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There are three fundamental truths about Kaveh that are unshakeable.
1. Kaveh is starving. Or, to put it more specifically, he is starving himself. He is very much aware that this quite the stupid and pointless endeavor—he does need energy to feed his biggest asset, his brain—but, he has paradoxically come to find quite a sense of exhilaration in it. There is, perhaps, a certain pride in the act of denying oneself something as fundamentally human as nutrition. Anyway, whatever the reasons, Kaveh has always been, and will probably forever be, starving.
2. Despite being made up of guilt and shame and loneliness, Kaveh will take the ugly truth of his horrible self and force something magnificent out of it. Ever since he was a child, he’s been obsessed with all things beautiful and if his mother taught him anything it’s that true beauty always prevails. So, by that logic, he only needs to create something inherently different from who he is if he intends to leave a mark in this world.
3. Which brings him to his third truth: He absolutely cannot stand that one junior of his. Al-Haitham bears zero appreciation for the arts and he's too arrogant for his own good, always standing with his arms crossed and brows raised as if he thinks himself better than everyone else. He is also the antithesis to everything Kaveh is, and the only beautiful thing he cannot love.
Kaveh thinks of himself as a very pragmatic person. There’s no use in beating around the bush, after all it does nothing to change the factual evidence. He knows that if he keeps this up, he will eventually succumb to the effects of starvation and exhaustion because he is neither indestructible nor a god.
Besides that, Kaveh also considers himself to be a very practical person. So every day he rushes straight from the Akademiya to the building site of his greatest work to be and back because that’s the only way for him to pour his passion into his craft faster than it has the chance to fester and contaminate inside of himself.
“Mr Kaveh?” One of his juniors enters his tent with a stack of papers in his arms and Kaveh’s stomach plunges at the distress on his face.
“What is it?”
“We made a few adjustments to the pillars like you said but it might’ve—”
“Show me.”
Kaveh all but rips the papers from him, anxiously scanning the sketches. He groans. “This won't hold…” he mutters, more to himself than the other man, horrified at the realization. “We need to redo all of them.”
His junior says nothing and Kaveh brushes a trembling hand through his hair, his fingers already achingly numb from sitting at the drawing board for hours, putting the finishing touches to the ornamental design.
He glances up at the man and sees shadows beneath his eyes and a tired gaze filled with guilt. He sighs. This project’s taking a toll on everyone. “Go home,” he says, already clipping the blueprints to his board. “I’ll fix it.”
“But—” He sounds unsure. “This will take hours to redo.”
“It’s fine,” Kaveh assures him, fighting to keep the bite out of his voice. “This is my project and I can't afford for anything to go wrong a second time.”
“Well…if you're sure?”
The junior gives him a curt bow before leaving him to his own devices, and Kaveh allows himself to slump forward, dragging his hands across his face for a moment and rubbing at his tired eyes. Looks like it’s gonna be another all nighter. Clenching his teeth, Kaveh forces himself into an upright position and reaches for his quill. In a way, this might be for the best—he can’t let another Withering take his work from him and standing guard all night would grow terribly boring after a while.
The end of exam bell tolls and Kaveh chugs an entire bottle of water before rushing out of class to cram a few more hours of study before his final exam of the day. The water sloshing around in his stomach is familiarly uncomfortable but it’s better than attracting too much unwanted attention with its grumbling.
Contrary to popular belief, studying has never come easy to Kaveh. He hates sitting in the same spot for longer than twenty minutes if it doesn't involve the act of creating something and focusing too long on a single problem makes him feel like he’s actually going to go insane.
However, if he wants to make up for every horrible thing that he’s done, he needs to make something of himself in this world, and if he wants to become the best at his craft he needs to pass his classes. All of them.
Which means sitting himself square on his ass in the quietest corner he could find in the House of Daena and shoving his nose into dusty old textbooks about advanced linguistics.
Maybe it’s Irminsul’s way of saying fuck you to him for not greeting his professor this morning when someone else arrives at the top of the stairs, a stack of books in his arms. Al-Haitham narrows his eyes at him. “That is my spot,” he states bluntly (as if he owns the entire fucking library, the prat.)
