Archive of Our Own

"Grand Scribe of the Akademiya. Graduate of Haravatat with more than twenty languages under your belt," Kaveh declares, pointing a finger into his face. "Words can be surprisingly ineffective with you."

Alhaitham pushes his hand away. "Don't point at me like that. What do you want for dinner."

Kaveh's eyes light up. "Kuku sabzi, please."

⨠

Alhaitham is called to the Bimarstan in the middle of a work day. There, he finds Kaveh with his arm in a cast and a sheepish grin aimed at him.

Alhaitham crosses his arms across his chest. "Why do I have to be here? Surely you can walk home on your own. Unless you mean to tell me that both your legs are broken too?"

Kaveh narrows his eyes. "Are you saying you would make me walk home on my own if I'd broken one leg but not the other?"

"Why would you accuse me of such cruelty when I show up to help you like a generous and considerate roommate?" Alhaitham says, adding an extra inflection to his words at the right moment, just to see if Kaveh will scrunch up his nose again. He does.

"Please," Kaveh says. "If someone held a best roommate contest, you'd land in dead last place."

"Oh? Then I see you haven't counted yourself in the lineup of contestants."

"Ugh, you are so insufferable! I didn't call you here just to piss me off."

"Really? I couldn't tell. We've done nothing but argue since I arrived."

"Maybe we wouldn't have to go through this every time if you just fixed your attitude."

Alhaitham rolls his eyes. "So? Don't tell me you called me out of work just to waste my time. What if I was in the middle of something urgent? I could've just ignored your summons."

"But you're here, aren't you," Kaveh points out, eyebrows raised. "Did I get you out of a particularly boring meeting? Maybe you should be thanking me."

A polite cough interrupts them.

"Um, sirs, please just go home," one of the intern doctors says, looking distinctly uncomfortable. "You'll disturb the other patients if you stay here any longer."

⨠

Their steps slow down to a stroll when the house comes into view at the end of the road. Kaveh tugs at Alhaitham's clothes, fishing the keys out of his pocket.

Alhaitham hums. "I had a dream last night."

In the short moment between dreaming and waking, he brushed against its surface as it left his grasp. All he can recall are vague snatches: sunlight through leaves, sunlight on golden hair. Faint impressions of something incredibly warm. Whatever quiet feels like.

Kaveh pauses, curious. "What was it about?"

Alhaitham is pretty sure he recognizes the place in his dreams. There is a secluded corner along the roofs of the Akademiya that anyone can easily get to if only they think of venturing off the path and hiking along the wide arm of the Divine Tree. Not many people do, which is why it was one of Alhaitham's preferred spots to read. When he was still a student he used to spend his time there in between classes, eating his lunch under the shade of the leaves with a book in his other hand.

Kaveh joined him one day, just to chat his ears off about a new renovation project he'd started for a class he was taking. He never asked how Kaveh knew where to find him—he didn't think to ask. It just made sense for Kaveh to be there.

Eventually, Alhaitham would stand up, gathering his books and dusting off his clothes.

"Are you going already?" Kaveh complained. "I haven't even started on the travesty that is the shape of the roof. And it's such a nice day out too. Have you never missed even a minute of class?"

"No, I haven't," was what Alhaitham said, before he left. It was time for his next class, an Amurta lecture about historic species of flora he'd wanted to reference for a translation of an old text he was working on.

He looked back for a second as he was walking away, and saw the figure of Kaveh leaning back on his hands, head tilted back to gaze up at the sky.

Something about the light held still. A moment captured by a backward glance, and tucked away into memory.

When he came back after his lecture, Kaveh was gone.

Alhaitham wonders if his dream was about what it would've been like if he stayed behind that day, the two of them under the shade of the tree.

"I don't know," Alhaitham says. "I've forgotten it."

"What?" Kaveh says, annoyed.

"It's common for mortal brains to forget their dreams when they regain consciousness, Kaveh. Don't make me repeat myself," Alhaitham says. He wonders if that's the reason Kaveh insists on relaying everything he remembers as soon as he can. To bring something of it into reality.

