"Blacksmith, forge me some swords from your finest iron!"

Sparks fly from the anvil, like scattered starbursts burning across the night sky.

"A few more, my good smith, lest I run short of blades before the journey is through."

How many times must a blade of common iron be tempered before it is fit for a knight on the field of battle?

...

"This wine, let us bury it here, that we may drink it together upon our return!"

The fragrance of fruit lingers outside the winery, clinging to the vines and drifting up toward the heavens.

"Wine aged by victory could surely intoxicate even Barbatos."

How many winters and summers must a simple wine age before the return of an errant knight?

...

"And this is where we part. If I go any further, there'll be no one left to guard the gates of Mondstadt!"

The sound of the wind by the city's walls seems to sing blessings for the departing knights.

"...From here on out, we walk this road ourselves."

How far must a mortal journey to unlock a new chapter of destiny?

The dream today is pleasant. 

He’s warm and content, lying with sunlight filtering through closed curtains and spilling across his face. His breathing stays slow and even, lips parting as if he’s about to speak, though no words come. Only a faint sound slips from him, and it’s barely more than a hum. His fingers twitch once, loosening instead of tightening, and the crease between his brows smooths out entirely. He likes what he is seeing—in fact, it leaves him content enough to relax.

He shifts, just slightly, chasing the feeling as it begins to fade, as his consciousness seems to win over.

And then his dream has faded completely.

He wakes to the feel of your palm on his cheek, warm and gentle as your fingers trace lightly over his skin, grounding him. “Wake up,” you whisper, voice laced with worry. “Are you okay?”

Two teal eyes, kissed with amber, blink open slowly—unfocused, drowsy, and slightly confused until they settle on you.

“I’m fine,” he mumbles, though his voice sounds a little too quiet to be convincing. Though he’s not upset for the reasons you seem to think. 

“Nightmare?” you ask. “You were mumbling in your sleep.”

“No,” he groans as he stretches—and then he tugs you close, bringing you flush against him, your cheek pressed into his bare chest. You grin as soon as you settle into his warmth. “Nothing like that. It was a good dream.”

“What happened?”

“I don’t remember,” he says, closing his eyes. “Just that it was good.”

“Was I in it?” you poke his cheek.

He chuckles, grabbing your hand and pressing a kiss to your palm. “Hm, I don’t know if that would make the dream pleasant. That might just give me a headache instead.”

“So I wasn’t a part of your very good dream?” you gasp. He opens his eyes to glance at you, and he is met with a playful, accusatory glare. “Were you dreaming of other women, then?”

“Now, now,” he pats your back soothingly with the hand that rests at the small of it, “let’s not jump to unnecessary conclusions here. I told you, I don’t recall the dream. It’s hazy—but rest assured, I am not thinking of other women even when I am not in control of my thoughts.”

That is a lie.

Not that you need to know it, of course. But it’s a rather firm lie because Alhaitham remembers his dream very vividly. (Though he was honest about the fact that there were no other women involved—that part was very truthful.)

He does not make a habit of lying to you regularly. In fact, if anything, Alhaitham is honest to a fault. Some people (including you) have taken to letting him know that his honesty could do with a tad bit of softening before it is seen as a blow. But the fact is that he is always honest, and more importantly, he values being honest with you, of all people, above all else.

But this is a very hyper-specific scenario that he has never encountered before, and thus, being honest at this moment would leave him in a bit of a complicated predicament.

Alhaitham has been having dreams, and by no means are they normal dreams.

The first time, it started with a very sweet and endearing dream where he returned home to find you sitting on the couch. He envisioned in his mind the image of himself bringing home zaytun peaches that he happened to catch on his way back as he passed the market. Knowing that they’ve always been your favorite, he decided to be ever the doting boyfriend and bring them back for you.

Except he was not your boyfriend in this dream—at least, this is what he has since then deduced with his ever-so-brilliant mind. The evidence for that is in the fact that you called him dear instead of your usual baby, and you hand-fed him a slice of a peach as you murmured, have you put in your request for that day off next week yet? Our anniversary is getting closer, you know.

