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The sun isn’t up yet. Most mornings, that's how it is.
The sky is a beautiful shade of midnight complimented by disappearing stars. Steam from a freshly made cup of coffee wafts up into the cool, crisp air. It is just another Friday, innocent but for its essential Fridayness, not to mention a whiff of fall.
At first, that day is just like any other. Mundane. The same routine he’s followed for three years, ever since the start of university. He goes through the motions of waking up and preparing breakfast before heading off to the train station where he now sits, looking out towards the changing sky, at the city as it stirs awake.
The moment Alhaitham takes the chance of glancing up just as the doors are closing, an arm pops in, causing the doors to open and an automated message to ring throughout all trains cars warning people to stay clear of the door. Amidst the sound, a beautiful boy jumps in, taking his time scouring for a seat.
But Alhatham can’t focus on what happens next. Those eyes, from his seat, sprinkled in sun-warmed honey. Freshly melted caramel sat out to cool. An amber so brilliant his eyes can be gemstones themselves. They are vivid. Stunning.
The opposite of mundane.
Alhaitham stares, sharing the glance the boy shoots him for a short second. An uncomfortable second the other boy doesn’t seem to pick up on with the same wariness in those eyes. Alhaitham shakes his head, places his headphones over his ears, turns up the instrumental music he mostly recorded with his own instruments, heavy piano, and violin, and gazes out the window into the station, then the awakening city.
When Alhaitham glances around the car, the eyes that were staring at him before are still staring, only now they’re much closer. Much, much closer. Next to him. They are connected to a face, an even tan, harboring a smile and the faintest of freckles and the blondest hair he’s ever seen braided beautifully on one side, connecting everything at the back in a messy bun adorned with a handful of red pins to keep everything just so. And a smell he can’t place, a mix between something sweet like honey and something a little more earthy, like lemongrass.
He is tense everywhere, in his shoulders and back and hands. Public transport is something he has never been fond of一small spaces crowded to the brim with people sneezing and coughing without covering their faces, making horrible sounds without trying to cover it up; dirty seats and smeared windows, fogged over from spots rather than steam一and while he would love to find a different way around, the only person he knows with a car is his grandmother and after all she has done for him, he’d rather not ask for more than he deserves.
The tense demeanor he carries, as well as the harsh look in his eyes often gives off an aura that says stay the fuck away from me and it's always worked, without fail.
Until today.
This boy is beautiful in ways that almost seem unfair. Irritating, even. And Alhaitham cannot help but notice the smaller details. The blemishes scattered across his nose, the hoop pierced through one nostril, the light freckles that create a constellation on the plains of his face. The thin-lined floral tattoos that start on the fingers of his left hand and snake up his arm, disappearing beneath the sleeve of his white graphic tee.
He gives Alhaitham a small grin, and with the action alone every bit of tension and displeasure wounding through his muscles ebbs, just like that. He is light, captivated, and comfortable. The boy turns his attention to his phone and does not look up for the rest of the ride.
•~❉✿❉~•
Hope has nestled into his chest, has made a home within the depths of his heart, and he doesn’t know when it got there, but he knows the unfortunate cause. And unfortunate it is indeed, to hope to see a stranger he’s only ever met once, a boy he’s never spoken to and only stared at for a pocket full of minutes. Truthfully, he prefers this stranger over any other. He is quiet, lovely to look at, and is generally not half as dreadful as most of the passengers riding the early morning train.
Alhaitham counts the stops and listens to his music with one headphone off his head so that he may hear the train announcements more clearly. He doesn’t know what possesses him to believe that he will see this boy again, that their encounter last week isn’t an act of chance, not the kind of situation that is only meant to last a moment, never to be experienced again. It's silly, he thinks, it's very ‘high school’ and childish but he cannot help the beating of his heart at the thought.
It's impractical. Illogical. Entirely and utterly unlike him.
His heart is traitorous, he decides.
