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When he was seven, his parents sat him down, explaining that he wouldn't see his grandfather anymore. The expressions on their faces confused him, he’d never seen them look so small, so vulnerable.
“Why not?” he asked.
His mothers eyes glimmered with the same tears he ran to her with when he scraped his knees. She explained that his grandfather was gone, that he passed the night before. Who was his mom supposed to go to when she cried now?
“Where did he go?”
It took a gentle talk for him to learn that someone being gone didn’t mean that they’d left. Gone was permanent, gone was something his young brain couldn't even process. What does forever mean when your life has barely begun?
He would miss his baba bozorg. The old man would visit them every Friday with his paints, packing a long scroll of parchment in his leather satchel. Kaveh would spend hours in the backyard, smearing colours with his small, chubby hands.
His mother would yell from inside the house, chastising him for smoking out of a wooden pipe so close to Kaveh. The smoke smelled sweet though, he didn't quite mind it. He wondered if his mother missed complaining about the smoke now.
When he’d visit the man’s house instead, he’d ravage the garden, picking fresh walnuts on the bushes nearby. Baba bozorg even gave him one to plant himself. They were slow-growing things, so it only really sprouted and reached just over his height when he was fourteen.
He complained about the lack of nuts on the tree to his father—why bother planting something if you wont get to eat the fruits of your labor? He found it to be a waste of time.
“It’s a healthy tree, pesaram. Give it time and love and it will grow.” he ruffled his son’s blond hair, not without a whine and pout thrown at him, “Just like you.”
He was at the age where his mother was suffocating. She hovered around him, worrying when he went tumbling down hills or riding on sumpter beasts. He had big dreams—ambitions that were two scrolls long written out. He was old enough to want things, but not old enough to know how to have them.
His father on the other hand was more relaxed. He’d sneak Kaveh a sip of his wine at meals with a wink, slide him bags of mora to buy machine parts to tinker with. Kaveh spent most of his days with his father, working on projects in the basement while his mother scolded them for the echoing metal clangs.
Then, his father left for a competition. Kaveh had egged him on, wanting to see his dad win, wanting to show everyone that his baba was the best, the strongest, and the smartest around. Before he’d left, they took a walk through their backyard.
“The walnut tree is as tall as you now, you’d do good to eat your vegetables and help your mother while I’m away,” his father warned with a strong voice, “When I return, you better be even taller,”
His baba was tall, he was strong and sturdy, smart and witty—there was no one as reliable as him in Kaveh's mind. Kaveh ate his vegetables, he drank his milk. He grew just as fast as the tree, and his father never came back.
This time, he was old enough to understand what death meant. He felt its permanence, like a solid weight he couldn’t get rid of in his chest. For a while, he tried to turn his grief into a game, pretending his father was still off in the desert, somewhere where he was still alive, just—away. This made his absence more bearable. But now he understood what forever really means.
It worked until it didn't, reality crashing over him in heavy waves at night, water flowing into his lungs so that he couldn’t breathe . Snot clogged his sinuses, eyes flowing with burning streams of tears down skin that was rubbed raw and far too sensitive for the way he’d try to wipe away the wetness. His own grief was suffocating sometimes.
His father wasn’t away—he was gone.
No more nights making small contraptions and disassembling them to start new projects. No more sips of wine and secret smiles. Their basement turned to a damp field of rust—after a few months with no one to attend to them, the tools and metal scraps became unusable, as good as trash.
His mother understood this before he did, Kaveh could tell. She became snappier with him, a little brittle and hard around the edges when before she’d been soft. She loved Kaveh, he knew this, but it was hard.
He tried not to be difficult—he got the best grades in class, even if it meant studying so late his eyes were stinging and the words were blurring together on the page. His affinity for mechanics and design felt more like a punch to a gut than a gift now.
What does a good son mean when you lose your husband? What are hard work and sleepless nights when it comes to death? Kaveh simply couldn't work hard enough to make up for his baba’s absence.
By the time he’s sixteen, he’s alone. His mother had left for Fontaine a few days ago, sending him a letter about her fiance, gushing over their new house. He’s glad she’s happy, he really is. He waits for an invitation to the wedding, excited to finally travel abroad, to see his mother again, but it never comes. Soon enough, his mother stops sending letters too.
He hears from his teachers in school that she’s pregnant, that she’s happy, away from a place with so much pain sown into the soil. Kaveh wonders briefly, what about me? When do I get to move away?
