Chapter Text
He turns the silver key to the side for the very first time, and it clicks. The door, too, creaks slightly when it’s turned inward. His footsteps enter the hallway upon each contact with the polished wooden floors, and upon arriving at the lounge, he gently drops the suitcase he carried with him with a thump.
Al-Haitham takes in the large space of his new accommodations like a blank sheet; it’s empty for the purpose of looking clean. But without even further inspection, he knew it had never changed. Aged by time, yet remaining the same for years, untouched, and stripped away into its bare purpose: a building. His feet took him to one of the hallways to the side, a familiar room, smaller than the lounge but bare all the same. He stood by the doorway and let his mind imagine the first thing he would ever need and consider a place liveable.
Yes, it would do. This room, with its sunlit windows and quiet corners, would do well to be converted into an office. He could line the walls with shelves to place the collection of books he had inherited and simultaneously bought.
It would be a work in progress, filling every room with the minimum amount of furniture he may need. He had already started packing the things he deemed important from his old house; all that’s left for him is to hire movers. Organizing the shelves with trinkets of the past and books he knows by heart, even adding more to the collection of his library with knowledge he hadn’t possessed yet—these four walls would make up his solitary piece of paradise.
Eventually, potentially, this sentiment will spread throughout the house. He’d make sure of it.
He had already learned to live alone since his grandmother passed, so it won’t be much of a problem to do the rest of the unpacking and assembling by himself. A part of him is enthralled by the aspect of moving into a new house after having lived in the old one for as long as he can remember. An experience many of his age have taken or will take as a form of independence. It neither felt ceremonial nor worth celebrating, but it was new.
It could be a step closer to his goal.
As Al-Haitham steps outside of the room, brushing a hand on the wooden door frame, he wonders if this too was a part of what his grandmother envisioned for him.
She was a Kshahrewar, and he is from Haravatat. Did she ever dream of him making a home for himself, starting from the very foundations of creating one?
Going home, straight after his shift, with dinner packed by a street vendor hanging from his hands was how the Scribe spent his nightly routines. He slips his headphones off and into his belt pouch. The house was the same as he left it this morning, the other day, and the week before that. This was a form of comfort—the same comfort he could describe as the cushiness of his long couch.
He doesn’t take his food to the kitchen, instead choosing to eat on the aforementioned couch. It had a low coffee table in front of it. Al-Haitham could sit cross-legged and use the length of his arm to reach for a drink or a plate, as he usually does.
Tonight was no different; his dinner routine is as follows: He’d unwrap or plate the dish for the night on one of his two dinnerware sets, whichever was dried from the dishrack, and bring that to the table. Next to it was a tray holding a pitcher and glass with the refreshment he felt like having that night. Before he settles on seating, he walks to the low cabinet and picks a record from his collection of them, inherited from his family. Dropping the needle, he waits for familiar melodies to fill the quiet space of the lounge. And only then will he sit comfortably and pick up where he left off on the book he was reading the entire day.
In between pages, he takes bites of his food until there’s none left. In between his meals, he finishes and takes in every word and letter on paper until he reaches the end. Time passes relatively quickly this way, and by the time he’s finished, it would be a reasonable time to go to sleep.
He left his bedroom with the least personal touch after finishing moving in. It’s not that there’s much purpose to it, since he only needed a bed to rest on, a closet for his clothes, an armchair and a respective side table with it, and maybe a carpet. He did eventually get the latter after seeing his own design made while he was still a researcher. Walking down the bazaar one day, he saw it being sold and was told a curious, if incorrect, story about its origins. Yet he rarely stayed in this room except to rest.
After slipping under the covers, he contemplates, taking in the things he’d observed, the contents of his book, and the tasks planned for tomorrow. It all echoes inside his mind to replace the silence of the night.
Where there were the hushed conversations in the House of Daena, the chattering in the halls of the Akademiya, the stern debates of the Sages’ meeting, or the noises made in the streets of Sumeru City, they were all muted by the shutting of his front door the moment he stepped inside.
Al-Haitham always did prefer the quietness, and this version of it has been his companion for as long as he could remember, but it was not like his music player or the old phonograph made by his grandmother, both being better company than the former.
But he had already tried that before, and it was all too unpleasant. He’d rather not have the cord of his headphones tangle around his neck again or have sore hearing for the remainder of the next morning when he wakes up.
No use lamenting. He wills himself to sleep, and when he comes to, it will already be morning. For the people of Sumeru do not dream, and Al-Haitham is already living on his.
