Work Text:
“One-hundred forty-eight days.”
Being human was an experience, never a state.
Humans were not meant to count until infinity—the fragility of life built the foundations of humanity’s beauty. It created the stakes; it commanded them to open their mouths and let meaning flow into listening ears. One could say humanity seeped into the earth underneath us; others would say it was a collective. A standard. A behavior.
To Niwa Hisahide, Kabukimono was a human. He merely did not have a heart.
To Kaedehara Kazuha, humanity was abstract. It was creating meanings for the word “humanity” that amounted to the stars littering the cosmos. Such effort certainly was not for science—no researcher would be ridiculous enough to write ten thousand pages of all the varying definitions of what it meant to be human, what was a human, what composed a human, what a human considered as, what were the variables of a human, what were the indicators of a human, what emotionally—you get his point.
To Wanderer, humanity was a yet.
SUMERU BULLETIN: Any cafe recommendations?
Kaveh (Architect, part-time professor): Everything But Sugar
I go to this relatively new cafe every morning, and it sells pretty cakes and pastries for cheap. Absolutely recommend! What distinguishes this from other cafes in Sumeru is definitely the pastry chef’s artistic nature. I mean, have you ever seen cupcakes with real flowers on them? And it’s so pretty, too? AND they sell for cheap?
Not only does it offer good food, but a good view full of flowers of all kinds, too! So colorful! Even if I’m allergic to flowers, I’d say going here is still a total must for anyone with good artistic taste. Anyone who says otherwise is a killjoy.
Haitham (Scribe): Everything But Sugar
Do not visit if you are allergic to flowers.
“My third-month anniversary treat!”
Kaveh cradled a box of a dozen cupcakes to his chest. Kazuha had tied an abundance of little orange flowers to the ribbon wrapped around the box, its petals sharp. It elicited a candy-like fragrance that accentuated the aroma of cinnamon and sugar wafting throughout the bakery.
“Third month?” asked Kazuha while wiping the corner of his lip with a washcloth. He stood behind the counter as Kaveh twirled his fingers around the dozen Butterfly Weeds decorating his cupcake box.
“I like counting stuff.” Kaveh shrugged. “Been three months since the bakery opened... I get big orders during anniversaries, by the way, if you even care to know.”
Kazuha placed the washcloth down and rolled his sleeves up, bringing out an assortment of macaroons to be decorated onto an empty surface. Kaveh still lingered across from him, red-nosed and twitchy. For the three months Kaveh had been his customer, Kazuha would gladly give him the “Most Friendly” prize in a positive light. If he were to be more blunt, it would become the “Best Over-sharer” award.
“Of course, I do.” Kazuha hummed while applying force onto the raw dough with his knuckles. “Why wouldn’t I remember my regulars?”
“Well, yeah. Fair. But,” Kaveh leaned forward to whisper, “do you take pre-orders months from now? I’m about to get busy with my thesis and I’m planning a surprise party for—for someone.”
Kazuha sectioned the dough into pieces, the harsh slap of a knife on wood filling the silence.
“So?” Kaveh leaned closer, looking at him wide-eyed.
“I’m afraid the bakery isn’t ready for pre-orders.”
“ What? ” Kaveh leaned back on his heels. “But you’re so—I mean, is it the flowers? Do you have to order the flowers? ‘Cause I can try to pay for that, too.”
“It isn’t.”
“I mean, where do you get a constant supply of fresh flowers from?” Kaveh blabbered. “You price your stuff so cheap and these kinds of flowers can’t possibly be supplied every day without an absurd amount of mora. So?” Kaveh wiggled his brows. “Any business secrets to share?”
Kazuha’s lips crept into a smile. His thumb rubbed the metal of his knife in circles, the raw dough before him deflating.
Kaveh blinked. “You have something on your teeth. Cherry skin?”
“Ah, apologies. I suppose so.” Kazuha filled a glass with water before chugging it down to wash the supposed cherry skin away, lips smacking as he sighed.
“No problem. So? Business secret?”
“A secret wouldn’t be a secret if I spilled it, no?” Kazuha picked up a single Belladonna from a nearby vase made of clear glass and slipped it into Kaveh’s hands. “Thank you for coming today.”
Everything But Sugar Bulletin
Want to know more about flower language? Everything But Sugar is here to help!
Today's flower is a Belladonna! It is also known by its scientific name, Atropa belladonna. It is a toxic perennial herbaceous plant commonly found in Inazuma and southern Liyue. Its special meaning is “Silence.”
Kazuha liked to travel. To explore every inch nature had to offer. To feel the different depths and energies winds of varying lands contained. Sometimes, they were soft, a tickling blow to the cheek that could emit a lighthearted giggle. Other times, they were harsh and brutal, pulling onto latched hats until the strings snapped, and one was left to run fruitlessly after it.
Kazuha also liked to create. May it be through baking, writing, or craftsmanship. Flowers, too, he could bloom from his blood cells and the vase-like function his throat took on.
When Wanderer liked a particular flower, Kazuha could only hope to unhook his ribs and spread his lungs flat on the floor. To sit Wanderer down with him as they watched petals crack through the white, snow-like color of bone. Maybe Wanderer would enjoy the show, given his occasional sadistic nature; maybe he wouldn’t, given his dedication to studying aetiology in the Akademiya.
“Aetiology is a rather… big word,” said Kazuha during one of their late-night study sessions. Wanderer suggested this arrangement rather forcefully after Kazuha had off-handedly mentioned how he had never completed his studies after the Kaedeharas went bankrupt, opting to spend money on food and water rather than classes he could do without.
Wanderer had even suggested enrolling into the Akademiya with him, but Kazuha had declined. He would instead do whatever he liked than chain himself to academics. “But The literary department would hound after you,” Wanderer had muttered, which Kazuha had willfully ignored.
Fingers snapped before his eyes.
“I’m better off writing my thesis if all you do is doze off.”
Kazuha blinked. “Oh.” Then he cleared his throat. “Apologies.”
Wanderer’s brows furrowed, and the tips of his bangs so perfectly brushed the little frown. Kazuha wondered if Wanderer trimmed his bangs regularly. If his inhuman body simply did not grow his hair, or if he could control its length. Whatever it was, Kazuha would beg Wanderer to grow it long enough to braid; that had always been one of his dreams.
“Your hair.” Kazuha rested his chin on his palm, gazing at Wanderer across their dinner table. “Can you control it?”
Wanderer was not amused. “Are we studying or not?”
“We have all the time in the world,” said Kazuha as he pushed his pen and paper away. “I’d rather we chat.”