He catches that thought quickly, suffocating it under his heel like the trailing rouge ember of a bonfire. He was the one who planted this pain, he was the one who convinced his father to leave. He didn't deserve to just run away.
Eventually, his mother’s lack of letters makes him happy. He’s glad she can forget about him and start anew, that she doesn't need to carry around a constant reminder of what happened. His teachers tell him he looks just like his father. It’s as comforting as it is disturbing because he can’t tell if they’re right. He starts to forget his father’s face, except in his dreams.
Now, he’s playing in the sand with his baba, they’re in the biggest sandbox in the world! He can’t see where it ends, but he doesn't need to. He has his little shovels and little buckets, and he wants to make a castle and a moat. The sand here is dry though—it won't clump together.
“Can we go to the Ormos beach instead?” He asks in a whiny tone. The sand there is wet and holds well. His voice is smaller than he remembers. His baba looks at him, shoveling another scoop of dry sand into their bucket.
“I don't know how to leave this place,” his baba says lightheartedly, coughing a few times into a clenched fist. His knuckles were white, his whole body tense, though his words were relaxed. It was unsettling.
Kaveh frowns, a little puzzled by this statement. Why doesn’t his baba know how to leave when he knows everything ? Surely they had a map or even an Akasha terminal. He’s only eight, so he doesn't have one yet. He'll get his next year when he starts school, but shouldn't his baba have one?
Is he eight? Why is he eight? His own age confuses him for a moment, suddenly remembering being taller, hands having less baby fat on them, and his voice being a little stronger, a little deeper. His baba coughs again, this time from deep in his chest. It sounds dampened, like there was something blocking his throat.
“Are you okay, baba?” he asks, watching his dad cough, long hacks followed by deep gasps of air. There must be something blocking his windpipe, because he chokes on nothing. Kaveh starts to panic now, hopping up on short legs and rubbing his dad’s back in worry. He doesn't know how to fix things, it's never him who fixes things.
“Baba, I think we should leave,”
He was about to ask what was wrong, but the next time his father coughed, something poured out of his mouth.
“I can't leave, pesaram,”
A small trickle of little dry granules dripped from his father’s mouth, piling into the bucket below them. It didn't take long for the trickle to become a heavy stream, so much sand being spit up that the man's chest heaved with the force of it.
Kaveh was worrying a lot now. His baba was turning red, veins popping on the side of his temple and in the whites of his eyes, crimson blooming by his red irises. His skin was bursting with fresh blisters, the sun scorching his skin before Kaveh’s very eyes. It bubbled like tar, melting off the muscle beneath.
He wanted to help, but he was afraid. He didn't fix things. Kaveh broke things, he’d play too roughly with his toys, he’d cry and mourn their loss, and his father would bring them back to life with a screwdriver. What happens when the most powerful person you know can't fix themselves? What do you do then?
He breathed heavily, watching his baba bend over and heave, convulsions forcing larger streams of sand from his mouth. There was so much, so much it didn't seem like it would stop. Kaveh was crying now, panicked noises punctuating little sobs. He didn't know what to do, he couldn't call for anyone—they were alone in the world’s biggest sandbox.
Sand started to pour from his father’s ears, from his nose. His eyes bled, swallowed entirely by a swollen red colour that looked nothing like the fierce crimson they both shared. The blisters popped, pus oozing from the red tears in his baba’s skin, his eyes bulged with something awful behind them, an eerie, unnatural look that made Kaveh scream. He was screaming, screaming louder than he ever thought he could.
His father was dead, he was dying, he was melting under the sun, flies and gnats circling above the flesh, ready to devour. Decomposing before he even took his last breath.
“He’s not gone yet!” Kaveh sobbed, trying to shoo them away from the open sores in his father’s flesh, “Stop! He’s not gone, he’s away, he’s sick, he’s not gone—”
Everything stopped.
It was dark in his room at the Academiya, and it was quiet, save for his harsh breathing and a ringing in his ears. His hands were big again, and his body felt more familiar. This wasn’t the first time he’d had this nightmare, but it never went away, and it never got easier. He fell for it, every time.
“Are you okay?”
He jumped in bed, whipping his head to where his roommate was standing over him, a hand outstretched, as if it had just jostled him awake—it probably had.
Kaveh nodded, taking a deep breath, “Yeah, sorry Haitham,”
The other boy didn't move.