One particular night, his record player broke, perhaps from overuse. In hindsight, he should’ve seen this coming. He was neither its original owner nor creator, and while he had done his best to take care of it as he was taught and as some little research provided, it was inevitable for it to break.
Al-Haitham figured it was better to keep it and his records away for storage until he figured out what to do with them. There was a more pressing problem with its loss than functionality anyway.
It was quiet—too quiet—in his home now.
His headphones were made to snugly fit against his ears in the most comfortable way possible, to be worn for long periods of the day, but even that had its effect on him if he never removed them and gave his ears a rest. He relied heavily on its soundproofing, but when in the confines of his home, he wouldn’t have the need to. And he shouldn’t have a need for it now.
Yet it didn’t take long for him to feel a sense of unease.
Instead of the songs he used to hear as a child accompanying him, he hears the clinking of utensils, the turning of pages, and the sounds of his sighs. There was awkwardness in hearing his own breaths, the shuffling of his own feet, and every move he made against wooden surfaces and other furniture. The Akademiya’s registry reception would make more noise than his own.
Looking down on the music player in his hands, he wonders if it would have any meaning at all to hesitate turning it on.
Al-Haitham went to sleep that night without them.
But since then, he has decided to spend more time in the office, in his ever-growing library. Finding solace in familiarity, it didn’t feel odd for silence to echo back at him here.
Al-Haitham didn’t know what exactly led him to Lambad’s this late at night. Surely enough, there were still the regular patrons and the tavern owner himself, greeting him out of courtesy. Everyone merrily cheered, conversed, and drank the night away, except him and Kaveh.
His senior, a man he hasn’t seen for some time; His senior, who made a name for himself upon the creation of his magnum opus that lies upon a cliffside; His senior, who left all those years ago,
The Light of Kshahrewar himself, and yet, the tavern’s lanterns were more vibrant than him.
“What are you doing here?” He abruptly asks, easily slipping on the facade that he wasn’t at all shocked to see him.
Al-Haitham only shrugs before sitting down in front of him. “I could ask the same of you,” he said, signaling the barman to serve him.
Of course. He wasn’t satisfied with his question being answered by another question. But surprisingly, the blonde didn’t press.
Evidently, now that the younger man understands, this person is exhausted beyond belief. It had seeped past his bones and into his heart, and it had changed him. He is no longer recognizable, but a part of him still is.
Maybe he didn’t know what led him here this fateful night, to his senior’s side.
But he knows what he heard, what he saw, and what he foresaw back then.
It took a couple of proddings and drinks before Kaveh was taken apart. The sculpture that was this man was made up of cracks, and Al-Haitham held the hammer.
But Kaveh was stronger compared to before; he didn’t need him to pick the pieces back together for him.
“I know I wasn’t wrong.”
But Al-Haitham wanted to; he knew that somehow he’d always find himself here wanting to.
Kaveh made himself scarce at first.
Even in the confines of the house, he barely stays long with Al-Haitham in the same room. Spending most of his time in his bedroom and not much else. He knew where he was coming from, and it wasn’t that odd coming from him. But the phrase ‘make yourself at home’ has never felt more appropriate here.
Since that reunion, Al-Haitham is aware that ‘Kaveh’ has changed and remained at the same time. So there was no question; each day of that skittish behavior made him want to pull other reactions out of him.
It started unconsciously and became intentional over time.
Kaveh didn’t have the heart to complain over the things he did as his ‘landlord’, but instead of correcting him, Al-Haitham aims to remind him that they’re ‘roommates’.
“Gah-!?” He heard the visceral shock all the way to the office desk, where he currently sat. Soon, heavy footsteps became louder as he got closer. A flash of red and gold appeared in the doorway. Which the younger man left open, of course. “Al-Haitham, what is this!?” He didn’t shove it outright in his face, but it was the intended action. Kaveh held in his hand quite a unique wooden sculpture.
“It’s decor, though you would know at first glance,” He remarks, hiding his amusement. Gone was the attention to the documents he was writing.
“IT’S AN EYESORE IS WHAT IT IS.” The blonde huffed and set it down on the large desk carelessly.
“I thought you wanted to support local crafts.”
He brought a hand to his hip. “And I thought you weren’t interested in the arts.”
Al-Haitham twisted the pen over his hands. “It just caught my eye. I figured we’d need something new and catching in the sitting room.”
“It stands out a bit too much, don’t you think?” He remarked with distaste.
He shrugs. To that, Kaveh clicks his tongue. Figuring he’s not getting any straight answers from the man, he pivots and walks away.
