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— i.
The first time Alhaitham sees Kaveh, he sees the sun.
Quite literally, actually. The rays of early morning catch on gold hair, framing the face of a young boy with a blinding smile. Alhaitham peers over his book, only to squint as the sun flickers in his eyes, earning him a soft laugh from the unknown boy—a senior, perhaps?—across from him. His eyes, ruby like dawn, almost crinkle when he smiles. He pulls out a chair from across Alhaitham, leaning forward with a cheer too pleasant for the early hour. And the boy who glows with all the shades of the sun introduces himself.
Kaveh, a senior from Kshahrewar.
Kaveh, he learns, is as brilliant and deceptive as the sun.
Though in his opinion, Alhaitham doesn’t think he’s fooling anyone but himself. Kaveh will offer a hand to just about anyone in his radius, but not everyone wants to step into the light. The research papers strewn between them see names crossed out, sections torn off, and half-finished sentences untouched. And yet, Kaveh still staggers himself as he tries to help those who’ve fallen behind. His smile is guarded, still offering a mirage of hope, and he shoulders the weight of everyone else’s world on his own. Alhaitham doesn’t stop moving forward.
Brilliant, deceptive, and a supernova.
Their fallout is swift. With a stroke and tear of paper, it’s over. Yet as Kaveh leaves, light remains in his wake. While their project makes cosmic waves across their community, Alhaitham sees other remnants of Kaveh after their implosion years after. Whispering students with a reminiscent glow in their eyes, speaking of a senior like an untouchable idol, merchants clamouring about with grand blueprints in their hand, bearing a familiar signature . . . but also a reserved seat at the tavern, and drunken ramblings on the message boards, never unanswered for long.
The next time Alhaitham sees Kaveh, it’s at sunset. Evening breaks through the tavern windows and onto a nest of champagne-coloured hair. Alhaitham doesn’t drink often, but it’s an effective way to unwind after an unusually strenuous day—though it becomes especially more unusual when he recognizes the man across from him. Kaveh, feather lopsided in his hair and face flushed with dusk and a drunken daze, meets his gaze. There’s a brief pause, and something possesses Alhaitham to pull a chair and settle in front of him, drink in hand as he watches a thousand emotions flicker across Kaveh’s face.
If Kaveh is sunlight, then Alhaitham is a mirror. Kaveh laments his losses, and for once, Alhaitham holds his tongue and listens to his senior’s woes. Still bright , he thinks, too bright. Because Kaveh is shattered sunlight, willfully blinded by hope so that he won’t have to see reality in clarity—the reality Alhaitham warned him about all those years ago. But Alhaitham doesn’t interject as Kaveh unveils his troubles, letting him lay his heart bare on the table until his eyes are wine-red and his cup, empty.
“Is it so strange to hope that someone will lend a hand, just once?” mumbles Kaveh, leaning on Alhaitham’s shoulder. He stumbles forward, and Alhaitham props his arm across his shoulder as the tavern door shuts behind them. He hasn’t uttered a word in response through the whole night, only listening to Kaveh’s tales of misfortune and observing a man so fundamentally different from him. Eyes full of stars, heartaches like supernovas, dreams that shine like light. Kaveh is light. But Alhaitham is a mirror.
And all he does when Kaveh’s shattered rays flicker back at him, is show him his reflection.
“How has that gone for you?”
There’s no condescension in his tone, but a simple question. Kaveh falls silent soon after, and Alhaitham notes how his gaze fixes in the distance, on his house. There’s nowhere else to bring Kaveh, no home he can return to, so Alhaitham supports his staggering senior through the empty streets and in past his doorstep. If he has any questions, Kaveh doesn’t have the heart to voice them. Alhaitham has the foresight to leave him a glass of water before letting him to his own devices. Whether he decides to stay and face his reflection tomorrow is up to him.
The next day, Alhaitham wakes to the scent of coffee. Golden rays flutter in through the kitchen windows, and down the back of a man whose hair glows with the sun.
Kaveh hasn't changed much these past few years, Alhaitham thinks. He fills two cups of coffee out of consideration, he still blows on his drink before it burns his tongue. He still only wakes after his second drink of coffee. He’ll still offer to clear the table afterwards, perhaps out of a guilty conscience. Yet there are a thousand things Alhaitham doesn't know about Kaveh—why he still picks up his pencil and loses himself in his work, despite his grievances. His eyes haven't lost their shine.
Alhaitham doesn't quite understand the type of man Kaveh is. But some part of him thinks that he’d like to, because there are still a thousand things Alhaitham has yet to know. Kaveh is a familiar face and a hundred new perspectives.
