Work Text:
“You are beautiful like sand.”
Kaveh stares quietly at the neatly unfolded note in his hand. He blinks once, twice, and reads the single sentence written on it once again for good measure, his other hand fumbling with the envelope he pulled the note out of, discovered in his mail this morning and cut from crisp, fine fabric. The handwriting is neat, elegant, and so faintly familiar that it’s almost frustrating, prompting an itch in his perpetually overworked brain that has yet to fully awaken.
“You are beautiful… like sand…?” he mumbles to himself, reading the note’s content out loud.
“What are you reading?”
A voice knocks him out of his musings, and Kaveh jumps in his seat. His knee snaps up, violently knocking against the table and launching boiling hot droplets of freshly brewed coffee onto his lap.
“Shit, that’s really hot!” Kaveh hisses. “Alhaitham, I thought we talked about this! You need to make sounds when you walk – audible footsteps. You can’t keep sneaking up on me like a cat.”
Alhaitham hums in acknowledgement – or in disregard, who knows. Kaveh doesn’t. What Kaveh does know is that Alhaitham is always beautiful in the morning, long limbs gracefully unfurling as he stretches like petals blooming upon daybreak’s first caress. His hair is ridiculously messy and sticking up in various directions, but somehow he looks just right like that: the typically unflappable Scribe, flawlessly disheveled and half-awake and softer beneath the tender blanket of morning daylight. It’s a sight that only Kaveh is privy to.
As always, Alhaitham grasps the table’s edge and bends low, dipping his head to allow for a languid kiss of wordless morning greetings, and Kaveh happily obliges, the burning coffee stains on his pants now swiftly forgotten.
Pulling away, Alhaitham sneaks a glance at the note in Kaveh’s hand, and his gaze falters.
“Do you want to see?” Kaveh hands him the note absentmindedly as Alhaitham takes a seat at the opposite side of the table, waving his other hand with the envelope in the air. “Someone sent me this obscure note. I’m not quite sure what to make of it. Do you think this person is trying to backhandedly insult me?”
“No,” Alhaitham replies with abrupt certainty. “He isn’t.”
“He?” Kaveh mouths. How are you so sure of that, he wants to say, but Alhaitham’s lips are already moving before his.
“It’s a compliment,” slowly, Alhaitham tilts his head to the side in mild confusion. “You don’t think so?”
“Um,” Kaveh pauses and considers this idea. “That was not my first thought, no. Is sand even beautiful? Does that make sense?”
“I think sand is beautiful,” Alhaitham says, and his eyes descend to the table where his fingers are distractedly playing with the corner of the note, thumb flipping the paper’s edge in and out, in and out, like the rhythm of a gentle heartbeat. “It’s pervasive, all-encompassing, and resilient. When you’re in the desert, it is the boundless vastness that stretches out before you like a beckoning challenge, but it is also the devoted foundation beneath your feet, holding you up steadily between its dunes, almost like an embrace. When you catch the light correctly, sand glitters beneath the sun, and it can be used to create many beautiful things. Sand is large and ambitious in its entire expanse, but it is also small and fine, each grain a loving detail that amounts to something much greater when viewed altogether.”
Their eyes meet once again, and Alhaitham looks at him with far too much sincerity for an early morning, “Is that not beautiful to you, Kaveh?”
Kaveh’s tongue darts out to lick his lips, “That… was very poetic.”
“Indeed,” Alhaitham nods and lifts a hand to rest his cheek against, placing the note back down on the table with its single sentence facing upwards. “You think that sand being beautiful does not make sense, but I’ve read that poetry often does not need to make perfect sense. Rather, its lack of conformity is frequently part of its charm, blending the lines between reality and the imagination.”
Yawning, he reaches for Kaveh’s coffee mug as if he didn’t just casually wax poetic about sand with such eloquence that one could mistake it for a love poem. Wait, love poem?
“So you think this is meant to be a romantic note?” Kaveh blurts out, leaning forward.
Alhaitham sips the coffee from Kaveh’s mug and offers only a tiny shrug, “You tell me. Aren’t you the one with many admirers? Do you recognize the handwriting?”