“Was it bad?” he asked, ignoring the apology.
Kaveh reached for the water by his bedside table. He took a few sips to ground himself then placed it back.
“I’m alright, don't worry,”
He must’ve been loud for his roommate to have woken up through the earplugs he wore to sleep. He had this dream a few times a week, in their own unique variations. Sometimes, he’d be the one choking on the sand, eaten alive. Sometimes, he’d be crying, begging for his mother to stay while she looked at him with an expression that could only be disgust.
Alhaitham looked at him again with that strange pensive gaze. It kind of freaked Kaveh out, he always felt like he was looking through him instead of at him. It was even worse since Alhaitham was two years younger than him, eyes still a little round and childlike. Kaveh only relaxed once the boy walked away, shuffling into his own bed on the other side of the room.
He sighed heavily, closing his eyes and trying to think of something pleasant. He was lucky, because when he fell asleep again, he didn't dream of anything at all.
A few years pass and he’s finally twenty. He’s been working on this proposal for the past year now, drafting and tearing apart designs for a palace, tweaking even the smallest details—it had to be perfect . He presented the blueprints to the approval board, and when he got his permit to build he felt relieved.
Not happy, not proud—he felt relieved.
He started building on a perfect crop of land, hand-picking workers from a small village and paying them generously. The palace was nearly done when the withering zone destroyed all habitable life in the area.
At this point, his high was fading into a dull throb of exhaustion, hope replaced with that gnawing reminder that he’ll never do anything right the first time. After he had a short period of happy excitement, he always fell into a long string of months where he struggled to focus, his lack of sleep catching up on him. He couldn't have anything for long, it seems.
“I’ll pay for it,” he proposed to Dori near instantly. The merchant raised an eyebrow, offering even to pay half the construction material fees herself, but Kaveh refused with a wave of a hand. He’d have to take out a loan and probably sell his house if he was going to do this, but he needed this palace to come to life.
He needed one perfect, beautiful thing in his life. One accomplishment to make himself worth it.
The palace was built on new land, shimmering and beautiful, and he didn't feel like he’d paid anything back. His guilt was worse than ever, and he spent hours in the tavern instead of at home. He stumbled back to his house that night with a brain clouded by a few glasses of wine and a few interesting cocktails some strangers had bought him.
He went inside through the garden entrance, stopping when he noticed the walnut tree in the corner of his eye. Curiously, he stood next to it, measuring up his height. It refused to bear any fruit yet, but as his father said, it would take years for these trees to grow into anything substantial, he just had to give it time and love. Still, after all these years, he was the same height as the tree.
He scoffed bitterly, grabbing his keys and entering through the back door. He collapsed on the bed instantly, not bothering to change his clothes or wash off his face. The house was too big for him now, silent and hollow, little sounds from outside reverberating between the walls.
It was at night where every sound felt like an intruder in his home—where eventually, even the sound of his own breathing was a trespasser. Kaveh was thankful for one thing—when he drank, he slept so fitfully that he didn't dream much at all.
He’d be moving out of his house next week—he sold it to a young couple with a child at a fair price. It wouldn't even begin to chip away at the debts he owed, but he didn’t need a house this size anyways and he refused to mark up the price at his convenience. Until then, he’d sleep here, let himself rot away in his mattress, and peel his skin from the sheets only when he needed to eat.
On his last day before he had to move out, he traded most of his things to a pawn shop, keeping a bag of clothes and a strange box he’d found in his parent's closet. He took a shower, stripping off the grime of the week before, feeling a little better once he got dressed and smudged on some kohl in his waterline. He grabbed his bag, heading for the tavern.
He was properly drunk now, his head swimming with thoughts but he couldn't hold onto a single one. He was indulging in a little light conversation with the bartender until he brought up his mother.
“You look just like her now that you've grown out your hair,”
Kaveh sighed, rubbing his split ends between his fingers, he was about to give his standard reply, a thank you, then begin a conversation about her new life in Fontaine, but another voice interrupted him.
“He does, doesn't he?”
He looked over and saw a man, maybe in his early forties. At that age, he could've been friends with his mother. Despite that fact, Kaveh didn't like the way the man was looking at him—like he was seeing an opportunity, something to take hold of.
“Can I buy you a drink?” the man asked, sliding into the seat next to him to Kaveh’s dismay. He’d really just wanted a quiet night, some time to himself before finding a cheap hotel to stay in until he found a place to rent out.