Now, that was a very odd detail in his dream, considering your anniversary is nowhere near the time of year when zaytun peaches are in season. Not even close. The only explanation could be that the anniversary had changed (because you now celebrate something different…like perhaps marriage) or because he simply got the date wrong in his mind when he conjured up this scene as he slept. But he chose not to dwell on it when he woke up because dreams are merely a manifestation of images, thoughts, and emotions that pass through the mind during sleep. They are not always accurate because they occur when the mind is not in the same state of consciousness as when it is awake—and any respected member of the Akademiya who has minimal levels of comprehension skills could decipher that from the Akademiya’s research documents from previous studies into dreams (that he has taken his position as Scribe to his advantage to get his hands on).

But then it got weirder.

The second time he dreamt of you, you were wearing a ring. Not just any ring—but his mother’s ring.

Grandmother, when he was younger and still determined to believe she would recover from being ill and stay by his side, had been very resolute in preparing him for when she would be gone. The first thing she had done was hand him his mother’s ring as she explained, this belonged to me before I passed it down to your father so he could propose with it. You don’t have to use it, of course, but do keep it safe for me, won’t you? And do promise me you’ll find a need for a ring one day, even if it’s not this particular one—I won’t rest well knowing you grew old all on your own, you stubborn boy.

His grandmother would have been pleased to know that Alhaitham has always known he would like to get married someday. He never put a lot of effort into seeking out a partner (until he met you, at least) because he was always under the impression that such encounters happen best when they occur naturally, and not with wasted effort by searching for them desperately. But he had always intended to settle down with a lifelong partner by his side—and not just because Grandmother had asked it of him before she passed. It’s because Alhaitham is only human, and even as much as he values his solitude, he knows a thing or two about loneliness and the aches that come alongside it.

So, when you are wearing the exact ring he has always planned to propose to his future partner with—the partner that he has only ever considered being you—in his dream, he is more than a little startled when he wakes up.

He is not startled because the image of you being his wife is a hard pill to swallow. If anything, it’s a rather fantastic sight. He is startled because the idea of making you his wife at the current moment is an idea neither of you has ever really entertained.

Marriage is something he has always resolutely believed was a commitment that would be brought up as a topic once you both were seriously involved with each other, comfortably established in your careers and finances, and properly on the same page about your agreements of what this would legally entail in order to officially merge your lives together on paper and pen. That conversation has not yet taken place, and he had wagered that it would take another year or two before you would get there.

But the third dream is really what shifts his views.

You’re next to him, pen in hand as you sign a certificate, and he follows after. By official Sumeru documentation, you are legally his wife, and he is legally your husband.

At least, that was the case until he woke up.

And Alhaitham has just not been very content with being your boyfriend anymore after such a vivid image in his mind—such a clear and hard-to-forget display of your love and the joy that comes with loving him, too, written all over your face.

How could he forget that?

The answer is that he does not. He does not forget that, and every added dream since has just been more and more vivid moments of sweet, post-marital bliss beside you. And Alhaitham is getting quite sick of being just your boyfriend and not your husband.

So he has to bring up the fact that he would like to be your husband. The only problem with that is that it never ends up being a good time.

Like right now, for example—he could just be honest with you about what he saw in his dream and be brave and broach the topic of marriage with you. He could sit you up, look you in the eye, and say, I’ve been dreaming about a future with you, and I want to make that future a reality because you are worth building a future with. 

Instead, he melts into the mattress when your hands rub over his abs, feeling him up before wandering lower and lower and—oh, you’re doing that thing with your nails where you tease and rake them through that patch of hair that starts at his lower belly, right above the waistband of his boxers. He tells himself that it’s your fault for now that he was unable to bring up the topic because how can anyone focus with a touch like that? 

“Sweetheart,” he mumbles, voice strained, “it’s too early to be a tease.”

“Being a tease is how I like to start my day,” you pout. “It energizes me.”

“Well, it shaves off years of my life,” he responds through a breathy grumble—and then you decide (after you’ve had a good giggle at his misery, of course) that you’ll be merciful.

Your hand palms over his underwear and rubs along his half-hard cock, making him bury his face into the crook of your neck as his breath turns heavy. It doesn’t take a lot of work on your end to get him fully erect—and maybe he’d be a bit embarrassed by that, but you don’t give him too long to dwell on it before your hand is tuckin into his boxers and freeing his cock from the terrible, confining prison that is the fabric that covers him. He hisses when he feels himself meet the cool air of the morning, and then he tapers off to a soft moan as you gently smear the pre cum at his tip and stroke slowly. 

“You’re feeling generous this morning,” he croaks hoarsely. 

