Archive of Our Own ^beta

No matter how many words you learn; how many word structures you study and how much time you dedicate to learning a language, at the end of the day you still don't know how to express the dull ache behind your ribcage. 

It's—isolating. 

It starts from the tips of your fingers. It is not something you notice right away, rather it creeps upon you very slowly and it specifically waits for you to see it. Only then it becomes somewhat of a friend. As you scratch letter by letter on the paper. As you put said papers away. As you miserably look at the stack of documents and look around only to see that you are alone . 

It starts with your fingers, because when you notice how quiet it is, you look down at what you're doing and you realise, ah . The ink in your pen will need a refill soon. And it is in a way that you grip the pen, staring at it, that it hits you — you will have to get up, open it, fill it again and start writing. It is your fingers that grip it. Your fingers that hesitate over the paper. It lasts but a minute, and by the time it runs its course, words start appearing beneath them again. 

You are a slave to the routine. You depend on it. It slowly becomes you. From the fingers it starts, and in your mind it ends — the thoughts will run rampant. Hundreds of miles per hour, until they  physically cannot anymore. 

The mundane reality of life eats away at you and yet you still stare at the words, hoping they will form another meaning. 

You eat your dinner alone. You go to work alone. You work alone. 

The elderly lady at the stall takes a look at you and gives you free meals, saying you look thin and sick. You don't understand because your muscles are not that of a scholar but of a construction worker. How can you be thin? Until you realise the elderly ladies do not look at your structure the way you look at words. They glance at you and know — you are alone, and you are feeble not because of the way you look but because of the way you're looking . You are not thin in muscles, you are thin in other, unnoticeable places. 

The table in your house is clean. You can see your reflection. The book you were reading sits abandoned as you chew slowly through your meal. It is peaceful. Dull. It is the way that it has been for years and it wouldn’t change anytime soon. 

Your bed is cold when you finally get there, and it is one of the few times where you get the luxury of sleeping in it. Usually you pass out on your desk, or at the Akademiya's office, or even at the same clean table where you eat. No matter how many times you swaddle yourself in the blankets, the chill finds its way under them anyway. You do not ponder on it. It is fine. It has always been cold, and it will not change. How could it? 

Looking at the words you study every day you wonder when you have started to take them apart with cold calculation, and when their meanings stopped being a wonder. Languages upon languages, a master of everything is a master of none. Linguistics demands that you consciously use your tongue, and yet when it comes to forming sentences you sometimes stumble upon ones that baffle you even though you know their meaning. 

You are lonely; you are sad; you are craving a warm bed although your house is never cold, it shouldn't be as it's warmed from the inside with the heating panels, and yet, yet, yet —

You do not change anything. It stops being a concern. If it won't change, why bother? If you won't ever fix the issue, why dwell on it? Best to lock it away, best to not muss over the words that have lost their actual meaning in your heart — better to fill your mind with knowledge of useless things you will never actually use in life unless you want to impress somebody. 

Humans are not logical beings, and Alhaitham sincerely wishes they were. 

This fact, also, will never change. And so he presses on, and on, because it's better this way. 

And if the world gets more bleak, duller, emptier and more fake with each day, well. It is nobody's business but his own. 

To be completely frank, Alhaitham did not invite that man over out of the goodness of his heart and many others will agree with him when he says that there must have been some kind of ulterior motive underneath all that. All of it is… or rather should be a transaction. In a way. Alhaitham, truth be told, doesn't get anything out of it — no money, no thanks, nothing, really. There is a certain way of looking at things, where you can critically look at your actions and say that they will make sense in the grand scheme  of life, but this—

Alhaitham tries. He does. To actually justify it. 

And he, annoyingly, comes up blank. 

"Whoever decorated this had no sense of... anything, really." Kaveh, the Kshahrewar graduate who throws his bags quite carelessly on Alhaitham's freshly cleaned floors, looks around with a grimace that definitely has no justification, either. 

"Thank you," Alhaitham tells him, dry. It is the least he could do. 

It's not that his house is dirty and it is not like it is cluttered. He makes sure that everything is clean and put into order, and that no matter what no stray clothes ever lay on the floor. His bed is always made, so are the dishes, so are all other mundane chores like throwing out the trash or simply watering the lone plant on the windowsill. 

It is just a little under-decorated, but that's fine. Alhaitham spends time in it because he has to sleep somewhere and he has to have a place to store all of his documentation. It's not like he bought it because it was pretty. Aesthetic value is none of his concern. However—

"Yeah," Kaveh's grimace turns into a scowl, "You do look like the kind."

"Oh?" Alhaitham pushes past him, feet carrying him to the kitchen. He can feel the small headache between his eyes, a tell-tale of something far more irritating blooming there, but he hopes the small amount of coffee that he still possesses will stave it off, at least for an hour. "If it's such an eye-sore, why don't you find someone else willing to room with you?"

"Ugh, you're such a sensitive ass," That's all he gets in response.

"Mhm."

Is he? He must be. But it is entertaining to see the man "silently" judge the white walls and the lack of any rugs, and even his half-dead plant did not escape the sneer of disgust. 

That's fine, though, isn't it? 

Alhaitham will carry on with his life. He will continue to stick to his routine, because that’s all he has left. An additional person in the household would do nothing to disturb him and even if it somehow did, he is a master of carefully crafting a persona calm enough to be considered eerie to scare anyone off from even starting a small talk. All is well and all would be well. 

"The room on your right is empty," is what he ends up saying as Kaveh huffs and complains, "Do with it as you wish."

Kaveh seems to take it as a challenge, "I will paint it."

He takes out his cup, pours coffee in it, "Sure. You and what money?"

Silence. Then—

"I have some pink left."

Alhaitham's eye twitches, "Pink."

"Do you have something against pink, my dear junior?" Kaveh's voice sounds a bit further away than it did before and when Alhaitham turns around with his coffee, it turns out that Kaveh is already carrying all of his bags into the appointed room, "Does it insult your masculinity?"

He closes his eyes. 

"Well?" There's a yell from the room and Alhaitham wonders, really wonders, why he's letting that man invade his quiet and peaceful space, for free. It doesn't last long though. There's a faint yelp that's followed with a curse and then— "Did you leave those boxes here on purpose?!"

He sighs, turning in the direction of his room. He closes the door. 

It does absolutely nothing to tune out the loud complaining of his new roommate. 

How many times have you lied to yourself? 

Lying isn't a necessary skill if you wield your truth skillfully enough. Twisting your words, rearranging them in a way that suits you personally, that's something far more important. You won't get anywhere in life if you're someone like Alhaitham and you don't have the ability to throw your honesty in a way that leaves the other party fumbling. 