Kaveh scoffs, but secretly he’s kind of glad for the distraction, raising his gaze from mind numbing texts about the intricacies of dead languages. “Oh? Already training for the role of Scribe, are we?”
Because not only Kaveh does have the misfortune of knowing him personally, he also has heard plenty of things about him: Al-Haitham, the eccentric second-year who doesn’t talk to anyone and has no friends, the Haravatat scholar who’s not only taking classes two years his senior but also rumored to become the next Scribe of the Akademiya.
Al-Haitham meets his gaze with a frown. “I don't have any intention of becoming the Scribe. You're just sitting in my seat.”
“Fine, fine!” Kaveh throws his hands up in mock surrender. “I’m leaving! Has anyone ever told you you're insufferable?”
Gathering his things, Kaveh tries to ignore the annoying pang in his chest and focuses on stuffing his books into his bag, careful to take his precious notebook out first. He’s somehow managed to be in the way again.
“They do all the time, actually,” Al-Haitham responds earnestly and Kaveh doesn’t deign that with a response because of course he knows everybody keeps telling him that. That was the whole point of his comment. Ugh, whatever.
Al-Haitham sits down at the table he just vacated and Kaveh hurries down the stairs and onto the street, his knapsack slung over one shoulder and notebook in hand, only to nearly stumble backwards and right back into the building when the scorching heat hits him. Archons, when did it get so hot?
Gritting his teeth, Kaveh adjusts his grip on the straps and starts his trek down to the Akademiya’s housing complex, brushing a few sweaty strands of hair out of his face.
“Hypostyle Children’s fund! Ninety percent of all earnings go straight to the starving children!”
Kaveh stops in his tracks, licking his dry lips as he looks for the source of the voice. He finds it in a booth selling what looks to be (very poorly) handmade keychains in various designs and a sign next to it, claiming that all profits will go to the children in need in the Hypostyle Desert. The stand selling Knafeh next to it is causing Kaveh’s stomach to convulse, the smell alone enough to make his mouth water.
He returns his gaze to the keychains and chews on the inside of his cheek. He thinks of the sweltering heat doubled, no, quadrupled in the unforgiving planes of the desert, and reaches into his pocket with a sigh. Taking out his frayed pouch, he counts the last of his Mora and buys a dozen of the keychains.
“Kaveh.”
Startled, Kaveh nearly jumps out of his skin right there and then.
“What the hell are you doing here?” he demands, putting some more distance between them. “Are you following me now or what?!”
Al-Haitham rolls his eyes. “You forgot this.”
Kaveh stares at the object in his hands for a moment then up at Al-Haitham again. “You came down here to give me my pencil case?”
“It's finals season for Kshahrewar, is it not? It should be unnecessarily troublesome if you’re missing your things.”
Kaveh takes the pencil case from him with a disbelieving huff but before he can offer his thanks, Al-Haitham has already leaned against the nearest building, staring at Kaveh’s most recent purchase with one brow raised. “You do know that Mora’s not actually going to starving children, right?”
Kaveh can’t help the scoff escaping him at the irony of his words. Not like it’s going to feed anyone if he holds onto it either. As if on cue, his empty stomach makes an angry sound in protest. “Not everyone’s as pessimistic as you, thank you very much,” he snips. “Now, if you'll excuse me—I have an exam to get to.”
Al-Haitham watches him leave with his arms crossed in front of his chest and Kaveh thinks it's entirely unfair how Al-Haitham’s shoulders are so broad compared to his own, his stupid clothes tight over the curves and edges of his muscled body, and yet it still doesn't feel as if he's taking up any more space than he deserves.
Kaveh is perpetually hungry. It's just a truth of life at this point; the sky is blue, the sun is hot, and Kaveh is hungry. All of the time. He actually can't think of the last time he felt sufficiently full, and he likes that he cannot remember.
Being empty means being lighter means less of him that can sicker through the cracks of his person and less space that he is taking up in this world. Means there’s someone else who’s fuller than him who deserves the food more than he does. If he’s empty that means he’s doing a good job of channeling his essence elsewhere and creating something truly meaningful.
