Archive of Our Own

He had no vivid memories of his parents.

For as long as he knew, their household consisted of two members: him and his grandmother. Besides them, there was a library towering over him, with a child no taller than three shelves. Rarely would he look below his eye level for something to read, for he had read all of them in his free time. Instead, he looks up at the hardened, colorful spines of well-kept books. He is a reader—an avid one—and has expressed excitement for what he will learn this afternoon.

But before Al-Haitham could grab the stool dedicated to him, he felt a warm and bigger hand gently rustle his head, a familiar voice calling out his name.

He turned to his grandmother, who always had a knowing smile whenever she looked at him.

She normally wouldn’t disturb him in his reading time, a time his peers would use to play instead, but today was an exception, for she beheld him an offering.

It was a thin booklet with a plain cover. But its pages seemed to want to run away, slipping out between one another, skewed. He took it curiously and cautiously, afraid his loose grip would make them fall over the floor. He opened the quaint little thing, his eyes reading the title and its credits; to his left, however, was something penned.

A name, he remembers, a name his mind couldn’t forget but struggled to find attachment to.

"Your father got that in his first year as a student and kept it all those years, saying it would remind him of his purpose as a scholar." His grandmother recollected, wistfully, looking at a distance beyond the curved windows. "But he said that about many things, and he would rather choose one of them than give you this."

Al-Haitham flipped to the next pages, passing the index and the body; there was no page after the title that wasn’t scribbled with notes and messy, urgent handwriting. It’s the first time he's seen it, and yet he knew it was his. He brushed his finger against the closest indentation.

"Will you take good care of this one, Haitham?"

He could only give a small nod as a response, and attention all but shifted to the booklet. Then he did what he meant to do the moment he entered this room: he started to read.

Al-Haitham would learn of his parents' careers as scholars from the anecdotes of his grandmother. He didn’t know why she had started to share them more frequently. He had tried asking, but she just laughed airily and jokingly said, "I’m old, dear. It's about time I start reminiscing."

He wanted to correct her; that had already been the case before he was born.

Nonetheless, the child would always listen intently to her stories. It helped paint a picture in his head of the lives they lived. His father was known for his temperament and cold personality. Being a mentor for the Akademiya, he was strict but fair in giving grades. And in the rare instance when he was proud of a student’s work and effort, he’d pass them with flying colors. There were students who suffered under his class and had disdain for him, and there were students who liked his style so much that some of them deemed his lectures their favorites. Despite the mixed reception, his grandmother thought it funny that he never seemed to care what others thought of him.

"I would never let people's words define who I am, my credentials can speak for itself"

That was the earliest memory he had of his father, one that would fill him with admiration for him. But there was another side of him that Al-Haitham had deemed to be worth remembering even more.

"He changed when he met your mother—more so than he would readily admit," she started.

His grandmother admits to not knowing much about the details of their relationship. They apparently met during their days in the Akademiya as students, but due to their differences in darshans and the conflict their respective darshans had with one another, there weren't many stories to be found there. She did find it humorous that long after they got married and his mother became her in-law, she was told the story of their first meeting behind the man’s back.

"He overheard her having troubles with homework in the library, and just like the bookworm that your father was, he suddenly came up to her and told him the appropriate booklist she would need. But in her perspective, he sounded so entitled to point out how she was using the most inaccurate resources that she got up and left without thanking him." She retold the story from an outsider’s perspective before adding a comment. "Well, I wouldn’t put it past your father to be unaware of that at the time; it was only after they got to know each other well enough that he learned to have second-hand embarrassment for his younger self."

It was a string of luck that led them to meet each other consistently again as traveling scholars and researchers. Over time, they extended those meetings to their free time, meeting personally as friends. Such care and attention they gave to one another turned to affection down the line; it was the Haravatat herbad that was bewitched first.

"That was the time I truly understood that he started to change. Too strung up even as a child, you could imagine the surprise in my face when he mellowed out over the love of his life."

His father maintained the same attitude he had as a student, first towards his role as a professor and then towards his peers and the children he had a passion for teaching. But after being married to his wife, he started to show signs of the person behind the blunt edges, a side that only his mother was privy to.

