Archive of Our Own ^beta

❅

Fall leaves drift languid past the train’s window. Serene as the silence within, Alhaitham tracks their journey and ponders the change in season. He looks forward to it—less crowds, more time in preferred solitude.

The train shudders to a stop, doors throw themselves open, and any mid-morning peace is promptly lost. Just as Alhaitham has chosen his place—an assigned seat of his own making—other passengers scrabble for their own. And, just as each day since fall replaced summer, the seat across the aisle is filled with a clutter of canvas and bags and the dramatic flump of another body. That’s his cue; Alhaitham rests his head against the rain-marked windowpane and cracks his novel. In his periphery, the man pulls out a sketchbook and pencil and curls into a position so scrunched that Alhaitham’s own back twinges.

The train fills. The other side of Alhaitham’s three-seater is claimed by another, and his view of the man’s sketch is blocked. (Not that Alhaitham is watching, but Vimara Station has never looked so charming.) When the train squeals into Sumeru City, the crowd surges forward as though it makes a difference who is ahead.

Alhaitham doesn’t stand until it’s thinned—seat partner long gone, his view of the man across from him unhindered once more. He’s too kind, letting others walk first with repeated dismissals of, “after you,” and, “no, please, go.” When the swarm disperses, they look to each other.

Another morning ritual, for Alhaitham to gesture to the aisle and give the man similar consideration. After all, he’s in no rush, and there’s something pleasing about the curve of the man’s smile.

The evening journey is a circular repeat, weighed down with the day’s exhaustion. The man departs alongside Alhaitham—often rewarding him with another grin, albeit a tired one—before turning left and out of sight.

The cold wind and soft twitter of birds remain to accompany Alhaitham home.

❅❅❅

Alhaitham finishes his novel. He dozes against the same window, smudged from where his cheek constantly presses against it. The other man completes sketch after sketch, traces racing raindrops with his fingertips, mutters to himself as he flips through notebooks. Leaves turn to fire then die in the fading sunset, until their evening rides are taken in darkness. Day in, day out, the comfort of their cyclical monotony perpetuates.

Until one blustery morning.

The man is late; Alhaitham catches him flying past the window and tossing himself onto the train just before the doors close. The man is late; some non-regular has already made himself comfortable in the wrong seat. The man is late; Alhaitham finds himself part way to standing, as though it matters, as though he was about to say something.

He’s still in an awkward, half-standing hover when the man shuffles up and promptly stops short, blinking in surprise. Alhaitham can’t blame him—he, too, is thrown off, and it isn’t even his problem.

Shoulders slump in resignation. Alhaitham stares as the man recalculates, swiveling his head to make an impromptu decision way too early in his morning. Wide eyes fall on Alhaitham, dart to the space next to him, then dart back.

Just as the man opens his mouth, the train lurches forward, and he stumbles.

“I—oh!”

A good thing Alhaitham had been standing after all; he grabs the man’s arm, saving him from what would’ve been a probable concussion. For a moment, they only stare at each other. This close, Alhaitham can take in his train companion fully: the gentle slope of his nose, how messy flyaways catch in golden eyelashes, the boyish charm to his haughty face. He’s…

The man clears his throat with an awkward smile.

“Well, that could’ve been awful. Thank you.”

“Sit here,” Alhaitham answers curtly, releasing him, and that’s the beginning of the end.

Ignoring the chaos of the man settling next to him, Alhaitham pulls his book from his bag for another hour of productive reading—except—

“So… what are you reading?”

“A book,” Alhaitham answers on reflex, glancing over, and finds humor in the way the man’s brows furrow—like he can’t decide if Alhaitham is screwing with him.

He relents and flips the cover closed so the man can read the title.

“Ah.” The man looks back at him, interest sparking in his eyes. “Is it good?”

“To be determined. I’ve just started.”

The man nods before shifting back in his seat, fiddling with the hem of his coat. He looks nervous. How strange.

“No sketching today?” Alhaitham asks before he can stop himself, and the man looks at him in surprise.

“Huh?”

“Sketching,” he repeats, gesturing to the numerous bags beside them, “you normally draw in the mornings.”

“Right. Yes. Sketching.”

