terra

Kaveh's still studying the photo when Haitham comes in. "What are you—ah."

"Don't come close, you'll drip over it!" Kaveh snaps. A newly showered Haitham is normally a distraction, but not when there are memories at stake!

Haitham holds his hands up as if Kaveh is a fatuus waving a gun. "I see you found the family album."

"Family album" is unfortunately more a term of what the album was meant to be than the reality of what it actually is. The album was bought with the full intention of being used to store photos, but... 

There are only three photographs inside.

"You look like your father," Kaveh says.

Although Kaveh thinks privately that Haitham's father isn't nearly so handsome. Alhaitham's parents are cute, but Haitham is stunning. Still, that stiff expression, the way Haitham's father stands... Kaveh shakes his head. 

"Do you remember them?" he asks.

Haitham opens his dresser drawers. "I'm not sure I so," he said.

"... What does that mean, how can you not be sure you remember them?"

"I have some impressions... however, long-term memories don't generally form until two and a half years old. An Amurta researcher once told me that memory recall is like... reading a book, and then rewriting it once it is again stored in the library of the mind. Every recollection thus changes the book." The next sentence is slightly muffled as Haitham pulls on a shirt. "And, of course, one might write a book—that is, create a false memory—and slot it into that library. And one would never know which book was borne from truth, and which was born from falsehood."

"So you're saying... what, you don't know if the memories you have of them are real?"

"Yes. Do I remember my father holding me, or my mother's voice, or were they false memories borne from a young mind's longing?" Haitham shrugs, and sits down to start his nightly routine.

"If you think they're real, they're real."

"You misunderstand," Haitham says, even as he rubs lotion into his skin. "You asked if I remember them. The answer is, I'm not sure. The veracity of those memories doesn't matter."

But, Kaveh thinks, you used the word "longing". So it must have mattered to you, at some point. Sometimes, Haitham says things that paint him as someone entirely divorced from sentimentality. And yet... he still has his family's album.

Kaveh doesn't speak the words aloud, though. 

He looks down. The next photograph is of Alhaitham and his grandmother. Kaveh's read some of her work, actually; much of her research is still very much applicable and is still referenced today. She's smiling. That's when he notices.

The next photo is of the entire family. Haitham's grandfather; his parents; Haitham himself: all of them are staring at the Kamera with faces of stone. Haitham's grandmother, however, is smiling.

Three generations of family, and Alhaitham's grandmother is the only one smiling. Kaveh laughs. "Your whole family seems so serious, look. Except for your grandmother."

Haitham comes close. He raises his eyebrow. "It does make me wonder how much a person's disposition is determined by upbringing, and how much is determined by genetics. My grandmother married in," he says, to Kaveh's baffled look. "When my parents passed, she raised me, and yet I hardly resemble her."

"I'm trying to point out how adorable your grandmother is!" Kaveh complains. "And you talk about genetics?—Besides, you're plenty like her!"

"... Am I?" Haitham says, startled.

"You write very similarly to her. It's aggravating, but your papers are just as clear and illuminating as hers... of course, they're often wrong," Kaveh adds quickly. "but it's clear who taught you how to even write."

He points towards the photo. "And honestly, when you do smile—not that it's ever good news for me when you smile—you do it exactly the way she does. Of course, it's cute when she does, you just look like you're afraid to show teeth." Wait, hasn't Kaveh just said his grandmother was adorable? Is he... sort of secondhand saying Haitham is adorable? No, no, he isn't. He isn't!

Anyway, Haitham hasn't noticed. He still has that startled look on his face. "That's... the first time someone's said I'm like her."

"... Huh!?" Kaveh blurts. "Impossible!"

"The resemblance usually pointed out is between me and my father."

"Oh, well, that's true as well," Kaveh says. "You brought up genetics earlier, maybe that stiff disposition of yours was inherited from him. But you don't really write or think like him at all." 

"... You've read his work?"