Al-Haitham would find a tiny leather notebook in one of his father’s desk drawers. There was a pressed and dried flower used as a bookmark in one of the entries, a variant of the sumeru rose, tinier than he’d see in their garden. Each page had a passage addressed to his mother, each word containing the love he had for her. He was a linguistics major, yet many lines were crossed out in favor of better revisions. There was no page on which he was content in expressing himself, and it made his son wonder: Has his mother read these?

But if the way his grandmother described their relationship was anything to go by, the woman had been well aware of his affections for her.

"Your father was organized in everything, but his feelings? He could be so passionate about correcting a mistranslated tablet from Gurabad and be a stuttering mess when his lover held his hand in public for the first time."

He was sure he was able to express himself in a multitude of ways. Because that was the truth in plain sight—that his father had learned to love something else other than books for the rest of his life.

There was less information he could get a hold on of his mother. While he had his father’s eye shape, thin mouth, and hair color, the features he could have shared with his mother were much more muddled in the mix with his. If anything, what he shared with her was more abstract.

His grandmother would always comment about how he gained his sharp tongue from her. She was quite witty and persuasive when push came to shove, and for a Vahumana, part of her reputation was based on her being a menace to debating. Which, after getting married, was felt by her husband the most when he was put into place, sometimes multiple times a week.

Along with this attitude, she held a tight grip on her beliefs and dignity as a scholar. She was a great follower of the Akademiya’s virtues and treated the people around her according to its standards. Her grandmother even heard about the rare instance when she was personally scouted by the Matra; however, she immediately rejected them. Apparently, she had already decided for herself that she was going to dedicate her life to her studies and darshan.

For her son, he found that general holding of herself admirable. which would be further proven in the future as he got older, the moment he became a member of that esteemed establishment himself.

But if there was one thing she seemed to lack greatly, it was that she was not as sociable as her reputation deemed her to be. It’s not that she was particularly hated or liked, nor did she do anything wrong to be avoided. It’s that she just never seemed to find it important to have many friends and acquaintances.

She was well-equipped with connections to get her through her career. But any time she was invited to a public gathering or social event, it was most likely rejected or set aside for personal matters. In one tale shared to him by his grandmother, all from her son, the woman had forgotten the celebratory party for graduates all so she could catch up on reading the rest of the thesis made by her batchmates. Another time, she walked away from her research group for a few days to do some digging on her own, and when she came back, they were hollering in worry for her whereabouts. Despite that, it was her contribution to this choice that allowed their project’s hypothesis to be proven.

She was an individualist at heart; she preached personal development in favor of team-building. She believed that self-capability was something members of society should learn; it would have a long-lasting effect on them as a whole. Such ideas lasted past her leave and remained for her son to learn. They were all apparent in the journals penned by her and moved to his room’s shelves, deeming him their new owner.

Al-Haitham understood that this collection was always meant to be his, from the way each title page held a different message for him, as his mother had thought of him.

As a child growing up, he didn’t know what it meant to have a family, especially a nuclear one. He knew not everyone was lucky to have them, and he was certainly one of them. He knew the moment he was told of their accident that there was going to be a gap, a hole never to be filled without their presence anymore.

He knew it but never felt it—not until he got older and his imagination grew wider, not until he started to ponder what-ifs and what-could-bes.

While he held the spine of his mother’s journals and sat in his father’s office, did he start to wonder: what would his life have been if they were still here?

He wouldn’t have to pester his old grandmother about how his parents took their coffee or what their favorite dishes were. He wouldn’t have had to hear that the way he sat was reminiscent of his father, and his pout was all from his mother. He would have seen them all for himself.

That was the truth, and he will grow to accept it.

But Al-Haitham, the child they left behind, who received their gifts, inherited their moods and habits, and perhaps even their flaws, eventually learned the need to comfort himself.

He’d learn that even if they were no longer here, he would be reminded that he was thought of, cared for, and loved. Even before he came into this world, his father would have wanted him to follow in his footsteps and learn from the best, so he will be the best he can be for his students every day. And that his mother, with the bottomless passion she had for learning and the beauty she saw in the past, recorded through text, would learn to communicate through it.

In the things they left behind, Al-Haitham connected the pieces: he had a family of scholarly and genius parents who truly believed in the importance of knowledge. It was their legacy that, through him, they would live when they could no longer.

