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Art is very subjective. It depends, after all, on the person viewing it. But that’s what makes it so wonderfully special. Any art enthusiast will tell you that subjectivity is one of the many reasons art draws them in.
In a painting about a starry night, what do you see?
Do you notice the swirling night and the blocks of colour? Do you notice the sleeping town that lays under the night sky? Do you notice the towering tree and consider that you’re watching from a faraway distance? Do you notice the strokes are simultaneously rough but smoothed out? Or do you notice that there’s ever only the same colour palette used?
What do you notice? What do you see?
That’s what Alhaitham likes about art.
Art makes the viewer think. It forces them to come up with explanations for what they see and inspires critical thought. He likes that it stimulates his thinking process, and he likes picking apart the details. He reads art like how he reads his books. Analysing, dissecting, interpreting.
He’ll never truly have an answer for all the theories he creates, but he’ll always have an explanation for it. And that’s all that matters for him.
Though he sticks to the path of logic and objectivity, he does not hate subjectivity. If anything, he appreciates it because it raises questions and it stirs his thirst for knowledge. Because he’s gone to exhibitions intrigued, and left with a new drive for finding new scholarly material. He’s entered galleries curious, and left with unconsidered ideas. He’s been to museums interested, and left with more questions than answers.
They say art is the soul of human expression. But Alhaitham believes art too, is the soul of human thought.
Every and any question can be derived from a piece of art, and every and any form of inspiration can originate from the glimpse of human fragility.
Contrary to his appearance and also to what he may say to his roommate, he frequents galleries and exhibitions often. And he often goes with no intention, simply because if one searches too hard, they’ll never find the answers they so desire.
So he goes with an empty mind and lets the artwork transport him to a new and alternate dimension. He lets his imagination fill in the blanks and he lets his mind wander free to create narratives, ask questions and theorise solutions.
It’s the kind of joy he derives from art.
While others may enjoy a piece of art for what they represent, be it a significant moment in history, an opening into the human soul or plain aesthetics— Alhaitham enjoys the critical aspect.
And it’s also where he and his roommate differ in thinking.
Their house hangs multiple paintings which Kaveh has painted. They range from many things, befitting Kaveh’s interest in everything. Some of them are landscapes which he’s seen on his travels to different regions and or his trips to the desert. Some are of still life and of everyday mundanities which have had the honour of being painted. And others are of the people he loves and cares about.
They range drastically in style.
Some of them are painted in full, and Kaveh had spent hours on them. The colours are vivid, the scene is seen through the eyes of Kaveh’s wonderful eye for aesthetics and Alhaitham can feel the texture of the paint if he touches the canvas. It’s artwork which Kaveh likes— complete and in full control.
Some are sketches, and Kaveh had just been experimenting with his work. The lines are indiscriminate, and there are smudges here and there from his hand and or intentional shading. Scraps of paper and material are stuck on for reference, and there’s still the coffee stain from Kaveh’s cup. It’s artwork Alhaitham likes— incomplete and messy.
Kaveh doesn’t quite understand why Alhaitham likes those incomplete sketches and unfinished drafts. He doesn’t deny that they aren’t artistic, there’s art in everything one touches, but he simply doesn’t understand why Alhaitham likes the scribbles and the crosses. Why he enjoys the smudges and the uncertainty, or the beginnings of a sketch and the lack of form.
If anything, isn’t it more believable for Alhaitham to like finished paintings?
“They help me think,” Alhaitham replies as Kaveh sketches next to him. The sound of the graphite scratching the paper tickles a part of Alhaitham’s brain. “The solutions to the questions I have are not linear—indiscriminate lines map a larger painting.”
“Huh, another thing we differ in,” Kaveh notes as he shades in the space to create a picture for his mind to comprehend. “Complete drawings filled with colours and or shades help me visualise a final product. Sketches are only a part of the process, not the final outcome.”
It makes complete sense of course. Kaveh’s job as an architect needs him to be confident in his strokes, determined in his palette and assured in his calculations. The numbers must add up, the lines must connect and the colours must work. Because if the structure fails, then it’s someone’s life at stake.
But for Alhaitham, his job allows him the full capacity to theorise. His job allows him access to all sorts of information, and allows his mind to roam free at the information he has. He can pull strings from one theory to another, draw lines and create diagrams. And ultimately, his answer is never a singular thing. It is a collection of paragraphs, of thoughts and of writing.
Alhaitham flips a page of his book. “Do you think we’ll ever come to understand each other?”