And Alhaitham could always stand to see things in a different light. After all, Kaveh is like the sun.
— ii.
The soft patter of raindrops and scratching of pencils echoes through the room, broken only occasionally by the gentle rustle of paper. It’s a nice, quiet ambiance that Alhaitham can remove his earpieces to as he sifts through another book. Muted light spills onto the paper, and he almost forgets he isn’t alone—but as he turns the page, a warm hand reaches over and brushes away a stray lock of hair. He shifts his gaze up, emerald meeting ruby as he notices his roommate right across from him.
“Just go back to reading,” Kaveh instructs, sketchbook still in hand. “Don’t mind me, your hair was in the way.”
Kaveh sits unceremoniously on the edge of the table, across from Alhaitham, with his pencil to the page. His eyes sear into him, observant. He’d stayed home, muttering something about lack of inspiration and returning to fundamentals, before asking Alhaitham if he’d be willing to serve as a reference.
(“Do what you’d like,” Alhaitham replied, with not even a shrug of his shoulders. Kaveh clicked his tongue in annoyance at his roommate’s nonchalance, but sought out his sketchbook anyhow. Alhaitham didn’t lift his head from the journal, but peered over at Kaveh in gentle curiosity—back turned to him in the faint, golden light.)
And so Kaveh goes back to sketching, brushing off stray eraser shavings as he goes. He’s focused like this, too, eyes searing into the details of Alhaitham’s visage with intent. The paper isn't quite visible from where he sits, and so Alhaitham is left to wonder exactly what Kaveh sees when he looks at him.
“How unfairly symmetrical,” Kaveh murmurs, undoubtedly to himself. His eyes move to frame Alhaitham’s face, only ever looking away to continue sketching. It's a strange sort of scrutiny, to be so close to someone and have them examine your every detail. As if attempting to immortalize you with only their eyes, their hands. “If only you kept your hair better . . . swept it out of your eyes once in a while.”
Alhaitham isn't sure if Kaveh is talking to him or at him, but he attempts a hum in reply. But for some odd reason, it catches in his throat, so short of breath that it sounds like a grunt. Kaveh takes little notice and reaches for him again, fingers delicately brushing against the contours of his cheekbones. The sound of pencil slows as Kaveh observes him carefully, his point of reference. Reverence, a weaker man would hope, but Alhaitham staunches the thought before it can bloom.
The way Kaveh sits before him resembles that of a reflection. A warm hand brushing against a cold visage, calluses against smooth skin. What terrible irony it is that Kaveh even sits with a sketchbook in his lap, while Alhaitham carries a research journal in hand. And . . . there is a disconnect in the artist’s gaze as he looks at Alhaitham. Not in the way Kaveh usually looks at a person, where Alhaitham knows his next words will be too warm or fiery or too wholly bright, but in the way researchers look at their studies. In the way sculptors eye their statues and artists observe their muses. Or in the way Alhaitham looks at runes and words, dissecting and peeling back layers until he knows them as well as their original creator.
The way Kaveh looks at him is too familiar. A reflection of too many sorts. The thought feels a little sickening.
Kaveh’s feather-light touch drifts away, but his eyes linger a second too long, and Alhaitham barely catches it before he turns away again. His eyebrows are scrunched gently in concentration, sketchbook lowered just enough for Alhaitham to peer over. And from here, he sees himself, incomplete and intentional—carved by an architect’s hands. Wisps of bangs, curled at the very tip, gentle eraser marks made to highlight just the right amount of sharpness around his eyes, pursed lips shaded in the dim light . . . it is him, but unfamiliar. It is him through Kaveh’s eyes.
Alhaitham looks away, the image already seared behind his eyes. Something in his chest burns.
. . . How troublesome.
— iii .
How troublesome.
Kaveh crumples the paper, too worn down by pencil markings and eraser to be usable now. Nothing looks right, and the unfinished blueprints sit at the corner of his desk, tauntingly. He’d long since cast them aside, in lieu of just trying to gather the inspiration to draw anything at all. He’s not sure if his mind is even in the correct place for it. If he can’t even sketch something simple, how could he ever hope to finish his commissions?
He picks up the pencil again, staring at a fresh, blank page. Even if it’s not satisfactory, he should at least try to make something exist first, shouldn’t he? But a few strokes in and his pride falters, lines directionless.
Kaveh drops his head into his hands and groans.
It’s not as if this is a new occurrence. Kaveh has seen his old classmates, colleagues, and even his mother struggle with lack of inspiration before. He’s just . . . not quite sure why it’s so strong, lately. Perhaps it’s his difficult clients, or his monthly payment deadlines closing in, or something else his head spins too much to recall.
