror is all there is. But it’s not real. We are real. This is real.”

Cyno rose slowly. He didn’t approach like Tighnari or I had. He stood there, a pillar of unwavering strength, but his usual imposing presence was softened by a grief so profound it was palpable. His voice, when he spoke, was low and thick with an emotion I had never heard from him before. It wasn’t the General Mahamatra speaking. It was Cyno, our friend.

“The most vicious enemy… is the one that attacks from within,” he said, each word measured, heavy with shared pain. “It uses your own strength against you. It turns your logic into a weapon. To have survived that assault…” He paused, his jaw tightening as he visibly fought for control. “That is not a failure. it’s victory.”

Alhaitham looked up then, his tear-filled eyes meeting Cyno’s, then Tighnari’s, then finally, mine. He saw our tears. He saw our raw, unguarded pain for him. And something in his face shifted. The stark isolation in his gaze… cracked. It was flooded by a dawning, awe-struck realization that the silence had lied.

A shuddering breath wracked his entire body, and he bowed his head, his forehead coming to rest on our clasped hands. His shoulders shook with silent, heart-wrenching sobs. They were not the tears of the abyss; they were the tears of someone finally, finally being found.

We stayed like that, wrapped around him, a fortress of flesh and bone and love, holding him together as he finally fell apart.

When his tears finally subsided, leaving him hollowed out and trembling, it was Tighnari who moved first. With a tenderness that belied his usual indifference, he gently guided Alhaitham to rest his head against his shoulder. Alhaitham went bonelessly, too exhausted to resist, his body yielding to the offered comfort. Tighnari began to hum a soft, ancient Forest Watcher’s lullaby, his fingers carding gently through silver hair with a practiced ease he usually reserved for frightened animals or a feverish Collei.

Cyno, without a word, moved to the divan and retrieved the soft Sumeru Rose silk blanket from Tighnari’s bag. He didn’t simply hand it over; he unfolded it with a strange, solemn grace and draped it over Alhaitham’s shoulders, tucking it around him as if he were something precious and fragile. The gesture was so unlike the stern General Mahamatra that it brought a fresh wave of tears to my eyes.

Then Cyno did something even more astonishing. He sat on the floor beside Alhaitham’s chair, his back against it, not looking at him, but simply… present. A steadfast guardian. A silent sentinel. He pulled out his TCG deck and began to shuffle the cards, not to play, but to create a familiar, rhythmic sound—a soft shuff-shuff-shuff that was the soundtrack to countless peaceful evenings. It was a sound of normalcy. A sound of home.

I couldn’t move. I just held onto Alhaitham’s hand, my thumb stroking slow, steady circles on his wrist, careful to avoid the bandages. I watched the three of them—the brilliant Scribe now acting grand sage, brought to his knees by a pain none of us could truly fathom, now cocooned in the unwavering care of his friends. The fierce Forest Watcher humming a lullaby, the formidable General Mahamatra sitting vigil on the floor, the soft shuffle of cards a promise that some things remained constant.

Alhaitham’s breathing evened out, deepening into the rhythms of exhausted sleep there against Tighnari’s shoulder, the blanket rising and falling with his chest. The tension had finally left his body, replaced by a profound and helpless limpness. He is safe. He is anchored. He is loved.

My heart wasn’t just breaking; it was breaking open, spilling out a torrent of grief for his pain and a soaring, devastating love for the two men who knew exactly how to piece him back together without a single word of instruction. It was the most heart-wrenching thing I had ever witnessed. And it was the fluffiest, most comforting scene I could ever imagine.

It was then I saw it, the quiet moment. Tighnari never stopped his gentle humming or the careful motion of his fingers through Alhaitham’s hair, but his eyes, glistening with unshed tears, lifted and met Cyno’s. Cyno, feeling the gaze, looked up from his cards. Their eyes held for a long, silent second. No words passed between them, but an entire conversation unfolded in that glance.

In Tighnari’s look was a profound, weary gratitude. Thank you for being here. Thank you for knowing what to do. In Cyno’s steady crimson gaze was an unwavering reassurance. There is nowhere else I would be. We will face this together.

Cyno gave a single, almost imperceptible nod. Tighnari’s shoulders, which had been held with such tight, caring tension, relaxed a fraction. He let out a soft breath, and a single tear finally escaped, tracing a path down his cheek. Cyno’s expression softened further, a silent acknowledgment of shared fear and shared relief. Then, without a word, he returned his focus to the cards, the sound continuing its steady, comforting rhythm. Tighnari’s hum picked up again, a little stronger, a little more sure.

It was a tiny exchange, over in a heartbeat, but it spoke volumes of their bond. They were a united front, a silent support system not just for Alhaitham and me, but for each other.

We stayed that way for a long time, frozen in our tableau of care. The sun climbed higher, painting the room in warm gold. The nightmare of the night before felt a world away. Here, in the quiet morning, there was only the soft hum of a lullaby, the gentle shuffle of cards, the steady sound of breathing, and the unshakable certainty that we would sit there, in our silent, loving vigil, for as long as he needed.