Work Text:
Redefining Classics, by Zolf Smith, PhD, 2009.
“Instant Classic and Other Misnomers: An Exploration of Academic Terminology,” by Hamid Saleh Haroun al-Tahan, PhD, 2010.
“Impermanent Modernity,” by Richard Harringay, PhD, and Zolf Smith, PhD, 2010.
“New Novels and the Age of Instant Gratification: Where Contemporary and Classic Literature Divide,” by Hamid Saleh Haroun al-Tahan, PhD, Azubuike Nso, MA, et alia, 2011.
“Refuting Prestige Absolutism,” by Zolf Smith, PhD, Azubuike Nso, MA, et alia, 2012.
2012.
“I hate him!” Hamid explodes from behind his desk, glaring at the pristine cover of Volume 64, Issue 240 of the Oxford Journal of the English Association like it has thrown his dog off a building. “I— the absolute nerve; how dare he—”
A knock on the door reminds Hamid that he’s ranting to an empty office, and he gathers himself before calling, “Come in?”
“Ey, Hamid,” says Sasha Rackett, an engineering grad student with a strange penchant for higher level lit classes, as she pokes her head in. Lovingly known as the campus cryptid, Sasha is a star football player almost invisible on the field, and only half her teammates even realise she’s nearby until they pass to her. Sasha is one of the many students who Hamid has simply given up trying to encourage to call him ‘Dr. al-Tahan,’ because it won’t work.
“Hi, Sasha. What do you need?”
Sasha gives him a bit of a look, says, “Were you on the phone before?” and Hamid flushes pink.
“I was— a bit worked up about something I read,” he explains, sliding Zolf’s latest critique of his work into his top desk drawer. “But it’s— um— what do you need, Sasha?”
“Oh, nothing,” she says, shrugging, and Hamid gets the distinct impression that he’s about to be pickpocketed, somehow. “Just wondering if you needed saving from anything, but. Guess not.”
“I— I’m quite alright, thank you,” Hamid says with a bright smile. “It was nice seeing you, Sasha.”
“Yeah, alright,” she says, slinking towards the door. Hamid relaxes back into his chair when she stops, looks over her shoulder, and squints. “If you’re ranting about Dr Smith’s stuff again, you, uh. Y’know he’s next door, right?”
“All too well!” Hamid squeaks, and ushers her out of the office.
“A Response to ‘Refuting Prestige Absolutism’: Historical Accessibility of Literature and Public Perception Thereof,” by Hamid Saleh Haroun al-Tahan, PhD, 2012.
“Rebuttal to Oversimplification,” by Zolf Smith, PhD, 2013.
“Countering ‘Rebuttal To Oversimplification’: Nuance Within Definites, and the Qualifications for Claims Considering Objectivity,’ by Hamid Saleh Haroun al-Tahan, PhD, et alia, 2013.
2013.
They’re stuck next to each other at another retirement party. Four people are leaving the university this year, and ‘S’ and ‘T’ remain stubbornly next to each other in the alphabet, so the seating chart has been anything but kind. “Dr al-Tahan,” says a stiff, familiar West Country accent above Hamid’s head as he circles the base of his champagne flute with a single finger.
Hamid stops. Glances up. The speaker is pulling out a chair and sitting down. “Dr Smith,” Hamid replies icily, and resumes tracing shapes on cold glass.
Smith clears his throat and pulls the glass of water at his place setting towards himself, falling into the regular pattern of ignoring Hamid and refusing to make conversation with anyone. And look— Hamid doesn’t want to make conversation with him. Hamid would rather speak to anyone but the man who’s been writing critiques of his work since grad school. But if Smith didn’t act like he was above everyone, maybe things could be different.
Without making eye contact, Smith pulls out his phone to check the time and visibly winces. And sure, Hamid might feel the same way, but that doesn’t mean Smith should be so obvious about it. And— “What’re you looking at me for?” Smith asks, raising a brow.
“What?”
The look that Smith gives him is a bit withering, and annoyance flares in Hamid’s chest. “I asked what you’re looking at me for.”
“I— um— wasn’t?” Hamid replies, taking a sip of champagne. “We— unfortunately— seem to keep running into each other at these sort of things—”
“Unfortunately,” Smith agrees, and Hamid likes to be right, but hey .