Stretching his back, Kaveh rubs at his burning eyes and fights back a yawn. His stomach is a black hole, as if it’s mere moments away from eating itself and, as pleasant as that sounds, he cannot let that happen until he finishes at least one of his projects, so Kaveh reaches for the bottle of wine on the ground next to him and takes a few generous gulps. Being a little tipsy distracts him from the hunger plus it helps with feeling even lighter and makes the sheer weight of his absurd schedule seem more bearable.
Scrutinizing his blueprints under the low lights, Kaveh is currently in the process of debating whether to scrap the entirety of it and start fresh when one of his juniors peeks his head inside the tent.
“Mr Kaveh, do you want to catch a ride with us back to the city?”
Kaveh’s gaze sweeps over the cart behind him already packed with other people working on-site and more looking to find another empty spot to climb into. The shine of the moon casts diffused light over everything and it’s grown cold in the forest now that the sun has set—Kaveh would hate to be an extra burden for all these people.
“I’m fine, thank you,” he declines politely and even manages to offer a small smile despite knowing most of them dislike him anyway. “I’ll catch a later one.”
“All right, see you tomorrow then!” the man calls before the flap of his tent falls shut and Kaveh’s smile slips off his lips with it. He sighs, reaching for the bottle again. It's going to be another long night.
Nearing graduation, Kaveh can barely get out of bed anymore but forces his aching body to get up and under the shower anyway because he still has deadlines to meet and exams to sit. He stares at himself in the mirror and pretends not to see the dark shadows lining his eyes. He makes a face at himself and ignores his cheeks, puffy from all the wine he’s been drinking. He pulls his hair back and out of his eyes, haphazardly pinning it back with a few red pins, because he will not let his career be ruined by the unbearable urge to purge himself and repent for his crimes.
Tearing himself away from the mirror, Kaveh busies himself by getting dressed and curses quietly upon realizing that none of his clothes really fit anymore. Reaching for his knapsack, he takes out his trusty old pouch and counts what little Mora he has left for this month’s expenses. He curses again.
He really doesn't want to go again, so soon after last time, but it remains the most efficient way to earn some Mora on the side and he’s actually pretty good at it now that he’s gotten the hang of it. Some of his clients even derive great pleasure from him running his mouth which is not something that can be said for a lot of other people he meets during the daytime.
Kaveh leaves the house of his third customer that night with a lot less dignity but considerably more Mora in his pockets. He walks back to his student apartment with his head bowed low and hopes no one can see the shame trailing after him. He knows it’s a necessary sacrifice for finishing his palace but he can’t help and still feel like he’s fallen beyond salvation now, like he’s dirtied himself even further somehow.
There are bruises and bites all over his skin and his legs barely feel usable anymore by the time he gets home. He scrubs himself clean in the shower (as clean as he can get anyway) and goes to bed hungry. He tells himself he should be glad most of his clients tonight were regulars. It saved him the time and trouble of establishing boundaries and rules and helped in knowing what to expect at least.
“Your equation here is incorrect.”
The young student raises his head in surprise and looks up at him with a hint of surprise that quickly morphs into apprehension once he realizes who the voice belongs to.
Kaveh lets out a long sigh and feels the weariness in every single one of his muscles when he takes a seat beside him, the unforgiving wood of the bench pressing against his bones. He can barely lift his arm to point out the grievous errors in the other man’s classwork. “Your solution is correct but your derivation is full of mistakes.”
Apprehension turning into eagerness, the young man leans closer, pushing his papers towards him. “Where did I go wrong?”
Grinning, Kaveh goes into an impromptu twenty-minute lesson about static equilibriums and the intricacies of material behavior. “...and there you have it! Does that make sense?”
Expectantly, Kaveh turns to look at the other man again, rough sketches and strings of equations strewn all around them. He is met with an entirely bewildered expression. “...Not really…?”
Kaveh heaves a sigh and puts his head in his head, shaking it. “So this was all a massive waste of my time then?”
There's a huff somewhere to his right, quickly followed by the click of a tongue. “Your talents are wasted in Kshahrewar.”