"I'm just disappointed, that's all," Kaveh grumbles. "Here I was, wondering what sort of dreams someone like you would have."

Alhaitham smiles. "What, did you want me to say that I was dreaming about you?"

Kaveh stomps ahead of him without a word, unlocking the front door. "You're full of yourself," he announces, and shuts the door in Alhaitham's face.

Alhaitham is left waiting outside, arms full of architectural models and rolled-up blueprints stacked precariously on top of each other. "Kaveh," he reminds him. "I am holding your things."

Kaveh opens the door for him.

⨠

Here's the thing.

Alhaitham knows that Kaveh loves him. (He knows now.)

It was one night walking back home from the tavern, the both of them tipsy and warm, weight leaning into each other. Alhaitham doesn't remember what he was telling Kaveh, just that it was something extremely sarcastic, something that would've sparked Kaveh's temper if he was sober. It made him throw his head back in laughter.

Then after a moment spent catching his breath, Kaveh shook it off and leaned in closer, nose to nose. Frowning smile and pretty eyes and red red cheeks from the alcohol. "Arrogant fool. You know I love you too, right?" he said, sounding quite angry about it. "Stupid, clever, impossible… you."

Oh, but how could he have known back then. Love is not normally a question Alhaitham would care to answer. It holds a different meaning in the mouth of every person, at any given moment. It is used in so many different ways, the rules changing whenever they see fit.

If you listen carefully, so much of love is not about love. If you ask Alhaitham, there are simpler substitutes in life that serve the same purposes. Like happiness, like peace and quiet.

But Alhaitham is also subject to this phenomenon where he cannot resist responding to Kaveh. And like every time he's compelled to toss a comment as they pass each other in the halls of the Akademiya, like every time he stops when he catches a glimpse of Kaveh's handwriting on a bulletin board—Alhaitham will respond to this too.

(Alhaitham pauses and considers the hand on his waist, holding up his weight. Kaveh will be there tomorrow with coffee in the morning for both of them. Kaveh, who sometimes looks at him with such complicated expressions on his face.

He knows that Kaveh meant it with a weight behind his words, because Kaveh does not do anything lightly with Alhaitham. That is the first thing he liked about him when they first met.

"I'll think about it," a tipsy Alhaitham promises Kaveh, under the light of the streetlamps on the way back home.

He only receives a baffled look in return. "About what?")

⨠

Something Alhaitham learned very early on is that nearly everything can be broken down into parts. It is the key to knowledge, the lifelong tool of any scholar, especially in Haravatat. To understand a language, you must first know words. You must first know meaning.

If you try to take apart love and all its components, you might parse out feelings like the satisfaction of a lively argument, the quiet relief when meeting again after a long time. Feelings are easy enough to recognize, easy enough to find words for. Intimacy. Affection. Forgiveness, pain. They add up in layers, a collection of parts—a wall, a doorway, a roof carefully measured on a sheet of paper.

They are building something with all their time together, between morning routines and the philosophical arguments and the knees knocking under the dinner table. Is there really a right word for this? It is too big. It is too small. This ever-shifting, chaotic dream.

The problem is that love, at least when it comes to people, at least when it comes to Kaveh, is not just about feeling. A home is not just a house that people live in. Not quite.

Sometimes when Kaveh is away on a project, Alhaitham will look up from his book in the evenings as if waking from a dream and notice how oddly the silence settles around him.

When Alhaitham leaves for work in the morning, he grabs his key from the little bowl they share on the shelf. It's an automatic motion that he does without looking. One key hooks onto the other with its teeth, and he walks out of the house with two in his pocket, silver and gold. Little things that have nothing to do with feeling.

⨠

"Explain it to me then," Alhaitham demands.

Kaveh throws him an annoyed look. The effect is lessened by the bags under his eyes and the flyaway hairs falling into his face every time he pushes them back. "It's art. There's nothing to explain. It's better felt than spoken."

