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To be completely honest, because he is never anything but, Alhaitham only knows one thing about love for certain, and it is that he has never been in it. He thinks about this as he stands next to his parents’ graves. A few people around him, presumably those who had been their students, are conversing quietly with red-rimmed eyes and furrowed brows. Alhaitham is not crying—he has no reason to be, really. This is the first time he’s seen them in nearly a decade, and to him, all they were were two professors too engrossed in their research to pay their only child any mind.
But that’s too bitter. They still sent his grandmother a generous sum every month to feed and clothe him, and he was smart enough to figure the rest out by himself anyway. His grandmother had passed his first year at the Akademiya, and he hadn’t cried at her funeral either. They were the same type of person—reserved—and were never particularly close.
The wind shuffles the browning leaves overhead, and a few of them fall at Alhaitham’s feet. He pulls his coat tighter around his knit turtleneck and slides his hands into his pockets. He’s not sure what he’s doing here, but it feels wrong to leave his own parents’ funeral before the guests do.
A figure sidles up next to Alhaitham, knocking him out of his thoughts. He already knows who it is, but he looks to make sure anyway. The pretentious bastard still has that feather in his hair.
“Your hair has gotten longer,” Alhaitham says slowly, cautiously. It has indeed. Kaveh looks like a proper artist now, his unruly hair pulled back into a bun fixed with a fountain pen. Faded ink splotches dot everywhere on his skin, all the way down to his fingers. His joints always bruised from gripping his pen too tightly, eager to finish whatever project he was hyper-fixated on, and Alhaitham sees the little purple splotches now where Kaveh’s hands are peaking out from his thin, mesh sleeves. He wants to remind Kaveh to rest those genius hands and to wear more clothing now that the air is getting colder, but he says nothing because it’s not his place to comment anymore.
“It’s been a year, Alhaitham.” Kaveh replies as if he’s sighing. “Of course it’s gotten longer.”
Alhaitham can only nod at that. Kaveh was the only person who could ever render him speechless, and it seems like he hasn’t lost that ability. Usually, Alhaitham needs to get the last word in; his professors had called it the natural lawyer in him; Kaveh had called it bullheadedness. Younger Kaveh had called it hot.
“Your mom almost failed me my third year,” Kaveh starts. “I turned the Akademiya upside-down looking for you to ask her not to. Do you remember?”
“How could I?” Alhaitham says, and it’s true. When Kaveh had finally found Alhaitham in the library and the latter had told the former that unfortunately, he probably spoke less to his parents than Kaveh did, Kaveh had pulled the most sorrowfully heartbroken face that Alhaitham had requested a meeting with his mother against his better judgment. The request had gone unresponded to, unsurprisingly, but Kaveh had passed the class anyway. Kaveh had deemed it necessary to share the news with Alhaitham, they were roommates the next year, and the rest was history.
Well, it was supposed to be history, but here’s Kaveh right now, saying it like he’s being forced to, “How’ve you been?”
Alhaitham pauses for a moment, lets it sink in. How has he been? He’s never been one to dwell on his feelings much. “I don’t know. Work has been stable.”
“Ah, right, you don’t think about your feelings and that shit.” Stole the words right out of his head, almost, but more vulgar. More Kaveh. “Me too. You were always going on about how capricious architecture is, but I’m doing good, you know. Got some good commissions.”
Alhaitham knows. He saw in the news that the Palace of Alcazarzaray had been completed the other day, a modern homage to ancient architecture, with a picture of Kaveh next to the text. He couldn’t bring himself to read the full article, but he’s certain that sponsors are lining up around the block for such undeniable talent.
“I’m glad,” Alhaitham says, because he is. He was afraid where Kaveh would go after they’d broken up, but it looks like that worry had been unnecessary. Alhaitham lets that relief cover the strange feeling in his gut that arose after the confirmation that he is no longer needed in Kaveh’s life, not to provide shelter, not to provide companionship.
He looks at Kaveh—really looks at him, not just as a blurry half-image in his peripheral vision. Kaveh looks thinner, and Alhaitham knows that it’s because he forgets to eat without someone reminding him and gorges himself on alcohol to feel full instead. His cheekbones and jaw are more defined, and Alhaitham can’t tell if it’s his boyhood or his boyish charm that’s gone. But despite the longer hair, the more angular face, Kaveh’s eyes are the same: a beautiful scarlet, discerning, the most alive pair of eyes Alhaitham has ever come across.
The eyes land on him, and they are filled with tears. “I’m sorry for your loss,” Kaveh chokes out.
Alhaitham forces himself to maintain eye contact. “Me too.”
Logically, Alhaitham probably should not go to the bar every day after work, but nothing that has anything to do with Kaveh has ever been logical, so Alhaitham goes anyway, half-hoping he would run into a head of messy blond hair, half-hoping said blond had moved away far enough that still coming to this bar was just impractical.