It’s too much. The pencil marks glare at him from the page, unwavering and lonely. He pulls at his frazzled hair, a shaky sigh spilling from his lips. His eyes only crack open at the sound of quiet footsteps, and he doesn’t bother looking up. It doesn’t matter. There’s only one person it could be.
A bout of silence passes, and he doesn’t hear the footsteps retreat. In weak exasperation, he lifts his head and turns, meeting Alhaitham’s gaze. “What,” he asks, intending to be passive and flat. Instead, his voice comes out like a frail gust of wind.
Alhaitham offers a hum in the place of a reply, eyes shifting towards the sprawl of paper on Kaveh’s desk. A few crumpled pages lay around his elbows. His folded blueprints and old sketchbooks litter the surface until Kaveh can barely see the wooden tabletop. A complete mess, much unlike his normal order. “Mind explaining?” Alhaitham asks, matter-of-fact.
Something possesses Kaveh to clamour for the nearest, half-finished blueprints and hand them to Alhaitham one-handed. He rests his head in his other palm, exhaustion creeping about his expression. Alhaitham wordlessly flips through the unfolded designs, eyes unreadable as always, and Kaveh sighs into his hand. He’s not even sure why he bothers showing Alhaitham his work—neither of them ever saw eye to eye on art, anyhow.
Then again . . . Alhaitham seldom interrupts him. Even when Kaveh is particularly stressed, he’ll always leave Kaveh to his own devices with the claim that it’s simply in Kaveh’s nature to approach his work like this. Usually it irks him, but strangely, it’s consistent. Alhaitham doesn’t hold any unrealistic expectations for Kaveh, nor does he intentionally try to intervene when Kaveh is struggling. He’s a constant, unobtrusive presence in the background.
It’s frustrating, but distantly, Kaveh wonders: why now, then? Why the sudden interest? He knows Alhaitham isn’t trying to offer some sort of solace or comfort. To put it in his terms, “it’s not his place to,” and Kaveh has long accepted their differences. Even when they are at odds, he knows he could never change Alhaitham the same way Alhaitham could never change him. Alhaitham himself will usually leave Kaveh be. And yet . . .
And yet, that evening at the tavern, he led Kaveh home regardless. Alhaitham let him stay, even though Kaveh had no claim to their house anymore. Even though Kaveh claims that Alhaitham never did a good deed unconditionally, he listened as Kaveh spilled his heart out, bleeding red like wine on the table. And now, he stands across from him, quietly observing his work in all of its unfinished, imperfect entirety. And Kaveh lets him.
Alhaitham stills on a blueprint, and Kaveh looks up at the lack of rustling. He realizes, faintly, that he’s mixed up some of his old sketches in with his designs. And he can’t find it in himself to care anymore, not when Alhaitham has already seen all of him. There is no need for glamour, no glare of light in the eyes to hide behind. Maybe for the world, when he is the Light of Kshahrewar and renowned architect Kaveh, sitting at the tavern to claim “inspiration.” But here, with Alhaitham, he is only Kaveh. Tortured artist, bleeding heart, and a tentative friend. And maybe, just maybe, that version of him has value, too. And there is a place for him.
. . . Huh. There’s no more stress clawing at his throat. But something heavy settles in his chest. Strangely, it feels a little like his heart.
— iv.
His mother’s journal.
It’s been years since Kaveh had last seen it. He sifted through it earlier, briefly with the Traveler, but he hadn’t had the heart to touch it until after their little gathering. Just to see if he could parse what she meant in those few entries, to understand what she meant before looking in full himself.
He’s not disappointed, not at all. But it feels a little strange. Reading her words, seeing her handwriting and even her drawings . . . it almost feels like hearing her voice again. In these pages, there lies a part of her that Kaveh had never seen before. There’s so much he’d never known, so much he’d lost in their shared pain. His mother loved too—her grief was proof enough of that. But this little notebook told of her joys as well, and a thousand things he hadn’t known.
Faranak’s favourite times of day were dawn and dusk, because of how transient and golden they were. Her favourite flowers were padisarahs, because Kaveh’s father had gathered her a bouquet of them for their first anniversary. Her favourite animals were birds, because of their beautiful feathers and freedom in flight. Part of her soul bleeds through the paper, so full of life, and Kaveh’s heart aches with something between love and loss as he continues.