His grandmother was the one he remembered the most throughout his childhood.

She was an academic, just like his parents, but belonged to a different darshan. It didn’t stop her from being the wisest in his eyes. While she’d call them geniuses to her grandson, he always saw her wisdom as more apparent if not better than her knowledge, and even that was no joke.

The child would often come out of his room and peek into their living room to see the elderly woman entertain guests, often wearing the teal uniform of the Akademiya. He’d listen in from time to time, but they were mostly there to seek advice or actual guidance. There was also the rare occasion when they were looking for her past thesis and papers. Those times would make his grandmother give her signature light chuckle at all things humorous.

"Here I thought the Akasha terminal was a much better source than us, decrepit scholars?"

The Akasha terminal was indeed an incredible thing; it impressed young Al-Haitham the first time he was able to use one. But while it was handy and had the utmost potential to be used for more, he moved on from it easily, prompting him to go back to holding the physical manifestations of knowledge: books. When his grandmother witnessed that, there was a twinkle in her turquoise eyes, and he was given more affectionate head pats throughout the week. Al-Haitham would conclude that it was one of the ways she would show her pride for him.

She did not shy away from her opinions in front of him. Just like him, she had more of an inclination to read books than use the terminal. While it had helped her greatly, especially with the setbacks of her aging, it just didn’t sit right with her to watch Sumeru and its people believe every word it said.

She had many sorts of advice and opinions she’d give him throughout their time together, and while her grandson still lacked the experience and observance to know whether they were true or right, he still took to heart everything she said. And he grew to appreciate which one of them and even questioned and divulged some.

But those were not the only memories he’ll remember her by.

After the loss of the members of their family, did she take up the role they were meant to play? It was a simple home life that she and her grandson lived all day, every day; a mundanity but of true comfort, where the biggest trouble they might face is forgetting to refill a jar in their spice cabinet or fighting pests in their garden. Not only that, but she built for him an environment where he could cultivate the best of each opportunity. Al-Haitham didn’t know exactly and would never know how she saw him, but she was nothing if not supportive of who he is.

His grandmother only laughed when he told her his reason for not wanting to attend school after he came home early. The next day, she gathered the basic learning materials his curriculum would have and let him study at home.

She ruffled his hair when she immediately saw progress. "Just like your mother," she’ll comment, her tone full of pride once more.

Yes, she was not only supportive of him, but he knew she was always proud of him as well. She would never shy away from showing it, even having a repertoire of ways to express it.

Al-Haitham would never be where he was or who he is, truly, without her helping him build it.

Perhaps that’s why her death left him picking up the pieces.

He wasn’t old enough, but he wasn't too young when she left this world. She was prepared for it, having an inkling when it was going to happen, and she did not leave without preparing him for it too.

She really knew him the most; from her final lesson to him, she was well aware of what path he wanted to take and whose legacy he was aiming to carry. It was not such a grievous moment when she did pass away in front of him; she left at peace, with a tender smile on her face, and her last words were the blessing that was his name.

So it was he alone who had to bury her. inherit what not only she left behind but his parents too. It was during this time that the young Al-Haitham realized how grateful he was for her.

She not only knew but also helped pave the path to where his future is. She had so many surprises left for him to discover with each step he took without her by his side. Yes, he had to pick up the pieces of himself when she passed on, but it was not because they were broken—no, it was a reminder, a rediscovery.

Everything she left behind, she left with purpose, all for him.

The following months, long after the death of his grandmother, a thick book of emerald cover and spine, beautiful in its decorations and varnish, lay by his bedside. Within its first page lies a lasting message that will echo in his mind for years to come.

He’d remember it, with the hand that wrote it, that held his own in a gentle fashion, always.

Al-Haitham’s days flashed by ever so quickly, and then he found himself following his family’s footsteps and shadows at the true heart of the city of knowledge.

If he had any expectations for this place, even if they were low compared to others, it still led to disappointment. But that was all in accordance with his actual expectations anyway. What mattered was not his days spent here but what he could get from them. Although it would take a couple of years, he might as well make the most of it in ways that he’d prefer.

