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The house is silent.
He shouldn’t mind it—it’s what he wanted, after all.
A peaceful life, a simple life, a life where he wants nought but knowledge and has little else left to desire outside of the realm of material things.
That’s the thing about philosophy, he supposes. It’s much easier to think of it in theoretical terms, where good and evil and right and wrong follow an algorithmic flow that sums up to some good number he’s satisfied with. In practice, the lines don’t fall quite so cleanly.
The sound of creaking wood beneath his feet reminds him that he’s moving. Kaveh would tell him it needs replacing, and recommend a wood of his choice, sturdy and stained with a color that suits the aesthetic of the room. He’d tease Kaveh about his insistence on replacing it—is the noise really that bad?—but follow through with it regardless, contacting a reputable carpenter when he has the time.
He has plenty of time now, but he doesn’t feel the urge to do it.
The divan is much more appealing, and he sinks into pillows that haven’t been cleaned in months with a soft noise that echoes around the living area. When he grabs a book from the stack nearest to him, laid on the floor haphazardly, a thin layer of dust is thrown off and he sneezes when it gets into his lungs.
His eyes skim the pages as he reads. The topic is interesting—a unique perspective on some of the ruins of Deshret’s civilization and their purposes—but he finds himself distracted by blank thoughts. It’s frustrating.
He shuts the book, sitting up.
His skin itches.
He wants to leave.
In dim corners of the room, his eyes conjure images of what is not there. It’s how the brain works, from what Amurta scholars told him about it. Optics is a subject that had taken up his interest, and when he’d asked about the biological aspects of it within the Darshan, the functions of the eye and the brain hand-in-hand were explained to him—although the human eye is wide, the field of view still has its limitations, and in those spaces lies the peripheral. The brain, complex of a machine as it is, cannot overcome the limitations of the body, and so it fills in the gaps.
Now, that gap is Kaveh.
Kaveh, sitting on a chair in the corner of the room, silent. Kaveh in the kitchen with the lights off. Kaveh in his bedroom at night, waiting by the door for Alhaitham to join him.
His bed is cold, even though Kaveh is everywhere.
He hates this Kaveh.
Hates his silence, hates his lack of warmth. Hates that his face fades into nothing when Alhaitham tries to look at him, and hates that he has to frantically search for Kamera photos to feel whole again after he disappears.
It’s not right, that he is infallible. That the memory of Kaveh fades with time, and he’s left to cling desperately to the scraps of what was once a human being, bright and warm and flawed and wonderful, and so much more than what his memory has left him with.
There’s an area of the house dedicated to Kaveh, where his bedroom once was. Alhaitham doesn’t allow guests in there. He says it’s because it brings up bad memories, but really, he fears what might happen if anyone other than himself enters that space. Kaveh’s scent still clings to the clothes he hadn’t washed before…
…His belongings are in order, just as they were that day, ready to be used again come nighttime. A stack of clothes, folded neatly and left to rest on the dresser. Mehrak waiting by his bedside, inactive. Alhaitham won’t dare to turn her power on. He doesn’t know if she needs to charge, and if she does, he doesn’t know how to do it. Drafts lie on the table, their edges folding in from time left out. A pair of house shoes lying by the side of the bed, because Kaveh always complained that his feet get too cold.
He’s gathered some other things here, too, and assembled them in a safe box, left locked on the floor. He sits beside it, takes them out. Most of it is photos of Kaveh doing various things. In one, he looks directly at the camera, a curious look on his face as he looks into the lens. It was taken when Alhaitham had first bought the two of them a Kamera. Another photo, a candid. Kaveh’s arms are spread wide as he excitedly explains one of his designs to an admirer who’d recognized him on the streets. He looks happy in it, a genuine smile lighting up his face. Alhaitham’s favorite photo is at the bottom of the pile. Kaveh laid out on the divan, fast asleep after a long night spent working on some project or another. He’s peaceful as he lays there, soft hair falling over his face, lit by a warm light from the center of the room. The photo is close enough that Alhaitham can make out the texture of his eyelashes, brushing against his cheeks.