Hesitating, Kaveh peers down at where the note has now fallen onto the flat wooden surface for both of them to freely observe, scrutinizing it like some sort of strange specimen. It certainly does seem somewhat familiar, striking a reminiscent chord within him, but Kaveh can’t seem to recall exactly where and when he’s seen it before. The handwriting is remarkably detailed and beautiful in a meticulous way – not overly flamboyant or needlessly stylistic but alluring in how the ink cuts deep, its letters precise and sure, as if someone had painstakingly drawn each letter by careful hand to ensure its flawless execution, conjuring the charming image of a faceless young man writing with heartfelt dedication.
“It’s vaguely familiar, yeah,” Kaveh mutters, bringing a hand up to his mouth in thought. “I’m not sure I can remember whose it is, though.”
Alhaitham stares at him for a long moment, simmering in the silence. He opens his mouth to speak before he reconsiders and instead opts for a simple response.
“What a shame for him then,” Alhaitham says, turning his gaze away. “For your unknown admirer, that is.”
Kaveh reads the note on the table between them once again. You are beautiful like sand.
“The sun, too, is an echo of your charm.
Radiant, blinding, and unforgiving.
And yet I cannot, will not, turn away.
See, no fire in this world could ever match–
The warmth of your smile to me, dear and true.
Life-giving and precious, my sun, my light.”
“I received another one,” Kaveh says, one hand holding an opened note as the other hand gently weaves through Alhaitham’s hair, stroking the soft gray strands as the man rests his head on Kaveh’s lap. The fragile afternoon hush envelops the two of them in tranquility, the golden rays of dusk streaming through their windows onto where they’re both lounging on the couch.
Kaveh reads the note out loud, and when he’s finished, he looks down at Alhaitham, “This time, I’m sure they’re meant to be love poems. And these notes have to be from the same person – the handwriting is identical.”
Unsurprisingly, Alhaitham still has his head buried studiously in a book even as he’s lying down on Kaveh’s lap. Kaveh’s eyes manage to glance over the cover for a brief second, which reads The Poetics of Space, before Alhaitham decides to put the book aside.
“Well, what do you think of this one?” he asks.
Kaveh raises an eyebrow at him, “What do you mean – do you want me to critique its form and theme?”
The lack of a verbal response and the single, slow blink answers him sufficiently, Yes, obviously.
“Let’s see,” Kaveh brings the note up to the light. “It’s definitely a big improvement from the previous one. I appreciate how the sender’s intention behind the comparison is clearer now. The sun metaphor does a decent job of remaining consistent throughout the poem, though short, and establishes a strong theme. Formally, there is much more room for experimentation – the ten syllables per line format is often overused in poetry and can grow dull or awkward. But overall, it is a rather touching poem to receive.”
“Hm. So, it’s acceptable to you?”
“It’s,” pausing, Kaveh considers his words, “not bad.”
Against his lap, he feels the telltale sign of Alhaitham’s ears growing ever so slightly warm.
“Why are you asking?” Kaveh chuckles, and the breath that leaves his lips flutters against Alhaitham’s bangs, mildly caressing his eyelashes. “Are you by any chance jealous of my secret admirer?”
A sigh tumbles out of Alhaitham’s mouth, “Not at all.”
Kaveh laughs, bright and radiant, and it’s a blinding sight that Alhaitham cannot, will not, turn away from.
“If you say so, Haitham.”
“Pen in hand, he wades
through an ocean of reveries,
inhabited –
by dream structures of
his making.
Of ceilings tall and short,
windows curved and linear,
architectures feeble and grand.
He weaves –
them together with charm, with artistry,
and he smiles.
His dreams are beautiful to him.
His dreams are beautiful
to him. His dreams are
beautiful to him.
Embraced –
by the allure of his craft,
he glows golden in the light.
In creation,
enrapturing, consuming,
he becomes
everything.
He is beautiful to me.”
Kaveh spares a glance at the new note, displayed openly on his work table, in the midst of a break in his new designs and discovers his face growing hot. He taps his fingers on the table once, looking away, before discovering that his attention helplessly drifts back towards the third love poem he’s received now – this one far more intimate than the others.
Kaveh has always loved his work. To him, it is everything. It is his mother’s heritage, it is his personal livelihood, it is his craft as an artist, and above all, it is the way he leaves his own mark in the world. With every new structure he designs, with every new material he holds within his hands, scarred and calloused from years of unyielding dedication, he commits another lasting piece of himself for the world, one that will ultimately withstand the test of time when his own life no longer will.
So, yes, Kaveh has always loved his work. But this is perhaps the first time anyone has ever described the sight of his love for his work; the first time anyone has loved him loving his work.