“You—” Wanderer stopped himself, then pursed his lips. A surprise—Kazuha had expected more fight. “Fine.”
“I expected more difficulty. Are you in a good mood?”
Wanderer’s stare was tight, unreadable. Or perhaps Kazuha had lost his skill in reading his fiance with how much time they spent apart doing academics or work logistics. Who knew? What Kazuha knew, though, was that their dim kitchen lights reflected Wanderer’s skin so prettily, crushingly so. No human skin could ever compare to Wanderer’s. No blemishes, no scars, no signs of life—an unpaintable canvas.
Unreachable.
Kazuha glanced at his unbandaged hands, at the crisscross of scars and ugly bumps on his skin.
“Not particularly.” Wanderer’s words dragged Kazuha back, and he should have been slapped for not paying his entire attention to the most beautiful boy in the world. What a criminal he was.
They sat in silence for a while. This has been happening ever since Kazuha set up his bakery and Wanderer enrolled in the Akademiya. It was not awkward. They could never be awkward. Silence was a treasure, a space to lay out thoughts and understandings without uttering a word. This time, however, this silence was deafening, and Kazuha could not pinpoint why.
Maybe because he had nothing on his tongue to offer.
“Your lips are dry,” said Wanderer, still having that tight look that Kazuha despised because his boy deserved to be happy forever and ever until his last unimaginable breath.
“Are they?” Kazuha hummed, leaning back until he hit his chair. He licked his lips. “Unfortunately, I ran out of balm.”
Combine a baker and a scholar, and their solution to dry lips would be kissing. Wanderer straddled his thighs, and Kazuha’s hands roamed on supple, too-perfect skin; the brush of his bumpy, scarred fingers felt intrusive, like using a poorly made paintbrush on the highest quality of linen canvases.
Their kitchen was dark, only accompanied by dimly lit candles that continued accentuating Wanderer’s skin. Kazuha’s humanity wanted to devour him, to fuck him so good Wanderer would remember the feeling throughout his millennia of a lifetime.
It had been two minutes since they kissed, and Kazuha had to tap Wanderer’s thigh to signal him to back off, to let Kazuha breathe.
Wanderer pulled back, their foreheads pressed together, imitating the human action of panting.
Kazuha caught a breath or two, then went back in. They tangled under strings of vines along the walls. At times, Kazuha would wince at the tightness to which Wanderer would immediately loosen up. Other times, Kazuha would flinch at the coldness of Wanderer’s joints. All times, Kazuha would have to ignore the constant creaks of metal underneath Wanderer’s skin, even if it scratched at his oversensitive ears until they bled.
Because if Wanderer knew the simple human act of sex harmed Kazuha, they would never do it again.
In the morning, Kazuha’s lips were still dry.
He ticked a box off. “One hundred days.”
Everything But Sugar Bulletin
Want to know more about flower language? Everything But Sugar is here to help!
Today’s daily flower is Butterfly Weed, also known by its scientific name Asclepias tuberosa, a milkweed species native to eastern and southwestern Fontaine. It has a very special meaning: “Let me go!”
“You still aren’t doing pre-orders?” Kaveh groaned. Four cupcakes with yellow-frosted cream on top rested on his arms; how he balanced those, he did not know.
“Unfortunately not,” said Kazuha. “But that’s not the matter. Four today?”
“Oh, for myself and my students.” Kaveh plucked a red carnation off the cupcake before taking a big bite, the yellow frosting littering his lips. “Architecture’s hard and I’d like for them to let loose, no biggie.”
Kazuha hummed, swallowing thickly without Kaveh’s notice. They spoke like usual: hypothetical husbands, interior design, and the general stress of what it took to handle a business. During the entirety of Kaveh’s sharing, though, the itch in his throat heightened like unbearable thorns threatening to pierce through his skin. Kazuha snatched his bottle under the counter with shaking fingers, the water dripping off the corners of his mouth as he downed large gulps.
Kaveh tilted his head. “There’s more flowers today.”
“Are there?”
Kazuha placed the bottle down, its slam echoing in the empty bakery, and his fingers itched to reach for it again. The constant tapping of Kaveh’s foot, the crisp rustle of leaves, and the hundreds of footsteps outside the shop all together bombarded his ears. The scents from the flowers planted on pots, hung on walls, or even used for pastry decorations wafted an ugly aroma like his lover’s anger.
He breathed through his mouth instead.
“Yes, there are. And of course, I noticed. Interior design is part of the resume.”
“My fiance likes them,” said Kazuha, wistfully, as if his fiance was an entity he could not touch, someone far above him. “Says they’re far too beautiful for a mere bakery.”
“Well, they kind of are.” Kaveh peered into a vase of fresh, multi-colored carnations; Kazuha’s hand fiddled with his bottle for comfort. Then, Kaveh perked up. “Can I ask you something? Like, this might be really personal and all, and you don’t have to answer it if you don’t want to. But I really don’t have anyone to talk to.”
“Go ahead.”
Kazuha swallowed thickly. His throat continued to itch, and his back longed for his bed, but he could not reject Kaveh. His sweet little customer who had been single-handedly funding his bakery—the sole reason Kazuha had comebacks to his beautiful boy’s “Your business will fail because sweets are not what tired college students want” remarks.
“Let’s say, hypothetically, I have a husband. And sometimes, I think he hates me because he ignores me and I feel bad about it, but then, he does something like… hypothetically finding me clients because business is dry. Cooks for me, too.”
“Hypothetical.”
“Yes, all hypothetical.” Kaveh nodded. “I know my husband isn’t the type to be generous with words and he shows affection through actions, but I like words of affirmation—I get the most assurance from them. And sometimes I feel it’s unfair that I have to understand that he isn’t good with words, while I always feel bad and doubtful because I don’t know what he’s thinking. And then! ”
Kazuha nodded encouragingly as Kaveh took a deep breath before continuing, “I know my emotional intelligence is higher than his, and there are times I feel like I’m giving more effort than he does. But can I really blame him for that when such things aren’t in his capacity? I know how it sounds, but I don’t know how else to phrase it!”
“I think…” Kazuha threaded his words carefully, trying his best to hide the dryness in his voice. “You two need to… hypothetically talk it out.”
Kaveh pursed his lips into a pout. “But I don’t want to.”
Kazuha’s face fell blank. “Then I suggest you phrase your question another way if advice isn’t what you want.”
A second. Two. Then Kaveh groaned into his palms, cheeks red and nose runny. “If he really likes me, don’t you think he’d leave his comfort zone for me?”
