Work Text:
Bang. Bang. Bang.
A consistent, loud, hammering sound grates Alhaitham’s ears. Ugh. He tugs his soundproof headphones over his head. Still, the jarring sound slithers into his ear canal.
After one week of these frustrating noises interfering with his work, Alhaitham doesn’t know how much more he can take. He attempts to tune out the noise and focus on his work. Five more articles have edits due today. He just has to power through, and then he’ll be free.
He cringes when the sound of sawing starts. The buzzing noise prickles his cochlea the wrong way.
Why does their office building need a renovated roof? As long as it doesn’t collapse, Alhaitham is perfectly content with it. But the company wants to turn the roof into a “nice hangout spot,” which will probably turn into a place for smokers on their breaks.
A migraine nestles in the left side of Alhaitham’s head. Unpleasant. He pushes himself away from his desk on his rolling chair and stares out the window to clear his mind.
He doesn’t expect to see someone staring back.
Alhaitham doesn’t startle. Just—freezes. Creep, he thinks, ready to draw the curtains, when his brain registers the person looking at him.
Simply put, he’s incredibly handsome. Deep red eyes framed by black eyeliner blink at him. The blond locks that turn bronze at the ends peak out of his hard hat. Alhaitham should not be attracted to someone in construction gear with their ridiculous highlighter outfits, but something about this man draws him in.
Now that he’s checked him out, Alhaitham feels like the creep.
The man outside smiles, perhaps amused, and waves to Alhaitham. He doesn’t wave back. He merely stares, gaping like a fish out of water. Alhaitham briefly wonders how he’s seeing a person outside his window, since he works on the third floor, but then he realizes that there’s scaffolding on the side of the building. Another loud sound reminds him of the construction going on. He winces.
The man tilts his head and raises his hands—to do what, Alhaitham doesn’t know—but then he whips his head to the side. Someone must’ve called his name, Alhaitham guesses. The man gives a sheepish look to Alhaitham and walks out of his view.
Strange. But Alhaitham has seen stranger things while working at this company. He turns back to his desk and types, hoping that the construction won’t impede him further.
----------
The next day, he’s back. The peculiar man.
Alhaitham doesn’t know why he looks so joyous to see him. He’s not sure he’s brought anyone this amount of joy in his life.
Hello! the man signs. We meet again.
Alhaitham greets him back, albeit baffled. How does he know that Alhaitham knows Sumerian Sign Language? Did he assume?
As if he read his mind, the man says, I saw you signing to yourself yesterday.
Ah.
Sumerian Sign Language is one of Alhaitham’s first languages. At a young age, he had a speech delay, which took the form of speech impediments and slurred speech. After other kids his age laughed at him and shunned him for his clumsy articulation, he stopped speaking altogether. Doctors diagnosed him with selective mutism. As an adult, Alhaitham speaks to people in clipped, brief sentences. He’s infinitely more comfortable using sign language, but most people only know spoken languages. So, Alhaitham adapted.
Though, it seems his habit of signing to himself stuck with him.
Where did you learn to sign? he asks the man.
My father was hard-of-hearing, the man replies, so I learned when I was young. I kept learning as I grew up, even when… He pauses, hands stilling for a moment. …I didn’t need to anymore.
Alhaitham gets it.
What about you? the man asks. Where did you learn?
I grew up with it. Trouble speaking as a kid, Alhaitham answers.
I see, the man says. What are you working on? He nods to the computer in front of Alhaitham.
I’m a copy editor. I find errors in publications.
Interesting job, the man comments. His nimble fingers move deftly, skilled. They’re callused, presumably from his job, but they’re beautiful and hypnotizing. Puzzlingly, he wants to run his fingers over the man’s hands and feel the texture on them. The effect this stranger has on him is deeply confusing.
A loud pop! rings from the roof. Alhaitham goes to clutch his throbbing ears, only to find that they’re under his headphone caps. A harsh sound echoes in his skull. He’d almost forgotten about his office building’s construction when talking to the handsome construction worker.
The man grimaces. I need to deal with that, he says before making his way toward the sound.
Alhaitham regains his bearings from the dizzy spell, onset by the loud noises. He, once again, goes back to work, ignoring the insistent beating of his heart.
----------
As Alhaitham expects, the man returns the next day.