The announcement of their stop comes through the speakers, and the train slows as it approaches the platform. Alhaitham peers out the window, into the station, hoping to catch a glimpse of the boy, to see if he can see if he gets onto another cart. The possibility only comes to him now; another act of chance filling up the other carts, forcing this boy to sit with Alhaitham, only for everything to go back to normal the following week. It is entirely possible that this boy has been on this very train the entire time, only seated elsewhere, within the reach of Alhaitham’s world but not quite in it.
And there he is, blond hair intricately tied up in a set of space buns and a shoulder bag slung across his chest, clinging tightly. Stands of loose hair fall to frame his face, some tickling the back of his neck and swaying as he walks down the small aisle. He smiles at Alhaitham upon catching his gaze, and Alhaitham is quick to turn his attention elsewhere, anywhere. The lines in the metal lining the window, the nails, the peeling leather of the seat in front of him. Anything at all to take his mind off this boy who has plagued his thoughts for a week straight.
The boy sits down next to Alhaitham and does not look at him again. Instead, he’s on his phone, just as he had been the week prior. Scrolling, typing, suppressing chuckles. Such ordinary things every human Alhaitham has ever met does, but something about the length of his fingers and the flowers that decorate them holds Alhaitham’s thoughts in a vice grip.
Midway through the ride, while Alhaitham is engrossed in the ebook he bought the night prior (he prefers physical books, but for the sake of convenience he’s opted to suffer the hell that is reading on his phone), motion from his periphery catches his attention. The boy reaches into the bag sat on the floor between his feet and retrieves an old, worn sketchbook. The leather making up the back and front has cracked with age, the spine creased with usage; the pencil he fishes out of an inner pocket is no longer than a pinkie finger and clearly on its last legs.
He flips open the cover where Alhaitham sees Property of Kaveh and a generic message asking for anyone who might find it upon its displacement to please return it, followed by a phone number. Kaveh. Alhaitham says the name in his head, mouths it without a sound to feel the letters shape his lips, and oh how he wants to say it out loud, to taste the syllables on his tongue but his brain wins over his heart, keeping him silent.
Kaveh begins drawing in long, fluid lines, and Alhaitham blatantly stares the whole time, without an ounce of shame no less, for he is enchanted by the process. A messy sketch in light lines followed by thicker, deeper ones of what becomes a more refined and defined piece. Shapes find their place and the placement of lines begin to make sense.
By the time they reach the stop where Kaveh leaves, the drawing can be considered finished. It's of a small child standing on a bright street corner, holding a sign advertising the flowers in a woven basket sitting on the sidewalk by his feet. A hand belonging to a body that didn’t make it onto the page reaches forward and drops a coin into a can. The little boy is smiling, giving off an aura of lightness, but the flowers in the basket betray him: they lean, as if wilted, and several petals rest in a small puddle beneath them.
It's lovely, sad, but somewhat uplifting.
Before Alaithan can give his full analysis within the confines of his own head, the book abruptly shuts and Kaveh is tucking it back into the main section of the bag. He stands, rests the strap on his shoulder.
He is gone, and Alhaitham watches.
•~❉✿❉~•
Alhaitham expects Kaveh一truly, he cannot get enough of his name一every Friday now. Without fail, he has appeared on the same cart as Alhaitham, for he has made sure to sit in the second one from the front, during the last several rides and today is no exception. He steps onto the train with his hair always done so that the strands remain out of his face using an array of clips and ties, and he always looks a little tired, just a little.
So it's no surprise when Kavek takes his place beside Alhaitham, but what does surprise him is the silent extension of Kaveh’s hand, an earbud held between his fingers. And for a brief moment, Alhaitham is wondering why an invitation such as this is being offered, especially when Alhaitham has一
Oh.
He recalls, suddenly and to his own dismay, that he’d left his headphones on his coffee table. For the first time since developing his routine, Alhaitham has forgotten one of the most important parts of it. Such is a mistake he would not have ever made without a distraction, and oh, is Kaveh a distraction if there ever was one. All he’s done is simply exist. He drew and smiled and continues to look effortlessly beautiful. He’s yet to open his mouth, to utter a single word to Alhaitham, and he’s already an internal mess. Embarrassingly so, too.