“What are your thoughts on the new poem from this secret admirer of yours?” Alhaitham says suddenly, strolling into the study with a book in hand and pulling a chair to sit right beside Kaveh.
Jolting, Kaveh turns to the man now sitting very close next to him, “It’s um… intimate. And lovely, yes. I’ve never had anyone describe me in such a manner before.”
Alhaitham hums quietly, “You are captivating when you work, Kaveh.”
“Do you really think that?” Kaveh answers, the question coming out in a half-chuckle, half-scoff. “I look incredibly messy and unkempt most of the time when I’m working. It’s barely an attractive sight.”
Alhaitham leans in close, shifting his head to the side as his unrelenting gaze scans over Kaveh’s current state – from the unbrushed golden strands sticking out in various places like a lion’s untameable mane, to the prominent smear of ink on his cheek, to the sweat lining his forehead and dipping low into his chest from when he hurriedly ran to a client meeting earlier. And with all the tenderness in the world, Alhaitham’s lips curl into a small, soft smile.
“And yet, I find you handsome as you are right now,” he says frankly. “Why else would I be sitting here, observing you?”
“Wh–” Kaveh finds himself stammering, “W-Well, why are you observing me all of the sudden?”
Alhaitham’s stare falls away from him towards the book in his hands, and Kaveh unconsciously chases after it. Despite it all, he yearns to be seen by him.
“The book I’m reading is about poetry. It says, ‘Therefore save yourself from these general themes and seek those which your own everyday life offers you; describe your sorrows and desires, passing thoughts and the belief in some sort of beauty – describe all these with loving, quiet, humble sincerity, and use, to express yourself, the things in your environment, the images from your dreams, and the objects of your memory.’ As such, here I am, looking at you.”
“Poetry?” Kaveh echoes in incredulity. “I can’t imagine you of all people venturing into poetry, Haitham. But, ah, I suppose I shouldn’t be too surprised. You are the type to read and learn about everything you possibly can.”
Then, Kaveh catches the minute, flickering peek towards the note on his table, and a thought unravels in his mind – one that brings a mischievous warmth to his chest.
“Why the sudden interest, though? Does my secret admirer have competition now?”
Alhaitham scoffs, pulling the book up to his face, “Hardly.”
“Ask me what is home, and I will speak to you of
golden light, golden hair, golden-lined hands,
the warmth of an evening spent with you,
hearts singing, heat coiling, heaven descending
into the tender stars that dance in your eyes, as you say to me
that we’re helpless,
burdened yet made boundless by love, love
as my way home to you.
It is woven into the fabric of our carpet, sealed within the cracks of our dining room table,
sanctified by your hand in mine
beneath the pillow, as our heartbeats thrum, alive and filled and one.
Ask me what is home, and I will tell you
it’s you, it’s you, it’s you.
Above all, it has always
been you.”
When Kaveh finally figures out the identity behind the sender of these anonymous love poems, he is four poems in and he feels a little bit like a fool.
It is deep into the night when he finally returns home from work for the day. It is not a rare occasion for Kaveh to come home late as a result of his work, but his client today had been particularly fussy, and he ended up spending far more hours than he would have liked revising this design. Sighing with thorough exhaustion, Kaveh lets his shoulders droop low, relishing in the immediate warmth that embraces him as soon as he unlocks the front door and steps into their home.
Outside, the neighborhood remains silent and tranquil, most of its occupants already slumbering away, concealed behind their softly glowing tinted windows; lives and emotions and experiences that Kaveh knows nothing of. What he has instead is this – this life, this warmth, and this home, where he knows with certainty that there will always be someone waiting for him at the end of every long day, whether gruesome or fulfilling. And it is with this knowledge that his heart swells whenever he enters through the spacious doorway, past the pointed black boots arranged neatly by the side with ample space for him to place his own shoes next to in their usual spot.
Inside, he notices a single bowl of takeout from Lambad’s set at the dining table, complete with a pair of dining utensils prepared at the side, awaiting him. As he approaches, he realizes that it is a bowl of his favorite soup, though it has long gone cold. Around the table, the surrounding couches are littered with books, haphazardly lying about and undeniably characteristic of their owner. Instead of irritation, however, the image that Kaveh’s mind paints is one of Alhaitham quietly, patiently waiting on his side of the table with the bowl of takeout prepared before him, a book in his hand as the light of a sole lamp tenderly illuminates his face, and Kaveh feels his chest growing immensely full. How fortunate he is, to love and to be loved.
