Work Text:
Al-Haitham would not go as far as to say that he hates his job, but it’s a pretty close thing.
There are only two things that prevent him from hating the position of Acting Grand Sage. Firstly, that hatred isn’t an emotion he often experiences; because when you’re Al-Haitham and you’ve set up your life to give you almost exactly what you want from it, it’s hard to find the sort of resentment that festers long enough to transform into hatred. Even when the things you’ve set up alter a little due to circumstances out of your control.
The second thing is that he understands that he is the only person who can do the job. It’s not so much that there’s a lack of people who want the position— no, there are many scholars that whisper and squirm and eye him and Nahida with a certain sort of gleam in their eyes that betrays their true thoughts. But the wanting often comes from the same sort of place that Azar’s wanting had come from. And of course, none of the truly intelligent and capable people Al-Haitham knows want anything to do with the position— which, in and of itself, is a mark of their intelligence. As it happens, when you plan a government coup and are, yourself, a rather intelligent and capable individual, you end up by default in the position of power, be it wanted or not.
The ironic part of all of it is that Al-Haitham only made the plan to preserve his way of life. But instead of his normal, wonderfully mundane existence, the entire eye of Sumeru is now trained on him.
Al-Haitham has never taken his position in life for granted; he understood, greatly, the value of privacy, of being unassuming and at the same time unapproachable, of work that never bled into overtime and had a very distinct separation between the home and the office. He understood these things and so he strived for them; but, if anything, that makes the stark change all the worse.
People talk to him now. Uninvited. Strangers on the street and in the halls of the Akademiya that act like they know him, who strike up conversation whenever they fancy— but Al-Haitham knows there is only one person who actually knows him.
Well. That had been the case until recently, but as it happens, a government coup leaves the others involved in said coup with a sense that you are, miraculously, a somewhat likeable person. And they begin to seek out your company.
In Al-Haitham’s case, surprisingly, he finds that he doesn’t mind it. But none of that remedies the whole work situation. Even when his newfound friends come bother him at work.
“And then we caught who we thought was the guy, but it turns out it was his friend. Who we’re still looking for,” Cyno says, finally wrapping up his story. Al-Haitham looks up from his desk, unimpressed.
“That could’ve been a letter,” he says.
“Well, that wouldn’t be any pun,” Cyno says. “Get it? It’s a play on the word fun and pun, made humorous by the fact that—”
“No, I get it,” Al-Haitham interrupts.
“Was it good?” Cyno asks. Al-Haitham presses two fingers to the crease forming between his brows, trying to push his stress out.
“Are you taking feedback now?”
“Tighnari has been particularly unamused recently,” Cyno replies. “I’m trying to see what I can improve upon in this regard. I guess you could say I’m branching out.”
Al-Haitham looks up. Cyno appraises him, arms crossed and face impassive.
“See, that one is comical because I was previously speaking about Tighnari, who—”
“You don’t have to explain,” Al-Haitham says, feeling even more exhausted. “I understood.”
“Good,” Cyno says, looking awfully pleased with himself. “I’ll leave you be, then.”
“That would be ideal, yes.”
He gets barely a moment of peace before some other scholar is barging into the room, hands full of papers, dumping them unceremoniously on his desk before he starts going on about the funding requests coming from the Amurta, and how they’d gone above their budget last quarter and hence the spending from the Akademiya should be reapportioned appropriately—
“Did you have an appointment?” Al-Haitham cuts him off, squinting.
“Yes, Grand Sage. I made it a month ago.”
“Right,” Al-Haitham says, leaning back in his seat. “Carry on, then.”
He does. Loudly. Al-Haitham hopes that the hour-long time slot goes by quickly.
Mercifully, his lunch break is right after that— but before he can even rise from his seat, Panah sticks his head through the door.
“Sir, the Flame Mane is requesting an audience.”
“Right now?”
“Yes,” he replies, eyebrows knit tight. Through the heavy door, Al-Haitham can make out Dehya’s voice, telling Panah to just let her in, Al-Haitham won’t mind. “She says it’s urgent,” Panah offers.
