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“What’s the Sage of Kshahewar doing in a place like this?” Asks a vaguely familiar voice. Then a pause, and Kaveh can just feel the judgemental eyes on the bottles on the table. “...How much have you drunk?”
Kaveh scowls. Nosy strangers. He slaps on a charming smile as he turns around. “Come on, I’m human too! What’s a little wine?” He clumsily reaches for an untouched cup of wine and offers it to the green blur of a stranger. “Wanna join me?”
Yes, that’s a good response, the Sage part of Kaveh thinks. Humanises Kaveh and makes him look less like a pathetic loser. And who declines a free drink?
Kaveh waggles the cup in his hand enticingly, but the guy doesn’t bite. Is he looking at Kaveh? Kaveh squints, trying to make out the stranger’s expression. His gaze kind of just… slides right off of the stranger. Can’t really tell where the guy’s eyes are. Gives up. “My arm’s getting tired,” he complains instead.
“Put down the glass, then,” the green blur remarks dryly.
“No, you’re supposed to take it from me,” Kaveh insists. He waggles the cup more. About 40% of the liquid sloshes out of the vessel. “Hurry up, it’s spilling.”
“Because you’re shaking it,” the green fella sighs. He acquiesces, though, and takes both the cup and a seat beside Kaveh. Cool.
“I should network with you, probably,” Kaveh mumbles. Whatever he learnt from that public engagement 101 class is flashing through his head. Communal areas like this tavern are one of the best places for Sages to network to remain down to earth and relatable to the population and not create a plutocracy something something something.
“I would be more convinced that you came here to network if you weren’t huddled alone in the far corner of this establishment,” the guy says. Huh. Kaveh probably said all that aloud. Whoops.
“Well, let me start here, then!” He turns to face the guy, offering a handshake. “I’m Kaveh. What about you?”
The moment stretches into a small eternity. Just as Kaveh’s about to retract his hand and force a laugh to diffuse the tension, the guy accepts the handshake. His palm is smooth, but his fingers are calloused.
“I’m not sure you’d be pleased to know who I am,” the guy says.
Kaveh rolls his eyes. “Whatever, man. As long as you’re not Azar. What a shady prick.” He pauses, scrutinizing the guy. His face is slightly coming into focus now. Silver-ish or grey hair. It looks a bit familiar. “Are you Azar?”
“I am not.” Not-Azar seems to glance around, then at Kaveh, concerned. “Should you be badmouthing the Grand Sage in public?”
Kaveh laughs. “What’s he gonna do? Arrest me?” Then he pauses in contemplation. Azar did just come up with that bill that gives him more authoritative powers over the Matra. “Oh. He might.”
Not-Azar seems flummoxed. “What?”
“Nevermind that. Who are you?” Kaveh asks whilst pouring himself another cup of wine.
The guy stares for a moment, considering. He drums his fingers against the table, then seems to shrug and sigh. “I’m Alhaitham.”
The alcohol is about halfway down Kaveh’s throat when he chokes, coughing into his fist to keep most of the wine in his mouth. It’s a bit of a fruitless effort and his clothes get stained with wine anyway. Man, that’s embarrassing. Especially since Alhaitham is right beside him.
…
ALHAITHAM IS RIGHT BESIDE HIM.
Kaveh swerves around, still coughing. Lock in, Kaveh. He pins the fella down with a scrutinising stare. Silver (not grey, definitely not grey, Kaveh has dishonoured all of his color theory classes with that blunder) hair tied up into a short ponytail. (tied up hair?? Who would have thought??) And piercing emerald eyes with vaguely orange irises— only one person has eyes like that. And, well, his build changed somewhat. He was pretty weak and lanky way back when, so what the hell are those arm muscles? Despite everything, though, now that Kaveh knows what to look for, the signs are so obvious that he feels absolutely foolish for not noticing them earlier.
“Haitham?” Kaveh asks incredulously. “Is that you?”
Alhaitham—it’s Alhaitham in FRONT of him who approached him on his own volition????—stares at him wordlessly for a bit, obviously not too sure how to react. “...I just said it was me, didn’t I?”
“I—” Kaveh covers his mouth in a bit of abject horror. “Sorry. I’m um, a bit drunk.”