He’s well aware of how people saw him after blatantly showing this attitude, and how it led to them treating him almost in an alienating manner. It was neither offensive nor a compliment, but he had already decided to make do with it. And it was not his peers' fault, he sees, but the reflection it showed on how the Akademiya deems it to handle things. which wasn’t already held in good light in his duotone eyes, but the bar had sunk even lower because of it.

Surprisingly, his opinion will be swayed unexpectedly by a meeting he had no consent for.

Kaveh was loud, very loud, even by wildlife standards. That might have been an exaggeration, but Al-Haitham, as a stressed-out student, was allowed to have some dramatics from time to time. He was not appreciative of the senior’s lack of care towards his hearing capability, which he is not afraid to complain about.

The blonde would, of course, reason with him by taking the opposite stance that he is not being loud and it’s Al-Haitham who was all gloomy and a spoilsport bright and early in the morning. They disagree; they always do.

As if struck by a bad curse, they had both groaned over the fact that such differences in people had the chance of meeting and having to work together for the sake of their future. which, this time, was no exaggeration.

Their joint research project, which would culminate in a ‘universal architectural plan’, held high expectations from their advisers. They were suggested for this project due to their incredible brilliance in their specialized subjects, which for Al-Haitham was a lot, but he would never join such a project if he wasn’t interested in it at first.

But having to bear the presence of the rising genius of Kshahrewar was not part of the proposal. He cannot deny Kaveh’s perfection for this study. The younger student witnessed it firsthand as his research partner; it’s just that his personality was hard to ignore for the sake of professionalism.

And it just had to be a part of his personality to be so nosey in his business. Most of his days, including now, included Kaveh sitting with him, bothering him.

"Hey, hey, what book are you reading this time?"

"I doubt you’ll understand it, Senior."

"Huh!? Are you being mean to me again?"

It was a book on palm-reading, and its claims on challenging are treated as pseudoscience by Akademiya standards; not that Al-Haitham believes in it, but he’d rather not have Kaveh try to read along by invading his personal space. He peeked upwards without letting it show much and saw the blonde giving in easily today to continue sketching on his worksheets instead of answering them, all with a ridiculous pout on his mouth.

With how much they had started to meet, Al-Haitham had (unwillingly) started to understand more about the older boy. He grew to admit to himself that Kaveh was a lot different compared to the rest of the crowd seeking knowledge here. The blonde was creative, a self-proclaimed artist and romanticist, and was proud to be one despite belonging to a crowd of academics. It served as a contrast that blended naturally with his well-attuned brain to the mathematical and spatial kind.

He was different from the students who were spoon-fed knowledge from the Akasha or those who had empty confidence in their status as students of the Akademiya without having anything to actually show for it, when Kaveh was also a hard worker in addition to being smart. The word "genius" or "talent" may be haphazardly thrown at those who stand out, but for Kaveh, it was all about passion and effort. He didn’t mind being called names or titles; instead, he took more offense at having his efforts called "a stroke of genius" or "considered talent instead of skill."

Kaveh had even argued about it in public with another student. "If all you do with your free time is dismiss all my work and effort as mere ‘talent’, then might you consider using it to practice instead?"

Al-Haitham stood behind the audience that he garnered, as he continued to drag the guy’s dignity on the ground. He heard Kaveh tried to apologize for his "harshness" days later, but didn’t take back his opinion about how he wanted his work to be treated.

Not only that, but he also started to notice the exceeding selflessness of this senior. He thought he was just brandishing his title of being one when they first met, but after witnessing many examples, he realized that he actually aims to become a dependable one for his peers and juniors.

Al-Haitham knew about the impromptu tutoring he’d offer to his classmates and to anyone who’d approach him for it, even if he was just a student himself, with a stack of deadlines keeping him sleep-deprived. This was just one physical example; if the gossip he overheard between students is true, then there’s also much to believe about Kaveh’s growing popularity, which is built on positive rather than negative.

The closest to slander he’s heard of him from them are ones that come from envy or just plain questioning him, for the blonde was one who was daring and impulsive in his projects and actually made them work.

So while Al-Haitham would get annoyed with him many times for moving alone, he’s also very aware of his more flattering features, both abstract and physical. Since that is also well spoken of, especially by the female body of students, Kaveh is, in some regard, conventionally attractive.

"Haitha-" Kaveh was fidgeting with his pencil.

"Don’t call me that," he interrupted.