You grin as you kiss the side of his head and hum, “It’s important that I remind you how lucky you are so you don’t make mistakes you’ll regret. Even in your dreams.”

“I’m not sure that was something we had to ever worry abou—ngh,” he cuts himself off with a grunt as you tighten your grip around him and properly set a pace for your hand to drag along his thick, hardened length. You have touched Alhaitham enough times to know exactly what he likes and how he likes it. How he enjoys it when you fist him quickly along the tip only for a bit before slowing down and taking your time with precise strokes along his entire length, squeezing at the base. 

His thighs spread to give you better access as he burrows deeper into your neck, burying his sounds into the crook of your neck while you take your time feeling the throbbing heat of him pressed into your fisted hand. He’s hot. Flushed and sweaty just from this, and the way he cuts himself off from having better access to air when he hides his face into you doesn’t really help. 

“Feel good?” you murmur. 

“You…you already know that answer,” he pants. 

“I like to hear about the fruits of my labor,” you tease, “if you would kindly give me a review.”

“A review?” he asks, mildly amused. He cannot be amused for too long, however, because you give the base of his cock a little squeeze, and he twitches in your hand and makes a sound that borders on a whine. “Fuck,” he moans. 

“I’ll take the sound of that as a good sign,” you grin, “but still, a review of my efforts would be insightful, you see. I like to know that I’m meeting your expectations.”

“You are,” he mumbles, his voice breathless and shaky, “b-but…but I’m afraid I can’t say much until we’ve concluded. For research.”

“For research,” you agree. 

And then you quicken your pace, and stroke him faster, and he chokes on a strangled groan before planting his feet onto the mattress and bucking his hips up into your fist and meeting your fist. The familiar ache between his legs builds and builds and builds until suddenly, it snaps in the form of a coil in his belly and erupts with a sensation that jolts through every nerve in his body. He spills into your hand, hot and messy ropes of his cum coating both your fist and the muscled, defined expanse of his abs. 

You’ve always liked that display. He can tell that your eyes are focused on the mess he’s making on himself without even looking at you, and he’s luckily too busy with being lost in his own pleasure to be disgruntled by your never ending favortism towards always making him feel very shy. 

“So,” you murmur, “how was it? Honest review, please.” He’s silent for a moment, and then you giggle as you add, “Or have I tired you out already?”

Just a moment longer, and he’s lifting his head from the safety of your neck, eyeing you with a rather challenged look as he asks, “Is that what you think?”

“Yes,” you nod smugly. 

He gives a dry chuckle before detangling himself from you—before you can protest and ask why he’s leaving, he’s already crawled to that familiar place between your legs, lifting the ends of your (his) shirt and revealing your soaked underwear as he spreads your thighs to accommodate him when he licks through the fabric at your folds. You shiver when his nose bumps your clit. 

“I have more research to do before I can give any conclusive results,” he murmurs into your cunt, pressing a kiss through the drenched cloth. “I’ll let you know how you’ve met my expectations in a short moment when I see for myself how quickly you can come undone for me.”

Then he expertly tugs your panties down your legs, buries himself between your thighs like he’s done a million times before, and he has long forgotten his dreams because he is too busy thoroughly enjoying his very rewarding reality. 

Getting rid of the akasha terminal was the worst decision Alhaitham has ever helped make. 

At first, the dreams he started to have as a result of banning the akasha terminal were making him ache for a certain future with you that he can not currently attain before he gathers enough courage to speak to you about, but now his dreams are just torturing him. 

They shift without warning.

This time, in his dream, you’re close—closer in a way that he is not unfamiliar with, but a way that still makes his hands shake like it’s his first time. Your arms are wrapped around his neck and tugging him towards you, drawing him in with an ease that makes his thoughts scatter.

Your mouth brushes his.

Once. Twice.

It’s unhurried, but it’s messy—the kind of kiss that lingers just long enough to make his chest feel tight, but is urgent enough to make his pants tighten, too. Except, conveniently, he has already shed his pants in his dreams. The only thing he has to worry about in this scenario is responding to your kiss and tilting his head, tongue pressing against yours, and exploring your mouth. There’s the faintest sound in the back of his throat—a reflexive sound that makes you hum in appreciation at his eagerness.

His body reacts before his mind can catch up to the fact that this is just a dream.