Kazuha mulled it over, a situation far too familiar. “It depends. Perhaps he thinks nothing is wrong and you’re content with how he’s acting, so it would be best for you to be frank.”
Kaveh buried his head further. “But talking is so hard! ”
“It is.” Kazuha nodded, interlocking his tremulous hands behind his back. “But it’s worth it if it means keeping him.”
“Ninety-five days.”
“Babe?” Kazuha spoke into the night. His back rested on the finest cotton Sumeru could offer, yet the stiffness in his spine pried his mouth open, all to spill out the words he had been dying to say.
The beautiful boy’s head lay on his chest, ear to his heart, fingers outlining his ribs. “Hm.”
“I have a request,” continued Kazuha, gazing up at their window for a ceiling, at the stars littering a night sky as if it could imitate the glitter in Wanderer’s eyes—it could not, it could never. His beautiful boy rivaled the creation of gods’ themselves. “I’d like to have our wedding earlier.”
Silence, and Kazuha could not see his boy’s face. Was he happy? Skeptical? Suspicious? Pondering Wanderer’s state was different from others. Winds circled in humans’ lungs and swirled around their hearts. Trajectory, speed, control, acceleration: Kazuha noted them all to dissect a person’s mood or thoughts. It was all within nature, like how one could unconsciously breathe, Kazuha could read the letters scribbled in between winds.
Wanderer was different: a non-human, a doll. The winds around him constantly bumped into the metal of his bones. The soft creaking of his joints replaced the serenity humans had within themselves, and Kazuha had to go above and beyond to read his beautiful boy.
After seconds like eons, Wanderer asked, voice-controlled and unreadable Kazuha could die, “Why?”
His tongue ran dry.
“Kazuha.”
He hated lying—hated not opening his ribs and baring his heart. His mouth remained shut, glued together that it would take the combined strength of a hundred men to pry it open and speak the flowers in his heart.
Wanderer finally, finally turned his head to face him. “Is it me?”
Kazuha blinked rather stupidly. Wanderer’s brows furrowed, eyes averting elsewhere to their intermingling rings on the bedside table.
“You're not blabbering as much.”
Kazuha's lips held onto a soft smile, even if flowers threatened to bubble at his throat. “It’s the middle of the night, love.”
Wanderer’s lips thinned, but it was not obvious that anyone could point it out. No, only someone as well-versed in this beautiful boy as Kazuha would notice the tell-tale sign. May this be fortunate or unfortunate, Kazuha was a fool not to know, as such keen observation also picked apart how Wanderer angled his body away. Like he was reluctant, like he wished to form letters into words but something must have changed in their relationship to cause this dreaded tension—one Kazuha had been praying to every listening god to resolve.
Because if Kazuha were to handle it himself, he would speak flowers instead of words, and he did not mean poetry.
“Kazuha,” said Wanderer, his throat bobbing despite having a voice icier than the tips of Dragonspine. He whispered, painfully—if pain could ever be encapsulated into sound, “I know.”
Flowers tickled his throat, emerging from the back of his tongue to restrict his breathing while red colored his face like splattered blood, like the colored mucus that accompanied the flowers he choked out. Wanderer rushed off him, face robotically blank, and yet his hands so carefully cupped Kazuha’s face, pushing his fingers above his chest as if to relieve the pain, as if he could do anything about this.
Wanderer’s distressed voice reached his ears without a problem. Even if he choked on his love, his senses remained at full perception, at full function, for the sake of listening to the boy who was never heard. When Kazuha promised to hear him, to listen to him, even when he was on the verge of death, he meant his promise.
“It’s alright,” choked Kazuha, prying the cold hands off him. “It’s fine, it’s fine.”
Wanderer’s face said it was not fine. He stated, “We’re engaged.”
He gulped his spit, hoping to lessen the itch, but it was fruitless. It only managed to delay the flowers from emerging. His voice came out hoarse as he said, “We are.”
“You’re my fiance . You asked for my hand in marriage.”
“I did.”
“And yet—” Wanderer shut his mouth. He took a deep breath. What could not be naturally conveyed through his face was shown through the careful articulation of his voice, and if they were in any other situation, Kazuha would have praised him for such enunciation. His boy had even taken acting classes to capture human emotions more skillfully, and Kazuha would be a fool to be oblivious that Wanderer had taken those classes for him.
“And yet,” hissed Wanderer, “you have that .”
“I do.” All Kazhua could do was nod as Wanderer moved to sit on the side of the bed, back to him. What else could he do? “Love—”
“Who is it?”
Kazuha frowned. “Pardon?”
“You’re not deaf. Who is it?”
His stomach sank at the implications of Wanderer’s question. If Wanderer had stated that he had known, how long had he thought this way? Kazuha would rather die than entertain loving someone else—simply no one compared. He rushed to sit beside him.
“Baby, you’ve misunderstood—”
“No.” Wanderer’s voice was cold; its icicles pierced through the bridge they had spent years creating. “The facts are right here.”
Kazuha tried to hold Wanderer’s face, but his beautiful boy turned away with a perfect, perfect frown on his brows. He had a lot of things to say. Like, my senses usually bombard me: my perceptive smell, hearing, and sight combined taint the world into ugliness. It’s hard for me to find beauty at first sight. When confronted with a flower, I am first led to sense the parasites crawling between its pollen and the disgusting scent of the withering edge of its petals. But with him, I am pushed to find its beauty. Because flowers are gifts, and my boy deserves all gifts. My beautiful, beautiful boy.
He would repeat the word beautiful a thousand times until it lost meaning. Until all one could think of when confronted with the word was not its definition but the image of who its nine letters were formulated for.
Kazuha would even say he would still love this hard, even if it were unreciprocated. He did not love to be loved; he loved to love.
He wanted to say all these things and more. Yet, what came out of his mouth was, “No…”
Wanderer glared. “Excuse me?”
Kazuha leveled Wanderer’s scrutiny. “We’re past doubting each other. You know that.”
“Then why didn’t you tell me?” Wanderer’s glare hardened, voice raw and guttural, but the crack at the end revealed all Kazuha had to know. “Do you think—do you think I’d harm them? At the cost of you? That I’m not capable of—”
“ No .” How could Kazuha call himself a poet when he could not form the right words at the right time? “I just…”
“You just what? Spit it out!” barked Wanderer.
There was no other way to put it. “I didn’t want to hurt you.”
“You didn’t want to hurt me,” repeated Wanderer in growing disbelief. “You didn’t want to hurt me .”