Beside him, arm still extended, Kaveh fidgets, particularly more restless than usual, and Alhaitham wants to ask him if he’s nervous, if he’s nervous because of him, but he’s never able to muster the words. They die before they even reach his tongue, before the thought has escaped his brain.
Kaveh notices, he quickly realizes. He pays enough attention to know that a lack of headphones is, at the very least, abnormal. The gesture is small, yet kind nonetheless, and Alhaitham accepts with a small nod in return. He stuffs the tiny bud into his ear and is met with the flowing of music. Something along the lines of pop, though he isn’t able to place an artist or band. And while it isn’t his cup of tea, anything is better than the horrible background noise that is the busy train.
Together, they listen.
He cannot help but let his gaze travel to Kaveh’s face, where he’s met with his side profile. He’s lovely.
Gorgeous, he believes to be a better word. Kaveh is tall, an indisputable fact, but he seems taller in the way that ballerinas do with their long necks and willowy limbs. From what Alhaitham has gathered, he isn’t a ballerina but has the look in figureーsleek and angularーif not in fashion. Not many ballerinas have a constellation of tattoos decorating their skin or dozens of dangly piercings lining their ears, and Kaveh has both. Thank God he has both, Alhaitham thinks, because they add so much.
Any chance he’s given, Alhaitham often catches himself staring, without remorse, at Kaveh. He watches him type at his phone screen frantically, watches him flip through his sketchbook to find an empty page. Kaveh swipes his tongue over his bottom lip before gently sinking his teeth into the flesh as he falls into an expression of concentration, and Alhaitham wonders what other kinds of expressions, aside from the ones he’s seen, he might be able to convince Kaveh to design just for him. What might his eyes look like if he were to let out a laugh. How his features might soften if he were to be caught unguarded.
This is the first time Alhaitham has had a look into Kaveh and who he is, what he likes, but it's not enough for his greedy heart. He often wonders what's going on behind Kaveh’s eyes, what he’s thinking. Alhaitham wants to be let into the private world trapped inside Kaveh’s head and he wants to memorize his voice, the things he says, the shape in which his lips conjure them.
He wants to know everything.
Alhaitham wants to be Kaveh’s friend, if only he will allow it. If only Alhaitham can admit to himself, out loud, that for the very first time in his life, he desires a friend.
•~❉✿❉~•
It is easy to add Kaveh into Alhaitham’s Friday routine.
Alhaitham is the first on the train and he does his best to keep the seat next to him free by using different methods that involve glares or setting his bag on the cushion. He knows by feeling alone as they near Kaveh's stop and he counts the seconds leading up to the stopping of the train. And at the very first sight of Kaveh’s blond, always done up so nicely hair, his heart races dangerously fast, teetering on the edge of stopping, he’s certain. He watches how fluidly Kaveh moves past the empty and occupied seats alike, eyes on Alhaitham until he’s planted firmly next to him.
They always, without fail, share a look. Something soft and welcoming, like a hello without the effort of speaking. It's almost perfect, but a piece of him feels as though something is missing each morning. Do the words really mean that much? Do they truly carry that much weight? Is that why people greet one another with words, so that the weight can be released?
He’s not sure.
It is not unusual for Kaveh to draw on the train, and it isn’t unusual for him to sit in such a way that allows Alhaitham an unobstructed view of whatever he might be working on that morning. It's a nice way to keep both of them busy without worrying over conversation.
Today, however, Kaveh occupies himself on his phone and Alhaitham starts the book he was most recently gifted by a classmate. It's like any other day.
Untilー
“What kind of music do you like?”
ーKaveh speaks. For the very first time.
And Alhaitham isn’t quite sure he’s fully registered the question. He finds himself unable to separate the sounds into words and his voice is so pretty, Alhaitham thinks. How hasn’t he heard it before? How has he managed to go this long without speaking to Kaveh? If he is a man with regrets, this will be on the list.
