Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

1, Abience. [Scaramouche]

Abience (n.) the strong urge to avoid someone or something.

.

“I didn’t sign up for this.”

𓆩ꨄ︎𓆪

If Scaranouche has to pinpoint the exact moment when things start to spiral downward into an endless rabbit hole, he will say that he doesn’t have the faintest idea about when the fuck it is. But alas, knowing that doesn’t help to unravel this tangled series of misfortunes, so why bother.

“If you keep frowning like that for too long, it might create permanent crinkles, you know?”

Scaramouche turns toward the direction of that voice as his frown deepens, “And why does that concern you?”

Sethos shrugs, “I just don’t want to see them on such a beautiful face like yours.”

The Wanderer knows that his artificial skin isn’t capable of imprinting such flaws. He doesn’t even have any scars or blemishes despite centuries of not having the slightest idea about what a skincare routine is and carelessly throwing himself into countless battles. Still, the fact that he is a crafted vessel that only resembles a human on the outside isn’t a well-spread one, and he doubts that Sethos has known that.

“Take your useless worry somewhere else when it at least makes sense.”

<There are nicer ways to phrase it, such as ‘Thank you for your concern but there’s no need for it’, you know.> A soft voice chides inside his head.

<I don’t care.> Scaramouche holds back the urge to swear at Lesser Lord Kusanali. <Now get out of my head and mind your own business, Buer.>

<But you’re my business.>  

She replies before the connection swiftly vanishes. Nahida can respect his wish for privacy, but her caring and meddling nature still rubs Scaramouche all the wrong way. Especially when he knows that she harbors no ill will toward him whatsoever.

“You’re doing it again,” Sethos notes.

“What?” The Wanderer snaps.

“Frowning and muttering to yourself, like you’re talking to someone inside your head,” the brown-haired man explains, voice carefully neutral and non-judgemental. “Which I get it, it’s fine, people sometimes do that too. But you scowl a lot while doing that, so…”

He trails off when Scaramouche scoffs. Ironically enough, the Wanderer indeed was talking to a voice inside his head, and if Buer was still listening and snooping around this conversation, she probably would kick her little feet and giggle right now. Somehow the image doesn’t irritate Scaramouche as much as it should, and he groans as he pulls down his hat to cover his face.

“I gotta go.”

With that, he scoops up his scattered notes and books on the table before activating his vision to fly away, leaving a windy trail behind. It probably knocks off some light stuff on other tables and startles a few students, but who cares.

“See you later then!”

Somehow, the wind still carries Sethos’ voice up to Scaramouche’s ears, despite the distance he has just created between them. Let’s blame Barbatos for that because it’s easier for the Wanderer to think that way, rather than to admit that he is somewhat hyper-attentive toward anything Sethos-related these days, much to his loathing denial of such a blasphemous accusation.

Urg, what a pain. Next time Scaramouche sees that mop of brown hair anywhere within a 20-meter radius, he will abandon everything he is doing at that moment and get the fuck away.

Avoidance doesn’t make the problems disappear, Scara.

The Wanderer is about to snap at Nahida for entering his mind without permission again before he realises that it isn’t her voice, but rather his own mind putting tricks on him by mimicking her tone while acting as the voice of reason. And this is bad, this is really bad because having Buer of all people as the voice of reason is a dreadful reality that the Wanderer doesn’t want to deal with right now.

The worst part of this is, she is usually right. Goddess of Wisdom and all, that’s irritating.

Scaramouche frowns as he looks down for a second and sees a head of blonde hair. That unmistakable characteristic of that one architect triggers a chain of thoughts inside his head, resulting in a colorful string of swear words escaping his mouth.

To clarify, Kaveh himself isn’t the problem, but he very unfortunately has a lot of connections to one of the biggest reasons for Scaramouche’s goddamn aching headache right now. One of those connections is being the secret roommate – though now that’s not really a secret anymore – of one Acting Grand Sage. Or former Acting Grand Sage, he doesn’t give a damn about the political system in Sumeru, anyway.

“Ah, fuck it,” the Wanderer mutters to himself as he unceremoniously drops his stuff on the table as he arrives at his quarter at the Dendro Archon’s place. “At least my voice of reason hasn’t changed into Alhaitham’s.”

“And why would your voice of reason change into my voice?”

“FUCK!”

Scaramouche yelps, loud and clear, as he just takes off his hat and accidentally drops it on the floor.

“Why the hell are you here!”

The Wanderer doesn’t phrase it like a question, but the scribe answers it earnestly nonetheless, “Lesser Lord Kusanali says that I can find you if I wait here.”

