Work Text:
When it comes to the study of linguistics, one of the first things the Haravatat darshan teaches is the impossibility of claiming a “mastery” of a language.
Language is a tool for communication—one that changes as humanity changes, malleable in the hands of each individual. How could one ever hope to master a constantly changing instrument?
“I’m in love with you.”
Five words. And yet, despite his proficiency in a myriad of languages, dead and alive, Al-Haitham finds himself unable to understand—lacking mastery in his native tongue of all languages.
“Isn’t that pathetic?” he hears Kaveh murmur into his ear.
Perhaps the caveat, too, is there is no such thing as “mastery” of human emotion either.
Kaveh is laughing next to his ear—harsh and discordant and bitter. His arms hang loosely off Al-Haitham’s shoulders. He smells of alcohol and Sumeru roses and his voice is raspy like he was coughing before Al-Haitham found him in Lambad’s again.
Al-Haitham knows he was.
He is certain he was.
Every few days for the past month, he would hear Kaveh hack in their bathroom—guttural, wet coughs—like something got caught in his throat and wouldn’t come out. Then, he would hear the flush of their toilet and the sound of evidence being swept away. Every day for the past month, Kaveh seems to grow paler, quieter, smaller—like a mere gust could blow him away.
Al-Haitham told him to get himself checked out weeks ago. Kaveh promised he would with a careless scoff.
He knows Kaveh is hiding something.
“I’m in love with you, and I’m dying,” Kaveh rambles. He’s laughing still and Al-Haitham wants him to stop. “You’re killing me, Al-Haitham.”
His hands tighten around Kaveh’s thighs. He hikes his senior higher on his back.
There are Sumeru roses in their waste bin. Initially, Al-Haitham thought Kaveh had gotten flowers from someone and didn’t tell him. The architect has plenty of admirers. It wouldn’t surprise him in the slightest if one became zealous enough to try and woo him.
But the petals kept piling without the flowers to show for them. Vibrant purple petals—not dried-out ones or dying ones, but ones that looked like they had been freshly plucked from a recently picked rose. And when the roses finally appeared in all their vivid glory, they were in the same youthful condition—new as if they had been bought the same day.
Kaveh would never throw out new flowers.
“How am I killing you, Kaveh?” Al-Haitham asks softly—against the dread sticking to the back of his throat like sludge.
“Did you know that unrequited love can kill you?” Kaveh whispers. “Apparently, you can grow flowers in your lungs from unrequited love. Isn’t that pathetic? I feel pathetic. Isn’t it so sad to die for someone who doesn’t love you back?”
Al-Haitham breathes through his nose.
Kaveh has been coughing for the last month. Kaveh hasn’t been getting better ever since his symptoms started. Kaveh has been throwing away perfectly good flowers. Kaveh is hiding something from him.
Is this it?
“It isn’t pathetic to love someone,” Al-Haitham says. He stares ahead of him. Their home comes into view. Once they’re home, Kaveh can sleep his drunken stupor off, and Al-Haitham can pick apart his confession for the logic behind his words.
“It is and I am,” Kaveh insists. “You don’t love me in the same way. I am going to die because of you, and it makes me so angry. Do you understand how infuriating it is to fall in love with you of all people? You’re so annoying and I hate you—”
Kaveh starts coughing. Al-Haitham feels him shuddering against his back under the force of each one—like a leaf barely hanging onto a branch. They’re full-bodied and sharp and the sound of them makes his insides turn cold and his throat tighten.
It sounds like Kaveh’s throat is getting torn to shreds.
When the violent coughing finally stops, Kaveh slumps bonelessly against him, pressing against his back. Al-Haitham glances back, catching sight of a perfect Sumeru rose in Kaveh’s hands.
“Isn’t it pretty?” Kaveh croaks, voice fainter than before. “They’re so pretty, I can almost forgive them for suffocating me.”
Al-Haitham’s chest tightens. Kaveh buries his nose against the nape of Al-Haitham’s neck, breath warm against his skin.
“I’m tired,” Kaveh murmurs.
He takes out his key. Kaveh’s gold one is pulled with it, hanging from the bit of his silver one. He stares at the geared lion keychain, then uses Kaveh’s key to unlock their door.
“Kaveh?” he whispers, gently closing the door behind them.
Kaveh doesn’t respond—his warm breaths Al-Haitham’s only answer. Al-Haitham pushes open Kaveh’s door and sets him down in bed. He takes his shoes off and untangles his braid, running his fingers through the blond strands. Then, he slips off his earrings, pulls each of Kaveh’s pins out one by one, and tucks the covers over him.
He leaves and comes back with a glass of water in his hand, setting it down on Kaveh’s bedside table before carefully closing the door behind him.
As the Grand Scribe of the Akademiya, Al-Haitham has access to almost all of the House of Daena’s shelves, even the restricted sections of each Darshan. It is his first point of interest when looking up whatever disease Kaveh has.
He finds his answer fairly quickly.
Hanahaki Disease.
A rare disease whereby flowers grow in a patient’s lungs due to their assumed unrequited love. It starts with a constant, wet cough, followed by the coughing of flower petals, and then—in its late stages—the coughing of full blooms.
The duration of the disease depends on a variety of factors including the strength of the patient’s affection, their proximity to the person of interest, and their relationship with the person of interest. If not treated or cured, it can be lethal.
Lethal.
Kaveh hadn’t been exaggerating last night.
Al-Haitham checks out the Amurta book on rare diseases and ailments and makes his way home.
Kaveh is sitting on the divan pouring over his blueprints like everything is normal when Al-Haitham returns. Were it not for last night, Al-Haitham would have been none the wiser. He strides over and slams the book over his blueprints, startling the latter out of his intense staring.
“What the hell?”
“Get the surgery,” Al-Haitham says.
Kaveh’s eyes widened. He scoffs.
“What surgery?”
“Don’t play dumb with me, Kaveh.” He crosses his arms and enunciates, “Get the surgery.”
“And I repeat, what surgery—”
“I know you love me,” Al-Haitham interrupts, staring Kaveh directly in the eyes. Kaveh flinches. “I know it’s killing you. Get the surgery.”
“How did you—”
“You told me last night when I brought you home, drunk out of your mind.” Al-Haitham places his hand on the blueprints and leans over the table, pushing the book toward the blond. “I saw you cough up a Sumeru rose from nowhere. The final stage of hanahaki is denoted by coughing up flowers in full bloom. From then on, it’s a numbers game before the roots of the flowers destroy the soft tissue of the lungs and you die by suffocation. Kaveh, get the surgery.”
Kaveh’s eyes narrow.
“I don’t remember asking for your opinion, Al-Haitham.” The words are cold. Al-Haitham feels an unfamiliar restlessness crawling under his skin at them. “But I can assure you, I have this under control—”
“There are three ways of curing hanahaki,” Al-Haitham starts, voice tight and strained. He has the inane urge to reach over to his senior and shake him if only to make him understand. “The patient gets over their feelings, the patient has their feelings reciprocated, or the patient schedules a surgery to remove the flowers from their lungs.
“Clearly, you have yet to get over your feelings of love for me. Nor are your feelings currently reciprocated. The most rational option then is getting the surgery to remove the flowers. That should have been the first thing you did when you found out, Kaveh—”
“Stop!” Kaveh stands. He looms over Al-Haitham, expression teetering somewhere between anger and hurt. “You don’t have a right to mess with my affairs, Al-Haitham. Especially when it comes to my feelings. Do you even know the consequences of getting the surgery, or have you ignored them in favor of your more rational choice?”
“You lose your feelings for the person.” Al-Haitham stands as well, slower than Kaveh had. “A small price to pay considering we’re talking about your life—”
“It’s not a small price!” Kaveh throws his hands in the air. His glare is something vicious when it’s aimed at Al-Haitham. “It’s not just feelings of love, it’s every feeling I’ve ever felt towards you that disappears. You’ll become a stranger in my memories, a person with nothing attached to them. I would be losing years worth of memories. And despite everything we’ve said or done to each other, those memories are important to me.”
Kaveh jabs his finger against Al-Haitham’s chest, tears gathering in his eyes. Al-Haitham stiffens, like a tight coil ready to spring.
“You are important to me, an inextricable part of my life, even if you don’t seem to care. So no, Al-Haitham, I’m not getting the surgery.”
Al-Haitham’s hands twitch.
“Kaveh,” he says, voice low. “You are dying. We are talking about a life-or-death situation. If you continue to let this fester, you are going to die. I am telling you to get the surgery to save your life.”
“You are asking me to permanently alter my memories, Al-Haitham. Frankly speaking, you don’t have the right—”
His hands are on Kaveh’s shoulders before he’s even aware. He feels Kaveh stiffen.
“Kaveh, for once in your Archons-forsaken life, think about what you are doing to yourself!”
Kaveh freezes.
Al-Haitham scowls, his whole body squeezed under his need for Kaveh to understand. He tightens his hands around Kaveh’s shoulders, arms shaking the slightest bit.
“You are dying, Kaveh. You will die if you do not get this surgery. This isn’t a matter of how important your feelings are or how important I am to you; this is a matter of life and death. That is why you need to get the surgery.”
He feels like he is shaking, all the pent-up energy needing release with no outlet in sight. Not here. Not when this was Kaveh’s life they were talking about.
Kaveh blinks once at him before his expression twists into that same fiery anger. He opens his mouth—
And starts coughing like he’s hacking out a lung.
Time seems to freeze. Al-Haitham feels the ground fall underneath him, in time with Kaveh dropping under the weight of his coughs. He lowers himself immediately, hands trembling as he gently pulls Kaveh’s hair away from his face, collecting the strands to one hand and rubbing his back with his other.
Vibrant purple petals collect around Kaveh with every shuddering, violent cough. Each petal is shiny with spit and saliva—objectively beautiful in its own right. Al-Haitham feels the coils around his body tighten, staring at the petals in almost a dissociating wonder.
When the tearing coughs finally subside and a single, bloody Sumeru rose lies atop the pile of petals, Al-Haitham finally breathes. Neither of them moves from their spot on the floor. Kaveh is gasping, arms are shaking with exertion. Al-Haitham is shaking from something more desperate.
“If you aren’t willing to consider yourself in this equation, then at least consider me,” Al-Haitham insists, quiet. “I would rather have you alive and become a stranger in your memories, than dead because you loved me and I could not return it.”
Kaveh doesn’t respond, not immediately.
“You weren’t supposed to find out.” His voice is raspy and hoarse. Al-Haitham’s chest tightens.
“The ‘what ifs’ don’t matter. I’ve found out now. Take responsibility for your actions.”
He presses closer, an awful weight crushing his chest. “I would rather have you here than gone, Kaveh. Please. Get the surgery.”
Kaveh glances up at him, eyes teary. He stands, and Al-Haitham lets his hand fall.
“I’m tired,” he murmurs, walking away. “I’m going to bed.”
He turns the corner, his footsteps padding farther and farther away. The door shuts with a soft click, and then, nothing.
Al-Haitham sighs. He presses the palms of his hands against his eyes and breathes. Once. Twice.
And then, he stands. He cleans up the flower petals on their floor and dumps them into the trash with empty vindication. He takes the book he checked out from the table and organizes Kaveh’s blueprints and materials. He pours a glass of water and makes his way to Kaveh’s room.
He knocks once before letting himself in.
Kaveh is curled on the bed, back to the door. The curtains are drawn. Al-Haitham sets the glass of water on his bedside table and for a moment, stands in front of him. Every word he’s ever learned seems to fail him now, all of them stuck to the back of his throat and refusing to come out.
Is there anything he could say to make Kaveh understand?
Or is it like last night, where instead of Al-Haitham, it is Kaveh who can’t understand?
Al-Haitham exhales, and all the energy from before leaves with it. He turns and leaves the room, quietly shutting the door behind him.
In the morning, Al-Haitham finds Kaveh at the dining table as per their routine, a cup in his hands as he stares out the window. In front of him is their normal breakfast spread of bread and fruits and a second cup with steam rising from it. Kaveh glances up as soon as Al-Haitham steps into the kitchen, waves a hand at the food, and looks away.
Al-Haitham takes the cup and brings it to his lips, tasting warm coffee with a hint of cardamom just the way he likes it—a mixture Kaveh perfected his first week with Al-Haitham. He takes a seat across from Kaveh, and that same pressing tightness coils around him, making the space feel smaller than before.
Kaveh, too, looks as worn as Al-Haitham feels.
For a long while, neither of them speaks.
Kaveh sighs. He sets his cup in the sink and reaches out for Mehrak and his stack of blueprints. Al-Haitham’s eyes track Kaveh as he moves around their house, hands tightening over the cup of coffee Kaveh brewed for him.
He stops in front of Al-Haitham, eyes staring at everything but him.
“I’ll schedule a date for the surgery,” Kaveh murmurs.
Al-Haitham blinks. The pressure disappears. A weight lifts off him and it's like he can breathe again—full, gasping breaths.
“But,” Kaveh starts. “I have a request.”
“What is it?” Al-Haitham asks, tempering his voice into something calmer than he feels.
He watches Kaveh fidget with Mehrak’s handle—watches him flex his fingers and fiddle with his sleeve and still refuse to look Al-Haitham in the eyes.