Alhaitham had been told that his personality is off-putting – that in his pursuit of knowledge he left his compassion and empathy somewhere between the books in the House of Daena or maybe, somewhere deep in the ancient ruins beneath the desert. He never felt the need to deny that accusation. It is true, in a way. Alhaitham does not have the tendency to look at poor souls around him with the intention to help them – instead he looks for the ways to exploit them. 

It is…  a matter of perspective, really. Alhaitham does not claim to be the bad guy, either. He simply finds himself in situations where his stance is usually regarded with disgust or…  another form of dislike. 

And so. How many times have you lied to yourself? Alhaitham wonders as he looks at Kaveh across the room. The man is munching on the tip of his pencil and his papers are tightly bound with a clip, but on the table, some documents have been spread out for easier access. Perhaps he's in the middle of another commission. Alhaitham has found that people tend to refer to him when it comes to all matters of architecture related business, whether they like him and his reputation or not. 

Most often than not, the commision turns out to be a waste of time. Time and effort. But Kaveh will never frame it that way. He will never admit that he spent hours on something only to have it discarded somewhere in the trash. 

He doesn't tend to lie, Alhaitham thinks, looking at him. Kaveh's focused gaze keeps on flicking between his page and the ones on the table. He only believes in everything he says. 

It's such a bothersome conclusion. 

And then, Kaveh stops. And glances up. Alhaitham feels awfully like he's been caught doing something he shouldn't, which is ridiculous. It's his house and if he decides to spend his time staring at Kaveh's pathetic form, then it should be his business only. 

He frowns, "Why are you looking at me?" 

He doesn't even hesitate, "I'm admiring the man who looks like he's been eating charcoal for breakfast."

That's a joke. It doesn't sound like one, obviously, but it is. It's a shame that Kaveh doesn't even manage to catch that one. He is, after all, supposed to be smart and yet–

"Charcoal?" 

"You have dark spots all over your face," Alhaitham tells him, pleasant, "You look like a clown."

"Hey!" Kaveh hastily wipes his face with the white sleeves of his shirt and Alhaitham feels himself grinning at that, already sensing another lecture coming with how Kaveh absolutely hates getting anything on his clothes. He's bound to blame that one on him again. "That was uncalled for." 

"Not really. You asked a question, I answered truthfully." 

"You're an asshole." 

"Pot. Kettle." 

"Ugh," Kaveh groans, glaring at him and then he realises the state of his attire and his glare seems to intensify, "Now look what you've done."

"You shouldn't have worn that if you were planning on drawing," Alhaitham defends, enjoying the way the comment seems to rile the other man up even further, "It's not my fault you never make the right decisions." 

"Ha. Ha. Very funny." It is. It's very funny, seeing that man react to even the slightest bait. The house had never been that lively before – the silence used to stretch for hours to no end, sometimes broken only by Alhaitham finding his own voice. His couch, until Kaveh, had never seen a guest and certainly not a family member, either. His table had never been this messy before. It's exhilarating in a way Alhaitham feels it shouldn't be. "Maybe if you spent more time with other people, you'd learn some common courtesy and not bother me when I'm working. And then, maybe I wouldn't have this problem."

"You're the one who started talking to me." 

"Because," Kaveh gives up on trying to get the stain out with the power of his gaze, "you keep looking at me. And it's distracting." 

"I'm distracting?" 

"Your eyes on me, yes," Kaveh doesn't even flinch when Alhaitham scoffs, "I swear, sometimes you're like a stray cat. You  keep bothering me until you get my attention and then I have to suffer because of it." 

"Excuse me–" 

"And–" Kaveh continues, sighing, "–if you're so bored, maybe just come over here and read a book? Instead of trying to distract me, which I know you've been trying to do, because if you were really cleaning like you've said hours ago, you'd probably be done with it by now. You're annoying, but stupidly efficient when it comes to chores. "

Now, it's Alhaitham's turn to frown. He almost throws the rag in his hand at Kaveh for even assuming that Alhaitham would stoop so low as to beg for the man's attention, but something different suddenly registers in his mind. He's a bit late on the uptake because when he understands the meaning behind the other man's words, Kaveh has already turned back to his work. 

"I'm not bored," Alhaitham denies hotly. 

Kaveh rolls his eyes, "Of course, you've been polishing the kitchen counter because it's so fun." He looks at something he wrote down on the paper, makes an irritated sound and then, he furiously scribbles down another note. "It's the weekend. You've finished all of your classified scribe paperwork. Just grab a book, sit down and quiet down." 

The frown gets bigger, " You're sitting on my couch." 

Wordlessly, Kaveh throws down two pillows that he had taken from his room earlier, on the floor and raises an eyebrow at him. When Alhaitham's frown turns into a disgusted scowl, Kaveh coos, "Oh, my mistake. The high and mighty Scribe would never sit on the floor. He's far too important, isn't he?" 

It's meant to mock him. Perhaps it's even said to start another argument, one Kaveh would probably not win but would enjoy getting his part in anyways. Yet, somehow, those words hit somewhere they shouldn't. Maybe it's the way Kaveh looks at him, like he's got Allhaitham all figured out and maybe Alhaitham is feeling a bit petty, because he does grab the nearest book and he sits down, right next to the couch, on the pillows. 

Kaveh's silence is very telling. 

"I did it because I wanted to," Alhaitham says, just to have the last word. 

"You read that one last week," is what Kaveh decides to tell him, not even looking in his direction. Alhaitham resists the urge to check if he's right, although the weight and the first page of the book already tells him that he is, ironically. "Want me to get you another one?" 

Truth be told, the book he's holding wasn't even that interesting. He read that in one sitting and the contents of it flew right over his head, the absurd concepts not even having enough validity to use them in any kind of writing. He supposes that's what he gets for never checking the book before he buys it, enticed to it only because it's physical and it's such rarity that it's near impossible to get something that's not up to his standard. And yet–

"As if I'd read something your Kshahrewar Darshan approves," Alhaitham stubbornly keeps his eyes on the paper, already regretting his choices. "What would it be? The Inazuman-styled interiors or Liyue-themed bathroom tiles–" 

"The latest linguistic paper your beloved Haravatat people released in the wild a month ago." Alhaitham cuts himself off, not being able to resist looking up at Kaveh who waves said object, taken out from Archon knows where, right in his face. "Physical copy. Limited edition. Heard that the Akademiya banned it soon after due to some of the controversial takes that they included."

Ah yes, he heard about that too. The dispute involved the latest discovery of ancient records found in the depths of Sumeru's Devantaka Mountains, proving that there had been people living there before the giant Ruin Golem was deactivated and that they had an entire dialect that differed much from the one previously discovered in the desert. Since the topic leaned dangerously towards one of the taboos set by the Akademiya, the released dispute was taken from the public and sealed away. Alhaitham only had the chance to see the cover and skim through the contents before he had to file the document away, never to be seen again. 

He tries, very hard, to not appear as too eager as he looks at the book in Kaveh's hands. And still, the other man somehow notices that and grins at him. 

