Chapter Text
He hates going outside. It's too… noisy. Summer is especially the worst. The heat feels like it's evaporating the energy from his body, droplets of sweat roll down his skin causing a constant dampness to cover him. Lawn mowers all roaring in the early mornings disrupting his usual sleep schedule, and the smell that comes after bleaches the air for the next few hours. Light disappears late into the night causing him to toss and turn, growing more and more agitated until sweet darkness comes. It's so bright in the day too. Don't even get him started on the bugs It's not that they're scary, but their little legs on your moist skin is the most terrible, indescribable feeling ever. And they are everywhere. Luckily, he doesn't have allergies, otherwise he wouldn't even open the window, even if his grandma protests.
It's not like there's anything special outside, what would he do, look at stalls he can't afford to buy from? He can't work, he's too young to even be trusted cutting the neighbour's grass, not that he'd want to. Just the thought of having to witness outdoor conditions causes him to stay stuck to his lukewarm bed. Unfortunately, he gets hungry, so he begrudgingly gets up from his enticing bed and opens his bedroom door.
"It's too bright…" he whispers to himself, the radiant house contrasting his dimly lit room. All the noises and smells made him feel irritated. Time to go back to bed.
"Time for lunch!", a voice announced. It was obviously his grandmother. Al-Haitham sadly trotted over to the table and clambered into a wooden chair, an elder woman eventually coming in holding two plates. She gently places one down, making a clinking sound on the glass placemats causing him to wince slightly. He hates those things.
"I just whipped up something with the leftover ingredients. Speaking of, we'll have to go out soon to get some more." grandma chirps. Sighing, he ate the disappointing meal, a mixture of random foods that have been boiled into mush and a few varieties of meat. He doesn't mind bland food, but mushy? It makes him lose his appetite. Although, despite the subpar food, he appreciates his grandmother's efforts and, as to not disappoint her, he'll eat most of it no matter how long it takes.
After he finishes eating it's time to get ready to leave. Outside. In the summer. He dreads it, the thought almost brings tears to his eyes. He's a big kid now though, so he won't whine and complain like he used to. Waiting by the door, his grandma smiles at him as she waits.
"Being outside will do you some good, a child needs sunlight to grow healthy" a sweet voice states. 'Yeah right.' He thinks. Jumping down the steps, he walks beside his grandma into the marketplace.
"FRESH FISH!" a voice booms. "SUMMER CLOTHES TO KEEP YOU COOL! MADE FROM ONE HUNDRED PERCENT COTTON!" another one beckons. It hurts his ears. Like a needle stabbing them each time a voice calls out, all overlapping with each other but still able to hear and understand each word at the same time. But he continues forward, holding onto his grandma.
Eventually, she stops and talks to a vendor, Al-Haithem stares at the floor, unable to focus on anything around him. A warm hand holds his tightly, comforting in most cases but right now it felt ichy and… painful. Painful? 'It's difficult to describe', he thinks.
"What an ignorant little boy" the vendor spits. 'It's not like that.' Al-Haitham's tiny eyes looks up at them, he tried to speak but his throat felt so tight and dry, the vendor's misconception remaining unanswered frustrates him. "No sorry, hm? Youth these days have no manners!" Of course, it's an elderly person, they cause him the most trouble. Aside from grandma of course.
"He's just a bit shy dear, pay him no mind, I dragged him out to help me with shopping today." She gives the vendor a small smile. Al-Haitham doesn't smile, he looks back down. The vendor rolls their eyes and complains under their breath.
They continue forward as his tiny, trembling hands, hold on tightly to a paper bag filled with fresh fruit. He holds onto grandma for dear life, the sun being too bright to look up. They stop again.
"You look hot my dear!" They have a foreign accent that he struggles to understand. Well, to be honest, he struggles to understand when his grandma speaks to him sometimes. "Would you like to try our cooling spray? Free samples and 10% off, today only!" Al-Haithem doesn't hear the response from his grandma or the sound of the spray bottle squinting out whatever substance it contains onto them.
Tiny droplets land on him, causing him to drop the bag in surprise. He attempts to wipe it off, it's slightly sticky and it mixes with his sweat making the substance more slick: it quickly coats his arms, almost like sunscreen (the worst substance on earth) but thinner, causing it to quickly run everywhere. He hates it. Now his hands stick to his skin ever so slightly and he's very aware of everything touching his body, he notices every seam, every tag scratching against him. The sun makes the top of his shiny, silver hair more warm than the rest of him and the cooling substance makes some strands start sticking together, like a light coating of hair spray.
There's so much talking and now all words have blended together into one loud chatter, it bounces around his head, frequently ricocheting off his ears. He can't describe the emotions he's feeling, but it's overwhelming. It's infuriating. It's too much.
Grabbing onto his hair, he pulls at it, finding out about the disgusting condition it's now in. He pulls harder, letting out whines through gritted teeth. It's almost like he can physically feel all the eyes that are staring at him. A few tears fall as he stomps his feet, he's sure his grandma is speaking to him, he knows she'll tell him later, but now is not a good time. To an onlooker, it may look like a child throwing a tantrum because they didn't get their way or that they're tired and wants everyone to know about it. No one knows or understands what is going on in Al-Haithem's head. 'I hate people', he thinks. 'I hate being outside, I hate the sun, I hate EVERYTHING, he repeats in his head, the pain pulsating throughout his body. He runs away. Bumping into people as he runs, unable to utter an apology.
Finally, he scrambles into the house, leaving his grandma behind. She's probably worried about him, but there's no way she would be able to run after the tiny Al-Haitham. Jumping under the covers, too warm from the summer air, he hides away. Despite this, he clutches the blankets and wraps them tightly around himself, whimpering and curling into a ball. Breathing shaky, tears flowing, brain cloudy.
This is why he hates going outside.