“Fine,” Al-Haitham concedes as Dehya’s voice grows louder outside, sitting back down. So much for lunch.
Dehya bursts in, arms crossed and looking thoroughly irked.
“Scribe,” she starts, which Al-Haitham can appreciate, “you need to make it easier for friends to get through. That assistant you’ve got at the door is awful.”
“Well, I get the feeling this isn’t a friendly visit,” Al-Haitham says. “Make it quick, at least.”
“It’s not a quick matter,” Dehya sighs, taking a seat. “There’ve been some— incidents, recently, between the Eremites and some of the traveling scholar camps near Caravan Ribat. Incited by the Akademiya folk.”
“Of course there has,” Al-Haitham sighs. “Okay. Give me more details.”
She details the conflict and they put together a rather barebones plan that will, hopefully, de-escalate the situation by the end of the week. By the time they’ve finished discussing it, his lunch is over, he’s yet to leave his desk, and he now has to write and send the instructions to deal with that along with parsing through the thick stack of files in front of him.
“You’re looking pretty rough,” she tells him, hovering by the door.
“I hadn’t noticed,” he remarks, rolling his eyes.
“Want to get a drink after you’re done working? On me, of course.”
“No, thank you. I’ve got plans.”
“Oh?” Dehya raises an eyebrow. “What sort of plans?”
“Ones that involve going home,” Al-Haitham says, pulling out a file from the tower.
“Can’t keep the missus waiting, hm?” Dehya teases. Al-Haitham lets out a dry chuckle.
“Don’t let him hear you say that. He’ll have your head.”
“Ooh, I’m terrified,” she says, laughing as she pulls the heavy door shut. “I’ll leave you to it, then. Thanks, Al-Haitham.”
By some miracle, he’s left alone for the next few hours to make his way through the paperwork, and he gets through a reasonable amount of it by the time the sun starts to dip low on the horizon. He’s just getting ready to leave when the door cracks open— and his gaze drops to see Nahida, making her way inside.
“Sorry, Al-Haitham,” she says. He sighs and sits back down. If it were anyone else, he’d likely tell them that he’s clocking out for the day and to find him tomorrow (or perhaps never), but he can’t say no to Nahida.
Al-Haitham really wishes he could’ve said no to her, because she keeps him there for another two and a half hours, discussing foreign policy and preparing for a meeting with a delegation from Inazuma that’s arriving in a few days.
When they’re finally finished, he bids her good night and hurries himself out of there as fast as he can, slipping out through the back door of the building to avoid running into anyone else who might decide they need a spontaneous audience with him. He has to walk the long route home too, avoiding the main road. He’s learned his lesson with that— the most direct path to his house is no longer the shortest, not when he’s constantly being stopped to make small talk.
When he finally arrives at his porch and pushes the door open, he’s immediately hit with the comforting smell of ghee and spices. He closes the door behind him, barely slipping off his shoes before his first welcome interruption of the day strides towards him in a blur of red and gold.
“You’re home late,” Kaveh says, stopping in front of him and placing a warm hand on Al-Haitham’s cheek. Al-Haitham leans into the touch.
“There were a lot of unexpected interruptions today.”
“Oh, no need to justify it to me.” Kaveh’s hand drops away, and Al-Haitham reaches out and grabs his waist before he can draw back fully. Kaveh laughs, clear and beautiful. “You’re the one getting the short end of the stick here, Grand Sage Al-Haitham.”
“Acting Grand Sage,” he corrects, burying his face in the space between Kaveh’s neck and shoulder. Kaveh pats at his hair absently.
“Well, what’d they have you doing today?”
“Rejecting Kshahrewar funding applications,” he says, words muffled. The soft touch turns sharp as Kaveh slaps him lightly.
“Oh, real funny,” he grumbles. “Let’s see how funny you find starving tonight.”
