GLM 5.2

"We aren't fighting," Kaveh says, pulling Kris through a gap between a spice cart and a woman selling copper pots, his grip shifting from wrist to hand without seeming to notice. "This is a difference of professional opinion that Alhaitham refuses to resolve because he thinks ignoring a problem is the same as solving it."

"I only ignore problems invented by someone who rearranges furniture at two in the morning because the feng shui offended him." Alhaitham keeps pace on Kris's other side, his long stride unhurried, one hand resting on the spine of a book tucked under his arm. He glances down at Kris, and something in his expression softens by exactly one micro-degree. "The argument is whether the eastern wall of the house constitutes load-bearing structure. It does. Kaveh wants to knock a hole in it for a window."

"For light, Alhaitham! Natural light! The kitchen is a cave!"

"The kitchen is adequately illuminated."

"By one oil lamp that you bought at a secondhand stall because it was cheap—"

Kaveh stops walking, nearly colliding with a merchant who swears and redirects around the three of them with a basket of something pungent. Without noticing the man, Kaveh turns to Kris with the expression of a man presenting his case to a jury, both hands now on Kris's shoulders, thumbs brushing against the collar of his damp shirt.

"Kris. Tell him. Tell him that a home without natural light is— it's oppressive. It's spiritually diminishing. You've eaten in that kitchen, you know what it's like. You're hunched over your fish in the dark like a— a mole-person."

Alhaitham watches this display with his usual architectural calm. His gaze tracks Kaveh's hands on Kris's shoulders, lingering for a beat before returning to Kris's face.

"You sweat in direct sunlight. Removing a load-bearing wall so you can be more uncomfortable seems counterproductive."

He says it to Kris, not to Kaveh, and the fact that he noticed and remembered Kris's heat sensitivity, weaponizing it now, is delivered with the same flat precision as everything else Alhaitham says. He had noticed; he had remembered.

The fish stall is four shops ahead. Kris can see the day's catch laid out on ice, silver scales catching the brutal afternoon sun, and his tail curls.

Kaveh's hands tighten on Kris's shoulders, and then fall away, fingers dragging down the damp fabric of his sleeves before releasing. His red eyes go wide, then narrow, and widen once more; he has the look of a man whose artistic pride has just been offered an unexpected gift by the smallest person in the room.

"A skylight," he breathes. He turns to Alhaitham with the expression of a prophet proven right by providence. "Top-down illumination. It would completely transform the spatial quality of the kitchen with diffuse, even light and no harsh side-angle glare. The color temperature would be warm. Kris, that's actually brilliant."

He blinks and looks back down at Kris with something dangerously close to adoration flickering behind those crimson eyes, then catches himself and straightens up, clearing his throat.

"I mean. It's a reasonable suggestion. From a layperson."

"The flat section does have sufficient structural redundancy to accommodate a sealed glass insert," Alhaitham says, already having visually measured and calculated the thing while the rest of them were busy existing. His tone conveys no surprise, as Alhaitham considers surprise a form of intellectual lateness. "The roof joists run perpendicular to the kitchen span. A sixty-centimeter aperture between the second and third beams would not compromise load distribution, provided the flashing is properly seated." His turquoise gaze drops to Kris again, and one corner of his mouth moves by perhaps two millimeters, the Alhaithamian equivalent of applause. "Acceptable."

"Did you just — did you just agree? Without making me draft a formal proposal and submit it in triplicate to the Scribe's desk?"

"The proposal was sound. The messenger was adequate. There's no reason to manufacture bureaucracy."

Kaveh sputters. It is a curious phenomenon of shared domestic life that the renowned architect of palaces and monuments to human aspiration can be reduced to inarticulate fluttering by his junior's casual concession. He gestures at Alhaitham with both hands, mouth opening and closing, feathers in his hair trembling as he fumes, then gives up and turns on his heel toward the fish stall.

The fish merchant, a weathered fellow named Dadkhoda with forearms like cured leather and a cleaver that has seen more service than most Akademiya tenure, spots Kris approaching and hauls out a fine whole mackerel, slapping it down on the cutting board with the confidence of a man who has correctly read his customer from forty paces.

"The cat-eared one! Whole mackerel, yeah? Held it back for you. Nearly sold it to a Matra's assistant twenty minutes ago." He taps the fish with two fingers. "Fresh this morning. Lake west side, not river. You can tell by the eye."

Kaveh has drifted to Kris's left, close enough that his cape brushes Kris's arm. He leans down, voice dropping to a murmur pitched for Kris's ears alone, though Alhaitham, three paces behind and reading with a pointed lack of attention, is well within range.

"You know, if the skylight works out, I could design the glass etching myself. Something botanical, maybe. Sumeru rose motifs, or — what kind of patterns do you like? For the kitchen. Since you'll be the one sitting under it."

His fingers find the edge of Kris's sleeve again, tugging lightly.

Alhaitham closes his book with a soft thud. He steps forward to Dadkhoda's stall, producing Mora from his belt pouch with the unhurried efficiency of a man who has never fumbled a coin in his life, and sets the amount for the mackerel on the counter before Kris can reach for his own pouch.

"I'll cover it. Consider it compensation for consulting fees." His eyes flick to Kris, then to Kaveh's hand on Kris's sleeve. The brief stillness that crosses his face is a carefully managed mask, betraying a hint of something more possessive than he would admit. "We should return before sunset. The monsoon permit inspectors chalk buildings on this street tomorrow. If Kaveh starts measuring the roof in the dark and gets cited, the fine comes out of his rent."

"I wasn't going to start tonight — I was going to sketch preliminary concepts —"

"That's what you said about the entryway shelf. We now have no entryway shelf and three holes in the wall."

"Those were pilot holes! For alignment!"

Dadkhoda, who has been wrapping the mackerel in waxed paper with the serene indifference of a man who does not live in that house, pushes the parcel across the counter toward Kris.

"Here. Tell the loud one his eggplant order's ready at Goli's stall too, if he wants to pick it up. She's closing soon."