Kaveh (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
ohthehumanities) wrote2023-07-10 09:12 pm
ohthehumanities) wrote2023-07-10 09:12 pm
Entry tags:
memshare: homelessness
If you weren't so good at math, you think you would've lost track of time.
You're starting to think that you'll permanently smell of tavern smoke with how many nights you've slept here, curled up in a booth on the second floor. The seat cushions make for terrible pillows, and they do nothing to obscure the fact that you're sleeping on hard wood, but you'll never complain. Lambad has been so, so kind. He didn't have to let you stay here, like some kind of pathetic stray cat--every day, you expect him to come up, to avoid your gaze as he tells you, as politely as he can, that your time is up.
You do what you can to make yourself scarce during the day. This is his tavern, after all, and you don't want to cost him more money than you already do. You've learned how to style your hair to hide when it's dirty, because it's hard enough getting your hands on soap, let alone anything like shampoo. You roam the city, pretending you're looking for inspiration. Pretending you have somewhere to go. You let yourself bump into former classmates, colleagues--you invite them back to the tavern and act as though you haven't been living here for the past two weeks, and after they've gone, you quietly take the dishes to the back and wash them for Lambad. Through sheer willpower, you convince everyone that you're okay. You're not strong enough to isolate yourself, too desperate, always, for the companionship you've been denied time and time again--but you can at least make sure they think you're succeeding the way they expect from a genius of your caliber.
It's easier than it was before, when you truly had nowhere to go; that period after you sold your house, just after the Palace's reconstruction was completed. You couldn't stay with Tighnari for too long; he's too observant by half. Eventually, he would figure out that you're completely destitute. And then he would worry, and feel responsible for you, and you can't put that on him.
You can't put that on anyone. You are the reason you're in this situation, after all. Your homelessness, the Palace's destruction, your falling out with your dearest friend, your mother's agony, your father's death--if you trace them back, one by one, you can say with complete certainty that each one is your fault. If you try, you can pinpoint the exact moments where you know you are to blame. So what if you're unhappy, or uncomfortable, or lonely, or in pain? Isn't that what someone like you deserves?
This time, though... well. You're miserable--you can't say that you're not. The Palace had so briefly brought you joy, but now that the project is over, you can feel that gaping hole in your heart beginning to open up again. No matter what you give, it's not enough. But even now, you think you would do the same thing again. If the Palace of Alcazarzaray is the only thing you leave behind when you're dead and gone, it will have been enough, you think.
-
You aren't expecting to see Alhaitham.
He never liked taverns, back when you were students. You've always longed to be part of the crowd, and he never tolerated anyone but you, so you took it upon yourself to drag him out. You remember the way he'd sit in the corner, his nose in a book. You remember how your drunken comrades would pluck up their courage and try to engage with him. How he would shut them down immediately, without ever bothering to look at their faces. He's always refused to engage in small talk on principle, and he could never be bothered to perform even the barest of social niceties. Seeing him here, walking up the stairs with a goblet of wine in one hand and a book in the other, is so shocking that you forget to hide.
You haven't spoken to him directly in years. This, too, was your fault.
He spots you, and you can't bring yourself to move. You sit, frozen, as he approaches--but you've glued the facade of success and happiness to yourself for so long, and you know, you know you look fine. No one has ever given you more than a passing glance up here. It is a fact that you do not stand out.
"Kaveh." He's taller, now; taller than you, you think, but you can't bring yourself to stand up and check. Now you feel like the one with no manners, because all you're doing is gaping at him, grasping for the right words. What do you say when you destroy your closest friendship with your own hands, only to regret it too much to ever believe you'd get a second chance?
Alhaitham seems to have no such reservations. He says, plainly, "You look terrible."
It is so quintessentially Alhaitham-like that something breaks inside of you. You bury your face in your hands and begin to laugh, feeling borderline hysterical.
"I see you have yet to develop even a modicum of tact," you say, ignoring the complicated tangle of emotion in your chest. The corner of Alhaitham's mouth quirks upward, and he takes a seat as though you invited him to do so, setting his wine and, more shockingly, his book on the table.
"Tell me."
You have convinced the world that you are fine. That you are happy. That you are successful. You have done exactly what you set out to do: You built a masterpiece, you reminded Sumeru that beauty is a critical element to life, and you've helped other people along the way.