“Oh please, just call me Nahida,” the little archon herself giggles as she perks into the room through the half-closed door, to which Alhaitham is standing next in all his constipated glory. “And Wanderer, don’t swear.”

“Buer.”

It’s not a greeting. It’s a warning signal being chewed out through the gritted teeth of one very frustrated Scaramouche, but Nahida still grins happily like her favorite cat just meowed lovingly at her.

“Good evening to you too, Wanderer~ Now I’ll leave you two to your business, then.”

And with that she leaves, dainty little feet stepping on the wooden floor with faint, quiet fading sounds. Scaramouche picks up his hat, putting it against the wall before turning toward Alhaitham.

“What do you want?”

The scribe gestures toward some piles of books placed neatly on the tea table – only now that Scaramouche notices their existence. 

“I brought you the books you requested two days ago.”

That deflates the Wanderer quicker than he will ever admit as he takes a few steps closer to inspect the books. “Ah… I see,” he says belatedly after some seconds of silence, swallowing the lump in his throat as he forces the words out. “Thank you.”

“It’s nothing,” Alhaitham notes. The conversation could end here civilly, but Alhaitham, being Alhaitham, of couse doesn’t let that happen. “And by the way, I have a small request to make.”

Scaramouche is distracted by a book he picks up, so he doesn’t look up to see the nearly imperceptible shift in the other’s expression. “And what’s that?”

“I would like to kiss you again to further support my susposition.”

Thud.

The book slips out of the Wanderer’s hands and lands on the floor with a soft noise, but it still echoes inside the room which just becomes eerily quiet.

It takes Scaramouche about five seconds to slowly turn his head toward Alhaitham, who is still waiting patiently for his answer at the door. His movement seems to make the scribe think a little as he takes one step inside, closing the door behind him quietly before turning his attention toward the Wanderer again, looking all firm and resolute as if he didn’t just spurt out the most ridiculous request ever.

“What—” Scaramouche feels his mouth dry – mentally, more likely, since he physically doesn’t really feel anything at this moment – as he chokes out. “—the fuck?”

Alhaitham has the audacity to look disappointed. “Is that a rejection?”

The Wanderer opens his mouth, then closes it. The world is spinning too fast for him to follow, and his head feels dizzy. “Wha— why?”

It is supposed to be a rhetorical question. Alhaitham never understands the subtle difference, anyway. “Kissing you feels nice, but I’m not sure it’s the feeling I’m truly looking for. I need more evidence to either prove or dismiss the hypotheses I’ve made in my head.”

Somehow, that stirs some unpleasant memories from a damned corner of his past. Scaramouche growls as he snaps at the taller man, indigo blue flashing with indignant anger. 

“Don’t fucking treat me like an experiment!”

His reaction seems to startle Alhaitham as a surprised expression finally cracks his stoic mask of a face. The man raises both hands in a placating gesture as he replies, “Sorry, I didn’t mean to offend you, and I by no means am treating you as a mere experiment. Would you please let me apologise?”

Scaramouche narrows his eyes at Alhaitham, but still curtly nods his head. The scribe lets out a sigh at the permission as he continues talking.

“You’ve given me invaluable insights before with those little interactions we had, and I might be selfish to ask for your help again without putting your feelings and thoughts into the equation, and that’s inconsiderate of me. That being said, I didn’t lie to you when I said I would like to kiss you again, and I truly hope you can help me with it.”

This time, Scaramouche would like to put the blame on Beelzebub for creating him so flawed like this. She already strips mere mortal needs such as eating and sleeping away from her creation, so why still keep emotions and the ability to feel pain only for him to have such a nasty headache at moments like this? Scaramouche is a failed prototype indeed.

“Uhm, Wanderer?”

Scaramouche feels his shoulders drop as if all strength has been drained away from him, leaving only an empty vessel behind. Suddenly, he doesn’t want to reason anymore.

“Is that so?” He hears his voice as words escape his mouth, distorted and foreign. “Well, since you asked so nicely, who am I to deny such an earnest request?”

Alhaitham looks visibly brightened and relaxed at that. “Really?”

Ah. To hell with it, then. Scaramouche chuckles as he walks toward his bed, plopping down on it before turning toward Alhaitham, arms slightly opening with a silent invitation.

“What are you waiting for?”

…

Chapter Text

2, Acatalepsy. [Nahida]

Acatalepsy (n.) the idea that it is impossible to truly comprehend anything. (Origin: Ancient Greek)

.

“Please, just call me Nahida.”

