Work Text:
In the beginning, Kaveh had complained about a headache that had tried to—unsuccessfully—disrupt his workflow. He didn't do anything about it besides whine, which Al-Haitham always dismissed with well, if you don't rest, it can't get better; not that the blond listened to him.
Fatigue followed soon after, and the scribe watched silently while his roommate blamed it on the previous all-nighter he had been forced to pull (the deadline had still been a week away, but Kaveh was nothing if not a perfectionist). It seemed a little harder to ignore than a simple, though persistent, headache.
Next had come the fever. Though, no, according to Kaveh it wasn't that—he had just been exposed to the sun too much. While spending most of the day in his room sketching and only going outside to stretch his legs a bit.
He had told the other as much, but listening wasn't always Kaveh's strong suit. Unvoiced concern continued to harbour inside the scribe, he only showed it by glancing over the edge of his book every time he came into the room coughing and sneezing as if allergic to Al-Haitham.
“You’re obviously sick, take a break.” He snapped the book shut one time. “You have no stress with grades anymore, it is okay for you to postpone a deadline to rest. You're prestigious enough that they won't mind.”
A huff came in reply, and Al-Haitham just knew what he wanted to get across: Unbelievable! What would I do if I'd actually miss a deadline just because I was lying around doing nothing?
"It's just a small cold, it will go away," Kaveh brushed him off with sigh, sitting down on the chair across from Al-Haitham."I'll just go to bed earlier tonight if I manage to finish my work in time. But a stupid cold will not be a reason for me to slack off!!" His voice almost sounded like he wanted to convince himself of that.
He took a deep breath, visible exhaustion paling his face. Had he not manoeuvred his hand to support his heavy head, Al-Haitham was sure he'd have hit it on the table.
"Is your headache back?" The scribe asked, putting the book down just to cross his arms over his chest. Kaveh's ideals would one day cause his death.
“Like it was ever gone!” He whined, groaning into his arms when he buried his head down into them. "But it's fine. Everything is fine."
Al-Haitham could only shake his head. The altruist would never let anyone else treat themselves like that.
A memory that came to mind was prove of that.
“Al-Haitham! You look unwell. Are you sure you're in any condition to work? I can do your part. You should rest if you're sick!” His senior assured, as if already knowing the question's answer. “Do you have a fever?”
A alloused hand pushed away the grey strands of hair covering his forehead. Pressing down onto it gently. It was a touch soft enough to make Al-Haitham want to lean into it.
Had he been this tired the whole time?
“I'm fine, Kaveh. Really,” an Al-Haitham with a more juvenile voice—he must've been iin his second year––replied, his eyes rolling at his senior’s worry, though somehow it made him feel warm too.
Usually, he did put his health above schoolwork – for what was it worth to work himself to the bone when his grade would still be worse than if he did it on a healthy body and mind?
Today, however, he wouldn't leave. It was both because of how focused he was on the topic by now and also because he thought it stupid to let his senior do any more work. Kaveh was a busy person already. Always juggling everyone's problems and his own (sometimes).
Usually, Al-Haitham did not show this much compassion when people even went so far as to offer to do his work. It was their choice, after all. But it felt different, almost exploiting, when it was a man who would offer it even though in knowledge that he would suffer in turn.
The line between kindness and naiveté was thin—and Kaveh had no balance to stay on one side of it, ever.
“Are you really sure? It feels like you really do have a fever,” Kaveh asked again, his brows furrowed deeper in concern. “You shouldn't push yourself. I really can do your work, no problem.”
The furrow disappeared, making way for a reassuring smile. Al-Haitham noticed that it didn't quite reach his eyes, but he didn't comment on it.
Instead, he said: "No, you can't."—he was interrupted by his own cough—through the arm in front of his mouth, he continued, a little muffled: “Now let me do my work.”
The blond huffed, rushing forward and snatching the papers in front of Al-Haitham up into his arms.
"Are you challenging me?" He looked genuinely offended.
He chuckled in response. "Funny."
“Well, go home and I will show you that I will manage!” Kaveh pouted a little. “I’m not giving you back your papers if you don’t go home.”
Al-Haitham had grown fond of these types of antics by now. Though it might one day cause him to suffer the consequences of putting other people's wants in front of his own well-being and feelings. As strange as it sounded, he'd be there for him if that day ever came.
A smile grew onto his face as he remembered their Akademiya time. He had gone home that day, and Kaveh had managed to finish Al-Haitham’s part of the project with the help of a lot of black coffee.
He had used it as a basis when he got home, edited it and put that part and the work they had done together into the submission form. How Kaveh had thought that Al-Haitham had no copies of his own work must have been a work of sleep-depravity, but it didn't matter. A few days later, a thank-you-meal had found its way onto Kaveh's doorstep.
It entailed a card, only a short “thanks” had been written at its front. Kaveh had realised that it looked very similar to Al-Haitham’s handwriting, but he, upon being asked, had denied having anything to do with it. Saying that it was probably the work of some of the countless other scholars Kaveh had helped.