"Al-Haitham, then, let’s go get lunch.” The blonde whined. "I'm getting really hungry."

Al-Haitham sighed. "Are you paying for your meal this time?"

"Well, about that-"

"I’d rather starve then." He replied quickly and deadpan.

"I’ll pay you! I promise I will! I really just forgot my wallet today!" The blonde clasped his hands together. "Al-Haitham, pretty please?"

Being "conventional" doesn’t mean he has to agree with it.

Their project was turning out well, until it didn’t.

It didn’t fail because it couldn’t work, nor did it fail because of their mistakes. No, it was discontinued and taken away from their hands. After all, they couldn’t work together on it if they couldn’t even stand to look at each other for a minute.

The Akademiya and well-informed staff were surprisingly accommodating to their disinterest in working on it anymore. Perhaps they were aware of how frequently they’d fight or have a fallout from the smallest of things that they were suspecting of this. Or perhaps they were satisfied with the progress they had already made and were fine letting other people handle the project in their stead. Both of them could have canceled the project themselves, but it flew past their minds.

Either way, their disagreement this time affected their project and relationship greatly. It’s already been weeks since he last talked to the blonde face-to-face. He might have caught a glimpse of his long mane under the dark green hat, but any sightings he had of him were just short lapses of a back or face turned away from him. and never lasting in the same room as him.

For some reason, this bothered him more than the loss of his former impertinent demeanor or constant presence. It was understandable to not talk to each other or initiate contact, but from Kaveh’s actions, he just seemed to want to avoid him altogether. It doesn’t sound like the best idea when they are studying at the same school.

But he decided not to pry. If that’s how he wants to do things, then he’ll return the favor.

“Suit himself.”

Al-Haitham didn’t come to that senior’s graduation, nor did he go to the party he heard his darshan was giving to him. It was well-deserved. Kaveh had graduated with honors and would most likely be granted high opportunities based on his feats as a student alone.

The Haravatat student wasn’t lacking either; while he didn’t care much for titles and awards, he was aware of his accomplishments as a student and was hailed a genius among his peers.

They both went on with their lives and continued to find success in them years after their dispute.

Al-Haitham would, later, find himself being recommended for the position of Scribe, which, according to his background check, would be deemed most appropriate for his plans for the future. He’d have to put in some effort and good graces to be assigned to the position, but it was an investment worth taking.

Meanwhile, he’d hear about stray rumors here and there of Kaveh’s exploits as an architect in various commissions and projects and making an even bigger name for himself as he went in and out of Sumeru in pursuit of his artistry and craft.

He never did figure out why he was still intent on listening in on how the other man was doing. But he took the news well every time, instead of having it bother him. So it probably wasn’t such a bad feeling to have.

It came as a surprise to him to even be offered such a gift. Al-Haitham completely forgot about that joint project; he’d do well to read up on how far the study went without the original researchers’ knowledge. He was aware of the recent housing plans making their rounds around the nation, even going so far as to notice their familiar handiwork in them. What he didn’t expect was to still be associated with it this far down the line.

The location of the house itself makes it a truly valuable resource to him if he gets to own it. so close to his workplace, and the hustle and bustle of Treasure Street being close by. He didn’t mind moving into an ideal house as soon as he could, but there was only one problem. It was titled under his name and another, Kaveh’s.

It had been so long since he last heard of him; if he remembered right, he was supposedly in another country. He’d have to send a letter or a messenger just to get him back here in the city for a discussion.

Thinking about it, even if they had a distasteful closure with their falling out, he doesn’t bear any ill feelings towards him. Requesting to meet again after all this time, even formally, wouldn’t be such a bad idea. And the discussion about the house awaiting ownership is indeed an important matter worth talking about face-to-face.

He might as well take this opportunity for all it's worth.

Al-Haitham had gathered from the lower interns of the Mahamata that Kaveh had received his letter. The architect had been in Port Ormos for a long time now, already done with his responsibilities abroad.

He gave him a letter from the Akademiya with the details of the house’s allocation partly to him and the context surrounding it, and another from himself personally. an invitation to meet and discuss how they should share it since it would greatly benefit them both. He scheduled a 1-on-1 meeting in Puspa Cafe with a date and time, which was today. But he never received a reply from either letter—that is, until a messenger came to his office.