"What I feel is an intense displeasure at having to deal with your unconscious body passed out at the desk because you couldn't bother to drag yourself to bed. Again."

"Look, I'm almost done."

"You said that yesterday."

"It was still true then! This stupid injured arm is not making things any easier," Kaveh says, rubbing at his temples. "I almost have it within my grasp, I can feel it. If I go to sleep I'll lose sight of it for sure."

Alhaitham is unimpressed. "You'll lose sight of it when your vision starts to fail you."

Kaveh bares his teeth at him. "Just get out already!"

"Of course. I am going to bed at a reasonable hour, after all. You better not be lying dead here in the morning," he warns.

"As if you haven't done the exact same thing before," Kaveh scoffs.

"It's fine as long as I don't need the energy the next day," Alhaitham says. He pushes into Kaveh's hands the cup of coffee he came to deliver, stopping him short from diving into their usual argument.

Kaveh looks down at his hands in wonder. Steam rises from the top of the cup, unfurling into the air. He closes his fingers around its warmth.

"I guess it's a bit like love, in a way," he says, staring down into his drink with a wry smile. And then after a thoughtful pause, he adds, "And Cyno's jokes."

"Hm?"

Kaveh shakes his head. He closes his eyes and takes a sip. "Thank you for the coffee."

⨠

One morning finds Alhaitham at the table for breakfast, a book in one hand and his first spoonful of rose custard in the other. He opens his mouth to eat, and Kaveh chooses that exact moment to yell his name from the bathroom.

"Haitham, come here for a second!"

Alhaitham closes his mouth around the spoon and starts eating his breakfast. He flips to the next page in his book. Perhaps he can reach the end of the chapter before—

Footsteps come up from behind him, and then the scent of a fresh shower, and the flash of red at the edge of his vision. It seems that Kaveh has managed to wrestle himself into his clothing even with only one usable arm. His hair, however, falls around his shoulders wild and golden without any of the usual accessories pinning it back. He looks breathtaking even like this.

And then he opens his mouth to speak. "Put your food away for a bit," Kaveh says. Demands. "Help me with my hair." The items in his hand clatter onto the table one by one: brush, comb, curler. Hair clips, earrings, feather.

"Why should I? I think it would do you some good dealing with the consequences of your own carelessness. Maybe you'll learn a thing or two about following safety procedures at a construction site," Alhaitham says. His finger marks the line he's stopped at and his eyes glance at the page number in the corner. Page ninety-three, second paragraph.

"You—! Look, I don't have that much time to argue with you today. I have to check in with my juniors in an hour or someone will break my precious stained glass windows instead of just my arm."

Kaveh drags a chair over to Alhaitham and takes a seat. Alhaitham suppresses the urge to sigh.

"Your hair is fine. You won't die if you're seen like this in public."

"You barely have to brush through your hair before you leave the house. I don't expect someone as tasteless as you to understand why I do mine the way I do."

"And you're sure you want your precious hair in my tasteless hands?"

"Please. As if you'd let yourself do a poor job of anything," Kaveh says as he whirls around to flip his hair into Alhaitham's face. He can't see it but he knows Kaveh is rolling his eyes at him. "Even a simple ponytail is better than nothing."

Alhaitham finally closes his book. He reaches for the hair brush first. He moves to sweep Kaveh's hair past his shoulders, gathering the golden strands in his hand. This part, at least, is familiar.

(It's familiar because there are days where Kaveh crawls straight into Alhaitham's bed from the front door, too tired or too drunk to even remove his cape. If Alhaitham is awake, he will undo Kaveh's hair for him, snapping off every clip and collecting all the extra accessories if only so they won't come loose and stab Alhaitham in the middle of the night.

His fingers loosen the braid, but they have never weaved it together.)

Fortunately, Alhaitham has a good memory. He's seen Kaveh fussing in front of the mirror enough times to know how this goes. After the brushing, comes the sectioning of front and back, and then pinning down the sides with hair clips.