"..." Fuck! Kaveh really doesn't want to explain that there was once a time, after their fight, he'd been... ravenous for any news at all about Alhaitham, for any scrap of information he could get. Somehow, that had led to him looking up Alhaitham's family. "S-some," he stammers.

And then he's even more thrown when Haitham says, "I haven't."

"... You haven't?"

"I find it difficult," Haitham says. The admission is made in a bland tone. His expression is as dull as always. But there's something that makes Kaveh turn to fully regard him.

Haitham meets his gaze. Unlike Kaveh, who flinches away when Haitham studies him, Haitham does not think being known is a fearful thing. He sits there, dressed in his sleeping clothes, towel around his neck, and lets Kaveh study him: the minute details of his face, the way the turned-down lights soften the planes of his face. "I can emphasize," Kaveh says finally. "That box, you know. I haven't opened it again since—yeah."

Haitham only nods. Is he agreeing? Is he only showing that he's listening? Who knows. Sometimes, Kaveh thinks he knows Haitham best of all. Other times, the man seems as opaque as the blackest ink. Kaveh clears his throat. He puts away the family album—carefully, slowly—and finishes doing what he was actually doing—tidying up this small corner of Haitham's room.

When he's done, Alhaitham is already under the covers. Kaveh hesitates. "I'll, um, join you in a bit?" he says. And then hastily qualifies: "Not for sex. Just. ... Can I?"

One hand slips out to sign a "yes" to Kaveh.

Kaveh readies for bed. As he's changing in his room, he looks at his own bed and realizes suddenly how little he sleeps in it, now. And when he goes to Haitham's room, he can see traces of himself everywhere: the sketchbook on the bedside table, the hair clips scattered on the dresser. And he has his own side of the bed. (It's the one closest to the door, because Haitham hates being disturbed if he suddenly has to get up at night to piss or he's struck by midnight inspiration.)

He slides under the covers. He doesn't reach for Alhaitham, just lies there, staring up at the ceiling. Suddenly, abruptly, he turns, the mattress bouncing slightly. "Let's actually use that Kamera. In the study."

"You use it, all the time," Haitham points out, in a not-quite-there sort of way that suggests he's halfway to sleep.

"No, I mean, let's use it to take pictures of, um, us. Let's buy an album. And take photos. Just while I'm staying in your house, of course! Just... to remember."

"... I'd have thought," Haitham says, "that you wouldn't want to remember living here."

"I," Kaveh stutters. "I... I want to."

Silence. And then, "Fine. Good night, Kaveh," Haitham says, in a tone that suggests what he means is 'shut up and sleep'.

Even as a youth in his twenties, Haitham has already decried social interaction. He should regard Kaveh as just an annoying senior. Indeed, the longer they are in communication, and the closer they edge towards being friends rather than acquaintances, the more Haitham is convinced that Kaveh is yet more proof of how unnecessarily complicated relationships are.

Alhaitham is well aware that Kaveh is motivated by some misguided belief that Haitham is some poor, lonely junior in need of a friend. His overtures are well-meant, but are not necessarily done with any intention of going beyond their senior-junior relationship. And Kaveh is anyway not the first senior to attempt such—many people have approached Haitham because of self-serving altruism. Kaveh, too, is yet another senior only fulfilling the societal expectations of seniors in regards to their juniors. 

But Kaveh is the first that Haitham allows within his walls.

And not because Haitham needs a friend. Haitham does not need anyone. Haitham depends on no one. No, Haitham allows Kaveh close not because he needs a friend but because he makes a horrifying discovery:

That underneath Kaveh's friendly smile and the endless chatter... is a brilliant mind.

... How inconvenient.

Haitham finds himself turning towards Kaveh, as a sunflower turns towards sunlight. He finds himself thinking of Kaveh, of the palaces he builds with his words. He finds himself yearning for Kaveh's attention, for Kaveh's intelligent gaze on his, for Kaveh's refutations of his own viewpoints.

Kaveh is a good senior. He treats Haitham to meals; shares texts with him; walks him to class. He is a conscientious senior. But he is not only nice to Haitham, and so Haitham does not read overmuch into his behaviour.