In reality, his brow creases faintly as warmth pools low, right between his thighs in a very distracting manner. The sheets are tangled around his legs as he exhales through parted lips, breath no longer quite as steady as it was a few moments ago. A soft, incoherent murmur slips out—your name, almost, though it dissolves into something unintelligible halfway through.

In the dream, you smile against his mouth at the sound of that murmur.

In the real world, in his bed, his hand twitches briefly by the fabric near his waist before he stills again, clearly uncomfortable by the building ache between his legs, but unwilling to wake. His breathing deepens, uneven now, heat blooming beneath his skin everywhere in a rather frustrating way.

Fuck me, Haitham, you plead in his mind, fuck me like it’s your first time fucking your wife. And he does. In the vivid little scene running in his sleep-hazed mind, he is pressing into your slick cunt and feeling your walls hug tightly around his aching cock. He is feeling you squeeze and flutter around him as he rolls his hips and chases that familiar friction from his length sliding along your warm walls. 

And that apparently is what he is feeling in his reality, too, because his hand is mirroring that friction with movement that is in sync with every thrust in his imagination. It’s a much less satisfying version of things—his hand palming his cock through his underwear is hardly comparable to the pleasure-filled haven that is your cunt. But he is lucky enough to be unconscious to actually make the comparison. 

And then he falls apart—both in his dream and his reality. One second, he’s kissing you deeply as you gasp his name and he groans yours, spilling his seed into that perfect little pussy that he gets to fuck all to himself…and then the next second, he’s twitching his hips to rut into his own hand as he soils his boxers with his release. 

His eyes blink open, bleary and tired and incoherent as he tries to gather his surroundings. He looks down, takes a glance at his hand, stares at his own mess as he gathers his thoughts, and comes to the realization of what has taken place as soon as his sharp mind puts together all the scattered pieces. 

Fuck. 

He has to find a way to stop this nonsense. Dreaming of fucking you on your honeymoon has to be the most pathetic low he’s ever sunken to—a cowardly low, even. If he cannot bring himself to have this very important discussion with you about where he wants to take your relationship, then he does not earn himself the right to picture you in such intimate and explicit ways and then…get off to them.

He rubs his good hand over his face before he pauses, and his blood runs cold.

If that was a dream…and he’s very much awake in bed—a bed he shares with you—then…

His head snaps toward your side of the mattress. It’s empty.

His heart squeezes with relief and drops with panic all at once—he wasn’t aware that was even possible. By the end of this, he might have to see a cardiologist if he manages to survive this heart attack, and he’s suddenly most grateful for Sumeru’s free healthcare. The idea of you noticing that he’s had a salacious dream about you would certainly be one form of torture, but the idea of having you notice that he’s come in his underwear from a salacious dream about you would be downright cruel and unusual punishment, and he would really, really prefer it if you weren’t here to notice that.

Thankfully, by the grace of the Dendro Archon, you are not.

And that part confuses him greatly, because he doesn’t hear you in the kitchen making breakfast, nor in the living room, conversing with Kaveh. He tiredly sits up, blinking against the lingering haze of sleep, and scans the room before his eyes land on a piece of folded parchment resting neatly on his nightstand.

He reaches for it, and the handwriting is unmistakably yours as he unfolds it.

Ran to the market real quick! I didn’t want to wake you—you looked too cute and peaceful. I’ll be back soon. I just want to grab a couple of things to make you your favorite for breakfast. Love you ♡

He exhales slowly, shoulders dropping as the tension eases out of him all at once.

Relief settles in his chest, followed almost immediately by something softer. Affection. Fondness. The heart-fluttering knowledge that you thought of him first thing in the morning, and that you’d gone out of your way just to do something nice. For him. 

Alhaitham slumps back to sink into the mattress, staring at the note in his hand longer than necessary. He has never wanted to marry you so badly in his life—which is saying something because marrying you has been the only thing on his mind for weeks now. 

Today, he thinks determined, he will have this conversation with you. He tries to ignore that heavy, sinking feeling at the bottom of his stomach. 

Alhaitham knows you love him. Some might even make the mistake of thinking that you love him more than he loves you (which he thinks is impossible—he has certainly fallen first, and harder) because you are so easily outward with your affections for him. You touch him so effortlessly, grabbing his hand and rubbing his arm and wrapping yourself around him like it’s second nature to mold into him. You lean up and press chaste but sweet kisses into his cheek and jaw, and make it seem like it’s nothing. You are not shy about loving him—careful to keep it professional and respectable under the public eye, yes, but never secretive. 