Immediately, Kaveh perks up like he’s been electrocuted, swiveling around in his seat, because he knows that voice, would recognize it in a million others probably. He narrows his eyes and glares at Al-Haitham leaned against the bookshelf behind them, his arms crossed in front of his chest.
“What, so I can sit in dusty offices all day and sign papers?” He scoffs, sneering at the other man. “No, thanks.”
The junior next to Kaveh hastily gathers his things and hurries out of the room, muttering a quick goodbye. Kaveh gives Al-Haitham a pointed look. “See, you just scared off one of my willing students.”
Al-Haitham arches a brow. “I did? Seems to me like you did a pretty good job of that all by yourself, rambling like a madman.”
Kaveh scowls but feels heat creep up his neck at the thought that Al-Haitham has been listening to all of that. He is very much aware how annoying he can get but he doesn’t need Al-Haitham to know as well. “I was simply teaching him about structural mechanics. It’s not my fault he couldn't follow even the simplest of equations.”
Al-Haitham huffs out a laugh and proceeds to take a seat next to him, and oh, Kaveh can feel that in his chest, angry parakeets fluttering in his stomach at the sound of his laughter. He grits his teeth and forces himself to avert his gaze from the other man, busying himself by organizing the papers from his failed lesson.
“Like I said. Your talents are wasted in Kshahrewar.”
Kaveh can't help but glare at him, hoping he interprets the flush on his cheeks as indignance. “I intend to leave behind something of aesthetic value,” he snaps, “not sit in libraries all day deciphering ancient runes.”
“Ah yes,” Al-Haitham says slowly, leaning back against the wall. “Your palace. I’ve heard all about it.”
Kaveh huffs. “It’s not just a palace. It’s going to be the greatest piece of architecture this country’s ever seen, and I’m going to be the one who put it there.”
“I’m sure it's going to be magnificent.” Al-Haitham hums. “But, do enlighten me Kaveh, do you plan on surviving until it's finished?”
Choking on air, Kaveh stares at him in disbelief, his mouth agape. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”
Al-Haitham rolls his eyes and sighs. “Oh, please. You’re drunk more often than not. In fact, you even reek of alcohol right now.”
Kaveh sputters, reeling from the ridiculousness of this conversation. “I am not drunk,” he hisses. “Who are you anyway? The alcohol police?”
“Your appearance recently can only be described as sickly.”
Instinctively, Kaveh reaches up towards his hair and only just stops himself from anxiously tugging at the strands. He clenches his teeth and ignores the sudden tightness in his throat.
“It doesn't concern me but—”
“Exactly,” Kaveh cuts him off sharply. “So why don't you go and find someone else to bother and save both of us some time?”
Al-Haitham sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose, evidently annoyed, and Kaveh thinks he might throw up what little he ate for breakfast this morning. It’s truly fascinating how his mere presence is enough to aggravate the other man. Of course, the feeling’s mutual, with the small difference that Al-Haitham isn’t dangerously close to falling in love with him.
“Good talk,” Kaveh grits out and hopes Al-Haitham doesn’t notice the way he sways on his feet as he gets up, his stomach lurching at the sudden movement. “Until next time, Scribe.”
Despite not feeding himself properly, he’s out of Mora faster than he can count it. In a drunken fit he’d ordered the wrong tiles for the Palace and had to either re-order the right ones or spend another week remodeling with the wrong ones. The choice was obvious, seeing as the design was more than terrible and did not match the aesthetic at all.
Sighing, Kaveh drags his hands across his tired face and does his best to tidy up his appearance at least somewhat. His hair has almost completely lost its shine, thin and brittle between his fingers, and his clothes are at least three sizes too large by now but he doesn't have the necessary Mora to get them tailored.
He meets his first client of the night in a shabby inn not far from Aaru village. Desert folks don’t often get the chance to blow off some steam so they're usually well-paying customers. He shuts his eyes and numbs his brain and thinks about the Mora instead while he lets himself be groped and manhandled. At this point, it’s simple muscle memory.