“Really? I couldn’t tell.”
Despite himself, Kaveh giggles. “You haven’t changed.”
In return, Alhaitham gives him a look that is both fond and bittersweet.
They lapse into what is simultaneously a comfortable and tense silence, taking turns to indulge in small sips of wine. Like they’re both trying to find the words. They’re right beside each other, and yet, the chasm between them feels endless and yawning.
(A suffocating atmosphere in the Akademiya’s discussion room.
“Alhaitham, we need to talk.”)
Kaveh breaks first, because he always does. “Do you hate me?”
Alhaitham’s hand stutters, evidently not expecting Kaveh’s bluntness. “Not really,” he replies levelly. “Do you still?”
“I don’t know.” The euphoria of finding a long-lost friend is starting to ebb away now, leaving behind the sobering reality that Alhaitham really is, well, a long-lost friend. A really good one… right up to the very end. “I don’t like thinking about… you-know-what. But I think I could never actually hate you.”
Ironic, given Kaveh’s parting words that day. Alhaitham seems to think so, too. “...I’m not sure how to take that.”
Kaveh winces. Alcohol really has dulled his EQ. He shoves the relapsing memory of that stupid discussion room into the far corner of his mind and— “Well, um. We take that by changing the topic!” He clears his throat. Look, Kaveh, it’s Alhaitham. You know how to act with Alhaitham. “How are you doing, junior?” He asks, as casually as he can manage.
Alhaitham takes the olive branch. “Am I really still your junior?” He asks, unimpressed. “We’ve been out of the Akademiya for years.”
“Wrong!” Kaveh objects. It’s really easy—too easy—for him to slip into the same song and dance, and pretend that chapter of their relationship never happened. “I’m literally a Sage.”
Alhaitham rolls his eyes. “I maintain that the Akademiya, as in the education institution, and the Akademiya, as in the government, should be considered disparate bodies.”
“Well they’re not, so, hah.” Then Kaveh furrows his eyebrows. “Hey, who says you’re out of the Akademiya? Aren’t you an academic? You do research. IN THE AKADEMIYA. For a living.”
Alhaitham tilts his head. “Why do you know that? Don’t tell me you’ve been stalking me.”
“Why, I hardly need to!” Kaveh says, swirling his cup of wine. “You’re super accomplished. Everyone knows who you are.”
“No they don’t,” Alhaitham says tiredly. “Don’t be hyperbolic.”
“I’m not!” Kaveh argues, then he lights up. “Here, observe, my dear junior. Hey! Hey you!” He calls to the strangers at the table beside them, as Alhaitham watches with thinly veiled horror. “Do you know who this guy is?”
There’s a lull as the group beside them stares at Alhaitham with wide eyes. One of them opens his mouth, closes it, and then says: “Um. No?”
“What???” Kaveh nearly shrieks in outrage. “No. No! You, good citizen, clearly aren’t reading widely enough! He’s the— he’s the Light of the Haravatat! He’s so famous!” He gestures wildly at Alhaitham, waiting for things to click.
“Kaveh,” Alhaitham groans disgruntledly, covering his face with a palm.
“Sorry, most of us were Rtawahist students,” someone in the group says. “Oh— do you have any idea?” He nudges the woman beside him, who’s squinting at Alhaitham thoughtfully.
“Ah! I think I recognise you!” The woman exclaims, snapping her fingers, and Kaveh is about to bow over from relief that at least some people are staying well informed, when she proceeds to say with full sincerity: “You’re that one guy! From that one place!”
Alhaitham just stares. Then he turns to Kaveh, deeply unimpressed.
“...Well, she’s not wrong,” Kaveh says slowly. “You are indeed that one guy. From that one place.” Hesitatingly, he does like, jazz hands or something. “So point proven! People know you!”
“Uhuh,” Alhaitham says dryly, then turns to the table beside them. “Please ignore us. Carry on with your evening.”
As the other table sinks back into their own conversations, Kaveh slumps onto the table with disappointment. “Argh… okay, like, they didn’t even recognise ME, so maybe it’s just them!”
“Please don’t accost the rest of the tavern.”