"Interested?" 

"Why do you have that?" He demands. 

"Should I lord over you, again, that I'm very close with Dori or will you throw a fit about it like the last time?" 

"I should have this confiscated and have you reported," Alhaitham tells him, eyes still shining as he takes in the perfect condition of the book. As if it was freshly printed and delivered specifically to Alhaitham's residence. The pages would probably look better than half of what Alhaitham has in his collection. 

"But you won't," Kaveh says, so confident that Alhaitham almost gets up to punch him, "because you really want to read this and since I'm such a good senior to you," Kaveh presses the book absent-mindedly to Alhaitham's chest, "I'm graciously allowing you to have this." 

Wait. 

Alhaitham hastily grasps the book and scrapes his fingers over the cover, savouring the feel of the thin leather. Then the situation gets to him and he whips his head up to stare at him, only to find that Kaveh is already looking at him, the tip of his pencil pressed to his cheek. It makes him feel unreasonably timid, even though realistically it should be Kaveh cowering in shame on the couch since the man was probably stupid enough to pay whatever was left of his paycheck for the book. 

"Well?" Kaveh asks, "Are you going to be quiet and let me work now?" 

Alhaitham forces himself to not point out that he's been quiet the whole time and it was Kaveh who started the discussion in the first place, but he averts his eyes to stare at the book in question, marvelling at the fine details on the spine. 

Then, he blinks. 

"You don't read books like that," Alhaitham blurts out, and any other time he'd probably feel less suspicious of the reason behind the purchase, but this time Kaveh only snorts a laugh, turning to his documents as if he knew something Alhaitham didn't. There's really no reason for Kaveh to have this, and even if Dori tried to scam him into getting it, it would first have to at least have something in common with the man. But linguistics is Alhaitham's forte not Kaveh's. So the only logical reason would be that–that Kaveh bought it for him.

(His stomach flips onto itself, weirdly squeamish.)

"Have fun reading," is what Kaveh ends up saying as a way of ending the conversation. It's probably the first time Alhaitham decided against pursuing a further line of questioning. It's also the first time Alhaitham sits quietly by Kaveh's side, without feeling like he has to start another fight in order to feel comfortable with the man's presence. 

It does not get any better but Alhaitham has little time to spare and analyse the situation. His position does not allow him to dwell and think much, albeit he does try to get around the most boring and taxing jobs they try to get him to do. The Akademiya spends a lot of time trying to get scholars like him to settle and be obedient, most often by throwing bribes at them or offering sweet positions that would make them more into leashed dogs than open-minded Sages. 

When he is offered the job of a Scribe, he accepts — and he regrets it immensely even though it has proven, over time, to give him many privileges, because the amount of paperwork and the long hours do not help with his chronic case of headaches and migraines. The long hours aren’t even in his job description, truth be told. His position only sounds so glorious and esteemed, when in fact, most of his overtime is simple administrative work.

And, ah. Admittedly, having a roommate also does nothing to ease his daily suffering. 

In reality—

"Did you forget to buy coffee again?"

It is not often that Alhaitham finds himself at loss for words. His entire existence revolves around them. And yet, in their — 'their' is such a weird word to use now — small kitchen where the table is only clean thanks to his own efforts, Alhaitham is speechless. Not because he doesn't know how to answer, because he does. He did, after all, forget to buy his coffee. And he did, admittedly, not tell his roommate that (because in all honesty, he should be able to afford his own brew without stealing Alhaitham's), but it's not why he's gone quiet. 

Rather, it's the space around them. The air that not so long ago was Alhaitham's only companion. And the horrible, horrible pounding in his head that leaves him helplessly squinting at the dim lights because for all he knows, there should not be two Kavehs standing there. One is certainly enough to make him want to throttle the nearest person. 

"Hello?" A hand is waved in front of him. He does not flinch away. He doesn't feel like his body would take the sudden movement well. "Alhaitham? Coffee?"

"Are you unable to provide for your own needs?" This sounds unnecessarily harsh, even to him. He should tone it down. He should—

There's a lot of things that he should do. But what is the point? 

"You—!" Kaveh's indignant voice digs through his skull. It hurts. There's few things that can make Alhaitham bow down in helplessness and it's horribly ironic that one of them is a simple headache. "You know very well that—"

He knows, and that's why the rest of Kaveh's words blur together. 

He knows, and that is why he turns around, silent and makes a beeline for his room. His head spins. It spins in circles so wide he fears he will fall out of them and sprawl across the floor. Embarrassingly enough, it wouldn't be the first time. 

But Bimarstan checked it out, Alhaitham thinks, and they found nothing wrong.  

It had been a nice day. The sun was out and for once the markets in Sumeru were not full and it was easy to get through them without needing to squeeze through. Alhaitham, who was forced by his own body to finally get his head checked out, had an appointment with one of the healers at noon. He got there on time, and—

Well. 

'It's stress ,' the man had told him after barely doing anything, after not even listening when he tried to explain, and Alhaitham who was struggling to see straight did not insist on disagreeing, ' and it's unavoidable. I'm sorry, but there's nothing I can do. '

Stress it was not. Alhaitham lived a fairly easy life and there's no way a pain so great could be attributed to mere stress, but the healer had sent him on his way home with a practised smile and a prescription for the common medicine for a regular headache, and that was it. It goes without saying that Alhaitham never appeared at Bimarstan again. 

Perhaps there really is nothing that could help him. And that is fine. 

He would live through it. He'd sit by his desk until late hours and let his body shut down at some point so he could get some rest, even if it'd be a rest forced by unbearable exhaustion. The documents he'd have to sort through and read would pile up on his 'done' part of the desk, and he would sign the reports for the Akademiya. And since he forgot to buy the coffee, he would just make do without it for the time. 

It's a routine well-known by now. 

And Kaveh... Truth be told, they bicker a lot. They argue. Over the simplest things, really and not even once did the pride of Kshahrewar even entertain the thought of moving out, but Alhatham knows him. When he feels no need to annoy him, Kaveh will stay out of his way, too immersed with his own projects to care about whatever Alhaitham is up to. The papers and unfinished sketches will lay on the floor and sometimes, if he feels so inclined, Kaveh will paint and read and it will be as if he isn't in the house at all. 

It is not a peaceful co-existence, but it is an agreeable one. 

But then instead of an expected course of events, there's a tug on his wrist and Alhaitham finds himself being yanked towards the man. Had he been feeling better, maybe he'd be able to wrench himself out of that grasp, but there's a sudden, weird flash of warmth where the point of contact has been made and Alhaitham's brain stutters to a halt trying to process it. 

"Oi," Kaveh's voice is close and edged with something akin to irritation, "Don't walk away mid argument, would you? You were supposed to buy coffee ages ago. You know neither of us function well without it."

He does.

