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“You didn’t put your hair up today.”
Alhaitham joins a frazzled Kaveh on the cold steps of Razan Garden. Even in his disheveled state, Kaveh glows brighter than the nuclear bluish flowers housed under the garden’s domes.
“Didn’t have time. Woke up late,” Kaveh explains, pushing a stray strand of hair behind his ear. It uselessly flops back in front of his face. A strangled groan escapes from his throat.
“Is it bothering you?” asks Alhaitham. He’s never seen his senior with his hair down. Every blink, like the click of a Kamera, etches an eternal image in Alhaitham’s mind. Somehow, he finds this version of Kaveh intimate. Exposed, even.
“It’s fine,” Kaveh says, dismissing him with the wave of his hand. Still, his fingers find his scalp, and he holds his misbehaving hair in place.
It’s obviously Not Fine. After numerous years of knowing him, Alhaitham is an expert in Kaveh-nese.
So Alhaitham reaches under the bulky sleeve of his Akademiya uniform and pulls a hair tie off his wrist. It’s carmine red—Alhaitham’s favorite color.
He offers it to Kaveh.
Surprise flashes across Kaveh’s face. “When did you start carrying these around?” Kaveh says, murmuring the question.
Alhaitham shrugs, a non-answer.
Kaveh reaches for the hair tie but then withdraws his hand. He smiles, almost cryptically. “Braid it for me,” he says, turning his head to give Alhaitham access to his long, lustrous locks.
Unlike himself, Alhaitham hesitates. He’s never done this before. His hands, awkward and indelicate, are too amateur to handle Kaveh’s pride and joy.
“Stop thinking so much,” Kaveh grumbles, still facing away from him. “You don’t have to be an expert in everything first try. Most people practice until they get it right.”
Alhaitham hums. He lets his fingers gently thread through Kaveh’s hair. It’s softer than he imagined. Smells nice, too. If he isn’t careful, he could get addicted.
Growing used to the feeling of Kaveh between his knuckles, he combs his hair thoroughly. The tangles relent to Alhaitham’s insisting fingers. When all that’s left is smooth, silky hair, Alhaitham begins braiding.
He sections the hair into three, like he’s seen Kaveh do so many times before. Then, he begins his work. Out, in. Out, in. His clumsy hands struggle to keep each section separate, but he tries nevertheless. A familiar braid pattern, albeit lopsided, starts to take shape.
Sighs leave Kaveh’s lips. His head lolls—hopefully a sign of relaxation. He hasn’t said anything about Alhaitham’s piss-poor job at hairstyling yet. But then again, Kaveh isn’t the type to speak out about things he doesn’t like.
So Alhaitham asks, “Am I doing okay?” He’s not one to seek out reassurance, but this is Kaveh. His opinion has always meant a little more to him than his other peers’ thoughts.
“I never thought I’d see the day you’d acknowledge your shortcomings,” Kaveh teases, voice light. Alhaitham is glad that he’s looking the other way, so he can’t see his burning cheeks.
“Hmph. Forget I asked,” says Alhaitham. The braid dwindles, turning smaller and smaller in his fingertips. The bronze edges shimmer alongside the fibers of gold. Mesmerized, he stares at the ends longer than necessary, rubbing his fingers along the darkening parts. Beautiful, Alhaitham thinks. Beautiful, like every other part of Kaveh’s body.
“Ah, don’t look too closely at the ends,” Kaveh says with a touch of embarrassment. “They’re discoloring, so I’m going to cut them off soon.”
Alhaitham frowns. As long as it’s healthy hair, the color shouldn’t matter. Whether he’s blond, brunet, or something in between, Kaveh is breathtakingly handsome. Objectively, of course.
“Don’t,” Alhaitham says as he admires the ends once more. Finally, he ties the braid. Once he lets go, his restless fingers miss the texture of his hair. But he won’t pry for more than he’s given. “I like them.”
Kaveh turns to him, feeling down his new hairdo. He brings it over his shoulder and looks at Alhaitham’s handiwork, if it can qualify as such. His eyes settle on the bronze curl at the bottom of the braid. “Okay,” he says, looking back up into Alhaitham’s eyes. “I won’t cut them.”
Alhaitham is statue-still. He’s unsure if he’s allowed to breathe under Kaveh’s affectionate gaze.