“Fine!” Kaveh downs his cup of wine and pours himself another one. “So maybe the public of Sumeru isn’t that interested in linguistics, but who cares? Trust me, junior, they’re singing your praises up and down the halls of Haravatat. Every time I have to enter the department it’s just— yap yap yap, oh, ‘how I wish Senior Alhaitham wasn’t on a sabbatical!’ or something like that
Which is true, because apparently a lot of final-year students want Alhaitham as a mentor.
“I’m painfully aware of that, thank you,” Alhaitham sighs, running his finger around the rim of his cup of wine. “It’s meaningless idolatry.”
“Man, don’t put yourself down like that, junior,” Kaveh says, frowning. “I read your paper. It was good. But I guess like, I always knew you were good. You are good. So no—” he lets out a tired yawn. “No surprises there.”
“You read my paper?” Alhaitham asks, seeming faintly taken aback.
Kaveh gives him as flat of a look as he can manage. “Haitham, you like, literally cracked the ancient dialect of King Deshret on your own. Of course I’ve read your paper. Or, well, I skimmed the parts I could understand. Be prouder of yourself.”
Alhaitham looks as if he’s swallowed a bitter pill. “Sure.”
Kaveh furrows his eyebrows. “What’s wrong with you?”
In lieu of answering, Alhaitham abruptly downs the wine in one go and sets down the empty cup. “I should escort you home. You’re probably too drunk to walk.”
“Hey! When did I agree to that?” Kaveh whines. Despite that, he lets himself be led by Alhaitham off his chair and towards the door.
“Lambad, put it on his tab, please,” Alhaitham calls to the tavern keeper as he herds Kaveh out. Then he hesitates before saying to Kaveh in a low tone: “I apologise. I would offer to pay, but it’s not very practical given my current state of affairs.”
“State of… what now?”
“Where do you live?” Kaveh’s inclined to protest, but Alhaitham’s tone leaves no room for argument, so he relents and rattles off his address.
Alhaitham gives him a strange look. “Isn’t that our— the research facility?”
“Mmm. I thought it was a nice enough place,” Kaveh hums. He takes a step and his knee basically crumples. Alhaitham barely catches him. Whoops. “Sorry,” he mumbles. Must have been sitting for too long.
Wordlessly, Alhaitham heaves Kaveh’s arm around his shoulder. “Let me know if you’re going to faint.”
“I’m not that far gone.” Kaveh claims. “I haven’t like, blacked out. I mean, I was planning to,” He jabs an annoyed, accusing finger into Alhaitham’s chin. “But you had to show up!”
“You’ll thank me in the morning,” Alhaitham deadpans. “Pray tell, why the decision to drink tonight?”
Kaveh sets his mouth in a straight line. Damnit, just thinking about it has him kind of pissed. “Well, you know…” he says vaguely. “Bad day at work
“Worse than usual?”
“It’s been pretty bad, lately. Azar’s giving me a lot of work that’s not even in my jurisdiction,” he says.
“Like what?” Alhaitham asks.
“...I don’t know, everything?” Kaveh says, and suddenly the dam is lifted and everything comes gushing out in an unceasing fashion. “I’m doing budget checks for like three Darshans other than my own for some reason?? I guess it’s not just me; the Amurta and Vahumana Sages are getting hit pretty hard too. But like— it’s blatant favoritism! I haven’t seen the Spantamad Sage do anything for the past few months! And that’s so shady, you know? The other day some diplomats came in from Snezhnaya I think and one of the guys had a super big hat and it’s like, you won’t BELIEVE how big that hat is. And standard practice is we greet the guys together, right, but Azar insisted he talk to them himself—”
A hand is quickly pressed against Kaveh’s mouth. “What do you think you’re doing?” Alhaitham asks, almost horrified. “This is clearly sensitive information. Even if there's very few people out and about, you’re just spouting it out in the middle of the street?”
Kaveh yanks Alhaitham’s hand away. “I’m not spouting it out in the middle of the street, I’m spouting it out to you!”
“IN the middle of the street, Kaveh,” Alhaitham looks around warily. “You’ve lost some of your inhibitions. Let’s just get you home. No more talking.”