The man hesitates for a moment before unzipping one and pulling out his supplies. Satisfied, Alhaitham turns back to his book.

“I’m Kaveh.”

Alhaitham’s reading pauses mid-paragraph, like a breath suspended.

“Alhaitham,” he exhales without looking up, and they ride the rest of the way in silence.

❅❅❅

Kaveh’s usual seat is vacant, and Alhaitham’s row is full.

“What about this?” Kaveh is asking, tapping the sketchpad with his pencil eraser, vexed.

Alhaitham pulls his eyes from his newest novel. He’s halfway through and hasn’t retained a word.

“I don’t recall such a building.”

“That’s because it doesn’t exist—yet.” He shifts closer, strands of velvet gold coiling on Alhaitham’s shoulder, glinting in the sun. “Imagine it: The Grand Sumeru City Station. Bringing back history with a modern twist. It’ll be nothing like that—that ship-shod of a structure that’s there now. I swear, everytime I push through its doors I’m just asking for it to collapse.”

“Mmm,” Alhaitham answers noncommittally, turning his attention from the soft angles of Kaveh’s profile to the ones on the page.

Not even half-finished and the vision is already there; meticulous down to the point, grand yet not ostentatious. Perfectly beautiful no matter how roughly hewn. Is Kaveh aware that every sketch he conjures is but a mirror to his own self?

Kaveh chuckles nervously—so unnecessarily unsure—and Alhaitham concludes no, he most certainly is not.

“It’s not that bad, is it?” Kaveh finally mutters, needing to break the silence. “I mean, I know it’s an ambitious idea, but it’s not like I’m actually presenting it—”

“Perhaps you should,” Alhaitham says mildly, ignoring Kaveh’s wide-eyed surprise. “Though you forgot a load bearing point there.” He smudges a charcoal fingerprint over the area, and smirks at Kaveh’s noise of indignation. “Aside from that, perfectly presentable.”

He turns back to his book amidst muttered huffs and the violent scratchings of an eraser. Reading is becoming a pointless endeavor; the text distorts, letters morph and blur into illegibility. Alhaitham is left with visions of veridian and cerulean mosaics, blending into high marbled arches that open to the startling azure of the sky.

And, of course, Kaveh. Standing in the center of his imagined creation, beaming brighter than the sun and putting it all to shame.

❅❅❅

He’s being watched. More accurately, pinned, by bright spots of ruby that dart away when Alhaitham glances over. He pretends to be engrossed in reading and Kaveh, with increasing boldness, openly stares while his hand flies across his paper.

“Yes?” Alhaitham says abruptly.

In his periphery, Kaveh jumps.

“Ah—nothing,” he replies, too quick to be convincing.

Alhaitham turns to him fully and raises an eyebrow. “Nothing.”

“Yes, that’s what I said. Nothing.”

It’s quite amusing how flustered Kaveh is when he’s caught lying.

“...Alright.”

Only the rumbles of the track and drowsy morning chatter sound between them. Alhaitham tilts his head. Kaveh squirms. Then—

“Can—” Kaveh clears his throat and looks away, cheeks tinting to coincide nicely with the new sunlight flashing blurry streaks behind him. “Can you go back to reading?” He’s oddly evasive, and Alhaitham suddenly realizes Kaveh hasn’t shared a sketch with him today.

Alhaitham opens his mouth to retort—to tease until Kaveh so easily breaks—but he catches the hesitancy on his companion’s face; the knuckles white around his pencil; the sketchpad clamped to his chest, a meager defense of paper and cardboard.

Alhaitham’s mouth clamps shut. His eyes dutifully fall back to his page.

When they arrive, Alhaitham doesn’t ask, and Kaveh doesn’t offer.

❅❅❅

The last of the leaves freeze their stems to branches as December arrives, remorseless and unforgiving. Alhaitham always found the contrast of winter interesting—how lack of light and warmth resorts humans to the instinct of animals. To want to nest and seek quiet companionship under comforting layers, content to watch the snow drift by.

“Hey—did you ever hear back about that paper?” Kaveh asks, tearing Alhaitham away from his unprompted musings.

Alhaitham turns from Kaveh’s distorted reflection to the real thing.

“Just today, in fact. They’re interested in publishing it in next year’s journal.”