Kazuha’s throat itched harder, the rusty taste of blood prickling his tongue. “... yes.”
“How many times do I have to—” Wanderer’s voice cracked again as he ran a hand through his hair, looking up at their window for a ceiling. Kazuha’s heart sank. Blinking rapidly and without looking at Kazuha, he continued, “It’s always me; you’re always concerned about me .”
Kazuha did not like how it was as if his concern was wrong, as if his love was not right. “What are you getting at?”
“That you’re more selfish than you think,” answered Wanderer darkly. “What would you do if I didn’t love you?”
The words coming from Wanderer himself hit Kazuha with a sharp pang to his chest, directly aimed at his heart. It physically hurt, if hurt could ever amount to the thousand needles prickling his throat right now. He knew he said he would not mind. He knew, but the words coming from Wanderer himself hurt. If I didn’t love you. It hurt, it hurt, it hurt.
“I don’t have to answer that,” Kazuha managed to rasp out despite his throat constricting itself. Wanderer stood so close to him, a breath apart, and Kazuha wanted to lay him down and soften the frown on his pretty, pretty face. To anger his boy this much should be a crime.
“You wouldn’t care,” Wanderer answered for him like it was a matter of fact, like he knew Kazuha more than Kazuha knew himself, like he understood Kazuha’s flaws. “You said nothing because you’re content with how we are, and that means you believe that I don’t… That I don’t—” Wanderer’s voice turned a pitch higher, and they waited for his next words, but the air fell silent.
Oh. Kazuha turned his head down, his hair falling over to hide his face. “I know you love me.”
“You don’t.”
“I do.”
“You don’t,” Wanderer’s voice was final.
“I do —” His lungs caved in, and a wave of flowers forced through, rising along with chyme and pretty thorns that fell onto the ground with blood. Lavender hydrangeas littered their hardwood floor, and the pain of coughing out a bouquet of them had Kazuha kneeling, eyes watery, and fists clenched until his blunt nails dug hard into his palms.
“I do,” sobbed Kazuha, voice rough and wet. “I do, baby. I do .”
Wanderer looked down his nose. “Then why—”
“I don’t know.” Kazuha shook his head, still on the floor, staring pathetically at the flowers by Wanderer’s feet. “I don’t know,” he whispered as the blood seeped into the palms of his hands like parasites.
Silence. Then, Wanderer kneeled before him and grabbed his chin to force him to look up.
“Why do you think I said yes to your proposal? Why do I go home every day, cook for you, and re-wrap your bandages? Why do I let you fuck me even if I feel no pleasure? Kazuha…” Wanderer’s voice lowered into something dangerous—not physically; the stakes were the rings on their bedside table. “ Tell me.”
He’s so close. Kazuha gulped. Those starry indigo eyes stared at him. So, so pretty. So, so beautiful. Only someone like Wanderer could make anger release so artistically. His voice had Kazuha’s knees on the floor, his throat itched, and he hunched over, and more hydrangeas spilled between them.
Wanderer had stood up. When? Kazuha did not know, too busy vomiting flowers. Tears pricked his eyes, and blood dribbled down from his mouth, and he was hunched over, panting. A sea of lavender, blood red, and the sight of Wanderer’s feet filled his vision.
“Love,” croaked Kazuha, standing up because he knew what Wanderer was thinking, knew the implications his fiance was leading up to. And even if literal thorns punctured his skin from the inside out, he would ensure this was clear before he passed out. “Please.”
Wanderer only watched as Kazuha grasped at his arms, distant, cold, the blood spreading between their skin.
“I love you,” said Wanderer like it was one of the truths sprawled on the leaves of Irminsul.
“And I believe you.” Kazuha held Wanderer’s face. Soft, supple cheeks and pretty, long lashes. He grasped at him like letting go would cease his tangibility, like not doing so would transfer the pain of thorns and petals. Kazuha pressed their foreheads, whispering, “I believe you.”
Wanderer’s face cracked. “Is my heart not enough?”
“ No . No, no.” Kazuha tightened his grip, forcing Wanderer’s eyes on him, smiling despite the blood staining his teeth. “It could fulfill me for lifetimes.”
Unconsciously (and Kazuha knew it was because Wanderer would never do it on purpose), Wanderer nuzzled into his palm, his cheek squished so cutely Kazuha could die. Oh, his beautiful, beautiful boy.
Wanderer’s next words were cold. Despite being phrased as a question, he stated it like a fact, like a robot asking questions to complete its data. “Am I not human enough to love you?”
“Of course, no—”
Wanderer held his chin in an unforgiving grip. “Don’t lie to me.”
“Why would I lie?” hissed Kazuha, breathing through the petals stuck to his throat. The blood dripping down his mouth, like he were some dog, smeared onto Wanderer’s perfect fingers. “Believe me when I say no one compares to you. No one.”
Wanderer pursed his lips. Then he opened them, about to speak until Kazuha let out a hard, guttural hack, slipping out of Wanderer’s hold to thump his fist on his chest as his lungs closed in. Pain pounded into him. The ugly, metallic taste of blood covered his entire tongue, and all Kazuha could think about was possibly tainting Wanderer with his dirtiness.
Kazuha said in between hacks, “Go back to sleep—”
“I don’t sleep.”
“You have a thesis tomorrow.”
“I’ll pass.”
“I’ve been handling myself,” said Kazuha, gently pushing past Wanderer to clean himself up. As if what had happened was nothing more than weathered news. “Nothing will happen to me.”
“Then why’d you ask to push our wedding?” Wanderer did not move from his spot, his voice low, but Kazuha could still hear him while the faucet ran, and he washed his impurities away. The sound overload was better than a full-blown fight—anything but a fight.
“Does it matter?” asked Kazuha as he went back to their bedroom with only a towel by his hips, the previous blood and petals on him gone. His throat itched, his eyes rimmed red, and his chest tickled with pain, but he would rather ensure his beautiful boy was fine. He circled his arms around Wanderer’s torso, his lips brushing against his neck, breath hot. “Is it so wrong?”
“Kazuha.”
Wanderer’s skin was cold; the metal churning inside him prickled Kazuha’s ears, but it was perfect. “Let’s sleep.”
“ Kazuha ,” Wanderer’s voice went a pitch higher, “if it’s because of my—”
“Don’t,” said Kazuha firmly. “Don’t even suggest it.”
“I will when it’s my fault.”
“Who said this is your fault?” Kazuha nuzzled into the cold of his neck. “Did you coerce me to love you? Do you think I’d let you force me??”