“Boo,” Kaveh grumbles, but obliges. He tries to kick a stone down the path and misses it entirely. Haha. That’s kinda funny. As they walk, Kaveh feels waves of exhaustion hit him. He trudges onwards, letting his eyes flutter shut every now and then as he follows Alhaitham’s gentle lead.
Then at the crossroad right around the Grand Bazaar, Alhaitham turns left instead of right.
Kaveh blinks blearily. “This isn’t the route.”
He feels Alhaitham halt his footsteps. “What are you talking about? Of course it’s the route.”
“No it’s not,” Kaveh says, scrunching his face up. Silly Alhaitham. There’s a shortcut on the right that opened up a few years ago, that cuts through the entire loop that the left road forces one to slog through. It easily shortens the travel time by like seven minutes, and Kaveh would know because it’s been a complete lifesaver ever since he became a Sage and had to arrive at the Akademiya early, and he’s about to tell Alhaitham about all this when—
“But we always took this route,” Alhaitham says, confused.
And— oh.
(“Hurry up, junior, we have a thesis to write!”
Leisurely steps following close behind. “I’m enjoying the view. Surely we’re not in that much of a rush, are we?”)
The words dry up in his mouth. “Ah,” Kaveh says faintly. “So we did.”
“...Is the right path better?”
“No, it’s not,” Kaveh lies. “I misremembered.”
“And you say you’re not that drunk,” Alhaitham tsks, but not in an unkind way. They take the left route. “You can barely remember the way home.”
“Cut me some slack,” he complains. He hopes his voice doesn’t sound too strained. “Rough day.”
And, well. From the slight crinkle in Alhaitham’s face, Kaveh can tell he clearly doesn’t buy it. Archons know he’s always had a propensity to see through Kaveh’s bullshit. He almost expects Alhaitham to bite back with a mocking remark like a sarcastic “Oh, is that so?” or an “I know, senior, you’ve said that thrice” or even—
Alhaitham says none of that. After a moment of hesitation, he says, in a vaguely sincere and perfunctory way: “My condolences, then.”
“…Mm.”
They keep walking, this time in a drowning silence that Kaveh’s acutely aware of. And it’s… jarring. ‘Do I say something?’ He thinks, throwing glances at Alhaitham. ‘Am I okay with this? Are you?’
Why is he freaking out so much? In his memory, they have shared moments of silence between them before. But it was cosy and pleasant to revel in each other’s quiet presence. Whatever this moment is, with Kaveh’s arm slung over Alhaitham’s shoulder, so close to his not-but-maybe-friend and yet so far, it’s writhing with unsaid words that refuse to leave his tongue.
And Kaveh’s not dumb. Of course their relationship wouldn’t be the same, not after you-know-what, and especially not after all these years of not meeting. He’s a fool to be keeping up the facade for this entire evening. But it’s only hitting him now that this, this is just so—
“Uncomfortable,” Kaveh mumbles before he can stop himself.
Immediately, Alhaitham stops, removing Kaveh’s arm around his shoulder but not releasing his grip, lest Kaveh topples. “Do you need to take a break?” He asks.
His mind is somewhat blurred by inebriation. Not really knowing what else to do, Kaveh gives a silent nod.
They settle on a roadside bench. Kaveh presses his palms against the cold, metal surface as if to ground himself. Stares vacantly at his feet as they shuffle against the grey pavement.
“Sorry,” he murmurs, just loud enough for Alhaitham to hear.
“...Don’t be. You have no reason to,” Alhaitham says. The worst part is that he sounds sincere.
And Kaveh doesn’t— he really doesn’t know how to take that at all. Closes his eyes and leans his head backwards, against the bench. “You don’t even know what I’m apologising for.”
“I can guess.” Light drumming on the bench surface. “If it’s about this, I was the one who offered to bring you home. If it’s… not about this, then for what it’s worth, I’m sorry too.”
Kaveh can’t help it. Again, he asks: “Do you hate me?”
“To the same degree that you hate me.”
“I don’t hate you,” Kaveh says, with a conviction that surprises even himself. “I could never hate you,” he repeats.
A hum. “Then I suppose you have your answer.”
Alhaitham might just be being polite. And yet, it soothes something in Kaveh. Dulls the raw edges of an old wound that he’s been ignoring for years in a way all the wine couldn’t.
