Archive of Our Own

Kaveh returns from one little research trip in the desert to find that Al-Haitham, a mysterious traveler (and her flying puppet?), and several other miscellaneous characters formed a crew, discovered that the Akademiya had been manufacturing a god, and toppled the system that has governed Sumeru for centuries.

He is back in time only to hear the vivid gossip sweeping the city. Of the expulsion of most of the sages, including the Great Sage. Of Al-Haitham, who somehow participated in a group endeavor to save Sumeru. Al-Haitham, whose only motivation has been to continue his aspiration of knowledge, not to pursue the preservation of the greater good. Feasible story. Al-Haitham is more likely to be promoted to Grand Sage before he ever risks his life in the name of good.

As it turns out, maybe Kaveh does not understand Al-Haitham's motivations as accurately as he believes.

"What do you mean the rumors are true?" Kaveh says loudly as soon as he gets the door open. He stomps through the living room, wrenches open Al-Haitham's door, and sticks his head in. "I'd sooner eat my shoe than believe you were involved with that whole debacle if not for seeing for myself the disarray the Akademiya has been left in. Is that your doing? It's barely running as is, but I imagine they'd never be able to get anything done without your aid."

Al-Haitham doesn't turn throughout Kaveh's outburst. He is, as infuriatingly as ever, scribbling madly on a large sheaf of parchment. His pen doesn't pause once, even as he responds. "I would enjoy watching you endeavor to eat your shoe, but I highly doubt you have the mora to replace it. And besides, who would pay your medical bills? Certainly not me, and certainly not your latest commissioner who left you in an astounding amount of debt."

Kaveh splutters. "Of course you would like it," he grumbles, stepping into the room. "You'd probably write a paper about it. So, how was your quest for justice? Come back with any life-threatening injuries?"

Kaveh roughly wrenches Al-Haitham's head backward, inspecting his face. Al-Haitham looks at him as if he's bored, lips pursed and eyebrows furrowed.

Kaveh scrutinizes his face, and although Al-Haitham had come out unscathed, his features seem to have become even fairer. He digs his finger into Al-Haitham's cheek to muffle the unwelcome thoughts in his head, earning him a sharper glare.

"Are you quite finished, yet?" Al-Haitham says. Kaveh releases his head and moves off to the side, leaving him alone but not willing to leave the room. It has been some time, after all. As nice as it was to finally have quiet nights, it hadn't felt right.

Al-Haitham gives him a surveying look and returns to his papers. "I assure you that I am fine. I think it would be more obvious if I was suffering from a fatal injury."

"Well, obviously," Kaveh huffs, folding his arms over his chest. "I sure hope I wouldn't find you in your room doing paperwork if you were on death's door. I meant something along the lines of non-threatening, annoyance-type injuries. The kind you would likely ignore if it meant you could continue working yourself to death."

"You're one to talk," Alhaitham counters, "when it seems as if you make it a habit of walking around engrossed in your papers, bumping into tables and stubbing your toes then coming to complain to me about it."

"What about," Kaveh begins hotly, "the time you went to work three days in a row with broken ribs and refused to tell anyone—"

Al-Haitham sighs, sharp and pointed. "Are you here for much else? As you pointed out before, the Akademiya is surviving on barely a leg, and I am responsible for most of that. I am sure you are not without your own projects, as well."

Kaveh waffles about angrily for a moment, upset at his clear dismissal but also tempted to continue antagonizing the other before he decides to keep his dignity and leave before Al-Haitham insults him further and calls him clingy.

"Have fun sorting through all of Sumeru's problems," Kaveh calls crossly before he shuts the door and heads to his own room.

How strange. He would have never thought that Al-Haitham of all people would be willing to take on the acting role of Grand Sage. As he always says, often in retaliation to something Kaveh has said, Al-Haitham functions solely on rationale, not easily swayed by appeals to emotion or morality. Kaveh knows the other would have happily let Sumeru fall to shambles all around him if it meant he could continue his research. So what could possibly entice him to participate in what is essentially a coup?

It's not for political power, that's to be sure. Al-Haitham already complains enough about his Scribe duties, as minimal as they are. Says it's often too distracting from his own pursuits. This, Kaveh can understand. There's a reason he hasn't yet applied to be a professor for his Darshan, even though it would provide a steady income and some semblance of structure to his disorderly life.

Kaveh knows Al-Haitham, and that is why it's so difficult for him to parse out his motivations.

In the end, it doesn't matter. It has already been done, and as Al-Haitham has helpfully pointed out, Kaveh wasn't around to be of help. He has more important things to do than thinking about his roommate (he spends what is, frankly, an inconvenient amount of time doing this anyway), such as sorting out his plans for the immediate future.

For one, his bags are thrown haphazardly on his bed. Not that that is much of a change from normal, however. Kaveh knows Al-Haitham thinks him to be abnormally neat, what with the way Kaveh keeps his room, but in actuality, he leaves his things in their bags and shoves them into the closet. It's minimalism. Tasteful. And it's practical for when he spontaneously gets called onto research trips.

That's half of the truth, maybe. He is lazy, yes, but he's hesitant to spread his mess around Al-Haitham's home. For one, Kaveh is a guest. He has no means of paying rent or contributing to the household in a meaningful way. For the past few months, all he's been doing is taking up space, and he wouldn't want to be more of an inconvenience by leaving his things all over the place.

There's also the fact that if one of their arguments gets blown out of proportion to the point where even Kaveh won't be able to mend things—it would be so much more awkward if he had to pack up all his belongings, no? So much more effective to allow for easy departure. He's thinking ahead, is all it is. Future Kaveh will thank him, though hopefully Future Kaveh won't be kicked out for being a nuisance.

Kaveh bundles his bags away into the closet, still firmly closed, and that's that.

A week into his return, Kaveh is already back at the tavern. In his defense, things have been awfully boring recently, even given the whole the Akademiya is being majorly overhauled thing. Al-Haitham has been mostly stuck at the Akademiya, sorting things out and devising methods to get the nation back on its feet with Lesser Lord Kusalani which seems like such an endeavor that he almost feels guilty bothering his roommate on the off chance he does come back home.

Emphasis on almost. He can't feel remorse when he's drunk out of his mind and Lambad has already cut him off. He's at the point of the night where Al-Haitham will drop by to collect him already.

They have a neat little system. Kaveh, half in the hope the drinking will spur him into genius, half afraid he will never again prove himself to be the genius that built Alcazarzaray, ends up wasted in the city when he runs out of distractions at home. Al-Haitham, who notices when the house gets uncharacteristically quiet, comes along to pay the tab and wrestle Kaveh home, even as he grumbles the whole way. Even when Kaveh mumbles partially indistinguishable, potentially implicating things into his ear every time.

Al-Haitham says that Kaveh's clothes are starting to reek of liquor, and he should put an end to his little habit before people start to rumor him an alcoholic. Kaveh is starting to think he's already halfway there, regardless of what other people think. What can he say? There are only so many different ways he can run from his problems.