“Are we not understanding each other perfectly right now?” Alhaitham asks. “We’re speaking the same language and all words translate the same meaning.”
“That’s not what I meant, and you know it!” Kaveh huffs as Alhaitham bites back a smirk. “I mean, that we’ll understand each other more than just this?”
This. What is this, Alhaitham wonders. He knows exactly what Kaveh is talking about. Will they ever come to understand each other beyond just the surface? Will they ever come to understand each other’s thinking, ideals, ambitions, perspectives, emotions, selves?
Because Alhaitham knows what Kaveh means. Of course they understand each other— how could they not? They’ve known each other for too long, but how much of that time is spent understanding each other? How much time is spent unravelling the lines that make them who they are?
The put-together devastation behind Kaveh’s mask.
The haphazard travesty of Alhaitham’s facade.
“Who knows,” Alhaitham murmurs. Because despite the fact that they’ve known each other for years, how much time was used to understand on a deeper level?
Alhaitham feels he understands Kaveh quite well, but Kaveh could say the same for him and in truth, perhaps they don’t really know each other. He supposes Kaveh knows him on a fundamental level, but does he know him beyond that? What an interesting question to posit, because does Alhaitham know himself?
He prides himself on his own self-assured identity, but is it not sure enough for Kaveh to understand him?
“—tham… Alhaitham! Hey! Are you listening to me?” Kaveh’s voice snaps him to reality and he blinks before turning to Kaveh, who’s looking at him with furrowed brows. “Did you have your noise cancelling headphones on again?”
“You know I don’t when I’m talking to you,” Alhaitham replies as he turns back to his book.
“Lost in thought?” Alhaitham hums in reply. “Thought so. I was just asking what you wanted for dinner later.”
“Anything.”
Alhaitham likes that he doesn’t have to think when he’s around Kaveh. He sometimes wonders if he regresses a little when he’s around Kaveh. When there’s someone as clear-headed and as decisive as Kaveh, he feels as though he can just switch his mind off and avoid all the decisions he usually has to make when he’s on his own.
When there’s someone as comforting and as soothing as Kaveh’s presence is, he feels as though he can just cut off all those lingering threads and follow a single line of thought.
It’s why he likes being around Kaveh, who does most of the decision making, even if it takes him a few assurances and moments to decide. Alhaitham does not look like it, but he often spends more time deciding what to do than actually doing it.
Sometimes, when Kaveh isn’t around and is on one of his business trips, he spends at least ten minutes during lunch thinking about what to make for dinner. Because stew sounds great, but he can’t be bothered to be at the stove for that long. And rice sounds easy, but does he really feel like watching over the pot for ten minutes when he could be doing other things? Takeout is an option too, but he’d rather eat with company.
Decisions. Thinking. Suggestions.
People may call him impulsive, but Alhaitham disagrees with that statement because impulsive suggests instinctual. It suggests that one has not thought about something before committing to it. And Alhaitham is anything but impulsive. Because a thought can’t be impulsive when he’s thought about it before committing to it.
A thought is only impulsive if one has not thought about it thoroughly.
And Alhaitham thinks about everything five times before committing to it. So anything he does can’t be impulsive.
Cyno and Kaveh often call his coup d’etat impulsive, but he continues to disagree to this day. It wasn’t impulsive because he thoroughly considered his plan before executing it. He was already aware, for a very long time, of the issues regarding the Akasha System. He was already aware of the sages’ imprisonment of their Archon, and the intervention of the Fatui.
He was long aware of the changing demographic of academia over the arts, and he was more than aware of the oppression of the creative and punishment of the free. His job as the Scribe gave him more than enough access to all of these bits of information and the manual of the Akasha headsets.
His plan just didn’t consider the involvement of the Traveller and their flying friend. But nevertheless, it went smoothly. Almost too smoothly. Because he ended up as the Acting Grand Sage.
Ambition and power is the last thing he wants, and it was no surprise he handed in his resignation form a week into his new post. Unfortunately, Lesser Lord Kusanali denied it.
“Until the Akademiya is stable again with the appointment of new sages, please continue to assist me,” she says as she hands the form back to him. “How interesting, most scholars would be jumping with joy had they heard they were given the position you have.”
“I see no need for power, Lesser Lord Kusanali,” Alhaitham replies. “All I need is access to all books in the House of Daena and a good salary.” Her eyes glimmer before she smiles.
“A mind that is constantly thinking, and the lack of drive for power,” she muses. “People really are so interesting.”
