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“Death is what we all must meet at the end of our journey.
Next — there will be memories, proof that we once breathed.
Be it portraits shot through a kamera, be it letters and poems dedicated to you. Be it what your own hands have created, now fighting against time and their eventual deterioration. And so for memories — once the last person carrying them has died, who will then remember your face, that once smiled so carefreely? Who will then remember your ambrosial scent, and your touch, always so tender and doting? Once I will die, who will remember you?”
This he questioned, as he stood in front a marble tombstone, reminiscing someone’s joy, fragrance, and care.
Someone that wasn’t there anymore.
Al-Haitham was sitting on the edge of the bed, staring at nowhere in particular. Just a dot, on the wall of the dark familiar room. His lips were slightly parted — in his hands there was a peacock feather, held gently, careful with its fragility.
This feather was once a gift for someone dear — he could still recall the moment he had gazed at its vibrant colour through the glass window of a jewelry shop in Fontaine, as it stood on a white holder, in all its beauty. He had stared at it for long before shivers crawled up his spine and he finally went inside to buy it for the expensive price it costed. He was told it was a rare ornament, there, in Fontaine, one that only people born with natural elegance could hold.
The merchant had been right. Kaveh had worn it with such majesty that Al-Haitham had could only bask in it, afraid to touch it, to ruin its purity with his mere existence — there was an aurea around Kaveh, the beautiful Kaveh, which had prevented him from stepping closer, from reaching closer.
Thus he had venerated Kaveh, blessed as he saw him working on blueprints, saw him getting drunk at the tavern — saw him as he first opened his eyes in the morning, and saw him as he last closed his eyes in the night.
His hair, golden, shiny, how Al-Haitham loved passing his fingers through its strands. His eyes, red just like the most precious ruby gems Al-Haitham had ever gazed at. His skin, fair and pearly, sometimes bashful under his touch. And his lips, pastel pink, tender as he brushed them with his own. His lover had been divine whatever he did, and the peacock feather he was gifted had become warm in his care.
Al-Haitham moved his head towards the pile of clothes left behind by the one in his mind, of white, crimson, and black colours. What a mess was it all — some were left on the ground, some were thrown on the chair Kaveh used to sit on at night while complaining about whatever had bothered him during the day. Al-Haitham had always found it hard to contain his chuckles while hearing the other’s whines — it was then that Kaveh got mad at him, too.
But it was never long until the blonde sighed and unclipped the warm feather from his hair, with a smile, and laid it on the velvet of the jade box handcrafted specially for it, kept on his night table. Then, he would take place under the covers of the bed, beside Al-Haitham, close to him, as they exchanged one last glance before falling asleep in each other’s arms.
Al-Haitham had avoided Kaveh’s light, not wanting to contaminate it — thus it had been Kaveh the first one to embrace him, the first one to hold his hands. The last one, too.
After so many years, decades, the memory of the night Kaveh had finally kissed him was still so vivid. The streets were empty and the lamps were dim — the air was cold, yet Kaveh was warm. His skin was soft, gleaming under the guardian moon’s rays, and his ruby eyes were filled of fondness as his fingers reached towards Al-Haitham's cheeks to caress him gently. He had told him that it was okay, that he could love him without any fear.
But Al-Haitham didn’t tell Kaveh how much he loved him back then, he didn't need to — the warm feather next to his braid was the evidence — and Kaveh knew it, too.
Al-Haitham had finally found the words years later, on their wedding day, once the celebration was over.
Their hands were grazing on each other’s bodies, skins hot and buzzling. Their kisses were fast, yet longing, melting their moans and cries. Their cores were needing, pulsating, craving for the other’s touch.
It was then that Al-Haitham confessed his faith — his adoration, for the one below him. He had been devoted to Kaveh, revered him from afar since they were teens, and again when they were students at the Akademiya. Even later, after Kaveh had fallen into debt — Al-Haitham decided that he would had done anything to protect his splendour.
Despite their different personalities, despite their frequent arguments and their clashing beliefs — there was never a day the two didn’t look forward to kissing the other once back in their shared home.
Al-Haitham never stopped loving Kaveh.
And he knew that Kaveh, too, never did either.
All of his belongings left behind in this house were the proof to that.
Al-Haitham sighed quietly, remembering his lover, once again, so that he would never forget him. Kaveh was so beautiful then — his eyes shining, his smile radiating for Al-Haitham, his husband, only, as he was dressed in his usual crimson cape. The delicacy of his dangling earrings, the golden ring around his annular finger, and the warm peacock feather peaking behind his head — Al-Haitham remembered it all. Kaveh had truly been mesmerizing, a sight to worship.
What a lie that was. Kaveh was beautiful even now, as he laid still under the green grass and the white marble. His ruby eyes had long seen for the last time, his hands had long felt for the last time.
Al-Haitham was sitting on the edge of his and Kaveh’s bed, with a peacock feather in his hands.
A tear shivered down his face.
The feather was cold.