Breaking eye contact, Kaveh runs his hands over his hair again. “Your braiding is subpar,” he comments, pinching at loose loops and prodding at taut strands. Before Alhaitham can deflate or otherwise react to Kaveh’s criticism, he continues, “But that’s okay. We’ll do this every day until you master it.” He offers a small smile to Alhaitham.
Alhaitham’s traitorous heart beats wildly at the opportunity to get closer to Kaveh. Unfamiliar feelings sprout inside him, faster and faster as days and nights come and go. What does he make of these newfound sensations?
Uncomfortable with what he’s yet to understand, Alhaitham deigns to ignore the accumulation of emotions in his ribcage. Instead, he relies on the one thing that’s never failed him: his brain.
“Why?” he asks Kaveh. Logically speaking, hair braiding will never be a useful skill to him. Why should he invest time into learning this skill when he could be using that time to learn other, more useful skills?
“Are you not up for a challenge?” Kaveh questions, taunting him. He’s never been able to get a rise out of Alhaitham, at least not one out of indignation.
For Alhaitham, it’s not about a challenge. It’s about Kaveh. A lot of Alhaitham’s inexplicable behaviors and pattern disruptions lead back to Kaveh.
“I’ll do it,” Alhaitham answers. Kaveh smiles, blithe and wide. I put that smile there, Alhaitham thinks, dizzily happy. One day, his ribcage will be too small for the amalgamation of unrecognizable feelings in his heart.
And so, the next day, Alhaitham braids his hair. And the next day after that. And the next. And the next. And the next.
Until the motions burn into his hands’ memory.
----------
Alhaitham makes breakfast and coffee for two, like he does every other week. Technically, it’s Kaveh’s week for morning duties, but he can’t make him do chores when one of his arms is out of commission.
Miserable and bored out of his mind, Kaveh sulks at the table. He can’t draw nor help out with daily tasks, per doctor’s (read: Tighnari’s) orders. He can only daydream and wait for his breakfast to be served. It’s only day one of house arrest, and he’s not having it.
“I tripped on loose sediment at the construction site. Landed on my good arm, too,” Kaveh said yesterday, lamenting his misfortune. “I’ll be out of work for four weeks. Four weeks! You better not pester me about rent during this time,” he grumbled.
“When do I ever?” Alhaitham responded.
Even when recovering, Kaveh worries about how his projects will turn out now that he’s not physically there to oversee them. Meanwhile, Alhaitham plays therapist.
“I need to be there. I need to make sure everything is handled smoothly. What if they run into a problem, and they need me, but I’m not there?” Kaveh fretted.
“Your juniors have it handled. Stop your incessant stressing. It’s bothersome.”
“Bothersome?” Kaveh repeated incredulously. “Don’t you care about how I feel?”
“Okay, Kaveh. How does that make you feel?”
A vein jutted out from his neck. “I’m disengaging from this conversation. Do you hear me?” Kaveh said, turning away. “I’m disengaging.”
“I heard you the first time.”
Alhaitham finishes cooking breakfast. He places a plate of eggs and cut fruit and a coffee in front of Kaveh. He stares at the colorful array of food and stabs at it with his fork. None of it goes into his mouth.
Alhaitham places a plate and cup in front of his seat, too. Before he sits, he squints at Kaveh and asks, “Are you going to eat?” Alhaitham isn’t the best cook by any means, but he’s pretty sure the food is edible, even if not tasty.
Kaveh doesn’t look up from his full plate. Eyebrows drawn, he mumbles something unintelligible. Alhaitham opens his mouth to press him again, but then Kaveh’s free hand moves into his tousled hair. He brushes the locks behind his ear, but they fall forward anyway.
Ah. Alhaitham identifies the issue. “You don’t want to eat with hair in your face, is that it?” he asks, eyeing Kaveh’s movements. When Kaveh glares at him, he knows he hit the target, dead center.
Alhaitham pulls up a chair on Kaveh’s side of the table and sits down. “Turn your head,” he instructs to a bewildered Kaveh. Magically, or rather from his pocket, he produces a hair tie. The carmine color is as lively as ever.
“What? No. You don’t— I can do it myself!” Kaveh protests, trying to snatch the hair tie from Alhaitham’s hand. However, Kaveh, with his currently limited upper body mobility, is no match for Alhaitham’s agility.