There's a lot of things that he knows. 

Kaveh will drink, and draw, and paint, and he will sing and decorate the tiny corners of Alhaitham's house without permission. He will stand by what he says and he will not believe in anything until he's confirmed the information himself. He is also a person who indisputably hates  him. 

Go buy it yourself, Alhaitham wants to tell him, but his vision swims and he turns his eyes away. 

"I forgot," Alhaitham tells him, voice quiet and steady. He wonders if he could just ignore the man until he gets bored. It rarely happens, but maybe— 

"You... forgot."

"Yes."

"You never forget anything," the scepticism bleeds through the voice, forming into liquid in Alhaitham's own mind. 

There's little that he can do about that. 

You have to live, don't you? In pain, without pain — happy or unhappy. Whether Alhaitham is in pain or not does not matter as long as he can perform his function and for better or for worse, he has accepted it as a fact that cannot be refuted. He does not forget nor does he judge, and he is praised for his efficiency. 

There come times however, where existence bears down on him. 

It happens here. In the space between his kitchen and his bedroom, with Kaveh glaring at him. And what is he supposed to do? Explain? Let the situation escalate? It's maddening, not knowing what to do about something when you have spent most of your life having a plan for every possibility. 

"Let me go," his voice is tired but his expression remains unchanged, "and if it bothers you so much, just take my money and go buy some. You're quite capable of doing so, are you not? You would think the famed lion and pride—"

Something changes. There’s a subtle shift in the air.

"Alhaitham, you are such a nuisance," Kaveh lets go of his wrist and turns around with a huff, "So annoying."

Alhaitham does not move.

He hears rather than sees Kaveh take some Mora out of Alhaitham's pouch and he hears the man dress up, put on his shoes. Nothing he does is silent. He's always making some sort of noise that alerts him of the other's location and at first, it used to weigh down on him, that another human being in his household can be so overwhelming. 

This time, the retreating steps make Alhaitham stiffen.

The doors open. Then they slam shut. Alhaitham does not move and his head still swims, mushy mass pushing at his eyes. 

Daily suffering, huh? He thinks as he finally moves. Nothing new.

Headaches don't ease up but since Alhaitham doesn't have a clear or a working solution for them, he just pushes through them as usual, until they either go away on their own or he's able to tame them down to a more bearable level so he can do his job in peace. It usually doesn't take much time — recovering from a peculiarly bad case of a migraine, that is. Alhaitham has learned that while waiting them out serves no one, at least he's become able to perform his function without a hitch when he doesn’t try to drug himself with whatever painkiller he’d get his hands on first. And yet—

Everything hurts.

And technically, it is his own fault, because if he waited just a little more for the pain to die down, he wouldn't be in this position. Left squinting at the faint light that comes through his own window, and grimacing at the quiet noise of Kaveh complaining about something in the living room. It's a true misery, he thinks, to be stuck in your own body and not being able to get out of it. Such is life. Such is existing.  It’s a small mercy when Kaveh finally quiets down and the room is thrown back into silence once more.

It does nothing for his headache, unfortunately, but Alhaitham has to get up either way, so it truly makes no difference to him.

Alhaitham ponders not on his own existence often, because it is not in his nature to do so, but sometimes when he forces himself to his feet — like now — he wonders about the purpose of such. When you are born, there are no expectations of you except for you to eat, breathe and cry. And when you grow older and older, various people from various backgrounds start to put on the weight on you. And whether you like it or not, you end up living up to it or becoming a failure. 

Why is that? That you can be your own person only to a certain age and then, you must become what society expects you to become?

Alhaitham doesn't know. He figures that another Darshan may have some inkling and maybe he should ask them once about it. But such thoughts stay in his muddled mind even as he tries to pretend that the world is still spinning in a good direction and not backwards in his brain. Today, as the thoughts swirl inside of him, Alhaitham stumbles upon a figure passed out on his couch. It is a rare sight. Some scattered papers, pages ripped out of books (his heart twinges at the sight of such mistreatment) lay around the coffee table. Messy sketches, most likely. Perhaps an inspired idea that is half-finished. 

"Kaveh?"

No response. Alhaitham lets out a tired sigh and without hesitation, begins to gather said pieces of paper and sorts them into a manageable pile on the table. Abandoned pencils and pens get placed on top of it, so they don't scatter at any sudden movement. For example, like Kaveh jolting awake  from his sleep, struck by some ‘genius idea’ once again.

And then, Alhaitham pauses. 

Kaveh is sleeping, that one is certain. His breaths are even and his chest rises slowly up and down, up and down and Alhaitham, although he is rarely one for such displays of affection, watches it somewhat fondly. Such an easy existence, this is, having such passion that it directs you through any storm and any difficulty with no trouble and no regard for reality. It’s a bit laughable, that despite not trusting him specifically, Kaveh so easily trusts that Alhaitham will not throw any of the paper laying around when he's napping. When he moved in, at first he wouldn't even blink in Alhaitham's presence, far too wary of him. And now—

"You could take care of yourself more," Alhaitham murmurs to himself. If not for himself, then for Alhaitham so he wouldn't have to clean up after him. But Kaveh does not answer, he does not stir either, and possessed by some weird entity, Alhaitham gets up from where he was kneeling at the table and throws a spare blanket on the man. 

It is quiet, then. His head still hurts, but somehow, Kaveh’s light snores don't irritate him as much. 

It would be easier if Alhaitham just left him to his own devices. After all, living together does not mean caring for each other and both of them proved that they hate each other equally. Simply co-existing should be enough. It definitely should not make Alhaitham think of buying more blankets in case his own wore down and it definitely did not make him buy twice as much coffee as he used to before. 

And yet—

Kaveh sleeps on and Alhaitham, feeling another spike of pain in his head, leaves for work. 

(He never notices the figure on the couch stirring and cracking an eye open.)

"My request for funding has been rejected again," Kaveh says as a greeting as he wrenches the office doors open, "Care to explain why?"

"You should know why," Alhaitham tells him, not even looking up, "The reason is written down below. As it should. Can't miss it."

"You think you're funny?"

"Are you laughing?"

"Alhaitham, you—"

It is not rewarding, being a Scribe, most of the time. If it were, maybe Alhaitham would feel more joy in sitting until late hours on this uncomfortable chair. Maybe, instead of sorting through tens of paperwork, he should have taken a more active approach to research and set out on some kind of trip to study runes in, for example, the Sumerian desert. He wouldn't have to deal with people like Kaveh then. 

Probably. 

A document is slammed down onto his desk. 

"Explain," Kaveh's hard voice demands. 

"I'm not in charge of approving requests like that," Alhaitham says honestly, "If you have an issue with it, take it up with the Grand Sage."

He does not move and when Alhaitham glances up, he's still staring at him. Expectant. 