Al-Haitham waits.
“Perhaps this is a selfish request,” Kaveh finally starts, taking a breath before finally meeting Al-Haitham’s stare. “But, when the operation is over, I want us to continue being friends. I want you to ensure we don’t drift apart just because I don’t remember the context of our relationship anymore.”
He bites his lip and runs a hand roughly through his hair.
“Maybe it’s selfish of me to not want to lose you again,” he mumbles. “But, before all of this, we were friends who looked out for one another. I’d like to keep it that way.”
Al-Haitham raises a brow.
“Are you sure you’ll feel the same after the surgery?” he asks. “You are aware that there’s a chance of relapse even after the operation, correct? Is this not you being cruel to yourself by asking this of me?”
Kaveh cracks a weary smile.
“Don’t get cocky about your desirability just because I told you ‘I love you’ once, Scribe,” he snarks weakly.
Al-Haitham’s lips quirk up. His shoulders relax—a missing piece slotting back into place.
“I’m merely accounting for all possibilities, Master Architect,” he responds in kind. “Are you certain this is what you’ll want?”
Kaveh’s smile fades. Al-Haitham finds his own disappearing as well.
“If I’m going to be losing my feelings and distorting my memories, then I think I have the right to decide for myself what I want,” Kaveh says. “And this is what I want.”
Al-Haitham watches Kaveh for any sign of hesitance or regret.
He finds none.
“I accept your request.”
Kaveh is scheduled for surgery at the end of the week. Zakariya adamantly refused to push it back any later at the risk of the flowers doing irreparable damage to his lungs.
According to him, Kaveh had mere weeks left with the disease at best.
When Zakariya shares this, Kaveh takes the news in a grim stride—lips pressed together and a resigned set to his brow. His calmness in the face of near death is astronomically worse than any other reaction he could’ve given.
For a moment, Al-Haitham feels like he is the one who cannot breathe.
Zakariya ends up being the surgeon in charge of the surgery, but Kaveh requests for Tighnari to handle the recovery period after. One letter sent to Gandharva Ville later, Tighnari is in the halls of Bimarstan, arriving mere minutes after Kaveh entered the operation room.
Al-Haitham stands to greet the forest watcher, and blurts unbidden, “Did you know?”
Tighnari’s expression shuts close. Al-Haitham feels an ugly emotion burn in his chest, pressing down on him.
“I didn’t,” he admits quietly. “But I had my suspicions. And when I received Zakariya’s letter, it wasn't hard for me to guess it was you.”
His frown is immediate. He sits back down.
Yes, it was him.
He’s been in such a haze this past week, the implications of Kaveh’s disease never properly set in—that it was Kaveh’s love for him that landed the architect in this state of affairs.
He isn’t arrogant enough to believe it’s his fault Kaveh fell in love with him, nor is he insensitive enough to believe it’s Kaveh’s fault he’s in this predicament in the first place. And yet, the reminder that he himself is a part of the root cause leaves a bitter taste in his mouth.
“Has Dr. Zakariya informed you of the consequences of the procedure?” Tighnari asks, taking a seat beside Al-Haitham.
“Kaveh’s feelings for me will disappear from his memory once the flowers have been removed,” Al-Haitham says. He opens the book he brought if only to have something to do with his hands. “He will not remember any emotion he’s ever felt towards me once this is over.”
Tighnari nods. Al-Haitham catches the forest ranger’s ears flicking to the operating room—listening in. He grips the pages the slightest bit tighter.
“Has the operation started?” he asks, eyes still on his book. The words are bleeding together on the page; he can’t focus enough to comprehend a single one.
“Almost.”
“Kaveh isn’t backing out of it, is he?”
Tighnari shakes his head.
“Did you think he would?” he asks curiously.
“I thought he might,” Al-Haitham says, tepid. “There was a chance.”
Tighnari goes quiet. Al-Haitham turns the page. The crisp sound almost echoes in the empty hall. He hasn’t read a single word.
He does not like not knowing what’s happening beyond those doors.
“Al-Haitham.” Al-Haitham looks up, catching sight of the seriousness in Tighnari’s eyes.
“Yes?”
“You should know, when the flowers causing Kaveh’s hanahaki disease disappear, it’s a complete reset,” he says. “It isn’t just love he won’t remember, but anger, sadness, companionship, camaraderie—anything. You need to be prepared for him to see you as no one of importance in his life.”
Al-Haitham turns the page.
“He will still be able to form those emotions towards me though, correct?” he asks.
“Yes.”
“Then it’s fine.”
Tighnari frowns.
“There will be nothing meaningful attaching you to him in his mind, Al-Haitham,” he stresses. “There’s a reason most patients who get the surgery lose contact with the object of their affection. If there’s nothing associated with the person, no happiness or sadness or frustration any sort of connection, why would you stick around them? Especially when you still remember how you feel around others?
“Once Kaveh recovers, you will have to build that attachment again from scratch if you hope to recover any sort of relationship with him. And it will be on you to do so because he won’t remember,” Tighnari says. He catches Tighnari crossing his arms from the corner of his eye, ears twitching and brows raised. “I’m saying this so you know what to expect. Do you understand?”
“I do,” Al-Haitham says, gaze glued to his book. “And I assure you, we will be fine.”
He turns the page. His eyes flick to the doors of the operation room.
Tighnari sighs next to him.
“So long as you know,” he mutters.
The procedure lasts the whole night.
They both end up sleeping in the waiting room, and it is by no means restful.
It seems every thirty minutes, Al-Haitham finds himself startling awake—neck sore, back aching, and eyes locked onto the operating room doors, unable to check if Kaveh is doing alright, if they’ve found a complication, if they were somehow too late.
It takes him a long while to fall back asleep each time, only to startle again an hour later to the same repeating thoughts—the same repeating worries.
It’s frustrating to feel so useless.
He ends up finishing the book he brought along, eyes flicking to the doors every few minutes to watch the shadows shift on the other side as if that might somehow cure this endless waiting.
He’s anxious.
It’s irrational.
And yet, here he is—awake and impatient for any sort of hint that Kaveh is okay.
In a different scenario, Kaveh would tease him for acting out of character. Anxious despite knowing there is nothing he can do. Worried despite knowing Kaveh is in good hands. Musing over what-ifs despite events having passed—because what else can he do?
What if Kaveh hadn’t drunkenly confessed and given Al-Haitham the clues he needed to piece the situation together? What if Kaveh hadn’t agreed to this surgery despite Al-Haitham’s best efforts and hopes? What if weeks had gone by and he was still none the wiser to Kaveh’s condition despite living with the man and watching him single every day?
Would he still be here—sitting in a hospital waiting room waiting for any sign that Kaveh is alright?
Or would he be planning a funeral because Kaveh—despite what anyone else thinks—has always been steady in his resolve and stubborn in his ideals?
Perhaps, in spite of the circumstances—or because of them—Al-Haitham should consider himself lucky.
Even if he doesn’t feel very lucky.
An hour before sunrise, Tighnari stirs to life. He too glances at the operating doors first, tail straight and ears angled towards them. Then, once he deems everything fine, he turns to Al-Haitham—a delicately placed expression already staking home on his face.
Al-Haitham stares back as if Tighnari's care is a challenge against his pride.
“How did you sleep?” Tighnari murmurs.
“Well enough,” Al-Haitham responds.
He crosses his arms over his chest and that is that.
It’s close to dawn when Zakariya finally steps out of the operating room, a tired expression on, but his lips curved up in a smile.
Tighnari stands from his seat. Al-Haitham watches, hands clasped in his lap next to his book.
“It was a success,” Zakariya says, eyes jumping between the two of them. “The tissues in Master Kaveh’s throat were damaged from the flowers, but it’s nothing permanent—and nothing a vision healer can’t mend. The roots hadn’t managed to puncture Master Kaveh’s lungs by the time we extracted the disease, which is quite lucky given how far along the flowers had grown. Master Kaveh should be able to make a full recovery just fine without any permanent damage or lasting injuries.”
Al-Haitham nods once. He hears Tighnari exhale slowly. Zakariya offers them both a kind smile.
“His throat will feel sore for around a week,” he continues. “I’d recommend he keep his talking to a minimum if he can help it until the pain disappears. Any herbal teas or warm water with honey may help the soreness, and I’ll prescribe a general painkiller as well, but he will unfortunately have to bear through most of it on his own.”
“When can he leave?” Al-Haitham presses. Zakariya glances at him, lips pressed in a thin line.
“We’d like to keep him here under observation for the night in case we weren’t able to clear all the Sumeru roses,” he says. “But, he should be able to leave tomorrow evening—and he should expect to take a week off from work to recover.”
“I’ll make sure he does,” Tighnari assures, a thready smile on his face. “Thank you, Dr. Zakariya.”
“My pleasure,” Zakariya says. “I suggest the two of you go home and rest. Master Kaveh is currently sleeping off the effects of the anesthesia. He won’t wake up until later today. You may visit him then, but…” His eyes flick to Al-Haitham, expression cautiously genial. “I’d suggest Master Tighnari sees him first. Just so his first visitor is someone he still remembers in full.”
Al-Haitham bites the inside of his cheek and nods. Tighnari catches his eyes, an apologetic look on his face.
“Thank you,” Tighnari says and starts collecting his things. “We’ll be here later today then.”
Zakariya nods.
“Get some rest Master Tighnari, Scribe Al-Haitham.”
“You as well, Dr. Zakariya,” Tighnari says.
And then—
They leave.
They step out of Birmarstan.
The sun is rising now.
It feels anticlimactic.
He walks Tighnari to his hotel. They exchange goodbyes and lackluster plans to meet up later today before Al-Haitham leaves for his house—walking down the familiar paths, slipping his silver key into the lock of their door, toeing off his shoes, and setting them next to Kaveh’s many more pairs.
Two cups on the counter. Two plates drying on the rack. Two sets of silverware in the sink.
Two lives living in this home.
It feels wrong to be the only one.
The weight on his chest has yet to disappear.
Kaveh would hound him for being so sentimental. Nothing happened. Nothing changed.
Kaveh is alive.
That is all that matters.
Al-Haitham forgoes washing up and heads straight for his bedroom. He sets his book down somewhere and collapses on the bed.
He is out as soon as his head touches the pillow.
Tighnari sees Kaveh first, as per Zakariya’s suggestions.
Al-Haitham waits outside—arms crossed, eyes closed, and leaning against the wall. It takes fifteen minutes for Kaveh’s door to open and Tighnari to poke his head out, a tenuous smile on his face.
“He’s doing alright,” Tighnari assures, stepping out of the room and into the hallway. He tilts his head towards the door.
Al-Haitham takes the invitation in stride.
He slips past Tighnari and closes the door behind him.
His eyes immediately lock on the bed.
Kaveh is there—sitting with his hands neatly clasped in front of him. There are bandages around his throat and a tired set to his shoulders. He looks pale and small in the hospital gown sitting in the bed hidden under white sheets.
But, he is alive—red eyes staring back at Al-Haitham with a familiar sort of intensity.
And then, he smiles politely at Al-Haitham.
And it looks wrong.
“Al-Haitham,” Kaveh says, clipped and neat—as if he were talking to one of his nameless, faceless clients. “Thank you for visiting me.”
Al-Haitham stares.
He expected this. This was the main drawback of proceeding with the surgery. Compared to a funeral, this is much better. Kaveh is smiling at him. Kaveh is speaking to him.
Kaveh is alive.
That is all that matters.
“Of course,” he says—measured. He takes the seat next to Kaveh’s bedside. “I had to ensure you wouldn’t miss rent this month, after all.”
A flicker of indignation passes through Kaveh’s expression, then clears just as quick. Instead, Al-Haitham watches Kaveh’s brows pinch—looking painfully confused.
“I did pay you? I always paid you on time. That isn’t something I would forget.”
Al-Haitham presses his lips together.
Right.
“You did,” he says smoothly. “I must’ve forgotten.”
“But you don’t forget things.”
“It has been a long night,” Al-Haitham says, crossing his arms.
Kaveh purses his lips.
He does not push nor ask more.
Al-Haitham inhales slow.
“How do you feel?” he asks.
“I’m fine,” Kaveh says, stilted and awkward—like he doesn’t know how to react. He doesn’t elaborate; he doesn’t whine; he doesn’t say anything more.
Al-Haitham nods and they both fall silent.
“What do you remember?” he asks. “Do you remember the reason you had this procedure?”
Kaveh snorts, and for a slight moment, Al-Haitham catches the sliver of familiarity in the action—a slight break in the persona Kaveh presents to everyone but him.
He never quite appreciated how little Kaveh cared to keep that persona around him.
“You’re asking if I remember having hanahaki, right?” Kaveh asks, a sardonic smile on his face. “I do. I remember the disease. I remember coughing up Sumeru roses. I remember hiding them from you. I remember our fight before I agreed to have this surgery.”
Al-Haitham tamps down the urge to flinch.
“I don’t remember who I had it for though,” he says, bringing up the topic as if he was merely commenting on the weather. “But that makes sense. All emotions disappear with the extraction of the flowers. Of course I wouldn’t remember who I loved.”
Kaveh’s eyes settle on him, a considering expression on his face.