𓆩ꨄ︎𓆪

Half an hour later, Alhaitham leaves the Wanderer’s room with slightly swollen lips, disheveled clothes, and a thoughtful expression on his face.

“Ehem.”

His steps halt at the sound of Lesser Lord Kusanali clearing her throat. She flies toward him instead of walking, and now is floating in front of his face to be at the same eye level as him. Her normally doe-like and expressive green eyes are staring at him intensively as if silently asking for permission to read his mind.

Alhaitham normally speaks whatever is inside his mind with all the honesty he can muster so he wouldn’t mind her little trick, but right now that seems to be a little bit inconvenient. One of the reasons for that is, despite looking like being deep in thought, there is nothing in Alhaitham’s mind right now, save for a pleasant, somewhat dazed blankness.

“Lesser Lord Kusanali,” he greets in lieu.

The little archon doesn’t correct him with her usual plea to just call her by the name Nahida. She tilts her head instead, observing him with those pretty but penetrating eyes. Alhaitham blinks but doesn’t avert his gaze. He has nothing to hide, after all.

“Well,” finally, Nahida opens her mouth. “Did you have a good conversation with Wanderer?”

She sounds expectant and hopeful, Alhaitham distantly notes. He wouldn’t call what he did with the Wanderer in the last half-an-hour ‘a conversation’, though, but perhaps he doesn’t need to disclose that much information about their little, hmm, experimentative activities to their little archon.

“I believe that we did,” Alhaitham smoothly replies as he fixes his clothes to make it look more presentable. His hair is probably a bit mussed, too, but having short hair has its perks. “It was a fruitful exchange, I think so.”

The irony in this is they did indeed exchange some fruits in their heated making-out session. A cherry and some grapes, all conveniently on a table in Wanderer’s room. Alhaitham can’t recall who suggested doing that. He didn’t mind it one bit though.

“Is that so?” Nahida seems pleased. She reaches out one arm to smooth down a part of his hair, giggling softly after retreating her hand. “I’m glad to hear.”

Alhaitham nods at that. And then, because his mind is still unusually blank, he decides it’s time to bid his goodbye. “I’ll take my leave now. Good night, Lesser Lord Kusanali.”

“Just call me Nahida,” she replies with a soft smile as she floats away. “And good night to you too, Alhaitham.”

.

A gust of wind cracks the door open before Nahida can knock on it. Grinning mirthfully, she enters the room after getting silent permission from its owner.

“Why are you here?”

Despite willingly opening the door for her, the Wanderer doesn’t look like he welcomes her late visit. Nahida doesn’t mind his harsh attitude, though. She’s already used to the walking enigma of contradictions called Scaramouche.

“How was your conversation with Alhaitham?” She chirps as she gets closer to the indigo-haired boy.

“Boring.”

Scaramouche replies without looking up from his book. He can still feel the little god’s gaze on him, though – patient and caring, with the slightest hint of curiosity, which is just enough for him to know that she is waiting for him to open up, rather than trying to pry the information from him with her mind-reading ability even if she is totally capable of doing so. It makes it impossible to get mad at her.

“Really?” Nahida chuckles. “Alhaitham told me otherwise, though.”

The Wanderer only scoffs at that.

“What are you reading?” 

The Dendro Archon questions as she plops down on the bed next to him. There is a small rustling movement as the boy scoots over slightly to give her more space without breaking his concentration on the page.

“Something dull and dense which I need for my thesis.”

Nahida blinks, “But your theses are never dull.” 

With such a sharp tongue and centuries of experience and memories, it is no surprise that Scaramouche utilises them well in his impeccable writings about various topics. 

“Because I’m the one who writes them, not those so-called scholars who are full of shit.”

“Language.”

Wanderer doesn’t respond to that.

Nahida doesn’t feel discouraged by the lack of response. She lets her gaze wander around for a few seconds before it lands on the hat placed against the wall. 

“Have you let Sethos touch your hat?”

Scaramouche bites back the question How do you know, because of course she knows. 

“Why would I ever.”

He keeps his tone cold and unbothered, but if Nahida detects a slight, nearly imperceptible squeak or tremor in it, she doesn’t say a thing. The little archon swings her legs a little back and forth, looking down at her own feet instead of Scaramouche as she continues, “He seems like a good person.”

“That doesn’t relate to why I should let him touch my hat, not even one bit.”

The Wanderer doesn’t understand Sethos’ fascination with his hat, and he isn’t keen on finding out the reason behind it either. Sooner or later, that weirdo will lose interest in this meaningless cat-and-mouse chase between them, he believes.

Sooner is more preferable, though.

“You know, lotus flowers are the most beautiful when they’re allowed to thrive in their natural habitat.” 