Kaveh reaches for the rose custard on the table.

"That's my breakfast," Alhaitham warns him. His hands are preoccupied with forming the usual braid that slides along the side of Kaveh's head. Right over center, twist. Separate carefully with fingers.

Kaveh waves it off. "You can just have my portion instead," he says. "You saved a second one for me, right?"

He did.

"If you pay for it, I can get another one for you," Alhaitham says. "Surely you understand the concept of handing over mora in exchange for goods and services?"

Kaveh snorts, and heaps a large spoonful into his mouth. "I understand the concept of kindness and generosity. And if I'm wrong then it just means you won't have any breakfast left because I'll be eating this entire bowl," he says over his mouthful of stolen food. Bold words to say to someone with their hands in his hair.

Alhaitham slides the last hair clip into place. He trails a knuckle along the length of the braid, satisfied with his work. With both hands, he spins Kaveh around in his chair to face him.

"Wha—" he protests, but it quickly dies down at the first touch of Alhaitham's hand on his jaw, tilting his head this way and that. Alhaitham feels warm when their eyes meet for a brief moment.

He braces a knee on the edge of the chair, and tugs Kaveh closer by the collar. He takes his time with the sweeping parts of Kaveh's fringe and the curling strands at the sides that reach past his ears. He can feel Kaveh's eyes trained on his face, having long forgotten about the rose custard.

With delicate movements, he slides the signature feather into place behind Kaveh's ear.

The earrings are the last step.

Left first, then the one on the right. He swipes a thumb over the soft curve of Kaveh's ear, and delights in the way it flushes red. Many details become clearer when he leans in for a closer view. Fingers, the flutter of eyelashes, the slight tremor in Kaveh's breathing.

He slips the studs into place. Tap tap, he flicks a fingernail against the part that dangles. The metal catches the light coming in from the window.

Finally, everything is in its place. Alhaitham pulls away and commits to memory the dazed look in front of him.

He lifts the bowl of custard from Kaveh's hands and smirks. "I dare say I've done a better job of your hair than you usually do. I'm off to work," he says, and turns to go.

Kaveh blinks.

Alhaitham shrugs on his cape and makes it all the way to the door, where he pauses in his step. One more push. "You're welcome, by the way," he calls over his shoulder.

Kaveh rises from his chair with a clatter, red eyes flashing.

"You," he hisses. He marches up to Alhaitham and presses him back against the wall, one hand gripping the bone of his hip, exactly the way he likes.

Warm breath, golden hair, and the taste of rose custard in his mouth.

Sunlight, quiet morning.

⨠

Many Rtawahist texts record the details of stars too faint to be observed with the human eye. Having just about devoured every book the main library has to offer, it goes without saying that Alhaitham has flipped through these pages too. He has no real interest in the stars themselves, but the methods of observing them have proven to be insightful.

Even with the hydromantic tools they've developed, those who watch the stars cannot rely on sight alone. To find proof of something that can't be seen, they look for the traces it leaves in its wake. The push and pull of its gravity and the way it changes the world ever so slightly, just by existing.

In other words, they observe the visible objects that are affected by the invisible force. Every star that cannot be seen is still connected to an observable fate.

So Kaveh, Alhaitham wonders, Do you feel loved?

On the table next to the bed, Alhaitham leaves a cup of water and the medicine from the doctor. Kaveh will need it in the morning. He shoves Kaveh over to make space for himself on the bed, ignoring the grumbling protests as he crawls into the covers next to him.

"I'll kill you if you snatch all the blankets in the middle of the night again," Kaveh mumbles, drowsy, already half gone.

"This is my house. They're my blankets."

"Whatever. Good fucking night."

Alhaitham rolls his eyes and tucks the sheets closer to his chin. "Just sleep."

⨠

Sometimes Kaveh is in a good mood and he'll let Alhaitham look over his shoulder as he works.