“I just noticed that you don’t speak much to anyone here,” Hamid says, as politely as he can.
“There’s no one worth speaking with,” Smith responds, almost cheerful, and takes a sip of his drink.
Hamid fumes.
Book of Spells: Magic and the Human Psyche Through Classic Literature by Hamid Saleh Haroun al-Tahan, PhD, 2009.
“Commentary on Book of Spells,” by Zolf Smith, PhD, 2009.
“In Defence of the Imagination: Categorisation and Implications of Merit,” by Hamid Saleh Haroun al-Tahan, PhD, 2011.
2014.
Zolf is going to die if he has to grade another paper with so many al-Tahan citations. Undergrads always think that Book of Spells is a work of revolution, that just because it combines anthropology with literature, it’s a masterpiece. It’s not. It’s bullshit, is what it is. The only reason it’s so well supported is because there is a wealth of nonsense academia for Dr al-Tahan to cite, not because any of his opinions are worth a damn.
Zolf has liked exactly one of his papers. It was from their PhD program, when al-Tahan was first figuring out how to combine anthropology and queer feminist theory to his own specific analysis of magic in eras of classical literature. It was from their PhD program, when al-Tahan was only growing into his prickishness.
It was also a paper Zolf peer reviewed, so he might be a bit biased. Editing anything with al-Tahan was like pulling teeth, and Zolf will never do it again.
It might be a bit petty for Zolf to circle the source in the bibliography and write ‘see me,’ but this — he checks the name at the top of the paper — this Grizzop Drik fellow is in fairly serious academic danger. Zolf isn’t pretentious enough to assign his own rebuttals, but there are plenty of people nowadays who disagree with Dr al-Tahan’s work.
Okay, a handful. Okay, there’s about three of them. And okay, just because Dr Cambell is one of Zolf’s mentors doesn’t mean his opinions are invalid. And anyway, Zolf wouldn’t be here without him, so he’s allowed to be partial to recommending his works.
Zolf owes a lot of people a lot of time and effort. Zolf owes a lot of people for helping him have enough to eat when he was doing his doctorate, and that’s not something he’s just going to forget.
Who Gets Doctorates, by Zolf Smith, PhD, 2014.
“Equal Educational Access is a Lie,” by Azubuike Nso, MA, 2014.
Brown Academia, by Azubuike Nso, PhD, 2015.
“Just the One: Deliberate Denial of Intersections as Elaborated in Brown Academia,” by Hamid Saleh Haroun al-Tahan, PhD, and Azubuike Nso, PhD, 2015.
2015.
“Nice to see you, Azu,” Zolf says as he limps into the English department’s common room, where the newly appointed Dr Nso is at the coffee machine. “Hired already, I see?”
“Dr Smith!” Azu beams, then scoots over so Zolf can grab a mug. “I’m afraid not; I’m just here to see Dr Fairhands. We’re going over some last proofreads before we send my thesis out to a publisher.”
“You’re not my student,” Zolf says, both flattered and amused. “You can call me by my first name, you know.”
Azu nods sagely and adds creamer to her coffee. “Mm. Thank you.”
“Yeah, course.” Zolf fills his mug, takes a sip, winces. It is way too hot and way too sour to drink black, and it seems the only positive aspect of university coffee is the caffeine. Azu is still looking at him sheepishly, and Zolf raises a brow. “Yes?”
“Oh! Nothing,” she says, and smiles in that placating way that will put many a student at ease in the future but does nothing to allay Zolf’s suspicion.
“Azu,” he says slowly, “do you know my first name?”
She flushes beet red and unconvincingly tries for a, “Yeees?” Zolf bursts out laughing and Azu follows suit, burying her face in her hands. “I’m so sorry—”
“It’s fine,” he says through laughter, “and, uh— Zolf. It’s Zolf.”
“I am so sorry, Zolf,” Azu says, putting a solemn hand over his in apology.
“Don’t worry about it, Dr Nso,” Zolf replies, and Azu stifles her embarrassment. Very, very unsuccessfully.
“A Short Introduction to Classic Literature,” by Zolf Smith, MA, 2006.
“A Definition of Classic Literature,” by Hamid Saleh Haroun al-Tahan, MA, 2006.
2015.