Why did you choose to become an editor? he asks. After only knowing him for a few minutes at most, Alhaitham has learned that he’s a curious person.
Healthcare benefits. No overtime. Low demands. Good pay, Alhaitham lists. Editing people’s mistakes comes naturally to him, so it only makes sense that he chose this job. It’s simple and rewarding.
The man nods, thoughtful. Practical. Do you have a passion?
Alhaitham does not. No matter—he doesn’t need one to live a fulfilling life. Instead of saying no, he says, I like to read.
What books?
Many. Recently, I enjoyed “The Fox in the Dandelion Sea.”
The man bobs his head in feigned understanding, but Alhaitham sees the stilted expression on his face. He has no idea what the book is about.
To be honest, Alhaitham finds it endearing.
Why did you become a construction worker? Alhaitham asks, flipping the conversation on him.
The man falters, and for a second, Alhaitham thinks he’s made the wrong decision. Then, the man reanimates and says, It’s the closest job I could get to my dream.
Which is? Alhaitham prompts, but the man’s hands are already moving to answer.
I wanted to be an architect. Design structures, you know? I wanted to build something long-lasting, something memorable. The man’s expression is melancholic. I went to school for architecture. But bills stacked up and no one would hire me, so… He gives him a tight smile. Here we are.
Alhaitham hasn’t seen a single blueprint from the man, but he knows he’d make an excellent architect.
He tells him so.
The man laughs, though Alhaitham can’t hear it through the window. You’re sweet, he says, then walks off to go back to his job.
Alhaitham can no longer hear the sound of the construction over his heartbeat.
----------
Alhaitham tries very hard to focus on the words in the article. Yet, he can’t. He’s distracted.
This time, it’s not the sound upstairs.
The window attracts Alhaitham’s eyes like a magnet, forcing him to look at the scene before him.
Walking back and forth on the scaffolding, the man carries large sacks of something—whether that be cement or building materials, Alhaitham doesn’t care. However, the man’s sleeves are rolled up and his forearms are visible. From what he could see, Alhaitham assumed that the man had a relatively lithe body type. However, the sight before him speaks different words.
As the man carries to heavy sacks, his forearms flex, revealing taut muscle under his tan skin. Beads of sweat trail down his sculpted face. Alhaitham gulps, tearing his eyes away. His throat dries up, so he reaches for his water bottle. It’s empty. Alhaitham curses.
In hindsight, it’s obvious the man must be strong. He’s a construction worker. Alhaitham looks down at his own muscular arms, a product of working out in his home three times a week. Even though his muscles are more prominent than the man’s, he bets that the man can carry three times, no, five times of what Alhaitham can. The mere thought makes heat rise to his cheeks. He’s so, so screwed.
Alhaitham makes a point to avoid looking at the window for at least the next hour. It’s what he has to do to stay sane.
(He slips up once. Unfortunately, the man notices his one mistake and locks eyes with him. He shifts the sacks to one arm and waves at Alhaitham with the other. When he leaves, Alhaitham tries very hard not to think about what that man can do to him with one arm.)
----------
It’s the weekend, and Alhaitham is off work. He usually stays at home in his free time and reads until his mind refuses to process words, but today, he decides to go out. There’s this cafe he’s been wanting to try for their notoriously exquisite coffee blends, but he hasn’t been able to free up enough time to go recently. Now, he takes his opportunity.
When arrives at Puspa Cafe, he orders a cappuccino and settles down. A waiter brings his drink over, and Alhaitham pulls out a book to entertain his thoughts. He manages to finish chapter two when the doorbell rings and a familiar figure steps inside.
Without the hard hat or the highlighter vest, the man is drop-dead gorgeous. Golden locks sit on his shoulders and bounce effortlessly as he walks. The creme blouse paired with the dark pants frame his silhouette nicely. The red clips in his hair are cute and match his enchanting irises. Alhaitham is usually not one to care for aesthetics, but he feels insulted on the man’s behalf that he has to wear such an unflattering uniform at work.
The man walks right up to the counter. He doesn’t notice Alhaitham, which is probably for the best. Alhaitham doesn’t know how to interact with him without the protecting screen of the windowpane between them.
The man orders, but Alhaitham cannot hear his voice over the surrounding sounds of the chattering customers. He steals glimpses of him, committing it to memory. He’ll probably never get to see this version of him off work again.