On this particular occasion, Kaveh has stewed for a little too long in the eerie silence of their home. Al-Haitham hasn't been back for two nights. And at the end of the day, when the other's room remains empty and his mind completely wiped of inspiration, he decides that he ought to stop by Lambad's tavern if only to say hello. It has been a while, after all.

It is a logical line of reasoning. What it doesn't explain, however, is how quickly he ends up face down on the sticky bar table, grumbling incoherently into his forearm.

"Where's your keeper?" asks Lambad, setting down a glass filled with clear liquid that is more likely to be water than the Snezhnayan firewater Kaveh asked for. "Usually Al-Haitham's picked you up right around this time."

Kaveh sighs. There's a deep gouge in the hardwood right by his finger. Probably a bar fight, or two researchers who had gotten too heated in their debate. It's been known to happen. "You should get this table replaced. The scratch suggests you harbor unsavory customers."

"Unsavory customers like you?"

Kaveh valiantly ignores him. It's not like he's the first drunk idiot to ever pass out in a tavern. "It's uneven, too. It rocks back and forth. Very annoying for people like me, who immediately try to diagnose the issue. The leg closest to the wall is half an inch shorter than the rest, by the way, and it's been worn down by its rocking. While I'm on the topic, maybe you should revarnish your furniture. It would make it a much more pleasant experience for the drunkards you have to kick out for overstaying their welcome."

Lambad is unimpressed. "Drink your water." So it isn't firewater, then. What a disappointment. "And if you promise to finish this breadstick, I won't even charge you for it. Charge Al-Haitham, I mean. When will he come by to get you, again?"

Kaveh hauls himself up, inhaling deeply. "Yes, yes, I get it. You want me out of your fine establishment. Just give me a moment to collect myself, and I'll even drink your water."

"I don't want it on my conscience when I hear that you passed out on the street and hit your head," says Lambad, gently pushing Kaveh back into his seat. "Just wait for Al-Haitham. Oh, look, there he is. Ever the dutiful partner."

"He's not my partner," Kaveh tries to say, but all the breath is stolen from his lungs when someone abruptly wrenches him out of his seat.

There's a low tsk and hot breath on the back of his neck. The hand on his arm is warm and large—Al-Haitham, then. Just as predicted.

"I had hoped that in your travels, you had picked up a hobby other than drinking like a fish and putting it all on a tab you can't pay," Al-Haitham says, dragging him to his feet. Kaveh stumbles, and the other places the due amount of mora on the table, shooting him a dirty look. "All this education, and still you never figured out how to learn from your mistakes."

"Maybe I'd learn if you weren't the one picking up after me every time. What are you, my personal assistant?"

"If I didn't, you'd be dead in a ditch somewhere." Al-Haitham strides ahead, trusting that Kaveh is following him out of the tavern. He is, of course. It's just how they've always been.

He shivers in the open air. It is, admittedly, rather late, and he feels bereft without the sun. "And wouldn't that be easier for you? You wouldn't have to keep taking the time to go to the tavern because you can't trust me to make it back in one piece. You wouldn't have to keep picking up the tab I could never pay. I wouldn't be in your house, causing all my ruckus and filling your tables with worthless sketches."

Al-Haitham ignores the last comment. "Is it not you who always lauds the importance of maintaining connections? As the owner of the city's most popular restaurant, Lambad is not a poor friend to have. And I suppose it would do me some good to be seen in the public before people theorize that the Akademiya is keeping me hostage."

"Isn't that what they're doing, anyway?" Kaveh grumbles, kicking at the pavement. The golden light of the street lamps spills over Al-Haitham's face when he steps in its glow. Kaveh swallows. It really has felt like he hasn't seen him enough. He should kick the doors of the Akademiya down. Al-Haitham refused to be your Grand Sage, you know, so you ought to stop offloading your problems onto him as if he accepted!

Kaveh hears a small chuckle, and he realizes he's been saying all this out loud.

"Alcohol makes you ridiculous."

"It's not so much the alcohol that's doing that," Kaveh says, and then he clamps his mouth shut. He's already said too much.

"Is that so?" Al-Haitham hums, and there's something about it, as if Al-Haitham is humoring him.

He's not, of course. He can't be. That's just not Al-Haitham. It must be the sharp air and the way the cold prickles along his skin that's making him weird. They are, of course, the sun and moon. Kaveh, overbearing, hotly emotional, stubborn in his refusal to back down. Al-Haitham, cold and distant, unreachable and beautiful all at once. As distant as he could imagine, even when he seems close to the touch. A fingertip's worth of eternity. An arm's length full of the things he would never dare to speak out loud.

"Ah, and aren't you curious?" Kaveh wonders, tilting his face to the sky. It's almost as if he can feel the night air spilling over him like something viscous, like something blanketing him and robbing him of his lucidity. He's teetering on the edge of something precarious, keeping his arms out for balance like he's just a little kid.

"Is it the insanity that drove your Palace of Alcazarzaray? Is it the genius you insist is still buried under all of the sand and grit? Tell me, Kaveh, what is it that keeps you up at night?"

"My palace, huh?" Kaveh laughs. "My next great invention? The genius that keeps Sumeru waiting on its toes? I'm afraid I can't tell you that, my dear Al-Haitham. You'd get killed and skinned for that knowledge. It must exist only in dreams." A two-story house on the edge of the city. One bedroom, a proper study for each of us with lockable doors so you can get away from me when you need to. The built-in assumption that you would choose this life with me, sealed in the walls and painted over the window shutters. My heart, cracked open and splayed raw, tracing its bloody path in each and every room.

They are nearing their shared house. An acceptable abode, situated in one of the nicer neighborhoods of Sumeru City. It's pleasing enough, Kaveh supposes, though he would have picked one with more square feet so that all the breadth they create with their shouting words would have somewhere to go.

Al-Haitham is looking at him inquisitively. "Is this to mean you've found a way out of your debt? Have you found another commissioner that's taken your interest for once? Is this one going to scrape you raw of your savings as well?"

"No, it is, ah, a bit of a personal project," Kaveh admits. "Not one anybody would invest in. One I am sure I cannot accomplish without a perfectly adequate payroll. One such as yours, I suppose."

They are nearly at their doorstep. Kaveh's mind is spinning too much for him to consider when he started calling it "theirs," even with all his nitpicking annoyances with the house. He wobbles, just a little. Al-Haitham only looks at him, and he sighs that infuriating sigh of his, and then he unlocks the door and guides Kaveh inside and helps him untie his shoes like he's a toddler once again.

Sometimes Al-Haitham does this when he's feeling particularly magnanimous. He'll catch Kaveh at the elbow and arrange his boots neatly by the door and lead him to his bed. He'll make some offhand comment about the strange cleanliness of the room, of the neat way Kaveh has kept his bedspread, then he'll switch on the lamp for him (which Kaveh is capable of doing!) and then let him be.

Other times, he'll come to fetch Kaveh from the tavern, barely sparing him a glance. He is rough when he pays off the tab, and he walks eight steps ahead of Kaveh on the way home. The worst part is that he won't even look at him, as if he's not worth the trouble.