Until Dr Smith started mumbling in his sleep, Hamid had been pretty sure he was grading papers. Upon closer inspection, the man on the English department’s sofa is out of it, a red flush to his nose and cheeks as he breathes unsteadily in and out and back again. Hamid had just wanted a cup of tea, but it seems rude to leave Smith to his own devices. Even if he is a stone-cold asshole.
Hamid has just decided to go wake him up when Smith jolts upright with a sharp gasp, uncharacteristically disheveled. “H- holy—”
“Dr Smith?”
There’s a retort on Smith’s lips that never comes to pass because he starts coughing, deep from the chest, and despite himself, Hamid’s brow furrows with concern. “Dr Smith, what’s—”
Smith takes a crackling breath thick with congestion and waves Hamid away. “‘M fine, I—”
“No, you’re very obviously sick,” Hamid says, because what is it with this man and being unable to concur when Hamid’s right? “Why are you here?”
Dr Smith blinks up at Hamid, who’s standing in front of the couch with a mug of tea, and oh. Oh, his eyes are very green, aren’t they? It’s the brightness of fever that’s making them shine like this but Hamid’s still struck for a moment. Smith runs a hand through thick blond waves currently stuck to his forehead and says, “Got t’ teach, a’course.”
Fun fact about Zolf Smith: his accent gets thicker when he’s tired, drunk, or ill. Hamid knows these things from experience, because they’ve worked together long enough for Hamid to know these things, even if he doesn’t like knowing them. And it’s not just work, either-- Hamid and Zolf were classmates first, and even if they hated each other then, they certainly have enough information to catch the other in a weak spot. From the sound of Zolf’s voice alone, he’s been having a very bad day.
“Did you— did you teach like this already?” Hamid asks in horror, and Zo— Dr Smith nods. “Why on Earth— alright. Can you drive yourself home? Are you— are you capable of that right now?”
Smith leans slowly forward, eyes shut, taps the prosthesis. “Can’t drive,” he grumbles, and oh, Hamid wants to hug him and throttle him at the same time.
“Fine,” says Hamid, setting down his mug. His decision is made when Zolf — when Dr Smith winces, sniffling loudly, because come on. Just because he’s capable of commanding a lecture hall when he’s on the verge of death doesn’t mean he should do it. “Fine! I’m driving you home.”
“You’re— what?”
“I’m driving you home,” Hamid repeats, “and I’m covering your class.”
Smith cracks open an eye. “Don’ want your opinions ’ny where near m’students,” he slurs, because he is stubborn ‘til the bitter end. Hamid sighs. Takes a sip from his tea.
“I’ll grab my car keys,” he says.
“Practical Engineering,” by Sasha Rackett, BA, 2014.
You’d Benefit From Reality If Only You Looked, by Sasha Rackett, MA, 2016.
2016.
“What’s Sasha’s book about?” Hamid asks at the holiday party, where ‘S’ and ‘T’ are still next to each other in the alphabet for gods’ sakes can someone please switch this up.
“Mm?” says Zolf from where he’s picking at an appetiser. “Oh, er— suspension of disbelief. And also suspension of other things, in an— an engineering sort of way? It’s about hard science fiction. Was going to just be twenty pages, I think, but Sasha had a lot to say.”
“Oh,” Hamid says noncommittally, surveying the dance floor. Wilde’s chatting with Cambell; Fairhands is off socialising with some of the biology professors from the pre-med program, and Curie disappeared with Eldarion about an hour ago. “I’m happy for her; that’s— that’s a pretty big accomplishment.”
Zolf stabs an olive. “Mm-hmm.”
Hamid’s phone buzzes, and he jumps at the excuse to do anything but engage in painfully awkward small talk with the man who’s made his academic life hell since always. It’s an email! And it’s not from a company, or from someone trying to steal Hamid’s time; it’s a personal email! It’s a personal email from—
Oh. Oh, fuck, oh, shit, that’s—
That’s a personal email from Liliana. It’s a personal email from Liliana and Gideon. It’s a personal email for Liliana and Gideon’s wedding. Oh, God. Okay. What, Hamid thinks, as the world suddenly goes very small, the fuck.