After a minute or so, the barista calls, “Black coffee and baklava for Kaveh!” The man retrieves his coffee and pastry with an appreciative smile, and he walks out the door. The doorbell gives another chime.
Kaveh, Alhaitham mouths, testing the name around his lips. It suits him, Alhaitham decides. Kaveh, he mouths again. He likes the way it feels, the way it tastes.
See you soon, Kaveh, he thinks. For the first time, he looks forward to Monday.
----------
Monday comes, and Kaveh does not say anything about the cafe. Alhaitham keeps silent. There’s no reason to mention their crossing of paths, anyway.
How was your weekend? Kaveh asks when he sees him. He’s back in his uniform, much to Alhaitham’s displeasure.
Fine. Nothing special. How was yours?
Great, Kaveh responds, hands moving excitedly. I hung out with a friend. He lives in another city, so I don’t see him often.
A friend. Of course, Kaveh has friends with his kind and likeable nature. However, Kaveh is also an attractive individual—who’s to say he doesn’t have a romantic partner?
Alhaitham shakes his head, earning a confused look from Kaveh. He doesn’t know him that well, so he shouldn’t be entertaining thoughts of entering a relationship with him. But Kaveh is the first person to enter Alhaitham’s life in a while. Most people don’t bother to speak to him, let alone sign with him. He may not know Kaveh well right now, but he’s open to learning more.
Tell me more about this friend, Alhaitham says.
And Kaveh does. He tells him all about his friend who’s a forest ranger in Gandharva Ville and how he has the most wonderful family—a husband and a daughter. All the while, Kaveh’s expression is wistful, as if he’s yearning for this life he doesn’t have. No partner then, Alhaitham concludes, selfishly happy about his prospects.
In truth, Alhaitham didn’t ask about Kaveh’s friend to learn about some stranger’s life. He asked to see Kaveh’s hands move about, tripping over some signs in his eagerness. To see Kaveh’s smile light up his face as he spoke about someone he cared for dearly. Alhaitham wonders what it’s like to be on the receiving end of that care.
The moment ends too quickly when someone out of view calls Kaveh away. In the short time they’ve spoken, Kaveh has rooted himself in Alhaitham’s routine.
----------
What do you think of the Ship of Theseus paradox? Kaveh asks.
Over the past few weeks, Alhaitham has gotten to know Kaveh better. At every break, Kaveh would stop by Alhaitham’s window to chat and ask about various things. Lately, they’ve been getting into philosophical debates, which Alhaitham has no qualm about. Kaveh’s intellect challenges him, and he often finds himself left with a profound sense of intrigue after their conversations.
Ridiculous, Alhaitham answers. It does not matter which one is considered the “real” Ship of Theseus when they both operate perfectly fine. Thought experiments must have something at stake to be worthy of weighing.
I disagree, Kaveh says. Its paradox boils down to the meaning of one’s identity.
What’s your take on the paradox, then?
No matter how many parts you replace, Kaveh argues, the Ship of Theseus is still the Ship of Theseus. Even if you use its old parts to create a new, identical ship, it will never be the Ship of Theseus. People will know the original as the Ship of Theseus, regardless of his parts. Its meaning and impact would not change.
So identity relies on public perception? Alhaitham challenges.
No, Kaveh corrects. Just look at it like this: when we finish renovating the roof of this building, will it stop being the roof of this building? No, because its identity doesn’t rely on its constitution.
Your logic is fascinating, Alhaitham says. I should’ve expected your investment in this topic, you being an architecture expert and all.
A dark hue blooms across Kaveh’s face. Oh, stop it. You’re teasing, he says, embarrassed.
I am honest. You are brilliant, Alhaitham says, causing a deeper flush to appear on Kaveh’s cheeks. The color is mesmerizing. Alhaitham wonders how far it spreads.
Unable to digest the compliment, Kaveh sputters and flees the scene. Alhaitham laughs to himself. Cute, he thinks. His treacherous heart dreams of debating with him in the morning, day, evening, and night. He loves seeing him speak—his animated expressions and passionate words make Alhaitham forget everything else in his life. After consulting the Internet, Alhaitham learned he has a crush on Kaveh—a foreign concept to him. His desire to know Kaveh has only grown stronger with every day.