“I’m craving something fried, maybe falafel?” He calls out, loud enough to be heard. The older man was already past the door as he screamed. “YOU HAVEN’T MADE DINNER!?”
While covering his mouth in restraint, Al-Haitham hides a smirk.
One of the disadvantages of living with Kaveh is the noise he makes.
Without the man’s existence in his house, he would have never known how thin the walls are.
Bang, bang, bang.
A muted sound of hammering woke him up in the middle of the night.
No intruder in the night would dare make such a noise. Al-Haitham could only guess that Kaveh was the one making it. He turned on his bed and faced the wall where it was coming from.
Sometimes he forgets that the genius and artistry of his roommate as an architect weren’t the only things that earned him the title of Light of Kshahrewar. No, Kshahrewar is the darshan of technology, and he was the prime face of it.
A few days before, he encounters Kaveh, who just came home with arms full of purchases and large equipment.
“What do you have there?”
“A machine core?” Kaveh raises a brow as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world.
Al-Haitham rolled his eyes. “I mean, what’s it for?”
“Oh.” The blonde grins. “For my suitcase!”
He watches him leave for his room, clearly excited for the prospect of handling such an item. As a clerk for the Akademiya, he should’ve been more suspicious, but as Al-Haitham, it was natural to move on, as Kaveh did, watching him bring back underground-bought knowledge capsules in return.
Al-Haitham assumes that the ‘suitcase’ is the one project keeping them both up at night, for completely different reasons.
It’s revealed a couple of mornings later what the fruit of his efforts were.
“Al-Haitham, Al-Haitham—there you are! I need to show you something. Come, come!”
Like a whirling fungus, he left as soon as he arrived. Thinking he had nothing else to do other than consume breakfast and a good read, he followed suit, bringing two coffee mugs along with him.
He arrived at Kaveh’s room with its owner’s back facing him. He didn’t bother sneaking up on him, so the blonde noticed him immediately and turned.
“Al-Haitham!” Kaveh stood confidently in front of him, the most he’d seen him since he moved in, seemingly hiding something on his back.
“Let me introduce you to... ahem.” He moves gracefully aside. “Mehrak!”
Beep! Beep!
A mechanical box, no... suitcase? Floated in his direction. It had a digital screen showing minimal symbols. If Kaveh’s flair is taken into consideration, and watching it sway side to side with a pair of carets, he guessed it would be for expressions and that the suitcase is happy to see him.
Turning to look at Kaveh, who looks as if he just woke up, he sees the other waiting for him to say anything. He’s confident, but an air of humility surrounds him, showing how much he cares about what he thinks. At least from Al-Haitham’s perspective.
He walks to his side and hands him the fresh cup of coffee, full and warm. Surprised, the older person still accepts.
“Is there anything else this suitcase can do?” Al-Haitham takes a sip from his own cup.
He notices the other man soften in pleasure after tasting the drink. Even the way he takes his coffee remains the same.
“I can even provide a demonstration!”
As he watches his senior’s on-the-spot presentation, Al-Haitham starts to understand the importance of this little assistant’s name. There was no irony to be found in someone like the sun creating a mimicry of the stars. But maybe by looking up to it, the sun will start to remember again why it shines in the skies.
Al-Haitham knew disagreements were meant to happen between them.
They were unapologetically themselves, a direct contrast to each other yet too alike to back down. They debated daily, often on the most insignificant of topics in the most enlightening of ways. If it were their hobby, it’d count as mental exercise, but no, they were simply scholars going about their day.
Some arguments end bitterly or comically; it was a wide scale. Oftentimes, one of them backed out, figuring that it was no use changing the other’s stance. Like an unbreakable wall, but their hearts were not—Kaveh was more susceptible to this. Ever since living with him, Al-Haitham finds himself visiting taverns and bars late at night to pick up a drunken architect who stubbornly refuses to face him. Hangover medicine and a proper talk would usually fix it the next morning. But there were times when they just struggled to actually give each other a chance to converse.
Today was one of those days.
After screaming how he'd consider moving, getting up, and leaving and rubbing it against his face that he was wrong, Kaveh slammed the front door shut in a huff and left.
He sighed. It’s times like these that he’s reminded that the man is supposed to be older than him. But it wasn’t just his face that retained his youth at all.
At least he brought Mehrak along with him this time. It gave him a cold sweat hearing the other get into trouble all because he got frustrated at him and left impulsively again, attracting danger, when he left his handy toolbox in his room that stored his weapon for him.
And if anything, he could make a good guess that Kaveh was heading to Gandharvaville anyway. The hybrid forest ranger, having a soft spot for his architect friend, would lend him a room for a night or two.