Al-Haitham turns his head slightly, pressing his lips to Kaveh’s heated skin. “What’s for dinner?”
“Didn’t you just hear me?” Kaveh asks breezily, pulling away. “Nothing. For you, at least.”
Al-Haitham shrugs off his coat and hangs it at the rack by the door before following Kaveh into the kitchen, where the heady scent of spices grows even stronger. A pot of golden khichdi sits on the stove, steam curling up in ribbons.
“You didn’t make it bland again, did you?”
Kaveh makes a nasty face at him. “I’ve been cooking for you nearly every night since you got this job, and you still have the audacity to question the food? Maybe you really should go to bed hungry.”
“It’s a valid question, considering your tolerance,” Al-Haitham remarks, standing hip-to-hip with Kaveh at the countertop and peering over his shoulder as he ladles the rice into bowls.
“It’s spicy, don’t you worry,” Kaveh says, rolling his eyes. “It’s so spicy that your tongue will fall right off. If I take even a bite, I’ll likely go permanently out of commission. And if that’s not enough for you, there’s mor milagai in the pantry that you can help yourself to.”
“Right,” Al-Haitham says, unimpressed and unconvinced, and then he goes to get the milagai and set the table.
“So, what did you actually do at work today?” Kaveh asks once they’re both settled and the food has successfully made it from the kitchen counter to the dining table.
“I had a few meetings,” he says, taking a bite. The food is heavenly— not that he’ll tell Kaveh that, because if he does he’ll never hear the end of it. Still, he takes another spoonful before continuing. “Dehya came by to talk about some issues the Eremites have been having with the Akademiya recently. And Nahida and I had to prepare for some diplomatic meetings that are happening with Inazuma this week.”
“That sounds—” Kaveh hesitates. “Bleak.”
“It was,” Al-Haitham agrees, trying not to eat too fast. It really is excellent. He wants to shove his face into his bowl and absorb all of its warmth. Though, that’s likely the day catching up to him, not a reflection of any genuine sentiment. “And you? How’s that client?”
“Oh, you haven’t even heard the half of it,” Kaveh exclaims, sitting up straighter. “He’s infuriating. Listen here, today he told me that he thinks roofs are trite and was there anything else we could possibly substitute it with? Roofs, Al-Haitham! He said that the idea of a roof was trite!”
“People are morons,” Al-Haitham offers.
“Yes,” Kaveh says, nodding fervently. “Yes, they are.”
Kaveh goes on for a while about the client and the design and the issues he’s running into as well as the breakthroughs he’s had (which come in equal volume, predictably), and Al-Haitham listens and nods along until Kaveh has exhausted himself.
“Before I forget,” Kaveh adds as he scrapes at the rice at the bottom of his bowl, “I have to go to the desert next week to check on a work site. I’ll be leaving early Wednesday morning, but I won’t be too long. Expect me home by Friday night.”
“Oh,” Al-Haitham says, and tries not to look disappointed. He’s a grown man, after all. He’s not going to start brooding just because his boyfriend leaves town for a few days. That, even more than hating the job he is obligated to, would be truly ridiculous. He is very much not miffed at the idea of an empty evening for the majority of the week.
Kaveh, ever perceptive, grins at him from across the table. “Aww, will you miss me? That’s cute.”
“It’s only three days,” Al-Haitham says, redirecting his gaze from Kaveh to the empty bowl in front of him. Then Kaveh takes it out from under him and heads to the sink, so with nothing immediate to focus on, he’s forced to return his eyes to Kaveh, who is still grinning wickedly.
“Three whole days! Whatever will you do? It’ll be awfully lonely.”
“I think I’ll survive.”
Kaveh ignores him. “It’ll be devastating for you, I’m sure,” he continues, raising his voice over the sound of the running water as he washes the dishes. He flicks a soap sud in Al-Haitham’s direction. “Don’t worry, sweetheart, I’ll bring you back a souvenir.”