And then he runs as quickly as he can without arousing suspicion away from the table and locks himself in the nearest bathroom and cries. Which is fine. It is fine. This is fine. Why the fuck are they inviting him to their wedding? Since when is his ex dating his other ex? Since when are they getting married?
A knock on the door reminds Hamid that other people exist, and probably have to pee, so he pulls himself together enough to warble, “Someone’s in here, one second!” as if he’s a teenager at a party and not a grown man with a doctorate.
“Dr al-Tahan?” comes the voice from outside, knocking again. It’s Zolf. Fuck. “That you?” Hamid whimpers despite himself and turns on the sink to wash up, and shit. Shit! He’s ruined his eyeliner, and his pencil is in his bag, and he didn’t bring his bag into the bathroom because he wasn’t thinking about that, and—
“Dr al Tahan?” Zolf calls yet another time, the knocking growing more insistent. Hamid, for whatever reason, feels even worse knowing that his distress was obvious enough to garner concern. “Dr al Ta— look, Hamid, can you just tell me that you’re alright?”
At the sound of his first name, Hamid bursts into fresh tears, ones he can’t stop with steady breathing or calm thoughts, so he just lets Zolf surreptitiously into the bathroom and cries into his strong, manly shoulders until he’s consolidated enough to explain what’s going on. Zolf, for his part, doesn’t seem to mind. And he brought Hamid’s make-up, which might be the nicest thing anyone has done for him in months.
Hamid will ignore the fact that the kindness is coming from Zolf Smith, because he hates Dr Smith, at any rate.
“Quintessentially Romantic,” by Azubuike Nso, PhD, and Zolf Smith, PhD, 2015.
“Enjoyment Versus Education: Contextual Relevance of Literature,” by Hamid Saleh Haroun al-Tahan, PhD, 2016.
2016.
What Hamid decides to do when he leaves the bathroom is get smashed. He hasn’t been drunk in years; it’s basically Christmas, and he deserves a break. That’s his rationale, anyway, for matching Zolf drink for drink on the back porch of the admissions building until the world is shifted slightly to the left each time he stands and there are bubbles in his chest and his head is spinning — which, to be clear, does not take a lot of alcohol.
And look, it’s been a while since Zolf has— well. It’s not like he did that much drinking in the Navy, despite the stereotypes, and being a professor doesn’t leave a lot of time for wild Saturday nights. God, has it been since grad school? Has it really been that long? Was— shit. Was the last time he got this drunk the night before graduation, when he and Hamid almost…?
It was then. It was definitely then. Holy shit, he feels old. It’s been nine years since Zolf’s gotten drunk enough to see stars in Hamid’s eyes, and it’s just like the last time. A real shame they hated each other’s academic opinions so much, because Hamid’s pointing out the trees down the driveway of the admissions building like a trained botanist, just to make Zolf laugh. It’s a real shame they hated each other’s academic opinions so much, because Zolf gets up to grab Hamid another one of those fruity drinks he likes without being asked, since he knows that it’s been a rough night.
It’s a real shame they hated each other, because Zolf is just remembering the feeling of Hamid’s breath on his lips when he sees the mistletoe above them.
“Oh,” he says, clearing his throat and looking up. Hamid follows his gaze, and Zolf doesn’t know whether it’s the drink or the plant that’s staining his cheeks red, but either way, he looks beautiful in the crisp winter air. “Oh, I— I didn’t realise.”
“Neither did I,” says Hamid, his voice faraway as he still stares at the mistletoe. “We’ve been sitting under this for a while now, haven’t we?”
“I… s’pose so,” Zolf mumbles, glancing away, and yeah. Yeah, he’s completely flushed, isn’t he?
Fun fact about Zolf Smith: his accent gets thicker when he’s ill, drunk, or tired. Hamid knows these things. Hamid has known Zolf too long not to know these things. This is just the way things are, and by the sound of his voice alone, he’s very inebriated indeed.
“I mean—” says Hamid, as sounds of the holiday party inside crackle like a distant fire.
“It’s only—” Zolf tries, like he’s not a bit lost in the fact that Hamid seems to glow against the streetlights.
“It’s only right,” Hamid murmurs, a justification, a surrender, and he’s already leaning in.