"I don't know what you want from me," he admits, slightly irritated, "I'm not—"

"Explain how it got rejected."

Alhaitham cuts himself off. 

"Pardon?"

"I know that as a Scribe you don't approve requests," Kaveh tells him, slowly as if he were speaking to a small child not able to comprehend the basic concept of fair play. He waves the paper around in Alhaitham's face, "But you clearly know how the process for these things goes, so explain to me why it was rejected."

Ah. 

Hmm.

Unflinchingly, Alhaitham takes the document into his hands, skims his eyes through it and leans back on his chair. For all of his abrasive and definitely dismissive attitude for everything that has no connection to architecture or art in general, Alhaitham cannot find  even a flaw in his writing. It doesn't come off too strong, even though a lot of scholars have a tendency to put in requests that demand rather than ask for funding, and structurally there are no mistakes in it, either. 

And yet, at the bottom, there is a red stamp signifying rejection anyway. 

How curious. How... predictable. 

"If you cannot understand it, then I'm afraid there's little that I can do for you," Alhaitham places the document back on the desk, dismissively, "A person like you surely can draw the correct conclusion from this alone."

Kaveh's eyebrow twitches in annoyance, "Well?"

A bit put-off that he has not risen to an obvious taunt, Alhaitham narrows his eyes, "What?"

"Explain."

He should refuse just for the sake of it. Ignore him, go back to the glaring amount of paperwork still sitting on his desk. Turn back and maybe start reading out-loud for the other man to take the hint already. But there is something that stops him. Something that makes Alhaitham scowl at himself. 

Kaveh rarely asks for his opinion, claiming that Alhaitham is too arrogant to argue with and it's just redundant to waste his time and breath. Yet, here he stands, uncharacteristically patient. It infuriates him, because every time Alhaitham thinks he's grasped his personality, a new trait pops up. An ever evolving enigma. 

You are too open, too honest, too—

"The Akademiya doesn't fund Kshahrewar as much as it does any other Darshan," he starts reluctantly, "and it frowns upon any artistic practice. Shouldn't you know that already?" Kaveh raises an eyebrow, silently asking him to elaborate, "There's nothing wrong with the document, but since you're insistent on it getting through, rephrase it so it doesn't look like the main purpose of your project is artistic."

"How?"

He shrugs, "How would I know? You're the Kshahrewar graduate, not me," then, he takes one of the documents from his pile and mutters out, "But if it were me, I'd just say that my project would benefit the Akademiya greatly by bringing more, let's say, practical variety to already known research."

"And how, pray tell, would you prove that?"

Alhaitham, absent-mindedly turns a page in his documentation, "That's for me to know and for you to find out."

One annoyed curse and a slam of the door later, Alhaitham is left alone in the dark office with only the papers as his companions. He hates to admit that, but it starts to feel like wherever Kaveh visits he brings the overwhelming sunlight with him and when he leaves, he takes it with him. 

Sometimes, Alhaitham comes back home and forgets that he doesn't live alone anymore. It is, truth be told, a bit laughable that some days he's able to open the door, slip out of his shoes and coat, change into something a bit more comfortable and then freeze in the threshold of his own room, staring at Kaveh who either can be found in the kitchen or in the living room with his own sketches and paints spread out for all to see.

Today is such a day. 

"Ah," slips out of his mouth. 

Kaveh, who was humming just moments ago, stops and turns to look at him, blonde hair pinned up messily with a rubber band and a spatula in his hand. There's some sauce on his left cheek and he hastens to wipe it off with a cloth before looking back at him, and Alhaitham just blinks at him, as if surprised to see him at all.

It's broken when Kaveh sighs and turns down the heat, "What?"

"What?"

He raises an eyebrow, "Well, surely there must be a reason as to why you're just staring at me without a word. Or are you doing this because you admire me?"

Words don't register as quickly as they should and Alhaitham spends another long while just trying to figure out whether going into the kitchen to get something to eat is worth it, or if he should just turn back, close his door and sleep. 

"Don't flatter yourself," Alhaitham tells him at last and hesitantly steps further in, squinting at the light. "Are you cooking?"

"What does it look like?"

"Like you're setting my kitchen on fire."

Kaveh doesn't dignify that with a response, seeing as, contrary to popular belief, he does know how to cook and he does it well. It is just very amusing to see him glare with a light blush on his face, a retort ready on the tip of his tongue but clearly swallowed down for some reason. He wonders why. It's not like they haven't butted heads about it before, just for the sake of it. 

Alhaitham frowns but doesn't comment on that. Perhaps the pounding in his head robs him of strength to do so, and perhaps it's just too early for it. He doesn't know. Instead, he comes into the kitchen and reaches into the cupboard, taking out a vial with pills. He takes out two, ready to pop them into his mouth when Kaveh places a plate next to his hand, silent. 

He stills. 

"What's that?" He asks. A stupid question. What else could it be?

"Biryani." Kaveh puts a portion of it on his own plate and places it on the counter.

Alhaitham stares at it, suspicious. "Is it poisoned?"

"What? No!" He glances at him, annoyed but upon seeing a genuinely confused expression, something in him softens and he sighs, "It's food. For you."

"You made me food?"

"Yes," It sounds like Kaveh is dying a little bit inside. "I did."

"Why?"

"Because," Kaveh takes a bite out of his own food, chews it down really slowly as he watches Alhaitham take the plate and sniff it experimentally, "I felt like it."

It doesn't make sense.

"It doesn't make sense," he says out loud, but he also takes a bite, just to see if there's a possibility that he will actually drop dead because of it, but no. He doesn't die, and he doesn't smell anything wrong with it. In fact, his own stomach growls the second he takes another bite and he finds himself sitting at the counter as well. 

"Did no one ever make food for you?" Kaveh looks at him, expression unreadable as he sees him pop two pills inside of his mouth and wash them down with a glass of water. 

Alhaitham doesn't mean to twitch at that, but he does and he feels uncomfortable with the fact that once again, Kaveh was on the nose with his careless but oh, so accurate, statement. In this space in the kitchen where there is only him and Kaveh, something in the air makes him tense, uncertain. The man sitting at the same counter as he is, should not affect him that much; he should not make food for him or look at him like that. And yet he is, and Alhaitham sits there, trying to understand. 

He doesn't.

"No," He doesn't look at him when he says, "Why would they?"

Kaveh is quiet for a moment. Then, "You didn't eat anything yesterday."

Oh . 

"I was nauseous," he mutters out. 

"I know," Kaveh eyes the cupboard above the stove but Alhaitham pays it no mind as he eats through the entire plate as if he was starving, "Is it because of your migraines?"

"My what?"

"Migraines," Kaveh pauses for a moment, "Headaches, whatever you call them."

Alhaitham freezes, then forces himself to relax, "Maybe."

Maybe. 