It is common knowledge to anyone that you are head over heels for him, and to doubt it himself would be to discredit the carefully built love that you have nurtured in your heart and gifted him. He would never doubt your affections. 

But he can certainly doubt himself. 

Alhaitham is not an easy man to love. He knows that. He knows he can be terribly stubborn on his beliefs and blunt with his words, and in the past, he knows he has not always been the easiest person to rely on as a friend. He can only imagine what having him as a partner is like. He can only imagine how much patience and grace you’ve afforded him, and wonders if he, of all people, is worth all that effort. 

Perhaps right now, when you are two people who are living separate lives side by side under the same roof, entangled by proximity and affection, you will say he is worth it. You will say he is worth it now because you are not caged to his imperfections and forced to accept them, and you can realize later down the line that he was always an inevitable mistake. But perhaps…if he asks you to consider marrying him, and you truly ponder on the weight of that, you will decide something else. 

If you marry him, your life will bleed into his. 

He’ll add your name to his property, and this house will also be yours in the documents and not just in his heart. You’ll take his last name and become his family in the records. You’ll be able to make decisions on his behalf if he’s ever lying on a hospital bed due to heart failure from one of your ridiculous stunts (you’ve had many of those, and he feels it’s only a matter of time). 

If you marry him, your life and his will no longer be two parallel lines that are as close to each other as possible without touching—instead, you’ll merge like a forked road that finally becomes one. And maybe you’ll realize that maybe you are caged, and maybe it’s all a greater deal of nonsense than it’s worth to put up with someone like him and all his imperfections. 

And he would never blame you. The reality is, Alhaitham could never find it in himself to blame you for being so practical. If you told him today that you could never see yourself marrying him, then he would never blame you.

You’re being a jerk, his heart screams, she’s put up with you long enough, hasn’t she? She’d never stay this long if she didn’t think you were worth it. Have faith. 

You’ve always been a jerk, his mind argues, and she’ll finally wake up and realize it when you hit her with something as serious as marriage. Be realistic.

Before he can dwell on it any longer, the front door opens, and your cheery little voice that lights up his whole world calls out, “Haitham, come quick! You’ll never believe it! Someone from Inazuma had a stall at the market today! You have to see all the things I got—they were such a steal!”

He snorts, smiling fondly to himself.

And just like that, his heart and mind stop arguing and come to one undeniable agreement: he is hopelessly in love with you…and your likely terrible sense of what constitutes a good deal.

Alhaitham knows he is acting strange, and worse—he knows he’s worrying you.

For starters, he kisses you long and hard in the doorway when you come home from the market. A lingering kiss from him isn’t entirely out of character, but typically, he defaults to at least scrutinizing your total mora spending before kissing your lips senseless against the doorframe. This time, he doesn’t even glance at the bags in your hands. He simply cups your face and kisses you like he needs to remind himself that you are real.

You’ve been worried about him lately—he knows you’re perceptive enough to have pieced it together by now that something has been on his mind. The vivid dreams have been leaving him disoriented some mornings, and he hasn’t done a particularly good job of hiding it. He drifts, stares off into nothing, goes quiet in a way that’s different from his usual contemplative silence. Ever since the akasha terminal was dismantled, Sumeru City has been collectively adjusting to the unfamiliar reality of dreaming—of remembering these dreams, and feeling them linger. He’d hoped that this shared discomfort would be enough to reassure you that he wasn’t an anomaly.

But after that kiss, he sees it plainly in your expression—the concern is only worsening. And that decides it. He will not delay this conversation any longer. Not if his silence is costing you peace of mind, and not if his cowardice is turning into something that hurts you.

“Sit with me,” he says quietly, setting your bags aside before you can protest.

You follow him as he pulls you to your bedroom, brows faintly knit together the entire walk there. When you both settle down, he sits close—close enough that your knees brush, and close enough that you can feel the tension radiating off him. He folds his hands together, and there’s a long pause.

Too long. He’s stalling—and Alhaitham never stalls a difficult conversation. He always prefers to have them done and out of the way. 

“Haitham,” you murmur gently, “you’re scaring me a little.”

“You don’t have to worry,” he says immediately. “This isn’t a serious matter. Well—it’s a serious topic, of course, but the matter at hand isn’t an emergency, is what I mean.”