Kaveh is beautiful.
He puts the photos back and locks the box.
Kaveh is beautiful.
Kaveh is beautiful, and Alhaitham will never have the opportunity to tell him again.
He takes in a staggered breath, sitting up and looking around the room again. The floorboards creak as he leans and looks. He won’t replace them.
Of all his many personal items, only Kaveh’s journal is disturbed. Alhaitham wonders if he should feel guilty for touching it, but Kaveh isn’t here to tell him not to. What he doesn’t know can’t hurt him. Or that’s what he says to make it hurt less, at least. He isn’t sure what Kaveh would have wanted him to do with this.
I hate Alhaitham, it reads.
I hate Alhaitham. I hate the way that he makes me feel, and how little I can do to stop it. Does he know? I don’t think he does, because he’s always been a dense boy, even as a child, but maybe he does. I don’t know if it would be worse or better if he did.
If he knows, then he’s decided not to tell me. I’ll be grateful for his decency in regards to that, for sparing me the shame of my own heart. Just another kindness he’s spared me, for whatever reason.
If he doesn’t know, he probably never will. I don’t think I plan on telling him. It’s far too risky. I could lose this house, I could lose my security, and most significantly of all, I could lose him. Is that too selfish? In a way, I am denying him the opportunity to decide for himself what to do about this by withholding the knowledge about it. Maybe that’s wrong of me. But I lost him before, and those were the worst years of my life.
I don’t think I can do that again.
“Idiot.”
The sound of his own voice surprises him, quiet as it is.
So do the tears.
He sets the book aside, careful not to damage its pages, and lets his tears fall. He’s not sure why these things leave him the weakest. Most of the time, he ignores this room. Pretends the door leads to nowhere.
And sometimes he doesn’t.
Most times when sometimes is what happens, he ends up like this, sitting on the floor and sobbing into nothing, the slowly fading scent of Kaveh making a weak attempt to comfort him. He stands up on shaky legs like he always does, sets the journal on Kaveh’s bedside table like he always does, and shuts the door behind him gently, like he always does.
He can’t find the energy to make himself dinner.
Kaveh always cooked wonderful food, flavorful and presented like he’s a chef. Kaveh was proud of it, his cooking. Alhaitham always indulged him, eating his dishes and commenting on the choices he made while cooking. If positive, Kaveh’s face would light up, a pride Alhaitham didn’t mind at all taking over his personality until the novelty of Alhaitham’s praise wore away. If negative, he’d sulk and shout, loudly announcing how poor Alhaitham’s taste is.
He smiles.
Kaveh was always so loud. Be it drunken exclamations or fiery, passionate monologues about the value of art, he’d always made himself a standout presence in every room. Light of Kshahrewar, a fitting title. Truly, he’d stolen the light from every other actor on the stage as soon as he entered.
That’s how it was in Alhaitham’s eyes, at least. Little else matters to him.
When he dreams, he sometimes dreams of Kaveh. Some of the dreams are clearer than others, and some of them are not. Sometimes he’s holding Kaveh close, dancing with him wrapped against his side and whispering into his ear. Kaveh whispers back, the familiar sense of hearing his voice without any clear impression of.
It’s funny that despite not remembering Kaveh, he remembers so well what it was like to be with him. The feeling of Kaveh leaves a gaping hole in his body, something that can never be filled. No amount of conversation comes close to Kaveh, to talking to Kaveh, to knowing Kaveh. He grows ill when he compares any of these other people to Kaveh. It’s not right.
Kaveh was better.
Kaveh was Kaveh, and nobody else will ever be Kaveh, and that is something he is doomed to live with for the rest of his life.
Sleep comes easy on nights like these. Exhaustion takes over his body, drawing him into a dreamland filled with visions of a beautiful man whose features he can’t quite make out.
Time marches on the following morning, and he can’t fathom how.