“Sure,” he agreed, even though he’d probably had more than enough for tonight. His glass was filled with wine and he continued sipping regardless. The man tried to make conversation with him—he briefly mentioned meeting Kaveh’s mother at the Academiya, being in the class below her. Kaveh already knew everyone loved her because of her beauty, he was reminded of this often.
“I heard you sold the house,” the man, who introduced himself as Ezra, prodded, trying to crack the mask of indifference that Kaveh didn't have the energy to fake away.
“I did,” he said, trying not to think of giving away the one thing he had left to his name.
Ezra liked this news, Kaveh could tell. He knew why the man was talking to him, he was mildly disgusted that he was so much older, apparently not caring that Kaveh was young enough to be his son. This wasn't a rare occurrence. Kaveh knew he was pretty—he was approached by men and women nearly every day, parents asking to set him up with their kids. He’d always decline with a sheepish smile, making sure to appear grateful, courteous.
“Do you want to stay at my house for a few nights?”
Why should he decline this time? What reason did he have? He didn't want to, he really didn’t want to, but since when does he ever get what he wants? He needed a place to stay and here, someone was offering. Of course, he’d have to pay.
“I don't have much mora,” he argued weakly, already knowing what the other would say.
“You don't have to pay with mora,”
The implication that he'd be paying with something else was clear. It made him sick. Suddenly, that last cup of wine wasn’t settling with him very well. He fought back a wave of disgust, trying to keep his face as impassive as possible. Is that what this was? His mother’s old students coming back to fuck him since they couldn't have her?
He shook his head quietly, trying to refuse the offer as kindly as possible. He’s never really been the quiet type, but right now, it was like he couldn't come up with the words.
“Why not?” Ezra asked, leaning closer. His cologne was thick and spicy, tickling Kaveh’s nose in a way he didn’t like. His head hurt, and the man looped an arm around his waist. It felt like it was suffocating him.
“Are you shy?” He prodded with an ugly grin, as if he knew something Kaveh didn't, like he enjoyed making him uncomfortable, like he wanted to watch him squirm for his own amusement.
He was really drunk now—that last glass really did him in. Maybe he should stop refusing, maybe he should let it happen. He felt the arm tighten around him, a hand holding his wrist much too tightly. He didn't bother struggling now.
“He lives with me,” a third, different voice called.
The hands on him relaxed, but didn't quite let go. Another, cold, hand rested on his shoulder, by his neck. The cool fingers curled by his neck, he leaned into them. Kaveh’s vision was swimming too much for him to tell who it was. The scent of eucalyptus and white tea cut through that awful cologne, easing his headache. For that, he was grateful.
“Who are you?” Ezra asked. He was irritated, Kaveh could tell that much. The hand around his neck tightened, pulling until Kaveh stood, swaying uneasily. He leaned on the newcomer to keep his balance. He really did smell nice.
“I just told you, I’m his roommate.”
“Bullshit, the kid’s got nowhere to go,”
“Right, and I'm sure you’re taking him in by the goodness of your own heart?”
He knew that snappy tone, he knew who this was. It was on the tip of his tongue, so close to where he needed the name but not quite. He was too tired and drunk for this, and he was never good at mind games.
They were going to fight and Kaveh didn't want them to. He didn't want to cause all this trouble, it was more than he was worth. The hand around his wrist was starting to hurt, he could feel his joints shifting under the tight grip.
“I don't care, someone just… Take me home,” he mumbled. He missed his old house already, he just wanted to be in bed. He wanted a warm shower and he wanted the tea his maman used to make him. He wanted those cream puffs his baba would bring home after work. He wanted to be held, he missed being wanted.
Ezra let him go, the stool under him scraping as he got up with a huff. He muttered something under his breath, calling Kaveh a slut or… something of the like. He wasn't paying too much attention. He couldn't bring himself to care about it.
The hand around his shoulder squeezed, angry. He didn't know what he did to make the man upset, but he murmured an apology anyways.
“I just want to go home,” he said. His voice sounded small again, almost like in his dreams. Except this time he didn't sound young and naive, he sounded defeated.
He was led outside, stumbling along the stone path of the Sumeru streets. He wasn't walking in the direction of his house, he wasn't sure where he was going at all actually. Before he knew it, he was brought inside a sparsely decorated bedroom. It didn't take long for him to be sat at the foot of the bed.