Lucky for him, it's one of the better nights. Al-Haitham must be in a good mood. Whatever it is that he was researching, be it the difference in beak size between Dusk Birds in separate regions of Sumeru or fine wood grain from Apam Woods, he must have come to a satisfactory conclusion. Today, he gets the Al-Haitham that acts his age, not the one who seems as if he's had fifty years of nonsense and is nearing his capacity for Kaveh-related-drivel.

Al-Haitham leads him through the dim house by the elbow. When he turns on the lights, the sudden brightness comes at him in waves, effectively exacerbating the dizzy stuffiness inside his head. He blinks rapidly in quick succession.

His hand is warm, or so Kaveh imagines. They're not touching anymore, so he wouldn't know, but the chill from the brisk night air has settled into his bones and it's making him long for the kind of warmth that only human contact can bring. It's making him long for Al-Haitham. Surely, it must be the cold.

Kaveh stumbles over to his bed with a huff and collapses bonelessly on the sheets. "I'd imagined you would bring back some useless relic from the desert," Al-Haitham muses. His gaze, skipping around the room, is molten, and for the brief second they rest on Kaveh he feels like kindled glass. "Some part of a mural, maybe, or some dusty floor tile that'd caught your fancy. I almost hoped you would have brought back some runes, for at least that would have some tangible interest for later pursuit. I figured you would at least track sand all over my swept floors."

Kaveh rolls over so he's face-down. "I thought you prefer me when I don't leave a trace." Under his mouth, the sheets grow warm with condensation.

"I prefer you when you are not drooling all over the sheets, unless you would like to do the laundry next time. Now, go to sleep. Tomorrow, I would like to come across the least amount of hungover Kaveh possible. You somehow make it my problem every time you drink too much."

Kaveh twists so he can angle his face towards the door with one eye. For all his words, Al-Haitham is still standing in his doorway, arms crossed. Kaveh lifts an eyebrow. "What? Are you waiting for your dismissal? I assume that the Grand Scribe of the Akademiya is above such things."

There's a part of him that wants to ask Al-Haitham to join him. Kaveh is so dreadfully cold, after all. The house has felt so empty that he almost needs the reassurance that Al-Haitham is still there. The drink is making his head pound, and the light emitting from the lamp seems to be releasing in intermittent surges like vapor, so he shuts his eyes. He's almost above caring about the repercussions.

"Go to sleep, Kaveh," says Al-Haitham, and it is almost gentle in the way his voice drops half an octave deeper, the way it goes quieter until its echoing resonance knocks on his brain and his body and pulls his muscles into relaxation. He can feel himself slipping into the chasm that Teyvat likes to call dreams. He wonders if he will remember them when he wakes.

There's a sigh, and then footsteps recede. Kaveh can still see the light streaming through his closed eyelids, making them all orange and veiny. He can't seem to muster the strength to turn it off, though.

Someone returns—Al-Haitham. His footsteps are heavy. Kaveh can feel him drawing closer, and he almost asks him what he's doing, and then a thick blanket is covering him suddenly, drawing him back down that slope to unconsciousness, and then the lamp goes out and the door swings softly shut and he is asleep.

Usually, when Kaveh stumbles out of his bedroom the night after drinking, Al-Haitham has already left for the Akademiya or he's holed up in his own room, poring over official reports or reviewing applications. This time, however, is a little different. When he wakes up, there's the distinctive sound of someone laboring over a stove coming from the kitchen and the scent of tea brewing.

He goes to the bathroom and washes his face with cold water and feels marginally better. There's a glass of water on the desk by his bed that he hesitates over because he figures it's either weeks-old stale water that's been sitting since before his trip to the desert or Al-Haitham helpfully provided it for him in anticipation of his resting headache. Kaveh has a moment of contemplation of whether he could see the latter happening (Al-Haitham? Empathetic?) but the water would have theoretically evaporated had he left it since his research trip, so he gulps it down and takes a moment to thank the spirit that must have possessed Al-Haitham to do such a thing.

He makes a beeline for the teapot resting on the counter, still steaming. It's wonderfully warm under his fingers, gingery and spicy in the way that sends heat through his body from the inside out.

"Thank you, Al-Haitham, for the tea," Al-Haitham says, giving Kaveh a significant look. It's a poor impersonation of his voice.

Kaveh is tired and hungover, and he is thankful, so he grabs his cup and rests his head gently onto the resin-coated wood spirals of their kitchen table and mumbles out a half-genuine, half-spiteful, "Thank you, I guess."

Al-Haitham hums, evidently taking it as all the thanks he can get, and returns to his pan. It takes a few more restorative mouthfuls of tea before Kaveh can find his voice again.

"Why are you subjecting yourself to the horrors of household domesticity?" Kaveh asks, resting his chin on the palm of his hand. "You usually leave me to scrounge around the kitchen for my own meals. You hardly ever make the tea since that time you read documents over the stove and the steam smeared the ink."

"If I left you to your own devices, all you'd eat is plain pan-fried halloumi and yogurt," Al-Haitham says disdainfully. "Whatever I make will be better than what you come up with."

"So cruel," Kaveh whines. "And it's only because the kitchen is never stocked with food. What am I supposed to do, starve? You're gone all the time. You think grocery shopping is beneath you."

"What about you, Kaveh?" Al-Haitham has his back turned to him, but Kaveh can feel that his eyebrow is arched. It's in the tone of his voice. The almost petulant undertone that only Kaveh can bring out of him. "What do you do all day? Drink to your heart's content? Turn away all the commissions you are offered?"

Kaveh's mouth has gone dry, but this time it's not due to the hangover. He swallows the last dregs of his still-hot tea, relishing the burn as it goes down. How can he possibly tell Al-Haitham, the person who graduated with such an impressive transcript that the only people who know of his existence are his juniors and graduating class because of how often he stayed in to study, the person who took on researching an extra twenty near-forgotten languages of his own volition, the person providing the lavish house and lofty payroll Kaveh is living off of, that he cannot produce anything worth regarding? That try as he might, twenty hours of dedicated work leads him back to the starting line? To either a blank piece of paper or a dozen pages of nonsense? That even as he begs his mind to squeeze the last dregs of imagination out and he sits at his desk in anticipation, not a single thing comes to mind?

How can he say all of that to Al-Haitham, the single most accomplished person Kaveh knows? How can he say that to Al-Haitham, whose house he is living in because otherwise, he would have wound up on the streets? Success has never been a competition between them. Success is arbitrary. Kaveh can deal with being considered objectively less talented than Al-Haitham if it comes down to it. But Kaveh cannot possibly handle being nothing when Al-Haitham is everything. Because then, what rational part of Al-Haitham's life can Kaveh slot himself into? What is he worth, at the end of it, if he loses the genius that propelled him to the stars and stranded him there without sustenance?

He has no answer for it, but Al-Haitham is expecting one anyway.

"You stopped allowing me to go to the market on my own," Kaveh says instead, frowning at the memory. "You said, and I quote, 'Do not waste more of my money on inconsequential items, you Kshahrewar brat.' And now you wonder why I don't buy groceries anymore."