Al-Haitham nods once.
There isn’t much he is willing to say in that regard. It feels too heavy for this tenuous thing they have now. He is not willing to risk a relapse of Kaveh’s disease either—not now, not ever.
“Did you seriously only come to visit me for rent?” Kaveh asks—an edge of hesitancy to his tone. It slices sharper than any blade, and Al-Haitham has to purse his lips to keep from frowning.
Kaveh should know the answer.
But how could he know?
There is nothing attached to his memories besides the cold hard facts. He does not have the context of the years they spent together anymore—only the dry retelling of a story he once knew like the back of his hand.
He doesn’t know how far they grew apart.
He doesn’t know how close they are now.
“What do you think?” Al-Haitham asks—because it is the best answer to give.
No is too honest.
Yes is a lie.
Kaveh’s brow twitches.
“I don’t know. That’s why I asked.”
“Perhaps you should use that genius mind of yours then, senior,” Al-Haitham says bitingly.
Kaveh is frowning now—looking one wrong word away from anger.
“You’re being unfair,” he says evenly.
It isn’t: “You’re being a dick.” It isn’t: “Respect your senior.” It isn’t a colorful set of curses condemning Al-Haitham where he stood. It’s a socially acceptable answer.
Kaveh is right. He is being unfair.
He miscalculated how much the two of them changed since Kaveh last viewed him as a stranger. It has been years since Kaveh seemed this uncertain around him. Al-Haitham can’t quite remember the last time he did. Not even the days after Kaveh first moved in were this strained.
He needs to re-evaluate.
He stands from his seat.
“I’ll call Tighnari back in,” he says, stepping neatly away from Kaveh’s bedside. “I’m glad to see you are doing well, Kaveh.”
His words are crisp and cordial. He’s never been this formal around Kaveh. Not even when they were students.
Kaveh looks surprised—then, curious. But he doesn’t say no.
Al-Haitham takes the invitation and steps out the door.
Kaveh is discharged from the hospital around dinner time. Tighnari and Al-Haitham are both there to take him home.
They stop by Lambad’s for dinner. Kaveh and Tighnari discuss floral arrangements for a new project the architect was in the middle of before the procedure while they wait for their food. Al-Haitham watches the conversation under the muffled blanket of his headphones—lingering but not quite there.
They talk about Sumeru roses.
“While I still had the disease, I read somewhere that the flowers someone with hanahaki coughs usually relates to the kind of love they feel for the person of interest,” Kaveh mentions—in an almost morbidly curious way. “Is that true?”
“Different people don’t always grow the same flowers in their lungs, yes,” Tighnari says. “But, we haven’t definitively figured out why, so that’s more of a factoid than actual fact.”.
Kaveh lets out an interested hum.
“Then… if they did mean something,” he starts, “what do you think Sumeru roses mean?”
Al-Haitham presses his hands tighter around his cup.
Tighnari huffs. “Ever the aesthete to want to find meaning in the flowers that almost suffocated you.”
“I’m just curious,” Kaveh teases, smiling. “And you’re the botanist between the two of us.”
Tighnari laughs.
“In research, Sumeru roses are useful for tracking leyline energies in an area for general surveillance when we’re doing fieldwork,” he says. “They’re one of the most abundant flowers in Sumeru and they’re often associated with wine and festivals. So… if I had to attribute any sort of meaning to them… it would probably be stability. Familiarity. If you were to ask any Sumerian to think of a flower, the Sumeru rose would be their first thought.”
Al-Haitham looks out at the tavern from his seat in the corner, watching groups around them talk and laugh—clinking drink glasses and sharing time together. He takes a sip of his water, a bitterness clinging to the back of his throat like sludge.
Stability. Familiarity.
“I do know Sumeru roses have some sort of meaning in the Sumerian flower language. But Al-Haitham would be more versed in that area than me.” Tighnari glances at him. Al-Haitham meets the other’s gaze. Something must show on his face because Tighnari pauses before gently asking, “Do you have anything to add, Al-Haitham?”
He crosses his arms—mouth lingering on a scowl.
“Nothing at all,” Al-Haitham says curtly. He glances at Kaveh and narrows his eyes. “Only—is it not morbid to ask what the flowers that almost took your life mean? Are you trying to assign some sort of importance to them? A sense of idealism in your own mortality?”
Kaveh raises a brow.
“It’s just a question,” he says, placid. “Isn’t it good that I'm able to make light of the situation?”
“Is it beautiful to you that the Sumeru roses almost killed you? Do you find it romantic that you nearly died for love?” Al-Haitham shoots back.
“Romantic—what are you talking about?” Kaveh asks, openly glaring at Al-Haitham now. And this—this is familiar. This is something Al-Haitham knows. “I thought I told you it was the memories I was worried about—not some… some—I don’t know, romantic notion to the whole disease?”
“And yet, you still nearly died trying to protect it. Is it pretty to die for some unrequited love, Kaveh? To place petty emotions over your life?”
“They weren’t petty emotions, and I never said it was—stop putting words in my mouth! I never said it was romantic to die for love. I never said it was pretty. It was painful. And it hurt. And before the surgery, I hadn’t taken a full breath in a month without feeling like I needed to cough the life out of me.”
Kaveh’s glare is a visceral thing on Al-Haitham. Distantly, Al-Haitham remembers Zakariya’s suggestion to let Kaveh rest his voice.
That reminder is a small thing next to Kaveh’s anger and his own.
“In case you need a reminder, I was the one with the disease,” Kaveh spits back. “I was the one who underwent the procedure. I would think I would know just how painful the disease was.”
Al-Haitham’s brow twitches. He opens his mouth.
“That’s enough,” Tighnari interrupts, shooting both of them a glare before it lands squarely on Kaveh. “Kaveh, Dr. Zakariya told you to keep the shouting and fighting to a minimum while your throat healed. This is not ‘a minimum.’ For your own sake, be mindful of the strain you’re putting on your throat—especially after what happened to it this past month.”
And then, Tighnari rounds on him—his expression teetering somewhere between disappointment and sympathy.
“You were there when Zakariya told us to make sure Kaveh doesn’t strain his voice,” he says, softer than he had for Kaveh. “I’d expect you of all people to be able to hold yourself accountable. Not pick fights where they don’t exist.”
Al-Haitham stares back, forcing his expression into one of disinterest until Tighnari looks away first, something almost akin to pity in his eyes. He glances over at Kaveh, who huffs and immediately looks away, arms crossed and brows knit in indignance even as shame forces his shoulders to curl forward.
Al-Haitham exhales and turns up his soundproofing until the only thing he can hear is his thoughts alone.
Their food comes soon after—a nice distraction against the running emotions in their little corner table. At some point between when he checked out of the conversation and when they started eating, Kaveh and Tighnari must have started up another conversation down a different train of thought. By the time Al-Haitham turns the knob of his soundproofing down, Kaveh is laughing again and Tighnari has an exasperated smile on.
The two of them, at least, leave Lambad’s in high spirits—chatting all the way back to Tighnari’s hotel.
It becomes starkly silent once the forest ranger leaves. Al-Haitham lets his eyes flicker once over Kaveh’s suddenly reserved expression, purses his lips, and walks in the direction of their home.
A moment later, Kaveh follows—a single step behind.
The walk back is painfully silent.
When they finally arrive at their porch, Al-Haitham slips his key into the lock and lets them both in—taking his shoes off and setting them aside on the rack. Kaveh follows right after, and it feels right to see their pairs of shoes next to each other—even if everything else has shifted.
Perhaps he should apologize.
But, they weren’t ever ones for apologies.
If this were Kaveh with his memories intact, Al-Haitham would slice a zaytun peach and Kaveh would bring his work from the study into their living room and they would coexist, and that would be apology enough.
It feels wrong to start apologizing today.
He moves towards their divans, then watches Kaveh watch him—brows knit tightly together, red eyes burning into him like a mark. Al-Haitham meets his gaze—a silent question on his tongue.
And then, Kaveh spins on his heels and beelines for his room. Al-Haitham lets his gaze trail after Kaveh. He hears the moment Kaveh opens his door, but has to strain his ears to hear the soft click of the door shutting close behind him.
That, too, feels wrong.
And somehow, it’s as if he’s the only one in the house again.
Kaveh takes the next week off from work—postponing deadlines, rescheduling client meetings, and canceling the guest lecture he would’ve held at the Akademiya.
Tighnari visits them every day to keep Kaveh honest.
Most visits are more out of protocol than an actual need—doing routine checkups, monitoring his breathing for obstructions, and examining the lesions in his throat. Kaveh is healing well according to Tighnari and dutifully keeping his talking to a minimum—drinking warm water and herbal teas any chance he gets.
Every morning, Al-Haitham wakes to Tighnari at their doorstep—medical bag in hand and a smile on his face. He makes his way to Kaveh’s room while Al-Haitham prepares for work, and Al-Haitham listens to the bright inflections in Kaveh’s voice when he speaks to Tighnari—no different than it had been before the procedure.
Every night, the forest ranger stays for dinner, and he and Kaveh chat over food while Al-Haitham quietly watches on, seeing the way Kaveh smiles and laughs like he normally does around Tighnari.
Once Tighnari leaves, the house becomes quiet again. Kaveh will glance curiously at Al-Haitham, then hole himself up in his room for the night. Al-Haitham will sit out in their living room with his book open on his lap, eyes occasionally flicking up in the direction of Kaveh’s room until it gets late and he calls it a night—retreating for the silence of his own room.
By the week’s end, Tighnari deems Kaveh healed enough to return to work and tells him he can start as soon as the next day. Kaveh cooks a feast partly in celebration, partly in thanks, and Al-Haitham breaks out a bottle of wine for the three of them to share.
Kaveh, as per usual, drinks a little too much than he should, so Al-Haitham sends Tighnari off and wishes him safe travels back to Gandharva Ville alone, clears the table, and helps Kaveh to his room. He takes off Kaveh’s shoes, untangles his braids, slips out his earrings, and pulls each of his pins out one by one—nodding along to Kaveh’s incoherent babbling and rambles.
“Al-Haitham,” Kaveh says, giggling.
Al-Haitham hums.
Kaveh’s hands squish his cheeks, forcing him to look at him.
“Hi,” he says. “Hello.”
Al-Haitham raises a brow. He pulls the covers over Kaveh, tucking him in
“The room is spinning,” he says.
“You’ll sleep it off,” he mumbles around Kaveh’s hands.
“You look very funny.”
“I’m sure I do.”
“Are you sad?”
He lifts his gaze. There’s a quiet smile on Kaveh’s face as he stares unabashedly back.
“You look sad,” he says, soft.
Al-Haitham blinks.
“No.” He pulls Kaveh’s hands off of him, lips twitching into a frown. “I’m not sad. I’m—” he hesitates. “I’m relieved.”
Kaveh nods. Al-Haitham watches his eyes blink slower and slower until they flutter shut and his breathing deepens and he falls asleep for good.
He sets a glass of water on Kaveh's bedside table and slips out of the room, closing the door behind him.
When he wakes for work the next day, Kaveh is already gone.
There is breakfast lined out for him on the table—an assortment of sliced fruits, flatbreads, jam, nuts, cheese, and coffee warming in their pot. A single plate and set of utensils wait for him, their other set already drying on their rack.
Al-Haitham stares at the table, drags a hand through his hair, and sighs.
Between the two of them, he is always the one who wakes later. Kaveh, despite his awful sleep schedule, is nothing if not devoted to his craft. And Al-Haitham, even with his sensible sleep schedule, is nothing if not unmotivated—especially for a job he keeps to pay the bills.
But, he does make sure to catch Kaveh before he leaves. And Kaveh knows to wait on him before he steps out the door for the day. It is a silent agreement they came to—a habit developed from their time spent living together; that despite Kaveh’s erratic schedule and Al-Haitham’s methodical one, they find time to greet each other before they’re off their separate ways.
He pours himself a cup of coffee and helps himself to the food, pretending he enjoys the silence that perpetually clings to their walls. He takes a sip and frowns when he tastes a hint of cardamom in the drink.
It is jarring to taste the spice.
The coffee settles in him like burning acid—bitter and burnt.
But, the thing is, Kaveh is not here.
Somewhere in his line of thought post-surgery and post-memory alteration, Kaveh decided not to follow through with their habit of morning greetings. Breakfast is set but the person responsible is absent.
And yet, he still remembers how Al-Haitham likes his coffee. He still prepared it the way he usually prepares it when he’s looking to butter Al-Haitham up.
Why is this the thing that Kaveh decided to act on from his memories? Why has he left early, but still prepared coffee the same way Al-Haitham likes it when they both know Kaveh despises his coffee with anything more than cream?
It feels out of character.
Although, Kaveh has felt out of character since his procedure.
All circumstances considered, he should have expected this.
Kaveh is alive.
That is all that matters.
He takes it upon himself to finish the remaining coffee in the pot. Then, he cleans up breakfast and sets his plates to dry right next to Kaveh’s. He takes the single silver key from their bowl and locks the door behind him.
Eight hours later, he returns at five o’clock on the dot.
Kaveh is already home when he arrives, his blueprints spread about the table like nothing has changed. For a moment, Al-Haitham pauses at the door, a welcoming sense of deja vu creeping up at the sight of Kaveh with his livelihood spread out in front of him rather than hidden away in his room.
