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The vindication Kaveh feels upon seeing Al-Haitham’s pinched face the morning after—after returning to their ruined home, safe but shaken—doesn’t last long.
“Well, aren’t you looking bothered,” he says as he steps over a pile of rubble into what used to be Al-Haitham’s bedroom. He brought a cup of tea he meant to give to Al-Haitham, but it seems tea is the last thing on his mind.
“Good morning to you too,” says Al-Haitham from where he’s kneeling on the floor, his voice void of inflection. He looks up for only a moment, but it’s enough for Kaveh to pick up on the tension in his jaw.
“I thought you weren’t at all upset about any of this?”
“I’m not,” Al-Haitham insists. Stubborn.
“Well, what happened then? Surely something’s bothering you, or else you wouldn’t be moving your things back and forth in the same spot like that.”
Al-Haitham’s eyes drop to his hands, between them a box filled with little trinkets—souvenirs from his trips to the desert, no doubt, gleaming gem stones and jagged blocks of stone, the old runes on them barely legible from erosion. Al-Haitham sighs.
“Nothing happened,” he begins, slow and measured, “I’m just looking for something.”
“Something valuable?”
“Yes.”
“Your grandmother’s?” It must be a family heirloom she passed down to him if he’s this desperate to find it, and Kaveh catches himself automatically softening his tone. Al-Haitham doesn’t talk about her a lot, but there is not a day that goes past without him stopping by her picture in the hallway, even if it’s just for a minute.
Al-Haitham shakes his head. “It’s something I bought fairly recently.”
An item Al-Haitham bought recently? Kaveh tries to recall Al-Haitham’s most recent purchases, mentally flipping through a catalog consisting of a tasteless candelabra, a lopsided fruit bowl, a hideous set of woven place mats…but none of the items that come to mind seem like objects that would hold a lot of material value.
Kaveh frowns. “What, have you suddenly developed an emotional attachment to those place mats you brought home the other day?”
“Did you come here to make fun of me?” Al-Haitham asks coolly, and Kaveh stumbles back a step, unbalanced by the prompt accusation. Usually Al-Haitham is the one poking and prodding, and his tolerance for harmless banter is much higher than Kaveh’s. He doesn’t take any of what Kaveh says to heart, not that Kaveh is aware of. But clearly something has happened to grind away at that impenetrable exterior, lay those nerves of steel bare.
Kaveh holds up his free hand in defense. “Alright, I’m sorry, okay? I’ll set your cup down here on the dresser and leave you be.”
There’s no response, and when Kaveh turns back after setting down the cup, Al-Haitham’s attempting to reach beneath the bed, back muscles pulled taut. He digs around frantically, chucking random items across the cluttered floor, in search of whatever mysterious object he’s lost in the chaos of Irminsul burning.
After all they’ve been through, seeing Al-Haitham like this makes Kaveh’s heart ache. His long fingers crumple precious paper, some of it ripping. He’s never seen him treat his belongings like this—like they’re worth nothing, like he’s ready to sacrifice every last thing if it meant he’d get to recover what he’s so desperately looking for. Kaveh’s tongue sits heavy in his mouth. Is this really the same man who grabbed only a handful of things when they evacuated? Who lectured Kaveh on the importance of getting his priorities straight in the face of imminent destruction, and urged him to take nothing more but the absolute necessities?
Why had he put up such a front yesterday when he was clearly distressed?
Al-Haitham hits the top of his head on the cracked bed frame as he attempts to sit up, a groan of pain spilling over his lips.
Enough. Kaveh can’t keep watching this unfold.
“Haitham…do you want help looking for it? It’ll be quicker.”
Al-Haitham stills.
“If you tell me what it is you’re looking for I’ll help you search. It must be here somewhere, right?”
“A box.”
Kaveh blinks. “What kind of box?”
“It’s a small brown box, about this size.” Al-Haitham holds up his thumb and pointer finger, about three or four centimeters apart. “No label.”
“Okay,” Kaveh says, swallowing. The surprise on his face must be obvious. Al-Haitham, looking for a tiny little box that would fit nothing bigger than a ring? Something that he allegedly bought, not inherited? The implications aren’t lost on Kaveh, and he’s glad he has a good enough reason to sink to his knees, because they feel like they’re about to turn as soft as padisarah pudding.
When they returned to the house most of the walls were intact, but large gashes had been torn into the roof, ripped open by fire and wind, and the contents of their cabinets and cupboards had spilled across the floor in total disarray. Al-Haitham’s room took the brunt of it. Kaveh realizes this anew as he crawls across the floor alongside Al-Haitham, combing through mirror shards and tangled clumps of fabrics, catching dirt and dust under his long fingernails.
They work quietly, each for himself. Kaveh tries not to think too hard about the potential content of that box, and its intended owner. He had entertained the thought, more frequently in recent days, of what it might be like to stay here, buy back his half of the house from Al-Haitham and become a permanent resident. Standing on the roof of the Mausoleum two nights ago, he’d tasted the words on his tongue—the words he might say to Al-Haitham to ask his opinion on the matter—but had then decided against it, too afraid Al-Haitham would brush him off for making decisions on a whim. Now that there is a ring in the picture, he’s bitterly glad he’d kept his mouth shut.
Perhaps the timing is just right, though. He’s never had a better reason to seek accommodation elsewhere, after all. It’s this thought that keeps his hands moving. It’s cathartic, almost, to sift through and take stock of their losses like this.
An hour in, Al-Haitham’s movements start to slow down, like he’s exhausted himself, like his body has grown tired of producing stress hormones.