He does not deny his Archon’s words. A mind that is constantly thinking is a wonderful trait to have. A mind that is constantly thinking is constantly aware of many things.
For starters, he’s aware of the document in his hands. He’s aware of how it creases from the way it holds, how the light bends and how the shadows fall. He listens to the way the clock ticks in his office, how the seconds hand click, the peace and the quiet murmurs of people outside moving and discussing. He feels the way his clothes hug him, the way his coat moves with every shift of his chair, the way his gloves cling to him like a second skin.
The document is visible through strands of grey hair, he’s aware of his own breathing, his heart rate, the way he sits. The plushness of the cushion, the smooth table top, the light shining in from the windows. The sound of rubbing parchment against his fingers. An ink pot with his pen discarded on the table haphazardly.
Murmurs outside, discussions of all sorts blurring into white noise. Footsteps constant, walking around, running, the carts being pushed around as secretaries move around to transport notes and documents across the massive building. The clock ticking, louder, as silence fills his office. Hia hand automatically moving to sign on the document, his hand extending to the discarded pen.
Dipping it into the ink pot, tapping to get rid of excess ink. The murmurs grow louder outside. His heart beat sounds a little louder in his ears. The parchment is scratchy. His hand shakes a little, but he steadies it as he taps on the rim of the pot. Drops of black ink fall back in. It’s shiny. It’s a little thick, but not too liquidy. His clothes feel uncomfortably tight.
He tugs on the collar. It’s a little hard to breathe. His gloves feel uncomfortable. It scratches his skin. The light seems to get brighter. The white noise is starting to grow louder in his ears. He ignores it. He reaches for his headphones, feeling the smooth metal. It’s instinctual. He turns up the noise cancelling. The white noise grows quieter. It grows louder. He moves his hand to write on the document. A drop of ink falls on the table.
The tissue is soft. He wipes it away, watching as the ink spreads like paint in a water bucket. It dyes it black. A few drops are still on the table. He wipes it again. It’s not going away. It’s loud. The clock is loud. The seconds hand ticks too loudly. It’s hard to breathe. He tugs on his collar again. It’s not stuffy. It’s stuffy. It’s quiet. It’s loud. It’s noisy. It’s silent. It’s driving him up the wall. It’s peaceful. It’s nothing. It’s overwhelming. It’s too much. It’s not anything.
He throws the tissue into the bin. A stain is left behind. Smudged. Some of the wood absorbed it. He runs his finger across it. It’s stained black too. His heartbeat is loud in his ears. Isn’t the noise cancelling working? He moves his hand to sign the document. He pokes the paper with the pen. Watching as the ink flows. He signs the document. But his hand trembles.
His signature is shaky, but it’s his. He has trouble breathing. He tugs on his collar. He keeps tugging. Tugging. Tugging. Tugging. Why isn’t it helping? The murmurs outside are too much. His gloves are too tight. Too loose. Too much. They cling to him. They’re too big. They keep itching his skin. The parchment scratches the back of his hand as he moves across the page.
He takes a deep breath. Feeling how air rushes into his lungs. Why isn’t it helping? He writes something, but his handwriting is shaky. The pen finishes the ink. He reaches over to refill it. It’s so difficult to breathe. It’s so difficult to move. It’s so difficult to live. His heart races. He feels his stomach drop. There’s a strange ominous feeling in his gut. He opens his mouth, attempting to breathe. Taking large gulps of air in desperation.
Why isn’t it working? Why does it feel like he’s suffocating? Why does it feel so stuffy? The windows are open. Air is flowing. He feels the breeze. But he can’t feel anything either. It’s cold, but it’s hot. It’s breezy. It isn’t. The sun batters on him. The shadows fall over his figure. His hands shake. He grabs his writing hand with his other. Stop shaking. Shaking. Stop trembling. Trembling. Stop thinking. Overthink it.
His eyes shake. His eyes are peaceful. His heart races. It’s too fast. It’s too slow. Why is he breathing like he’s running? He’s sitting and breathing peacefully. Why is he struggling for breath? He isn’t.
The lines on the wooden table merge and blend. The voices outside grow louder. The footsteps are getting louder. Why isn’t the noise cancelling working? He’s sure he’s turned it up. He taps it frantically. Be quiet. Stay quiet. Be silent. Stay silent. Don’t turn it up. It’s too quiet. It’s too silent. His heartbeat echoes in his ears. His thoughts plague him. His thoughts take control. His hand shakes. He drops his pen into the ink pot.
