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“Do you need anything before I go?” asks Kaveh from the door. Really, the amount of distance he’s placed between them is unnecessary and overdramatic.
Al-Haitham makes this known by saying, “I can’t hear you from over here.”
Kaveh scoffs from where he’s leaning against the door frame. “Nice try, Al-Haitham. But I’m not risking going over there just for you to infect me with your plague.”
“I have a cough,” says Al-Haitham flatly, just as a cough rises in his throat. He coughs once, quietly to not disturb the atmosphere or make a fool of himself, then coughs again louder. An itch burns in the back of his throat and suddenly he’s coughing harder to clear it. When he’s done, he discreetly wipes his mouth, hoping Kaveh didn’t notice. “A mild cough.”
When he does look at Kaveh, however, he sees Kaveh shaking his head, looking almost fond as he peels himself off the door frame and disappears into the kitchen.
Al-Haitham tries not to ache as he lays back in bed all by himself. He has always thought this bed was too large for one person, and only recently has a second body come to occupy it. However, Kaveh moved back to his old room the moment Al-Haitham started sniffling with the excuse that he had lots of clients to see and didn’t want to get any of them sick. The only outcome that matters to Al-Haitham is that Kaveh is not here and that he’s feeling this space all by himself—as wide and cavernous as the years that Kaveh had been gone.
Kaveh returns a short moment later, wearing a mask over his mouth and carrying a tray of mint tea with a little jar of sugar cubes on the side. He sets the tray over Al-Haitham’s lap and all he can think about is how close Kaveh is.
“The mask is unnecessary,” he says.
Kaveh laughs, bright and unexpected. “I never thought you’d spout something so blatantly false for personal gain. Next you’ll tell me you want the Akasha to return so it can summarize all your books instead of reading them yourself!”
Al-Haitham glowers. “I’m not that sick, Kaveh.”
Kaveh presses the back of his hand to Al-Haitham’s forehead, his skin smooth with cool relief like a mint leaf. He pulls away far too quickly. “Tell me that when your fever breaks. How many sugar cubes do you want in your tea?”
Al-Haitian blinks. “One.”
Kaveh obliges.
Al-Haitham hasn’t gotten sick in a long time. The last time he got sick, truly sick, was sometime after graduating the Akademiya, after Kaveh left. He’d needed to take care of himself because neither Bibi nor Kaveh were around and he remembers feeling so sensitive to temperature that the chill of the air on his arm in contrast to the heat of the kettle had made him feel so sick he needed to lay down. He remembers the way he’d craved the lentil soup Bibi always made him, how he’d never craved soup before. He wanted with discomfiting passion for someone to fret over him—something he will never admit.
Kaveh stirs the tea in front of him. The mint tea is a warm, amber color and is so hot he can see the sides of the glass steaming. To think, just a year ago he thought he would never see this again.
“Do you want me to feed you, too?” Kaveh muses.
Al-Haitham doesn’t respond, just looks at him expectantly.
“No, that was a joke.” Kaveh sits back and pulls the spoon out of the cup. “Drink your tea by yourself, you big baby.”
Al-Haitham sighs as forlornly as he can, but when Kaveh does not crumple from guilt and take pity on him, he takes a sip. The tea is scalding hot, and slides down his throat in a delicious burn, clearing away the mucus and gouging out the itch. Beside him, Kaveh is hovering, watching him drink with the intensity of a scientist watching a lab rat. The attention makes him thrill.
He sets the empty glass down on the tray when he’s done, and Kaveh takes it and returns it to the kitchen. A moment later, he is back at Al-Haitham’s door, mask hanging off one ear.
“Well, I should get going. Do you need anything else?”
Al-Haitham blinks at him. “No goodbye kiss?”
Kaveh snorts. “Nice try. I’ll be back around seven. I left rice and chicken broth in the icebox for when you get hungry, but I’ll also bring back ingredients for lentil soup.”
“Hurry back,” said Al-Haitham, only half serious.