“Can you?” Alhaitham deadpans, pointedly looking at the cast on Kaveh’s arm. “Just let me, Kaveh.”
“I do my hair differently now,” Kaveh argues.
“I know,” Alhaitham says, eyes raking over his hair. “It’s shorter. You can’t wear a full braid, so you only braid a section. You wear red hair clips in the back now.”
His hair, which he once knew so well, changed over the years. No less beautiful, he thinks. He’s ready to relearn the once-familiar routine of hair braiding from their younger days.
Little did he know back then, he wove every emotion he felt for Kaveh into each hair he interlaced. He still holds the mystifying feelings he held at that time, but he can put a name to them now.
“You may know what my typical hairstyle looks like, but that doesn’t mean you can replicate it,” Kaveh says, rationalizing as he speaks. “And- and you don’t have my hair clips.” It’s a weak defense, and he knows it.
Alhaitham reaches into his pocket and places eight red hair clips on the table. Six for his usual hairstyle, and two for backup. He cocks his eyebrow, challenging Kaveh to come up with another bullshit line. “Well?”
Kaveh glares at him. It’s not heated. Lukewarm, at best. Alhaitham knows what it’s like to be on the receiving end of Kaveh’s fiery fury. “Fine,” he grumbles, “but you only get one chance. And if it’s not good, I’m taking it out.”
“Noted,” Alhaitham says as Kaveh turns around. Now that Kaveh is not looking, the corners of Alhaitham’s lips twitch into a smile. He can’t help it, especially when his fingers touch his hair, still soft as ever, for the first time in years.
Archons, he’s so in love with him.
Love, one of the many emotions he couldn’t name when he was younger. When Kaveh moved in, Alhaitham tried to show him he loved him in various ways, unsuccessful as they were. Paying for his tab on late nights out, leaving gifts on his desk, telling Kaveh that he’s important to him—none of it got through. Now, he knows it’s a matter of waiting. Kaveh has to want to return his feelings if he is to notice them.
Alhaitham’s hands move through Kaveh’s hair with a mind of their own. Like always, the knots surrender to his fingers. Countless soft exhales and a few gasps come from Kaveh. He lets his fingers loiter near Kaveh’s scalp, scratching tenderly.
“You’re responsive today,” Alhaitham murmurs, toeing the line. One step over, and Kaveh will pull away.
“And you’re talkative,” Kaveh retorts, not missing a beat. Alhaitham huffs a quiet laugh. In Kaveh-nese, that means shut up.
After threading through his lightly floral-scented hair, he moves on to braiding. He grabs a small section on the side of Kaveh’s head and begins weaving. Out, in. Out, in, again. The process is achingly familiar, but his hands work gracelessly due to lack of practice. The golden luster takes him back to simpler days—days of ordinary routine, days when their friendship could be called that. A friendship. That begs the question: what are they now?
Alhaitham gets to the end of the hair, the bronze Kaveh once hated. Does he hate them now? He doesn’t know. But they’re still there. Uncut. Alive. Surely, that must mean something.
He ties the braid with the red hair tie, securing every unspoken I love you, every unwritten I’m sorry, and every overflowing emotion he still can’t name between the interlocking hairs. He doesn’t let the braid go. He holds on, his fingers tracing the ombre from gold to bronze.
Like years before, the bronzing ends captivate him, intrigue him in some way. They want something from him. Attention, perhaps? He looks at them curiously. Deviously, they beckon his mouth, begging for a brush of the lips.
So Alhaitham complies. He lifts the braid’s end to his mouth and gives it a gentle, soundless kiss. Somehow, his hair feels softer against his lips than between his fingers. Straggling strands tickle his chin. It’s a pleasant feeling—kissing Kaveh’s hair like this while the morning light illuminates him just right. A future where he wakes up to Kaveh’s hair in his face as the dawn’s rays shine down on them—wouldn’t that be nice?
In his reverie, Kaveh’s stiffening body slips past his judgment. It’s only when a mutter reaches Alhaitham’s ears does he assimilate back to reality.
“...oward,” Kaveh says under his breath.
“I didn’t catch that.”
“I said,” he spits, turning around, “you’re a c—”
His hands capture Kaveh’s jaw, and Alhaitham presses his lips against Kaveh’s mouth, effectively silencing him. A muffled noise of surprise tears out of Kaveh at the sudden collision. But miraculously, he doesn’t pull away.