However, all these reassurances never got rid of the discomfort seeping inside of him.
The hours of the day passed, and Kaveh hadn’t returned home, but every hour felt longer. He did many things to distract himself, even organizing the books the blonde had nagged him to clean for weeks. He even made dinner for himself this time. Making the dish according to his tastes, something the older wouldn’t really prefer, but realizing too late that he had made extra portions that he could no longer intake. Kaveh would have reprimanded him for wasting food, so he kept it aside as leftovers.
No book kept his attention for too long either. He had spent most of the day in his office, and at some point he gave in to picking up where he last left off in his work hours, paperwork upon paperwork.
The clocks all reminded him that it was way past waking hours; his coffee had run cold and stale, no longer drinkable. Kaveh isn’t coming home tonight, it seems.
Al-Haitham had learned that since Kaveh had moved in, he had brought life to this place along with him. That the house he called home was never complete; only then did it feel like one.
Wherever Al-Haitham was, even through his soundproof earpieces, he could hear Kaveh move about. Whether it’s his shuffling late at night or when he thinks nobody can hear him sing in the shower, when he cleans, it looks like he is dancing along to a rhythm he was humming. When Al-Haitham comes home to the scent of spices in the air and the clanking of cooking utensils, he joins him to eat breakfast in the morning and dinner at night. When he sits next to him, pencil scribbling, hugging his knees that were used as a board for it, and with his voice telling him about his day.
Fitting perfectly as a missing piece, his presence naturally belonged here.
Every noise he made through the thin walls resounded here.
It was here. Still is. In less than a day, it was a wonder how he started to be reminded of his feelings about the silence.
It was stifling.
A part of him couldn’t sleep; he really spent all night just under the veil of comfort that was his library. A habit he carried from the distant past.
Faintly, a key clicks and turns.
Then a door was unlocked.
Al-Haitham stood up, ‘to check’ he told himself. The possibility that he could have misheard was possible. Worst-case scenario, it wasn’t who he thought of at all.
“Al-Haitham?”
Kaveh stood just on the path connecting the front hall and the lounge, turning to the sound of his direction. Looking the same as when he left.
“You’re early,” was all he could say, looking exhausted, and he wasn’t the only one. But his senior, also known for his beauty and his golden locks, made it seem like the sun had risen along with him.
“I didn’t want to overstay my welcome there.”
He nods. “I see.”
They waited. There was silence; why is that? Normally, one of them would have moved on already and would have figured out an ultimatum in the form of wrapping it up.
It wouldn’t do anybody any good to let this tension simmer any longer. He didn’t want it to.
But it was Kaveh who asked first. “Did you… Did you sleep?”
He stops and unconsciously pushes back his bangs. “Is it that obvious?” “Yeah.” The blonde walked closer to him, just stopping at a breath's distance. A hand reaches to hold his wrist, letting silver strands fall back over his face. “You look like shit.” He grins.
Al-Haitham snorted, chuckling. And somehow, that’s enough.
“Yeah?” He brought his own hand and thumb to brush along his cheek, just under the eyes. He can hear Kaveh’s breath hitch, but he doesn’t move away. It’s not fair that even if he’s sleep deprived, he still manages to look so pleasing to the eyes.
“Though, I don’t think any foundation can fix this.”
It was the older man’s turn to laugh airily, like a cool breeze and a melody to his ears. “Between you and me, I think I know more about making a good impression and looking the best at it.”
He hums. “We can discuss that over coffee.”
“What? Make-up?”
“Anything. I just really need a shot right now.”
Kaveh looks at him incredulously.
Shame him if he wants. Caffeine was the Scribe’s ambrosia; he’d rather feel alive with it than without it.
“I think.” The blonde sways to turn to the side and tug on his sleeve. A part of him missed the hold before, even if it was just a slight. “We both need sleep right now.”
He hums in agreement, not really having the energy to do anything but agree. Following him without question to the door to his bedroom. He heard the word ‘both’ loud and clear: if willingly coming with him gets him to be able to be held and hold him for much longer, then so be it. especially if it’s on his bed.
Because despite everything that happened, he was just glad he was back here by his side.
He hears Kaveh call out.
“Al-Haitham, is this yours?”
The younger man turns in his direction, and the first thing he sees is the bright-eyed look of his senior and the large box he’s holding. He didn’t need a label to figure out which one this contained.
“It is. Mind opening it?”
“Sure. Did you really have to shut it so tightly with tape though?”
“It wouldn’t get dust this way.”
“Just pass me the scissors.” He grunts.