Before he decides to eat, from the corner of his eye, he notices the faint light spilling from the study, and Kaveh idly wanders inside.
“Haitham?” he calls out carefully. “Are you still awake?”
There, the sight that greets him is something he will keep in his memories dearly for a long time to come. Alhaitham is seated in the chair, hunched over the desk with his head lying against folded arms, as his frame gently rises and falls in the distinctive rhythm of sleep. Eyes closed, his long eyelashes graze the skin of his cheeks, and the serene expression on his face is a view that begs to be preserved.
What Kaveh realizes next is that Alhaitham is surrounded by piles upon piles of paper, some crumpled and others scribbled on, some scattered about the desk’s surface and others discarded onto the floor. There is handwriting on every one of them along with words and lines and stanzas, most of which have been crossed out and rewritten, over and over again.
Right underneath Alhaitham’s arms, pressed against his cheek, is a small note with some writing on it as well. With as much care as possible, so as to not disturb his sleeping lover, Kaveh gingerly pulls the note out from beneath Alhaitham’s cheek in order to inspect it closer. In doing so, he comes face to face with a neat, elegant handwriting that has become all too familiar to him now after having received multiple poems written in it. Kaveh thinks he can hear his heart beating in his throat as he takes a glimpse down at the asleep Alhaitham, knowing that he’ll have to carry him back to their bedroom once again after this, before looking back at the note in his hands.
In profound realization, Kaveh can only bring himself to say, “Ah.”
The note contains only a single line, penned in handwriting he now assuredly recognizes:
“I love you. Come home soon.”
“You know, you could’ve just put your name on them,” Kaveh says.
Kaveh curls his arms tighter around Alhaitham as they lay skin to skin with Alhaitham’s back against his chest on their bed. Like this, he can feel the slight tremor that runs through Alhaitham’s frame as the man in his arms exhales lightly, seemingly bothered by having been prompted into conversation when he was already on the fringes of falling asleep.
“I thought you would have known,” Alhaitham answers, yawning.
Huffing, Kaveh hides his face in Alhaitham’s nape, burying himself right into where the gray hair meets skin, “I suppose I should have.”
“I don’t blame you,” Kaveh feels Alhaitham’s hand coming to rest on top of Kaveh’s own, and it squeezes once in reassurance. “The last time I wrote you something with my own handwriting was perhaps back when we were in the Akademiya together. Aside from that, it was mostly messages and notes sent digitally through the Akasha System when it was still available.”
“Oh, I remember this!”
“Minutes before your final presentation in a class we were both in.”
“Yes,” Kaveh laughs, brushing his lips against the skin of Alhaitham’s nape, as the fond memories come rushing in. “Your handwriting has always been beautiful. I remember getting hit in the head by a crumpled piece of paper, only to unwrap it and see that you wrote to me, ‘Stop worrying so loudly. I can practically hear your thoughts. You’ll do fine.’ You were such a brat back then.”
“Yet you’ve remained my irritating senior through all these years.”
“Your irritating senior,” Kaveh smirks. “What a bold claim you’ve placed on me, Haitham. I am no one else’s irritating senior but yours, am I?”
A lovely blush decorates Alhaitham’s neck, “Of course.”
“So what brought on this desire for poetry?”
Alhaitham’s forefinger cautiously finds Kaveh’s pinky finger, coiling tight around it almost bashfully like the whispers of a promise, the vestiges of a confession, “You asked me once, a few weeks ago, if I’ve ever tried doing anything romantic for someone.”
A pause, fraught with fragility, fills the room, and then Alhaitham says, voice softer and quieter, a heartbeat away from something vulnerable—
“Now I have, for you.”
Kaveh smiles, and when he reaches up to tuck Alhaitham’s hair behind his ear, he finds that it is a stunning shade of red. Leaning forward, he presses a kiss along the line of Alhaitham’s jaw before resting his cheek against Alhaitham’s cheek. He can feel the way Alhaitham’s jaw tenses with the now uncomfortable weight, but all Kaveh can do instead is shut his eyes and tell him with all the sincerity that his heart can bear, “Thank you – for the poems and for loving me. I am so lucky to have you in my life.”
Alhaitham’s own eyes slowly, reverently, flutter shut, “As am I to have you in mine.”