Kaveh lifts one eye open, to cast a sidelong glance at Alhaitham. He’s staring ahead into the distance, fiddling with his thumbs. From this angle, and the dim lighting, Alhaitham almost looks the same as the one in his memory. Almost.
Then he follows Alhaitham’s gaze to the house across the street. And for some inexplicable reason, there’s an immediate lurch in his stomach because the house looks so wrong that it gives him a bit of vertigo.
It takes him a minute to realise why.
“Alhaitham,” he calls, voice slightly wavering.
“What is it?” is the reply. Though it sounds almost resigned.
Kaveh opens his mouth, trying to find the right phrasing, and then gives up and just settles on: “Why does your house look like that?”
There’s nothing objectively wrong with the house, per se. But it’s been completely outfitted with gaudy, live-laugh-love-esque decorations when it should be clean and minimalist. There’s an armchair on the front porch that is an ‘open invitation for robbers to take’, and flourishing gardening plots that— Alhaitham has never enjoyed Amurtan disciplines, has he? It’s just— it’s so not Alhaitham.
“…It’s not my house anymore, clearly,” Alhaitham replies, his tone betraying something bitter and unpleasant. “I sold it.”
“But you wouldn’t do that,” Kaveh says, squinting at Alhaitham like a puzzle he can’t solve. This is his childhood home. Where his grandmother had stayed her last days. “You wouldn’t.”
"I wouldn’t,” Alhaitham agrees. He meets Kaveh’s gaze with a complicated expression that he can’t quite read, then sighs and stands up. “Are you sufficiently rested?”
“…I think so.” Kaveh accepts Alhaitham’s hand that helps to hoist him up. “But what does that have to do with anything?”
“You are nosy and you have questions,” Alhaitham says flatly. He lets go of Kaveh’s hand. “Can you walk? I’ll give you the rest of the walk back to ask them. Come on, let’s go.”
“I’m not—!” Kaveh almost interjects, affronted. But he notices Alhaitham’s expression and swallows his words. “—um. You sure?”
“The rest of this walk,” Alhaitham says again. And proceeds onwards, strolling at a leisurely rate so that Kaveh’s slightly addled movements can match his pace.
Oh, Archons. Kaveh might be too drunk to work through this emotional baggage. But Alhaitham’s not shutting down the line of inquiry; he offered it. So that means—
(“Can you stop asking about this?” Kaveh snaps. “Look, I’ll just send my mom a postcard, or something. Whatever. Just— get out of my hair.”
Alhaitham stares back at him in that calm and collected manner that Kaveh wants to punch off his face. “If I don’t push, you’re going to keep bottling this up forever. Look me in the eyes and tell me you don’t need this conversation eventually, and I’ll stop questioning you.”
“I don’t need it,” Kaveh insists.
“You’re not looking at me,” Alhaitham says, tone sharp. “Talk to me. What happened between you two?”
And for some reason, under the weight of Alhaitham’s stare, Kaveh breaks.
…it helped.)
—Alhaitham needs to talk about it, even though he doesn’t want to.
A quote comes to mind, as cliche as it is. That ‘it is strange to be known so universally, and yet to be so lonely’. Is that what this is? Alhaitham, the Light of Haravatat, surrounded by, what did he call it? Meaningless idolatry?
Kaveh stares at Alhaitham again as they walk, and for the second time tonight, finds signs that he shouldn’t have missed. Long hair is deeply inconvenient for reading, so why is Alhaitham’s long enough to be roughly tied into an unkempt ponytail? And dark circles that line his eyes, worse than he’s ever seen them in their university days. The general aura of bone-deep exhaustion that Alhaitham’s radiates as he trudges forward, ever since the start of the evening. He’s— it feels like such a silly, obvious revelation to make, but Alhaitham’s changed, in more ways than just appearance. How did he miss this? How did Kaveh think, even for a single moment, that he looks the same, that he is the same, that everything can still be the same?
He swallows down his nausea. Focus. Focus. With a silent prayer that everything will work out alright, Kaveh casts the first stone. “What happened to you, jun— Alhaitham?”
“A rather vague question to start, isn’t it?” Alhaitham responds.