It’s only a kiss, Zolf thinks, as Hamid’s hand slides up his chest, cupping his face, soft against his cheek, and it’s gentle and sweet and too damn slow for what they’re allowed, too romantic for what they’re allowed, too close to caring for what they’re allowed.
It’s only a kiss, Zolf thinks as Hamid sighs against his mouth, and he’s lying to himself.
footnote 64 Al-Tahan, Hamid Saleh Haroun. "Endurance and Redress: Powerful Emotions Are Powerful Tools." 2016, 57-81., cited in Instant Classic by Zolf Smith, PhD.
2017.
It is way too late to be grading term papers, but even professors procrastinate, and Hamid is the proof. He told his students he’d give them back last week, but then didn’t feel like grading, and then had a headache on the night he was going to start, so it’s very late on a Friday, and Hamid has figured that he cannot simply continue eating ramen and playing solitaire. He doesn’t even like solitaire, he just doesn’t want to grade papers.
Hamid shuffles out of his office for a change of scenery and a cup of coffee, and because this is the way life is, Zolf is already there. He’s wearing a Cambridge hoodie and his glasses, and this could be any night in grad school. Except this isn’t grad school, where Hamid was too scared and too stubborn to admit that Zolf was beautiful; this is real life, where Hamid is too nervous and too hard headed to acknowledge that he wants to kiss him again.
Anyway. Moving on. Hamid’s presence has drawn Zolf’s attention and he turns around with a confused frown, a look of regret-apology-disgust-longing flashing across his face before he nods in greeting. “Hi, Hamid. You’re up late.”
Fun fact about Zolf Smith: his accent gets thicker when he’s tired, drunk, or ill. Hamid knows these things. Hamid has been around Zolf long enough to know these things intimately, because that’s just how time works. Hamid knows these things, and by the sound of Zolf’s voice alone, it’s been a very long night.
“Lot of papers,” Hamid says with a small smile, by way of explanation, and Zolf nods awkwardly, as if they didn’t kiss three months ago and then never talked about it again.
“Mm.” Awkward silence. Hamid fills up his coffee cup. Zolf is looking at him sidelong, thinking. “I, um. There’s. There’s a couch in my office,” is what he says finally, and Hamid looks over at him.
“What?”
“There’s a couch in my office if you’d— you know, if you’d want to work there, or—” Zolf clears his throat. “You know.”
Hamid thinks about the empty cup of ramen in his room, and Zolf’s office right next door, and he absolutely does not think about kissing Zolf at the holiday party at all . “Sure,” Hamid says with a smile. “I’d like that.”
Another pause, like Zolf didn’t expect Hamid to accept. They do hate each other, after all. Or at least they hate each other’s academia. Or at least, Hamid thought Zolf hated his academia until he cited it in his newest book. “Right,” Zolf says, gesturing towards the office. “Well.”
“I’ll meet you in there,” Hamid says, and he doesn’t know why he gives Zolf his most winning smile.
Zolf heads off. Hamid grabs his coffee, grabs his students’ work, and ends up on one end of Zolf’s couch. The man himself is frowning down at a multiple choice exam, where a student has managed to get almost every question wrong. “Grizzop’s messing with me,” he says, sounding deeply offended.
“Drik?” Hamid asks, because he knows the kid, and that sounds right.
“Yeah,” says Zolf, his brow furrowed. “See— I’m pretty sure this is just the most efficient way he could think of to my book office hours.”
Hamid snorts. “He’s like that.”
“He certainly is,” Zolf replies, and scribbles see me after class at the top of the Scantron.
And it would’ve been fine. It would’ve been fine, except that Hamid scooches closer to Zolf to ask a question, and then closer still to pick up a dropped pen, and then closer yet again to read aloud a particularly bad passage from an essay on Jane Austen. And it would’ve been fine, except that Hamid falls asleep on Zolf’s shoulder without realising he’s nodding off.
Hamid wakes up first, too, to find Zolf slumped against him, head dropped against his chest and glasses fallen unceremoniously into his lap. Light is streaming softly through the blinds as Hamid extricates himself from a flurry of papers, running a hand through his hair and smoothing his rumpled suit. Oh, God, he must look like a wreck.
The moment Hamid pulls back, Zolf stirs, eyes blinking open with confusion and an unmistakable fondness, and oh. His eyes are very green, aren’t they? They’re so bright and made brighter by the morning, made brighter by the easy Saturday sun, made brighter by the fact that Hamid is maybe, probably, definitely a little bit in love with him.