Kaveh doesn't speak after that, but later in the night, Alhaitham finds another plate with food waiting for him on the counter. He tries to not think about the reasons why the man even knew Alhaitham would be awake at this hour. He fails miserably. 

Sometimes, Kaveh goes away for more than a day (a week, it's usually a week) and Alhaitham is left to his own devices, and it is only then that he realises just how quiet the house becomes without the constant presence of another human being. Once upon a time, maybe he'd be happy about it — that there's peace and silence; that no one bothers him during his meals, that no one tries to bicker with him when he's trying to read; that no matter what hour it is, Alhaitham is blissfully alone. 

Being alone, he finds, is not a problem after all. He has spent most of his life living on his own and he has yet to find a suitable reason to abandon that kind of lifestyle. It's just that—

It really... really is a little empty. 

Kaveh had told him that the trip will last a week at most and that Alhaitham shouldn't miss him that horribly, to which Alhaitham replied that missing him would be equal to missing a peculiarly bad case of flu. And Kaveh had huffed, raised his arms up in the air and slammed the door on his way out. Only then the reality seemed to crash into Alhaitham, that he had been left . 

At first, it didn't hit him. The first day and the second passed relatively easily as he worked late into the night and came back straight to bed. The concerned elderly lady from the market gifted him a bowl of... something that tasted vaguely like curry and he ate that without a thought as well. For the first time since a long time he spent his day entirely productive and got ahead in his paperwork. Not only that but due to administrative error on the Grand Sage's end, Alhaitham was also granted few days off afterwards because supposedly "the Scribe needs to rest once in a while" and some juniors from other Darshans — namely, and surprisingly, people from Kshahrewar — reported him looking worse for the wear, which made the ' administrative error ' more of a ' oh no we forgot to let him take time off because we usually don’t even notice he’s around’ '.   And so, that is how he finds himself at home, alone, with nothing to do. 

Granted, he could use that time to go out and research those branches of his interest that couldn't be found in Akasha, or even spend his time browsing through that antique shop that rarely has anything good in it but when it does, it's a real relic. Yet, at the start of his fourth day of having the house to himself, Alhaitham realises that he doesn't really want to go out at all and that the familiar itch of boredom doesn't seem to leave him no matter what he does. 

He has been denied access to any of his work documents and when he asked the Grand Conservator, if they need help with organising the shelves (students during the exam season tend to leave them in disorder) he was turned down so fiercely that he didn't appear at the Akademiya again. Whoever he asked (or tried to ask) either ran away from him or became selectively mute. Since the stakes were against him, Alhaitham decided to stay home for the rest of his mandatory free time. 

Only to regret it when it turns out that suddenly even the comfort of his own bedroom makes his skin crawl, horribly restless when faced with all the empty spaces in the house.

It’s not like he misses Kaveh. That's be ridiculous. 

In fact, he's irritated. Before he left, Kaveh forgot to restock on their groceries (it was his turn after all) and a certain mess of paints that were used in some 'artistic project' hidden in Kaveh's room was still not cleaned up — it glared at Alhaitham from across the living room. The mug of half-finished coffee stood next to the sink where Kaveh abandoned it before he slammed the door shut as he left — Alhaitham refuses to wash it.

It's inconvenient, that's all. 

Anyone would feel unsettled at such sudden change — from having a roommate constantly yammering in your ear, to suddenly not having them. It's a mere matter of time before Alhaitham sets back into his routine and enjoys it. 

A meal eaten alone. An evening spent reading the special editions of physical books that went out of print ages ago. 

By the sixth day, something unexpected happens. Alhaitham feels cold. It goes without saying that while the discomfort of having a cold bed was quite normal for him, it's a little unusual that Alhaitham cannot get warm. It gradually builds up from a small chill that follows him throughout the day to full on shivers running through his entire body. He doesn't get it, and there's actually few things that Alhaitham can say bother him — being in the dark one of them.

Why? He wonders as he covers up with blankets. Why is he cold?

It makes no sense. Three blankets and he's still miserably sniffling on the couch. He has long forgone going to bed as the covers offer little resistance to freezing air around him. 

It's agony. 

The poor plant on the windowsill seems to wither at his irked gaze — but there's no one else to blame for this predicament. No one. It's just him, the unfinished plate of something that looks like a Pita Pocket, and an overwhelming sense of dread. 

Stupid, he thinks. 

His eyes close soon after, but his sleep is far from restful. 

The clock reads 3 AM. 

Alhaitham's eyes are barely open, but he sees the time and leans his head on the headrest of the couch, tired beyond any scale he may come up with. The entire house is quiet in a way it never is, filled with only the sound of the clock and the occasional chirp of night birds outside.

Maybe Kaveh isn't coming back , a thought like this pops into his mind. 

They didn't part on good terms. Alhaitham is not the best roommate, either. Too calculative, too unemotional. He resembles a machine, is what he's been told. Uncaring of art and aesthetic value. He cannot relate to what people see in theatre performances, in bards and their songs, in the festivals — he knows their importance, of course, but there's little that he can actually understand. It's hard, he knows, to talk to someone like him. He's so above, so detached from what's human and what isn't, that he must really look like a monster to some people. 

'You have so many opportunities to help people,' Kaveh would complain, hands on his hips, a little frown on his face, ' Your position allows you for much leeway when it comes to administrative business around the Akademiya. Would it kill you to be a bit kinder?'

But why should he? Why should a stranger's fate matter to him?

'I see no point,' he replied, honest, 'And isn't it your 'kindness' that usually lands you in uncomfortable positions where you're either broke or— '

There had been anger on Kaveh's face. It had taken him by surprise. They usually bickered and disagreed but there hasn't been an instance of Kaveh actually getting really mad at him, to the point where he would go all silent and stare at him like it's Alhaitham who's a lesser being, simply by being too selfish.

Because that's what this is. Selfishness. 

How could he ever explain that to Kaveh? That kindness doesn't take anyone too far; that by selecting the few people you're willing to help from time to time protects you from ripping your heart apart? 

No one will reward you, Alhaitham had wanted to tell him, but it must have shown on his face, because Kaveh had slammed the cup he was holding and said, 'Must everything you do have a reason, Alhaitham? Can't you function without having a concrete explanation for doing what you do?”

Can he? Could he? 

The clock on the wall says it's 4 AM now.

Now... What was it that he had told him? Alhaitham tries to recall, curling up and sighing. 

'It's not a matter of functioning, ' or maybe it is and he never caught onto it, 'It's a matter of practicality. You can't help everyone.'

'I can't.' Kaveh had agreed and somehow that alone felt like a slap, ' But if I have resources; if my words can ease someone's pain; if my actions can bring someone happiness — then it would be ignorant of me to look the other way. That's something you don't get. I don't know why. Maybe all those runes you study non-stop robbed you of the ability to empathise with real, alive people. '

Maybe. Maybe he's right, Alhaitham's eyes close again. 