And then, Kaveh looks up, and that same curious expression appears on his face—analyzing Al-Haitham like he’s one of his many, many blueprints—a puzzle waiting to be solved. There’s a question on the tip of his tongue as he stares at Al-Haitham, hidden behind the furrow in his brow.
“How was your day?” Al-Haitham asks—the words foreign on his lips.
Kaveh blinks, a flicker of confusion crossing his expression.
“It was good,” he says slowly. “How was yours?”
“It was fine,” Al-Haitham replies. He stares at Kaveh for a moment longer, then takes his shoes off—setting them next to Kaveh’s white flats.
Kaveh offers Al-Haitham a polite smile when he looks back up, then starts collecting his blueprints and tools off the coffee table, neatly rolling them up and tucking him under his arm.
“You are free to stay out,” Al-Haitham says before he can get too far.
Kaveh looks up, that polite smile still on his face.
“I wouldn’t want to impose.”
“That didn’t stop you before.”
The smile strains itself. Al-Haitham wants it gone.
“That was before. This is now,” Kaveh says. “You like your silence, don’t you?”
Not like this. Not so suddenly. Not when the noises became so familiar. Or perhaps, not when he feels as if he’s living with the ghost of someone he once knew—chasing the shadows of what had once been, what he once took for granted.
Is this what it feels like to break up with someone? To remember someone’s past so intimately and be unable to recognize the stranger they are now? Al-Haitham knows the way Kaveh likes his coffee, the way Kaveh spices his food, the way he goes silent in deep conversation or deep distress, the tiny snores he exhales when he’s tired.
But this Kaveh isn’t the same; he is distant. He blocks himself in his room rather than stay in their living room or study. He smiles more. He talks less. He makes himself as small as possible. Al-Haitham knew Kaveh better than anyone else, and this was not his Kaveh—not anymore.
How ironic of him to compare this situation to a breakup.
He stares at Kaveh, at the demure smile still on his face and the blueprints still underneath his arm—his expression factitiously open. Al-Haitham’s brows pinch on his face, bordering a glare.
“Do what you want,” he says curtly, spinning on his heels and striding his room. He pauses by the hallway and glances back—watching that distant smile on Kaveh’s lips. “But do us both a favor and stop smiling like that. It doesn’t fit you. I’d much rather you shout at me than force a smile you don’t mean.”
His smile falters. Al-Haitham continues towards his room, shutting the door behind him.
It takes a little more than a week for Al-Haitham to come home to a truly empty house—Kaveh’s house keys and shoes nowhere to be seen.
It is one of those nights then.
In the past, Al-Haitham remembers appreciating the quiet of the house whenever Kaveh was out having dinner with his juniors or catching up with colleagues or drowning his frustrations down a bottle. It allowed him a few hours of pure silence for some light reading or translating without having to answer to anyone before he picked Kaveh up from whichever corner he’d cooped himself up in for the night.
Now, the silence feels heavy—as if it’s being weighed down by the dust in the air, musty and untouched.
Al-Haitham exhales—almost able to taste the staleness in the air.
At least he can take some respite in the fact that this hasn’t changed—no matter how much he disapproves of it.
The sun shines. The grass is green. Kaveh leaves their home once a week to drink his frustrations away without Al-Haitham there to nag him.
He cooks himself a light dinner, throwing in whatever ingredients he finds from their shelves. It’s blander than he remembers his cooking being, albeit, that may be because it’s been a while since he has cooked by himself. But it’s filling and it’s nutritious and it’s food, so he eats in silence. Then, he clears the table and settles on the divan with a book.
The minutes tick by. Al-Haitham shifts in his seat. He fidgets with his headphones, then takes them off completely. The house is still as silent even without them—as if the place is trapped in a pocket of repeating time.
He waits.
An hour before midnight, Al-Haitham snaps his book shut. He grabs his cape from the coat rack and slips on his boots, pinching his silver key from the bowl. Then, he strides to their front door—mind already running through the possibilities of where Kaveh may be, who he could be with, how inebriated he is at this hour, if he can walk by himself or if he needs Al-Haitham to help him like before.
The doorknob jiggles before he even makes it to the door. He pauses, watching like he’s witnessing a miracle when Kaveh slips through the threshold, a tipsy smile lighting his face. He sways in his step but doesn’t falter when he slips his shoes off—humming a slight tune under his breath.
He lifts his head. His gaze finds Al-Haitham’s. Kaveh startles, smile immediately slipping from his face.
For a long moment, neither of them moves.
Al-Haitham exhales, crossing his arms.
Kaveh blinks.
“Hello,” he greets, his eyes flickering all across Al-Haitham before landing on the silver key in his hand. “Oh. Are you going somewhere?”
Al-Haitham purses his lips and shakes his head. He turns and drops his key back in their bowl.
“Not anymore.”
He retraces his steps back towards their sofas and picks up his book, raising a brow when he sees Kaveh still standing at the doorway—a sudden frown pinching his face like he’s holding back his words.
“Are you mad?” Kaveh asks.
“No,” Al-Haitham answers, short.
“You sound like you are.”
He sighs.
“I’m not.”
Kaveh bites his lip. He steps into the living room, hovering awkwardly near the divans. Al-Haitham waits, lowering himself in the seat.
Kaveh makes no move to follow suit.
“I won’t bite if you come closer,” he drawls, crossing his arms over his chest. Kaveh’s eyes trace the movement, teeth sinking deeper into his lip.
“Were you leaving to come look for me?” he asks, his fingers lightly skimming the backs of the divan opposite to Al-Haitham.
“I was.” Al-Haitham lets his eyes scan Kaveh’s slightly flushed cheeks and bright red eyes. Despite his unsteadiness, the other seems to only be tipsy tonight. “You are often drunk out of your mind around this time, and I am usually the one tasked to bring you home.”
Kaveh frowns. Al-Haitham watches him squeeze the cushion of the sofa in an almost rhythmic motion, like the quick beating of a heart.
“Thank you for always bringing me back,” he says, short and polite. “It must’ve been frustrating having to clean up after me.”
Al-Haitham lets the words linger, hanging in the air like mist in the sky. An acrid taste settles on his tongue from the way Kaveh talks—as if taking care of him is a chore.
“It wasn’t,” he says. Not when it’s Kaveh, though he doesn’t say that.
Kaveh’s brows furrow—looking uncertain on his side of the room.
“You don’t have to do it anymore,” he says, slow. “I can bring myself home from now on.”
Al-Haitham’s frown is immediate.
“And if you’re too drunk to do so?”
“I’ll make sure I never get to that point,” Kaveh says. “I’m capable of drinking in moderation.”
“You don’t have a good track record of that, senior,” he says blandly.
Kaveh’s hands claw into the cushion at the endearment, a flicker of surprise overriding the indignation that follows soon after. He awkwardly clears his throat and looks away.
“I came home by myself tonight, didn’t I?” he says.
Al-Haitham presses his lips together.
“And if you are robbed because you were an easy target?”
“Then I’ll handle it when it comes,” Kaveh says, gaze lifting before slipping away as soon as it meets Al-Haitham’s. “You don’t need to worry about me anymore.”
Al-Haitham lets his hands curl around the book in his lap, fingers pressing into the hardcover—squeezing the pages together.
“If that’s what you want,” he says, leaning back against the divan.
Kaveh closes his eyes, hands still pressed against the cushion. The furrow in his brows deepens.
“I’m too drunk for this,” he mutters and blinks his eyes open. That same analytical expression crosses his face, directing itself at him again—a hallmark of this new “familiar” between them. “I’m going to my room.”
Al-Haitham exhales, long and drawn-out.
“Fine.” He flips open his book, finding the page he’d stopped at for the night. He hears Kaveh’s frustrated sigh. There’s a slight pause—a moment of quiet hesitation—before Kaveh makes his way to his room, his footsteps fading down the hall.
The door creaks open, then clicks shut. Al-Haitham snaps his book shut and tosses it aside. He leans his head back and closes his eyes, his skin crawling with untapped energy; an expectation unmet—a routine falling out of favor.
Realistically, he should be happy. He has his evenings back. Kaveh’s safety is no longer his concern. He does not have to leave his house in search of his wayward senior anymore. He can stay at home like Kaveh expects him to.
Hadn’t he always reprimanded a hungover Kaveh the morning after about inconveniencing him?
Are those the only memories Kaveh remembers now?
How unfortunate, given he never meant a single word.
Despite every complaint, he still went out every night Kaveh wasn’t home and found him—in Lambad’s Tavern, in Puspa Cafe, at Razan Gardens, sometimes slightly tipsy, sometimes black-out drunk—and brought him home.
But, of course, this version of Kaveh wouldn’t realize, would he?
Sentimental, he can hear Kaveh’s voice say. How far the Scribe has fallen.
Not sentiment. Routine, he would respond back. Are we not habitual creatures at our core?
Routine.
This was another unspoken routine. Like sliced fruit as apologies, like greeting each other good morning, like Kaveh’s blueprints spread across their table, like the two of them keeping each other silent company.
It doesn’t mean anything, but Al-Haitham had always expected himself to be the one to bring Kaveh home—just like the first time he’d seen the man after the completion of the Palace of Alcazarzaray. And it doesn’t mean anything, but there had always been a certain level of trust Kaveh placed in Al-Haitham every time he brought him home, even during the first time.
And it doesn’t mean anything, but somehow, it meant everything to see Kaveh come the closest he ever could to believing Al-Haitham would always catch him if he fell. It meant something to hold that unbridled trust—despite all their disagreements and arguments.
It means something for Kaveh to tell him he no longer needs to fulfill that responsibility.
Or, perhaps he is overthinking, assigning importance to inconveniences.
Kaveh will bring himself home from now on. Al-Haitham no longer needs to leave his house for him.
It means nothing.
These days, Kaveh is out more often than not during the night.
Sometimes it’s dinner with Tighnari. Sometimes it’s dinner with Cyno. Sometimes it’s dinner with Tighnari and Cyno. Always some get-together with his Kshahrewar juniors; some conference between scholars in the architectural and civil engineering field; some expedition in the desert that requires him to leave for a few days.
There is always something.
Most days, Al-Haitham returns home to dinner prepared on the table with a short note from Kaveh on his whereabouts. The house is empty, and he is alone.
He realizes after the first few weeks of consecutive dinners alone that the loneliness is not what bothers him. He is not Kaveh. He does not become anxious when the house is quiet.
What bothers him is the extra set of everything they own. The extra mugs, the extra pairs of shoes, the extra dutars and plates and blankets and space set aside for another. They point to another person living here—dishes drying that Al-Haitham doesn’t remember washing, groceries in the cupboards he doesn’t remember buying, rooms swept and bookshelves dusted and paintings switched out at someone’s fancy that wasn’t his own.
There are signs in the house that Kaveh still lives here.
But despite that, Al-Haitham doesn’t see Kaveh at home. In the mornings, he leaves before Al-Haitham wakes. In the evenings, he is out with his colleagues, his friends, his juniors, and doesn’t come home until after Al-Haitham has retreated to his own room—awake and listening for their front door open and close and footsteps quietly pad their way to Kaveh’s bedroom.
He bears witness to the traces Kaveh leaves behind every day, but not Kaveh himself. A constant reminder that things have changed.
And he prefers this change over the alternative—over Kaveh dying to a few petty flowers. He would always rather Kaveh here than gone.
But it’s as if they are once again estranged—like time has played a trick and they’re facing the consequences of their doomed group project once again. Kaveh, off doing grand things as he is always meant to do while being pulled every which way. And Al-Haitham, watching from the sidelines in academic articles and mindless bulletin board notes just to see Kaveh speak to him again.
He hadn’t expected this. He hadn’t expected Kaveh’s lack of context surrounding his emotions bringing them back to the times when they were not on speaking terms. Right now, Kaveh acts like he read a book on their lives rather than experienced it himself. He knows the order of events and the facts from their past, but nothing else—like he’s only masquerading the role of “Kaveh with Al-Haitham.”
He may as well have forgotten the last decade between them.
And Al-Haitham underestimated how much things that would change things.
Their old routine, the ease with which they once talked, the way Kaveh would speak without the tension and the carefulness and the worry he seems to carry around with him now. Sitting next to Kaveh during their biweekly dinners with Cyno and Tighnari hadn’t always felt so isolating. Conversations hadn’t always been the small talk they resort to now just to have something to say. Kaveh hadn’t always felt so far—a mere arm’s length rather than a yawning chasm’s worth.
No wonder Kaveh had been so reluctant. No wonder Kaveh made Al-Haitham promise nothing would change.
He supposes he hasn’t been holding up his promise given their current state of things.
But, with how things are currently, is that still something Kaveh wants?
It seems unlikely.
If anything, it is more likely Kaveh would move out the next day than care about maintaining a relationship with him again. With the way they rarely see each other, the way Kaveh barely speaks with him, the way he cuts their conversations short as soon as he is given the chance—Kaveh may as well have taken his first step towards the door, waving goodbye with that same polite smile before leaving for good.