Nahida’s sing-song tone interrupts Scaramouche’s train of thought one more time, and he lets out a frustrated groan at that. Here it comes again, Buer’s new favorite activity of confusing people by speaking in riddles.

“Did you hit your head on an ancient tome of ridiculously terrible poems and accidentally absorbed the whole damn book or something, Buer?”

“Are you aware that blue is one of the rarest colors in nature?” Nahida doesn’t seem to share the same sentiment toward her newly found way of talking. “Therefore, there is a hidden beauty that lies in their scarcity.”

“I’ll throw myself out of the window the next moment you drop another riddle, I swear to—”

A soft kiss on his temple shuts him up immediately.

The Dendro Archon giggles as her tiny hand lifts to cup his cheek. Scaramouche’s wide, shocked eyes stare right into her loving, gentle evergreen ones as his lips quiver, but he doesn’t seem to find words to express his feelings right now.

Small, chubby fingers caringly trace invisible lines on the puppet’s cheek before the other hand is lifted too, and now Nahida is holding the Wanderer’s face in her hands, a warm but cheeky smile blossoms on her lips.

“You should show more expressions, Wanderer,” she chuckles. “And allow more people to see them. This surprised look is lovely on you.”

Silence.

“I believe that Sethos would like to see this too.”

Something inside Scaramouche snaps as he jerks himself back and groans impatiently, “… Get out of my room, Buer.”

“I’ll see you tomorrow,” Nahida nods and doesn’t seem upset when she’s no longer welcome to stay. She hops off the bed, patting the boy’s knee one last time before leaving, “Good night, Wanderer.”

They both know that Scaramouche doesn’t need to sleep. Neither comments a word on it, and with that Nahida leaves, gently closing the door behind her.

The Wanderer slumps on his bed as he lets out a long, suffering sigh. For some damned reason, his mind decides this is the perfect time to compare the Dendro Archon’s wide, doe-like, emerald eyes with Sethos’ bright forest green irises; to which Scaramouche grunts angrily at himself.

Gosh, he has never ever hated the color green more than right now.

…

Chapter Text

3, Anecdoche. [Alhaitham]

Anecdoche (n.) a conversation in which everyone is talking, but nobody is listening.

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“This is a crazy idea.”

“You don’t have to agree to it.”

“Why shouldn’t I? It’d be entertaining, wouldn’t it?”

𓆩ꨄ︎𓆪

The whole not-really-a-thing between Alhaitham and the Wanderer starts with an accident. Though now looking back at it, the scribe isn’t entirely sure that he can continue to pretend that it was merely an innocent incident that had no lasting effects on his mentality.

Where should he start to explain it, anyway? From his fascination with the Wanderer, which might or might not lead to other things? Alhaitham doesn’t know for sure, but at least he is aware of the difference between attraction and interest. However, when it comes to obsession and fixation, he is not that confident in his knowledge and ability to distinguish those two anymore.

But well, it simply begins with Wanderer being a cryptic mystery, and Alhaitham is Alhaitham.

Being one of the few people who are aware of the fact that the Wanderer isn’t a mere mortal, the scholar part in Alhaitham is fascinated by such a divine being. He wants to learn more about the Wanderer: his origins, the proceeds of his creation, his abilities and limits – anything that can satisfy his thirst for knowledge.

To put it short, Alhaitham wants to study him, and his interest in the Wanderer is purely intellectual.

Except for the part where kissing the guy feels inexplicably good, even though neither of them meant to do that in the beginning. It was a very heated, messy, strangely bizarre accident that somehow resulted in Alhaitham thinking about it at least twice an hour for the next week before he mustered enough resoluteness to ask the Wanderer for a repeat of the now-not-accident-anymore.

And his thinking progress went like this, for the most part.

You can’t accidentally kiss someone with tongues involved! The reasonable part of his brain argued.

Well, the guy had his tongue out when it happened. The stubborn part in the other hemisphere shot back.

That doesn’t explain your own tongue in his mouth!

It sort of happened naturally. I wouldn’t blame myself for it.

Yeah. Sort of. Alhaitham isn’t sure which hemisphere won the debate, but neither helped to deal with his nagging headache, so in the end he elects to ignore it entirely.

Asking the Wanderer for his help somehow does, though, even if it brings Alhaitham more questions without answers than before. But at least now his curiosity is somewhat temporarily satisfied, until the nagging part of his brain is awake again with its probing questions. The part whose voice in his head sounds suspiciously like his roommate’s. Huh. Intriguing.