For a horrifying moment, when the man above him grunts, moaning profanities into his ear, Kaveh’s mind offers him a very unhelpful image of Al-Haitham instead, his sharp gaze fixed intently on him. He wonders if Al-Haitham would enjoy it just as rough as this or if he’d be a more gentle lover, stroking the inside of his thighs instead of biting them, tickling his sides instead of gripping them so tight it hurts. If he’d whisper words of praise that Kaveh could actually believe.
With a stuttered gasp and jerking muscles, his customer finally finds release and Kaveh fights the shameful tears brimming at the corners of his eyes when he realizes he would prefer any version of Al-Haitham over this. Because he doesn't deserve to yearn for a pretty boy like that, for gentle love at all, and especially not from someone who hates his guts. He doesnt deserve earnest praise anyway.
When Kaveh returns, the sun is already rising at the horizon and he goes straight to bed. He doesn't shower and he doesn't eat—not even the entirety of the Sabzeruz festival’s food stalls could fill his stomach at this point. He goes to sleep and counts the proof of his worth in the bruises and bitemarks scoring his skin.
Because he can't afford to be late for the meeting with a prospective client who’s taken an interest in him upon the completion of the Palace of Alcazarzay, Kaveh chucks back the multitude of supplements that Tighnari gave him after he found him passed out in the House of Daena. Kaveh isn’t sure where he got them from and he honestly can’t be bothered to care.
Graduation passes by in a flurry of nothingness. Kaveh isn't even sure he could confidently recollect what he said in his speech when receiving his diploma. He thinks Al-Haitham might have been in the crowd somewhere. He has no clue what his expression was—probably mild disapproval like usual—but still finds himself wondering what Al-Haitham looks like when he smiles. Genuinely smiles. Kaveh huffs a laugh. He’s most definitely undeserving of such a sight.
He graduated from Kshahrewar with honors and finally finished his magnum opus, his worth personified, yet feels heavier and more lost than ever with no purpose and still not a single Mora to his name. There’s still too much Kaveh left in him.
With no place to stay anymore and no other options, Kaveh spends his nights at Lambad’s tavern until sunrise. It’s not terribly uncomfortable and at least he gets to spend what little Mora he makes through various proposal meetings and his night-time business on delicious drinks but the constant smell of food is making it hard for him to keep his composure.
On this particular night, however, Kaveh is already drunk by the time he manages to stumble into the tavern (Kaveh can admit that, he’s not oblivious). “Hey!” he calls as soon as he spots the group of people closest to the door. He staggers over to their table. “How about a game of Genius Invokation TCG?”
None of them pay him any mind but Kaveh sits down anyway, slamming a hand on the table as he waves the pouch with Mora he just earned in the air. “I bet all of it,” he grins and feels his skin stretch across his bones. His heart keeps annoyingly skipping a beat in his chest and it’s kind of making him nauseous, actually.
Glancing at him briefly, the group of people leaves without a single word to him and Kaveh frowns at the empty seats, too drunk to care much right now. As frustratingly pathetic as it may sound, the only one who actually bothers to talk to him these days is Al-Haitham anyways.
“Boss!” he shouts and raises an arm. “The usual, please!” His sleeve rides up, revealing a litany of bruises on dry skin and boney wrists and Kaveh quickly tugs it back down. He’s been bruising way too easily recently… If it continues like this, he might not get many more clients.
Lambad gives him a curt nod of acknowledgement and Kaveh lets his head sink onto the table in relief. The room around him was spinning and that honestly did nothing to help his nausea. Not that drinking any more on an empty stomach will either, but oh well, he never claimed to be particularly responsible now, did he? Perhaps this is it for him already—a one hit wonder; a star that burned too hot and tore everything in its vicinity down with it.
A sudden loud clunk rips from his thoughts and Kaveh blinks up to find Lambad placing a glass of wine in front of him. “This one’s on the house,” he says and sets down a small bowl of Chana Jor Garam next to it. Kaveh scowls at it. “And this,” he nods towards the drink, “is your last one tonight.”
Kaveh sits up straighter and narrows his eyes at him. Where the fuck is he supposed to stay the night if even Lambad kicks him out? “Is this some sort of sudden altruistic awakening?”