Alhaitham finds himself, gathers his mind, and says, “Classical, mostly.” It's a fine answer, normal even, but it feels flat. Not enough. “I study it, too,” he adds.
Without a second thought, Alhaitham offers one of the wired earbuds connected to the iPod he’s had for way too many years, and Kaveh accepts with a smile. He scrolls through the music while Kaveh gets the bud positioned in his ear and clicks on one near the middle of the list.
“This one is mine,” Alhaitham tells him. “I composed it.”
“What's it called?” Kaveh isn’t looking at his phone anymore. The screen is off, turned so it faces down against his lap. His eyes―freshly melted caramel sat out to cool. So amber they can be gemstones themselves. They are vivid. Stunning―are locked on Alhaitham, awaiting the answer.
“Ink Hits Paper.”
Kaveh nods, turning his attention back to his lap. The music flows through the buds and they’ve reached Alhaitham’s favorite part, the simplicity before it explodes and it's like he’s in his room writing the music for it again, his pen hitting the paper over and over. It's one of his only pieces that Alhaitham has ever been truly fond of, in place of pride.
“I don’t really like classical,” Kaveh admits.
Alhaitham sucks in a breath. “Yeah. It isn’t for everyone.”
•~❉✿❉~•
They’ll never talk about it again. Not next week. Or next month. Or the years to follow.
Kaveh claims it's embarrassing while Alhaitham insists, and will for many years, that it's endearing.
Alhaitham knows his own music like the back of his hand and has spent hours upon hours listening and relistening to the varying components. Editing many parts, completely trashing others in favor of redoing them entirely. And so, when Kaveh sits next to him on the train one day with his headphones playing the music a little too loudly, Alhaitham is able to recognize the familiar tunes almost instantly.
“I thought classical wasn’t your thing?” Alhaitham teases.
Red erupts over Kaveh’s cheeks, creeping over the bridge of his nose and down his neck. “Well, usually it's not,” he weakly defends, “but I got curious about the rest of your music.”
“Oh? So you went looking for me?” The red seemingly deepens and Alhaitham savors this. “You must’ve liked what you found, especially if you’re listening to them now.”
Kaveh groans and, after furiously tapping on his phone screen, stops the music. “You don’t have to say it like that.”
“I’m just saying it like it is.”
“And you’ll never say it again.” It almost sounds like a threat. “It's embarrassing.”
“I’m failing to see how,” Alhaitham admits. “You’re allowed to like my music, Kaveh.”
“But after I said classical wasn’t my thing?” he shakes his head. Kaveh stares at the back of the seat in front of them.
“It's… sweet.”
“Let's pretend it never happened.”
Alhaitham rolls his eyes at the dramatics, and while he can’t totally forget it never happened―how could he?―he can, at least, never mention it again.
Until it's convenient for Alhaitham, of course.
•~❉✿❉~•
They don’t talk.
And it's not the this is awkward and weird kind of silence but is, instead, a your presence speaks more than words kind. At first, they listened to the strange amalgamation of music downloaded on Alhaitham’s iPod, varying kinds of music collected throughout his youth and early adult that act as a time capsule whenever a partially nostalgic song begins playing, while they do other things: Alhaitham reads and Kaveh, with an intense look of concentration, does something on the phone. From where Alhaitham sits, the screen is obscured by the combination of sun and artificial lights.
Then, halfway through the ride, Kaveh silently hands Alhaitham his phone. An untitled Spotify playlist is open.
“Add some songs,” Kaveh says.
Alhaitham takes the phone and, with the help of his iPod, as a mixture of songs ranging from different styles to different languages―for Kaveh’s sake, he excludes any classical. When he’s done, he hands the phone back and Kaveh spends the next eternity adding songs and then removing them just to replace them with something else, and it isn’t until he’s satisfied with his selection that he turns his attention back to Alhaitham,
The title field is still left open.
“It has to be relatable,” Kaveh explains.