He wonders if Kaveh feels the same about him.
----------
No questions today? Alhaitham asks, forgoing his work in favor of talking to Kaveh. Again.
No questions, Kaveh confirms. He seems a bit off today—stiffer shoulders, strained expression, fidgeting hands. Usually, Kaveh radiates the brightest of lights, especially with that uniform, but today, dullness drains his energy.
Concern bubbles inside Alhaitham. Is everything okay?
You can tell, huh? Kaveh’s smile doesn’t reach his eyes. Today’s the anniversary of… a day I’d rather not remember.
Alhaitham doesn’t say anything to that. He lets Kaveh talk.
I requested off work, but they declined. Something about “needing every member on deck.” Kaveh swallows, Adam’s apple bobbing. I’d welcome the distraction, but… Kaveh’s eyes become glassy. Being here reminds me of him.
Kaveh wraps his arms around himself. This moment is one of the few times Alhaitham wishes there wasn’t a window between them. Kaveh needs a hug, and Alhaitham isn’t able to provide. Physical touch isn’t his favorite, but Alhaitham thinks he wouldn’t mind if it was Kaveh.
Wordlessly, Alhaitham scoots over to the window. Kaveh sits down on the scaffolding—dangerous, but who is Alhaitham to be criticizing his actions now? Alhaitham presses a hand to the window, as if he’ll be able to offer some form of comfort that way.
Noticing Alhaitham’s hand, Kaveh mirrors him. The warmth and softness of their hands cannot reach each other, but the sentiment remains. They stay there for an indiscernible amount of time.
Tears slip down Kaveh’s cheeks. Alhaitham wishes he could brush them away. I want you to be happy, Alhaitham thinks, unable to bring himself to move his hands. I want to make you happy.
In the past month, Alhaitham asked himself time and time again, Is this love? Now, he has an answer. Or maybe, he’s always had one despite his hesitance to admit it. But he’s ready now—ready to put it into his own language.
This is love.
----------
I like you, Kaveh says. Will you go out with me this weekend?
Static plays in Alhaitham’s brain. Moments ago, Kaveh was debating him on the merits of coffee versus tea, and now, he’s asking him out. The whiplash throws Alhaitham’s rationality out the window onto the concrete.
So Kaveh does return his feelings. Relief fills Alhaitham’s lungs. He figured their feelings were mutual, but it’s nice to have confirmation.
Unable to stand still, Kaveh shifts his weight from one foot to the next. He’s waiting for his reply, Alhaitham realizes.
He mentally goes over his schedule. Much to his chagrin, Alhaitham has to attend two all-day conferences on the weekend as one of the two representative editors from his company. After working hours on a weekday or next weekend would work better.
I’m not available then, Alhaitham replies. He expects Kaveh to ask a follow up question, like Why not? or How about this day instead?
Kaveh does not ask either question. Rather, his gaze shifts toward his shoes. Kaveh’s bangs obscure Alhaitham’s view of his face.
That’s okay, Kaveh signs. He’s not looking up. Sorry. Without warning, he darts away.
Confused, Alhaitham sits at his desk. Kaveh’s behavior puzzles him. For some nagging reason, he feels like he’s done something wrong. The thought that he might’ve offended Kaveh irks and itches at his mind.
…He does really want to go out with Kaveh. Stratus clouds of disappointment hang over his head. On Monday, he’ll ask Kaveh if his offer still stands.
----------
Kaveh does not show up on Monday. Or on Tuesday. Or on any day of the week, for that matter.
At first, Alhaitham assumed he was sick. Then, he remembered that Kaveh’s company wouldn’t let him off work for any non-life-threatening reasons, and he ruled out that option. As the week progressed, Alhaitham’s worry increased. Now, after experiencing an entire week without seeing Kaveh, Alhaitham stews in regret.
Kaveh must’ve taken his response as rejection when it’s anything but. Alhaitham wants to slam his head against his keyboard, but he refrains. His looks are one of his better qualities, and he doesn’t want to jeopardize his chances with Kaveh if he’s physically attracted to him.
The conference was excruciatingly boring, to boot. Too much chatter, per usual. Plus, every glimpse of blond hair left Alhaitham with an ache in his chest. In a room full of strangers, Alhaitham looked for Kaveh despite knowing he wouldn’t be there.