Companionship, huh. He’d spent so many years trying to solve the lock on the journal, but in hindsight, the answer was obvious enough. It was meant to be a lesson she wanted to pass along to him. Does she still believe Kaveh deserved something like that? He tries not to dwell too much on the entries around the time of his father’s death, but his fingers ghost over the lines before he looks away. Not once did his mother blame him. Instead, she continued on for his sake. Yet the idea that Kaveh deserved companionship, deserved to be loved . . .
Kaveh turns back a few pages instead. There were plenty of entries from before then, thankfully, and he pauses as he tries to recall all of them. So many of these memories were lost to time, too young for Kaveh to remember, but he stumbles upon one he remembers with a strange clarity.
-
The soft glow of dusk flooded in through the window, onto worn pages of a book and scattered building blocks strewn on the floor. A young Kaveh set aside his block puzzles when his mother opened the journal, curious as to its contents. Faranak only laughed, and promised to let him see if he could guess the passcode. He never did guess it, not then—but she took pity on him upon seeing her son’s pleading cherry-red eyes, and patted the seat next to her.
“Then let me tell you a few stories to make up for it,” she said. To her delight, Kaveh scrambled from his spot on the floor and settled beside her, close and snug. She closed the notebook, locking it and cradled his little hand in hers. Her smile was as warm as the evening sun. “What kind of story do you want to hear?”
After some pondering, Kaveh asked: “When did you and Papa meet?”
Faranak’s eyes grew fond, and she looked off into the distance, to the golden glow of the kitchen where Kaveh’s father was. He hummed with joy, preparing dinner while she and Kaveh waited in their living space. She laced their fingers together, taking him back to a time where she’d just finished a particularly difficult project. To a quiet first meeting, outside of a lecture hall.
“I hadn’t thought much of him at first,” she admitted, a slight humour to her voice. But her expression remained soft, full of adoration. “We’re very different. We didn’t really understand each other, sometimes. And we still don’t, but he was the only one who sat down and listened to me, so we were happy. Like us, right now.”
Kaveh smiled back at her, though confused. His little legs dangled from the seat cushion, swinging quizzically. “But how did you fall in love if you didn’t understand each other?”
Faranak laughed, airy and free, a sound reserved only for those dearest to her. “Sometimes, you don’t have to understand someone to love them. Sometimes, you just need to stay with them and share their feelings, even if you’re different—that was the promise we made.” She lifted their joined hands, looking at the band on her finger with pride.
“Even if we don’t understand each other, we’re together. Through rain and shine, in sickness and in health. What I mean is . . . I think that love is when you are with someone who never lets you forget who you are.”
The band shone aureate with the last rays of sunset. It was simple, but the light caught in its gem in such a way that it glistened with gold. Kaveh, mesmerized, looked up at his mother. Her face glowed with adoration, and he thought his mother fit perfectly in the twilight. “I don’t understand right now,” he began, eyebrows furrowed in thought, “but I love you, so maybe it makes a little sense.”
Faranak laughed again, wrapping her arms around the small boy. “Of course,” she replied, breathless with mirth, “Of course, Kaveh. And I love you too.”
-
Love is when you are with someone who never lets you forget who you are.
Kaveh traces his finger along that line, thoughtful. He’s not sure why that particular memory is so vivid to him, but he thinks that it might have been the last time he’d heard his mother’s laugh. But she’d held that promise dearly, loved his father until death set them apart.
And she’d left this notebook here for him, hoping that one day, Kaveh would find the right words and unlock it. It’d been quite a few years since he’d last seen her, but she had never once held ill well against him. The message at the back of the journal even wished him well, telling him to cherish his companions and open his heart a little. The phantom feeling of a hand laced in his resonated warm through his palm. The notebook, a part of her, still rested in his hands. His mother still believed he deserved companionship. He deserved to be loved.
Kaveh feels his throat burn a little, and his eyes start to sting. A breathy laugh escapes his lips, and he rests the journal on his lap, staring at the ceiling.
Love is when you are with someone who never lets you forget who you are. She wasn’t wrong. He has friends now, friends who could read him like an open book. Tighnari, who always sensed when he needed an escape and kept a seat open for him at every table. Cyno, who let him drunkenly ramble over his own woefully prepared jokes, never minding his complaints. And . . . Alhaitham.
Alhaitham, who argued with him at every turn. His polar opposite, a full-blooded linguist who never understood Kaveh’s pursuit towards the arts. Alhaitham, who wrote full journals just to take jabs at him, yet let him under his roof without question. A mirror that showed him his reflection, cut through the glare of light he’d always hidden behind. Frustrating, stubborn Alhaitham who . . . never once let Kaveh forget who he is.
Kaveh stares off, out through the window. The sun greets him, light blanketing him with the greetings of early morning.