“College students on the verge of a mental breakdown?” Alhaitham suggests, even though it's not relatable to him. Most things aren’t.
Kaveh shrugs. “Kinda cliche, don’t you think?”
“Does it matter?”
“Of course it does,” Kaveh says in mock offense, then sighs when Alhaitham raises a questioning eyebrow. “No, it doesn’t, but if we use that I’ll just end up changing it later.”
“Right.”
“We made this instead of revising?”
Kaveh has this look in his eye, something Alhaitham cannot seem to make sense of. He almost squints, as if he’s trying to get a better look, but refrains.
“I have no reason to oppose,” Alhaitham says, and it's a small lie that doesn’t really matter. Kaveh said it needed to be “relatable” but, in general, Alhaitham simply does not experience college the way everyone else does. Though his workload is often large, it is cumbersome. He does not “cram” for finals or stresses over his midterms. He revises when he should and never procrastinates.
But the look in Kaveh’s eye, something sweet, something lonely, allows Alhaitham to let him believe the small white lies that won’t matter later.
Happily, Kaveh enters the name and gives the playlist a basic cover he pulls from Google. He connects a set of bluetooth earbuds and hands one to Alhaitham.
“Wanna listen to our creation?”
“Our creation? Really?”
Kaveh glares. “Do you want to or not?”
Alhaitham removes the single wired earbud from his ear and carefully wraps the cord around his iPod before taking the one held out before him. Kaveh shuffles the playlist and shuts off the screen.
The first song begins to play.
It's one Kaveh added, it must be, because Alhaitham hasn’t heard it before.
The first fades to the second.
It's one of Alhaitham’s.
Around the third song, Alhaitham reaches into his bag and retrieves one of the very few fiction books he owns, flips open to where his simple bookmark sits and begins reading. He notices rather quickly that Kaveh is slightly leaning towards him with his eyes slowly following the lines of text. Typically, Alhaitham’s reading pace is slightly faster than others, but for Kaveh he slows down, lingering on the pages before flipping to the next.
The rest of the ride is quiet.
•~❉✿❉~•
“You downloaded the playlist onto your iPod?”
“It's to preserve my phone’s battery,” Alhaitham defends and sets the device on the seat between them, the wired earbuds connected with one of the buds in his ear.
“Have you ever considered that, maybe, you’re just old?”
Alhaitham frowns. “I’m twenty.”
Kaveh’s face twists and, for a brief moment, Alhaitham worries he’s gone into cardiac arrest. “I’m older than you,” Kaveh says, wounded.
“By how much?”
“Two years.”
“Two years isn’t bad.”
Kaveh shakes his head. “You’re basically a baby. Barely over the legal drinking age.”
“Just put the earbud in and stop complaining,” Alhaitham mumbles, and without a fight, Kaveh does as he’s told.
“You should speak to your seniors with more respect.”
“Okay, Grandpa.”
“Grandpa? Are you―”
Alhaitham ignores the slew of loud defenses and opens up a textbook for one of his classes. Soon, after making note of a loud yawn coming from him, he feels the weight of Kaveh’s head resting on his shoulder. Upon further investigation, Alhaitham realizes he’s fallen asleep.
His body goes rigid in an instant, far too cautious of any movement potentially waking Kaveh up, but he can’t help staring. Alhaitham’s eyes trace the lines of tattoos that expand over Kaveh’s delicate fingers, the lines that snake up beneath the short sleeves of his band shirt, and the exposed skin of his collarbone peeking out from the neckline. He counts the strands of blond that fall over his face and tickle Alhaitham’s neck. The angle is poor but Alhaitham can make out the ends of Kaveh’s eyelashes and he begins counting those, too, until he loses count and starts over from zero.
He takes note of the way Kaveh’s body sags against him, completely relaxed as his chest falls into a steady rhythm of rising and falling. His sketchbook is loose on his lap, close to tumbling onto the floor, and might with any sudden movements.