Kaveh flushed anyway. “You—“ A moment passes across his face where he realizes he has nothing to say. “Goodbye.” Then he marches out the door.
Al-Haitham falls asleep smiling.
-
Al-Haitham wakes up to kitchen noises: a fire crackling, utensils clanking against a pot, chopping on a cutting board. It takes a few heartbeats for him to realize what that means and then he blooms, awake and alive again.
He tears the blanket off, swinging his legs over the bed. When his feet hit the floor, the cold of the wood ricochets up his legs, through the bone, sending a terrible shudder through his body that makes him feel sick and disoriented.
Still, he hobbles out of the bedroom, trying not to feel too ill and too discordant at every changing texture brushing against his skin. Everything kind of hurts, but he presses onward to the kitchen which is where he finds Kaveh chopping up an onion. Al-Haitham watches as Kaveh tosses the onion pieces into the pot and gives it a stir with his wooden spoon before returning to a book laying on the counter where supposedly the recipe lies. He tucks his chin into his hand as he reads.
Al-Haitham is more instinct than rational thought at this point of waking. He moves without thinking, coming up behind Kaveh and hooking his chin over the curve of Kaveh’s shoulder and breathing him in. What a shame that he’s too congested to smell Kaveh’s floral scent.
“Hey,” grunts Kaveh absentmindedly.
Al-Haitham angles his head, bringing his mouth in the general direction of Kaveh’s. He watches Kaveh turn, thinking that Kaveh might actually kiss him when he suddenly leaps away, pushing Al-Haitham away from his body heat and into the cold.
“Hey!” Kaveh sounds accusatory, hand already grasping for a mask out of his pocket. He furiously straps it over his face and continues to point at Al-Haitham. “You sneaky bastard! You can’t get me sick, I have too many clients to see this week.”
Al-Haitham raises his hands in surrender. “For what it’s worth, that wasn’t intentional subterfuge.”
Kaveh sighs at him. “What are you doing out of bed?”
“I heard that you were home and wanted to see you,” says Al-Haitham simply. “I missed you.”
Kaveh makes a squawking noise. “Well, you’ve seen me. Now go lay down again.”
“I’ve been laying down all day, Kaveh. I can handle watching you make soup for the next few minutes.” Truth be told, the coolness of the wood is making him feel nauseous. The edges of his triceps felt oddly sensitive to the air, but he’d been sleeping all day and Kaveh had been gone and what is he supposed to reasonably want?
Kaveh contemplates this for a few minutes before ultimately relenting. He holds his spoon in front of him like a sword. “Fine. Just don’t get me sick.”
“You won’t get sick if you face the other direction,” says Al-Haitham. “I promise not to cough in your face.”
Kaveh gives him a wry expression but turns around anyway, back to reading his cookbook. Al-Haitham waits for a moment before stepping closer to lean his head on Kaveh’s shoulder. Kaveh stiffens.
“If I just talk into your shoulder, you won’t get sick.” Al-Haitham closes his eyes and rubs his face into the fabric of Kaveh’s shirt, feeling like a kitten rolling around on a carpet. He can’t breathe through his nose so his mouth hangs open. All he can do is inhale the smell of Kaveh’s flowers.
“I need to fact check all this at the Bimarstan,” says Kaveh, voice slightly muffled by the mask.
“Just don’t lick your left shoulder and you’ll probably be fine.”
“Funny. Now get up, I have to add the garlic and cumin.”
Al-Haitham lets out a series of groans to accurately portray how much he hates the idea.
Kaveh snorts, pushing his head off. “Yes, yes, I know. You can put your head back in a second.”
When Al-Haitham was younger and still lived with Bibi, he would always have to stand on a chair to see above the counter as she chopped up vegetables and ground up spices and mixed all of it together. Even when he was sick, as long as he wasn’t too delirious, he always wanted to watch what she was doing because he liked knowing things. Bibi let him try the soup at every step—the piece of onion, the crushed tomato, a scoop of broth—tasting each progression of the dish. Inevitably, the steam from the soup would rise and help clear his nose, and the warmth radiating from the stove made his frayed nerve endings feel better. Bibi would tell him stories, ask him about books he read, keep a steady stream of chatter until the evening melted into night.