“You’re late,” Kaveh opens the door with a yawn. He narrows his eyes at Alhaitham’s blank expression as he strides in, “You forgot the keys?”

The scribe puts a hand in his pocket to feel the familiar bunch of little jiggling metal parts. “I did not.”

“So why did you ring the bell?”

Alhaitham doesn’t have an honest answer to that. He isn’t even sure how he got back home, either. The whole last hour feels like a blur, and the more he tries to focus on the memories of his actions inside the room with the Wanderer, the more those little tricky fragments of images and feelings seem to slip out of his hands and disappear into the vastness of uncertainty.

Kaveh gives up questioning when he sees the distant look on Alhaitham’s face.

“I’m going back to bed,” the architect yawns again as he waves his hand. “Do whatever you want, just don’t be too loud.”

Being left alone in the living room makes Alhaitham realises how late it is. He looks out the window to see the dark sky outside for a moment before deciding to make himself a cup of tea. Coffee sounds better, honestly, but it won’t help alleviate the faint headache he is having now. Besides, he still has work tomorrow, and staying up even later with caffeine in his system won’t be a wise idea.

The freshly brewed tea runs down Alhaitham’s throat, providing a pleasant warmth that makes him exhale longingly. Placing the cup on the table, Alhaitham uses the tips of his fingers to touch his lips, distantly recalling the feeling of the Wanderer’s surprisingly soft lips on them. 

For someone with artificial skin, his lips feel so warm and real, and it dazzles and fascinates Alhaitham simultaneously with endless questions. Does the guy have an endothermic heating system and how does that work? If not, how does his body generate heat to make his skin feel so alive as a real human like that? Alhaitham knows that the guy doesn’t require regular sleep or food consumption to function, so where does he get the energy from? Sometimes Alhaitham also sees him nibble on something – usually it’s the Candied Ajilenakh Nut that Lesser Lord Kusanali feeds him or some small fruits – so does the Wanderer have a working digestive system? His tongue feels warm and soft against Alhaitham’s, though, so it wouldn’t be a stretch to think that there are more internal organs hidden underneath layers of artificial skin and bones, right…?

Alhaitham really, really wants to study the Wanderer diligently, but there are still a few things that stop him from achieving that goal. One of those things is well, the existence of their lovely Archon as the guy’s unofficial guardian. Alhaitham will never do anything that disrespects Lesser Lord Kusanali’s wishes.

The scribe closes his eyes as he lets out a long sigh. He still remembers the day he visited the guy after they defeated him, stopping him from ascending to godhood and taking the gnosis from him.

It was a grandiose plan, Alhaitham would give the Wanderer that. And he almost succeeded, too, if it wasn’t for the Traveler’s intervention and their Archon’s awakening. Still, Alhaitham doesn’t understand why Lesser Lord Kusanali wants to keep the Wanderer around. No matter how intriguing the guy is, he was a war criminal and an extremely dangerous being. If it was Alhaitham’s decision, he probably would find a way to seal all of Wanderer’s powers away permanently, and even seek to destroy him if they could.

But Alhaitham is glad that what to do with the Wanderer wasn’t his decision to make, though.

He touches his lips again. His brain isn’t as blank as before anymore, and now it’s busy filtering and organising all the information he’s gathered after today’s little session. Which is not much, but Alhaitham needs to be satisfied with what he can get. There are chances to inquire for more, he reasons, and he isn’t in a hurry to figure out this complex maze of unfamiliar emotions that he unfortunately has just realised recently, after all.

But what do I do when I like kissing Wanderer but I’m pretty sure I’m not in love with him, then?

Alhaitham finishes his tea and goes to wash the cup. Surely he doesn’t have to force his mind to find an answer to such a complex question at ungodly hours like this. Even though he hasn’t felt sleepy yet, Alhaitham still decides to go to bed before his mind starts to wander around and ask even more difficult questions.

…

“You look like shit.”

Alhaitham is glad that he’s already wearing his noise suppression earphones because Kaveh’s voice is especially jarring in the morning – it usually goes at least half an octave higher than its usual pitch before the man has his breakfast.

“I didn’t sleep much last night.”

Alhaitham answers honestly. He doesn’t feel like he has slept at all, but the sun is rising outside their window so he supposes that he did fall asleep at some point. His shoulders also feel stiff, hinting toward an uncomfortable rest.

Kaveh raises an eyebrow, a hint of concern in his eyes. “Did something happen yesterday?”

“Not really,” Alhaitham replies, though he can’t shake the thoughts of the previous night. “Just couldn’t stop thinking.”

The architect sighs, shaking his head, “You need to take better care of yourself. You’re not a machine, you know.”