Kaveh approaches the corner by Al-Haitham’s bed that holds his nightstand. The drawers have both been removed, leaving the nightstand completely empty. Kaveh peers inside its maw, though he expects that Al-Haitham already checked here.
Just as he leans in, a beam of light cuts through the room from one of the holes in the roof, right into the opening of the nightstand.
There’s something there, tipped onto its side, but he can clearly see it now.
“I think…” Tentatively, Kaveh reaches inside. As soon as his fingers close around the item, he’s certain he’s found it.
Al-Haitham’s head appears behind the other side of the bed, expression tight.
“Is this it?” An unlabeled brown box. The size fits the description, too.
Al-Haitham stands suddenly, and he wobbles for a second as his body redistributes blood to his strained legs. But then he’s there, in front of Kaveh, eyes fixed on the box still held between Kaveh’s fingers.
“That’s it.”
“It was inside your nightstand. It must have fallen out when you removed the drawers,” Kaveh offers, trying hard to keep his voice sounding neutral. Perhaps he should go back to his own room and see what items he can salvage—and start packing while he’s at it. He could spend some time at the Temple of Silence. Surely Sethos would let him stay for a while; he could offer to take a look at the Temple’s ancient structures, see if they need any restoration work done.
Al-Haitham reaches for the box, but at the last second he pulls his hand back.
“What’s wrong?”
Al-Haitham takes a deep breath, the intensity of his gaze multiplying. “Knowing you and your views on romance, I had planned to give this to you at a more appropriate time, but recent events have served as a reminder that we don’t necessarily have as much time left as we think we do. I don’t want to waste another minute, so I hope you can forgive me for skipping the bouquet and the big lead-up.”
Kaveh’s eyes widen, his heart stuttering in his chest. “Al-Haitham, you…”
“You must have an idea what’s inside,” Al-Haitham continues. “Go ahead. Open it, Kaveh.”
Kaveh licks his lips; they’re dry as the desert. “I don’t think I should—Why don’t you—”
“I want you to.”
Oh. Oh Gods.
Is he going to ask Kaveh for his opinion on whatever is inside? (He knows what it is, he knows, but he can’t make himself think it right now.)
Al-Haitham is still staring at him, waiting for Kaveh to stop stalling.
Kaveh’s hands shake as he slowly pushes the lid up. “Perhaps you should let me know who you’re planning on giving this to, so I can…” The hinged lid pops back with a little snap—and reveals a gold ring. It carries one singular diamond-shaped ruby on its crown, held up by an intricate trellis.
A quiet gasp falls from Kaveh’s lips. “It’s beautiful.” His fingers twitch with the clandestine urge to try it on, see how it would go with his earrings, his brooch. It’s Kaveh’s favorite shade of red, vivid and powerful. It speaks to him immediately, and if he didn’t know better he might be foolish enough to think…
But that’s it, isn’t it?
This is Kaveh’s ring. From the gemstone to the colors to the design. It was made for him, down to the last detail. He doesn’t recall Al-Haitham asking him about his jewelry preferences or his ring size or his stance on marriage, but he can see it radiating off that small item in his hands: the care that was put into selecting the material and shape, all the way to the subtle maroon of the cushioning.
The thought of never getting to give this ring to Kaveh must have been unbearable if it had Al-Haitham on his knees in the dust for hours, on a desperate quest to rectify his past misjudgment, and the weight of that realization knocks the air out of Kaveh’s lungs.
He looks up, seeking eye contact. The moment their eyes meet Kaveh feels his throat closing up, and his vision begins to swim. There is no denying it—not when Al-Haitham looks at him like this—uncertain but so hopeful, a dusting of pink on his cheeks and on the tips of his ears.
“When I said I was happy for you, I meant it. And when I said I was determined to master new skills alongside you, I meant that, too.” Al-Haitham takes a step towards Kaveh, leaving only a few centimeters between them. “I’d like to spend my life with you, Kaveh. In any shape or form that is agreeable to you. If you can tolerate the thought.”
Kaveh laughs, a wet, hiccup-y thing. How could he have expected anything other than this?
Kaveh likes to point out his and Al-Haitham’s differences as much as the next guy (namely, Al-Haitham), but only heavens know what he would have done just two days ago if Al-Haitham hadn’t been there with him. He’s grateful for having Al-Haitham back in his life. He’s grateful for receiving a chance to be there for and support Al-Haitham when he couldn’t in the past. He’s glad they get to rebuild their shared home, together.
Al-Haitham stopped being a thorn in his side a long time ago. They’ve left some parts of their complicated past behind, both good and ugly, but the new routines they’ve fostered, that immutable understanding that runs between them like an ever-abundant river is something Kaveh cannot deny. What he feels for Al-Haitham can’t easily be put into words, but perhaps it can be boiled down to one simple fact: Al-Haitham is the most important person in Kaveh’s life. And even though the thought would have been laughable to him in the past, he knows Al-Haitham feels the same. He’s known it for a while, observed it in his mannerisms and little acts of kindness—but now he can no longer ignore it.
Here is his home. If not in this dilapidated house, he’s found it in the man standing in front of him. Al-Haitham is his past as much as he is his present—and in the future, he’ll be wearing this ring on his finger as a physical mark that the feeling is mutual.
“I’d love to spend my life with you,” Kaveh says, wiping tears from his eyes. He refuses to miss a single moment of this, wants to watch every last quiver of Al-Haitham’s lips as he takes in Kaveh’s answer. Kaveh holds out his right hand. “Will you slide it onto my finger?”
Al-Haitham takes the box off Kaveh’s hands, gently brushing his fingertips against his. A tender smile blooms on his lips. “It would be my pleasure.”