"Ah, I remember now." Al-Haitham turns and folds his arms across his chest, staring down at Kaveh. "That is because the last time I sent you to buy rice and lentils, you came back with salted pistachios and mint raita and a dozen types of halwa. And kulfi, melted and running down your arm. You complained about the stickiness of it for the rest of the day."

"How unscholarly of you to judge me off of one isolated event."

"It wasn't isolated, Kaveh, as much as you'd like to spin it. What about that time the aunt working the tea stall cheated you out of my mora by claiming it was imported from—"

"It was good tea, wasn't it?" Kaveh asks, glaring daggers at Al-Haitham. "I enjoyed it, at least."

"How would you know? You dilute yours with an abundance of milk and sugar so you can't even taste the flavor. Not to mention the amount of cardamom you brew it with."

"Celestia above. This is why we don't do breakfasts."

"Maybe it wouldn't be such a trial if you weren't such a brat." Al-Haitham turns back to the stove.

"Fond of calling me that, aren't you," says Kaveh, and then Al-Haitham is swiveling back with a plate laden with still steaming dosas and small dishes laden with chutney and curry, the argument forgotten.

"The aunt we like was back at the market the last time I went. I reheated it, so it should still be good."

"Thank you," Kaveh says with no prompting whatsoever as if to say see? I can be civil, too.

They finish the rest of the meal in silence. The companionable kind. Al-Haitham must have opened the window facing out towards the city sometime before he woke up, so the sounds of Sumeru waking up gently stream in. It's nice. It's frighteningly domestic—scary if only for the fact that Kaveh could get used to this. This ebb and flow and friendly banter over breakfast. He could live in this push and pull for the rest of his life.

"Don't you have work to do?" Kaveh asks, curious. "Haven't you always jumped at the chance to bring your research home with you? Didn't you just spend two consecutive nights at the Akademiya?"

Al-Haitham frowns deeply, tearing the dosa in his hands into small pieces. "Yes, but I suppose that is why I am here. Lord Kusanali ordered me to take a day of rest. She took all my reports and locked them in her personal archive."

"You'll listen to her and not me? How many times have I told you to stay home for your own good?"

"Lord Kusalani is the archon of Sumeru," Al-Haitham points out, and Kaveh rolls his eyes.

"It's the same thing. I've told you often enough that if it's not in your job description, you're better off not pursuing the matter. Look where that's led you. You stick your nose in someone else's business one time, and now people are starting to take note of the Scribe of the Akademiya, for once. You've always loved your anonymity."

"An unfortunate consequence. However, I had personal matters I wished to protect that would have otherwise been implicated in the downfall of Azar if I did not get involved."

Personal matters? What affairs could Al-Haitham possibly be keeping secret? The man has almost no interests or hobbies outside of his academic work, nor an extensive amount of friends that Kaveh can think of.

Presumably done and unaware of the puzzle he's presented to Kaveh, Al-Haitham collects the dishes and drops them into the sink. Kaveh has been long finished, but too content-sleepy to leave the table.

His hair sticks and curls to the nape of his neck from his rough night of sleep. He'd left it undone, more interested in getting caffeine in than his personal trinkets. Kaveh gathers it in one hand, opting to tie it in a messy ponytail or throw it into a bun for lack of motivation to properly braid it, but he can't because of course he'd left his ties and all his pins in his room, probably somewhere lost in his bedsheets.

"Let me."

Kaveh flinches a little at the sound of Al-Haitham's voice, so close and near to him. Large hands gently untangle Kaveh's hair from his fingers and comb through it, slow and soothing. He's always known Al-Haitham's touch would be so incandescently warm. He shivers.

"I doubt you currently possess the fine motor skills to do up your hair as you so please," says Al-Haitham. His fingers sweep arcs and semicircles of heat across his neck as he gathers up the fine baby strands of Kaveh's hair.

Kaveh barely manages to respond, "A dubious observation. They don't call me a genius for nothing."

"And I imagine you'd be quick to lose your architect title if you continue to hurtle towards alcoholism as you do. None of your clients will want your work if you show up hungover and irritated. Look at your dark circles."

Al-Haitham tilts Kaveh's face towards him by the chin and thumbs over the shadows adorning his eyes. Kaveh's mouth opens slightly in a breathless gasp. His touch is like a brand, searing hot even when he lets his fingers fall away.

As if aware of what he'd done to him, Al-Haitham looks away quickly. "Go sit by the couch. I can't do your hair properly at this angle."

Kaveh rests at the foot of their couch, letting his head fall back onto the cushion beneath him. Al-Haitham sits above him, legs caging Kaveh in. He tries not to think too hard about the position he's in, and it's easy to lose all sense of mind when Al-Haitham begins disentangling the knots of his hair. It pulls at his scalp, soft and easy, and it reminds him of the comforting way his mother would wash his hair when he was little or the hairdressers at the barbers. Before he grew too busy to schedule appointments and started chopping at his hair recklessly to save time.

It has not been nearly long enough when Al-Haitham ties off the plait. Reluctantly, Kaveh peels himself away from the couch and paws at the braid, evaluating his work. It's not bad, considering he wasn't even aware that Al-Haitham knew how to braid. A little uneven around the middle, but nothing Kaveh will lose sleep over. If anything, he's entirely too good at even hair styling. It's easy to hate him for it.

"It's acceptable," Kaveh says, and Al-Haitham snorts, reaching out to flick him on the back of his head. He yelps.

"You should be thankful I didn't just lop off the braid and be done with it." Al-Haitham stands and starts to make his way to his room.

"What are you going to do now that you're on forced rest?" Kaveh calls after him.

He doesn't turn. "I ordered a shipment of linguistic books, and they've just come in."

Then the door shuts. Kaveh stands and stretches a little, letting a hum escape his lips. Unlike Al-Haitham, who has a regularly scheduled job (and gets paid for it!), Kaveh has little else to distract himself with other than the blueprints on his desk. He's already tried reading Al-Haitham's books. Dreadfully boring drivel, all of them. He's better off trying to sketch than trying to trudge through that.

And try he does. Kaveh is not sure how much longer he can go on bearing the title of a genius if he has nothing to show for it besides Alcazarzaray. He knows people are starting to talk; he'd had to sell his studio and flat to complete the palace. He could only spend a few nights in the Akademiya pretending to be working before he was kindly escorted out.

It's not as if Kaveh doesn't wish to work. He is not unambitious, or an alcoholic, and he did not strike luck to design the genius that is Alcazarzaray. It wasn't luck. It was Kaveh.

He almost thinks he's lost himself. The basis, the fundamental energy running through his veins and keeping him going, his very life's work. His ambition. The thing keeping his heart beating and his brain processing. That integral part of himself. If he lost it, it'd be as if he was without a limb. Like the skin had been peeled off his body, leaving him a pile of meat and bones and muscle and a singular, pathetic heart.

Architecture has become Kaveh, and Kaveh it, but he's starting to fear that the thing making him him has been left behind somewhere in the Palace, tucked under a floorboard or swept behind a dresser. He can't lose it. He's not good for much else.

It is almost like a drought. His mind has dried up, and he's had to resort to carefully rationing out the remaining mental clarity for menial things like breathing and eating and sleeping. It's survival. But it's not living.

