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Al-Haitham has never been one to mince his words, nor has he been much for lying unless the situation desperately calls for it. But truly, there are some moments in his life where he regrets his inclination towards honesty, and this is one of them.
“Are you serious?” Kaveh says, so delighted that he doesn’t even notice the wine spilling from his cup when he speaks. “You’ve never kissed anyone? Ever?”
“I never felt the need to,” Al-Haitham says flatly.
Another peal of laughter. Another spill of wine onto the table, narrowly missing Cyno’s prized Genius Invokation cards, which are quickly retrieved to safety.
“Kaveh,” Tighnari says, “you really don’t have to laugh so hard. It’s rude.”
“No, you don’t understand,” Kaveh says. He is still delighted. “I really do.”
“Are you done?” Al-Haitham asks.
“No. Seriously, Haitham, never? How old are you, again?”
“How old are you? You’re acting like a child.”
“When you—” Kaveh’s eyes are narrowed with mirth. He’s laughing again, half-drunk, half-pretty. All obnoxious. “When you have your first kiss, I’ll bake you a cake, okay?”
Al-Haitham does not say anything. A terrible, wonderful idea has just formed in his mind, taking root like a weed.
“Really, Haitham, I’ll buy you dinner and everything—”
Al-Haitham leans forward slightly. “You will?”
Kaveh leans forward too. “Yes!”
“Is that a promise?”
“Yes, of course—”
“Kaveh,” Cyno says. The wine is getting on his dice. Next time he’ll know to pick his seat more strategically.
“Al-Haitham,” Tighnari says, a warning in his voice like he knows what Al-Haitham is thinking. Tighnari always knows what everyone’s thinking, somehow. Maybe it’s the gigantic ears. Full of secrets. “Don't do it—”
“Don’t do what?” Kaveh says. He turns to Al-Haitham. “What are you going to—”
Al-Haitham grabs Kaveh by the shirt and kisses him square on the mouth.
Unfortunately, he does not get a free cake to celebrate his first kiss, nor does he get dinner. Instead, he gets a shocked, mortified Kaveh, his face redder than Al-Haitham has ever seen it. After a moment, his eyes grow bright with tears.
“I’m leaving,” Kaveh says.
He does. The rest of them sit there, all a little too stunned to speak. Finally, Cyno breaks the silence.
“This is uncomfortable,” he says.
Even back in their Akademiya days, Al-Haitham had been no stranger to Kaveh’s tears.
After all, Kaveh cries easy. For anyone and anything. A theatre performance with any semblance of a plot. Dusk birds on their own during mating season. People he’s met for five minutes, with a sob story that reeks of untruth. But he hardly ever cries for himself, despite all of the hardships that have come his way.
Really, now that Al-Haitham thinks about it, the only time Kaveh had ever cried for anything related to himself was when it was also related to Al-Haitham. There was their falling out, a full-blown shouting match resulting in the end of their collaboration and a friendship that had lasted for years. And now, of course, this too.
Al-Haitham is smart enough to know when he’s made a mistake. When it comes to Kaveh, he’ll usually apologise by way of wine or some other type of gift. However, Kaveh doesn’t come home that night. Or the next.
“I can understand,” Cyno says. “That was a little cruel of you.”
It’s somewhat humiliating to come to Cyno like this. To his credit, Cyno has never quite flaunted his seniority like Kaveh does, but ever since he’d gotten together with Tighnari, he’s been quietly but obviously self-satisfied in the way that newlyweds often are: look at me, my life is amazing, I work my meaningful job all day long and then I go home at night to pleasure my husband. Tighnari, perhaps, would be a little less embarrassing to ask for help from. But he’s too close to Kaveh, and he’d seemed just as upset at Al-Haitham that night at the tavern. And so Al-Haitham had decided not to risk the vulpine wrath. Not that he’s particularly afraid, but the less trouble, the better. Who knows how sharp those non-human teeth are, after all.
“Cruel?” Al-Haitham blinks. Inconsiderate, maybe. Rude, of course. But cruel?
“Yes,” Cyno says. “You can’t just kiss Kaveh like that when he’s in love with you.”
Al-Haitham scoffs. “Kaveh’s not in love with me.”
“You didn’t know?” Cyno says. “Trust me. He very much is.”
“No, he isn’t.” And then, “How do you know?”