Another week passes, and still no Kaveh. Bit by bit, the scaffolding gets taken down. The construction job is done. Alhaitham doesn’t miss the jarring sound of saws, hammers, and other machinery, but he would endure one more day, no, several more days of disruptive construction if it meant he could see Kaveh.
Spinning in his chair, Alhaitham brainstorms. How can he see Kaveh again? Does Kaveh want to see him again? Surely, he would if he knew how Alhaitham feels about him. But now that the roof’s renovation is complete, how can he contact him?
An idea strikes him. Right. Why didn’t he think of that before?
Ready to go home, Alhaitham packs his belongings for the day. He knows what his weekend plans are.
----------
Watching the door, Alhaitham sips his coffee. The sun is on the rise, which means it’s high time for people to get their daily caffeine dose. Kaveh could arrive at Puspa Cafe a minute from now, an hour from now, or not at all.
So Alhaithams waits. And waits. And waits, and waits, and waits. The staff gives him strange looks for having sat down for so long. At some point, Alhaitham orders another coffee and pastry to sate himself. He doesn’t know if Kaveh is a regular, but frankly, he has no other options or places to look.
The sun eventually trickles down, leaving the sky a mix of pink and orange hues. An hour left before closing, Alhaitham reminds himself. He has time. Most people would’ve given up already, but Alhaitham has always strayed off from the popular path.
Then, the door chimes. And in walks Kaveh in all his glory—the glory being his rolled-up sleeves that reveal his impressive forearms. Once again, he doesn’t spot Alhaitham, who’s tucked in the corner, and there’s a handful of other patrons in the cafe that he blends in with. Marching to the counter, Kaveh orders. Like last time, Alhaitham can’t hear him, even when he strains his ears. All he picks up are the side conversations in the area.
Kaveh chooses a seat a fair distance away from him. Alhaitham observes and deliberates. How should he approach him? Should he introduce himself first? After all, Kaveh doesn't know his name in spoken language.
Alhaitham thought he prepared well, but his nerves keep jumping whenever he tries to gather the courage to talk to Kaveh.
A waiter comes out and brings Kaveh one large black coffee. No pastry this time, Alhaitham notices. An opportunity opens.
Alhaitham tears a page out of his journal, which he brings everywhere, and scribbles something down. Discreetly, so as to not alert Kaveh, Alhaitham flags down the waiter bussing tables. Alhaitham whispers, nods in Kaveh’s direction, and slips the waiter the note and some mora. A glint of understanding shines in the waiter’s eyes. He leaves, then comes back, carrying a small tray of baklava.
He sets the tray on Kaveh’s table. Even from a distance, Alhaitham can tell Kaveh is confused from the way his arms move about as he tries to hand the tray back to the waiter. The waiter refuses and pulls out Alhaitham’s note from his pocket. He puts it on the tray, then he goes back to what he was doing.
Alhaitham intently watches Kaveh’s eyes skim his note. Then, Kaveh looks up and scans the room. He meets Alhaitham’s gaze. The world around them falls away, just for a moment. It hits Alhaitham that Kaveh is here and Kaveh has noticed him. Neither of them move until Kaveh cocks his head to the side in challenge. He wants Alhaitham to approach him.
So Alhaitham, who has recently discovered that he’s weak to blond construction workers who dream of becoming architects, gets up and walks over to his table. As he sits down at the opposite end, Kaveh slides his own note back to him, which reads, I’m sorry. I wasn’t clear then. If you feel the same, I want to go out with you.
For a second, Alhaitham’s heart drops, but then he sees the smile twitching at Kaveh’s lips. His chest lightens.
“I misunderstood,” Kaveh says, his voice deep and expressive and charming. Alhaitham did not prepare for how attractive his voice sounds. “Apologies. Sumerian Sign Language isn’t my first language. Let’s start over.” He clears his throat and offers a hand. “I’m Kaveh.”
“Alhaitham,” he introduces himself, voice clumsy from disuse. Naturally, his hands follow, signing his name in SSL.
“Alhaitham,” Kaveh repeats, testing the syllables. “I like it. What do you say about getting dinner after this?” Hopefulness glows from his skin. The sun may have set for the rest of Sumeru, but not for Alhaitham.
This time, Alhaitham knows his answer without a doubt: “I’d like that.”