Very few things make him alive. Ice-cold kulfi in the summer. The stray cats that wander the streets of Sumeru City. A client with ideas that actually excite him. Winning an argument against Al-Haitham. Al-Haitham, himself. Architecture. The long, laborious nights he spends bent over his sketches, the hours and hours he spends poring over his designs until he feels so alive with it he might die from it.

So Kaveh spends his days and nights in a never-ending cycle of rationing and portioning and ceaselessly hoping for rainfall. He's locked in his own body. He's been locked in his mind, and it's grown so dry that all he can see for miles is stark white. He's been waiting for the storm for so long that he thinks he'll drown with it.

There is the drip of water from a leaking tap. There is runoff from a nearby river, pooling at Kaveh's feet for merely a second before it moves on. There is water running through his fingers, intangible and impossible and as spiteful as it is loving. It is not nearly enough.

Other times, he imagines it as a mountain range, long and roaming and nearly tall enough to touch the stars. He's brushed it before, maybe. The peak parts the clouds and longs for the sky, for the moon. It peeks over the nebulae, and it hungers for more.

Kaveh cannot reach any farther unless he crafts rock with his bare hands and sculpts himself a staircase. But he cannot move mountains. He cannot will the heavens any closer. He cannot reach Celestia with sheer resolve if these are the circumstances he's been granted. What would his stairway be made of, anyway, if he cannot claw at rock? He can't imagine anything else than reaching into himself and going from there. Steps made of meat. He'd tear himself apart before he could hope to embrace the stars.

Or he's fallen all the way to the very bottom like some people gossip. He cannot see a way out because he's facing a wall. He's dug himself into a hole. There is no escape. He is his own undoing. The shadows descend like fog but infinitely more stifling, choking him like smoke, smothering him in his own ineptitude.

He wants to scream that he's more than this. He's more than the box he's been shrunk into. If Kaveh were really ambitionless, depleted of the kind of voraciousness that enabled him to excel in the Akademiya, then his vision would have gone gray. And it hasn't. The fire in him is still burning, even as it threatens to be stifled in every possible way.

Kaveh knows what the way out looks like. It's a two-story house, one bedroom, two studies with lockable doors. A large, expansive kitchen so he and Al-Haitham can cook together with windows facing the easternmost waters so they can watch the sunrise if they choose. He'd design a bedroom with glass windows that would be painted only on the very edges, vines intertwining the view. Shutters so they can hear the birdsong in the mornings. A window seat accompanied by a bookshelf, so Al-Haitham can read in the natural light and keep his favorites with him at all times.

So, so many bookshelves. More than they could hope to ever fill, though maybe Kaveh and Al-Haitham could make a hobby of browsing bookstores and antique shops and the stalls of the Grand Bazaar so they could at least try.

A skylight, too, because Al-Haitham has recently been interested in the study of the stars after coming across a Rtawahist title that had been accidentally shuffled into his texts. He hasn't said anything about it, but Kaveh has seen the title left on the dining table, and he's caught the other staring at the sky when he collects Kaveh from Lambad's. It's endearing. Kaveh wants him to watch the stars so he can watch him marvel at the view.

This is Kaveh's next magnum opus. This is the stroke of genius he's been waiting for, the pick to chip at the ice encasing him in his own powerlessness. The rope ladder out of his metaphorical pit. The torrent after a painful dry period, falling like hope, tasting like aspiration.

Only Kaveh fears the storm will never come. How can he build a house for two when Al-Haitham had never wanted a roommate to begin with? How can he breathe life into the monstrous thing starting to take form in his mind when it will ultimately end up discarded? How can he make that decision for Al-Haitham, who, above all, treasures his free will? Love cannot be sustained on one heart alone; there is no relationship between two people with their backs turned to each other. His house, Kaveh's pièce de résistance of his entire career, will always feel empty without Al-Haitham. A home designed for two people and lived in by one. His heart carved out of his body to only receive half of it back in return.

The storm rains, and rains, and rains, but Kaveh has no means to store the water, and he has to watch the land return to drought once more. It is the illusion of an escape. It cannot save him the way he wants it to. The way out looks like a dream, and no one in Sumeru has the luxury of claiming to understand dreams.

"So, how's that next design of yours going?" Al-Haitham says conversationally, except he doesn't do idle conversation. Kaveh's eyes narrow. He sees it for what it is, another hint for Kaveh to get off his ass and start paying his share of the mortgage.

"What design? Do you see me doing anything worthwhile?" Al-Haitham is reading something that looks dreadful and tedious and is probably about something particular like the study of propositions in the Enkanyomiyan language.

Kaveh, on the other hand, is sprawled on the floor stomach up, waiting for inspiration to hit him over the head. Instead, he's getting distracted by the wood grains in the ceiling. These are the exciting things Kaveh gets up to now that he's unemployed.

Kaveh and Al-Haitham had been coexisting in a peaceable sort of companionship for a couple of hours, the kind that's been almost non-existent lately between Al-Haitham's increased workload (that Kaveh observes to be gradually growing smaller) and Kaveh's whole thing. Of course, Al-Haitham had to go open his big mouth and ruin it.

"The thing that's keeping you up at night," says Al-Haitham unhelpfully, as if that clears anything up. Kaveh squints at him from his place on the ground. "You hinted at it a couple of nights ago."

"You mean when I was drunk?" Kaveh says incredulously. "You expect me to retain anything I do or am told, let alone the things I say? Now, while the Akademiya did a fine job in training me to unnecessarily memorize information, that standard does not apply to the things that come out of my mouth while intoxicated."

Now Al-Haitham is frowning at him. "Maybe you would not find your memory lacking if you did not chase away your coherency with spirits. I would not have thought you incapable of basic—"

"Oh, don't turn this into some superiority thing," Kaveh snaps. "I'm sure you think you're better than me because you don't drink, thank you."

"For the sake of—don't deflect, Kaveh."

Kaveh rolls his eyes. "I'm not deflecting. What project? It's not like commissions are exactly falling into my lap, Al-Haitham."

"Trust me, I'm aware," Al-Haitham says drily. "But that's beside the point. That time, you said it was a private task. A personal preoccupation."

Kaveh's mouth goes dry. Did he mistakenly let part of his plans slip? If so, how much did he reveal that would cause Al-Haitham to ask after it?

"Again," Kaveh says flippantly, "do you see me with any worthwhile sketches? Aren't you the one so often commenting on the empty state of my room?"

Al-Haitham fixes him with an inscrutable stare, long enough that Kaveh grows uncomfortable. "What?" he whispers.

The other suddenly snaps the book shut and neatly places it on the coffee table. "You're right," he agrees, standing up. Without another word, Al-Haitham leaves the room and heads down the hallway to Kaveh's quarters.

"What are you—Al-Haitham! What are you doing!" Kaveh scrambles up and follows the other, too prideful to run but certainly too nervous to take a slow walk.

Al-Haitham strides through Kaveh's room, skimming his gaze around the space. Kaveh watches him from the doorway, wary. Unease bubbles at the bottom of his stomach.