‘Don’t let him squeeze his way out,’ Kaveh’s mind urges. “You know what I’m referring to,” he says, eyes trailing across the way Alhaitham’s fists are tightly coiled at his sides. “As much as you like to advertise that you don’t care for sentiment, we both know that’s not possible. Unless you’re a sociopath. But you’re not.”
Alhaitham hums non-committedly. “Some of my colleagues would beg to differ.”
“I know you’re not,” Kaveh corrects. He pretends not to notice the way Alhaitham stills, just for a moment. “And your childhood home is precious to you. In fact, I don’t see you willingly selling it unless things are extremely dire.”
There’s a pause, and an unusually pinched expression as if Alhaitham wants to shirk away.
All at once, a palimpsest of an echo of a memory guides Kaveh, lulling his hands to reach out to Alhaitham without his say-so, to take Alhaitham’s hands in his and promise that (“—everything will be alright, junior, you just have to trust me—”) and—
—Kaveh’s conscious mind catches up and forcefully buries the long-abandoned instinct. Wrenches his nearly-outstretched hands back down. “Alhaitham,” he urges instead. “Talk to me. What happened to you?”
The expression loosens, and Alhaitham relents. “...nothing.” He glances back at Kaveh, who is surely sporting some sort of affronted expression, and huffs out something that could just barely be considered a laugh. “Really, nothing happened. Something happening to me would imply that my predicament was caused by factors outside my control. On the contrary, it was merely a series of missteps made by yours truly.”
Missteps? From Mister ‘Think-Before-You-Act’? That sounds like malarkey, but Kaveh narrows his eyes and says: “...go ahead,” anyway.
“First, I need to dispense your false perception of my accomplishment,” Alhaitham instructs, a distinctively annoyed look on his face. “The Akademiya is full of misinformation-spreading dimwits. I didn’t crack anything. What I did was merely to reconstruct a theoretical protolanguage, based on assumptions of linguistic drift in modern Sumeran dialects today.”
Kaveh stares. “...uhuh?” He nods, not entirely getting it.
Alhaitham lets out another huff-laugh that’s not really a laugh. “The technicalities don’t matter. Essentially, I didn’t translate the dialect. I only made a guess about what the Deshret-era dialect could look like, and it just so happens that it coheres surprisingly well with the stele and recordings in our inventory.”
“What’s the difference, then?”
“It’s simply not provable, nor falsifiable-in-principle. That means I have very weak justification for calling it a translation, therefore I cannot patent it. And in contrast to my incurred ‘fame’, the economic gain is minimal,” Alhaitham says.
“Wh—” Kaveh splutters. The tension in Kaveh’s shoulders gives way to mortified laughter, because that doesn’t make any sense. “Ha, what bullshit! As far as I’ve heard, your so-called ‘guess’ works perfectly fine. Everyone’s using it! In fact, I’m pretty sure the Sage of Haravatat wrote a paper using your translation a while back!”
“He did. He was also the one who made that judgement on my work,” Alhaitham says. He pauses at Kaveh’s expression. “Please don’t accost the Sage of Haravatat.”
“He should go accost himself,” Kaveh mutters under his breath.
“That’s an incoherent statement,” Alhaitham deadpans. “The point is, I agree with his judgement. The Haravatat Sage isn’t stupid, far from it. A translation was never my intention anyhow— I only did it to establish a foundation for Deshret-era linguistics.”
Then Alhaitham shows nothing, outwardly, but Kaveh can hear a slightly tight and strained quality to his tone: “That said, my stipends were significantly lower than I expected, and the debts I had incurred were significantly higher than I expected.”
“Debts?” Kaveh cannot help but ask.
“I’m not that familiar with current dialects of the desert, nor am I well-versed in traversing it,” Alhaitham admits. “I hired a broker named Dori to put me in contact with some denizens so I could learn the preexisting dialects, and to hire mercenaries to gather more Deshret-era steles from the ruins.”
And the dawning realization swells in Kaveh. “Don’t tell me,” he gasps. “You got scammed??”
Alhaitham’s lip twists. “I suppose you could call it that, yes. It seemed reasonable on paper, but it was rather insidious in its fine print. The interest is what got me, in the end. Payment was only due after my research was over, and the entire ordeal took longer than I anticipated.”