Alhaitham nods half-heartedly since his mind is already drifting. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

They continue their morning routine in relative silence, with Kaveh eventually retreating to his room while Alhaitham finishes his preparations for the day. As he leaves for work, the weight of his thoughts hangs over him like a dense fog, thick and confusing.

The entire morning at the Akademiya is a blur. Alhaitham struggles to focus on his tasks, his mind continuously wandering back to the Wanderer and those kisses they shared. All the questions and perplexion that plagued Alhaitham last night refuse to leave him alone, making it difficult to concentrate on anything else.

Around noon, Alhaitham steps outside to clear his head, hoping the fresh air might help him regain some clarity. As he walks through the courtyard, he spots a familiar figure in his peripheral vision.

The Wanderer is perched on top of a tree, his presence is as enigmatic and captivating as ever. He seems to be in the middle of a conversation with someone below. 

Alhaitham watches for a moment, unable to tear his eyes away. At such a distance, he can’t make out the details of their exchange, but the Wanderer is grinning for a moment before his expression seems to suddenly change into something akin to… bashfulness? Annoyance? Alhaitham isn’t sure, to be honest, since his hat blocks most of his face at this angle.

And then the Wanderer lifts his chin, and it seems like now he notices Alhaitham from afar. His pretty eyes narrow a bit as his lips quiver. The scribe can’t recognise what kind of expression that is, either.

The next second, his vision shines as the Wanderer gracefully leaps from the tree before disappearing with a burst of anemo energy. 

Alhaitham stands there, rooted to the spot, his mind a whirlwind of confusion and curiosity. All he knows for now is that stepping outside doesn’t help to clear his mind at all, and he’s at the risk of another unproductive afternoon.

If that’s true, then today would be such a wasted day… What a shame.

…

Chapter Text

4, Agastopia. [Sethos]

Agastopia (n.) an admiration of a particular part of someone’s body; The visual enjoyment of the appearance of a specific physical aspect of another. (Origin: Greek)

.

“Are beautiful people always that hard to approach?”

“No, that’s just Hat Guy’s special brand of nastiness.”

𓆩ꨄ︎𓆪

Sethos will never forget the first moment he caught sight of Hat Guy.

He was new to Sumeru back then, and everything was fresh and interesting to him. Sumeru is a stark contrast to places Sethos had known before. With its lush rainforests and towering trees, the city is a symphony of nature and architecture, where emerald canopies interwave with ornate, ancient buildings. The air is thick with the scent of exotic flowers and the subtle hum of magic that seemed to pulse through every leaf and stone. Sethos couldn’t help but marvel at the blend of scholarly pursuits and natural tranquility. It seems like he can find beauty and inspiration in both the vibrant streets and serene groves, and he revels in every moment it strikes.

His first day in the bustling markets of Sumeru is an overwhelming sensory experience. The stalls overflow with vibrant fruits and rare herbs, and merchants enthusiastically tout their wares. 

It is amidst this lively chaos that Sethos first sees him—the Hat Guy. 

Or, to be more accurate, he hears him first.

The soft sound of tinkling bells trails through the air, a delicate chime that seemed out of place amid the raucous calls of vendors and the clamour of haggling customers. At first, Sethos thinks it is just another street performer or a merchant using tricks to lure in potential buyers, but as he turns his head, his gaze catches on something—or rather, someone—far more intriguing.

Hat Guy.

Once Sethos’ gaze locks onto him—a figure cutting through the scene with an almost unnatural grace—he can’t take his eyes off him. The nickname pops up nearly instantly inside his head, given by the wide-brimmed hat casting a shadow over the stranger’s face. The bells, Sethos realises, are attached to the end of two long strands of fabric sewn into the hem of that hat, jingling faintly with each movement he makes. It was an odd detail, one that stuck in Sethos’ mind like a burr, impossible to shake loose.

The young man—or boy?—stands with an air of detached arrogance, idly examining an old book he clearly has no intention of purchasing. Sethos can’t see the stranger’s face clearly at first, just the sharp line of his jaw and the way his lips press into a thin, unimpressed curve. But it isn’t his expression that holds Sethos captive—it is his hands. Pale and slender, they move with a precision that borders on artistry, flicking through every page in delicate movements.

His presence alone seems to put the shopkeeper in visible distress, but Hat Guy remains wholly unaffected, like he is an untouchable entity that doesn’t even bother to try blending in with the people around him. 