A splat of ink falls on the desk. The wood absorbs it. It’s stained. It spreads like wet paint on a piece of paper. It spreads like dye in water. It spreads. Stop spreading. Stop moving.
Why is it getting louder than before? Why? Why? He grabs his headphones. He pushes it into his head. Why aren’t you working? Why is it getting louder? Why is it so silent? The murmurs are so loud. His heartbeat is so loud. The footsteps are constant. His breathing is rapid. The clock is ticking like a bomb. His clothes suffocate him. The light blinds him. He can’t see anything in the shadows.
Why isn’t it working?
Why?
Why?
Why?
Be quiet.
Stay quiet.
It’s too quiet.
Why is it quiet?
He frantically pushes the buttons. It goes to max. Why then, can he still hear everything?
The murmurs turn into screams next to him. The footsteps turn into stomps. The clock ticking is constantly in the background. His heartbeat won’t slow down. His breathing is so fast. His clothes are killing him. He can’t see properly. The ink is leaking. The document is crumbled. The table has so many stains. The bin has so many tissues. The window is shut. Is open. The light is blocked. The shadows don’t grow.
He screams. But nothing comes out of his mouth. Not a single sound. Not a breath. Nothing.
He can’t. He will. He couldn’t. He should.
The edge of the desk is scratched. The wood is peeling. There are exposed birch brown pieces. The chair has marks. Some are brown and some are scratch marks. The cushion has strings fraying. It was pulled. Tugged. The drawer is kicked. Shoe prints remain. The backing has finger marks. The floor still has a long streak of rusted brown which can’t be scrubbed off. It’s faded. It’s been attempted. It remains.
Alhaitham stands up abruptly.
The chair screeches as it is forcefully pushed back. A few of the papers fly. The pen is knocked over, spilling ink on the table. The coat swings with movement. The air is still. The window only shines the evening light. The clock is quiet. The footsteps die. The murmurs dissipate. The shadows fall.
Alhaitham breathes hard. As though he’s just run a marathon. The air is eerily still. It is finally silent. All Alhaitham hears is his own breathing and his own heart. It isn’t silent. Sweat sticks to him. His hair is messy. His eyes are shaky.
Home. He grabs his coat. I need to go home. He pulls it over himself. Home. He feels the way the sweat sticks to the fabric. Home. It makes him cringe. Now. He grabs his keys from the desk drawer. Home now. He slams it shut. Now. It echoes throughout the room. Home. He flees from his office. Home. He ignores all the looks. Home. The stares, quiet whispers and concerned chatter. I need to go home. The door of his office flies shut behind him. Home. He walks fast. I have to go home. He speeds up his walk. I must go home. He goes faster. His legs begin to ache. I must. The wind runs its course. I have to. The evening sun shines a path for him. I need to. There is only one destination in mind. I need. He finally sees the familiar roof and building. I need. He hastily inserts the key into the lock. Need. His breathing is hard. Need. His hand shakes. Need. The door finally opens. I. He slams it close behind him. I. He throws the keys into the bowl. I need. He runs into his room.
I need to feel something.
It is silent in the house. He sits on the edge of his bed. Alhaitham breathes. But he can’t. It’s too suffocating. It’s not enough. He tugs against his collar. I need to feel something. His hands keep shaking. He shuts his eyes for a bit, ignoring the way his hands shake. He tries to focus on something. To keep his mind off of things.
I need to feel something again.
The wall. That’s right. That white wall. He opens his eyes and sees that white wall. A wall with paint. It is inconspicuous. But if one looked close enough, they could see marks. Painted over with white and repainted over and over again. One could see strokes of paint behind it. The thick white strokes which paint over it. They could even feel it. The unevenness of each bristle. The evident layering which only dulls the colour behind it.
He runs his hand over it. It can feel each layer. The painted over layers. The original layer. The freshly painted ones. They still leave a bit of white on his fingertips. They’re not dry yet. They’ve only just formed a hard layer on top of the wet paint. He finds satisfaction in pressing on them. Watching as it flattens and white paint leaks out. It’s a bit of a pain to clean, but he can always do it later.
That white wall.
He picks up a bucket of paint and a large paintbrush. He dips it in. Watching as the excess paint dribble into the bucket. It’s thick. It’s glossy. It falls. Creating a pile before disintegrating into the liquid. It’s quite beautiful in that sense.