“Well,” Cyno says. “He talks about you incessantly. He knows you better than anyone else, and tries to know you better than anyone else. And he blushes a lot when you’re around.”
“That could mean anything,” Al-Haitham says. “It’s very subjective—”
“He also told me, verbatim,” Cyno says.
Ah. Never mind, then. Kaveh is in love with him.
Al-Haitham thinks he can’t quite be blamed for this particular gap in his knowledge. For starters, he knows—or thought he knew—what a Kaveh in love looks like. Smitten, almost worshipful. Starry-eyed. Not… not whatever it is he does that’s reserved for Al-Haitham, and Al-Haitham alone.
In the Akademiya, he’d seen Kaveh kiss other people. Seen him through one or two relationships. Not that Kaveh hadn’t had more, but at a certain point Al-Haitham had stopped looking, because he had better things to worry about. But then they’d started their project together, and Kaveh had stopped seeing other people entirely. Al-Haitham still remembers the night when Kaveh broke up with his last boyfriend.
“I wish I were a cat,” he’d said, lying down heavily on the couch that Al-Haitham was sitting on. Laying his head on Al-Haitham’s lap. “They don’t have to worry about anything.”
Al-Haitham hadn’t looked away from his book, but he’d run his fingers through Kaveh’s hair. “What’s this about?”
“I broke up with my boyfriend,” Kaveh said.
Their eyes met, and there was something almost expectant in Kaveh’s gaze. As if he was waiting to receive something, as if Al-Haitham could give it to him.
“Hm,” Al-Haitham said. “That’s good. I didn’t like him.” Truth be told, he hadn’t liked any of them, even though some had been perfectly agreeable. They’d all rubbed him the wrong way.
At this, Kaveh had smiled, strangely looking a little resigned, and they’d never quite spoken of the matter again.
Al-Haitham ends up having to use one of his precious days off to search for Kaveh.
But this proves harder than expected. Kaveh is not at any of his frequent haunts—not Puspa Cafe, not the Akademiya, not even the tavern, which he often frequents after they have their usual spats. And so Al-Haitham makes his way to Gandharva Ville in the evening, and knocks on the door of a familiar house. Its occupant doesn’t look too pleased to see him.
“Tighnari.”
“Al-Haitham. Didn’t expect to see you here. Are you just passing through?”
Something about the question seems like he just wants Al-Haitham to say yes. “No,” says Al-Haitham. “I wanted to speak with you, actually. If you aren’t busy.”
Tighnari’s right ear twitches, a miniscule movement. “Alright, then,” he says. “I’ll put on some tea.”
The tea is nice. Fragrant, if a touch too floral. The type of thing Kaveh would love.
Al-Haitham does away with courtesy. “Do you know where he’s staying?”
“No,” Tighnari says. His tail is going to curl itself into knots. He’s obviously lying.
“You’re obviously lying.”
“Fine. I do know. But I’m not telling you. Figure it out yourself.”
“I can’t,” Al-Haitham says. “I’ve been looking all day. That’s why I’m here.”
Tighnari presses his lips together. After a moment, he sighs. “He’s been staying with friends,” he says. “Although I can’t say I know who he’s with tonight, specifically.”
That doesn’t quite help. Unlike Al-Haitham, Kaveh has a considerable number of friends. “Not with you?” he asks.
“No. Not anymore. He said he didn’t want to impose for too long.”
“I see.”
A moment of silence. Tighnari turns the teacup in his hands, one-quarter of a rotation at a time, thinking.
“I told you not to do it,” he finally says.
“I know,” Al-Haitham says. “I made a mistake.”
“As long as you know. Don’t make another one.”
Al-Haitham finishes his tea and stands up. “I’m trying not to,” he says.
Tighnari puts down the teacup and smiles. Up close, Al-Haitham can see the curved sharpness of his cuspids, like a dog’s.
Without Kaveh’s presence, the house is quieter, more peaceful than ever. And yet Al-Haitham finds that sleep eludes him. He puts on his headphones and plays something quiet, and tries to let his mind wander. For some reason, he thinks back to when he’d fallen sick at the Akademiya, with nobody to take care of him. He’d holed up in his room alone, shivering with fever, and dreamt of the parents he thought he’d long forgotten. Of his grandmother, who had been the last person who’d ever loved him, and realised that he was truly and utterly alone in this world. He had nobody. Nobody at all.