The bells jingle again when he puts the book down, shaking his head faintly. Sethos’ fingers itch with a sudden urge to reach out and try to touch it—those two dangling strands, for some odd reason, look so damn enticing…

The wide-brimmed hat casts a sharp shadow over the stranger’s face, obscuring all but the cool indifference in his half-lidded eyes. He moves languidly, with the kind of grace that suggests he is both aware of his effect on the surroundings while simultaneously being disinterested in it.

Sethos finds himself staring, captivated by the way those fingers curl around the parchment when the stranger reaches for some scrolls. He knows that he should’ve looked away—it is rude to stare. But something about Hat Guy—his quiet defiance, his effortless command of space, the way his fingers brushed against the papers with absentminded precision—holds him captive.

He looks beautiful in the way a striking storm cloud is beautiful—distant, untouchable, and carrying the promise of something dangerously exhilarating.

After a while, Sethos’ curiosity finally outweighs his hesitation. There is something about the way those fingers move—precise, almost hypnotic—that pulls him forward. He takes a breath, squares his shoulders, and steps closer.

“Interesting book,” Sethos says, nodding toward the tome in Hat Guy’s hands. “The script on the spine looks old—Khaenri’ahn, maybe?”

Hat Guy stills. Slowly, he tilts his head up, the wide brim of his hat lifting just enough to reveal his face. 

“Are you talking to me?” He asks, his voice flat, edged with impatience, as though Sethos has interrupted some grand, unspoken plan.

His eyes meet Sethos’—cold, piercing, and startlingly beautiful, framed by dark lashes that only sharpen the indifference glinting within them. Up close, the man is striking, his features sharp and delicate, like porcelain carved into something too perfect, too untouchable. 

But those eyes… they hold nothing. No flicker of emotions, no warmth. Just vast, icy disinterest that makes Sethos’ stomach twist uncomfortably.

Undeterred, he musters a small, hopeful smile. “I’m Sethos,” he offers, gesturing vaguely to himself. “Just thought I’d say hi.”

Hat Guy’s lips twitched into something that might’ve been a smirk if it weren’t so devoid of humour. 

“Unnecessary information I didn’t ask for,” he said, his tone cutting like a blade through silk.

Before Sethos can respond, the air around Hat Guy shimmers. A swirl of teal light flickers at his side, and with an effortless flick of his hand, he rises off the ground. His Anemo Vision pulses softly, the bells on his hat jingling as he hovers—then, without another glance, he shoots into the sky, vanishing in a gust of wind.

The market’s noise crashes back in as Sethos stands there, blinking up at the empty space where Hat Guy had been. Flying? He’s heard of Vision bearers pulling off stunts like that, but watching it up close—watching those elegant hands summon the wind itself—leaves him reeling. He runs a hand through his hair, a laugh bubbling up despite himself.

“Are beautiful people always that hard to approach?” He wonders aloud, the words slipping out unbidden.

“No, it’s just that guy’s special brand of nastiness,” A cackle rings out nearby. The vendor from before, the weathered woman with the knowing grin, shakes her head. “He’s got a tongue sharper than a blade and a glare that could wilt a Padisarah. Best steer clear unless you’ve got a thick skin, kid.”

Sethos huffs, glancing between her and the sky, his pulse still thrumming with a mix of awe and frustration. Those hands, that face, the effortless way he wielded his Vision—it only deepens the mystery. 

Hat Guy might have brushed him off like dust on his sleeve, but Sethos isn’t discouraged. If anything, the vendor’s warning only stoked his curiosity further—it has lit a spark in him, a stubborn determination to unravel the enigma who just flew away.

Beautiful or not, nasty or not, Sethos isn’t done yet.

…

Days pass, and Sethos slowly settles into life in Sumeru, but Hat Guy lingers in his thoughts like a melody he can’t quite place. He’d catch glimpses of him sometimes—always at a distance, always fleeting. A flash of that hat bobbing through the crowd, the faint jingle of bells, those hands gesturing dismissively at someone who dares to approach. Each sighting only deepens the mystery, and Sethos finds himself piecing together fragments of the man in his mind like a scholar assembling a shattered relic.

Who is he? Why the hat, the bells? And why, of all things, does Sethos feel this strange, unshakable pull toward him—not just to his hands, but to the enigma they belong to? 

He doesn’t have answers, not yet. But as he wanders Sumeru’s winding paths, the scent of blossoms and fresh leaves thick in the air, Sethos knows one thing for certain: he isn’t done chasing the mystery of Hat Guy. Not by a long shot.

.

Sethos cranes his neck, shielding his eyes against the midday sun as he peers up at the sprawling branches of a tree near the Akademiya. Today seems like a good day, because he spots Hat Guy there, perched like some aloof bird of prey. The wide-brimmed hat casts its usual shadow, the bells dangling from its edge glinting faintly as they catch the light. 