For the first time in two years, Alhaitham sees Kaveh at a booth in the corner. Sitting across from him, a girl’s talking with so much gusto that Alhaitham almost scoffs. Kaveh’s smiling dopily at her, but it’s all wrong to Alhaitham because Kaveh likes to be the more enthusiastic one in a conversation and he’s not even into girls anyway and since when is Kaveh silent when he’s drunk?
Then again, it’s been a while. Maybe things have changed. Alhaitham supposes he wouldn’t know.
But Kaveh catches Alhaitham’s eye, and it’s like they’re both in school again when Kaveh slurs out, “Alhaitham, you old fuck! Come here, sit with me. I’m growing bored and stuffy and you always listen. You’d come listen, right? For old times’ sake?”
Alhaitham is already on the move before Kaveh has finished his spiel to shut him up more than anything. The music in the bar is loud, but Kaveh’s always louder, whether it be his voice or his presence. The girl looks affronted, but she slides out of the booth to make way for him anyway. Alhaitham doesn’t apologize to or thank her; this is just the way things are between him and Kaveh.
The walk is long enough to sober Alhaitham up, which is a little ironic considering he hasn’t even drunk anything yet. “You know we can’t talk like this anymore. It’s better to just be strangers, Kaveh.”
Kaveh ignores him, instead saying, “I love the way you say my name. Did I ever tell you that?” Yes. “You say it differently from every other word. If you only ever said my name, I think I might believe that you actually experience emotions other than like, narcissism. Is narcissism an emotion?” No. “Anyway, I said I was doing fantastic at your parents’ funeral the other day—oh, don’t furrow your brows at me, I know you well enough to know that you don’t care about me talking about it—but I’m not actually doing all that phenomenal, you know? I can’t believe it’s been two years. I saw you that day and I wondered how the hell I got by without seeing you all the time.
“God, that’s so sappy. Dumb, too, considering I got an apartment super far away just so I wouldn’t accidentally run into you, since that would be so awkward. Wait, I probably shouldn’t be telling you this. Fuck.” Kaveh takes a long swig straight from the bottle.
Frowning, Alhaitham ignores the urge to take the bottle from Kaveh. Kaveh, who always drinks more than he can take because he doesn’t know his own limits. Kaveh, who talks too much and too honestly when he’s drunk. Kaveh, Kaveh, Kaveh-
Alhaitham clears his throat. Kaveh’s head is still tilted back, the bottle brought to his lips, his Adam’s apple undulating as he gulps down the liquor. “It’s not a good idea to be talking about all of this anymore. I’m sure you’re happier without me to criticize your ideals or dreams. You should find someone who’s- who’s-”
Alhaitham doesn’t get to think of the types of people who would be more fit to be Kaveh’s partner because Kaveh suddenly drapes himself over the table. The bottle rolls out of his hands, and it’s empty. The damn fool had literally drank himself into oblivion as a quiet exhale leaves his lips. Alhaitham prods Kaveh’s hand once, twice, and nothing happens.
He huffs and stands. Looks like Kaveh’s still too much of a lightweight for his drinking habits; Alhaitham supposes some things never change. Lambad will call Kaveh a cab home if he’s still knocked out by closing time.
But Lambad is only one person, and he can’t catch every shameless hand that lingers on Kaveh’s porcelain, genius, vulnerable skin; he can’t stop a couple of thugs from dragging Kaveh out to an alleyway and then depositing him back into the booth after doing who-knows-what. God knows there’s only too many who want a chance with the Kshahrewar prodigy, and with their inhibitions lost to alcohol, well.
Alhaitham huffs again and pulls Kaveh’s arm over his shoulders.
Kaveh had subconsciously staggered along helpfully during the short trek home, but he’s still out like a light when Alhaitham deposits him on his bed. He doesn’t want the stench of alcohol staining his sheets, but he finds that he’s still used to it after all too many nights of stumbling straight to bed after a night out, hands on skin, when he and Kaveh had still been together.
Alhaitham doesn’t consider removing Kaveh’s clothes for him. That would certainly overstep a boundary. Instead, he brushes his teeth and takes a brisk shower and situates himself on the couch. He’s a little too tall for it, but it doesn’t seem right to leave Kaveh on the couch. It’s still Kaveh.
Alone on the couch, realizing his life has been upended, Alhaitham’s thoughts inevitably drift to Kaveh. He still had to deal with sorting and allocating his parents’ possessions on top of his job, and now his ex-boyfriend from two years ago is in his bed. He thought he’d never see him again, and he brought him home. What had Alhaitham been thinking? He shouldn’t be this impulsive or irrational.
The morning arrives in a sludge. A sludge because Alhaitham had sat squarely on top of the tear stains on his couch from two years ago with his head in his hands for three hours before succumbing to sleep, and his circadian rhythm was too foundationally sound to be disturbed by one late night, so he was up bright and early at six a.m. on two hours of shut eye.