He swirls it a few more times. Watching it ripple and move with his actions, before finally lifting it up and wiping the excess on the rim of the bucket. He stands in front of the wall. The first stroke is always the hardest. It brings him the most pain, having to create that first stroke on that wall. It used to be pristine and white, but now it’s sullied by paint. Alhaitham remembers its been sullied already, so what more damage will this paint do?
With newfound confidence, he scoops a larger amount. The paint drips from the brush. He doesn’t care. He simply draws a thick line across the wall. A line which has paint dripping from the bottom. It’s cathartic. Alhaitham finally lets out a shaky breath. It doesn’t feel so suffocating anymore. He grabs the bucket for ease, and dips his brush in again.
Scooping up another thick amount of paint before drawing a diagonal line somewhere else. Another breath he’s able to breathe. It’s relieving. It sends a shiver down his spine. He’s able to breathe. He draws another line somewhere else. His heart rate finally slows. Another line. His heart stops beating in his ears. Another line. His breathing slows. Another line. His heart calms. Another line. His breathing transitions to normal. Another line. His heart stops singing in his ears.
The lines vary in thickness and length. Some are short. Some are longer than others. Some begin with fresh paint, only to end up rough at the end. Some are solid blocks of colours throughout. Some barely have any paint left on them. Some lines are thin. Some are thick. Some stop abruptly halfway. Almost as though he had thought about something before continuing. Some are consistent.
Some have bits of white paint on them. Some are a bit pink. Some expose the colours which have been painted underneath it. Some have obvious brush marks. Some are smooth. Some look like they’ve been done haphazardly. Some are thought out and methodical.
But every single stroke, mark, line, block, leaves Alhaitham feeling more and more relaxed. Feeling something as he draws on the wall. He manages a sigh of relief. The whole thing is cathartic. It is relieving. It sends a bit of feeling running through his veins again. It sends a little bit of emotion into him. A bit of humanity. A bit of earth. A bit of being alive again.
Being alive, is being able to feel.
He drops the brush and he throws the bucket of paint onto the wall. Watching as the paint drips. It gets on him too, but he doesn’t care. It only matters that he feels relieved. He feels like he’s living again. He feels like he’s alive again. He feels like a human again.
He stands there. Breathing hard. The adrenaline runs through his veins. His heart beats soft. He lets out a deep breath.
The paint drips down the wall.
The red paint drips down the wall.
The red paint drips down the white wall.
The red paint drips down that white wall.
It doesn’t stop flowing.
Alhaitham lets it be, standing there, watching. It keeps dripping. It keeps flowing. The paint merges into one. It layers on top of the other. It covers the old paint and creates new ones. It keeps going. It keeps dripping. It keeps flowing. It’s flowing. Alhaitham watches as it flows. It is a piece of its own.
Lines which are indiscriminately drawn. Lines that vary in thickness, length, saturation. Lines which merge and are not always perfect. Lines which curve and bend. Lines which sometimes follow previous strokes of paint. Lines which sometimes divert. The large splat of red that goes everywhere. It branches into sharp streaks, small dots, hanging threads and sizable blotches. It is everywhere.
It is art.
It is creation.
It is emotion.
It is human.
But why is it that Alhaitham does not feel any better? Why is it that Alhaitham is still standing there, watching?
The feeling is gone. Whisked away again. It’s cold.
He runs a trembling hand over it. His hand is coloured in red. It drips from his fingers. He wipes it on a dry surface of the wall. It doesn’t go away. It stains his fingers. It stains red. It rubs off a little. He tries to rub it away. It isn’t going away. It isn’t getting off. Why isn’t it getting off? Why is it stuck? Why is it trapped? Why? Why? Why—?
He doesn’t quite know why. That’s why he keeps drawing all these lines. Lines which lead to nowhere and only end up filling a bottomless pit of questions and overthought thoughts.
“Alhaitham?” He recognises that voice. “What’re you doing?” He looks at the wall. Alhaitham does not look at him. He dares not to look at him. Kaveh goes silent.
Does Kaveh think he’s insane?
Crazy?
Monstrous?
Ugly?
Stupid?
A burden?
Idiotic?
Stubborn?
His heart is caught in his throat.
He focuses on his stained hand. Why won’t the paint come off? Why? He keeps rubbing. Rubbing. Rubbing. Scratching. Poking. It starts to hurt. It starts to prick. It starts to turn red now. He keeps scratching. Scratching. Picking. Rubbing. Scraping. Scratching. Rubbing. Rubbing. It starts to bleed.