Al-Haitham and Kaveh are quiet now—not for a lack of stories, but for a comfortable silence. Unlike with Bibi, Al-Haitham is taller in this house and he can watch Kaveh make soup without standing on a chair. They stand eye to eye, shoulder to shoulder, and all he can think about is the time he got sick during their Akademiya days, when Kaveh was manhandling him like a child onto the bed, putting wet towels over his forehead and fussing. He thinks it’s a miracle that he’s standing close enough to Kaveh to warrant a face mask.
Kaveh mixes everything with a spoon before moving back to the cookbook. Al-Haitham is there in the next heartbeat, chin hooked over Kaveh’s shoulder as he closes his eyes. He doesn’t expect Kaveh to move, so his eyes fly open when Kaveh turns around so his back is to the counter, and pulls Al-Haitham’s forehead back into his shoulder.
“You are the biggest baby I’ve ever met,” says Kaveh, running a hand through Al-Haitham’s sweaty hair. “Like seriously. How would your reputation survive if people knew what you’re really like?”
Kaveh smells so good. Like a garden. Like a windswept orchard. “Doesn’t matter what people think as long as you don’t mind it,” he murmurs into the cloth of his shirt.
Kaveh stills, the hand in his hair coming to a pause. Al-Haitham looks up to see Kaveh’s neck turning a curious shade of pink. He tilts his head the rest of the way up and sees that Kaveh has turned to look in the other direction.
“I…definitely don’t mind it,” he says after a long moment.
Al-Haitham’s heart roars. He grips Kaveh by the hip, feeling his hip bone under his thumb. He straightens to his full height and stares Kaveh in the face, runs his thumb along the edge of his mask, under the jawbone, feeling a dizzying urge to lips his thumb under the cover. Kaveh’s carmine eyes widen so beautifully that Al-Haitham feels delirious and sick and he can’t stop himself from leaning forward and—
A hand covers his mouth, just before contact. “That doesn’t mean I want to get sick, though.”
Al-Haitham drops his hand. Kaveh peers at him, amusement glinting in his eye. Seeing him smile like that makes Al-Haitham feel terribly unsteady.
“You can’t fault me for trying,” he says.
Kaveh smiles and suddenly reels Al-Haitham in. Pushes him down by the shoulders and tugs down his mask so he can press a kiss to Al-Haitham’s waxy forehead. Al-Haitham straightens, steps back, and Kaveh looks at him thoughtfully, masking tugging back up. “I think your forehead is less hot than how it was this morning. Maybe you’ll get better soon.”
Al-Haitham blinks at him. “And then you’ll stop avoiding me like the plague?”
Kaveh pinches his cheek before pushing him away. “We’ll see.”
When the soup is finished, Kaveh ladles it into a clay bowl for Al-Haitham to eat. He hands Al-Haitham a spoon, letting their fingers brush, before he returns to the other side of the table. His face is still masked, but his expression is unmistakably fond.
“How is it?” Kaveh asks.
It’s as good as Bibi’s.
-
Later that night, Al-Haitham is laying in bed all by himself, because Kaveh is in the study. Away from Al-Haitham. Who is ill. He feels distinctly sick and lonely and desperate for someone to fill the space in his room when he decides to call out Kaveh’s name.
It doesn’t take long for Kaveh to reach Al-Haitham’s room. He’s still wearing his drawing gloves, which means he must have been drafting up some blueprints.
“Yes?”
Al-Haitham croaks, “Can you get me a glass of water.”
Kaveh raises an eyebrow at him. “You made all this noise about watching me cook today and yet suddenly you can’t get your own water?”
Al-Haitham sighs and flops back onto the bed. “Fine, if you want to deprive your ailing roommate of water, that’s your prerogative.”