Kaveh will sketch out ideas and crumple them up just as easily. He tweaks miniscule details to perfection, assembles something completely new from common parts. His work has a lot to do with putting things together. Kaveh the architect, the inventor, the Light of Kshahrewar.

Alhaitham is familiar with the process. Papers spread out everywhere across the table. The intense concentration spent outlining a delicate pattern on the side, a short pause to do mathematical calculations.

Kaveh loves to start with free hand sketches, splashes of colour and all the lovely details included. His genius will plan out the technicalities afterwards and make it fit together. For Kaveh, it is important to dream first.

"What are you working on," Alhaitham asks.

"None of your business," is Kaveh's answer most of the time. It's become such a reflex that the words no longer carry any heat.

"It's a door."

"It's the mansion of my dreams," Kaveh retorts.

Alhaitham looks down at the sheet of paper. An arrangement of components on a blueprint, an idea not fully formed. "Hm? Somehow I find that hard to believe."

"You'll see," Kaveh says, the light of a challenge burning in his eyes. "I'll show you." He straightens in his seat and tugs his chair closer to his desk. With a twirl of his pen, he gets to work.

Alhaitham rests his chin on Kaveh's shoulder and settles down to watch. Soon enough he will get bored and wander away to the bookshelf, but for now, they sit together as they have done many times before. This is enough—the tender hands leaving charcoal smudges on the edges of the paper.

⨠

Lumine and Paimon step through the doors into the Grand Bazaar. It has grown a lot busier here ever since Nahida took over things in Sumeru, and yet the same warmth remains in the atmosphere. Lumine's eyes sweep over the area and catch on something a little unexpected in the corner, leaning against a wall.

Alhaitham cuts an intimidating figure, tall in stature, with his dark clothing and the sharp angles of his cape, arms crossed and face stoic. There is a bubble of space around him, even in a crowded and lively area like this. Lumine knows he can be charming when he wants to be, polite and affable when it suits his needs. Otherwise, people tend to step around him because he gives off the impression of someone who prefers to sit alone.

"Hey look! It's Alhaitham, let's go say hi!" Paimon says.

As they drift closer to Alhaitham, Lumine notices that his gaze is glued to something among the crowd in the marketplace.

"Out shopping?" she asks, and Alhaitham finally turns to acknowledge them.

"Oh, it's you two. Are you here for Nilou? I hear a performance is starting at the theatre in an hour or so," he says, and it works well enough to nudge Paimon into taking over the conversation as he nods at the right moments and offers up nothing of himself.

Lumine watches him curiously. Is he in a strange mood today?

When she turns to see what his gaze keeps drifting to, her eyes find Kaveh at Jut's spice stall, gathering ingredients into a bag. He's chatting with the merchant and his whole body moves with every expression he makes, the feather on his head swaying back and forth and his arms gesticulating in the space around him. At one point, the customer next to him ducks to avoid getting hit in the face.

The corner of Alhaitham's mouth lifts, just a little bit.

"You're here with Kaveh today?" Lumine asks.

He nods. "His broken arm has completely healed now. He wanted to cook dinner to celebrate, so we're out to buy the ingredients he needs. I also requested dessert, because he owes me an apology for kicking me off the bed in his sleep last night."

Lumine stares at him. "What?"

Alhaitham catches the confusion in her gaze. "He was having one of his more active dreams," he explains. "It completely disrupted my own sleep. I even left work early because I was feeling tired. I think a good dessert is the least he can do to make it up to me."

"That's…" Not the part she was confused about.

Paimon is taken aback. "Are you guys in a relationship?"

"You've had the chance to observe us for a while now. What do you think?" Alhaitham crosses his arms and looks amused.

"Uh," says Paimon, holding her head in that way she does when a thought seems too much for her brain to process.

I think I'm starting to understand, Lumine thinks as she watches the two roommates walk back home, side by side, bickering as usual with no regard for the public space around them. Kaveh carries all of the bags in one arm and the other hangs in the space between them.