“Zolf,” he says, by way of greeting, and he has no right to sound so gentle.
Zolf smiles. “Hi, Hamid,” he replies, and he has no right to sound so goddamn endeared.
“Jane Eyre: Feminist Misnomer,” by Grizzop Drik, for Women in Lit, taught by Dr Hamid al-Tahan.
“You’re a Wizard, Harry!” by Grizzop Drik, for Modern Classics, taught by Dr Zolf Smith.
2017.
“So,” says Grizzop, raising a brow. “What’s your deal?”
Zolf has known Grizzop for three years now, which means he’s not horrifically offended when the small, wiry long-distance runner plops himself in the student chair across from Zolf’s desk without ceremony. “Don’t know what you mean, Grizzop,” Zolf replies, taking a sip of his coffee.
“What’s your deal,” Grizzop repeats, “with al-Tahan? Sasha wants to know.”
“You still talk to Sasha?” Zolf asks with an impressed frown. Sasha’s moved to London with Azu, and is starting an engineering company with a focus on accessibility devices, especially for those with chronic illness. The last time they talked, she promised to make him a new leg, and Zolf’s willing to pay good money for it. “I didn’t know you two were that close.”
“Yeah, yeah,” Grizzop says impatiently. “What’s your deal with al-Tahan?”
“My deal?” Zolf repeats, settling back in his chair. “Is this your way of trying to get out of the fact that you just failed that quiz? Because his papers are still rubbish; you should know that.”
“Then why’s everyone talking about you two going to lunch together?” Grizzop asks, and Zolf laughs outright.
“Who’s ‘everyone’?”
“Answer the question,” he demands, which might be intimidating if Grizzop’s voice weren’t so damn squeaky.
Zolf is trying very hard to roll his eyes. Undergrads are just like this, he knows from experience, and Grizzop is just particularly brave and particularly blunt. About to graduate and with no sense of fear, Grizzop is a professor’s nightmare, but Zolf likes the kid. He’s sharp. “Yes, I went to lunch with Hamid,” he says. “Just because he can’t make a coherent argument to save his life doesn’t mean he’s got no redeeming qualities. He’s my co-worker, Grizzop, we get on.”
Grizzop squints. “Sure,” he says slowly, in a pitchy growl.
“That doesn’t mean you can take any of his opinions seriously, though,” Zolf warns, gesturing with his mug, and Grizzop cackles loudly enough to be heard in Hamid’s office next door.
Yeah. This is how it should be.
“It’s the Industry: Accessibility in Engineering,” by Sasha Rackett, MA, 2017.
“Invisible Barriers: The Illogical Prejudices Within Academia,” by Azubuike Nso, PhD, 2017.
2017.
“Oh, congratulations, Azu!” Hamid cries, throwing his arms around her middle. “And you too, Sasha— oh, I’m so happy for you both!”
“Alright, Hamid,” Sasha says, nodding towards him and Zolf. She has somehow acquired a cup of tea without anyone noticing she ever left the group. “Nice to, uh— nice to see you again, too.”
“Yes, very!” says Hamid, knowing better than to go in for a hug, but giving his warmest smile instead.
“You too, Zolf,” Sasha continues, and though this would usually be the extent of her emotional outreach, she seems happy in her place, in her skin. She seems content. Maybe the whole ‘getting engaged’ thing has had an impact on her, or something.
“Yeah,” says Zolf, because he’s about as awkward as she is, and they both smile, and seem to get it. “Congrats.”
“Yeah, I think I’ve done alright,” Sasha says, smiling up at Azu. “Pretty good choice.”
“Better than alright,” says Azu, because she’s the sappy romantic in this relationship, and Sasha leans in for a really, really short kiss.
“I can get behind that,” Sasha muses, and Zolf can see Azu, with effort, refrain from engaging in even more PDA. Azu, whose fingers are entwined with Sasha’s, has always been affectionate, and now even more so since she’s going to get a wife.
“I love you,” Azu whispers, and Sasha beams.