Although he is tempted to.

Haitham has always understood attraction in the manner of an outsider. He has read about it; has observed others experiencing it; has overall regarded it as an aspect of humanity he himself will never experience.

... Haitham now understands attraction, unwillingly and intimately.

Haitham is attracted to Kaveh.

Exceedingly so.

Every day is a new lesson in what attraction is. It is the magnetic thrill of Kaveh's skin against his when they unwittingly brush their hands together. It is the beating of his heart when Kaveh is in close proximity. It is Haitham's harsh breaths in the dead of night as he brings himself to completion thinking of Kaveh's smile.

How damnably inconvenient.

Haitham does not need anyone. He has existed as an island alone since his grandmother's death. But he finds now that he wants companionship; yearns for it. He does not need it, but he wants it.

He wants Kaveh.

Alhaitham wants a peaceful life, but he also wants Kaveh.

In the end, he chooses Kaveh. Anyway, he has never denied his own humanity. He is not some automaton who subsists entirely on learning. He cannot pull apart the threads of his own mind and erase the attraction he feels. 

He is willing to lie to others, but not to himself.

This is how Haitham falls in love. Bemusedly; curiously; unwittingly.

-

One day, Kaveh approaches him.

"Hey," Kaveh says, clearing his throat. "I know you don't really do joint projects, but my friends and I are working on this thing... what I'm saying is! I have a proposal for you. Please at least read it before you reject me, alright?"

Haitham looks at the document Kaveh is holding out. He looks at the title. "Decoding the Runes and Architectural Philosophy of the Ruins of King Deshret's Civilization." He turns the page. Upon seeing the names listed on the document, he frowns.

His instinct tells him to say "no".

Alhaitham's lack of joint projects stems not from arrogance, but a mindfulness of his own poor interpersonal and communication skills. But... across from him, Kaveh is practically glowing with expectation.

Perhaps, if it's with Kaveh...

He and Kaveh, they are extremely alike. For all their outward differences, there exists an accord between them borne from their similar intellectual capacities. Whatever knowledge Alhaitham lacks, Kaveh possesses, and vice versa.

In his chest, his heart beats fast. He reads through the document quickly.

"I will consider your proposal," Alhaitham says. They both know that's as good as "yes".

"Great!" Kaveh says. He grasps Alhaitham's hand with a smile like the sun. 

The moment feels like sunrise. Like the dawning of a new day.

"I sent an invitation to my mom, too," Kaveh had said, once upon a time Before. His smile had been fractured, like tempered glass hit by an impact: Ready to fracture on the slightest touch. Alhaitham is hyper-aware of the empty seat beside his.

The convocation continues.

He does not find Kaveh immediately after. For once, he is wrecked by indecision. But eventually, like a puppet tugged helplessly on a string, he finds himself at the edge of a crowd, at the centre of which is Kaveh.

Alhaitham means to wait until the crowd has dispersed. But someone spots the roses in his arms. "Hey, Kaveh! Your little admirer is here!"

A hand, on his shoulder. Alhaitham is pushed forward, and suddenly he and Kaveh are face to face.

They have not been in such close proximity for... a long time. Alhaitham studies Kaveh's expression—awkward and angry all at once—and quickly offers the flowers. "These—" he starts.

But the same person who took him over interrupts, saying, "Aw, Kaveh, take them, he clearly wants to make up with you!"

People laugh. The sound grates against Alhaitham's ears like sharp nails. The faces around them are happy, smiling, but to Alhaitham they appear ghoulish. They find him entertaining. They are vultures, tearing at his flesh for a piece of amusement. For gossip.

He shouldn't have come.

Kaveh takes the flowers. Of course he does. He is always very conscious of his face. "Thank you," he says, meeting Alhaitham's eyes. His gaze is conflicted.