He felt hands unbuckling his cape, gingerly taking his earrings out and setting them on the bedside table. His shoes were taken off and placed on the floor, hair clips slowly detangled from his hair and set aside.
This person was gentle, he was gentle in a way Kaveh hasn’t felt since he was a child, in a way no one’s been with him but his own family. That's when he started to cry.
“I don’t…” He was finding the words hard to come by, “I don’t want to do this.”
The hands pulling at his sashes stopped.
“Do what?”
Kaveh didn't say anything, he just wiped at his face, rubbing too harshly on his delicate skin so that it burned when the salty tears ran down it again. A hand caught his wrist gingerly, replacing it with a soft tissue. It felt nice.
“You thought..." a hand combed through his hair. It felt kind, caring.
"I didn’t bring you here for that, Kaveh,”
Then what for? What does he have to do to repay this? He was about to ask, ready to protest and ask to be brought to the nearest inn, to get a room for the night so that he wouldn’t owe anyone anything. But, the bed beneath him was soft, and he was tired and lonely. Tonight, he would be self-indulgent. Tomorrow, he would hate himself for it.
“Drink this,”
He was handed a cold cup of water and he downed it quickly, feeling the coolness in his stomach when he laid down, an arm braced over his eyes.
He didn't remember falling asleep, but the next time he woke up, the sun was rising. His mouth was dry, and there was an awful taste lingering on his tongue. There was no one in bed with him—no one in the room for that matter, and the house was quiet.
He wasn't sure exactly where he was, but he does remember being led here last night by someone familiar, someone who dragged him away from that strange man at the tavern last night. He got up, feeling the room sway around him, and checked his clothes, making sure nothing had come off while he’d been asleep. Sure enough, he looked fine, he felt fine, he was fine.
On the bedside table, he noticed the glint of his earrings and a handwritten note.
Take these and drink this.
Beside it, there were a few painkillers and a large glass of water. He followed the instructions, realization dawning on him as soon as he spared a second glance at the note. It was Alhaitham’s handwriting.
His eyes zipped across the room, and suddenly, everything made sense. The cool eucalyptus scent of the night before, the dry tone of voice, it was all so distinctly Alhaitham Kaveh wondered how he missed it.
He didn't talk to the scholar much after they’d graduated. Though they lived together in the Academiya for years, the other man wasn’t the talkative type, and despite how they’d bonded and had their moments, neither reached out once they moved. It's been more than a few months since he’d last seen him.
Alhaitham was the only comfortable source of childhood memories he had left, he didn't want to risk seeing him again and ruining that as well.
He slipped out of the sheets, finding his shoes tucked neatly by the bed. He put them on, grabbing his earrings and clips as well, before leaving the bedroom, trying to find his way out of the house. He’d almost made it, spying the door from the corner of his eye.
“Do you want coffee?”
Alhaitham was awake and in the kitchen, pouring himself a cup. He raised an eyebrow, noting Kaveh’s intent to flee. Kaveh paused, debating running away and proving him right.
“No thanks,” he replied. His feet were stuck at the door as if they couldn't decide whether to stay or leave.
“Take off your shoes and come sit,”
He couldn't say why, but he did as he was told, a little sheepishly since his escape plan was foiled. He must be terrible, for trying to leave an old friend without a word of thanks for the night before.
Alhaitham was as straight-faced as ever, a little less posh-looking now that he wasn't wearing those green Academiya robes and the uniform hats. This was the first time Kaveh was seeing him dressed casually, black sheer top and black pants, all legs and lean muscle now that he'd grown up. Calling him his junior now would seem like a joke.
“You need a place to live,” he said, saying it like a question, but knowing the answer.
Kaveh nodded, waiting for the man to elaborate.
“You can live here.”
He knew this was coming, and he wasn't about to take a pity offer—
“And I'm not offering because I feel bad for you, so don't bother throwing yourself in a loop over it.”
Right. Kaveh forgot how creepy he was with his deductions. When they were younger, adults found it endearing—a little party trick he could show off. Kaveh never understood why they thought it was interesting—when you’re the one in front of his analytic gaze, you’re pinned. He found it worrying.
“Then why?” Kaveh asked.
“I need some pocket change while I work on my application for the scribe position at the Academiya. Until then, I won't be able to start working.”