Alhaitham is still. Each turn of his book’s page is done with painstaking slowness and caution and he doesn’t even know why he cares as much as he does about someone who is still a stranger, even after all these weeks. They’re just strangers who have continuously met by coincidence alone. Alhaitham knows Kaveh’s name, his age, his major, and what kind of music he likes. He knows what someone might discover by exploring one's Instagram or Twitter. He knows nothing of substance or great worth.
Yet.
Yet the uninterrupted sleep of this stranger is important to him, right now, in a train car full of tired and even some sleeping individuals. He doesn’t care for them the way he does Kaveh.
He is not and is himself lately. Perhaps he’s always had the capacity to care to an extent such as this, but for a stranger? To be so absorbed and concerned for a life that only intertwines with his briefly on early Friday mornings? A stranger who might not care for him in a similar way, a life that may not want him to breech any further.
To care is not beyond Alhaitham; to care about such trivial things is.
Slowly, the train comes to a stop and the intercom is announcing their location and suddenly things are happening fast.
Kaveh jerks awake, quickly rising to his feet and sending his sketchbook scattering to the floor. He must not have noticed because he doesn’t bother to search for where it slides underneath the seat in front of them and he’s grabbing Alhaitham’s iPod. He pulls on it so hard he rips the earbud from his ear and Alhaitham prepares to chase him but he’s gone.
The doors shut.
They’re moving again.
Kaveh took Alhaitham’s iPod and has left his sketchbook behind.
Alhaitham saves the book from the filth of the floor and tells himself it's okay because they’ll see each other next week, they’ll trade for their respective belongings.
Next week.
•~❉✿❉~•
Except they don’t and they can’t.
Severe storms have canceled classes, leaving Alhaitham without any real reason to spend the fare for travel. And, really, who's to say Kaveh would be on the train anyway if the entire college essentially shut down during the storms?
It's fine, he says, because he'll see Kaveh next week.
He doesn't. Fate is out to get him, Alhaitham thinks, because the usual line he takes is under complications with the railroads, forcing him to get to class via a station he's never used before.
Next week. Next week he'll see Kaveh and will finally be able to return the sketchbook that has been burning a hole in his messenger bag. He feels it when he reaches in to grab a pencil or a book, the worn leather brushing against his skin, the fraying twine that should have been replaced years ago. He sees it as he removes his textbooks from the bag each night and sets it on his desk while he studies. He observes the cracks, the bent spine, the liquid page edges. The way time takes its toll, the way Kaveh is trying to prolong the inevitable.
Alhaitham wants to flip through the pages.
He never does.
Another week, he tells himself.
On the Thursday before the third week without being able to return the sketchbook to Kaveh, Alhaitham wakes up feeling like he'd been run over by a bus with body aches and a high fever. While laying in bed, he tells himself he has a day to feel better. He can get better in a day.
It's possible.
But it doesn’t happen.
Friday morning, Alhaitham can hardly rise from bed long enough to perform basic survival tasks, let alone a train ride on top of a day of classes. After retrieving a glass of water from his small kitchen, Alhaitham lingers by the desk in his room, delaying climbing back into his bed. Here, Kaveh’s sketchbook sits, untouched, unopened, and full of mystery. Alhaitham has only ever seen the blank pages Kaveh filled up on their train rides.
Alhaitham grabs the book and sinks onto the end of the bed, setting the glass on the desk. He draws a thin blanket around his shoulders and runs his fingers over the cracked leather, thumbing at the twin before gently pulling at the delicate bow keeping the whole thing shut. It unfurls and the front cover flowers open. There, written in the beautiful cursive is Kaveh’s name.
He begins flipping through the dozens of pages. Most of the sketches in the first third of the book look old, years old, dating back to before Kaveh had a solidified style he could call his own because these look nothing like the art Alhaitham is used to seeing Kaveh draw these days.
He was a different person when he drew these.
Alhaitham can feel the ghosts of Kaveh’s former selves hidden between these pages and he doesn’t know any of them, has nothing to compare them to, for he doesn’t know who Kaveh is now.
But he wants to.