“I know,” she whispers back, but Zolf knows what it means. Sasha clears her throat, whips a Swiss Army knife out of nowhere, and starts cleaning her fingernails with it, as if to threaten anyone who’d dare bring up the fact that she has soft emotions. “Er— and what about you lot?”
“Oh!” says Hamid. “I’ll, um— I definitely should be able to make the wedding.”
“Likewise,” Zolf adds, and Azu makes a noise like a very pleased mountain.
“Oh, good!” Azu says delightedly. “It’s always so nice to have couples at weddings, isn’t it?”
The room falls silent. Sasha snickers. Zolf and Hamid look at each other, and then anywhere but at each other. “Um—” says Hamid, his voice jumping a few octaves. “Azu?”
Zolf clears his throat, glances down. “Yeah, we’re not—”
“We’re… not a couple,” Hamid finishes, and Zolf shoots him a grateful look. Sasha stares pointedly at the floor to hide her laughter. “Sorry?”
“Told you,” Sasha mumbles under her breath, grinning.
“Oh no,” Azu sighs, squeezing her fiancée 's hand. There’s a bit of a gleam in her eye. “I’m so, so sorry about this mixup, and I have no idea what could’ve caused it.”
Sasha, to everyone’s surprise, giggles.
footnote 74 Smith, Zolf. Redefining Classics . 2009., cited in “The Meaning of Words, Life, and Books: Poststructuralism and Literature,” by Hamid Saleh Haroun al-Tahan, PhD.
2017.
Azu and Sasha are radiant. Or, well, Azu’s radiant. Sasha has almost disappeared three times at her own wedding and then shown up with their gifts that she nicked from the guests. Azu’s dress is white lace with sparkling pink accents and her short hair shows off the large, silver hoops she’s wearing. Sasha’s suit is an inky black and the pink that’s been woven in is so subtle as to insist in shadow.
They are radiant. Zolf is more than happy to leave the day to them.
“Babe, can you get me one of your knives?” Azu asks, her hand already on Sasha’s as they hover over the cake. It’s a winter wedding, and there’s a little icicle design made out of frosting and sugar.
“Mm? Yeah, course,” Sasha replies, tearing her gaze away from the sparkles in Azu’s eyeshadow, from the shine in her eyes. “Er— here.”
“I love you,” Azu murmurs into her hair, and Sasha can’t stop beaming.
“Me too, Azu,” she says under her breath. “I, um— love you too.”
Zolf is very happy, see, to watch them be cute. It’s nice. They look happy, and in love, and maybe he’s looking at them so he doesn’t have to look at Hamid, wearing a royal blue and purple three piece suit, and it’s not the single flute of champagne that’s making him look that good.
And, listen— Zolf can afford suits now, but it’s not anything like Hamid’s. It’s a simple one: dust blue and grey, and Zolf likes it, but part of him can’t shake the idea that he’ll never measure up. And listen: Zolf barely knows how to do his hair and he’s sitting next to the immaculate Dr Hamid al-Tahan, who’s looking posh and pretty and better than him.
“I’m bored,” Hamid whines about fifteen minutes later, and Zolf is startled into laughter. “Wanna come dance?”
Zolf is now startled into giving Hamid his full attention. “What?”
“Dance,” Hamid says, a rosy dusting on his cheeks. “It’s a wedding, Zolf! Lots of people are dancing; it’s fun.”
“You want to dance with me,” Zolf says, raising a brow and tapping his leg. “Wouldn’t you prefer to— you know, be seen out there with someone who doesn’t have two left feet?”
Hamid blows air out of his cheeks. “No,” he says decisively, grabbing Zolf’s arm and pulling him upwards. “Come on—”
“Hamid — ”
“What!” And then they’re both laughing, and Zolf has one hand on Hamid’s shoulder to get his balance, and suddenly Hamid has a hand in his palm, and they’re dancing. And then they’re both laughing, both dancing, both close, and Hamid’s smile is radiant. Hamid’s smile is radiant, made more so by the ballroom whirl, more so by the faint gloss on his lips, more so by the fact that Zolf is maybe, probably, definitely a bit in love with him.
And then they’re dancing, and it’s nice, and Zolf is a bit clumsy and keeps worrying about stepping on Hamid’s feet, but — “We can take it slow,” Hamid says, looking euphoric, giggly, beautiful.