Alhaitham's hands are empty, and Lumine wonders what he even tagged along for.

"They sure are a strange pair," Paimon comments.

But maybe this is the kind of life Alhaitham wanted to protect. Lumine nods her agreement.

⨠

If you ask Kaveh, he would not answer you outright. Instead he would recount the mundane events of the night before he broke his arm:

They had a fight, one of the versions where Kaveh bites with his words and forgets how sharp his fangs are, and Alhaitham is tired enough to snap back with something curt. They both know it is not the right time for the usual song and dance.

It is Kaveh who loosens his jaw first, and lets go. Maybe it's the taste of sabzi that still lingers in his mouth, the food that they shared together just a few hours ago.

"Go already," he grouches. "I can't talk to you like this." So it ends with Alhaitham climbing into bed early with one of his books in hand and Kaveh quietly returning to the work spread out on his desk.

Around midnight, Kaveh takes a break to play a soft melody on the strings of the saz, and the light in Alhaitham's room, burning all this while, finally flicks off, all visible from the gap under the door.

Kaveh hums to himself absentmindedly. La lala la. Up and down his fingers go, playing the song of a sweet dream.

And when Kaveh unwraps yesterday's leftovers for breakfast the next morning, Alhaitham walks up to him, grabs his wrist and takes a big bite out of his food. And then another one and another one while Kaveh is busy telling him off for his rude behaviour.

"Thanks," he says, then tears off his last mouthful straight from Kaveh's hand, like an animal. He heads to work immediately after, a straight line to the door, leaving behind a fuming roommate.

And later when Kaveh sits in the Bimarstan waiting for them to wrap his broken arm in a cast, wondering about all those miniature scale models and building plans he'd left at the Kshahrewar wing of the Akademiya and how he's going to carry them home with only one arm to balance them with—still the first person he thinks to call is Alhaitham.

This is just how it is for them. The road back home, the food on the dinner table, the bed they sleep in. And today, the road back home again.

Kaveh smiles to himself and wonders if he can bother Alhaitham into buying dessert when they pass through the Grand Bazaar on the way back. He's in the mood for Baklava, and Shevirme makes them buttery in the most delightful way.

⨠

Evenings like this are a rare blessing.

It is not as if Kaveh is a bad cook. The problem is that he doesn't cook for the purpose of simply eating—he treats every dish he makes like a work of art. If it's tahchin, it's all about the structure, and then it's all about the perfect level of crisp on the surface. Kaveh is not afraid to start over if he has to. The shape of a single samosa has to be folded with the utmost care. He will fuss with every spice added and after everything is prepared there is still joy to be found in the plating, and the presentation.

It's infeasible to pour that much time and effort into an everyday dinner, so Alhaitham usually takes it upon himself to cook for the both of them.

One of the nice things about Kaveh cooking is how he takes care of everything from start to finish, which means the ingredients he picks out from the market all the way to the cleanup at the end. The kitchen usually ends up cleaner than he started with, and Alhaitham never has to lift a finger.

"What is it today?" Alhaitham says. He's picked the seat facing the kitchen and he has a book propped up in front of him, but Kaveh doubts he's been reading any of it, judging by the lazy angle it sits in his hands.

"I'm sure you can already smell it, I'm almost done. Just be patient," Kaveh calls from the doorway.

He wonders how many people in the world would ever get the chance to witness an Alhaitham like this. Loose-limbed and almost drowsy, the soft and slow blinks as he tracks Kaveh's movement back and forth in the kitchen.

Kaveh looks upon him, his tired eyes and the hair tousled on one side from earlier when he'd dozed off on the divan to the sound of Kaveh's cooking. That he was even relaxed enough to do so.

It is an everyday sight for Kaveh.

Mine, he thinks, with a curling satisfaction in his chest.

⨠

La lala la. See? I close my eyes and imagine the dark hills I would have to cross
to reach you. For I am in love with you

and this is what it is like or what it is like in words.

— Carol Ann Duffy, "Words, Wide Night"