“Ohhhhh, no……” Kaveh whispers in horror, because there is no other appropriate response to something that could only be described as his worst nightmare. “Alhaitham… you can’t possibly think that this was your fault!”
“It was. I underestimated Dori’s contract,” Alhaitham says softly. As vulnerable as someone like him could ever get.
“She sounds like a scammer,” Kaveh mutters. “When someone gets stabbed, would they blame themselves for walking into a suspicious alley?”
“False equivalence, Kaveh,” he says tiredly.
“Oh, shut it with your fallacies. My point still stands!” Kaveh argues, a surge of righteous fury overtaking him. He jabs a finger into Alhaitham’s chest. “If I know anything about you, Alhaitham, then I know you read and scrutinized that contract from cover to cover. At that point, if you got scammed regardless, then it isn’t on you, it’s on the guy who wrote it. This wasn’t a misstep, Alhaitham, it happened to you. It wasn’t fair, and it wasn’t just in the slightest. The only thing you did was to accomplish something the likes of Haravatat had never seen.”
Alhaitham stares back, somewhat wide-eyed, and maybe the most disconcerted Kaveh has ever seen him. “I— Did you not hear me, Kaveh? I didn’t translate anything.”
“Come off of that nonsense, Alhaitham,” Kaveh says, kind of frustrated. “I skimmed your paper, remember? It was FIVE HUNDRED PAGES. That’s not meaningless. You ‘guessed’ the words to an ancient dialect, with significant data to back them up by the way, and your guesses have been largely ACCURATE. That’s NOT meaningless. You almost single-handedly revived a dead discipline. And if you say it’s meaningless one more time, I’m gonna—”
—he cuts himself off. Abort, abort, abort— WHAT IS KAVEH DOING. This rant is too casual; it feels just like— like, if Alhaitham and Kaveh were still in the Akadmeiya. But they’re not anymore. He can’t keep giving in to instinct; they’ve both changed, and Kaveh needs to get that into his thick skull.
‘Okay. Okay. Deep breaths, Kaveh,’ he thinks, panicked. ‘I got a bit too comfortable there. Um.’ He spares a glance upwards, and coughs, pretending to clear his throat at Alhaitham’s vaguely awed expression. “It’s— I mean,” he coughs into his fist again. “You’re good, Alhaitham. You’re good,” he says lamely. “Um. Are you… good, right now? The, uh, debt and all.”
A click, and they’re back to distant politeness again. “...I’m adjusting,” Alhaitham says after a moment. “The house covered most of it. I’ll work odd jobs for two years or so to fill up the rest.”
“...Then where are you staying?” He’s almost afraid to ask.
“Here and there,” Alhaitham says vaguely. “I have a tent.”
“....oh.” The implications are loud. “Good that you have a plan,” Kaveh says. That’s a very bad response, and he knows it. He’s staring at the ground, trying to think of better words to say, when he realizes the tiling patterns are getting increasingly familiar. He looks up. Ah. He’s… home.
“...Thanks. Now that I’ve escorted you, I better be off,” Alhaitham says without much fanfare. He inclines his head with a slight nod. “Glad we could catch up.”
And— what? Is that it?
…Is that really it?
Kaveh— well, he doesn’t really know what he was expecting, but surely that can’t be all Alhaitham has to say to him. ‘Glad we could catch up’?? It’s a fair enough set of parting words, especially since they’re basically strangers now. But… it’s so detached, so formal and it’s not representative of them, and not at all what Kaveh would expect through their trials and tribulations. He nods back at Alhaitham anyway, guided by little more than instinct.
‘Say something else,’ Kaveh’s addled mind thinks. He feels nauseous again. Maybe it’s the alcohol. ‘Like a see-you-again, or— don’t you need a place to stay? A tent is hardly anything. This was once your place too. All you need to do is ask. All you need to do—’
Like a cover closing a book, Alhaitham turns his back on Kaveh. It’s a motion so sickeningly familiar, one that plagues Kaveh in the deepest recesses of his memories. Kaveh, one foot out of the door. Paralysed. Always paralysed and unmoving, as he watches Alhaitham leave. Again.