“You have me, Haitham,” Kaveh had said. Al-Haitham hadn’t even heard him come in. His touch was cool on Al-Haitham’s sweaty forehead. Gentle, soothing. “You have me.”
Ah, Al-Haitham had thought. Yes. I have you.
The next day, he’d awoken to Kaveh kneeling by his bed. Asleep, drooling. His hand warm in Al-Haitham’s. The sunlight fell on his hair, turning it to gold.
Al-Haitham wakes up at dawn to an empty house. Usually, Kaveh would be making breakfast by now, singing. A little giddy with sleep deprivation. He’ll smile at Al-Haitham when he walks into the kitchen, will talk way too loud for the time of day, will give Al-Haitham a headache. Will give him coffee. He’s terrible at making coffee. Al-Haitham drinks it anyway.
Today, Al-Haitham makes his own coffee. It’s good. It doesn’t taste like something has died in it. It doesn’t quite make him happy, either.
“I think I’ll check the Grand Bazaar today.”
Cyno looks up from polishing his spear. They’re in Al-Haitham’s office. It’s rather nice to have the General Mahamatra visit like this, since any scholars who feel like dropping in catch a glance of him and walk away very quickly.
“Save yourself the trouble,” Cyno says. “Just go to Nilou’s. I saw him there this morning. Not sure if he’ll still be there later, but you might as well try.”
“Ah,” Al-Haitham says. “Thanks.”
Cyno shrugs. His spear is looking very polished already, but he keeps going, anyways. At this rate, it’s going to be the shiniest boat paddle the world has ever seen. “What are you going to say? Are you going to apologise?”
“Of course,” Al-Haitham says, frowning. “Do you think I wouldn’t?”
“I think,” Cyno says, “you should sort yourself out before you talk to him.”
“What do you mean?”
Cyno meets his eyes. “I mean, do you know what you think of Kaveh? How you feel about him?”
Al-Haitham blinks. Now that’s a loaded question, with an answer that’s much too long. Kaveh is a terrible roommate, a senior who sometimes acts much too childish to be called as such. A hopeless romantic, lost in his delusions of what he thinks the world should be, and not seeing it for what it is.
But of course, that’s not everything, not even close. If Al-Haitham’s had a few drinks, he might say a little more. Might say that Kaveh is amusing, at times. That his company isn’t altogether terrible. That his genius is admirable, if misguided. That he’s handsome, even.
And then, after a few more drinks, when Alhaitham’s absolutely sure that neither he nor anyone else is going to remember what comes out of his mouth, he would say that Kaveh is, under the brash hotheadedness and everything else, kind and brave. That for all their differences, Al-Haitham wouldn’t want him any other way. Perhaps, if he’s really, really drunk, he’ll say that on those all-too-common occasions where Kaveh can’t be bothered to put on a shirt after bathing, he’s thought—more than once—about what it’d be like to bend him over the dinner table and do things to him that can’t be described in polite company. That he’s been waiting for an opportunity to kiss Kaveh for a while now, even if he had never even admitted this to himself.
And well, if he were forced, truly forced—a knife to his throat and Cyno’s terrifyingly oar-shaped weapon to his heart—to find a word that encompasses all of what he feels towards Kaveh, there really is only one option, after all.
Al-Haitham exhales. “Say I tell him,” he says, breaking the silence. “How I feel. And then we’re—together. And then what?”
Cyno shrugs. “I wouldn’t know,” he says. “It’s different for everyone, I’m sure.” He smiles, just a little. “But I think—it’s not as if everything changes. It’s almost the same, just… better. Harder at times, but better. It’s worth it.”
There it is. The newlywed wisdom. Al-Haitham sighs—he did ask for it.
“Alright,” he says. “Thanks, I suppose.”
Cyno nods. His spear is blinding. May Lesser Lord Kusanali have mercy on any enemies of the General Mahamatra. They’re all going to need optometrists when he’s through with them.
Nilou answers the door after the third knock.
“Ah,” Nilou says, and smiles. She’s almost always smiling. The terrifying thing about that is she means it, too. It’s no wonder that she and Kaveh get on so well. “Al-Haitham! How can I help you?” For some reason, she sounds a little like the girls who work at the fruit stalls today.