Oh, and because of Kaveh. Fuck that guy.
Said guy is ambling into the kitchen now at ten, way too leisurely for someone who just crawled out of his ex’s bed. He’s speaking now, about alcohol or architecture or something like that, and it’s not gentle because nothing between them has ever been, but Alhaitham’s okay with that because, to hell, it’s Kaveh. Kaveh with his bedhead and ruddy morning cheeks. Alhaitham’s made up his mind.
He cuts Kaveh off. “It’s late morning. You should head back to yours.” Wait, no. That wasn’t what was supposed to come out of his mouth. He tries to backtrack, but it’s too late because Kaveh is saying,
“Oh, shit. Oh. Yeah, okay, you’re right, okay, sorry, I just had an insane sense of déjà vu being here, let me make sure I have all my stuff, and I’ll-”
“No, no, no. You should stay. You need to stay.”
Kaveh squints at him incredulously, like he can’t believe he’s still the same after two years. “Don’t say contradictory things. What do you want from me? Spit it out.”
Alhaitham swallows. His head thumps in tandem with his heart. He can’t bring himself to feel, nevermind say what he feels.
Kaveh, always reliable, always predictable, always known to Alhaitham, fills the void. “Stop it. I know you want to say something. God, no one can tear down that ego of yours, huh? Not even yourself? It’ll be the death of you one day, you know. It was the death of us. God, maybe it’s not the time for this. Whatever. You know, Alhaitham, you write millions of words every day at your job, and when we were together, you couldn’t even muster up three measly ones for me. Do you- did you even love me?”
Alhaitham is silent. He doesn’t really know what to say in this situation. A lock of hair slides out of where it was tucked behind Kaveh’s ear, and he wants to brush it back. He wants to know what it feels like to run his fingers through Kaveh's hair now that it's longer. Even with his face scrunched up in frustration, Kaveh’s still beautiful. Alhaitham was wrong before, at his parents’ funeral—he’d always been in love. If he had pen and paper, he could write novels of love for Kaveh, but right now, he only has his pride and Kaveh’s anger.
Finally, because Alhaitham is still Alhaitham, he says, “Don’t do that. You’ll get an aneurysm if you think too hard.”
“Oh, okay. Wow, thanks. Really, no, I am fully aware of your hatred towards me. You never failed to remind me back then when you were always nagging me to pay my share of the rent because ‘that’s only fair,’ and- and other stuff I can’t even remember because I tried to ignore it all then, and even now-”
“Kaveh, listen-”
“Don’t interrupt me.”
“...Okay.”
Alhaitham sees Kaveh’s lip trembling, and upon realizing that Alhaitham’s noticed, Kaveh bites at it. Alhaitham wants to brush his thumb across it, tell him to stop biting or it’ll bleed, but he can’t.
Kaveh continues. “Even now, you say all this shit and just expect me to take it? What the fuck do you think I am? I may not be some- some raging narcissist like you, but goddamn it, Alhaitham, I still have some dignity left in me. And this might come as a surprise to you, I guess, but- wait, are you crying? What the shit?”
Alhaitham’s tears apparently stun Kaveh into silence. It only lasts for a moment, though, because Kaveh, always desperate to fill voids, even ones that don’t need filling, says, “I didn’t even know you could do that. Shit, you didn’t even cry at your parents’ funeral. Is this your first time crying?”
It isn’t. When they broke up, Alhaitham, sitting on the edge of his couch with his face in his hands, had cried for hours. But this isn’t the time to confess that, so instead he says, “Please finish what you want to say, or I’m going to start now.”
Kaveh remains silent, so Alhaitham begins.
“I love you.”
Kaveh blinks. Alhaitham swallows everything that’s kept him up late at night and tries.
“I love you, so it kills me when I see you drunk because I know that means you had a bad day. It kills me when I see the dark circles under your eyes from too many all-nighters spent trying to please your clients. I’ve spent so long trying to make sense of it because everything about you frustrates me to no end, Kaveh. I think you know. But I care so much because I love you. I’ve been so in love with you this whole time. I can’t believe it’s taken me so long to figure it out. You’re everything to me, Kaveh; you’ve consumed my waking hours, my dreams, my worries, my hopes. I’m in love with you. Please have me. Have me, or sever it all. You’re my everything, so I feel like I’m being destroyed every time I see you like this, and I can’t take it anymore.”
For a moment, the only sound in the room is the buzzing of the air, electrified with tension and a smidge of hope—from which person, it’s hard to say. Kaveh doesn’t fill this silence, not this time. Not anymore.
Like mirrors, they move simultaneously, and it’s hands on napes and waists, spines and hips. “Fuck you. Bastard,” Kaveh whispers against Alhaitham’s lips.
To Alhaitham, kissing Kaveh feels like home somehow.