He flips through sketches of flower fields, towering trees, and glistening skyscrapers. There’s a mountain sunset and a lake, but the perspective is from underneath the lake. The water muddles the sky, obscuring the sun and clouds, and in the corners, lining the edges of the page, are small air bubbles.
Lined in thin black ink and colored in muted tones is a piece of someone sitting on a bench in the middle of a crowded city while it rains. They’re holding an umbrella, but they’re still getting wet. Another drawing shows a face Alhaitham recognizes as Kaveh reflected in a mirror and his fingers are digging into the side of his face as he peels the skin off, almost like a mask, and lined on the wall to the right of the mirror is an array of faces ranging in emotion.
Alhaitham stays there for hours, carefully flipping through each page and taking the time to truly let the lines and colors sink in. As he nears the end, the pieces covering the pages become more familiar to him. He’s seen these before, in quick flashes as Kaveh flipped to the blank pages at the back of the book. Vividly, he remembers the quick sketch Kaveh did of some girl who was sitting on the seats across from them.
He reaches the last page and it's a sketch of Alhaitham, but from an angle Kaveh wouldn’t see him from: Kaveh stands on the outside of the train, looking in at Alhaitham as his head is bent over a textbook, the wiring of his earbuds disappearing underneath his hair. Kaveh’s face is reflected in the glass of the window, and even though his features are blurred they’re unmistakably his.
There is nothing behind this page for the rest are blank, waiting for Kaveh to grace them with his skill, and Alhaitham wonders what he might fill them with. He wonders if he’ll ever be able to, if they’ll ever see each other again. Fate could have run its course, that last train ride together could’ve been it for them, because that's how life is sometimes.
At least, if that was the last time, Alhaitham will always have a piece of Kaveh with him forever.
•~❉✿❉~•
A week later, Alhaitham finds himself on his usual train sitting in his usual spot, alone, hoping to see Kaveh. It's nearly been a month since they last saw one another and the thought of that being their last weighs heavy on Alhaitham. There’s still time, he reminds himself, they haven’t reached Kaveh’s stop yet.
Out of habit, Alhaitham reaches for his iPod, only to be met with the realization that Kaveh has it, if he kept it. It is of great comfort to know that Kaveh has a piece of Alhaitham too, if for nothing but to act as a reminder of their brief companionship. Alhaitham retrieves his phone instead and connects a pair of bluetooth earbuds to it before finding the playlist they made together.
He hits play.
And he waits.
And he waits.
And when they’ve neared Kaveh’s stop, his nerves are set ablaze. His heart races, his skin warms, and he’s so certain he will see those eyes―freshly melted caramel sat out to cool. So amber they can be gemstones themselves―and that smile and that hair, always done up so beautifully, peaking over the seats ahead as he boards the train. He’s so certain this time will be like the rest.
It is not.
Kaveh does not board the train.
Something crumbles inside Alhaitham and he’s filled with an overwhelming sense of disappointment. He grips the side of Kaveh’s sketchbook tightly, drawing circles into the leather, and keeps his eyes glued to the window as the train pulls away from the platform, just in case Kaveh was late and couldn’t make it in time. But Alhaitham does not see it.
He keeps his eyes on the window, the world moving quickly outside it.
They reach the next stop shortly after.
A flash of blonde hair and red clips. Alhaitham straightens, his eyes wide and alert, but he can’t see what he thought he once had. His attention flicks over to the door. People file onto the train, taking their seats or standing, gripping the overhead bars instead.
There he is.
Kaveh.
There he is, drenched in sweat, his hair tied up with the loose strands plastered to his forehead and neck, and all at once Alhaitham relaxes. The grip on the sketchbook eases itself the closer Kaveh becomes, and his eyes are bright when he finally sees Alhaitham, a smile splitting his face. They’re stunning, vivid.
Alhaitham notices the iPod clutched in his hand.
He still has it.
Beside him, Kaveh sinks onto the seat and says, nearly breathlessly, “Hi,” and he’s still smiling.
Alhaitham’s thumb stills on the leather.
He says.