“Is Kaveh here?”
“Kaveh?” Nilou says. She closes the door just a little, angling her body to block Al-Haitham’s line of sight. He hears the side door slam. “He just left, actually.”
“That so,” Al-Haitham says dryly.
“Yes,” Nilou says, with obvious difficulty. She tugs on a lock of her red, red hair, and smiles again. Perhaps all her expressions are just variations of smiles. “I can… take a message?”
“Fine,” Al-Haitham says. “Will you tell him that—” That what? That he’s sorry, that he wants Kaveh to come home, that he misses him so much it hurts? How is he supposed to say that to Nilou, with her perpetual, heartfelt smile and anxiety-induced customer service voice? How is he supposed to say that to anyone but Kaveh? “Forget it,” he says, his face warm. He turns away. “Never mind—”
Nilou sighs. “Three in the afternoon,” she says.
“I’m sorry?”
“He’ll be dropping by your place at three in the afternoon,” Nilou says. “To pick up some things. He thinks you’ll be out then, you see.”
“Ah,” Al-Haitham says. Kaveh knows his schedule like the back of his hand. “Thank you.”
Nilou nods. “Be gentle with him, won’t you?” she says. “He loves you so much, after all.”
“Does everyone know?” Al-Haitham asks.
Nilou shrugs, smiling. “It’s kind of hard not to,” she says.
Kaveh gives a start when Al-Haitham enters the house. He has dark circles under his eyes; his hair is a little messier than usual. But he’s still handsome, his gaze sharp and lucid, prideful. It’s only been a couple days, and yet Al-Haitham cannot help the relief he feels at simply seeing him again.
“I thought you’d be in your office,” Kaveh says. He’s looking through his shelf of materials, rolled-up plans and other resources. Choosing what to take with him.
“I know,” Al-Haitham says.
Kaveh huffs. “So why are you here? Scared I’ll skip out on rent?”
“No.”
“Then what?”
It’s strange to see this cold, calm Kaveh. It's a little painful, truth be told. Kaveh is supposed to be fiery, warm. Passionate. Quick to anger and joy alike. And Al-Haitham realises all too late that to know that version of Kaveh—true and unguarded—is a privilege in itself.
Al-Haitham comes close to him. “I’m sorry for kissing you without permission,” he says.
“It’s okay,” Kaveh says, after a moment. “It wasn’t a big deal.” He’s a terrible liar.
“I wanted to tell you,” Al-Haitham says. “It wasn’t for cake or dinner; I did it because I wanted to. I’m in love with you.”
Kaveh freezes for a moment, but doesn’t look at Al-Haitham. “No, you aren’t,” he says, his voice tight.
“I am.”
“Yeah, right.”
“Would I lie about this?”
No response.
“Kaveh. Look at me—”
“What?” Kaveh whips around. And then he blinks, his expression softening with wonder. “You’re—you're blushing,” he says, mystified.
“What,” Al-Haitham says, suddenly feeling defensive, “am I not supposed to be?”
“No, I—I’ve just never seen you like this. Hold still.”
“What are you—”
“Quiet.”
Kaveh presses his ear against Al-Haitham’s chest. To hear his quickened heartbeat, Al-Haitham realises. Ridiculous. But he supposes he can’t quite fault Kaveh for it.
“Since when?” Kaveh asks, pulling away.
“I don’t know. Probably a long time. I just didn’t know what to call it.”
“I see.”
Kaveh stands still, just holding the materials in his arms. Not leaving, not yet. Waiting for Al-Haitham to speak, just like all those years ago. I wish I were a cat. Al-Haitham has never wished to be anything other than what he is, but now that he thinks about it, if Kaveh were a cat, he’d like to be a cat, too. Paws and whiskers and all.
“You don’t have to come home yet if you don’t want to,” Al-Haitham says. “But if you ever do, we can pick out a new bed together. Drinks on me, after.”
Kaveh’s face is red. “That’s awfully presumptuous of you, you know,” he says.
“I know.”
Kaveh sighs. He puts the materials back. Lays Mehrak on its side. “Fine. Let’s go tomorrow.”
“Okay,” Al-Haitham says. His neck is warm now, too. Everything about this is mortifying. But really, he can’t say he hates it.
For a few moments, they simply stare at each other. Quietly ecstatic. Terribly embarrassed. A little at a loss.