Kaveh’s eyes burn and the window glass fogs with heat. “And you didn’t think to mention it right away? That’s what I get for hoping you’d share anything unprompted.”

“I share,” he replies, buttoning his jacket as the train squeals to a halt. “However, I—”

(He’d what? Forgotten? No. But Kaveh’s excitement over his art show had taken up the majority of the ride home. It would’ve been a shame to interrupt.)

“—have come to realize it’s pointless to attempt speaking through such a tirade.”

Kaveh’s eyes roll as they step onto the platform. “An excuse if I ever heard one. I’m actually a little offended.” He shudders as a gust of icy wind tears through his thin coat. “And cold. Of course out of all the days I had to pick this one to not dress for the weather. See, this is what I don’t understand about weather apps. Why even have them if they’re not going to accurately tell you the—um, what are you—Alhaitham—”

Alhaitham shushes him sternly as he finishes tying off his thick scarf under Kaveh’s chin, a green forest to Kaveh’s sunshine. It suits him well. Besides, Alhaitham finds himself not as affected by the cold this particular evening.

“It’s winter,” he explains. “Perhaps consider that next time you venture out in only a fall jacket. Aesthetics are worth nothing if your fingers freeze off alongside them. An app can do nothing to replace common sense.”

Kaveh doesn’t reply, a shaking hand coming to graze against the wool. Alhaitham nods in farewell, the heat in his stomach flaring into his cheeks, urging him to walk away.

A sudden chill around his wrist stops him.

“The, uh, reception,” Kaveh blurts, and Alhaitham turns back. “Hang on.” Kaveh releases him, rummaging through his bag, and it’s all Alhaitham can do not to curl his fingers around the phantom touch left behind. A creased card is offered and taken. “It’s this Saturday. I wasn’t sure if you’d—well, anyway. Details are there, if—if you can come. I know you're often busy. And h-hate crowds…”

He’s too close. The glow of the track lights illuminates the flurries melting against his hair. Cheeks darkened, body barely suppressing its shivers against the relentless night. He looks miserable.

He looks beautiful.

“Go home, Kaveh,” Alhaitham whispers, because truly, Kaveh is seconds away from actually freezing. And Alhaitham is seconds away from…

He looks down to the card in his clenched fist.

“I can try,” he hears himself say, what feels like hours later.

When he looks up again, it’s to an empty platform.

❅❅❅

Just because Alhaitham doesn’t like crowds does not mean he can’t be within them—or so he thought, until tonight. Why is he here, standing in an unfamiliar room in an unfamiliar building, with people swirling around with all the haste of a winter storm? Alhaitham misses the comfort of his train rides, even more so the quiet of his one-bedroom.

He smooths down his vest and reminds himself of the reason. The one that hasn’t made sense for months, the one solidified the second those wide eyes were on him, so earnest, and so, so close.

Alhaitham takes a deep breath and continues further into the exhibition.

His train companion is nowhere to be seen, so he busies himself grabbing a mediocre cup of red and browsing the nearest wall of artwork. Not Kaveh’s—these imaginings are too modern, too flat and drab for Alhaitham’s liking. Funny how his opinion has changed over the course of a few months.

Ask him last spring, and Alhaitham would’ve touted function over form, minimalistic style easiest in upkeep. Now, he moves on, past soldered sculptures and blueprint collage in an increased desperation to find something that resonates.

A quieter room greets him as he passes through a threshold. He no sooner appreciates it than his gaze falls upon the far wall, and he stops noticing the surrounding atmosphere entirely.

He’s too busy staring. At the morning light encasing the scene in warmth, every raindrop stain illuminated on double-paned glass. At his own fingers delicately spread across the length of a page. Alhaitham remembers that novel, a little too pompous for his liking judging by the slight disdain captured on his face. Does he read so easily? Or is it just Kaveh who finds him an open book?

He looks... He looks. He’s never seen himself this way before, almost a stranger in the way Kaveh sees him. Too seen. He takes a sip from his glass in hopes the bitterness will wash down the vulnerability—it only reminds him of the red in Kaveh’s eyes.

“You came.”