He’s leaning back against the trunk, one leg dangling carelessly, the other bent at the knee. In his hands, he holds a small wooden flute, his slender fingers tracing its surface with that same absentminded precision Sethos can’t stop noticing. The sight sends a familiar jolt through him—those hands again, beautiful and untouchable, like they belong to a world he can only glimpse.

“I finally found you today!”

Sethos calls up, unable to keep the triumph out of his voice. He’s been wandering around Sumeru’s grounds for hours, half-hoping, half-expecting to catch another fleeting glimpse of the enigma who’s taken root in his mind.

Hat Guy doesn’t even glance down at first. He lifts the flute to his lips, letting out a single, soft note that hangs in the air like a sigh before lowering it again. 

“I’m not making an effort to hide myself,” he replies, his voice carrying that familiar monotone edge. It’s dry, dismissive, but Sethos’ sharp ears catch the faintest undercurrent—something like amusement, buried deep beneath the apathy. It’s enough to make his chest lighten, and he beams up at the figure in the tree, undaunted.

“Well, that’s good to know,” Sethos says, planting his hands on his hips. “Makes my job easier.” 

He squints against the sun, trying to get a better look at Hat Guy’s face, but the shadow of the hat keeps it elusive, revealing only the cool glint of those half-lidded eyes. Up close—well, closer than before—he’s even more striking, the sharp lines of his features softened by the dappled light filtering through the leaves. 

Beautiful, Sethos thinks again, like a storm cloud brewing on the horizon.

Hat Guy finally deigns to look down at him, resting the flute across his knee. Those pale, elegant fingers tap lightly against the wood, a rhythm that seems almost unconscious. 

“Your job?” he echoes, his tone flat but carrying that subtle, cutting edge. “What, are you some kind of stalker now?”

Sethos laughs, the sound bright and unselfconscious, echoing through the quiet grove. 

“Nah, just a guy who’s curious. You’re kind of a mystery, you know? The hat, the bells, the flying—” He gestures vaguely toward the sky, then to the flute. “And now this. You play that thing?”

Hat Guy’s lips press into a thin line, and for a moment, Sethos thinks he’s about to get another curt dismissal. Instead, Hat Guy lifts the flute again, twirling it between his fingers with a flourish that’s almost performative. 

“Obviously.” 

He says, the word dripping with disdain, as if Sethos has asked something painfully stupid. He doesn’t play a note this time, just lets the instrument spin before catching it neatly in his palm. The movement is so smooth, so precise, that Sethos can’t help but stare, captivated once more by those hands.

“You’re good with your hands,” Sethos blurts out before he can stop himself, then immediately feels his face heat up. He clears his throat, scrambling to recover. “I mean, uh, the way you handle stuff. It’s… impressive.”

Hat Guy’s eyes narrow slightly, and Sethos braces for a sharp retort. But instead, the man just scoffs, a faint, breathy sound that’s more air than laughter. 

“Flattery won’t get you anywhere,” he says, his voice cool and detached. He shifts then, swinging his dangling leg up onto the branch and rising to his feet with that effortless grace Sethos has come to associate with him. The bells jingle softly as he moves, and the air shimmers again—teal light flickering at his side.

“Wait—” Sethos starts, but before he can finish, Hat Guy steps off the branch. The wind catches him, his Anemo Vision flaring to life, and he glides down to the ground a few paces away, landing with barely a sound. Up close, the full force of his presence hits Sethos—the sharp beauty of his face, the cold indifference in his eyes, the way he holds himself like he’s separate from everything around him. It’s overwhelming, and Sethos’ heart stumbles in his chest, beating a tad quicker than usual.

Traitorous little thing.

Hat Guy tilts his head, studying him for a moment with that piercing gaze.

“You’re persistent,” he says, and it’s not a compliment—just an observation, delivered with the same flatness as everything else. He tucks the flute into his sleeve, those elegant fingers disappearing from view, and Sethos feels an odd pang of disappointment.

“Guess I am,” Sethos admits, grinning despite the chill in Hat Guy’s tone. “I like a good mystery.”

Hat Guy doesn’t respond to that. He just turns, the bells chiming faintly as he starts to walk away, his hat casting that sharp shadow over his slender frame.

Sethos watches him go, the spark of determination in his chest burning brighter than ever. He’s gotten closer this time—close enough to hear that hidden amusement, to see those hands work their quiet magic. It’s not much, but it’s something. And for Sethos, it’s enough to keep chasing.

…