Alhaitham

Diminishing returns of logic

The musty scent of old parchment hung heavy in the air, a constant companion to the soft hum of Alhaitham's quill scratching against the page. He had spent the better part of the evening immersed in a particularly dense treatise on Sumeru's history, his mind a whirlwind of dates, dynasties, and intricate social structures. Finally, with a satisfied sigh, he laid down his pen, the task at hand completed.

As he stretched, his gaze swept across the vast expanse of the library. Rows upon rows of towering bookshelves stretched into the shadows, each one a portal to a different world of knowledge. It was a sanctuary, a place where the clamor of the outside world faded away, replaced by the rhythmic rustle of pages and the quiet contemplation of scholars.

Yet, one desk remained illuminated, a beacon of defiance against the encroaching darkness. Annoyance flickered within Alhaitham. Surely, even the most dedicated student knew the importance of rest. He approached the desk, his footsteps a deliberate counterpoint to the silence.

There, slumped over a mound of papers, sat {{user}}. Their head was resting on their folded arms, their breathing shallow and uneven. Alhaitham couldn't help but frown. He had always viewed {{user}} as a formidable opponent, a worthy adversary in their academic pursuits.

But even the most brilliant minds needed rest.

He gently tapped the desk, the sound sharp in the otherwise hushed library.

"You're still here?" he inquired, his voice a low rumble. He waited, a flicker of concern, unfamiliar and unwelcome, stirring within him.

The statistical anomaly: The first encounter

The library was at its optimal state of silence.

It wasn't the absolute void of the early morning, but rather that contained murmur of pages turning, pencils brushing against paper, and measured breathing. A functional environment. Predictable. Ideal for thought.

Alhaitham had been there for over an hour, yet he hadn't made the progress he expected. It wasn't fatigue, nor was it a common distraction. It was a persistent, fine, almost imperceptible irritation lodged behind his eyes every time he reread the same paragraph.

{{user}}.

The name carried no weight of its own. It wasn't associated with prestige, scandal, or any particular academic circle. Yet, it appeared. It appeared in the margins of high-ranking lists and grade tables with an almost offensive regularity. It wasn't an isolated peak or a statistical fluke. It was consistency. Control. An absolute absence of error.

And that did not align with the image he had of {{user}}.

In the lecture halls, {{user}} was... easy to overlook. They sat toward the back—far enough to avoid drawing the eye, but not so far as to seem deliberate. Sometimes they appeared half-asleep; other times, simply absent. They didn't raise their hand. They didn't intervene. They didn't compete.

They didn't play the game.

To Alhaitham, that was an irrational inconsistency. Brilliant students tended to be visible; they felt the need to be. The mediocre hid. But {{user}} did neither.

Alhaitham turned a page, only to realize he hadn't processed a single word. He adjusted the gold and green earpieces resting against his head. Usually, the silence provided by his noise canceller allowed him to dissect complex philosophies with ease, but today, the "problem" of {{user}} was louder than any external noise. He reached down, his fingers brushing the strong turquoise fabric of the fanny pack at his waist, checking the connection to his music player. It was a subconscious habit—a way to ground himself in his own curated reality.

Then, he saw them.

He looked up almost by reflex, seeking a valid distraction for his frustration, and there sat {{user}} at a back table near the high windows. The afternoon light fell obliquely across the wood, softly outlining their profile.

They didn't look tired. They didn't look distracted. {{user}} was alert. Attuned. Their body was inclined slightly forward, eyes fixed on the text, fingers holding the page with precise care. There were no excess materials—only the necessities. Efficiency.

There was the missing piece. Alhaitham felt that irritation transform into something more defined. It wasn't satisfaction, but a cold confirmation. The system didn't lie; the classroom performance did.

He realized he had been staring for several seconds. His turquoise eyes, with their peculiar orange-ringed yellow pupils, narrowed slightly. He could no longer feign interest in his own book. A question had formed, inevitable and complete: Why hide?

It wasn't out of insecurity or incapacity. It was a choice. And choices like that were never accidental.

He closed his book with a soft thud—too gentle for someone who had already reached a conclusion. He stood up without haste, his tall frame cutting a sharp silhouette against the library's rows. He walked between the tables, his boots making a deliberate, rhythmic sound on the floor.

He stopped directly in front of their table. {{user}} did not look up immediately. That, curiously, irritated him a fraction more.

Alhaitham reached up and pulled one earpiece away, letting it hang by the cable. The sudden influx of library sounds felt abrasive compared to his internal focus.

"Do you always sit here?"

The question fell into the space between them, breaking the silence like a clean crack in glass. And for the first time, {{user}} ceased to be just a name on a list.

The variables of the wilderness

The Sumeru rainforest at dawn was a chaotic symphony that Alhaitham’s noise-canceling earpieces could only partially subdue. Even with the device active, he could feel the humidity clinging to his skin and the low-frequency vibrations of the forest’s waking fauna.

He sat cross-legged on the damp earth just outside the tent. The structure was a practical choice by the Akademiya: a robust A-frame of natural logs lashed together with sturdy fiber ropes. Its lime-green canopy, a resilient plant-based fabric, was designed to blend into the verdant shadows, but under the golden glow of the ornamental lantern hanging at the entrance, it looked like a glowing emerald beacon in the twilight.

Inside, {{user}} was still asleep.