He thought about it for a moment, mulling his options over. Renting is much cheaper than paying by the night at an inn, and if he truly was helping Alhaitham, then he wasn't entirely doing this for selfish reasons, right? Alhaitham isn't the type to lie to make someone feel better, far from it in fact. So…
“Alright,” he agreed.
That was that. Kaveh bought a bed frame and mattress, a few pieces of furniture, and within a week, he was settled. It felt weird at first, coming home to a house that smelled nothing like him, a house that held none of his childhood memories, but maybe that was for the best, maybe he should try and forget.
It took another few months for him to get his energy back, but when it did, it came back in full swing. He was up for days, sketching, scrapping, designing, sampling—he had a strange idea, something that he knew the Academiya wouldn't like.
Years ago, in the house of Daena, he’d found a book on lifelike machines, trying to invent a conscious being, playing god's hand in the creation of life. At first, it disturbed him, but now—
“I’ve named him Mehrak!” Kaveh exclaimed proudly, holding out the handle of the toolbox.
Alhaitham just stared at him from across their kitchen table, a scrunch in his brows.
“Alright?” he questioned, “You named a briefcase?”
Kaveh felt giddy. He loved it when he finally got his energy back, he felt on top of the world, like nothing about his past was really as bad as he made it out to be. He drank more often, sure, but it was for fun, not to numb himself. He felt good, light on his feet—
Fixed. He felt fixed.
“Watch this,” he held out Mehrak by the handle, “Mehrak, toss me a power drill!”
There was a whirring sound, before a glowing face came to life on the toolbox. It began to float out of Kaveh’s grip, and soon enough, it spat out a power drill, plopping it right into Kaveh’s outstretched hand with a smile.
“Good boy, Mehrak!” Kaveh cooed, tucking the drill back into the toolbox's limitless interior, and hugging it close to his chest. Alhaitham looked mildly horrified, but interested, leaning forward to inspect Kaveh’s new creation.
“Is it… Sentient?” He asked hesitantly.
Kaveh pouted, “Well, no, but—isn’t he cute?!”
Alhaitham nodded slowly, “Yeah, sure… Kaveh, have you submitted blueprints for this at the Academiya?” he asked.
Kaveh frowned, “I didn't make any formal blueprints really, I just tinkered for a while,”
Alhaitham looked disturbed, “You tinkered ? And you came up with this? ”
“Well, theory for simulated intelligent mechanics has been in writing for years now, I just applied it…”
“This is a much bigger deal than you’re making it out to be,” Alhaitham frowned, “Scholars have been trying to set something like this in motion for years, and all you did was… Tinker .”
Kaveh felt a little smug, “I’ve been telling you that I’m a genius for years!”
“You certainly don't act like it,”
It was times like this that Alhaitham began to irritate Kaveh like an itch he couldn't get rid of. He’d made this cute toolbox, manufactured intelligence , and all the man could think about was submitting ideas to the Academiya as if anything he created was with the goal of making mora.
“Not everything is a cash grab,” he spat, suddenly feeling much less excited and more angry, “Of course, I wouldn't expect a cold-hearted person like you to understand.”
Alhaitham gave him a funny look but didn't say anything, watching while Kaveh stormed off to his bedroom. He’ll make something even better this time, Mehrak was only the start of what he can achieve with ancient technology like this!
He sat at his desk, hands shaking with excitement. Mehrak could understand commands, it could use Kaveh’s dendro vision and amplify it—the only thing it was missing was sentience. He could find a way to make Mehrak live and feel human emotions. He could design something that wouldn’t leave him, something that couldn't leave.
Not long after, his desk became a littered mess of old school papers, running through the mechanical engineering notes he’d taken in the Academiya a few years ago. While he’d specialized in Architecture, he was still more than proficient in technological and engineering studies. Maybe he was due for a change in career.
He was running out of space on his desk, so he turned to the bulletin board above him. He ripped down blueprints of buildings and bridges, clearing out space for his new ideas. Up went the new drawings, new models on how he’d rewire Mehrak, highlighting new components and design flaws. He nicked his hand on the thumbtacks in his haste, but he paid the blood no mind, wiping it off on the corner of his shirt.
The gash must've hit a bad spot because the blood continued trickling down his forearm. He ignored it, flipping through pages and pages of old papers on living technology, underlining failed artificial intelligence trials.
A knock at his door interrupted him.
“Kaveh, do you know how late it is?”