Exhaustion pulls him under and he doesn't resist it.

Haravatat students are not really expected to learn 20 languages, but Alhaitham thinks that the benefits of being multilingual far outweigh the hours that go into studying them and many nights that pass without even a wink of sleep. Small sacrifices must be made in order to understand cultures that have perished years and centuries ago – since the first step to getting even the gist of the lives of people who lived a long time before you is reading the context they left behind. (Even if it means that the first years of studying at the Akademiya meant translating poor romantic poems.) 

Alhaitham makes no fuss over that and he doesn't complain that the amount of work he has had doubled ever since new ruins were discovered (and this is exactly why he despises it when Kshahrewar gets the funding they apply for), but even he has to admit that for all the languages that he had grasped, there still remains one he doesn't even have a clue as to how to begin to comprehend. 

There are, after all, means of communication and some of them are terribly individualistic. They cannot be named a 'language' in their own might but used in a context they begin to take on a form awfully similar to it. 

It's infuriating. 

Why, though? There's no real reason. Honestly, Alhaitham knows when to admit defeat and when to back down and take care of something more worthwhile. This time however–

"I'm home!" 

He is startled by the noise. He shouldn't be. Not really. A week or so and he has already forgotten what it's like when another person comes into the house; has forgotten what it's like to hear somebody else's voice after hours and hours of silence; and it's such a revelation that for a moment, he's half sure that he has dreamed up the whole situation. If it weren't for the sound of the keys being set on the small counter in the hall and the overly obnoxious groan and then a following sigh, Alhaitham would still not believe it. 

"Hello? Anyone here?" Kaveh yells out, the sound of his bag thrown against the wall makes Alhaitham flinch by his place at the kitchen stove, "I hope you're decent and not walking around naked. If you are, please shout something so I don't become traumatised? Pretty please?" 

How annoying, would usually be the first thought in his head at the irritating comments and nonsense requests, but this time Alhaitham finds himself still and quiet. Taken aback maybe. Surprised that Kaveh would come back when he has no reason to. Or maybe, he has – a roof over his head, practically for free. How is it that suddenly that notion makes him swallow hard; makes his throat all dry and tight, overcome with something he has not felt for years now?

"Ugh, honestly, you would think that– ooh ," the voice is close now, it cuts itself off suddenly, almost surprised for a moment before it turns indignant, "Well, hello there. Would it kill you to answer?" 

It most certainly wouldn't, he thinks, but where's the fun in that? 

Alhaitham narrows his eyes at him, almost squinting. Maybe he's just feeling suspicious; maybe there's nothing deeper beyond that. Surely it makes sense. 

Yet–

"SIlent treatment?" Kaveh tilts his head, almost confused. He's not even surprised that Kaveh is looking at him as if Alhaitham grew two heads overnight. They never give each other silent treatment, they never allow the argument to die down by itself and they most certainly don't just stare at each other like Alhaitham is doing now. But there's something in the air that makes him uncertain – a sense of apprehension because Alhaitham doesn't understand what's happening and when he doesn't get what's inside of his own head his entire mind works overtime to change that. "Ah, wait. Are you cooking? " 

Alhaitham snaps his eyes towards the stove and hurriedly puts it out, but it's already too late. The food on the pan sizzles out pathetically and he starts to glare at it instead, as if blaming it for everything. 

"I was," he mutters out, disappointed in himself. He's not the greatest cook, he admits that, but a simple meal made from eggs shouldn't give him that much trouble. Perhaps that's one of the flaws he can never improve on, after all. 

"You never cook," Kaveh's horrified gasp makes the situation even worse, "Are you sick?" 

"I'm not," Alhaitham peels off the eggs and places them on the plate. They look even more pathetic, a contrast so stark on the white plate that even he has to grimace at it. Maybe getting up from the couch after another restless night wasn't as good an idea as he previously thought. Then he thinks, miserably, that maybe if they allowed him to take his paperwork with him he wouldn't be in such a state to begin with. He'd probably crash at some point, but that option sounds more bearable than whatever this…. is. 

He sighs. 

He reaches into the drawer to take a fork out and pauses when a hand seizes his wrist. And then, another hand – the back of it – is pressed against his forehead and Alhaitham's entire body stiffens, almost burning. 

"Were you going to eat that?" Kaveh sounds exasperated and now that Alhaitham looks at him, the man is still dressed up, if not a little dirty from his trip back home, "Why are you even up? You must be melting inside." 

"What?" 

Kaveh takes his hand back then lowers Alhaitham's. He pushes the plate further on the counter, far away from his reach. 

"You've got a fever," he peers at him, a weird look on his face, "DId you not notice?" 

Oh. That would explain the headache. 

Truth be told, he just thought it's a beginning of a migraine after not sleeping the whole night. 

"Oh," he says out loud.

"Yeah. Oh," Kaveh rolls his eyes, "Why are you home anyways? You're usually at work at this time." 

"They had me take time off," he blinks owlishly, raising his hand to touch his forehead as well. And indeed, it is a bit hot to touch, "A week."

"And… you spent the whole week at home?" 

"What was I supposed to do?" 

"Go out with friends maybe?" 

"Friends?" 

Kaveh stills. 

Alhaitham stares at him wondering why the man looks so shocked, then looks away, not understanding the reason behind that expression on Kaveh's face and not wanting to. Instead, he just sighs and rubs at his temples. Now that the heat has been pointed out, Alhaitham's perception of the world shifts a little. It would make sense why the night felt too cold; why the room spinned a bit too much in the morning; and why Kaveh's reappearance back at home made no sense to him. 

He glances back at the plate and frowns at it. 

"I'm hungry," he says, reaching for it. His hand is halfway there when Kaveh slaps it off with a hiss, "That was uncalled for." 

"Go back to your room," Kaveh tells him, eyeing the plate with distaste, "Seriously." 

"I'm hungry," he repeats, not even entertaining the thought of obeying the man, "And I made myself food. Can you just go away already? You just came back and you're already getting on my nerves." 

"And vice versa, dear Scribe," Kaveh's voice sounds off, but Alhaitham has no time to wonder about the reason, because Kaveh nudges him, "Go on. To bed with you."

"This is my house," Alhaitham tries to tug his wrist back, but the grip on it only tightens as it pulls him towards his bedroom, "Stop ordering me around." 

"Then stop being so difficult. What are you? Five? You're clearly unwell and being up does you no favours, if you haven't noticed that yet." There's a pause, almost a thoughtful one, when he notices that Alhaitham isn't frowning at him but rather in the direction of his room. He lets go of his wrist then, as if stung, then walks up to the closed door, opens it and peers inside Alhaitham's space only to walk back to him, crossing his arms. Alhaitham almost feels self-conscious at the amount of judgement he sees on the man's face. "Explain." He demands. 