Another senior titters and says, "Hey, little Haravatat. Why don't you come with us? We're all going to the bar for a proper celebration—"

"Yeah, right," Kaveh snorts. "He never—"

"Where is it?" Alhaitham interrupts. He doesn't know why. He is nothing to Kaveh, now, and the crowd of Kaveh's friends and acquaintances are similarly nothing to him.

Kaveh's eyes widen like his eyeballs want to escape from their sockets.

The senior smiles at him. "I knew it," she says. "You can't help but want to follow your senior around, huh?" She elbows him, as if they share a secret.

"Hey." Kaveh's brows furrow. "Leave him alone, he—"

"The time and place, please," Alhaitham interrupts. He steps away from the senior with the sharp elbows. He should not have come. And yet.

And yet.

Kaveh looks at him, holding the flowers like he doesn't want them. Like he doesn't want Alhaitham. His face is mottled with emotion. He looks betrayed. But he is looking at Alhaitham.

He is looking at Alhaitham.

-

He shouldn't have come.

Those four words are today's unfortunate theme. Alhaitham sits, unnoticed, in a corner of the bar, and Kaveh is no longer looking at him.

Kaveh is surrounded by a gaggle of people. Unlike Alhaitham, Kaveh makes friends easily. Of course, this is by choice; Alhaitham finds communication tiring, relationships even more so. It is not that he can't socialise. It is that socialising feels like donning an unfamiliar self, a self who is not him: Wearing gestures and intonation and words that feel false upon his skin. The longer any interaction wears on, the tighter that skin becomes, until it chokes him like a noose at his throat. Like a reptile choking on its own shed skin.

Alhaitham throws back another drink.

"Hey," a voice says. Someone slides into the seat next to him. It's the senior with the sharp elbows. "You came, but you're all alone. How about I accompany you?"

"I do not need company."

Her jovial smile slips. "The rumours are right. You're an asshole."

Indeed. The veracity of those rumours is usually enough protection against unwanted social interactions, but once in a while, a person will come to poke at him, like an Amurta researcher studying an organism. Does it behave how we expect?

And, just like any researcher conducting biased research, they easily take offence. As if he exists to fulfil some preconceived notion of how interaction with him should go. As if anyone of them could be like Kaveh, and be the exception to his rule.

Except even Kaveh finally took offence, didn't he?

So maybe the problem isn't Kaveh, or the senior sitting next to him. Maybe the problem is—

"Haitham," Kaveh says. "Hey." And then: "Isa, I think Qila is looking for you?"

The  senior's face says she knows that she's being got rid of, but she goes. "See ya, little Haravatat."

Little Haravatat. It's less obvious now that they're seated, but Alhaitham has been taller than Kaveh for a while now. And he's only getting taller. "See ya," he says.

"Seriously? You'll smile at her but not at me?" Kaveh says.

"Why would I smile at you?" Alhaitham says, baffled.

"... You don't have to say it like that. And after I came to rescue you!"

"I didn't need—"

"You didn't need rescuing, I know. You never need rescuing, believe me, I know," Kaveh says. He has a habit of picking up past conversational threads, diverting suddenly to ground they've trod before. When they were friends, it was endearing. It's still endearing, but it's a little infuriating, as well, as if Alhaitham has been thrown into a room blindfolded. "Urgh, come on, let's go."

"... What?" says Alhaitham, still blindfolded and lost.

"You don't want to be here, right? Well, neither do I." And then Kaveh curls his fingers around Alhaitham's wrist.

It is hardly the first time Kaveh has touched him. Kaveh, when they were friends, touched him all the time. Put a hand on his shoulder; his waist; his hands. But what strikes him like a blow is how unfamiliar this familiar gesture is. Kaveh is not gentle, nor is he kind, when he takes Alhaitham out of that bar. He herds him like a snappish wolf, and once they are out, he doesn't ask Alhaitham if he's hungry, if he's tired, if he drank too much.

Instead, he disengages immediately when they're outside in the cool night air. But this street is full of bars, and he still stands with Alhaitham inside and Kaveh outside, so that any passing drunks won't stumble into Alhaitham. It is a gesture that makes Alhaitham's throat constrict.