The door didn't open, but Alhaitham’s voice cut through the wood, making Kaveh pause his work.
“I can't sleep, I’m working,” he replied, anxious to continue his readings.
He heard a sigh on the other side of the door, “Are you dreaming again—”
“No.” Kaveh interrupted him, a little angry now, “Like I said, I’m working. Put on your soundproof earpieces and go to bed.”
Alhaitham must've listened to him, because he heard footsteps retreating. He delved back into his readings, wiping his hand once more on his shirt. The papers gave him ideas, jotting down notes with one hand and flipping pages with the other, soaking in the information in a frenzy. If only he had this kind of determination while he was in school!
His irritation spiked once more when Alhaitham returned, knocking at the door. This time, he opened it, holding a jug of water in one hand.
“I brought you some—Kaveh, is that blood ?”
He felt his anger flare, hiding his hand under his desk. It was no use though, since small blotches of red covered the hem of his shirt where he’d wiped off his arm. Why wouldn't Alhaitham just leave him alone? He couldn't possibly understand the artistic process—always doing the least work possible, living without a passion in life.
“What’s going on in here?” Alhaitham asked, looking at the torn blueprints on Kaveh’s floor, eyes flicking up to their replacements on the wall.
“I said I’m working. Leave. ”
Alhaitham placed the water on his desk, pushing a few papers to the side.
“Don’t touch anything,” Kaveh snapped, shoving the jug back into Alhaitham’s startled arms, then placing the shifted notes back into place.
“What’s wrong with you?” Alhaitham frowned.
The scribe was getting on his last nerve. Kaveh felt unusually irritable, tapping his foot in agitation.
“What do you mean what’s wrong with me?” He said, offended, “I’m finally feeling better and I’m working again, nothing ever pleases you, does it?”
“This isn't better,” Alhaitham said cautiously, glancing around the wrecked room and at Kaveh’s injured hand, “I think you should sleep.”
“I can't sleep,” He sounded a little delirious, even to himself. Why didn't Alhaitham understand? Kaveh was on the verge of figuring out something big! He could solve the problem of artificial life, he could invent something new, something that would never fail. Of course, Alhaitham wouldn’t understand though, he didn't care about anything. Suddenly, his impassive face was the most infuriating thing in the world, making Kaveh’s hands shake with emotion.
“Get out of my room,” He warned, shooting the scribe a sharp glace. When he didn't move, he reached for a metal plate, throwing it against the wall with a clang, "Get out!"
Alhaitham made the right choice after pausing for a moment, sighing while he placed the water on the floor beside the doorway. He said nothing and walked away, shutting the door behind him with a soft click.
Kaveh returned to his work.
A week later, he abandoned it, falling back into a pitiful state. He really couldn't have anything for long.
A few years passed. Kaveh woke up one morning feeling particularly drowsy. He sighed, knowing today would be long, and so would the next day, and the days after that. The herbal medications Tighnari gave him years ago worked, they worked well, but they weren’t perfect. He’d have his ups and downs, but they felt less damaging, less hopeless now.
And now he had Alhaitham. He’s always had him around, always in his life in one way or another. But when the fear of him leaving slowly dissipated, he felt less inclined to distance himself. He was comfortable at home, where the furniture clashed and the house smelled like the two of them, something like black tea and mint.
He swung himself out of bed, brushing his teeth and washing his face but leaving his hair tangled and ratty. He pulled on a comfortable shirt, knowing he probably wouldn't leave the house today. When he walked to the kitchen, he found Alhaitham making himself some coffee and chose to press his forehead against the man’s upper back, leaning against him.
Alhaitham startled for a moment, but he soon relaxed, turning around to slip his arms around Kaveh, hugging him. The touch felt nice, it always made him feel better.
“Bad day already?” He asked, pressing his lips into Kaveh’s hair. The words tickled a little.
Kaveh nodded, pulling away only for Alhaitham to pull him back in for another couple heartbeats together, letting him go with a kiss on the cheek. He tried to reach by him and make himself a coffee, but Alhaitham gave him a look.
“Breakfast first, you know the rules,”
Kaveh groaned, long and theatrical, but more than irritated he was thankful he had Alhaitham to keep him upright. He brought out some bread and jam and some feta cheese as well. Kaveh didn't bother toasting the flatbread, instead sulking away with a messy, but full, breakfast plate. Alhaitham joined him soon after, slipping a mug of coffee towards him that Kaveh was grateful for.