Lambad sighs and simply uncrosses his arms, sliding the bowl closer to him. “I’m just saying it as I see it.”
“Oh, that’s it.” Kaveh gives a harsh laugh. “You think I’m pathetic, right? Truly, why don’t I just try a little bit harder, right? Finally get a grip and stop gambling all my Mora away instead of wasting all my potential—be a little more sensible and just pull myself together.”
“No,” Lambad disagrees simply. “But I do think you should know better than to run yourself into the ground like this at your young age. A bright kid like you has a future to match.”
Kaveh feels red hot rage unfurl in his stomach, pour into his bloodstream like the wine he loves and set his veins ablaze. He gets up so fast that his chair topples over and his vision tilts sideways but he simply grits his teeth and balances himself with his hands on the table. “Thanks, but I don't need your pity.”
Fuming, he grabs his bag and storms out of the tavern with as much dignity as he can muster in his state. He’s not wanted here. He’s not wanted anywhere. His eyes sting with an uncomfortable pressure and his body feels less like a body and more like a granite building. He’s so hungry.
Outside, there’s still a warm breeze blowing but considering his poor physical state it’s definitely too cold for Kaveh to spend the night on the streets—he might be reckless and irresponsible but that doesn’t mean he wants to gamble with his life.
Wiping at his eyes with his arm, Kaveh hiccups and stumbles over one of those stupid vines on the ground, just barely reacting quickly enough to stretch out his arms and cushion the fall to keep his face from meeting the concrete. With his breaths coming in short bursts and his heart threatening to jump out of his throat, Kaveh leans his head back against the wall and lets his eyes flutter shut. It feels nice to sit down. The world isn't moving quite so fast anymore. He feels his lips pull into a smile. Maybe he’ll just stay here. It’s not too cold after all and he’s too tired to move and he doesn’t have a place to go anyway. He’ll just—he’ll figure it out once morning comes. He will. He’ll—
— ⋆ ✸ ⋆ —
Kaveh is the most beautiful person Al-Haitham has ever known. Not for his appearance (although that too is quite pleasant to look at) but because of his truly magnificent mind.
He’s infuriating half the time and endearing the other and Al-Haitham found himself looking forward to their arguments every single time; even going so far as to seek them out deliberately just to hear the other man rant. There’s just something about his voice and the way he speaks to him, like he’s neither machine nor toddler, that has him enthralled. Pair that with his striking looks accentuated by simple fabrics and golden jewelry and Al-Haitham never had a choice from the moment he first laid eyes on his senior.
…Which is why he finds the sudden absence of his presence after graduation all the more inconvenient. Over the past few months, Kaveh has been steadily declining in health, looking worse for wear every time they met, so naturally Al-Haitham worried, now that he’s not seeing him as often.
He’s heard the stories though: Kaveh passed out drunk in Lambad’s tavern, Kaveh starting public shouting matches with potential clients because they lack artistic vision, Kaveh giving away all his Mora and traversing the desert in the scorching heat.
So when he sees him enter the tavern on his way to the Akademiya one evening, he decides to go check on him on his way back home. If he's there, he'll talk to him. If he's already gone, he won’t. Simple as that. He tells himself it’s only logical for him to want to check up on his senior if he’s clearly unwell and ignores the nagging part in the back of his mind that knows logic has very little to do with his feelings for Kaveh.
“Kaveh? He left a little while ago,” Lambad tells him, shaking his head. “Kid’s in too deep for his own good.”
Al-Haitham narrows his eyes at him. “How long ago did he leave? Did he say where he was headed?”
Lambad shrugs his shoulders. “Far as I know, he’s still looking for a place to stay.”
Al-Haitham’s chest suddenly tightens around his heart painfully and a sense of nervousness curls low in his stomach. He nods curtly and leaves without another word, starting his search in the perimeter of the tavern with a frown.
Naturally, Kaveh would lose access to student accommodation upon graduation but Al-Haitham’s just always assumed he’d made enough Mora with the Palace of Alcazarzaray to rent somewhere else. Or, at least, that’s what he wanted to believe.