And… just like all those years before, Kaveh thinks that Alhaitham’s movements look a bit too stiff, a bit too forced to be completely natural. It could be wishing thinking. Confirmation bias— a part of Kaveh grips onto that idea with white-knuckled fists, as if acting as a reminder to himself. It probably is just bias. It’s probably…
(“See, Senior Kaveh?”) The ghost of Alhaitham-past whispers into his mind. Internally, Kaveh stares at it blankly. He can barely breathe.
This time, he doesn’t force down the memory. Slowly, he follows it, into the parts of his recollection that he always hesitates to enter. The memory bubbles up to the surface of Kaveh’s consciousness:
(“Where were you?” Kaveh asks annoyedly when he finally finds Alhaitham. “You weren’t at our usual spot.”
“You sure are chipper,” Alhaitham responds sarcastically. “I was asking a lecturer about some groupings.”
“Urgh, groupings! What, were you screwed over too?” He asks, fiddling with his hair for what feels like the hundredth time today. “Sorry I keep harping on this. But like, I know seventy percent of the people in this cohort! How the hell is it that I don’t recognise a single person in my assigned group????”
“I know, senior. You’ve only been talking about it since this morning.”
“And like, during that icebreaker session!” Kaveh feels like he’s going to rip his hair out from rage. “They’re not engaging with me! I had to lead the thing the whole time! How am I supposed to work on a thesis with them, huh? I mean it’s obviously not their fault if they just have social anxiety or something, but far from it, they just DON’T CARE!!!”
“I know, senior.”
Kaveh buries his face in his hands and groans. Alhaitham gives him a couple reassuring pats on the back. "...Please don't start accosting your groupmates."
“Whatever. It’s fine. It’s completely fine!” Kaveh says, though it’s unconvincing even to his own ears. “I have a whole year to get to know them. Nothing brings people closer than working on a thesis together.”
Alhaitham stares at him, completely deadpan.
“...shut up,” Kaveh says.
“I didn’t say anything.”
“No, you’re staring at me as if I’m a pathetic loser!” Kaveh accuses. He crosses his arm in faux-anger. “So disrespectful to me, junior!”
“Now you sound like Madam Faruzan,” Alhaitham huffs. “Why don’t you ask for a change in groupings?”
“Wha— I can’t do that!” Kaveh hisses. “Then it looks like I’m abandoning them because I don’t like them!”
“But you really don’t like them,” Alhaitham points out.
“Well—” Kaveh glances around nervously. “Don’t say that in public!”
And Alhaitham gives him an unimpressed sigh. “Really, Kaveh,” he tsks. “Whose feelings are you trying to save? Your groupmates whom you’ve never met? They don’t even know you. And as you’ve said, they couldn’t care less.”
He passes Kaveh a half-filled form. A request to… change groupings?? And create a new group?? With Madam Faruzan’s signature already on the page?? He skims through it, thoroughly flummoxed. “How the— when did you—?”
“There’s no rule against a second year working on his final year group thesis,” Alhaitham elaborates. “So if you just sign there and there, I’ll be your new groupmate. Faruzan says she expects an influx of students who are also unhappy with their group, so we can recruit other members as we go along.”
Kaveh stares at Alhaitham with a gape that slowly morphs into a grin. “Oh, Alhaitham, you magnificent bastard, you— where’s my pen?”
It takes about three minutes for Kaveh to fill out the forms. And just under five for them to drop the completed forms at Madam Faruzan’s desk.
“See, Senior Kaveh?” Alhaitham says with a barely visible smirk. “If you want something, just say it. I’ll hear you out, at the very least.”)
—and then Kaveh’s moving before he even realises it. He gives into instinct; drags a step across the threshold, lunges forward for Alhaitham’s arm and catches it and holds it close like it’s a lifeline, not daring to let it go even as Alhaitham lets out a rare yelp of surprise and a “Kaveh, what are you—”.
He opens his mouth and says:
“Stay with me, Alhaitham.”
Then he’s falling. He feels his body lurch as his vision fails him. In the last dredges of his consciousness, Kaveh feels a panicked, yet firm hand, calloused only at the fingers, catch him.
As he always does.