And it would be different this time around because Kaveh would have no ties to Al-Haitham anymore—not like that night at the tavern after the Palace of Alcazarzaray. He is the kind of person to always meet new people, join new projects, bring new structures to life, and Al-Haitham will simply become a passing thought in Kaveh’s memories—a section he can only remember the most sterile parts of.
He has no reason to stay. Why live with a stranger in a home that is no longer home? What is keeping Kaveh here when there are many, many others he is more familiar with now, others whom he still remembers where he stands in the relationship?
And if he leaves, Al-Haitham would be the sole keeper of their shared history—isolated by his own knowledge.
Isn’t that an ironic thought? Normally, it would be Kaveh who worried about being that untouchable genius holding more knowledge than most; normally, it was Kaveh who would rather fit in with the majority than rise above the mediocre. Al-Haitham had never endeavored to squeeze himself into those boxes and lines—especially when it came to knowledge.
Although, he supposes this sort of knowledge—this kind of history—is meant to be shared. It is not meant for one person to hold by themself. But when one of them forgets how they fit together, what is there left for the person who still remembers?
What does he want?
When he steps into his empty house haunted by Kaveh’s lingering presence, what is it that he wants?
Al-Haitham opens the door to their house.
It’s empty, again.
He sighs.
He slips his shoes off, drapes his cape on their coat rack, and approaches their dinner table with a serving of sabz meat stew still steaming—meaning Kaveh had only just recently left. There is a note tucked under the plate again in Kaveh’s rushed print—a dinner with his Kshahrewar juniors today, some research they wanted to show him.
Al-Haitham pulls his chair out and sits down, poking the food with his fork. When he takes a bite, it tastes just like Kaveh would’ve made it pre-procedure. It tastes like Kaveh’s cooking even when Kaveh is not here and Al-Haitham is the one left behind.
He drags a hand down his face, resting it over his mouth.
Is the answer not obvious?
He wants Kaveh to stay.
He has always wanted Kaveh to stay.
And realistically, if Kaveh decided to move out, Al-Haitham would get over it. He would move on. And it would feel better than being stuck in this limbo of Kaveh living here but never being here. Al-Haitham wouldn’t have to stare at the extra set of everything and wonder where that extra life went.
He would move on, as he always does.
But he’d rather Kaveh here.
He’d prefer to wake up with coffee made just the way he likes it and a good morning waiting for him by the door. He’d prefer to come home seeing blueprints spread across every surface and Kaveh right in the middle of it. He’d prefer to leave his house on the nights Kaveh is out and bring him back home because Kaveh trusted him to keep him safe and he had silently promised to offer a hand and pull Kaveh back to shore each time he started to drown.
He’d prefer to keep the space Kaveh has carved into his home filled with the man himself, to argue and bicker and debate over whatever serves their fancy. He wants him here, to reflect his best and worst traits back at him, to provide him with a view of the world he could never see for himself, to know him like he knows Kaveh back.
He would move on, yes. He can live without Kaveh, just as Kaveh can live without him.
But he would also prefer not to be given that choice in the first place.
Kaveh comes home an hour before midnight—earlier than he usually would. Al-Haitham is sitting on their divan with a book in his lap when Kaveh walks through the door, his red eyes clear and bright when he meets Al-Haitham’s gaze.
Kaveh starts at their doorway.
“You’re still awake,” he notes.
“I am,” Al-Haitham confirms. “I wanted to talk.”
Kaveh presses his lips together, expression dampening into faint flickers of emotion. His eyes linger on the hallway that leads to his room before he slips his shoes off and pads towards their divans, sitting gingerly across from Al-Haitham.
“I’m here then. What did you want to talk about?”
Al-Haitham pauses.
“You haven’t been around the house anymore,” he starts carefully, resting his chin on the palm of his hand, his book still precariously balanced on his lap, “and I wanted to ask why.”
“Why?”
“Yes. Are you uncomfortable here? Do you need alternative lodgings? I can ask for a room in a hotel for you until you’re able to find another place to stay. Or, if I am the one making you uncomfortable, I can leave.”
Kaveh scoffs, surprised.
“You? Leave your own home?”
“Not permanently, just until things have been sorted,” Al-Haitham amends. “The current arrangement isn’t working—not if you feel you must leave the house as early as possible and return as late as you can.”
“The current arrangement is working fine,” Kaveh says slowly, eyeing him. “I’m not uncomfortable. I don’t need alternative lodgings. Unless you want me to go, in which case, that’s a different story.”
“I would’ve said so if I did.”
“You would’ve, yes,” he agrees easily. It makes Al-Haitham give pause. “Stop talking like that by the way. It’s weird.”
“Talking like what?” he asks.
“Talking so… politely. You’re not polite.”
“I am speaking like I normally do,” Al-Haitham deadpans.
“No. You aren’t,” Kaveh says, fully convinced. “If you did, you would’ve told me, ‘You haven’t been around the house anymore. Stop beating around the bush if you are planning to leave. It wastes both of our time, senior.’” He stops, cheeks flushing, and bites his lip. “Or something. You get the idea. You’re being too polite.”
“I’m always polite.”
“We both know that’s a lie,” Kaveh states—matter-of-fact. “I might be missing a few… context clues regarding this”—he gestures around, then between the two of them—“but I still remember the scenes—and I remember how we spoke to each other. You don’t mince your words. And… I’d rather you continue speaking like that. It makes it more awkward to see you refuse to.”
“Why? It’s hardly something you’re used to at this point.”
Kaveh’s lips press into a thin line. He exhales harshly through his nose, hand coming up to rub at his temple.
“It is though,” he says, quiet. “The last few memories I remember before the procedure is of you telling me I need to make the logical choice and get the surgery, and it doesn’t matter what I feel or how important you are to me when I’m dying.”
Al-Haitham hesitates.
“And?”
“And that is what I’m used to, still,” Kaveh says. “Even if I don’t remember how I felt in those moments, I do remember how you spoke, and how I talked back to you. And if you were to speak differently to me, it would feel just as awkward as it would have before my procedure.”
“Why have you changed how you reacted then?” Al-Haitham asks. “If you remember how things used to be, why have you strayed from your memories?”
Kaveh shifts in his seat. He looks away from Al-Haitham’s eyes.
“Because, without my memories, I don’t remember how… how close we were.” He chews on his lip, hands wringing in his lap. “Did you assume I forgot everything after my procedure?”
“I assumed you remembered; you still followed a few of our more innocuous routines without me saying,” Al-Haitham says. “But I thought you didn’t care to figure out where we had once stood before the procedure, and simply assumed we were… roommates, I suppose.”
“But that is what we are though, right?” Kaveh asks, carefully—pointedly.
Al-Haitham hesitates.
“Yes. I suppose it is,” he concedes, reluctant.
Kaveh stares at him—that same calculating gaze he gave Al-Haitham just after his procedure. His eyes narrow until only the lighter shade of his irises are visible.
For a long moment, neither of them speaks.
“I still remember the past events as they had happened,” he starts, slow. “Meeting you in the House of Daena, our thesis group project, our fallout, that night in the tavern—all those. But it’s weird. My memories with you are hazier than with others, and more… detached, like I’m a spectator to my own life.
“And… when I interact with you, it feels like I should know how to talk to you with how many memories I have about you, but I just—I don’t. It’s like I studied the idea of you for a test and memorized all the facts I needed to pass—but never understood how each part aligned with the whole. How you are—were, around me.”
“And your solution was to avoid me entirely then?”
Kaveh’s brow twitches.
“No. My solution was to ask people about us,” he says, sniffing.
“Oh?” Al-Haitham asks. “And what did you find out?”
Kaveh huffs—expression twisting into one of frustration.
“That we’re a walking contradiction,” he grumbles. “It doesn’t make sense how we can speak so harshly to each other, step on each other's toes on a daily basis, complain to others about our living situation, and still live under the same roof together, day in and day out.” He pauses. “Unless we cared enough about each other to look past those grievances.”
He stares at Al-Haitham—rather purposefully. Al-Haitham purses his lips and nods once. Kaveh sighs, sounding disappointed, and looks away.
“Of course, I don’t know how much you and I really cared, not without the context of my emotions during those same times. But…” he trails off, hands fiddling in his lap. He meets Al-Haitham’s gaze, skitters away, then comes back again—almost defiant. “But I do have some idea of what you meant to me.”
Al-Haitham straightens imperceptibly. He lets his arm fall against the armrest, clenching and unclenching his jaw. The silence hangs between them, weighted and heavy.
“How do you want to proceed from here then, Kaveh?” Al-Haitham asks evenly.
Kaveh purses his lips, inclining his head towards him.
“Do you want me to stay?” he asks, the words sinking in the air.
Al-Haitham exhales.
“What I want has nothing to do with whether you stay or not.”
He watches Kaveh huff and cross his arms.
“Do you want me to leave, then?” he rephrases, a purposeful prodding in his tone. “That has everything to do with what you want.”
Al-Haitham stares.
What a stupid question.
“No,” he says, honest. “I don’t.”
Kaveh’s eyes widen. He blinks slowly. Al-Haitham lets his gaze flicker across Kaveh’s face. And then, he stands, his grasp tightening on the book in his hands.
“It’s late. I’m going to bed.”
“What—bed?” Kaveh repeats, confused.
He nods, already striding towards his half of the house—cutting their conversation short.
“Good night, Kaveh.”
He feels Kaveh’s stare burn into him like a bruise.
In the morning, Al-Haitham finds Kaveh, for once, sitting at their dining table—a cup in his hands as he stares out the window. He stares at the scene, an unwelcome sense of deja vu settling in his bones at the sight—like he’s been brought back to the past before the procedure, before everything now.
Kaveh glances up as soon as he steps into the kitchen and waves a hand at the food laid out in front of him—watching curiously as Al-Haitham approaches the table.
Al-Haitham stares back and looks away first, eyes catching on the steaming cup of coffee in front of him as he sits down. He takes a sip—tasting a hint of cardamom—and frowns.
“You’ve been making the coffee to my tastes lately,” Al-Haitham starts, lifting his gaze to meet Kaveh’s. “Why?”
Kaveh purses his lips and shrugs.
“Force of habit. Probably.”
“But you weren’t ever here in the mornings. That too is a habit we developed.”
“Because I had work and prior engagements. And…” he pauses, “I thought you’d appreciate the silence. At least, that’s what I remembered you saying.”
Al-Haitham doesn’t immediately respond. He takes another sip.
“We hardly ever mean what we say.”
Kaveh exhales, shooting him a dry stare.
“I see that now,” he drawls. “But those words were all I had to work with before—so I tried my best to accommodate to what I thought I knew.”
Al-Haitham doesn’t respond. He sets his mug down, staring at the ripples sloshing the coffee around.
“Why didn’t you talk to me?” he asks.
“After you tore me out for asking what Sumeru roses meant?” Kaveh asks raising a brow. His fingers tap against his mug in a rhythmic pattern. “Only an idiot would miss just how much you were upset and hurting back then. I didn’t want to throw salt on the wound asking you to tell me how I was supposed to act around you.
“Besides,” he continues, “I… didn’t know how close we were. It was just easier to talk to others—ask them about it.”
Al-Haitham lifts his gaze from his mug just as Kaveh tilts his head, looking out the window again. He lets his eyes linger—observing the way the sun filters down on Kaveh, turning the strands of his hair golden and red eyes a burning ochre.
“I was the one you developed hanahaki for,” he admits, watching Kaveh turn his head towards him. “Your unrequited love was with me.”
Kaveh purses his lips.
“I know,” he says. “I figured when my distorted memories were all centered around you.” He laughs, sardonic. “It’s funny how much my memories changed without you there for context.”
Al-Haitham narrows his eyes, filing that comment away for later.
“I suppose I shouldn’t have expected any less from our Master Architect,” he says.
Kaveh stiffens, a hand awkwardly coming up to rub the back of his neck.
“No. I suppose not.”
Their conversation lulls. Al-Haitham lets the peaceful silence be for a bit—basking in how natural it feels once again.
“When you eventually agreed to go through with the procedure,” he starts, slow. “You asked me to ensure we continued to stay friends. Do you remember that?”
“I don’t,” Kaveh says. “But… given what I know from my memories… I’m not surprised I said that.”
“Is it still something you want?” Al-Haitham asks. “I am aware I promised you that before the procedure but—circumstances have changed. And I’d understand if you’d rather we part ways here and keep our relationship strictly distant.”
Kaveh presses his lips together, tilting his head towards Al-Haitham.
“You keep asking what I want,” he murmurs. “What about you?”
“What about me?”
“What do you want?”
“I thought I made my intentions clear last night,” Al-Haitham says.
“You told me you wanted me to stay before you ran away to your room.”
Al-Haitham narrows his eyes.
“I didn’t ‘run away.’”
“A strategic retreat then,” Kaveh says, waving his hand. “Regardless, that doesn’t tell me what you want from this. It’s a two-way street, even if you remember the street better than I do right now.”
“I don’t want anything from you,” Al-Haitham says. “Frankly, I’d rather you act selfish. You rarely act like the genius everyone calls you when it comes to your own well-being. It’s a miracle you’ve lasted this long with how little self-preservation you hold.”
Kaveh stares. He’s silent for an inordinate amount of time, enough that Al-Haitham finds himself narrowing his eyes.
