Chapter Text
The problem with building flawless defense mechanisms is that they work exactly when you don’t want them to. You spend years engineering a foolproof escape hatch, only to realize you’ve triggered it while trying to let someone inside.
“If I wanted your pity, Alhaitham, I’d ask for a mirror,” Kaveh snapped, the words tasted like ash the second they left his mouth. He didn’t mean it. He was exhausted, his shoulders ached from hunching over his drafting table all day, and Alhaitham had literally just set down a plate of food Kaveh had been too tired to cook for himself. The silence that followed was immediate. Kaveh watched the subtle, almost imperceptible closing-off of Alhaitham’s expression, and the urge to apologize rose in his throat—only to be instantly choked out by the stubborn, terrifying need to stay safe.
The silence in the room stretched, thick and suffocating, punctuated only by the low hum of the Akasha terminal on the shelf.
Alhaitham didn’t flinch, didn’t snap back, and didn’t state the obvious—that he had spent the last hour in the kitchen specifically because Kaveh had looked ghost-pale when he stumbled through the front door. Instead, Alhaitham merely looked down at the plate of flatbread and dip resting on the counter of the crowded desk, then slowly pulled his hand back, resting it on his knee.
“Pity requires a level of emotional investment I rarely allocate to roommates,” Alhaitham said, his tone dropping back into that familiar, flat cadence. It was his default mask, but right now, it felt like a cold splash of water. “It’s basic logic, Kaveh. If you starve, you can’t pay your portion of the rent.”
It was a lie, and they both knew it.
Kaveh’s fingers curled tighter around his drafting pen, the material digging into the calloused pad of his thumb. His throat burned with the agonizing urge to take it back, to reach across the space between their chairs, grab Alhaitham’s sleeve, and admit that he was just tired, so incredibly tired, and that the food smelled amazing.
But the mechanism had already locked into place. To apologize now meant acknowledging why he had lashed out in the first place. It meant admitting that Alhaitham’s quiet consideration had terrified him.
“Right. Of course. Heaven forbid the great Scribe lose his favorite live-in target for budgeting lectures,” Kaveh forced out, his voice carrying a defensive edge as he forced a sharp, humorless smile. He pushed a stray lock of blonde hair out of his eyes, deliberately turning his gaze back to the dizzying grid lines of his blueprint. “Leave the plate. I’ll eat it later.”
Alhaitham stood up without another word. The tapping of his footsteps was the only sound as he turned toward the hallway, leaving Kaveh alone with the smell of a warm meal and the crushing, familiar weight of self-inflicted isolation.
The blueprint in front of Kaveh blurred into a meaningless web of ink and graphite. He held his breath until the sound of Alhaitham’s bedroom door clicking shut echoed in the corridor.
Only then did Kaveh let his shoulders drop. The tension left his body all at once, leaving him so hollowed out his chest nearly ached. He set the pen down with trembling fingers, watching it roll across a sheet of parchment until it bumped against the edge of the ceramic plate.
The food was still steaming. The flatbread was torn into neat, manageable pieces, exactly the way Kaveh preferred when he was working so he wouldn’t get grease on his drawings. It was an infuriatingly attentive detail.
“Idiot,” Kaveh whispered into the empty room, though he wasn’t entirely sure which of them he was insulting.
He pinched a piece of the bread, his stomach twisting with a mix of hunger and acute guilt. It tasted incredible. The spices were perfectly balanced, lacking the heavy salt Alhaitham usually preferred but Kaveh detested. Alhaitham had tailored the meal to Kaveh’s specific tastes, and Kaveh had rewarded him by throwing a tantrum.
This was the pattern. It was a loop Kaveh had engineered over a lifetime of conditional affection and sudden abandonments. If he picked the fight first, he controlled the narrative. If he pushed Alhaitham away, then Alhaitham leaving was Kaveh’s own fault, a predictable consequence he could map out. It was far less terrifying than the alternative: letting Alhaitham get close, letting himself rely on that steady, quiet presence, only to wait for the day Alhaitham inevitably realized Kaveh wasn’t worth the trouble and locked the door for good.
Kaveh chewed slowly, the food turning to ash in his mouth. He looked around the dimly lit living room. He had decorated almost every inch of it, filling Alhaitham’s sterile, practical house with colorful tapestries, cushions, and dynamic lighting. He had made it look like a home, yet he felt like a ghost haunting it.
An hour ticked by in agonizing silence. Kaveh managed to clear half the plate, though his appetite was entirely gone. The guilt was a physical weight now, pressing down on his stomach.
Unable to stare at his ruined blueprints any longer, Kaveh stood up. His joints cracked, stiff from hours of sitting hunched over the drafting table. He picked up the plate, walking quietly into the kitchen to wash it. He stood at the sink, the rush of cold water the only sound in the dark house, scrubbing at the ceramic until his knuckles turned white.
When he finally turned off the tap, he stood frozen in the center of the kitchen. His eyes drifted toward the hallway. Alhaitham’s door showed a faint line of light at the bottom. He was still awake, probably reading, completely unfazed by the storm Kaveh had manufactured out of nothing.
Or maybe he was fazed. Maybe this was the night Alhaitham finally decided he was tired of the push and pull.
The thought sent a spike of cold dread through Kaveh’s veins. He took a slow, deliberate breath, forcing his hands to stop shaking. He couldn’t leave it like this. He didn't have the courage to offer a real confession, but he could patch the crack in the wall just enough to keep the ceiling from falling.
Moving like a thief in his own home, Kaveh walked down the hall. He stopped outside Alhaitham’s door, his hand hovering over the doorknob. His heart hammered a frantic rhythm against his ribs. Just apologize, his mind urged. Just say thank you.
Instead, his hand dropped back to his side. His own mechanism was locking the deadbolt on his throat.
Kaveh cleared his throat, leaning his shoulder against the doorframe instead of knocking. “The bread was dry,” he called out. “And you used too much cumin. But… I suppose it kept me from starving. Don’t expect me to wash your dishes tomorrow to make up for it.”
He waited, holding his breath, praying for a retort, an insult, anything to prove the bridge hadn’t completely burned.
From the other side of the door, there was a long, heavy pause. Then, a faint rustle of pages.
“Go to sleep, Kaveh,” Alhaitham’s voice carried through the door, quiet, flat, and entirely unreadable.
Kaveh closed his eyes, leaning his head against the cool wood for a single, fleeting second. He had successfully kept Alhaitham at arm’s length. He had maintained the distance. He walked back to his own room in the dark, entirely safe, and completely miserable.