To Al-Haitham's knowledge, that was the blond's clue even now.
“What? Is my damaged health so amusing to you?” Kaveh looked up at him with glossy eyes, reflecting Al-Haitham’s persisting smile. Only interrupted by blond strands that had partially fallen over his eyes.
Kaveh looked absolutely ethereal.
With a cough to clear his throat, Al-Haitham stood up: “No, but I’m gonna cook some soup for you.” He crouched down by the lower cabinets to reach for one of their pots. “The one with mushrooms.”
“And vegetables, yes…” he sighed, replying to a question that was never asked. Then he shot up, grimacing immediately after doing so. “Wait… Why? You don’t like soup. Why are you making it?”
Confusion drizzled into his features; Al-Haitham hummed at his questions, but didn't reply to it.
He fidgeted with a pair of carrots a little, before turning away from Kaveh’s gaze to wash them. Perhaps also to keep his coming expression, one filled with a gentle smile, a secret. “Remember when I got a cold while we worked on our project? I ate that soup that day at home. I felt much better afterwards.”
“Ah, yeah.” Kaveh hummed, he had issues keeping his eyes open. “I never got to know who really gave it to me after you said it wasn’t you.” A sigh escaped him before inhaling deeply.
“It was me. I thought it was a rather obvious lie,” Al-Haitham replied, not turning around. Eyes instead pinned onto the vegetables he was cutting.
“Huh?” Kaveh exclaimed, and suddenly his eyelids seemed to feel less heavy. “But… Why did you lie…?” It was a question asked very hesitantly; perhaps he feared the answer he'd get.
“Hm, I am surprised you—with your eye for details—didn’t catch it,” Al-Haitham mused, continuing to cut the carrots. Sighing, when he continued with a somewhat heavy feeling in his heart. “There was a message for you on the back of the card. In an ancient language.”
“And how would I have known? I do not speak any ancient tongue!” Kaveh retorted, frustrated. As if Al-Haitham had insulted him deeply. “You’re the Haravatat student, not me!”
The scribe sighed again, and Kaveh huffed at him for it. This was making him feel… Al-Haitham didn’t understand it. It was an old tale by now. He shouldn’t feel this way about it.
He wasn’t a foolish eighteen year old anymore. Even if the feeling of confusion at the lump in his chest felt similar, he had had enough time to untangle it by now.
“It was the ancient language we used in the project, so I thought you’d at least know the script.”
“I thought it was just someone having scribbled some– ” He bit his tongue. “None of this matters! I asked why you lied. None of what you said explained it in any way. Why?”
Al-Haitham sighed, he did not reply with anything else. Were he to turn to Kaveh, the faint blush that had started to creep to his face would have given him away.
He couldn't do this. Why did Kaveh had to have such an effect on him?
Feelings had always been a confusing thing for Al-Haitham. It was why many people had found him odd growing up. It was also part of why Kaveh and he hadn't spoken for years after the thesis fight. Because Al-Haitham genuinely hadn't understood what he had needed.
But he knew that some sort of confession wouldn't do Kaveh well now, not with snot running out of his nose and a fever high in his head.
Weighing his options, he decided to end the subject before it bore a deeper weight onto his heart. “You should go to bed. I will bring the soup to you when it's ready. Take a break, Kaveh.”
It was now that he turned around to look at him. Kaveh looked him up and down and sighed defeated. “You started the subject, but sure. Keep me in the dark. Knowing you and your twisted opinions, you might have even insulted me.”
Twisted opinions?
What twisted opinions?
“I do not understand what your reasoning for doing it would've been, but maybe you just always harboured a disdain against me and my opinions!” Kaveh stood up shakily and turned to leave the room, but in this moment, Al-Haitham didn’t want him to go.
He reached forward for his hand, gripping him tightly before pulling him close. As they looked into each other’s eyes, Al-Haitham realised one thing. This was a now or never situation.
And he chose to do it now, pressing his lips onto Kaveh’s and closing his eyes. Al-Haitham’s mind went blank for the first time in his whole life. Kaveh gasped into the kiss but didn’t pull back.
No.
He kissed back.
Something inside of the two seemed to fall down and mix together. A jigsaw finally put in place. Creating something the Archons had waited for to be made a reality.
“I should finish up the soup,” said Al-Haitham, crimson from neck to the ears, after breaking the kiss to take a breath.
“I love you too, Al-Haitham. Thank you,” replied an even redder Kaveh. When Al-Haitham furrowed a little, he added: “For… For the soup, thank you for the soup! And.. and the kiss too.” The last part was breathed out in a whisper.
“I… enjoyed it too,” Al-Haitham replied, exhaling all the baggage of doubt of Kaveh loving him back in one fell swoop.
It felt absurd. All of it. Finding love through a dish he had such a distaste for. Just because years ago a younger Kaveh had stated it to be his favourite, and Al-Haitham had remembered it. And he didn't regret the first soup never fulfilling its purpose. He'd do it all over again, if it meant he'd get to make the same soup he was making right now while his—well, whatever label they'd use now—was finally laying down to rest a bit.