“You’re doing it again,” Kaveh murmurs.
“What?”
“Hiding.” He brings a hand to his chin, staring at Al-Haitham like he’s one of his blueprints.
Al-Haitham raises a brow.
“How am I hiding, senior?”
“Your intentions. You keep hiding them behind your bluntness,” Kaveh murmurs. “It’s like you don’t want me finding out how much you actually care.”
Al-Haitham crosses his arms. Kaveh’s eyes track the movement.
“How much do you think I care then?” he asks.
Kaveh pauses, hesitating.
“I’m—not quite sure yet.” His hands wrap around his mug, squeezing tight. “It remains to be seen, I suppose.”
Al-Haitham’s eyes narrow.
“I care enough to know whether you still want me to fulfill my previous promise to you.”
He takes a sip of his coffee, staring pointedly at Kaveh.
Kaveh frowns.
“You just want me to drop the topic because you know I’m right.”
“I want you to answer the question.”
“Why don’t you just say your intentions to me straight?”
“I do say it to you straight,” Al-Haitham says, mouth pinched. “It has always been you who misunderstood my intentions.”
Kaveh opens his mouth, then stops, looking suddenly like a fish out of water. It’s almost worrying how still he becomes. His brows pinch, eyes flickering across Al-Haitham’s face, then his mug, and back again.
“Did I really?” he asks—genuinely confused.
Al-Haitham sighs and uncrosses his arms.
“You do. Stop changing the topic. I’ve answered your question. Now answer mine.”
Kaveh frowns—looking almost troubled. He leans back, biting on his lip and lost in thought.
“I still want us to stay friends,” he says after a moment. “I thought I’d made it obvious before.”
“Given how often things become lost in translation between us, I’d rather clarify than not,” Al-Haitham drawls.
Kaveh pauses and nods.
“Even with a few missing pieces in my memories, I can tell you were an integral part of my life.” He meets Al-Haitham’s stare, a delicate expression on his face. “Despite knowing how things panned out between us, it still feels like some things are missing from my person—like I don’t quite understand how I’ve reached the place I am now.”
“Where you are now has nothing to do with me.”
“But it does,” Kaveh insists. “I would know. I’m literally living the consequence of forgetting it. And besides, what are we if not an amalgamation of all the people who influenced us—one way or another.”
“And you considered the few years we spent in each other’s presence integral to your life?” Al-Haitham asks—tone dry.
Kaveh stares at him—for a long, dragging moment. Long enough that Al-Haitham straightens, wondering if he’d said something wrong.
“I never told you how important you were to me,” he murmurs, “did I?”
Al-Haitham tenses, sucking in a quiet breath. He breaks from Kaveh’s stare, eyes focusing on their empty fruit bowl just behind him, lips pressed in a thin line.
It’s not like he isn’t aware of the part he played in Kaveh’s life—one way or another. With how often their paths run parallel, it’s inevitable they would leave some mark on each other. Al-Haitham would be lying if he said Kaveh hadn’t influenced him—that meeting him hadn’t shown him a worldview he’d never considered, leaving him wanting more from his senior.
But it’s different to hear it from Kaveh himself, to realize the depth with which Kaveh held Al-Haitham—had held Al-Haitham.
For the briefest of moments, Al-Haitham wonders what it would be like to be loved by Kaveh—to be openly and unabashedly loved by him. To hold him without restraint, and be held just as tight. To wake up to the sight of him every day, and come home knowing he’s coming home to him. To see for himself Kaveh’s love—not in the forms of the damned Sumeru roses, but in the curve of his smile and the sweetness of his words and the warmth of his touch.
He brushes the thought aside. After all, he was loved. He just simply didn’t reciprocate in the same way. And now, things are different.
No sense wasting time on what could have been.
“You were important to me, Al-Haitham,” Kaveh says—the words heavy in the air. “The state of my current memories is proof of it.”
“I see,” Al-Haitham murmurs.
Things have changed. This would be enough.
They are running low on groceries.
And—it’s not often that both of them find themselves with free time.
“I’m usually the one who handles the grocery shopping,” Kaveh points out, falling in step with Al-Haitham as they descend down the Divine Tree towards the Grand Bazaar.
“You are.”
“Why did you ask if we could go grocery shopping together then?”
“Because we are running low on groceries.”
“I could’ve gone by myself.”
“Would you rather I not be here?” Al-Haitham asks.
Kaveh turns, immediately shaking his head.
“Of course not!”
“Then why do you keep asking meaningless questions?”
“Because I don’t remember you being the type to like going to the Grand Bazaar,” Kaveh accuses—brows furrowed.
Al-Haitham hums.
“You’re right.”
He pushes the oak doors leading into the Grand Bazaar open. Immediately, the din of the place hits them—echoing against the walls and the Divine Tree’s roots in a muddled mess of words. Al-Haitham grimaces and turns up the soundproofing of his headphones until the cacophony turns into faint murmurs. He starts walking forward.
An arm links through his.
Al-Haitham glances back, raising a brow when Kaveh pulls on his arm until they’re side-by-side again.
Kaveh leans closer.
Al-Haitham stiffens.
“So we don’t get separated,” he says—loud enough for him to hear past his soundproofing. Al-Haitham exhales and nods once. Somehow, that’s invitation enough for Kaveh to start pulling them towards one of the produce stalls.
As soon as they’re close, Kaveh strikes up a conversation with the middle-aged lady behind the counter.
“I’ve been a bit busy these days. I’m sorry,” he hears Kaveh say, a polite smile on his face as he responds to what seems to be an admonishment from the lady. Al-Haitham glances up, watching her seemingly scold Kaveh some more before relenting and offering him a warm smile.
Kaveh’s sheepish chuckle cuts through the muted noise—clear as day.
“You’re too kind, Aunt Fariba,” he hears Kaveh say.
Al-Haitham looks away, assessing one of the cucumbers in front of the stall rather than trying to keep track of what Kaveh and the stall owner are saying. He rips a plastic bag from the stall and starts bagging a few he deems acceptable, then adds in a handful of tomatoes, onions, and garlic to the mix.
“How much is all of this?” he asks—interrupting Kaveh mid-sentence. Kaveh starts and shoots him an annoyed look.
The woman blinks—as if she too had forgotten he was there. She takes the bag, sorts through the vegetables, and adds them up.
“One thousand five hundred,” the woman says. She glances at Kaveh and smiles. “Although, if these groceries are for you, Kaveh, it’s one thousand.”
“What? No, no. We’ll pay the full price—”
“Nonsense, I insist—”
Al-Haitham hands over one thousand five hundred mora exactly. The woman stares and slowly takes the mora—brow raised—before handing over the bag of produce. Al-Haitham slips it into their grocery bag and tugs Kaveh onwards towards other stalls.
“Wait. Al-Haitham, wait. Ah—bye, Aunt Fariba! It was nice seeing you!”
Kaveh swats his shoulder once they’re far enough from Aunt Fariba’s stall.
“What was that for?” he hears Kaveh hiss—head leaned close to his.
“You were taking too long.”
“I was talking to the stall owner!”
“And we would’ve been there for hours had I let you two continue to talk some more.” Al-Haitham tugs Kaveh forward. “There are still more stalls to go through. Let’s go.”
They slow to a stop at the next table. Al-Haitham picks up a bundle of spinach, parsing through the leaves, and finds his eyes trailing towards the fruit stands farther down. Next to him, Kaveh starts a conversation with the old man behind the counter. Al-Haitham watches on, and interrupts Kaveh mid-sentence.
It becomes a cycle.
The two of them will approach a shop together, arm in arm. Kaveh will strike up some sort of conversation with the owner, whether it’s about the weather (“It hasn’t been raining as much this year, has it? Are your crops doing alright?”), their family (“How is your daughter? She just passed the Akademiya Rtawahist entrance exams, right?”), the current news (“I heard Miss Nilou and the troupe are performing another play soon, is it true?”), or anything under the sun.
Al-Haitham will pick out the produce, grabbing the things they need before handing it to the stall owner without fanfare—interrupting Kaveh each time. The bemused stall owner will take the bag, add up their total, and attempt to give them a discount because of Kaveh. Kaveh will deny the discount as profusely as the stall owner will insist on it, before Al-Haitham hands over just enough mora to cover the full price, takes the bag from the surprised store owner, and pulls a frustrated Kaveh along towards the next stall.
It works surprisingly well, and they get through their list of groceries before the sun has started to work its way down.
“You kept interrupting my conversations with the stall owners. I wasn’t able to talk with any of them,” Kaveh grumbles, adjusting the strap of his bag.
“You spoke with all of them.”
“I didn’t finish speaking with any of them.”
“If I let you have your way, we’d still be at the first produce stall with Aunt Fariba,” Al-Haitham says blandly. He turns down the soundproofing just as they step out of the Grand Bazaar and back up to the surface level.
Kaveh huffs. He unlinks his arm from Al-Haitham’s and starts rooting through their bags.
“What did you buy?”
“Everything on our list.”
Kaveh snorts.
“I’d hope so,” he drawls, then pauses. He pulls something out, staring curiously at Al-Haitham. “Soup stock?”
“It was on our list.”
“No it wasn’t—you hate soup,” Kaveh says, brow raised.
“Then it’s a good thing I’m not the only one using our groceries,” Al-Haitham replies. “It’s for when either of us are sick.”
Kaveh purses his lips. He continues searching, pulling out an assortment of cheeses and cream from his bag.
“Since when did you like cheese?”
“Cheese is fine.”
“Hand me your bag.” Kaveh starts pulling on the strap before he’s finished asking, handing Al-Haitham the other one to take.
He opens it up and blinks. His gaze flicks between Al-Haitham and whatever he’s found, brows knitting together.
“There’s only fruit in this bag.”
Al-Haitham raises a brow.
“Yes. And?”
“Why is there so much fresh fruit?”
“Our fruit bowl was empty.”
“Al-Haitham,” Kaveh starts, sounding halfway between exasperated and… something more delicate. “None of this was on our shopping list.”
Al-Haitham pauses, stopping just in front of their door. He looks back, watching Kaveh slow to a stop a few feet away, eyes bright like he’s trying not to laugh at him.
If he’s being honest, he didn’t even think before buying these things. It was second nature to add it to his list.
“You ask for them so often. I am saving us an extra trip to the Bazaar.”
“But none of these things were on our list,” Kaveh insists. “These are things I like. And I didn't even realize we ran out of them.”
“You haven’t been home enough to notice,” Al-Haitham points out—lacking any bite. He slips his key into the keyhole. “I don’t see what the big deal is.”
“Al-Haitham,” Kaveh intones—sounding almost teasing.
“If you don’t want them, I can always return the items—”
“H-hey now,” he protests. Al-Haitham’s lips twitch. “I never said that…”
He turns the handle and steps into their home. Kaveh follows just a mere step behind.
“Really? It almost sounded like you were complaining.”
“I’m not! I swear.”
“Good.” Al-Haitham sets his bag on the chair. “Put food away.”
Kaveh makes a noise of protest. “And what are you going to do then?”
“Take a nap.”
His door shuts just as Kaveh starts spluttering in the kitchen.
He makes it home before Kaveh today. There’s no note or pre-cooked dinner set out on the table this time around. There hasn’t been for a few days now. He prefers this—the sight of an empty house over one haunted by its inhabitants.
He glances at the clock, slips off his gloves, and enters the kitchen.
Hours later, Al-Haitham hears their lock turn and Kaveh stumble through the door, Mehrak’s characteristic beeps following close behind. There’s a bit of shuffling before Kaveh pokes his head into the kitchen—a cautious look on his face.
“You’re cooking.”
“Hello to you too,” Al-Haitham drawls, glancing back from the stove.
“Since when did you cook?”
“I survived just fine before you moved in with me, Kaveh.”
Kaveh’s eyes narrow. They slide from the pot he has simmering on the stove to the stack of crispy pita bread shapes.
“Are you making fatteh?” he asks, stepping fully into the space and examining his yogurt sauce.
“I am if you want to make your little Alcazarzaray on the plate,” Al-Haitham says. “All the ingredients have already been prepared.”
Kaveh hums and peeks into the pot Al-Haitham’s stirring.
“Is that sabz meat stew?”
“Yes.”
“It’s not your flatbread abomination.”
“Yes.”
Kaveh throws him an odd look.
“Are you sick?”
“No.”
“Did something bad happen at work?”
“No.”
“Has someone recently received bad news?”
“No.”
“Good news then?”
“Kaveh.” Al-Haitham sighs. “Prepare the fatteh if you have so much energy.”
Kaveh doesn’t move, still staring at Al-Haitham rather intently.
“Isn’t dinner my duty?”
“Technically, no. You simply always take it upon yourself to cook us dinner,” Al-Haitham says, turning to face Kaveh fully. “I noticed you weren’t home tonight, and I’d rather not eat late if I can help it.”
Kaveh purses his lips. He moves towards the fatteh ingredients—scooping the chickpeas onto their serving plate.
“So you took it upon yourself to make soup,” Kaveh notes.
“Stew.”
“Something you can’t easily eat while you read,” Kaveh amends.