Wanderer said nothing. His jaw clenched and unclenched in tune with their ticking clock and the ringing cicadas outside. Above them, the moon stood at its highest, a fusillade of stars raining down dark blue—if this were a normal night, Kazuha would suggest stargazing and leaving behind his fusillade of kisses on Wanderer’s lips, eyelids, cheeks, chin—
“Go back to sleep.” Wanderer stepped out of Kazuha’s hold, crushing the bloodied hydrangeas by their feet in the process. He summoned currents of moist Anemo to clean the blood up and left behind rumpled flowers in its wake. Before Kazuha could speak, Wanderer pushed their balcony doors open.
“Are you seriously—”
Wanderer flew off. His little form whizzed past Sumeru's tall inns and large trees until the night enclosed him.
Everything But Sugar Bulletin
Want to know more about flower language? Everything But Sugar is here to help!
Today's flower is a Lavender Hydrangea! It is also known by its scientific name, Hydrangea macrophylla. It is commonly found in Sumeru and Eastern Liyue. Its special meaning is “I’m sorry.”
“Eight-five days.”
“You’re still not doing pre-orders?” Kaveh sighed, sliding his arms on the counter until he could prop his chin on his palm. He looked up at Kazuha with pretty eyes. “Not even for your special customer?”
Kazuha hummed, not stating that his special customer could only ever be Wanderer, who had the right to free pastries and food from him every day if possible.
“I guess not,” muttered Kaveh. “But really, my question still stands. How do you maintain all these flowers and keep them so fresh? I don’t think I’ve ever seen a wilting one in here!”
“That would be a business secret.” Kazuha winked.
"Business secret," repeated Kaveh. "Well—" He cradled the box of macaroons Kazuha handed over into his arms and sniffed loudly. "Cyclamens today?"
Kazuha hummed as he wiped crumbs off the counter. A group of kids had been here earlier this morning and ordered a number of sweets their parents would surely scold them for but eat with them nonetheless. Everyone in town loved Kazuha's baking.
"A man of a few words," deadpanned Kaveh. "How swoony."
"Thank you."
"It wasn't a compliment, but I can tell you're trying to dismiss me." Kaveh grinned wide. "Why, huh? Got a date?"
"Kaveh." Kazuha smiled. "You—"
"Don't you have kids to teach?" Wanderer’s voice entered the bakery as the bells chimed. Kaveh grinned wider, cheekier, as he turned around.
"As a matter of fact, I'm on my day off. Hat Guy ."
That one retort was all Wanderer intended to offer to their conversation as he showed them no more acknowledgment and headed for the stairs where their cozy apartment lay. Kazuha always wanted a shop near where he lived.
"Wow..." Kaveh watched him go, a hand on his hip. "Starts an argument and doesn't even bother to see it to the end." He turned to Kazuha. "Can you believe that guy—"
Kazuha had already taken his gloves off and followed Wanderer up the stairs. As he went to unlock the door, it opened to reveal his boy carrying a textbook filled with sticky notes and bookmarks. Wanderer so obviously avoided his gaze; a look past Kazuha’s shoulder as he opted to go somewhere else, but Kazuha held his arm tight, like letting go would mean hours of silence.
"Please."
"Move."
"No." Kazuha held Wanderer in place, and they both knew his human strength was no match for the doll. But Wanderer did not resist. This nonchalance was useless when Kazuha knew the contrary. When he knew Scaramouche liked any semblance of touch from him—a man so starved even malicious intentions were welcomed.
Kazuha would never do such a thing, though. Would rather bloody his hands than take advantage of a history that prompted Wanderer’s compliance.
Wanderer sighed. "I'm studying."
"Then study with me."
"No."
Kazuha's outburst was not an outburst. Not screamed words nor harsh insults because he was soft-spoken to a fault. Kazuha could never yell or snap at his beautiful boy, so the words came out tired, gentle, "All you do is study. You’ve been avoiding me, and it doesn't make sense after you said you knew."
Wanderer pursed his lips, hugging the textbook tighter to his chest, but he said nothing. Silence. One second, two seconds. Kazuha knew his flaws well, but he knew Wanderer’s flaws better. He never explained himself, no matter the situation, and it led to the world misunderstanding his boy even if good intentions backed him up.
So, Kazuha pushed and whispered, "Tell me?" even if he felt like a dog whining for attention, but at this point, his dignity did not matter.
Wanderer glared at him now, a tight look on his face that was unreadable. "Back off."
Kazuha did not back off, and Wanderer snapped, the blessed winds around him distressed, “I said I’m studying . Not everything concerns you.”
“It does actually,” said Kazuha. “The winds tell me so.”
Wanderer would pull at his hair in frustration if he were a little more expressive. “Then tell your air to go condense itself. Are we done?” Kazuha hesitated, but Wanderer continued, "Don't make me use force."
Jaw tightening, Kazuha did as told, but he made sure to block the exit. His ears sensed Kaveh's eavesdropping presence and approaching customers, and the logical thing to do was to go down and close the store for personal reasons. Still, Kazuha knew the moment he let his sight off Wanderer, he would run away. So he remained still, unmoving, stubborn—he had to.
"Now go down and—"
Kazuha snatched the textbook Wanderer clutched, his beautiful boy letting out a strangled sound as he reached for it, but Kazuha held it away as he read the title.
Hanahaki Disease: Cause, Prevention, Cure
Kazuha stared at the title, then at Wanderer, before flicking through the pages. Each of the sticky notes had essential marks on them.
32 Possible cure?
1281 Inazuma Hanahaki Case
Pp. 57-72: Prolonging methods
Then, on a page that caught his eye, a yellow sticky note contained a combination of words that broke Kazuha's heart.
Causes: Unrequited love, or the patient believes to be in an unrequited love.
Research gap: How does Hanahaki Disease view love from a non-human? Does it only validate love from humans? What does the disease consider as love? Is it acceptance? Actions? Thoughts? What are the measurements for love? Is surgery possible without memory erasure—
Kazuha gently closed the book before he could read any further. In front of him, Wanderer had stopped trying and simply stood, looking down at Kazuha with dead, dead eyes.
"Kuni—"
"I don't need it."
"No, listen ," downstairs, the bells chimed to signal the entrance of a new hoard of customers, so Kazuha held Wanderer’s hand and led them deeper into the apartment.
Emotion was natural to Wanderer. He could do everything a human could internally and mentally do. It only fell short on the physical. If humans blinked and breathed unconsciously, then it was an act Wanderer had to consciously perform. But after years of replicating and imitating human emotions on his physical body, at one point, some imitations became muscle memory, although they were subtle.