“That was not reassuring,” you deadpan.

His lips twitch despite himself, glancing at you fondly. “I’ve been thinking,” he begins, measured and careful, “about the long-term logistics of this relationship.”

You blink. And then your face drops. “...Oh.”

And then he wants to kick himself—what in Teyvat was he thinking? That sounds like an opening to a breakup for anyone who has ears, and you clearly have ears. 

“It’s not what you think it is,” he says quickly, “I promise. 

You stare at him, a little crestfallen. “Is…is everything okay?”

“No.”

“Oh,” your voice comes out even smaller than before—if that’s even possible, “I…I see.”

He shoots you a look of pure alarm, then sighs, rubbing a hand over his face. “I’m trying to say this correctly, and it’s not coming out that way at all.”

You chew your lip, shifting closer. “Okay. Then don’t say it correctly. Just say it how it is.”

He’s silent for a long moment—it’s a tense silence, and it eats away at both of you. Finally, you both break the silence at the same time. 

He says: I want to marry you, at the same time that you ask: Do you want to break up?

You pause. He recoils. 

And then, he asks you in an incredulous tone, “Why would I ever want to break up with you?”

You ignore him as you breathe, “You want to…get married?

He swallows thickly as he stares down at his hands. “Yes.”

“Like,” you clarify with furrowed brows, “eventual marriage? Or right this instant marriage?”

He snorts quietly. “We can’t plan a wedding right this instant; that would be rather impractical.”

You smile despite yourself. All the earlier worries seem to fade, and there’s a light broken over your face that wasn’t there before. “Okay, that at least makes a little more sense.”

He opens his mouth—then closes it. His jaw tightens, and for the first time since this conversation started, his composure visibly wavers. Your face and tone suggest that you are happy—but…Alhaitham’s mind is a complex thing. It works and works and works things from angles that even he doesn’t always realize he can create. 

You seem to sense his unease.

“It’s not that this topic makes no sense,” you explain softly. “But it feels sudden. Not that it’s a bad thing. Just…like I said, it’s sudden, that’s all.”

He swallows. “That’s because I didn’t intend to bring it up yet,” he admits. “But continuing to delay it has started to feel miserable.”

“And why is that?”

“Because…because I’ve realized that I would like to marry you sooner rather than later, unlike I had originally planned, and…that realization has been…persistent.”

You search his face, hand reaching to gently grab his and brush a thumb over his knuckles as you ask, “Persistent how?”

He hesitates, and you can almost just see the moment he caves and decides to stop holding back.

“I have very vivid dreams about you,” he starts. He pauses as soon as he does—that was not a very promising start to this conversation. 

You look at him in confusion, blinking as you process the words. “Oh…” you trail off, fighting back a small, amused grin. “That’s…interesting.”

“Not weird ones!” Alhaitham adds quickly. He wants the ground to swallow him whole. Gods, if only it would. Burying him alive might actually be preferable to surviving this moment. “Just…intimate.”

Oh. And somehow, he’s made the situation even worse. 

“Ah,” you nod, biting your lip to stifle a giggle, “I see.” 

“That’s not what I meant!” he insists quickly.

“Oh, really? Then define intimate,” you raise a brow, giving him a knowing look.

“Intimate as in…not vulgar, okay?” he grumbles.

You snort, and he gives you a rather miserable look as you do. “Haitham, it’s okay if you do—it’s not really something to be ashamed of this late into our relationship,” you say, trying to be reassuring.

It does not feel very reassuring.

He wonders, briefly, if Dendro is powerful enough to split the ground beneath him and open a hole just deep enough to disappear into. He’s very competent at wielding his vision—surely he could make it work if he tried.

Clearing his throat, he exhales shakily. Then, with as steady a voice as he can manage (which is not very steady at all, given that his throat is still hoarse from where this conversation nearly derailed earlier), he speaks up.

“They are not vulgar,” he huffs. He refrains from adding, most of the time, like his mind instantly thinks. “The first one I had…I came home, and you were napping on the couch. I brought zaytun peaches because they’re your favorite. You cut them into slices, and we shared them.”

“Oh. Well, that’s very cute—”

“Just let me finish, please,” he turns to you, a little desperate. You shut your mouth and lift your free hand in surrender. He takes another breath before continuing. “The second one, you were…” He flushes deeply, heat creeping up his neck, “...wearing a ring.”

Your breath stills.