“Sabz meat stew is one of my favorite dishes,” Al-Haitham says, raising a brow. “If I knew all your extra energy was going to be directed at criticizing my choices, I wouldn’t have started dinner at all.”
“If your choices weren’t so interesting, we wouldn’t be here, junior.” Al-Haitham’s hands still at the casual nickname, gaze flickering to Kaveh before returning to the stew just as quick.
“There’s a reason people call me a lunatic, Light of Kshahrewar,” Al-Haitham says.
“People used to call me an urchin, Al-Haitham. You aren’t special.”
“I never claimed to be.”
“Nor are you a ‘lunatic’ either.”
“I’m honored you believe so, senior.”
“Which is why your choices in dinner dishes today are so interesting.”
“We’re still discussing dinner?”
“Did we ever stop?”
“A shame. There’s nothing interesting about my dinner choices.” Al-Haitham glances next to him, watching Kaveh carefully balance a pita bread up in the yogurt ground. “I chose these dishes because that’s what I wanted to eat—and it’s what we had available in our pantries.”
Kaveh looks up from building the wall of his Alcazarzaray miniature, raising a brow at Al-Haitham.
“And there’s no other reason?”
“My answer hasn’t changed since you last asked.”
Kaveh deadpans and carefully stacks the pita bread walls higher.
“If you say so,” he says cryptically.
Al-Haitham narrows his eyes, but makes no comment. He takes out a few of their zaytun peaches and starts slicing.
“Dinner is waiting on your fatteh, Kaveh.”
“Don’t rush me.”
Kaveh’s light is still on when he enters the kitchen. It must be early morning by now—one of the few nights Al-Haitham woke up while it was still dark out.
He stares at the light seeping from under the gaps of the door, sipping quietly on his water. Then, he sets the glass down and pads towards the other side of the house. His knuckles rap three times against the door. He waits. When half a minute passes and no response comes, Al-Haitham twists the handle and opens the door.
Kaveh, as expected, is passed out on his desk, head pillowed by his arms and breathing deeply. There’s a smudge of charcoal across his cheek and ink on his fingers, his supplies set out in an organized mess like he’d been in the middle of something. The lamp flickers dully next to him, casting soft shadows across his face—making him appear younger than he is.
Al-Haitham places a hand on Kaveh’s shoulder and gently shakes.
“Kaveh?” he murmurs.
Kaveh grunts, mumbles in his sleep, and swats Al-Haitham’s hand away with all the coordination of a newborn child.
“You’re going to complain about you’re back tomorrow, and I’ll be the one forced to face the consequences,” Al-Haitham says, shaking a little rougher this time around.
Kaveh groans lowly, eyes blinking open and squinting. He stretches his arms out, rising from his hunched position, then looks to Al-Haitham, one hand rubbing his eye.
“Al-Haitham?” he mumbles.
Al-Haitham sighs. He lets his hand trail down to Kaveh’s bicep, gripping it and pulling him up.
“Come on. Sleep in your bed, senior.”
“Mmm,” Kaveh hums, letting himself be pulled to his feet.
He has the sense to take off his cape and belts before slipping into his sheets, but not much else to remember the other steps of his nighttime routine.
That is why Al-Haitham is there.
He carefully undoes the braid in Kaveh’s hair and slips out the crisscrossing clips, setting them down on the bedside table. Then, he runs his fingers through Kaveh's hair—loosening the strands from their twisted patterns. He grabs a wet towel from their bathroom and wipes away the smudge on his cheek, glancing up to find Kaveh staring half-asleep at him through half-lidded eyes.
“What are you doing?”
“You look like a mess,” Al-Haitham says. “I was wiping away a smudge.”
Kaveh blinks slow like a cat, and hums; no indignant response on the tip of his tongue this time around.
“Why are you awake?”
“I woke up and saw your light was still on.” He wipes at the bags under his eyes like they, too, are a smudge on Kaveh’s skin. “If you went to sleep on time you wouldn’t be falling asleep on your desk like some juvenile Akademiya student.”
Kaveh rolls his eyes and exhales.
“The drafts won’t draw themselves.”
“Your health won’t fix itself either.”
He doesn’t respond; Al-Haitham doesn’t expect him to—not this late. He pulls his hand back and stands, moving to snuff out the lamp.
“You act so mysterious and unreachable sometimes, Al-Haitham,” he hears Kaveh muse. When he turns back, Kaveh’s still staring at him—curled up in his sheets and looking at ease. “But you’re actually quite simple, aren’t you?”
Al-Haitham raises a brow.
“How so?”
Kaveh smiles—a little sleepy, a little dopey, but gleaming. Al-Haitham watches the way his lips curve up and his eyes shine with some sort of deep-rooted fondness in them—all of it directed at him.
For a brief moment, Al-Haitham remembers Kaveh had loved him, and aches.
Then, Kaveh shifts—turning away.
“Good night, Al-Haitham.”
Al-Haitham exhales. He blows out the lamp.
It’s an hour before midnight and Kaveh is still not home.
Al-Haitham glances at the clock and snaps his book shut.
After dinner, Kaveh left the house, citing the reasons being he needed a breather and a drink. He’d looked more than a little stressed when he’d left—and Al-Haitham had prepared himself for one of those nights.
It seems he was right.
It’s an hour before midnight and Kaveh is still not home. And despite him saying he would handle bringing himself home on the nights he drank, things have changed—once again.
It’s an hour before midnight. Kaveh is still not home. As per routine, Al-Haitham must find him and bring him back.
He slips on his boots, cinches on his cape, and grabs his key from the bowl.
The night air is cold against his skin. He descends down the Divine Tree onto Treasures Street. Sumeru City is quiet during this time of night—the street lamps offering a modest glow while he strides towards Lambad’s Tavern.
He pushes open the doors of the tavern, giving the space a cursory glance before his eyes meet Lambad’s at the counter.
“Been a while since I’ve seen you here, Al-Haitham,” Lambad greets, eyes smiling as he wipes down the counter.
Al-Haitham nods, letting his eyes wander for a familiar head of blond hair.
“You here for Kaveh?”
“Am I ever here for anyone else but our famed Master Architect?” Al-Haitham asks.
Lambad chuckles.
“No. Suppose not.” He jerks his head towards the back of the tavern, an amiable smile on his face. “He’s in the corner table. Seemed real stressed tonight. It’s good to see you’re here to take him back home again, as always.”
“How much was his tab?”
Lambad hands him Kaveh’s receipt for the night. Al-Haitham sighs and passes a bag of mora over.
“I appreciate you looking out for him,” Al-Haitham says. “He seems incapable of doing it himself.”
“Ah, but that’s why you’re here, aren’t you?” Lambad says airily. “He’s been taking himself home these days, I was worried something had happened between you two.”
Al-Haitham stares but doesn’t respond. Lambad continues.
“If you’re here tonight though, on time and as scheduled, whatever happened mustn’t have been something you two couldn’t overcome.”
“Nothing of the sort,” Al-Haitham finds himself saying.
Lambad laughs again, muted and low.
“Good, good. I won’t keep you then.”
He nods once and steps farther into the tavern towards the corner Lambad directed. Just as he said, Al-Haitham finds Kaveh sitting at the cornermost table, head pillowed against his arms—an empty wine bottle and a wine glass next to his arms. Al-Haitham moves closer, places a hand on Kaveh’s shoulders, and shakes.
Kaveh's head lifts immediately, eyes dazed and unfocused, until he meets Al-Haitham’s. A wide smile overtakes his face, almost childlike in its wonder. It startles him to see it.
“Al-Haitham!” Kaveh greets, rising to his feet and swaying as he does. Al-Haitham grabs his arm, steadying him. In response, Kaveh settles a hand on Al-Haitham’s arm, giggling. “Why are you here?”
“Why else would I be here?” Al-Haitham asks. He lets go of Kaveh’s arm. Kaveh tightens his grip on his. “Can you walk?”
Kaveh’s brows furrow.
“Yes, yeah. Yes.” He steps closer to Al-Haitham, only the slightest bit unsteady. “Are we going home?”
“Where else would we go?”
“I don’t know.” Kaveh frowns, scrunching up his nose. “You never answer my questions.”
“I did and I do,” Al-Haitham says. “Did my answer not please you, senior?”
“None of your answers do.” Kaveh leans against him, resting his head on Al-Haitham’s shoulder—a warm weight against his side. “I’m tired.”
“I’m not carrying you back.”
“Why not?”
“Kaveh.”
“You did once. You know. Before the surgery.”
“You were considerably more inebriated then.”
“I’m ine-inebree-inebreeted—drunk now too.”
“Not so much that you can’t walk by yourself.”
Kaveh groans and shakes his head against Al-Haitham’s shoulder. They stand like that for a minute before Al-Haitham lets out a long-suffering sigh, adjusts Kaveh’s arms so they’re wrapped around his neck, and lowers himself to kneel in front of Kaveh.
Kaveh cheers. Al-Haitham reaches back and hooks his hands around the back of Kaveh’s knees. He pulls, hoisting the man up and over his back. Kaveh’s arms tighten around his neck and he settles against his back. Al-Haitham waits—adjusting his grip on Kaveh—and he starts moving.
He catches Lambad’s knowing smile on his way out and keeps his expression carefully blank.
Kaveh shivers against the cold as soon as they leave the tavern, pressing closer to Al-Haitham. His breath ghosts against Al-Haitham’s ear and Al-Haitham gets the strangest sense of deja vu, followed almost immediately by an echo of dread gathering in the pit of his stomach.
This is familiar.
“I think I’m regaining some of my memories,” Kaveh murmurs into his ear. He chuckles—soft and considering. He sounds happy, and it eases the dread in him because this isn’t the same. This is different. This is familiar.
“What do you mean?”
“I’m getting… I’m getting snatches sometimes. I think. Of how I used to think of you.”
Al-Haitham’s hands squeeze Kaveh’s thighs once.
“What have you remembered?”
Kaveh hums.
“I thought you were a real piece of work during our Akademiya days,” he says blithely. “Thought you were a bit of a jerk, but I appreciated you, regardless. I liked being around you. It made me feel less lonely.”
Al-Haitham huffs.
“It’s accurate to what you’ve told me, yes,” he says. He pauses, considering his next words carefully. “What do you think this means?”
Kaveh falls silent. Al-Haitham waits. He hikes Kaveh higher up on his back, hearing the slight catch in Kaveh’s breath at the action.
“Probably nothing,” he answers eventually, sounding like he definitely knows it means something.
Al-Haitham raises a brow.
For once, he doesn’t push.
Their home comes into view. Al-Haitham steps onto the porch, adjusts his grip on Kaveh, and pulls his key out from his pocket—slipping it into the lock and opening their door.
He drops his key in the bowl and squeezes Kaveh’s thighs, letting him know to do the same. Kaveh shifts. The sound of his gold key clinking against Al-Haitham’s silver one sounds in their home, echoing against the walls. He forgoes the lights and navigates towards Kaveh’s room, gently pushing open the door.
Carefully, he sets Kaveh down in bed. Kaveh goes wordlessly, humming under his breath. Al-Haitham takes off his shoes and untangles his braid, running his fingers through the strands. He slips off his earrings and pulls each of Kaveh’s pins out one by one, setting them on the bedside table.
“Al-Haitham,” Kaveh says, smiling. “Al-Haitham, Al-Haitham, Al-Haitham.”
“Kaveh,” Al-Haitham says in response, indulging him.
Kaveh’s hands cup his jaw and tilts his head, forcing him to look Kaveh in the eye.
“Hello,” he breathes.
“Hi,” Al-Haitham murmurs in response, tucking Kaveh in.
“I miss you,” Kaveh says softly, a quiet smile on his face. Al-Haitham’s hands still. “Is that weird? You’re right here.”
He hesitates, jaw clenching as Kaveh trails his fingers down.
“No.” Al-Haitham gently pries Kaveh’s hands off his face, tucking a stray strand behind his ear. “I think I might miss you too.”
Kaveh smiles wider, gentle and unassuming. Al-Haitham pulls back and Kaveh lets him. He leaves his room.
By the time he returns, a glass of water in hand, Kaveh’s already curled up in bed and fast asleep. He sets a glass of water on his bedside table and carefully closes the door behind him.
It is not as if he isn’t aware of how much he cares for Kaveh.
He is. He knows.
He knows every time he makes a detour to the fruit stall in the Grand Bazaar. He knows every time he cooks dinner for the two of them so Kaveh doesn’t have to. He knows every time he brings Kaveh home because Kaveh is too inebriated to do it himself. He knows it every morning he wakes just to see Kaveh off and every night he settles in their divan next to Kaveh rather than his room or their study alone.
He’s aware of these habits he’s ingrained in himself ever since Kaveh first came to live with him. He knows how much he cares now, and how much he cared before.
But care and love are not the same. He knows he cares. He does not know if he loves. And, in the face of Kaveh’s mortality, it felt disingenuous to claim he did love Kaveh for the sole purpose of saving his life. He couldn’t claim that. He couldn’t promise that. And he couldn’t ensure Kaveh would believe him even if he did.
Thus, the most logical choice at the time had been the surgery.
Kaveh is not in mortal danger now. Al-Haitham would be lying if he said he hadn’t given the question more thought since then.
Is he in love with Kaveh?