Kaveh kneeled on the ground in the process of opening it up.
This whole scene goes as follows: Al-Haitham was coerced to help with cleaning out the storage room and ridding it of unnecessary clutter. He couldn’t reason himself out of the task after being repeatedly reminded, “Most of this stuff is yours!”, which it was, but he just never had it in mind at the moment to take anything out.
Upon opening, the blonde gasps.
“It’s a phonograph! I didn’t know you owned one of these!” Upon a shift in tone, he exclaimed with wonder. “Wow, do you have any records too?”
Al-Haitham points behind him and says, “The rest of it is there. Unfortunately though, it’s broken. I haven’t gotten around to fixing it.”
“That’s a shame, may I?”
He nods along, walking past him and taking the scissors along to open the aforementioned box of vinyls.
“Hmmmm…”
The younger man knows that familiar sound of his. “Do you want to fix it?”
Kaveh rubs the back of his neck in a humble manner. “I can certainly try. It doesn’t look like the ones I’ve seen in the market, so I might have to pry it open.” He can hear him already tinkering around with it. “Where did you get this from anyway?”
“My grandmother made it.”
The blonde gasps.
Al-Haitham turns to look at him, hands away from touching the music player, as if he’d done something unforgivable and ashamed.
“Why didn’t you tell me that sooner!?” He shouted out of fear before adding a mumbling comment. “I guess that makes more sense than you possibly owning one.”
Passing the box to his side. “She wouldn’t mind. She made it on a whim to play music for her flowers anyways.”
He hears Kaveh give a small laugh at that.
Al-Haitham continues, “If you could find a way to fix it, I’m sure you’d find more use for it.”
True to his expectations, he did end up figuring out a way to fix it. No surprises there from the Light of Kshahrewar.
“And I even added upgrades to it!” Kaveh exclaimed, all excited. “Well, they’re more embellishments than upgrades. I didn't want to completely overwrite the framework your grandmother left behind.” The younger one noticed that there was still that awe and respect he had for her.
Both of them sat in front of the phonograph placed on the center table. Kaveh had already dropped the needle and played back a song or two to judge its condition.
“But do you really want me to keep it?”
Al-Haitham shrugs. He had been listening intently to his explanations and leaned comfortably on the armchair. Letting the melodies ring out the four walls of the room, filling the gaps of silence in familiarity. He knew the songs by heart, and any memories of his grandmother fondly basking in them were still vivid in his mind.
“I have no need for it.”
Seemingly satisfied with his answer, the blonde laid on Al-Haitham’s side. With the latter, raising his arm and finding it fit perfectly over his waist. They didn’t say a word about their position, and they didn’t care if they only took up a third of the space of the large couch. Both of them merely let the music fill the silence in the room.
He didn’t mind making new memories from it. He could watch Kaveh humming alongside the track playing, swaying to the rhythm with a broom in hand, sweeping the floor clean. While he sat, no longer bothered by the silence, as his witness.
And if he was pulled along to stand and dance with him, all the better. They were good songs.
The Scribe of the Akademiya sticks to the same schedule he has had for years.
He goes to work just before his shift starts, having already had his morning coffee by then and a full stomach from the breakfast he had before leaving. His office was always empty at random times, and the students still found his presence a mystery after he stepped down as Acting Grand Sage. He can be found in random locations with a book in hand and the same indifferent attitude toward anyone he talks to. But he was also a frequent presence in the House of Daena. Fitting perfectly next to the books he’d rather have as company, in the corners where nobody would bother him.
He leaves as soon as his shift ends, and any poor student who is late to submit their papers will be met with a locked door and his schedule for the next few working days. His colleagues are already used to hearing that he needs to go home before dinner time.
He hasn’t brought takeout for some time now, but when he does, the vendors swear he'll always buy enough portions for two. If days had passed, he’d also buy bags of the most fresh fruit he could find, picking cautiously which one was just ripe.
Just as the sun sets and stars appear in the sky, a key would click and turn to the side. Unlocking the door to a well-lit house, clean and free of dust, the fragrance of home cooking hits him as soon as he’s inside.
There would be a shuffle on the floorboards, and sometimes a whirring mechanical noise would follow him too. It was the sound of a hurried gait, as if he was eager to see him
“I’m home.” His own voice rings out.
A shorter man with golden locks appears in his peripheral vision, with the brightness of the sun in his smile and the shimmer of ruby eyes meeting his own. He’d always find him the most beautiful in this form; full of life, he was the source of all the warmth in his home.
Kaveh beams, “Welcome back!”, and greets in return.