The room is empty. Kaveh hadn't done his bed, of course, but besides its rumpled pillows and the disheveled sheets, the room remains in the same state it was when he first moved in. The dressers are bare, and so is the desk (spare a pen and a bottle of ink), though it has visibly less dust than the rest of the furniture. The half-formed designs he had sketched on that table are discarded in the nearby trash can, crumpled in a fit of anger and tossed aside. If Al-Haitham were to unravel one, he'd surely be disappointed.

Is this all Kaveh is?

"Where have you gone?" Al-Haitham asks, and Kaveh blinks as the question goes directly over his head.

He gestures at himself, leaning against the doorway. "Where could I have gone?"

"No, I mean," Al-Haitham turns, frustration sure and true sparking in his eyes, "where have you gone, Kaveh? What have you packed yourself into? What did you convince yourself of that has caused you to limit yourself so? I'm certain you have never dreamed of a ceiling. Of limits. A threshold. You only ever thought of becoming an extension of magnificence. Of visualizing the language of beauty. You always said you would force the Akademiya to understand the value of the arts among its treasured astrology and science and mathematics."

Al-Haitham seems to have taken a step forward with every word that came out of his mouth with how close he is. Something is flickering in the amber teal of Al-Haitham's eyes. Kaveh itches to sketch them, even now, even as his mouth runs dry and his hands close into fists and he bristles at Al-Haitham's words.

"Everything you say makes it much clearer how different you are from the world, Al-Haitham," Kaveh hisses. "You speak very plainly as if it is that easy for the rest of us. You don't understand it. You can't comprehend how it feels to rely on a mind that shrinks and grows with the dry seasons. Humanity is unreliable, and so is the mind, and so is the emotion that drives creativity. It's volatile. I couldn't begin to hope to control it. If I have hit a ceiling, so be it. There is nothing in my power that I can do to change it except wait for it to cease."

"You have never been passive in all the years I have known you. You have never waited for things to happen to you; I have watched you snatch opportunities for yourself with the motivation of a man dying of thirst. I have watched you take what you deem as rightfully yours to succeed your own agenda. Waiting?" Al-Haitham scoffs. "Since when do you have the patience to sit and wait for things to drop into your lap? Don't misunderstand me, Kaveh. I do not suggest that you can simply turn back on the part of your brain that created Alcazarzaray. I am simply saying that it seems like you are not fighting anymore, and it is unbecoming of you."

Kaveh struggles to take a breath. It is as Al-Haitham says; he is not a patient man. He can scarcely wait for the other to finish one point before he chimes in with a rebuttal. He did not wait to ensure that he could pay back the loans he took out in order to to complete Alcazarzaray. He often grows so bored with waiting for the kettle to boil that he lets it bubble over on the stove. Al-Haitham is right, and that is the infuriating thing.

"I am fighting," Kaveh says, hushed. "It is only that I seem to be growing smaller and quieter with it. It is a losing battle. I do not want to admit you to be right—but. And yet. It is out of my control. I am fighting a beast that has no name, no face, with no past experience so I can even guess what I am in conflict with. It is shapeless and stifling."

"I have never known you to be fearful."

"And yet."

"Did you bury something with you in that palace of yours? Did the Lord Sangemah Bay weasel it out of you along with your mora?"

Kaveh slumps against the doorway, suddenly tired. "I do not know, Al-Haitham. I would not have chosen to become destitute so soon into my career if I had the choice. I do not enjoy living off of your paycheck anymore than you do. You may not think much higher than that of me, but that is the truth."

They stare at each other for a few moments more, in a stalemate. Kaveh has never conceded to Al-Haitham before. There is not much else besides the silence and flayed-open feeling of Kaveh's skin like the other had cracked open his bones to study the marrow within, the sense that Al-Haitham understands him a little too much now. He can practically hear the gears turn in the other's head.

"And what of that dream of yours?" Al-Haitham finally says. "You had that look in your eye when I asked you about it that night. The same one that dragged you by your hair when you started Alcrzarzaray and graduated from the Akademiya. And yet you seem to feel nothing of your sketches except for disapproval."

Kaveh laughs. "It is not feasible. Even I, the indulger of fantasies, can distinguish between possibility and impossibility. It exists outside of dreams. It exists in some plane that I cannot hope to reach."

The way Al-Haitham is looking at Kaveh makes him feel as if he is a plant being uprooted, exposed and stripped of his defenses. Kaveh swallows, and the door under his arm creaks a little as he shifts. It feels unbearable. When he is near Al-Haitham, he always feels so agonizingly warm, and his gaze pins him like a sword through his chest. He is burning golden.

Al-Haitham's mouth is set in a firm line. "And this inconceivable dream of yours is your only hope? What of the sketches you tossed aside? Do those truly have no value or have you stripped them of their worth because they did not meet your impossible standards? Who taught you that perfection is the only acceptable answer?"

Kaveh is alight from being in such close proximity to the other. "I did," he says, "because it was the only way I could wrench some form of purpose from my mind, from my body. Do you not remember how the entirety of the Akademiya—how even my own Darshan—did not believe in Alcazarzaray? They told me I would never be able to brush the sky, but I held its clouds in my hands and it felt like love. How can I accept anything less? How can I give up what I have once cherished?"

Al-Haitham says nothing but he takes a step back towards the desk, and Kaveh can breathe. Kaveh's wastebasket rustles as Al-Haitham reaches into it and pulls out a misshapen sketch that he smooths out in the flat of his hand. It's rough, Kaveh devoid of the patience to create smooth lines in a first draft, barely inking down the idea before he moves on. He'd received a commission for a greenhouse that he attempted to design before he accepted the actual job. It's utilitarian. Basic. A sham of the reputation he's built himself. He'd ended up turning down the commission after the initial venture.

"You see," Kaveh says, arms crossed over his chest. "It is not right. It has not been right for a while."

"Where have you gone, Kaveh?" Al-Haitham repeats, but this time he's moving as if he's not expecting an answer and pulling the closet open to reveal the life that Kaveh packed away into tight suitcases.

There is a moment where Al-Haitham just stares at his belongings, uncomprehending, and a strange sense of both foreboding and relief washes over Kaveh.

"Another research trip you haven't told me about?" Al-Haitham says finally, gesturing at his luggage. "Haven't you only just returned?"

Kaveh rolls his eyes. "Don't talk as if the Akademiya doesn't take up what is frankly an inordinate amount of your time as well. You act as if you do not treat that place as a second home when you have a perfectly functioning bed here."

"Kshahrewar hasn't applied for funding for another expedition," says Al-Haitham, staring at Kaveh's bags. Without another word, he flips one over and undoes the bindings, unveiling the mess that is his clothes. "Are you just lazy? You have multiple drawers to store your belongings."

Kaveh sighs and steps into the room to fall heavily onto the bed. "How much work that would be," he grouses, "to have to fold my shirts and trousers every time I do laundry. It is much more efficient to store it all in one place."

"This is not efficient," says Al-Haitham. He absentmindedly begins folding the blouse in his hands. "And you have never been averse to hard work. I know you installed the pavilion roof tiles of Alcazarzaray yourself."