Even though crying was an exception.
So, Kazuha cupped Wanderer’s cheeks, stood close, and took in every effort his lovely boy put into translating his emotions.
The slight quiver of his eyes, the downturn of his lips, the flush in his lids—Kazuha noted them all and smiled despite his blurring vision. "You're doing so well."
Wanderer covered Kazuha's hand with his cold ones. "You’re crying." A statement. Always a statement.
"You should've told me," Kazuha chuckled as small tears dripped down his cheeks. "I'm happy you studied for me. Is that why you were so occupied?"
Instead of answering, Wanderer stared as the tears dropped off Kazuha's chin. "You cry so naturally," he said, and anyone could hear the envy in his voice. "Do you cry when no one is around?"
Kazuha did not care if his question was not answered. He gladly replied, "Of course."
Wanderer let out a small, rare smile. "Fool."
"For you."
"You fool," repeated Wanderer, eyes glossing over. "I did not cry when my gnosis was taken. I did not cry when the world forgot me, nor did I cry when I was overcome with guilt. And yet"—he shook his head—"I am crying because you are crying. How foolishly human."
"Yes." Kazuha nodded eagerly, earnestly. "We're foolishly human."
Wanderer’s pretty brows frowned, and he removed Kazuha's hand from his cheek to intertwine their fingers. Cold and warm. The iciness stung at first, but that was fine. Kazuha always got used to it—would force himself to get used to it.
"Don't lie for me."
"I don't lie."
Everything But Sugar Bulletin
Want to know more about flower language? Everything But Sugar is here to help!
Today's flower is a Cyclamen! It is also known by its scientific name, Cyclamen persicum from the Primulaceae flowering family. It is a warm-weather perennial commonly found in Eastern Sumeru and Natlan. Its special meaning is “Sincere affection.”
"Seventy days."
"Still no-"
"None."
"Well," sighed Kaveh. "It was worth a try."
Kazuha helped Kaveh place five boxes of cupcakes inside a crate without causing much trouble to the pastries. These were Kazuha's best creations yet. Fontanian single-estate chocolate made up the cupcake's body, one of the richest cocoas in Teyvat, with a topping of gold vanilla caviar from Dragonspine dusted with edible gold flakes. White chrysanthemums decorated the cupcake boxes with golden ribbons and edible glitter.
"Ordering this just took away a month of my salary," mourned Kaveh, but a sparkle remained in his eyes. "But my students will love this. You sure you don't wanna join the convention? Scientists are going to showcase their stuff, or whatever."
"No thank you," Kazuha told him as he taped the crate shut, sweat dripping from his brow. "Although I do appreciate it. I hope your students enjoy their time."
Kaveh huffed. "They're all so excited to see a bunch of nerds make fake volcanoes. Like, how is that interesting when you learn about designing real stuff in architecture? Where's the love for your own major?!"
Kazuha, who did not go to college, solemnly nodded. He hauled the crate into the back of a cart, and they bid goodbyes before Kaveh left to head for the convention. Sighing, Kazuha flipped the open sign to showcase a bright red "CLOSED." After several days of working on those cupcakes, rewarding himself with a day off was only fitting.
Since Kazuha discovered Wanderer’s escapades to search for a cure, his boy had been finding more discrete ways to sneak out of their apartment and do archons-knew-what in the Akademiya. Kazuha repeatedly stated that he did not mind, that he was ready, and that living in the same lifetime as his beautiful boy was enough. Still, Wanderer only gave him a dirty look in response. Which Kazuha took personally because he thought he was pretty romantic about it.
He returned to his kitchen and brought out a random set of ingredients. A new menu would bode his bakery well, and he had always enjoyed the sight of Wanderer taste-testing his works, no matter how critical he may be. It merely made his praise all the more precious to Kazuha. He was in the middle of mixing eggs and dough in a bowl when the doors slammed open.
Kazuha hummed. "I'd appreciate it if you knocked next time, dear."
"I don't need to knock when my scent alone alerts you." Wanderer stalked up behind him and tugged on his sleeve. "Let's go."
"Could it wait until after this? I'm baking something with eggs that I think you'd enjoy—"
Wanderer sighed, and Kazuha stopped. Because this sigh was not the endeared sigh Wanderer would bless him whenever Kazuha got too clingy, nor was it the tired sigh that signaled he wanted to cuddle. No. This... This was an annoyed sigh. An impatient sigh as if he was fed up with Kazuha's bullshit.
And it made him drop his mixing bowl and quietly follow Wanderer out of their bakery. Kazuha stared at his back—at the straight, perfect posture Wanderer’s shoulders created, and the arrogance seeped into his limbs. Wanderer had always been someone important. Someone who was made for grand things like discovering an unknown cure or leading a nation.
Sometimes, Kazuha wondered if he held Wanderer back by keeping him chained to some rickety bakery, if his desire to be a simple nobody prevented Wanderer from being a somebody.
Kazuha's throat itched, and he swallowed his saliva to stop it. Not in front of him again.
Wanderer led them deeper into Sumeru City until big, double doors met them. Without a hint of hesitation, Wanderer pushed them open to reveal a large crowd of young students chatting each other up and Kaveh arguing with a group of people dressed in lab coats. At the sight of them, the group rushed.
"Is everything set?" asked Wanderer.
One of the doctors nodded eagerly. "Yes, sir. Let us lead the way."
"Hey!" Kaveh stomped over to them. "Are you really just going to fuck off? What about the kids?! You lot promised to—"
"We sent you a heads-up via mail with the refund," one of the doctors sighed, foot tapping rapidly. "You can book some other scientists for the job; it's not that hard."
Kaveh's jaw fell, eyes glancing at the watching students, the doctors, and then Wanderer. "Are you serious? No, as in, are you fucking serious?"
"You should've paid more, then," said Wanderer, not showing a single ounce of concern that he had single-handedly ruined a student event. He gestured at the doctors. "Come."
Kazuha did not have the full context, but he knew enough. He stopped Wanderer by the arm. He repeated Kaveh’s words. "Are you serious?"
Wanderer tugged his arm back. "Do you want to waste time?"
"No." Kazuha stared at him and repeated firmly, "Are you serious?"
Wanderer stared back with equal measure. "These doctors will help you."
"You know that's not what I'm speaking of."
"Then what are you saying? Spit it out."
"This is wrong."
“No,” Wanderer simply stated, then he opened his mouth again as if to continue but closed it. He glanced at their growing audience, body language Kazuha understood immediately.