You have not been honest with anyone in years.
Tell me, he says, and inexplicably, you do.
You're starting to think that you'll permanently smell of tavern smoke with how many nights you've slept here, curled up in a booth on the second floor. The seat cushions make for terrible pillows, and they do nothing to obscure the fact that you're sleeping on hard wood, but you'll never complain. Lambad has been so, so kind. He didn't have to let you stay here, like some kind of pathetic stray cat--every day, you expect him to come up, to avoid your gaze as he tells you, as politely as he can, that your time is up.
You do what you can to make yourself scarce during the day. This is his tavern, after all, and you don't want to cost him more money than you already do. You've learned how to style your hair to hide when it's dirty, because it's hard enough getting your hands on soap, let alone anything like shampoo. You roam the city, pretending you're looking for inspiration. Pretending you have somewhere to go. You let yourself bump into former classmates, colleagues--you invite them back to the tavern and act as though you haven't been living here for the past two weeks, and after they've gone, you quietly take the dishes to the back and wash them for Lambad. Through sheer willpower, you convince everyone that you're okay. You're not strong enough to isolate yourself, too desperate, always, for the companionship you've been denied time and time again--but you can at least make sure they think you're succeeding the way they expect from a genius of your caliber.
It's easier than it was before, when you truly had nowhere to go; that period after you sold your house, just after the Palace's reconstruction was completed. You couldn't stay with Tighnari for too long; he's too observant by half. Eventually, he would figure out that you're completely destitute. And then he would worry, and feel responsible for you, and you can't put that on him.
You can't put that on anyone. You are the reason you're in this situation, after all. Your homelessness, the Palace's destruction, your falling out with your dearest friend, your mother's agony, your father's death--if you trace them back, one by one, you can say with complete certainty that each one is your fault. If you try, you can pinpoint the exact moments where you know you are to blame. So what if you're unhappy, or uncomfortable, or lonely, or in pain? Isn't that what someone like you deserves?
This time, though... well. You're miserable--you can't say that you're not. The Palace had so briefly brought you joy, but now that the project is over, you can feel that gaping hole in your heart beginning to open up again. No matter what you give, it's not enough. But even now, you think you would do the same thing again. If the Palace of Alcazarzaray is the only thing you leave behind when you're dead and gone, it will have been enough, you think.
-
You aren't expecting to see Alhaitham.
He never liked taverns, back when you were students. You've always longed to be part of the crowd, and he never tolerated anyone but you, so you took it upon yourself to drag him out. You remember the way he'd sit in the corner, his nose in a book. You remember how your drunken comrades would pluck up their courage and try to engage with him. How he would shut them down immediately, without ever bothering to look at their faces. He's always refused to engage in small talk on principle, and he could never be bothered to perform even the barest of social niceties. Seeing him here, walking up the stairs with a goblet of wine in one hand and a book in the other, is so shocking that you forget to hide.
You haven't spoken to him directly in years. This, too, was your fault.
He spots you, and you can't bring yourself to move. You sit, frozen, as he approaches--but you've glued the facade of success and happiness to yourself for so long, and you know, you know you look fine. No one has ever given you more than a passing glance up here. It is a fact that you do not stand out.
"Kaveh." He's taller, now; taller than you, you think, but you can't bring yourself to stand up and check. Now you feel like the one with no manners, because all you're doing is gaping at him, grasping for the right words. What do you say when you destroy your closest friendship with your own hands, only to regret it too much to ever believe you'd get a second chance?
Alhaitham seems to have no such reservations. He says, plainly, "You look terrible."
It is so quintessentially Alhaitham-like that something breaks inside of you. You bury your face in your hands and begin to laugh, feeling borderline hysterical.
"I see you have yet to develop even a modicum of tact," you say, ignoring the complicated tangle of emotion in your chest. The corner of Alhaitham's mouth quirks upward, and he takes a seat as though you invited him to do so, setting his wine and, more shockingly, his book on the table.
"Tell me."
You have convinced the world that you are fine. That you are happy. That you are successful. You have done exactly what you set out to do: You built a masterpiece, you reminded Sumeru that beauty is a critical element to life, and you've helped other people along the way.
You have not been honest with anyone in years.
Tell me, he says, and inexplicably, you do.