"I have no need for a house," he was informed. It was a rather short explanation for his lack of interest and urgency to answer until now.

Al-Haitham dismissed the messenger and grabbed a new blank piece of paper.

For a second, the blonde’s name popped up in his mind. There was much to ask and much to talk about, yet all he received was a refusal. There was nothing to grasp at straws about, but why was it that he wanted to dedicate this letter to him?

He shook his head. There was no use overthinking about it; if he denies ownership over it, then Al-Haitham is free to take it all for himself. He’d need to reply to his and Kaveh’s stances as soon as he could before the offer could pass him by.

The Scribe started to write.

The house he moved into was certainly big enough for one or two. Much of what he had from his old place, the one still named after him and inherited from his family, were books and just the basic appliances. The rest he left there for the time being; he could handle them some other time, making his current accommodation more of a top priority.

But having the day all to himself to settle his move had given him the opportunity to have nostalgia over the items he brought with him. The books his family gave him, especially, would be moved to the master’s for a while. Rereading them wouldn’t be such a bad idea if it could give him some clarity over the squeezing feeling bugging him lately.

He had a good idea of what it could be.

If Kaveh had accepted the chance to own half the property, they most likely would have had to live together. Clearly, the place would give them much of their own space and privacy, and Al-Haitham had at least thought of multiple ways they could have gone about it. But instead, he is standing by himself in a new house.

He wasn’t so estranged from his former lifestyle; in fact, nothing much would change at all, but perhaps that’s why...

Al-Haitham tapped a finger on his knee repeatedly while his palm rested on top of it.

There’s no use thinking about what could have been; only the truth and its silence will reply to him. And Kaveh, for all the liveliness he showed up with in his life, disappointed him in ways he never thought he would. A lie would have been better than this.

He wonders if this would be one of the things his grandmother would find humorous.

Kaveh sat on his divan in fresh and non-fitting clothes, all a bit bigger on him. He was trying to dry his hair but seemed hesitant to make any wrong moves from his seat after pushing himself into the far corner, when the sofa can fit 4 to 5 people packed together.

Al-Haitham set down the tray of hot spiced tea and what was left of the dry snacks he had in the pantry. It wouldn’t be able to fully fill the blonde’s stomach, but it was better to get some food into him as soon as possible.

"Are you comfortable?" He started with a question, taking his own position on the other sofa next to him.

The older man seemed surprised at the gesture, but he had worn that expression the moment he realized who he was in their chance encounter earlier. "Un, ah, I am. Thank you."

He offered the tea to him, putting it in his hands. "Warm yourself up. I would need to tidy the second bedroom for a bit and get you at least a fresh blanket." Al-Haitham had already checked the state of the room while he was in the bath; it wouldn’t take even 10 minutes to get it ready for him. But before he could even stand up to start, Kaveh pulled him by the wrist without much strength, enough to get his attention.

"Wait! Uh..." He didn’t know what to say, but Al-Haitham stayed rooted to his spot to wait. "The divan is fine! I don’t need anything more, and you've already given me so much anyway." Kaveh dipped his head, though he couldn’t figure out if it was because he was ashamed or embarrassed.

"You’d rather sleep here than on a bed?" The answer was obvious if the hesitation showed anything. But the blonde, perhaps humbled, insisted.

"I’ll leave by tomorrow morning, at the latest." He sharply inhaled. "Really, thank you for this, Al-Haitham, but you shouldn’t push yourself just for me."

That wasn’t the reason he was expecting, so much so that he frowned at that.

"Who says you’re leaving?" He spoke without thinking. It elicited a shock from his senior, who faced him again. "Let me correct myself. Do you have any place to stay for tomorrow?"

"N-no but–"

"Then why should you leave? This house can perfectly lend itself to you for as long as you need it. The spare bedroom has never had anybody sleep in it since I moved, and you don’t have any money to your name right now to be able to rent a room in an inn when this one is free of charge."

Kaveh flinched at the mention of his financial problems, or lack thereof. Al-Haitham let his voice go softer in his next words. "I’m not doing this because I pity you, senior, or because I suddenly found myself charitable. I want you to stay here because I want you to."