“Do you want me to fix up your hair?” The scribe asked once he was finished eating quietly. Kaveh nodded, feeling just a little pathetic. He was used to Alhaitham’s kindness by now, he just wished he didn't need it.
Alhaitham returned with a brush and a few clips, sitting on the divan with Kaveh between his legs, facing away. He took his time, gently brushing through knots and tangles, pulling back Kaveh’s bangs from his face. It took longer than it needed to, Kaveh could tell he was dragging it on for his benefit. He liked when people played with his hair.
When he was done, Kaveh muttered a thank you, feeling a little better already, a little more put together, a little less fragile.
Alhaitham hummed, getting off the divan and grabbing his keys from the coffee table, “I’m leaving for work, but try to go outside today, even for a walk.”
Outside seemed daunting. He’d have to see people and plaster a smile on his face, make small talk and pretend he felt fine. He knew it was good for him to leave the house, but he didn't want to. Unfortunately, it was all the things he didn't want to do that were the things he should be doing.
He agreed with a noncommittal sound, earning a quick kiss before Alhaitham dashed off. He heard the front door click closed before he laid down amongst the cushions of the divan, closing his eyes for a quick nap.
He tried to fall asleep, but a sudden dry voice telling him to go outside poked at him until he opened his eyes with a groan, forcing himself to his feet. He didn't bother changing, slipping on his shoes and grabbing his keys to go for a walk, even if it was just a short one.
It was hot outside, but the incoming breeze was cool, blowing freely through his hair. It felt nice, he’d admit that, walking down the paved Sumeru paths. For a brief moment, he had a passing thought, something ridiculous that he hadn't remembered in years.
For a silly moment, Kaveh wondered if he was finally taller than that walnut tree he’d planted so many years ago. If not now, then never, since he’d stopped growing. He wondered if it bore any fruit yet, if the family living at his childhood home were snacking on the walnuts. If so, he hoped they enjoyed them with dates—that was one of his favourite snacks.
Before he knew it, his walk had brought him to the very house, seemingly empty. Outside, a small sign hung from the front door. The house had been sold and was now vacant. Out of curiosity, he peered inside through the window, spying his old room. The bedroom was empty, devoid of any furniture, but if he closed his eyes he could imagine his old posters and building blocks littering the floor.
He walked to the backyard and found what he was looking for. Straightening his back, he lined himself up with the tallest branch of the walnut tree, measuring the last leaf carefully, then measuring again just to be sure. The tallest leaf ended right above his eyebrow.
Time and love. It needed love too. He’d forgotten that bit.
With a small scoff and smile, he slouched back down again, looking through the leaves and branches. He found the green seed of a nut and plucked it off at the stem, tucking it into his pocket. By the time he was done harvesting a few of the seeds, he felt his lip start to wobble, a few tears tracking down his cheeks.
Kaveh quickly wiped them away with his sleeve, taking a few deep breaths like he’d taught himself. Soon, he felt secure enough to walk home, placing the fruits in a wooden bowl to wash off the dirt and peel off the outer husk. Fresh nuts were soft and buttery, more crisp than crunch. They were a delicacy that was difficult to find, so when he nestled half of a walnut into a date and took a bite, he closed his eyes, feeling a little lighter on his feet than he did this morning.
He stuffed the rest of the dates with some feta, the nuts, and some pomegranate syrup, arranging them prettily onto a plate. He’d save these for later and eat them with Alhaitham once he returned. For now, he felt tired, walking to his room and curling under the blankets, letting a gentle feeling of satisfaction wash over him—something he hadn't let himself feel in a long time.
He woke up to a hand brushing across his forehead, tucking his bangs into place. Gentle, so gentle. He was used to it by now. He blinked blearily, shuffling awake.
“Come on, I brought you some soup for dinner.”
Kaveh smiled, following Alhaitham to their dining room. He’d have nightmares now and then, he’d mourn his father, and mourn his mother, though she wasn’t gone. He’d spend more days giving than he would spend receiving, and some days, he would lie in bed and do nothing at all. On occasion, he’ll drink himself to a puddle of tears.
But just like how it was easier now than it was one, two, or three years ago, it would be easier next year, and then the next. He’d have Alhaitham with him, and soon, he’ll sprout and stand taller, taller than the largest, oldest oak, and taller than that stupid walnut tree could ever hope to be.