No. The wine pales in comparison to the real color, glittering under the hot lights in coincidence with the gems adorning his ears and neck. Alhaitham is transfixed, paralyzed and stunned by the overwhelming desire to—

He clears his throat and dregs up words from the wine. “I did.”

“You—yes. You did. You… I’m glad.”

His eyes shift to the painting, but Alhaitham’s don’t follow.

“Well.” Kaveh gestures awkwardly at the work. “What do you think?”

Too much. It’s all too much, and what a waste for all his time spent reading if he can’t even find the words to voice his opinion. So he settles where he always does: in logic.

“Isn’t this an architectural exhibition?”

Kaveh’s usual exasperation flits across his face, and it’s enough to land them on familiar ground.

“Well, that’s exactly my point here. How can one appreciate the beauty of a building without appreciating the rest of what’s around them?” He moves closer to his painting, tracing through the air the angles of Alhaitham’s arms, the gentle sweeps of his hair. “The lines in an organic form can be a teaching point. If a person can be the inspiration for a poem, a song, an entire reason for being, then why not also a structure? We architects lose ourselves when we close ourselves off to other types of aesthetic, if we focus too much on completing the project without the how, the why. This, above all other points, was the inherent meaning of my work. Does that—why are you looking at me like that?”

Alhaitham doesn’t know how his expression reads. It doesn’t matter.

“When does the reception end?” he asks, and Kaveh blinks in surprise.

“End? I don’t know, uh—maybe an hour? They’re not that long—”

“Come home with me.”

Kaveh’s mouth opens and closes in bewildered silence. His eyes dart to the painting, the floor, back to Alhaitham’s unwavering gaze. Here they remain, softening when he finally replies:

“Okay.”

❅❅❅

The train takes on a surrealistic quality at a time when neither are normally part of its existence. As human condition dictates, they find themselves settled in their usual spot—but with no books and no sketches, their hands are restless. Kaveh picks at his cuticles; Alhaitham unbuttons and re-buttons his sleeves.

Overheads bright in their anticipation, each sway of the car bumping their shoulders together. Kaveh wears the emerald scarf loose upon his neck. He’s flushed from wine, his hair unfurling from its braid. Alhaitham observes his reflection through the window, a coward’s method of observation.

Thus he catches the moment Kaveh turns to him, mouth opening as his nervous energy reaches a breaking point.

“Beautiful,” Alhaitham murmurs, cutting him off before he can begin.

“Huh?” Kaveh says weakly.

“Beautiful,” he repeats, shifting to face him. About time; it seems Alhaitham has reached his breaking point, too. “The painting. You asked me what I thought. And what I think is: it’s beautiful.”

“I—I see.” Kaveh is red as the winter sunset, as the wine in Alhaitham’s glass, as the lifeblood rushing through his veins.

“I’m not so vain as to mean the subject matter. It is beautiful because your vision is. I do not believe any other could capture me as you did, nor have the intention to match the quality. What I’m saying is—”

What is he saying? Long lashes. Fingers soft where they’re tentatively nudging against Alhaitham’s. The scents of ten dollar cabernet, acrylic paints, lazy weekend days.

What he’s saying is…

Close. How do they always end up so close to each other? Suspended, inches apart, toeing that final, inevitable line. Alhaitham should cross it; he wants to.

The train, however, is over it.

It pitches to the side and Kaveh is tossed, heading towards yet another potential concussion. Of course he never makes it, caged again in the safety of Alhaitham’s arms.

“Archons, this damned train! Maybe it’s not too late to switch to civil engineering, I’m tired of—of—” Kaveh’s eyes widen, sputtering as he realizes where he’s landed. “Ah. Sorry, let me—are you—”

He trails off when he realizes Alhaitham has no intention of letting go. Watches him like there’s value to be gained from it, letting the silence fall easy between them. With Kaveh here the train is as serene as it has ever been, and vastly superior to any previous solitude.

How he could’ve preferred it before, Alhaitham doesn’t remember. Doesn’t care. All he cares about is this:

Weaving fingers through Kaveh’s hair, the outside cold still lingering in the strands. Snowflakes sticking patterns to the glass. Leaning in close, closer, too close, stealing the winter chill from Kaveh’s lips over and over as the car gently sways them towards their station.

Towards quiet. Towards home.

❅