Sincerely, the rumor mill had been a source of stress for him straight after the news of the blonde’s suspected bankruptcy. The Palace of Alcazarzaray is worth every praise it has received since it was opened and revealed to the public. Kaveh’s name had been the subject of admiration by the people of Sumeru; if it wasn’t already embellished before, he became the model graduate of his darshan overnight.

Al-Haitham saw it for himself from afar, unable to help but feel he was intruding for not having much appreciation for its art form. He laid his eyes on Kaveh’s masterpiece. Satisfied, he went back home to Sumeru City with a lightened heart, only for it to fall apart when he heard what had happened to its dear architect right after.

Meeting him again in this state was unexpected, a true chance encounter where the stars aligned just right for both their surprises, relief, and uneasiness. A mixed bag of emotions and an awkward atmosphere are what they’re facing now, all while the context of their fragile relationship hangs by a thread. They were both aware this was the case; many options were available for them to choose from, and Kaveh chose to run away again.

Somehow, he doesn’t want to let that happen.

"Stay." He started. "For now, if you want to return the favor, then eat while you wait. Go to sleep. Whatever happens in the morning, I’ll leave food for you to eat, clothes to lend, the bathroom to shower in—any resources you’ll need, I’ll provide."

Kaveh clutched the cup in his hands tighter. "That’s too much…”

He clicked his tongue. "Then pay for it when you can. Money isn’t a problem I have, but I’m not saying this to offend you. It is merely the case that I am able to do this without much consequence." Al-Haitham continued. "Once you’re able to get back on your feet, you can start paying back the people you owe. If it would make you feel better, then add me to that list."

He let that idea sink into his head for a couple of minutes. Maybe he could have gone about this in another way. The younger man didn’t know how many chances he was able to have in this situation, but being able to do so felt infinitely better than doing nothing at all. better than letting Kaveh decide what was best for them again.

"...Can I really...?" A voice spoke so quietly.

Kaveh had his head resting on his forearms, and the cup in his hands and its contents were shaking along with him. Along with his thinner frame, it made him look even smaller than he should, curled up like this.

"Yes," he answered, returning in equal volume. "You deserve this much and more, Kaveh." Al-Haitham had admitted it without much difficulty. He took a handkerchief from his pocket and laid it beside him. Then he stood up and went towards the bedrooms, taking his time to assemble what the other man could need.

After that, Kaveh became his roommate.

There was no question that they would eventually struggle with living under the same roof. Times might have passed, letting them grow wiser and older, but there were fundamentals of the self that would remain the same no matter how much changed. But as difficult as they are with each other, it also came to them how easy it was to be with one another.

Al-Haitham had lived for the longest time alone; that had always been the case ever since his grandmother passed. When Kaveh’s presence became more constant, it wasn’t like the times he shared with the older woman. He was unable to fill that gap, but there was something else—something that just clicked into place when he was welcomed home after a day’s work.

There was something different in the atmosphere of sharing food on the table with him, sitting across from him in the lounge, which then moved to sitting beside him, legs on top of the other’s lap. It was different in the sense that it was easier to dance around the domesticity of living with someone who was neither a friend nor a family member.

They were roommates; that’s how Al-Haitham always explained it when Kaveh would prefer to just hide it. Yet they seek each other’s presence outside the confines of their house, unnecessarily so. During drinking nights, days spent in the Akademiya, or even taking a stroll anywhere in Sumeru, when the other person is available, they’d easily choose to do it together.

Al-Haitham felt this difference, pondered about it, and even tested it with Kaveh’s reactions. It was an involuntary response from both of them to be comfortable with each other. Like the gap in years, they hardly saw each other since their huge falling out was ignored in favor of... whatever this was supposed to be.

"Are we friends?" Kaveh had once asked, and he returned with the same question. It had made the man, of course, annoyed, and he immediately dropped the topic. seemingly taking that response for an actual answer. But Al-Haitham didn’t know how to answer to begin with, so he didn’t correct him.

In the end, he found calling him a "roommate" a far better explanation than the abstract answer he could come up with on the spot.

Years passed by, and Kaveh’s presence was even more constant in his life. It was hard not to associate them with one another at the Akademiya and outside of it. But that was just the natural progression of their relationship. They both went with the flow, and neither had acted differently, being the most genuine they are in the confines of their house, which eventually came to describe their home.

