Chapter Text
After five years, the newspapers still write that Kaveh and Al-Haitham hate each other. Kaveh’s speech before the Brahms performance was initially reported as an act of spite, and despite his numerous protests that Al-Haitham was quite alright with it, the narrative never fully shifted. But Kaveh’s okay with this perceived rivalry of theirs, because he’s learned that sometimes it’s not a friend but a critic who can truly make you feel heard.
Anyway, these days, Al-Haitham has quit performing because he prefers the recording studio. He’s actually decided recently that he wants to re-record the Goldberg Variations, and he’s been badgering Kaveh for the past few weeks about not telling anyone because he ‘doesn’t want to be disrupted in his process.’
But Kaveh just can’t fucking stand it anymore. “His humming is driving me up the wall,” he groans at his friends’ monthly lunch, when they ask him how he’s doing.
“Uh… doesn’t he hum all the time?” asks Nilou. “You used to complain about it a lot, along with that chair he always performs with. Then you gradually stopped complaining about both.”
Kaveh has to admit that this is true, because he did get used to the humming. But what’s different this time is that it’s the Goldberg Variations! And it’s not that Kaveh didn’t eventually grow to like Al-Haitham’s Goldbergs. He did come around to the robotically even texture and the detailed counterpoint, and he can even tell that this new recording will likely be pretty good given that he got Al-Haitham to extend it to fifty-two minutes instead of fucking forty.
However, the variations are repetitive as fuck, and Al-Haitham’s humming has taken on an insufferable vigor that he only reserves for pieces he really enjoys. Kaveh would like to have some peace and quiet in the afternoon when he washes the dishes, thank you very much.
Although he can’t say any of that, because he’s been forbidden by Al-Haitham from telling anyone. “Ugh,” Kaveh mumbles. “It’s just that he really likes the piece he’s playing right now.” And he lets the conversation move naturally on.
Unlike the humming, though, which Kaveh had to weather with exposure therapy, he actually did have a confrontation with Al-Haitham about the chair.
In the first two years of their relationship, Al-Haitham’s response to being asked in interviews about his rickety chair was always to say, “it’s comfortable.” And Kaveh surmised that he was probably telling the truth, because he does usually adjust the chair to be significantly lower than the typical piano bench.
The problem with this conclusion was that after Kaveh moved in, he became increasingly curious every time he saw Al-Haitham sit down on his chair to practice. As someone who played the piano in his childhood, he wanted to know if the chair really was that comfortable. But he didn’t want to ask.
So one day, he took the opportunity when Al-Haitham was out checking out some volunteer organization aiming to foster an interest in music among the youth. By the time Al-Haitham came back, Kaveh was simply making dinner and minding his own business.
“How was it?” he asked Al-Haitham.
“It was fine,” said Al-Haitham, who was wandering around the house now and putting away his keys. “They wanted me to do masterclasses, and also some performances for children where I talk to them about the background context of the piece and why I like it.”
“Sounds good,” said Kaveh, continuing to chop the vegetables.
Al-Haitham came around to the kitchen. He paused in the doorway, watching Kaveh for a few seconds, and said, “Did you play the piano while I was gone?”
Kaveh dropped his knife halfway through cutting a cucumber. “How did you know!? I left everything as it was.”
“You didn’t push the chair in,” noted Al-Haitham. “Besides, ‘sounds good’ is suspiciously non-confrontational. Clearly you are hiding something, so out with it.”
“Fuck,” said Kaveh, admitting defeat. “I was just curious about your chair, okay!”
Al-Haitham didn’t speak for a few seconds, but Kaveh could tell that he was amused. “You could have asked,” he said.
“I didn’t want to give you the satisfaction. But alright. Your chair wasn’t particularly noteworthy, and I’m sure you could get a piano bench custom-made to be that atrociously low. Why are you so attached to it?”
“If you must know, it was made for me by my grandmother,” said Al-Haitham, which was a statement so unexpectedly sentimental that Kaveh felt bad for a moment. Then he said, “And why would I spend money on a custom piano bench when I already have one? It would be an impractical use of money.”
“Your chair’s deviation of appearance from a traditional piano bench ruins your concert aesthetic, so this purchase would automatically be more practical than, for example, that ugly fucking fish figurine,” protested Kaveh, but he stepped away from the counter anyway to let Al-Haitham open the drawer at his waist and retrieve a spatula.
Nowadays, Al-Haitham still has his youth volunteer organization on Saturday, so when Kaveh returns home after lunch in the afternoon he sets about making dinner. Unfortunately, when he opens the fridge, there’s nothing left except for some potatoes, a few eggs, and assorted herbs.
Fuck, thinks Kaveh as he heads out to the store, because he’s not going to be like Al-Haitham, having potatoes for dinner at the Alcazarzaray premiere just because it was the only starch there. In fact he refuses to even touch the potatoes and instead buys an assortment of groceries, barberries, chicken, and some vegetables in hopes of making zereshk polo ba morgh and a shirazi salad.
He makes Al-Haitham add the chopped cucumbers to the salad upon coming back, at which Al-Haitham frowns.
“Did you go out for groceries?” he asks. “I don’t remember seeing so many vegetables in the fridge this morning, otherwise I would have added some to your breakfast to improve your horrific state of health.”
“Fuck you, and yes I did,” retorts Kaveh, as he sets out plates. “There were only potatoes and a few other ingredients left, and I didn’t want to just accept my potato fate like you did at the Alcazarzaray premiere.”
“That’s a shame,” Al-Haitham says placidly, “because I’ve been wanting to try your potato kuku again. You should teach me the recipe.”
“Oh,” says Kaveh. In the five years since he first brought Al-Haitham potato kuku at the rehearsal dinner, he hasn’t again made potato kuku for him specifically. Although, he did make it for several social gatherings that the both of them were required to attend as well as occasionally for his friends’ monthly lunch, so maybe Al-Haitham had gotten curious from trying it there.
They won’t have time tomorrow, Kaveh muses, but maybe they could make it together the day after that? Then Al-Haitham interrupts, “Let’s make it tonight, unless you’re tired.”
“I’m not tired,” says Kaveh, in surprise, “but seriously, what’s come over you? How can you be so regulated with your mealtimes and your not-eating-past-eight bullshit, and yet still want to make it tonight? You do know that we’ll have to eat some, because fried things are better fresh.”
“If we don’t do it tonight we won’t for a while, given that you will obviously be overthinking your schedule and panicking over the premiere of The Bridge of Port Ormos on Tuesday,” says Al-Haitham. “Tomorrow you’ll be making last minute calls, on Monday you’ll pull far too much overtime to monitor rehearsals, and on Wednesday you’ll be jumping at every critic review throughout the day no matter what I say to discourage you. Therefore we simply might as well make it tonight.”
“It’s not like you’re any better before the release of your recordings,” says Kaveh, because he honestly feels sorry for Al-Haitham’s editing team most of the time. “Wait, put that back, the recipe calls for dried mint rather than normal.”
And so they argue as such all the way from peeling the potatoes to blooming the saffron to flipping the patties over. “You take a bite, first,” says Kaveh when the first one comes out of the pan, because he’s skeptical about whether Al-Haitham will really disrupt his usual routine to eat a nighttime snack.
“I have no problem with that,” says Al-Haitham. “In fact, you will recall that I suggested the idea.”
“And because of your suggestion we now have to do kitchen cleanup twice in one evening,” sighs Kaveh, glancing at the utensils and dirty bowls strewn on the counter. But he watches Al-Haitham try the patty.
“Good,” is all Al-Haitham says. Fresh and hot, he passes it to Kaveh for the next bite.