Alhaitham has no idea what he's doing, no idea what he’s just done. The taste and gentle give of Kaveh’s lips fill his head with cumulus clouds, the fluffy kind. His inexperienced mouth moves to an awkward rhythm, like an uncoordinated dance he’s yet to learn. When he pulls away, albeit with much reluctance, he takes in Kaveh’s face.
…Wow. He doesn’t think he’s seen that expression before. He files the image into his mental cabinet labeled Kaveh, which has much more material than any of the other filing spaces.
“Don’t call me a coward,” Alhaitham says, struggling to keep his face placid. “Now turn around.”
“Wha— You can’t just do that,” Kaveh says, his expression morphing into one of incredulity. “Aren’t you going to say something—”
“Turn around,” Alhaitham repeats, doing his best to conceal the desperation that’s trickling out of his throat. “I wasn’t done with your hair.”
Kaveh looks at Alhaitham for an extra long second before complying—not without a huff and a few grumbled choice words, of course. The end of the braid Alhaitham kissed sways in front of him like a tease. He consciously pulls his eyes away from it. If his gaze lingers too long, who knows what he’ll do.
He grabs the first hair clip and carefully angles it in the proper position before he snaps it into place. Truthfully, his unhurried care and consideration were a ruse. The moment he finishes, Kaveh will turn around. Kaveh will ask questions. Kaveh will close the safe distance they’ve shared over the past two years. Alhaitham will find that he’s unequipped in dealing with the consequences of his own actions.
More and more clips join Kaveh’s golden locks. Bracing himself for the inevitable onslaught of interrogation, he crosses the final clip over with another to form an “X” shape and snaps it down.
His hands leave Kaveh’s hair. They itch at Alhaitham’s sides, so he crosses his arms. Meanwhile, Kaveh turns to him, slow and deliberate. The unreadable expression on his face is ominous, promising nothing but hard conversations. Ready for what Kaveh has to say, Alhaitham clenches his jaw.
“You’re a terrible kisser.”
Alhaitham blinks. Then registers the sentence. Am I? he thinks. He has no other references to turn to, but he’s not keen on taking Kaveh’s words at face value.
“Yes, you are. I see that look on your face,” Kaveh says, wagging a finger in front of Alhaitham’s nose. Alhaitham puts away his visible displeasure. He’s not sure when that emotion escaped the confines of his chest. “And no, it wasn’t mediocre either,” Kaveh continues. “It was bad.”
“Agree to disagree,” Alhaitham mumbles in defense. Mortification accumulates as heat in his ears. Thank the archons that his headphones hide his humiliation. Beginner’s luck isn’t on his side today, it seems.
“Oh, now you’re a pacifist. How convenient,” Kaveh says with a sniff. “With that outlook, how are you going to improve?”
“...What?”
Kaveh is not looking at him anymore, instead choosing to feast his eyes on the oh-so-interesting plate of eggs and fruit. “It’s like braiding hair, you know? You’d practice every day, and it still took you months to get the hang of it.” He touches his wonky braid. “Even though you’re not as good as you were once. But that’s the point of practice. You get better, not perfect. And- and there’s always room to improve! Aha…”
Alhaitham studies Kaveh, who still refuses to meet his eyes. Slowly, he asks, “Are you saying that we should practice kissing, so… I can get better?”
“Well, I’m not saying—”
Alhaitham cuts him off with another kiss. Deeper, this time. Less shy. He pulls back, taste clinging to his lips. “How was that?” he asks.
“Awful,” Kaveh answers, although nothing in his expression tells Alhaitham that he means it. “Let me show you.”
With his one available hand, he takes Alhaitham’s chin and slots their mouths together. The pace he sets is slow but sweet, passionate but languid. When he retreats, Alhaitham leans forward, chasing his lips. Embarrassed, he withdraws and wipes his mouth.
“Again,” Alhaitham says, taking notes on Kaveh’s expertise. “Again,” he says, just to cement Kaveh’s taste on his tongue. “Again.” Again. Again.
Countless attempts pass. The coffee and eggs go cold. Kaveh’s hair clips dangle dangerously from his head. His braid comes undone. But it’s not a problem.
Alhaitham can always braid it again.