A hand yanks him to reality. “What’re you doing?!” Kaveh’s eyes are red too. No, they’re vermillion. They have that hint of warmth red doesn’t have. They’re worried. “You’re bleeding Alhaitham.” His fingers are bleeding. His voice is stuck. “You’re bleeding.” His hand is warm. “You’re hurt.
He doesn’t know why. His answer is caught in the back of his throat. Kaveh’s hand relaxes, and he carefully inspects Alhaitham’s hand. “Why are you bleeding?” He struggles to answer. “Why are you hurt?” He begins to panic. “Why are you hurting yourself?”
Kaveh’s eyes are so genuine that it hurts to answer. He doesn’t want to answer. He doesn’t want Kaveh to think he’s a burden. He doesn’t want Kaveh to know.
“I’m sorry,” is all he can muster out. “It was a one-off.” He was fading back into that carefully crafted facade again. “You don’t have to worry.” He tries to leave, but Kaveh keeps holding his wrist.
“Then do you want me to ignore this?” Kaveh asks, gesturing to the wall. “You want me to ignore the fact that you’re clearly hurting?”
“It’s none of your business—”
“Then should I not bother when someone is hurt?!”
“There’s no reason to bother!” Alhaitham states. “You don’t have to concern yourself over this. I can take care of myself—”
“But isn’t it nice when someone takes care of you?” Kaveh asks. “Isn’t it nice, when someone worries about you? Wouldn’t it be nice to just let go? To talk about everything that bothers you rather than letting it bottle up and explode?”
He touches the wall. Paint drips from his finger. “You’re hurt, you’re tired, you’re in pain.” Alhaitham doesn’t want to hear it. “Let me in, Haitham.” He can’t. Because what if Kaveh leaves him a second time? Then what? What will he do then? Who else could he turn to? No, he can’t let Kaveh in again.
He tries to leave, but Kaveh holds his wrist tighter. “Please, tell me about your struggles, about what makes you sad and what excites you. What makes you smile and what makes you cry. What makes your day and what doesn’t.”
He can’t. He won’t. “What you like about living, and what small things make every single day so special to you.” He doesn’t want to. “I want to hear them. I want to know. I want to understand you.” He doesn’t want— "I want to understand you deeper than just words and the language we use." He doesn't… “You were hiding all this, shouldering all this burden.” He doesn’t— “You’re incredibly strong, Haitham.” He wants—
“Kaveh—”
“You’ve done well,” Kaveh smiles gently. “I’m so proud of you. So please, take a break.”
He cracks completely.
He doesn’t quite know how, but he ends up crying. They’re both on the ground. Kaveh holds him tight, running a hand through his hair. Alhaitham can’t stop crying. Almost as though he was given permission to. Kaveh keeps telling him, assuring him, and holds him. Bridging that gap from reality and his thoughts.
He hasn’t cried like this in a long time.
“‘m sorry,” Alhaitham murmurs. “You’re dirty now.” Kaveh looks down at his shirt. It’s stained. But he doesn’t care.
“I can always get a new shirt,” Kaveh assures. “You’re more important to me than my shirt anyway. Besides.” He gently holds Alhaitham’s face. “What are you sorry for? For being human? Don’t apologise for feeling the way you do. Your feelings are always valid.”
They lay there for a bit. Until Alhaitham’s sobs subside and it floats into gentle peace.
“We should clean up,” Alhaitham finally says.
“I’ll clean you up,” Kaveh replies. Alhaitham turns to the wall. It’s ugly. It’s red. It’s stained. It’s a reflection of his own thoughts. Yet, he doesn’t want to paint over it. He had only been painting over it in fear of Kaveh one day finding out about this ugly side of his.
He begins to reach for the white paint. “You don’t have to.” He turns to Kaveh. “Cover that, I mean.”
“It’s ugly, Kaveh.”
“But you don’t think so,” Kaveh points.
“Does it matter what I think,” Alhaitham murmurs. “It doesn’t fit with what you like—”
“Who cares what I think,” Kaveh snorts. “If you think it’s beautiful, I think you should let it be.” He smiles. “We can always paint something with it. Maybe flowers? Or I think butterflies would be nice. Or maybe one of those Aranaras you tell me about. Oh! How about…”
Alhaitham smiles.
The painting on the wall isn’t pretty. But Alhaitham likes Kaveh’s idea.
With it, not over it.
How silly, Alhaitham has severely misjudged Kaveh in that aspect. “What do you think, Haitham?”
“I like it.” Because paintings aren’t perfect. Because imperfections make a painting.
Because paintings are just an elaborate metaphor for embracing all sides of a painter.