Pressing his lips tightly together, Al-Haitham tries not to feel responsible for Kaveh’s situation. Which is proving itself immensely difficult because he’s seen the signs. Kaveh has clearly been spiraling for months now but his childish refusal to give the other man any chance to find out about his feelings kept him from reaching out.
When he suddenly spots a familiar flash of white and gold in the corner of his eye, Al-Haitham abruptly stops in his tracks and steps closer, holding his breath.
Kaveh is unconscious. Or, at the very least, asleep. His eyes are closed and his body slumped in a heap on the ground, his chin resting on his chest and his hair falling into his face.
“Kaveh,” he calls. No response. “Come on, get up.” No response.
Looking up and down the street, Al-Haitham crouches down in front of him and makes the horribly impulsive decision to simply pick him up. In his arms, Kaveh feels barely heavier than a stack of books and Al-Haitham knows it has little to do with his own strength, the knobs of Kaveh’s spine effortlessly discernible even through the fabric.
Al-Haitham clenches his jaw and doesn’t look down. Kaveh has always been about the same height as him, just slightly leaner in frame and narrower in build, but right now it feels like he’s cradling a child, Kaveh’s cheek pressed against his broad chest as he sleeps.
Back home, Al-Haitham sets him down on his bed and steps back, taking a moment to stare at the man that somehow managed to strip him of all logical thinking. Moving back in he takes out the blue quill tucked behind his ear and holds his breath while he does so, but Kaveh doesn’t stir so he sets it aside and moves on to the set of delicately placed hairpins, gingerly removing all of them.
Even though his golden curls have lost their shine a long time ago, they still feel soft to the touch and Al-Haitham has never really understood the appeal of touching another person, much to his grandmother’s chagrin, but with Kaveh it feels almost instinctual to linger for just a moment longer, marveling at the feel. This close, he can count the large number of dark lashes framing his eyes, resting lightly against the top of his cheeks.
But Kaveh’s skin is cold to the touch, his complexion pallid, and the uncharacteristic quietness of him bothers Al-Haitham. Even though he gets to admire him right now, this is not the Kaveh he wants. With a low sigh, Al-Haitham steps back from the bed and forces himself to look away. He’ll surely get an earful about this tomorrow. He'll probably never hear the end of it, actually…but somehow, that will still be preferable to seeing him like this.
“...Haitham…?”
Al-Haitham looks up from his book to watch Kaveh stumble out of his bedroom with eyes squinted in pain and hair sticking out in every direction. “Where am I?”
Al-Haitham returns his gaze to the book. “My house.”
“Your house?!” Kaveh splutters, producing a quite impressive high-pitched noise. “Care to tell me why I’m here?”
Heaving a sigh, Al-Haitham closes his book and swings his legs over the edge of the couch, properly facing the other man. “I found you passed out outside Lambad’s,” he says and goes on to recount last night's events to a mortified Kaveh.
With a huff, Kaveh crosses his arms in front of his chest, causing his white blouse to slip off his shoulder. A myriad of bruises litters his paper-thin skin. “You didn't…do anything to me, right?”
Al-Haitham forces his eyes to meet crimson ones. “If by do anything you mean carrying your drunk self all the way back here, then yes.”
“Do anything as in sleep with me,” Kaveh elaborates with an abrupt wave of his hand and Al-Haitham wouldn't consider himself a very expressive person but he still loses all control over his facial muscles then, his mouth dropping open as he stares at Kaveh in bewilderment.
“Alright, alright, damn,“ Kaveh backtracks quickly, hands up in the air in a defensive gesture. “No need to look so disgusted, I’m usually fairly popular.”
The comment causes something sharp and jagged to twist in Al-Haitham’s chest so he swallows thickly and pushes that particular pain away for later decryption. Instead, he gets up off the couch and walks towards the other man with his jaw set in determination. “You need to eat something.”
The change in atmosphere is instantaneous. Kaveh’s entire body goes rigid at his words, the air around them growing colder as he scoffs. “You’re in Haravatat, rumored to become the next Scribe,” Kaveh hisses, glaring at him. “You can’t be that stupid. You’re just doing this to get a reaction out of me.”