Kaveh stares back at him, strangely defiant. He finds himself unwilling to tell the other of his true motivations. "I am a contradiction," he says. "Isn't that what you so often call me? People do not often do what is expected of them. I, for one, would have thought you to be the last person to take up the duties of Grand Sage."

"It is not my official title, and I remember telling you before that I have my personal incentives."

"So you understand that there is no deeper meaning behind my luggage."

Al-Haitham looks at him for one more contemplative moment before he sets the clothing in his hand on the bed next to Kaveh. "Then you can unpack your bags. You wash the dishes when you're feeling charitable. Isn't this just another one of your household chores that you like to procrastinate?"

There is something numb spreading over Kaveh's skin and body. It's choking the words out of his throat, and he looks away from Al-Haitham's piercing eyes. His bangs fall over his eyes, obscuring his vision. "It is certainly not as big of a deal as you insist it to be. I can assure you that the way I keep my laundry does not affect you in the slightest."

"Kaveh." When he looks up again, Al-Haitham is crowding him against the bed. Standing, they are the same height, but like this, Kaveh feels less like Al-Haitham's senior and more like his junior. He pins Kaveh against the bed sheets with his gaze. "Do not pretend that I do not know you. There are only so many years one can go through with another person before their intricacies come to light, before you start to unravel the mysteries of a first impression. Why does it feel as though you are not truly living here, even when you sleep in my bed and eat my food? You have hesitated to exist before."

Kaveh swallows visibly. "Well. It is a matter of convenience, as I said before. It's just that—how long can you truly live like this, with me? I have no significant contributions to this household. I have nothing to show for it. We both entered this agreement with an ultimatum in mind, but it has been months and months and I have yet to dig myself out of this creative rut, let alone escape this immeasurable debt. You have never had much tolerance for low-return investments. I have simply—ah, prepared for this eventuality."

Al-Haitham's fingers are trembling. Something complicated passes over his face, an expression that Kaveh has never seen before. "Kaveh, I would not—you think so lowly of me to presume that I would kick you out on a whim?" he says, something accusatory, something along the faint lines of hurt. It shocks Kaveh to hear.

"Nothing about this arrangement is rational," Kaveh hisses. "Neither of us can pretend it is or ignore it for much longer. I am immensely grateful that you were gracious enough to take me in, but I cannot pay you back. I cannot even pay Lord Sangemah Bay back. I have nothing in return. My hands are empty. Why would you want me here?"

What does it mean to deserve, and receive in return? What does a person who has nothing to offer warrant? Is kindness a currency, and can it be treated as such? Who decides worth, anyway, and what is Kaveh's merit when he is not serving other people? How is Kaveh to prove that he is deserving of being wanted, that he must be cherished and held if he cannot produce anything to show for it? He has no answers.

Kaveh raises his hands, palms up. "I have nothing to give, Al-Haitham," he says, and the other's eyes grow fierce.

Al-Haitham's fingers graze against Kaveh's ear when he snatches the quill from his hair, and he feels molten. How could he ever compare him to the moon? Al-Haitham is fierce and unrelenting and the brightest point in Kaveh's life. He can't help but orbit around him. He is his focal point, the singular constant in his life from the Akademiya to his adult career.

The quill ends up in Kaveh's fingers. "You do not have nothing, Kaveh," Al-Haitham says roughly. "It is not nothing that made you graduate with honors. It is not nothing that landed you more commissions than you could handle in your first year out of graduation. It is not nothing that led you here, to this point in time, to you in my home. You may have buried yourself in your self-doubt, but you are relentless. You shine even when the moon takes governance of the sky."

Kaveh gapes at Al-Haitham. He's almost certain that a flush has spilled onto his face and made his cheeks ruddy. "So what I'm hearing," he says slowly, "is that you will not kick me out for the time being."

"What you're hearing is that I will wait for you," says Al-Haitham, and then he must grow embarrassed by it because he looks away and crosses his arms and purses his lips, but he does not take it back. He does not take it back. Kaveh feels warm with it, feels it overfilling his chest and bursting outwards.

"How utterly irrational of you, scribe," Kaveh laughs. "Wait until the people of Sumeru hear of this. They will start talking about your kindness and generosity. How would you respond to that?"

Al-Haitham looks back at him with a hint of a smile playing on his lips. "It is not an entirely illogical decision. I am sure many would jump at the chance to go through your trash and study your sketches, and here I am taking it for granted. And besides, I am sure that the next time you design something better than your palace your fame will precede you and I will be the lucky one to be your roommate. Not as low of an investment as you said."

Kaveh rolls his eyes. "You would not be Al-Haitham if you did not consider your own self-interest in your every decision, I suppose."

"I do have my own priorities that exist outside of my research, though no one would ever think so considering how you speak of me so unkindly."

Kaveh pauses, the quill in his hands going still. "Like the motivation you hinted at when we discussed your overhaul of the Akademiya?"

Al-Haitham visibly runs his tongue over his teeth, hesitant. Like Kaveh, he is not one to waver, bold in his convictions and unyielding to backlash. It is uncharacteristic of him. "You were the one to say that human emotion is volatile. Uncontrollable. And even though you compare me so often to a machine, I know as well as you what it means to be ruled by sentiment, even when I am fighting to be rational."

When he does not say anything more, staring coolly down at Kaveh like he had not just upended his fundamental truths, Kaveh gestures for him to go on. "And? You will just leave off like that? Al-Haitham, I know it is difficult for you to be open, given the way you seem to lack any understanding of social cues, but you can't just not tell me. My curiosity has been piqued."

Al-Haitham only looks at him. "I will not tell you."

What an obstinate man. It is all too often that Kaveh wonders why he even puts up with him. "How unfair," he complains. "This will take up my mind so completely that I could never hope to complete any commissions, even if I wanted to."

"So be it."

Al-Haitham moves as if he is going to leave the room. Kaveh groans and falls onto his back, prompting an eyebrow raise out of the other. "Not even a hint?"

The other sighs. "It is less of the material things that I treasure," Al-Haitham admits. "Though I am sure you know that, what with my pursuit of knowledge. Had the Sage's plan gone through, I probably could have continued my research, even without my affiliation with the Akademiya. After all, the desert is ripe for the taking. However, I have found myself valuing more of the… more nostalgic aspects of human nature, as uncharacteristic as it may be. Of companionship. Recently, I have learned the value of things other than what scholars treasure."

Kaveh gapes at him exaggeratedly. "You are capable of craving human contact? You? Who are you and what have you done with my roommate?"

Al-Haitham glares at him and pulls further away towards the door. "You ask for me to elaborate and make a mockery of what I say."

Cold air rushes into the space Al-Haitham had previously occupied, and a plea for him to stay rises to Kaveh's lips, unbidden. It is humiliating; no one has ever rendered him so completely undone before.

"Al-Haitham."

"Yes?"

Al-Haitham's cape swishes as he turns, one eyebrow arched. There is impatience written all over his face, and Kaveh knows he is responsible for putting it there. And yet. He is the most beautiful man he has ever seen, and Kaveh is so full of wonder he feels as if he'll burst with it. He thinks that if the other only asked, he'd spill all his deepest secrets without a moment's thought. Dangerous. It can only be human nature that can make someone another person's downfall. His ruination.