“Right,” says Zolf, clearing his throat. “Thanks.”
And they could’ve left it at that. They could’ve just danced. They could’ve. But Zolf and Hamid are for nothing if they don’t push boundaries, which means that Zolf draws them in close, forehead to forehead, when the songs change, and it’s a justification, a surrender, a question.
The thing is, Hamid’s already leaning in.
“Practical Implications of Dickensian Theory: An Exploration of Postmodernist Thought” by Grizzop Drik, for Philosophy, but Books! taught by Dr Hamid al-Tahan.
“Who Does Modern YA Serve?” by Brock Smith-Wilde, for Modern Classics, taught by Dr Zolf Smith.
2018.
“Hello!” Hamid clunks his Thermos on his desk and dusts off his hands on his jacket. He’s five minutes late to his own lecture. “Sorry I’m late; I overslept and my boyfriend needed a ride and then I had to turn around because I forgot my tea, but I’m here now!” He grins at the class, shrugs off his coat, and tosses it on the chair.
“So,” he says, grabbing his notes from his bag and flipping to the relevant page. “I’ll start out by assuming that you all did the reading; please raise your hand if you didn’t. I promise I won’t be angry, I just need to know whether or not to put you in the socratic seminar groups.”
From the back of the lecture hall, Grizzop Drik makes a noise of satisfaction in the back of his throat, and pulls out his phone to text Sasha.
A few doors down, Zolf Smith is stubbornly refusing to answer any questions about his personal life from one young, stubborn Brock Smith-Wilde, Zolf's very own nephew and betrayer, who is the mouth of the class in confronting the gossip that Dr Smith has a date. “Who’s it with?” he calls eagerly, and Zolf scowls at him.
“My partner,” he answers, like pulling teeth.
“So it’s not a first time thing?”
Zolf seems genuinely thrown by this. “What? No, I’ve— I’ve had a partner since December of last year; where have you all been? I mean— considering the taste you have for my love life over your work, I would’ve assumed that you’d have jumped on this like vultures by now.” The class, stuck in the odd state between saying nothing and saying everything, waits for Zolf to go on.
What he says is, “Who prepared discussion questions?” and everyone knows they missed their moment.
Damn.
“Revision of ‘New Novels and the Age of Instant Gratification: Where Contemporary and Classic Literature Divide’ as Critiqued by Capitalism and Class,” by Hamid Saleh Haroun al-Tahan, PhD, and Zolf Smith, PhD.
2019.
“I love you,” Hamid murmurs one night in bed, after a long talk about the book they’ve been writing together.
Zolf shifts his arm around Hamid, running a finger down his stomach. “I love you, too. Pretty sure that’s not all you want to say.”
There’s a pause. Then: “Let’s get married,” Hamid says, tasting the words on his tongue. He almost giggles, nervously, continuing, “I, um— I had a whole big plan? To propose? But I— I really want to marry you, Zolf. A lot.” A moment’s quiet. “Hope that’s okay?”
Zolf exhales a short laugh. “It’s— it’s more than okay, Hamid, I— I just— well.” He clears his throat, and Hamid can see that familiar self-doubt creep into Zolf’s eyes. “It’s only been a little over a year, and— look. I’m almost forty. I know what I want, and— I mean, you’ve been it for me for way longer than I’ve known. So. I’m saying yes, Hamid, I’m— I’m always saying yes, long as you’re sure.”
For a second they breathe together, and oh. Zolf’s eyes really are quite green, aren’t they? They’re shining, made brighter by the glow of the stars outside, made brighter by the television absently broadcasting news in the background, made bright, bright, bright by the fact that Hamid is totally, completely, and desperately in love with him.
And for a moment they breathe together, and oh. Hamid’s smile really is radiant, isn’t it? It’s beaming, more than the sun, or the fires in the Milky Way combined; it’s blinding, more than loyalty or love; it’s warm, and made warmer by the fact that Zolf is wholly, tangibly, and undeniably in love with him.
“I’m sure,” Hamid whispers, cupping his hands around Zolf’s face, bringing their foreheads together, his fingers scratching against Zolf’s beard. “I’m really, really sure.”
Low Literature, by Hamid Saleh Haroun Smith al-Tahan, PhD, and Zolf Smith al-Tahan, PhD, 2019.