“That’s unnecessary, darling.” Al-Haitham bites back a smile at the red flush that creeps up from Kaveh’s neck to his ears and the scowl he throws at Al-Haitham. “The only thing you’ll bring back is sand.”
“Yes, that’s an unfortunate—” Kaveh cuts himself off, eyes brightening as he spins to Al-Haitham. “Haitham, why don’t you come with me?”
“I have work,” Al-Haitham says, feeling slightly taken aback.
“As much as I appreciate your newfound patriotism, Sumeru will not collapse if you take a few sick days,” Kaveh replies, toweling off his hands and interlocking his fingers behind Al-Haitham’s neck, pulling his face closer.
“I don’t get sick days,” Al-Haitham says. “I’m the Grand Sage.”
“Acting,” Kaveh corrects, laughter bubbling up in his eyes, and Al-Haitham leans forward to press his lips to Kaveh’s before it can escape from his mouth. Kaveh smiles against him and kisses him back, opening his mouth to give Al-Haitham greater access. He tastes like their dinner. One of his hands slides down to push firmly against Al-Haitham’s chest and for a moment, Al-Haitham thinks he plans to push him all the way into their bedroom— but instead, Kaveh pulls back from him, inhaling deeply.
“Everyone gets sick days,” Kaveh says. Al-Haitham wishes they would pause the discussion and go back to the not-talking from a second earlier. “Put Cyno or someone in charge for a while. You deserve a break, anyhow.”
“I can’t just— put Cyno in charge,” Al-Haitham says, shaking his head. Kaveh shrugs.
“Why not?” Al-Haitham thinks that he probably does have a good reason, but he can’t think of it, not when Kaveh’s taste is still lingering on his mouth and Kaveh’s hands are still on him.
“…I’ll see,” Al-Haitham concedes, far too easily. “I can bring it up to Nahida tomorrow.”
“That’s the spirit,” Kaveh says, pressing a quick kiss against Al-Haitham’s cheek before detaching himself. “I’m going to go take a shower. Join me?”
Al-Haitham does, because he’d have to be a particular brand of fool to ever say no to that question, and there is nothing quite as relaxing as the sensation of Kaveh’s fingers working shampoo into his hair.
Once he’s clean, relaxed, and dressed down, he settles onto the divan next to Kaveh, who is staring down at the blueprint in his lap, brows furrowed in concentration.
Al-Haitham grabs a book and flips to his page to read— or at least, pretend to read. He doesn’t even make it halfway down the page, focused more on the rhythm of Kaveh’s breathing and the scratching of his pencil across his blueprint.
“Making any progress?” He asks, just for the sake of hearing Kaveh talk.
“I will satisfy this man and put a roof over his head,” Kaveh declares. “Ha. Maybe I should be taking tips from you for this.”
“What?”
“Nevermind. Go back to your book.”
Al-Haitham does just that, leaning against Kaveh’s shoulder.
He probably could try and get off work for at least a few days. He’d feel a little guilty leaving Nahida with the brunt of the work, but Cyno could likely help if needed, and Panah was as familiar with every file on the Grand Sage’s desk as Al-Haitham himself.
Somehow, like this, Al-Haitham can forget the series of unfortunate events that resulted in him bearing responsibility for an entire nation. No, in the warm lamplight of the living room, with Sumeru humming softly in the night outside his window, Al-Haitham is not the Acting Grand Sage— he is just Al-Haitham. Kaveh is just Kaveh. They are just themselves, exhausted and weary and still happy.
Perhaps that is another reason that Al-Haitham can’t find it in himself to truly hate his job, because despite the many changes in his life, there are certain things that have remained much the same. At the end of every day, no matter how grueling, he comes home to someone waiting, to a conversation over a meal, to lithe fingers that curl into his hair and the imprint of two bodies against one mattress. The city could collapse and at the end of it all he’d still come here, to the framed paintings on the wall, the books and blueprints scattered across the coffee table, the two keys that hang side-by-side at the door.
At the end of the day, he has Kaveh, and isn’t that all he’ll ever need?