But Al-Haitham simply levels him with a cool look, even though the unspoken admission makes him want to seriously maim whoever gave him the idea that he needed to do this to himself. “I also assumed you’d be more intelligent than this,” he says slowly. “But perhaps I gave you too much credit.”
Kaveh only rolls his eyes and Al-Haitham tries not to be disappointed by the lack of a reaction. “I’m too hungover to deal with you right now,” he groans. “I’ll get my things and be out of your hair.”
“I made Tahchin,“ Al-Haitham suddenly blurts. “There’s still some leftovers in the fridge. You can take some or leave it, it doesn’t matter either way.”
Kaveh stops moving and turns to look at him, a flicker of surprise passing across his features. “You know how to make Tahchin?”
Al-Haitham raises his chin. He doesn’t. He spent last night looking it up in the Akasha after he remembered Kaveh always used to eat it during his frequent sketching sessions in the House of Daena, occupying an entire table by himself with all his blueprints. “Obviously.”
Kaveh huffs but there's the hint of a smile tugging at the corners of his lips and even though the tautness of it really emphasizes how much weight he’s lost, Al-Haitham’s stomach still flutters uncomfortably at the sight. “...keep surprising me,” he mutters before turning back into the bedroom and leaving Al-Haitham alone in the doorway.
Kaveh doesn't take the Tahchin with him and he doesn’t stay any longer than necessary either. He leaves before the sun has fully risen and when Al-Haitham asks him where he plans on going he tells him that it’s none of his business.
“Move in with me.”
For the fraction of a second, Kaveh looks at him with such unadulterated shock that one might think Al-Haitham suggested they join forces and take over the Akademiya by force. Truthfully, this might come quite close to it though, because by all accounts, asking Kaveh to live with him is a completely illogical proposition and Kaveh should have as little reason to accept it as Al-Haitham did to extend it.
“You know very well I don't have the Mora to pay you,” Kaveh, unsurprisingly, argues with a frown. ”I don't want your charity.”
“Oh, you do have to pay rent,” Al-Haitham elaborates. “But you can do so once you've found your footing again.”
An unusual silence settles around them and for once Al-Haitham doesn't know what to do with it. Then, barely audible despite the quiet: “I’ll pay you back. With interest.”
Al-Haitham tries to hide his surprise behind a huff. He swallows thickly. “I fully expect you to.”
Kaveh arrives in front of his doorstep with only a bag slung over his shoulder and a bronze-adorned box in his arms. It looks heavy and Al-Haitham immediately wants to take it from him but he knows the gesture will go unappreciated so he refrains.
Instead, he steps aside and makes space for Kaveh to come inside. But Kaveh doesn't move, chewing on his bottom lip with his gaze cast at his own feet. “People usually don't ask people they dislike to move in with them.”
Al-Haitham blinks in surprise. “I never claimed to dislike you.”
Raising his head, Kaveh squints at him suspiciously. “You are aware that this usually means something…right? Living together.”
“I am.”
Kaveh lets out a derisive scoff. “And you're fine with that? People might get the wrong idea.”
“You should know best that I don’t particularly care for what others think nor have I ever done so.”
“You’ll regret asking me,” Kaveh insists stubbornly. “There's something wrong with me.”
“I’ve known that since the first time we met,” Al-Haitham replies bluntly, and his heart jolts at the quiet huff of laughter Kaveh lets out before he adds, more seriously, “There's something wrong with everyone somehow. But that shouldn’t stop us from living our lives. Now come in and put that box away, we still need to establish some ground rules.”
Kaveh angrily mutters something under his breath but smiles as he steps across the threshold and Al-Haitham suddenly feels very warm. When he passes Al-Haitham their shoulders brush and Kaveh tilts his head to meet his gaze with a grin, a nostalgic shine to his eyes. “With interest.”
Al-Haitham nods. “With interest.”
Al-Haitham has never considered himself a fool for anything, much less love, nor has he understood what people meant when they said love makes you do the strangest things, but Kaveh might be the one to teach him and Al-Haitham has never been more willing to be taught.