Kaveh scoffs. “So dramatic.”
He turns and leaves and Al-Haitham wonders for a moment if Kaveh is truly leaving him to rot when Kaveh finally returns with a glass of water, a reed straw in it for easy sipping. Kaveh isn’t wearing his mask as he approaches to hand the water over. Al-Haitham reaches for it, thrilling when their fingers make contact. Kaveh is a perfect shade of warmth like a patch of sunlight on the ground. Al-Haitham wants to lay in it forever.
“Thank you.” Al-Haitham takes a sip of the water.
Kaveh sighs. “Anything for the crying child.”
“Come now, didn’t you just say earlier that you didn’t mind it?”
Kaveh flushes. “I say a lot of things and a good percentage of it is probably nonsense.”
“I wouldn’t call your words nonsense,” says Al-Haitham. “Quite the opposite, in fact. I find value in everything you say because of what it teaches me of how you see the world.”
Kaveh looks away. The edge of his face is pink. “What are you even talking about?”
“I’m talking about whatever is coming to mind.” Al-Haitham sits up. “If you want me to stop, you’re welcome to come here and shut me up yourself using any method you want.”
“Al-Haitham.” Kaveh is staring at him, aghast.
“Did I say something wrong?” He tilts his head, feeling delirious and fever-high.
“Have you no shame?”
“No, because I’ve got nothing to be ashamed about.”
Kaveh blinks at him rapidly. “I—I don’t even know what to say to you.”
“We could always do other things that don’t require talking.”
“Al-Haitham.” Kaveh looks red enough to burn a chicken breast. “You’re absolutely ridiculous. You’re so—unbelievable. I—why is my mouth so dry?”
“Here.” Al-Haitham holds out his glass of water.
Kaveh takes it and drinks from the straw before handing it back to Al-Haitham. A moment later, he realizes what he’s done.
“Fuck,” he hisses. “Did I—fuck.”
“Oh no,” intones Al-Haitham.
Kaveh whirls on him. “This is your fault! Archons, I stayed up working late on those drafts for nothing. If I wake up tomorrow with a scratchy throat, I’ll have to cancel on my clients and then—”
“You’ll have to stay home,” says Al-Haitham. “With me. What a shame.”
Kaveh exhales, exasperated. “Will you shut up?”
“Come shut me up yourself. Since you’ve been properly exposed to my germs now.”
Kaveh glares at him, livid. Al-Haitham keeps a straight face, only raising his eyebrow to dare him. The clock ticks. One more beat. Kaveh stalks forward and kisses Al-Haitham properly on the mouth for the first time in days. Al-Haitham slips his tongue in because they might as well go all in if the damage has already been done. All Kaveh does is pull him closer.
Kaveh ends up pulling away first, looking an appropriate amount of pink. His chest is heaving.
Al-Haitham breaks the silence first. “You know, you might as well sleep here tonight since you’ve been properly exposed.”
Kaveh looks back and forth between the door and Al-Haitham’s bed. He relents after only a minute because Al-Haitham knows that Kaveh misses him, too.
“You scheming bitch,” mutters Kaveh as he climbs into bed.
“I couldn’t have done it without a willing participant.” Al-Haitham turns over to face Kaveh.
“You’re the worst,” says Kaveh, before he kisses Al-Haitham into the dark, and into oblivion.
-
Two days later, Kaveh is the one complaining in bed—that is, the bed in Al-Haitham’s room—while Al-Haitham brings him tea.
“I fucking knew you were going to get me sick.” Kaveh sniffles. “I should’ve known better than to let you anywhere near me.”
Al-Haitham sets the tray down. “At least I can take care of you without worrying about catching anything.”
“That’s because you got me sick!”
“Perhaps.” Al-Haitham kisses him on the mouth and pulls back a moment later. “But that means I can do this where you couldn’t.”
Kaveh stares at the teacup in his lap, face a flower petal pink at this morning hour.
“You make me so mad,” he says.
And Al-Haitham knows he wouldn’t have it any other way.