“My mother’s ring was on your finger,” he continues quietly. “And the third, we were signing documents. I’m sure you are intelligent enough to gather the context of this particular dream.”

You don’t say anything. Silence settles between you, heavy enough that it carves a pit into the bottom of his stomach.

“I keep having dreams like that,” he sighs, finally meeting your eyes. “Domestic, mundane ones. A future that is peaceful and easy. And you are always part of that future for me.” He exhales, shoulders tense. “I’m not trying to pressure you into anything you’re not ready for. I just—now that we can dream again, this is what my mind keeps returning to.”

You stare at him for a moment—and then you smile, and it’s soft, and fond, and suddenly your hands are cupping his cheeks.

“You know, silly,” you murmur gently, “you don’t have to tell me all your personal dreams just to say you’d like to talk about marriage.”

“So,” he says cautiously, “I take it this subject is not an uncomfortable one for you.”

“Why would it be?”

He shrugs. “Maybe you wouldn’t be ready.”

“Then I could just say so and ask you to give me some more time,” you counter. 

“Or you’d realize marriage with me is not plausible,” he mumbles quietly.

“And why is that?” You ask, bewildered. He stays silent. For a long, long time, it’s silent until you gently nudge him and repeat, “Why is that, Haitham?”

“Because I am not the easiest person to…” he trails off before deciding on, “getting along with.”

“You are to me,” you smile softly, cupping his cheeks as you turn his face to meet yours. His eyes stare into yours pleadingly—begging you to tell him something that isn’t going to haunt him as a nightmare now that he has the wretched ability to dream. And you do. “Haitham, you’re easy for me, okay? I’m here, and I have been for so long because it’s easy when it’s you. And sure, sometimes things can get hard—but when do they not for anything? That doesn’t mean you’re not easy to be with. You’re the easiest thing I do.”

“That last part has multiple connotations,” he says quietly, giving you a pointed look. 

“And now it’s getting hard,” you sigh.

He cracks a slightly smug grin at that. “Another double entendre,” he says, and he dodges the shove you aim for his shoulder before chuckling as he adds, earnestly this time, “but…I do feel better—really. So thank you. And I love you.”

“I love you, too,” you lean your head against his arm. “So can I see the ring?”

“Hm. That depends. Do you promise to say yes if I ask you to marry me in the future?”

You laugh quietly, reaching over to brush a thumb over his cheek as your hand cups his face. “You’re really asking me if I’d say yes?”

“Correct.”

“Haitham, I’d say yes if you asked me right now.”

“There is no need for that,” he says, giving you a flat, unimpressed look. “Please reserve that response for when I’ve planned a proper proposal.”

You giggle and lean in, pressing your forehead to his. “Okay, okay. I’ll be patient. But show me the ring.”

“It’s usually meant to be a surprise—”

“Please,” you whine. “Please, please, please? I’ll die if you don’t let me see it.”

“Unlikely,” he says dryly. But he’s already caving, you can see it as clear as day. He hesitates only a second longer before sighing and slipping his hand into his pocket, drawing out a small box and flipping it open. You choose not to comment on the fact that he carries it around like that so readily, instead focusing on admiring it. It’s a beautiful ring—your breath hitches just from looking at it. He places it in your palm carefully, letting you get a better look.

“Oh,” you say, and it feels like your heart is in your throat. 

“I don’t want an answer,” he says quietly. “Not right now, at least—I’ll give you a proper moment to answer. I only wanted you to know that when I think about the future, whether it’s when I am asleep or awake, you’re always there.”

You sniffle, laughing a watery, shaky little laugh as you murmur, “You know something funny? It sounds like we’ve been dreaming about the same future all this time.”

His eyes widen for a moment before they soften. He chuckles and takes your face in his large, warm hands, cradling your cheeks carefully as he swipes away at the tears in the corner of your eyes. “Always so emotional,” he hums.

“Always so above emotions,” you counter, “who knew you could be so romantic?”

“You did,” he snorts, “aren’t I always romantic with you?”

“Yes,” you breathe—and your fingers tighten around the ring that is carefully kept in your grasp a little. “That, you certainly are.”

so my idea for this fic was like what if alhaitham started dreaming about marriage with his partner after the akasha terminal was banned and he slowly went insane thinking about it from yearning so hard and his partner was just nonchalantly having the same dreams and happily going about their day like yay! what a nice dream!