"Ask me about my dream." Kaveh doesn't know why he says this. It had come out unprompted, unwanted. It doesn't matter, anyway. If Al-Haitham asked him anything he'd have no choice but to answer, even if he tried to keep it within him.

Al-Haitham pauses. "Do you really want me to do that? Aren't you the one who refused to tell me in the first place?"

Kaveh turns the feather in his hands over, and over, and over again. "It's different. I was drunk then. And I'm—I'm feeling strange today. I'm in an honest mood. Take advantage of it, Al-Haitham."

The other looks at him and the quill that he cannot stop fiddling with and what must be a too-open expression on his face, and his mouth parts. "Kaveh," says Al-Haitham, like he is cradling something precious, "tell me about your dream."

"It's a house," Kaveh whispers. There is a pressure releasing in his chest that he didn't know even existed, breaking down and crumbling to his ribcage. Like sucking in a lungful of air after holding your breath for innumerable years. "Two stories. There's a balcony, and—and the roof tiles would be made out of this beautiful clay I saw in the desert oasis. It's kind of, kind of the color of your eyes. I would paint constellations on the ceiling so I could fall asleep dreaming of the stars."

There's an inscrutable expression on Al-Haitham's face, but he's listening attentively, and Kaveh's chest aches. He can tell that Al-Haitham has no idea what it has to do with him, however, so he forges on.

"There would be only one bedroom, but two studies. For me and… and for you." Al-Haitham's eyes widen. "I don't know how I'd get you to move in with me, but it wouldn't have a staircase that creaks on every other step. I'm not sure how that got past you when you rented it. You're usually better about things like that. And—" he continues before Al-Haitham can intercept, "—room for all your books, even the ones I say are a waste of space. You can keep all your dreadful linguistic texts and even the ones that don't pertain to your area of research if you want."

"Kaveh," Al-Haitham whispers. "This—this future you have in mind, it involves me?"

Kaveh snorts to distract himself from the wild panic running through his body. "I'm not sure how much more obvious I can make it."

Even with the unceasing ringing in his ears and the way his heartbeat is making him feel as though he is shuttering into himself, he can't look away from Al-Haitham, who can't seem to tear his eyes away from him.

They don't say anything for a long moment. "Al-Haitham," Kaveh says, "if you do not say anything in the next five seconds I am going to leave with my bags and never come back."

Al-Haitham holds one finger up. "Give me a moment. I'm… processing."

Kaveh wants to tell him to process it faster, because what did he spend all these years honing his brain into a machine to be stuck on something as simple as a confession (though not in so many words) when Al-Haitham finally moves.

"What is your issue with my house?" he asks, and now Kaveh is the one struck stupid.

"That's beside the—well, like I mentioned before, every second stair creaks. Considering that this is part of the newer areas of Sumeru City, that raises some questions about building integrity, no? You also have a horrendous taste in couch patterns. I don't care if it was cheaper than the others. It also doesn't have enough square feet for you to go storming off in nearly every conversation we have—"

"You only think it is small because I did not account for another tenant," Al-Haitham retorts. "You are the one who is broke. And it is a reasonable size for the both of us if you do not go around picking flaws to make conversation."

"You should know out of all people that it occurred due to circumstances out of my control—Al-Haitham, what does this have to do with anything?"

Al-Haitham pauses, and then a small smile appears on his lips. It makes his angular face look sweet. Kaveh thinks, distantly, that he must be dying.

Al-Haitham draws closer so he is standing over Kaveh once more. "Well. Ask me why I organized a coup with people I hardly knew for a cause I barely believed in."

"Why… why did you get involved in the Akademiya's affairs?" Kaveh asks, hesitant but helpless to his request. He isn't sure if he even wants to know the answer. There's something about the way Al-Haitham says it that makes him think that the answer should be confined like a divine knowledge capsule and exterminated along with the Akasha system.

"For you," Al-Haitham says simply as if he is not overturning Kaveh's entire world. "A makeshift god is as much of a threat to the people of Sumeru as it is to the government, had it gone out of control, which was likely. Since when could mortals boast to understand godly power greater than the archons? I could care less about the city, but I could not bear the thought of being unable to return home to you."

A pause.

"So you have factored me into your future the way I have always considered you in mine," Kaveh whispers. The quill goes abandoned next to him on the sheets. "We've been walking around this for a long while, haven't we?"

Al-Haitham's eyes have gone so, so soft, the teal and amber blurring together into an amorphous mess. "I suppose so," he says lightly, and then he's leaning down and tipping Kaveh's chin up with two fingers. He is beautiful like this, so close to Kaveh that he could sketch every minuscule detail of his face if he wanted to.

Kaveh's eyes flutter shut out of his own accord, and he almost loses himself in the sensation before he shoots up, smacking Al-Haitham's chin against his head. "Shit—I didn't mean to—Al-Haitham. You can't just kiss me before you—before you even tell me how you feel!"

He glares at him, arms on his hips. They're now at eye level, and Kaveh can see just how much amusement Al-Haitham is getting out of the ordeal through the smirk on his lips.

"Surely, you're smart enough to read between the lines," says Al-Haitham. He wraps one warm hand around the back of Kaveh's neck and draws him closer, closer. "I loved you so much I overthrew the government over it."

Kaveh huffs, not one to be outdone. "Yeah? I designed an entire house in the shape of you."

"That's embarrassing for you," Al-Haitham says dryly, and before Kaveh can retort Al-Haitham's lips are meeting his, impossibly soft and sweet. Kaveh feels like melting. He feels as if his legs are going to give out, and they almost do if not for Al-Haitham grasping his waist with the other arm to pull him impossibly tighter, chest against chest.

Al-Haitham kisses like he wants to make Kaveh his lover, which he supposes he is. It is tender and gentle and intimate in a way he would have never expected of him. When they pull away from each other Kaveh feels unsettled, uneasy on his feet even though it could not have been more than several moments. He stumbles a little.

There is clear humor in Al-Haitham's eyes. "Does this mean you will unpack your bags now?" he asks. "I can't imagine there is anywhere else you will go. At least, until you start sketching that house of yours. Two stories, you said? That will take you quite a while. Better get started sooner than later."

He's out the door before Kaveh can respond, speechless. He takes a moment to touch his still tingling lips before he storms after him and grabs Al-Haitham to pin him against the near wall.

"You," he huffs.

Al-Haitham smiles lazily at him. "Me," he says.

Kaveh groans and hides his face on the other's shoulder. "You have some nerve, Haravatat. You can't just kiss me like that and walk away." He pauses and digs his face impossibly further into the other's warm body. "…And your last comment, did you mean it? You were right when you said it'd take a while—I might as well just unpack my things in your room. I can't imagine I'll get any more use out of my own."

Al-Haitham tilts Kaveh's face up to meet him, laughing. He is bright and clear and wonderful in Kaveh's arms, and he can't help but love him, even when he's being a tease. "Get to it, then," he says, "for I am certainly not doing it for you," and then they're kissing again and Kaveh is going, going, gone.