When he enters their home for the day, the familiar scent of biryani hits him—reminding him just how hungry he is. He takes off his shoes and enters their dining room, finding Kaveh setting the table, the biryani in the middle of the table with a serving of raita, flatbread, and pickles on the side. His hair is clipped up for once, and when he turns to Al-Haitham, there’s a gleam in his eyes that Al-Haitham has been seeing more often these days—as if he’s in on a joke Al-Haitham hasn’t quite figured out yet.
“Perfect. You’re right on time,” Kaveh says, hands resting loosely on his hips.
Al-Haitham lets his eyes linger on Kaveh for a moment, before he nods, settling down on his side of the table.
“I am always home on time.”
“Yes, yes. I know,” he says nonchalantly. “You can’t stand being in the Akademiya for a minute after five. Archons forbid you give the Sages even a moment’s worth of overtime.”
He sits down across from Al-Haitham, already picking up his fork and digging into the food.
“They pay me for the hours I’m there and nothing more,” Al-Haitham says. “And I believe in a healthy work-life balance.”
“Is that a jab at me?”
“It is whatever you think it is, senior.”
Kaveh snorts, lips quirking up into a half-smile.
Al-Haitham stares, then lets his gaze trail down to the dishes and the dinner and the spread Kaveh decided to prepare for the two of them.
And, rather anti-climactically, it clicks.
“Thank you,” he says, “for dinner, Kaveh.”
Kaveh looks up, eyes widened the slightest bit.
“What did you say?”
“I’m not saying it again.”
Kaveh’s surprise quickly cuts to indignant outrage.
“Wasn’t it you who said, ‘Earnest thanks should be given thrice’?”
“I don’t know what you mean,” Al-Haitham says. He admires the view—the dinner made for them and Kaveh sitting just across from him, looking frustrated—then serves himself his serving of biryani.
When Kaveh was in love with Al-Haitham, he had the flowers to tell him—a physical manifestation of his love and its unrequited condition.
Al-Haitham has no flowers. He has nothing in him as tragically romantic as hanahaki disease.
But, he has his habits. He has his routine. He has his own physical manifestations of love in his actions—all of them piling together into something worthwhile and meaningful. In the same way Kaveh has his own manifestations now—the dinners, the chores, the banter, their time spent together. His insistence that Al-Haitham is important to him—that he is worthwhile and meaningful to him. His initial silence at the start of his hanahaki disease in some blind hope that things would pass because he valued Al-Haitham too much to even risk losing him again.
Does love need any more reason to exist beyond established routines and tiny habits and a simple want to be near each other?
“You good?”
Al-Haitham looks up—catching Kaveh staring at him weirdly.
“What do you mean?”
“You have an odd expression on your face,” Kaveh says.
Al-Haitham huffs and shakes his head.
“It’s nothing.”
If he had been given more time—before the procedure and the full-bloom Sumeru roses and Kaveh’s own real mortality—this would’ve been the conclusion he came to: he wants Kaveh here. He enjoys their routine. He appreciates what the other brings to his life. He would miss him if he were gone. He is desperate not to lose him—especially to something as preventable as the hanahaki disease had been.
But, if Kaveh decides to leave, he would move on.
He doesn’t need him.
Instead, he chooses him—has chosen him for years before, and will continue to choose him years after.
He wants him here, and given the choice, would always want him here.
And perhaps, that is all love is—always choosing to care, promising to be there, performing routines like it’s second nature to exist together.
Given more time, he would’ve come to the conclusion that he loves Kaveh. Given more time, he would’ve cured Kaveh’s hanahaki disease the natural way via unrequited love requited. Given more time, they wouldn’t be here.
But they weren’t offered that luxury. And Al-Haitham would never regret pushing for the surgery—even if it means Kaveh may no longer feel the same way for him again and return his love.
“Okay, seriously.” Kaveh’s fork clinks against his plate with a certain finality. “You’re way too quiet today.”
“I am reflecting,” Al-Haitham says, lips quirked. “You should try it sometime.”
Kaveh splutters and Al-Haitham holds back his snort.
Perhaps he should feel a sense of loss from this whole situation. They had just missed each other—Al-Haitham a bit too late on the uptake and Kaveh a bit too early. Had Al-Haitham realized earlier, or Kaveh developed hanahaki disease later, this would have been an entirely different few months.
But how could he regret anything when he still has this?
“I show you a bit of worry and decency and you slap it back in my face,” Kaveh huffs, arms crossed. “See if I worry about you again.
“You will,” Al-Haitham says, assured.
Kaveh’s expression scrunches up, visibly upset.
“Yeah,” he grumbles. “I will.”
Al-Haitham smiles.
He had loved Kaveh for this long—and he has never wanted anything from him in return other than Kaveh in his truest form. What did it matter if he was waiting for longer? For as long as Kaveh would have him and he would have Kaveh?
It is hardly a burden, not when it’s him.
“How in the world did I develop hanahaki disease, Al-Haitham?” Kaveh asks, soft.
They’re both sitting on the divan tonight, Kaveh pressed against his side from shoulder to thigh. There’s a blanket wrapped around his shoulders and a sketchbook in his lap, the end of his pencil tapping lightly against the paper.
“How am I supposed to answer that, senior?” Al-Haitham asks, lowering his book. His head tilts to him, gaze drawn to Kaveh.
Kaveh huffs through his nose, eyes flickering up—a ghost of a smirk on his lips. Al-Haitham thinks it’s a nice look on him.
“I mean—it’s just so obvious you loved me back.” He leans further against him, twisting so his body’s angled towards him. Al-Haitham inhales, sharp and quiet. “How was my love ever ‘unrequited’?”
He stills, blinking at Kaveh—the mischievous quirk in his lips, the twinkle in his eye—his body warm against Al-Haitham’s.
“It wasn’t,” Al-Haitham answers with a certain finality.
Kaveh’s smile softens immediately.
“Did you not know it when I confessed to you that night?”
Al-Haitham pauses.
“If you had asked me how important you were to me before your surgery, I would’ve told you, ‘you are important to me.’ But I would not have called it ‘love.’” He hesitates. “I am not sure what I would have called it. Regardless, in that moment when you confessed that your love was killing you, your life took priority over what I may or may not have felt for you. I would not gamble with your life.”
Kaveh’s smile widens—self-satisfied.
“Never thought I’d see the day Al-Haitham would tell me I’m important to him.”
“I thought you already realized? You figured out I cared for you.” Al-Haitham says.
“Yeah, but it’s different when you’re saying it to me.” Kaveh tilts his head, resting it against Al-Haitham’s shoulder. “It makes me feel special.”
Al-Haitham raises a brow.
“You are special.”
The flush on Kaveh’s cheeks is spectacularly vibrant. He shoots Al-Haitham a dirty look—one riddled with embarrassment.
“Archons, you can’t just say things like that, Al-Haitham!”
“I just did.”
“You—! I—” Kaveh’s expression scrunches, looking a second away from hiding. “Stop changing the topic.”
“I wasn’t aware we were on a topic in the first place.”
“We are. I am. Stop talking for a moment.”
Al-Haitham watches Kaveh regather himself—a flicker of a smile on his face and his chest impossibly warm.
“I told you I was regaining a few memories of my emotions, right?” Kaveh says, voice level again.
“You were drunk when you did, but yes.”
“You didn’t have to mention my sobriety,” Kaveh grumbles. “Anyway. I… think I can understand why I never saw it for myself before the surgery, but, I was hoping you could fill in the blanks for me.”
Al-Haitham hums.
“What do you want me to explain?”
Kaveh purses his lips.
“We had a fight,” he says. “It led to the dissolution of our group project. I… remember what I said, and I remember what you said. I know it was important—it must be to you at least given we’re living in the house the Akademiya gave us for our efforts. But how did that affect us?”
Al-Haitham huffs, dry. He lets his eyes wander away from Kaveh.
“What is your view of it now?”
Kaveh doesn’t respond, not immediately.
“I don’t really have an opinion on it anymore. I don’t remember how important it was—is. To me, it was just a fight,” Kaveh admits, his voice trailing on a sigh. “A necessary fight, mind you. We had conflicting opinions on how to handle the project—opinions that were inherent to how we operated as people—and they needed to be said. I was harsh. You were blunt. We were at an impasse.”
He pauses.
“I can understand now, in hindsight, what you were trying to get me to see. I can understand now that those words were from a place of care as much as it was a place of immaturity and righteousness. But I don’t think I could’ve realized it back then. Not with how much I internalized my guilt with my altruism back then.”
“I believe that fight was when you realized the two of us are not the same,” Al-Haitham says, resting his head lightly against Kaveh’s. “You realized I didn’t feel the same isolating effects of being a ‘genius;’ I didn’t pursue knowledge to help others; I believed in prioritizing my own comforts over the comfort of others. That was what you remembered, and continued to remember even after we reconnected—”
“Until I forgot,” Kaveh finishes.
“Until you forgot,” Al-Haitham repeats. For a moment, he lets their silence linger. “When I offered you my house to stay, you were insistent on paying the rent and doing the chores. Whether it was because you believed I hadn’t changed in the years we were estranged, or because of your lingering guilt complex, I’m not sure. But, you couldn’t ever seem to believe I had changed, and perhaps that is why you never realized before your procedure that your love was returned.”
Kaveh hums. Al-Haitham feels him shift. He’s about to lift his head when a hand grasps his, lacing their fingers together, warm and steady. Kaveh presses closer, his other hand coming to trace the veins on Al-Haitham’s, following the spiderwebs with an idle sort of focus.
“You know, one of the first things I realized after I woke up and reviewed my memories was your importance in my life,” Kaveh says. “Even then, it was clear to me you kept me grounded and kept me sharp—a perfect foil to my ideals. Any scholar would be insane to turn that down. And even though we never seemed to agree on anything, we were still living together; that meant a lot. It meant a lot when I woke up, it means a lot now, and I’m sure it meant the world to me before the procedure.
“You asked me if I was planning to leave a few weeks back,” he says, the words measured and slow—as if they’re dragging from their weight, “and honestly, Al-Haitham, it hadn’t even crossed my mind to—not until you gave me the choice.”
He feels Kaveh squeeze his hand, giving him the physical reassurance that he’s still here to stay. Al-Haitham squeezes back, just as tight.
“You still chose to stay.”
“Of course I did,” he says, sounding almost offended that Al-Haitham would suggest anything less. “It didn’t take long for me to realize how much I cared for you and… while I started out not knowing how much you reciprocated, once we started talking, filling in the rest of the blanks wasn’t hard.”
“Is that so?”
“Yes,” Kaveh says, amused. “I’m not sure if you’re aware how obvious your care is once I knew where to look, Al-Haitham.”
“I never tried to hide it.”
“No, but you never told me in explicit terms.”
“I always—”
“Told it to me straight, yes. I know. But it must not have been honest enough for me to understand. Communication is a two-way street and it broke somewhere for us, Al-Haitham, and that’s both of our faults for not understanding each other.”
Al-Haitham pauses, ruminating over Kaveh’s words. He lifts his head, then shifts his shoulder—letting Kaveh time to raise his head from its spot. Kaveh’s gaze immediately meets his, staring curiously at him while he turns so that he and Kaveh are face-to-face, knees bumping against each other.
Slowly, Al-Haitham lifts his hands, letting it trace Kaveh’s jawline all the way down to his chin—holding it so he only sees him. He hears Kaveh’s breath stutter, his own pulse seemingly fluttering in time to the breaths.
Al-Haitham holds his breath.
“I love you,” he says, letting his words ring in their finality. Kaveh’s eyes widen, lips parting. “There’s not a way I can be more honest or clear than that.”
Kaveh blinks, closes his mouth, clears his throat.
“No… I—I suppose not,” he concedes shakily.
Al-Haitham smiles. He drops his hand. Kaveh catches it—keeps it pressed against his cheek.
“Don’t you want to know my response?” he asks—the words barely louder than a whisper.
“I do not want any more than what you are willing to give,” Al-Haitham says.
Kaveh hesitates, biting his lip. Al-Haitham waits.
Slowly—purposefully—Kaveh brings their clasped hands up, pressing his lips against the back of Al-Haitham’s, brushing against his knuckles. Al-Haitham watches the action, almost entranced with Kaveh so close.
“I told you I was remembering a few of the emotions I felt in my memories, yes?” Kaveh asks, the words heavy with intent. He lifts his gaze, catching Al-Haitham’s immediately.
“You did,” Al-Haitham confirms, voice low.
“Yes,” Kaveh says. “I did.”
He smiles—and it’s soft and muted and perhaps the brightest thing Al-Haitham has bore witness to yet.
“I think I might love you too,” Kaveh confesses, so very quiet.
He breathes. Even so many months later, the gravity of those words renders him speechless—unable to understand. The linguist—ironically lacking mastery in his native tongue.
And yet, it feels so much more this time around—more powerful than that drunken confession all those months ago consigning Kaveh’s fate to a few emotions and a handful of flowers.
He leans forward, resting his forehead against Kaveh’s, breathing in his space, sharing his breath—and closes his eyes.
Kaveh tilts his head—presses his lips against Al-Haitham’s for less than a moment. And Al-Haitham smiles, just for Kaveh.
And it is more than enough.