They didn’t know when this happened, but for Al-Haitham, he realized that one night Kaveh straight up left after a loud disagreement. He slammed the door behind him as he left, not even without any form of luggage or, as he suspected, even his wallet.

He didn’t follow after him, nor did he leave the door open for him. Al-Haitham chose to sleep with his soundproof headphones that night and went to work the next day without looking bothered.

When he returned home, there was a paper bag of Lambad’s fish rolls and a bottle of wine on the dining table. The man who hurriedly left recklessly last night looked fresh out of a bath and was pouting for him from the counter.

"I paid it on your tab." He grumbled.

"Hm."

"There’s enough for the both of us, if you were even planning to ask."

"I can see that."

"I’m still mad at you."

"I know."

"I just came back because I have all my stuff here and it’s a hassle to move."

"Alright."

They shared the wine bottle until it was empty and dry, and that night they slept on the same bed for the first time, for no reason at all.

Because they didn’t share the same opinion about physical boundaries, they unspokenly agreed to just forget about it altogether. Even in the later seasons of the year, nights were warmer, and when they occasionally shared the same bed, it would save on washing bed sheets. Their reasoning changed every night, but it wouldn’t stop Kaveh from entering his room as if it were his own and pulling on his blanket to wrap more than half of it around himself.

One night, Al-Haitham remembered a story about his mother, retold by his grandmother.

Her relationship with her would-be husband was unprecedented among those who knew her well. While they were happy for her, they grew curious about her relationship with him. But in the words of the old woman retelling this to him: "She admitted that she simply found it easier to talk with him. And that by itself was why she wanted his company more than she would any other."

It wasn’t something profound or unique that made her return the love she had for him; she simply loved who he was. Just like how she held her beliefs, she embraced that part of herself and accepted the invitation to stand by his side.

After that, she considered him more than a friend, not yet a lover. but a companion, one that can understand her, and in return she would do the same for him. She would wholeheartedly believe that there was something there, something that could bloom or transform and change the trajectory of their lives.

And it did.

"She would say: I never had any qualms choosing him; what was there to regret? It was the easiest decision I've ever made in my life."

Al-Haitham started to understand.

He understood now what it was that he felt when they went their separate ways. He understood now why he wanted to hear about how he was doing. He understood now why he gave him a helping hand the moment he saw him in trouble. He understood now why, despite their past and the reminders of it, they would come back to each other. He understood now why he thought of him in solitude.

It was too soon to label anything or confess to anything. There was still fragility on the platform below them, keeping them afloat. But at the heart of things, their shared stubbornness made them refuse to get off of it.

Maybe he was lacking his father’s driven passion or his mother’s knowing decisiveness. Or maybe he struggled to be like his grandmother, with the wisdom behind her every action and word. But he was as clumsy with his feelings as he was, immovable in all things personal like her, and expressed himself strangely towards the one that held his affections, as did she.

In Kaveh, he saw himself and grew to understand it more. In return, he saw a world unlike his own but all the same. As cliche as it was, it certainly expanded in color, features, and details, and he couldn’t accept that it became bleaker without him when he left him. dangling in front of him, out of reach.

Acceptance wasn’t an option, not when the knowledge of that would forever leave a mark. So what should he do, knowing this?

Al-Haitham laughed.

"What is it? I haven’t even done anything!" The blonde man sketching beside him exclaimed

He looked at him, and he was looked at in return—a reflection, a connection.

Without him, who was he? Who was he without him?

"Honestly, if you just want to stare and laugh at me randomly all day, I’ll just leave! I'm here to be productive, not to entertain you!" He huffs before standing up.

Al-Haitham held him back with a tug on his shirt.

"Stay."

"Hey, wha-huh?" Kaveh was flabbergasted.

"Stay. As much as you like, I want you here."

His expression went from surprised to grumpy before showing exasperation in a flash.

"What a hypocrite... I’ll do what I want, thank you very much!" He says that, but Kaveh lands back towards their couch, much closer to him. Snuggling closer to him, he certainly got more comfortable when he raised his thighs to be used as an easel for his sketchbook.

But Al-Haitham didn’t have any complaints, none at all, towards him, this situation, or the way his life had turned out.

He held a certain emerald-colored book in his hands and let this peaceful day come to pass.