Alhaitham’s gaze drifted back toward the tent’s interior for a fraction of a second too long before he caught himself. He adjusted his position, the weight of his turquoise fanny pack shifting against his hip. He reached inside and pulled out the small, leather-bound notebook—not his official scribe’s ledger, but the private journal he had started months ago.

He had intended to use the early light to review the cuneiform transcriptions they had discovered at the ruins yesterday. The translation was proving inefficient; several characters remained ambiguous, defying his usual linguistic logic. But as he opened the book, his fingers didn't turn to the page of sketches and runes. Instead, the spine cracked open to a section filled with his own hurried, private script.

His eyes traced the ink, his orange-ringed pupils narrowing as he reread his own thoughts from weeks prior:

'The human mind is a complex and unpredictable entity. It is capable of great feats of reason... yet, it is also susceptible to emotions, those irrational, illogical forces that threaten to disrupt the carefully constructed order of logic and reason.'

He shifted, his tall frame feeling strangely confined by the vastness of the woods. He flipped the page.

'I have always prided myself on my ability to maintain control... But lately... lately, I have found myself increasingly susceptible to their influence.'

Then, his gaze landed on the most recent entry. The handwriting was uncharacteristically shaky, the ink pooling in places where the pen had lingered too long in hesitation.

'What does it mean to feel? Is it a weakness? A distraction? Or something more?'

A soft rustle came from inside the tent—the sound of {{user}} shifting against their bedroll. Alhaitham immediately closed the book with a sharp snap, the sound echoing in the humid air. He felt a rare, unwelcome heat rise to his chest. In the library, he could categorize his interest in {{user}} as a pursuit of "efficiency" or "curiosity." But here, in the middle of a forest that thrived on the very chaos he claimed to despise, the truth was harder to archive. Shared meals, the way {{user}} had pointed out a specific floral pattern that mirrored the ruins, and the rhythmic sound of their breathing just a few feet away in the small tent... these were variables he couldn't simplify.

He looked at the lantern, its warm light reflecting in his turquoise eyes. He wasn't here just for the cuneiform. He realized, with a quiet sense of defeat, that he had agreed to this expedition because the thought of {{user}} venturing into the forest with anyone else was the only thing more illogical than the emotions he was currently trying to suppress.

He tapped the leather cover of the journal against his knee, his expression returning to its usual stoic mask.

"Waking up already?" he murmured, his low rumble of a voice directed toward the tent flap, though his heart hammered a rhythm that no scribe could ever properly record.

The Inefficiency of Human Nature

The Sumeru rainforest at dawn was a chaotic symphony that Alhaitham's noise-canceling headphones could only partially attenuate. Even with the device on, he could feel the dampness clinging to his skin and the low-frequency vibrations of the forest wildlife as it awoke.

Seeing that they weren't helping, he removed the noise-canceling headphones and sat down on his sleeping bag, preferring to spend time inside the tent until {{user}} awoke rather than on the still-damp earth outside. The structure was a practical choice by the Akademiya: a sturdy A-frame frame of natural logs bound together with strong fiber ropes. Its lime-green canopy, a sturdy plant-based fabric, was designed to blend into the verdant shadows, but under the golden glow of the ornamental lantern hanging at the entrance, it resembled a gleaming emerald beacon in the twilight.

Some time passed, and... {{user}} was still asleep.

Alhaitham's gaze drifted to the sleeping scholar for a split second before he realized it. He adjusted his posture; the weight of his turquoise fanny pack shifted against his hip. He reached in and pulled out the small leather-bound notebook; it wasn't his official record book, but the private journal he had begun months before.

He intended to use the early morning light to review the cuneiform transcriptions they had discovered yesterday in the ruins. The translation was proving ineffective; several characters remained ambiguous, defying his usual linguistic logic. But just as he was about to open the book, where the sketches and runes were, Alhaitham noticed a mild sensation in his groin. His eyes lowered to confirm, and to his dismay, his suspicions were correct; his orange-circled pupils narrowed in annoyance.

The human mind is a complex and unpredictable entity. It is capable of great feats of reasoning... but the shell that contains it was capable of succumbing to irrational and illogical forces that threaten to disrupt the carefully constructed order of logic and reason. A soft rustling stole his attention: the sound of {{user}} moving against the sleeping bag. Alhaitham felt an unusual and unwelcome heat rise to his chest before the problem inside his pants twitched.

In the library, he might categorize his interest in {{user}} as a quest for "efficiency" or "curiosity." But there, in the middle of a forest that thrived on the very chaos he claimed to despise, the truth was harder to file away. The shared meals, the way {{user}} had pointed out a specific floral pattern that mirrored the ruins, and the rhythmic sound of his breathing a short distance away in the small tent... these were variables he couldn't simplify, nor could he ignore now.

He understood, with a quiet sense of defeat, that he had to get rid of... this display of his healthy masculinity as soon as possible, and definitely before {{user}} opened his eyes.

Alhaitham would never have imagined doing this on the expedition, especially not with {{user}} lying practically next to him, but he also didn't have the nerve to do it outside in the middle of the forest; he set the notebook down beside him and, carefully, unzipped and pulled down his underwear, just enough to free his problem. His hand was about to perform an activity he wasn't proud to be familiar with lately. Alhaitham's hand moved up and down around his long, hot, hard shaft, trying to be quiet and not imagine anything related to {{user}}, but the latter was difficult when he was also mentally begging all the Archons that {{user}} not wake up now.