And because he was a fool, Kazuha told Kaveh, “Apologies for the disruption. Please continue on with the event. The scientists, as well.” He fixed his gaze back on Wanderer. “We’ll speak in private.”
“Utilitarianism,” blurted Wanderer once Kazuha closed the door. They were in an empty classroom, neatly lined chairs and tables littered about. A long set of lockers hugged the wall, decorated with personalized stickers, doodles, and photographs by students.
Kazuha watched Wanderer perch himself on a table like it was his birthright to disrespect property, legs crossed and chin high like he knew he did nothing wrong.
He sighed. “What?”
“Simple ethics under consequentialist theory. You favor actions that produce more happiness. Consequences determine the more rightness of conduct—”
“Produce more happiness,” repeated Kazuha, “then you shouldn’t have disrupted the event.”
Wanderer lolled his head back, releasing an unnecessarily drawled-out sigh that signaled Kazuha understood him wrong. He kept his face blank. Reacting would only incentivize Wanderer to act out more.
“Their happiness is not my happiness. Under the theory, the action of saving you will produce more happiness for me,” spelled out Wanderer like Kazuha was stupid for not figuring this out himself, like it should have been something he knew. “And if we were to weigh outcomes, your life would be more valuable than some event.” Wanderer shrugged. “I’m clearly justified.”
His throat itched, but he explained, “Kaveh spent a fortune on those cupcakes. The students prepared for months to present their proposals and this fair is an opportunity for their future—”
“There you go again,” drawled Wanderer, rolling his eyes so hard that Kazuha wondered if they did a full rotation. He was still pretty, though. Always pretty. “Blabbering about worm’s businesses. If you don’t get a backbone, you’ll die before they return the favor.”
Kazuha’s mind spun. “What are you saying?”
“They don’t care about you like you care about them,” pointed out Wanderer. He stared heavily at Kazuha while saying it, as if to assess how he would react, to see whether his expected outcome would happen. When silence only met him, Wanderer continued, “All that concern for them while they can’t even notice what’s wrong with you.”
“That’s not what’s urgent—”
“Not even sparing a second to think.” Wanderer narrowed his eyes, stepping down from the table to walk Kazuha until his back hit the personalized lockers. “You knew this and you still continue. You fool,” he hissed. Then, with more feeling, he repeated, “You fool! ”
Kazuha had to look down to level Wanderer’s stare. “I suppose I should thank you for being so frank, and yes, I knew. I’m not changing.”
Wanderer moved to back off, but Kazuha pulled on his arm until he fell, hat tipping off and the long cloth of his sleeves enclosing them as he steadied himself. His long, pretty lashes and the subtle flush of his cheeks could be seen in this proximity. Those flowerlike hands gripped his kimono, and Kazuha moved to hold him still, but Wanderer slapped his hands away.
“You’re not taking this seriously.”
“I am, I am.” Kazuha made a show of making himself comfortable against the lockers, ignoring how a handle painfully dug into his back. “I’d like to stay like this.”
“I don’t.” Wanderer exerted a little of his inhuman strength to push himself off, but at that moment, Kazuha’s lungs decided to act up—like a response. He hunched over, hacking out blood and petals, and all he could think about was I started coughing when he pushed me, and he’ll think it’s his fault, please stop.
Red camellias littered the classroom, its dark petals difficult to discern from the blood mixed with it. Kazuha ended up on the floor with Wanderer holding his hair back, the tie he usually used dirtied along with the flowers.
Kazuha could not discern when the fit ended, but as soon as his mind cleared, he wiped his bloodied hands on his kimono before cupping Wanderer’s face. “Hey,” he said, checking him over, ignoring the strain in his throat, “nothing got on you?”
Wanderer’s face scrunched up as if tasting something sour. “Of course not,” he muttered, pushing stray hair off Kazuha’s forehead. “You’re so predictable.”
“I’m glad.” Kazuha smiled. “I’ll clean this up.”
“I’ll help—”
He shook his head, already bent down to pick up his red camellias. “It’d be best to clear up the misunderstanding out there. I’ll be here, my love, don’t worry.”
All Wanderer did was roll his eyes before bending down to Kazuha’s level, his pretty, flowerlike hands stained with blood as he helped pick up the flowers. Kazuha’s breath hitched, but Wanderer told him to suck it up before summoning anemo to clean off the blood.
Everything But Sugar Bulletin
Want to know more about flower language? Everything But Sugar is here to help!
Today's flower is a Red Camellia! It is also known by its scientific name, Camellia japonica. It is only found in Southern Liyue and Inazuma. Its special meaning is “love,” but in Inazuma, it has a flower family called the Dendrobium that has a special meaning of “honorable deaths” for fallen samurais.
“Forty days.”
“Really?!” Kaveh beamed with a smile so contagious that Kazuha could not help but mirror him. “Like, seriously? You know I really don’t mind if you—”
“I don’t lie,” said Kazuha. He wiped crumbs off a customer’s table while Kaveh tailed him like a lost puppy. The bakery was quiet, as always, but the sudden abundance of flowers had prompted more of the younger demographic to visit, all intent on taking kamera photos with the riotous displays.
“I mean—okay, wow. What’s with the sudden change of mind?”
“The winds have calmed,” was all Kazuha offered.
“Fair enough. Well, I'm thinking of pre-ordering a box of cupcakes…” Kaveh counted his fingers. “About a month and a week from now, that’ll be thirty-nine? Forty days, I’m not sure. And you’ve already guessed it. It’s—”
“For your monthly anniversary?”
“Yes!”
Kazuha hummed. There was a suspicious itch in his throat that might make it better to remain silent. He had been hiding his secret well for a while, although the only people he regularly met were his regular customers and fiance. Friends were not exactly something he was abundant on, but he never found the space to worry about it. Not when Wanderer’s approaching presence was enough to calm him.
Kaveh eventually said his goodbyes, a skip to his step as he exited the cafe thinking he finally got to place his long-fought pre-order.
Once again, it was just him and his bakery.
Kazuha sighed, rough hands picking up a water bottle. How many days did he have left? He did not know. Did not care to know. All he knew was that the last time he saw Wanderer was a week ago. He slept alone, dined alone, and closed the bakery alone. Kazuha knew he meant well; his lover always meant well despite his poor execution.
A solution, Wanderer looked for, thinking it was what Kazuha needed, but what Kazuha wanted was his company, the cold, softness of his body beside his.