He shouldn't have come.

"Thank you," Kaveh says. "For the flowers, I mean." He makes a face. Alhaitham doesn't know what the expression means, if he shouldn't have given them to Kaveh; if they were the wrong kind of roses; if they were the right colour.

"You're welcome," Alhaitham says.

He thinks suddenly of his own upcoming convocation. Unlike Kaveh, he has no one to invite. But perhaps that is better. Seeing how uncomfortable Kaveh is, with one seat empty and the other seat being Alhaitham...

"Congratulations on graduating," Alhaitham says.

Kaveh's lips twist. "Yeah," he says. "Thanks." He looks around, and the crush of people in the streets. "Urgh. Listen, I'll walk you to your place."

"No need," Alhaitham says faintly. "Enjoy your celebration." Kaveh has to tilt his head up slightly to look at him, now. But his eyes are as clear and red as ever, like the sparkle of a gem underwater. His presence will only obfuscate that brightness.

"A worm," Kaveh repeated. He looked down at his hands and suddenly stopped walking. Haitham had a hand on his arm, and so he, still walking forward, rubber-banded back.

"Kaveh—"

"And you used to follow me around." Kaveh stared down mournfully at his hands. "You'd follow me... EVERYWHERE. Holding the back of my shirt. So cute. You used to be... cute."

"I did not follow you everywhere," Haitham protested.

"Yes you did," Kaveh said. "You were my little tail." He looked behind him. "Where's my tail?"

Haitham tugged on one of Kaveh's many scarves and shirt tassels. "Right here. Can we keep walking?"

"Yes, but you have to follow me," Kaveh said. He set off again. "You're my tail."

"..." Haitham put a hand to his forehead. "That's the way to the market, Kaveh."

"Big brother Kaveh." Kaveh whirled around. He pointed angrily to the nearest tree. "Why don't you call me big brother! You don't even call me senior!" Then he sniffled. "Wh... why did you get even taller?"

Haitham looked at the tree. "I don't skip my meals or sleep late drawing blueprints for clients," he said.

"Oh," Kaveh said to the tree. "That's... that makes sense." He turned and, thankfully, started walking in the right direction. "You were this tall," he said. "With big... BIG green eyes."

Haitham followed. After a moment, he reached out and grasped Kaveh's scarf. Kaveh wasn't the only one of them drunk, after all.

"You used to smile at me all the time," Kaveh said. "Why don't you smile at me anymore? And you don't... You don't think I'm funny anymore! You never laugh!"

Haitham rolled his eyes. "What is there to laugh at?"

"Me!" Kaveh said. "I'm a joke!" He stopped walking. So did Haitham, who curled his fingers tighter on the fabric in his hand. He stared down at the deep red colour.

"I don't think you're a joke," Haitham said. "Big brother Kaveh."

Haitham was still staring at Kaveh's scarf, and so it took him a moment to realise Kaveh had turned around. This time, when he looked at Haitham, he had at least not mistaken him for a tree. "You're so big," Kaveh said. "And tall. And rich. And... and... a big shot! ... An ex-big shot," he corrected himself, before Haitham could point out he was no longer Acting Grand Sage. "I... I..." He stared up at Haitham with mournful red eyes. "I can't take care of you anymore. I'm no good."

Haitham tugged the scarf, as if it were a leash, drawing Kaveh closer. "And didn't you ever think, big brother Kaveh," he said quietly, "that it might be my turn to take care of you?"

Kaveh's lips parted. He stank of wine. "Oh," he said. And then: "I... I'll take care of you too. I'll grow even taller. I'll earn even more money! Y... you won't even have to read anymore!" A pause. "I taught you to read!"

Haitham's lips quirked. "I remember," he said, and then: "I'll hold you to that."

"Good!" Kaveh cried. He reached up to grab Haitham by his headphones and said, very seriously: "You... you're not a worm anymore, but you're still cute."