“Can I kiss you again?” Al-Haitham asks, breaking the silence.
Kaveh blushes harder, but does not look away. “More like if you don’t, I’m leaving.”
“I don’t want you to leave.”
“Well, then.”
Well, then.
Because they’ve both been waiting so long for this, because neither of them know what it means to take things slow, they end up in bed together before the sun even sets. When they’re both close, Kaveh pulls Al-Haitham down and kisses him.
“I missed you,” he whispers. And then, as if that weren’t enough, “Come inside me. Please. If you want to.” He sounds like he’s wrecked, like he’s begging. He could drive a man insane. Al-Haitham has forgotten how to speak.
“Please,” Kaveh says again.
He really doesn’t have to beg. Al-Haitham wants nothing else.
“What,” Kaveh says afterwards. “I don’t get it. So you’ve never kissed anyone, but you’ve slept with people?”
Al-Haitham turns over to look at him. “I haven’t.”
“What?”
“I haven’t slept with anyone. You’re my first.”
Kaveh almost chokes on air. “But you knew what to do,” he says weakly.
“It’s not hard. I’ve read about it.”
“No,” Kaveh says. “However you think about it, that’s not—”
“Why?” Al-Haitham says. “Was I good?”
“No!” Kaveh really is a terrible, terrible liar. “You were—it just felt like you’d done it before, that’s all—” And he launches into a tirade about how seeming experienced doesn’t necessarily mean that you have good technique, and even if Al-Haitham did have good technique, he shouldn’t let it get to his head, and he gets so heated about it that he actually gets out of bed to pace around the room. His face is flushed, his voice much too loud. Now this, Al-Haitham thinks, is a familiar sight, aside from the fact that Kaveh is naked. It reminds Al-Haitham a bit of what Cyno had said. The same, but better.
“Are you even listening to me?” Kaveh demands, after a few moments.
Al-Haitham is not. He has been staring, entranced, at the evidence of the last half-hour, slowly trickling down Kaveh’s upper thigh. He’s hard again.
Kaveh follows his gaze, and his entire body flushes scarlet with mortification when he realises. “What the hell, Haitham,” he hisses. “Are you serious—” The evidence trickles down further. Kaveh makes a strangled sound of embarrassment and frustration before he runs into the bathroom, slamming the door behind him.
Contented, Al-Haitham rolls over in bed to look out the window, and waits for him to come back.
Kaveh does actually deliver on the promised dinner and cake, although the state of his finances means that seventy-five percent of the meal is ultimately paid for by Al-Haitham, anyhow. Just like their new bed. Al-Haitham decides not to bring this up. There’s a time and a place.
“Is that good?” Kaveh asks.
Of course it’s good. Al-Haitham had picked the restaurant, after all. So what Kaveh is really asking is can I try some of what you’re having. Al-Haitham breaks off a piece and holds it out. Because Kaveh is ridiculous, he eats it directly out of Al-Haitham’s hand, like a bird.
“It’s good,” he says.
Al-Haitham rolls his eyes. “I know.”
“Are you free tomorrow?” Kaveh asks. “Tighnari invited us for dinner.”
“I’ll go if you do,” Al-Haitham says.
Kaveh hums. “Think it’ll be awkward?” It’ll be their first time meeting up after the debacle at Puspa Cafe. Al-Haitham’s first kiss. Really, what an event.
“Probably,” Al-Haitham says. And then, “Maybe just a little. It’ll be fine.”
A few moments of amiable silence. And then Kaveh kicks Al-Haitham’s ankle gently under the table. He smiles, eyes bright. Mischievous. “Wanna get out of here?”
Al-Haitham raises an eyebrow. “It’s not even dark yet.”
“Like you care.”
He makes a good point. They pay the bill and head home. Al-Haitham takes Kaveh’s hand wordlessly as they walk; Kaveh does not object.
“I missed your coffee,” Al-Haitham says. It is a thought that comes out of nowhere. Jumping out of nothingness, like a magician’s rabbit.
Kaveh is strangely silent. Al-Haitham turns to look at him.
“Don’t,” Kaveh says. “Don’t look at me.” He tries to cover his face with his free hand.
Al-Haitham keeps looking anyway. Kaveh is blushing, the scarlet of his cheeks threatening to rival the blazing sun.