It’s because he’s not human. Kazuha pursed his lips, then shook his head. No. That was how he was; to say such a thing was disrespectful to their years of communication. He deserved the utmost punishment for even thinking of it subconsciously—to doubt his lover because he felt lonely? Did he even deserve to create flowers in Wanderer’s name?
“Surgery is no longer possible at this point,” said Wanderer, kneeling on the floor with hundreds of papers sprawled out. Kazuha smiled to himself, cheek on his palm as he watched Wanderer work through the papers. Those pretty, pretty lashes fanned over his cheeks every time he looked down, so focused, so intent on whatever he had set his mind to that Kazuha’s ribs squeezed.
“—too much risk considering the abnormal amount of flowers inside you. The specialist says it’s a miracle how you could even breathe, but I told her you’re annoyingly persistent. You’ll live until your predicted last day; however, I have a theory.” Wanderer reached over to pick up a stack of papers on the edge of his pile, still not sparing Kazuha a glance. “If someone with a dendro vision looks into your lungs, then maybe they can find the source of your disease. I already invited Nahida, and she’s set to visit you tomorrow—”
“Kuni?” Wanderer paused, lips pursed, and Kazuha knew he hated being interrupted, so he continued, “Say you love me?”
Wanderer grit his teeth. “Were you even listening?”
“Please.” Kazuha pouted a little, knowing what made his beautiful boy weak, and slid over to snuggle against Wanderer’s back. “I want to hear it.” He slid his arms around his waist, lips featherlight on his nape. “Please?”
A second of silence, two, before Wanderer sighed and sank into his embrace, covering his eyes with an arm. His limbs sounded with the movement, creaks of a mechanical doll’s body being rearranged, inhuman to fate, but to Kazuha, it was perfect. The smell of smoke and potpourri wafted into Kazuha’s nose, and a nail on the floor dug into his thigh, but he would rather die than move from this position.
“Fine,” grumbled Wanderer, the word muffled into his arm. “Love you.”
Kazuha smiled against his neck. So cute. “Say the ‘I.’ Come on now.”
Wanderer groaned, but Kazuha tightened his embrace and pressed a kiss onto the marred electro mark on his nape. “Pleease?”
“... love you,” he muttered, ineligible under his arm. But Kazuha pried it off his face with a soft laugh, interlocking their fingers to rest it on Wanderer’s thighs. Supple, soft thighs. His favorite in the world. Even though Kazuha’s own thighs prickled with pain from that damned nail digging into him, it did not matter. His beautiful boy was here.
“I’m afraid I can’t hear you.”
Wanderer ground his teeth before saying, “I love you,” as if Kazuha had forced those words out of his mouth.
Forced or not, that was alright. Kazuha knew him well enough—took the time to understand his ins and outs, physical and mental. It was not that Wanderer did not love him; loving was just unnatural, like how a baby deer could not walk, Wanderer could not love. Yet.
Keyword: Yet.
That was important. The one word that set him stable—the reminder he needed.
So, Kazuha pressed a kiss onto Wanderer’s shoulder and said, “Again.”
Wanderer scoffed, a cross of his arms. “You’re having fun, aren’t you? Think you can distract me fr—” He froze, and he must have noticed now: The wetness dripping off Kazuha’s cheeks and onto his skin, unashamed, proud even. To cry for his beautiful boy was a privilege; if Kazuha could feel, it would be only for him. Entire heart, entire being.
It took a moment before Wanderer melted back into his arms and whispered, without facing him, “I love you.”
Kazuha gasped through a sob. “Again.”
“I love you.”
“Again.”
“I love you.”
“Again, please.”
“I love you.”
“... again?”
“I love you.”
Kazuha laughed, a pathetic sound out of his lips. “Thank you,” he managed out, relishing the moment before a coughing fit occurred; he could sense it, feel it. It always happened when he gained progress.
“No,” murmured Wanderer, cold hand on his, guilt on his sleeve. “I’m sorry. I’ll… I’ll try.”
“It’s okay.” Kazuha brushed his lips over his shoulder, to his neck, eyes still glassy and wet and vulnerable. “Holding you like this is more of a cure than the surgery.”
And to Kazuha’s surprise, the itch in his throat subsided, and it subsided even more when Wanderer turned around, his studies forgotten, and repeated the phrase that would soon turn tangible in its meaning.
Keyword: Yet.
“Today?”
Kaveh beamed, nose clear and bright-eyed. “Stunning! Gorgeous!” He twirled the cupcakes, and Al-Haitham snatched the box from him before it fell.
“Honestly,” began Al-Haitham, securing the box under his arm. “You paid half of your rent just to have the cakes fall over?”
Kaveh tried to snatch it back, but Al-Haitham had an iron grip on the box. Kazuha subtly prepared anemo to cushion the box’s fall just in case; he worked an entire week on those cupcakes, plus three days’ worth of criticism from his husband.
“How about you mind your own damn business? Yeah, I paid half my rent for that, so what? Give it to me!”
“No,” said Al-Haitham. He looked at Kazuha, then at the bakery. “I clearly remember an absurd amount of flowers in here, a hazardous amount even, was I mistaken?”
Kaveh gasped. “You—! That’s so rude?!” He whirled toward Kazuha, hand in front of Al-Haitham, who merely stood, as if he were an attacking animal. “I’m so sorry.”
Kazuha only smiled, fingers twirling the ring on his finger. “Ah, I’ve rebranded the bakery. I apologize if you enjoyed the flower theme; I just figured it was time for a change.”
“I mean, hmm,” Kaveh surveyed the bakery, at the potted plants and scrolls of calligraphy and poems that replaced the abundance of flowers like a tiny museum. “It’s chic, actually. I like how you incorporated more of Inazuman culture into your decor, it’s definitely an upgrade from the flowers—”
“—flowers that you were allergic to,” said Al-Haitham. “Because you would visit this bakery, full of flowers, every single day, while being extremely allergic.”
Kaveh snapped, “And why don’t you ever mind your own business? And give me my cupcakes!”
“I said no—”
Wanderer searched their closet, a large one he and Kazuha shared, and dove in to reach for a crumpled calendar hidden under piles of neatly folded shirts and shorts. It was a simple one, the overpriced kind sold at souvenir stores for ignorant tourists to buy. He flipped the calendar open and could not help but stare at the months he had spent counting down—at the large X mark he had drawn on the predicted date.
He shook his head. “This was inhuman,” he said, all while noting it in his head.
And when Kazuha got home, Wanderer expertly replied with a prepared answer, "Nothing's burning." Wanderer smiled, saccharine sweet. "You're imagining it."