Demands. As if he held any sway over him. 

Still–

"Explain what?" 

"The bed. Don't play with me." His lips pull into an annoyed scowl. "It looks like you haven't slept there at all. What have you been doing this whole time? Can't be work if they put you on forced leave. They'd never allow that." 

"I did sleep there." Once or twice. "And I make my bed every morning. Also how would you know? You weren't here." There's a hint of unexpected bitterness there that makes Alhaitham wish he never opened his mouth, but Kaveh doesn't seem to notice it as he glares down at him. 

"Because I know you," he sounds tired as he says that, as if he thought Alhaitham asking such question was stupid, "And every time you do wake up and make your bed you fold your blanket and put it on the edge. You never take it out of the bedroom." 

Alhaitham's eyes automatically fly over to the blanket on the couch and he regrets it as soon as he does it when Kaveh's eyes do the same. 

"I was cleaning," the excuse flies out of his mouth. 

Kaveh raises an eyebrow, "Right." 

"And even if I weren't doing that," Alhaitham's voice remains cool even though he still feels like uncertainty in his chest will swallow him whole, "That would be none of your business." 

That's the truth. 

Yet, saying that makes another kind of ache fill his chest. Not because Alhaitham was lying, no, but because there are certain facts that won't ever change. And the facts are that Alhaitham spent most of his life living alone and fending for himself, that his house remains cold during winter and summer and he has yet to find a solution to that. It is also a fact that even if Alhaitham feels bad, and empty, and even if he's in pain, life will just keep on going. It never stops. And it never will. 

He has long accepted it – that his days may be filled with never-ending headaches, with long office hours and that he has to push through them, simply because. That he can't just stop . 

"Alright," Kaveh's voice breaks through and he looks like he's still trying to figure him out, "You're right. That is absolutely not my business if you decide that your comfortable bed is lacking and that you want to spend your nights cramped on that little couch of yours. What's it to me?" 

Alhaitham shifts on his feet, not understanding the sudden change in tone. 

"Obviously," Alhaitham says, just to say something. 

"What is my business, however, is your health," Kaveh's red eyes pierce through him, "Because when you're feeling under the weather you're unbearable. More so than usual. So what we are going to do is that you will…  leave the kitchen, I will make some food since I've been travelling for hours through the desert and I'm starving, and then we will address the fact that for all that brain that you store in that head of yours, you are simply unable to recognize when you need to take a break."

Something spreads through his entire chest, "I–" 

"Shoo! Chop-chop! Come on," he passes him by, already taking out more pans, "Don't just stand there. Go sit somewhere." 

Alhaitham's body moves before he can even think about it, finding its way onto the couch, stunned. Hypnotized, maybe. 

For all the languages that he speaks and reads, Kaveh's is one that he cannot decipher. Cannot understand. He only notices when it is gone, when its absence feels worse than its presence. All the words, all the actions that make it up cannot find their meaning in his brain. 

Why? 

Why can't he understand it? Why does Kaveh perplex him so? Why does he allow him into his house, let him paint his walls, decorate the empty shelves, cook for him?  Why do those things come so effortlessly to the other while Alhaitham's hands stumble clumsily through them? Surely there must be a reason for all that. 

Except, he can't find any. Many have said that Alhaitham's existence is an annoyance, nuisance. That he ruins all the fun just breathing the same air as others. And he has never cared much for their opinion, never unless he counts the nights where the moon shined brightly and the stars were the only witness to Alhaitham's whispered questions. 

He sits on the couch and he covers himself with a blanket once more. He shivers. 

It is cold. 

It is almost a reminder of last night, of the clock ticking by. Except back then, the house has been quiet and now there's the sound of pans shuffling, food sizzling. There's a voice humming a song, almost a lullaby and Alhaitham has found those things bothersome before but now they wrap around his body, squeeze him from the inside and ease the dread in his heart. 

Time passes by in a blink and before he knows it, a plate with – admittedly better looking food than his eggs – is handed to him. Kaveh sits down onto the coffee table with a loud sigh and digs into his own meal while Alhaitham slowly tries his own. Not so long ago, he had been eating like that but alone, right at the counter, with a book as his only companion. 

"I suppose I should be thankful you at least bought groceries," Kaveh muses some time after, placing his empty plate on the table and glancing over to see Alhaitham still eating, "Still, it is a surprise, seeing you in  that state." 

"Does it bother you?" He asks between bites. 

"Maybe." 

"Well, then imagine what kind of pain it is, looking after you when you're drunk." 

There's no answer to that even though he senses that Kaveh has a retort ready to that. Instead of confronting him about it though, Kaveh tilts his head and leans it on his hand, almost like a cat who found something interesting in the trash can. 

"Why aren't you sleeping, Alhaitham?" 

It isn't a question out of care, but it traitorously feels like one, so much that something stings his eyes enough to make him look away. Because how could he explain? This kind of weakness should just be buried underneath many layers, forgotten or overcome. Yet, time after time, Alhaitham comes back to it and wonders why the sheets of his bed are always so chilling, why the nights make his chest hurt because there's something dull between his ribs – something he can't scratch.

Many people have said that Alhaitham has no heart – but if so, then why does it hurt so much sometimes? 

"No reason," he answers, chewing through his last bite, his eyelids heavy, "I thought a change in scenery would do me some good. Haven't you slept on the couch plenty of times before?" 

A lie. Kaveh looks at him with something Alhaitham has no way of understanding, then he sighs and his hand reaches out, touching his forehead again. And again, Alhaitham freezes, wide-eyed and confused, before it all disappears when Kaveh speaks, "You should get some rest." 

He knows. It's not like he hasn't tried before. 

Instead, Alhaitham looks at him, feigning disinterest, "How did your project go?" 

There's something that should be said in the space that they occupy but Alhaitham is barely awake, crushed with exhaustion that has its root somewhere else that neither of them can reach at the moment. And Kaveh, unclean and clearly in need of a good nap, glances at him with something that shouldn't make Alhaitham feel so vulnerable and seen. 

Then, he starts speaking. And against his will, Alhaitham's eyes close and his consciousness fades away soon after. 

He's not in his bed, that he knows even before he opens his eyes. The covers are far too soft and the blanket around him is too warm – something that never happens to Alhaitham. There's a brief moment of panic, of not remembering what happened before he was knocked out by his own tiredness and then, as soon as he jostles in his place, a quiet sound makes him settle down. 

"You're in my bedroom," Kaveh tells him, apparently completely unbothered by that fact. He thumbs absentmindedly at the pages of his sketchbook, a pencil in his other hand twirling around his fingers smoothly. "I moved you." 

"What?" 

Oh. His voice is way too hoarse for it to be a byproduct of him not speaking for some while. 

"Your fever spiked up after you fell asleep – which, by the way, was very rude of you as I was in a middle of telling you why the trip got so long, you know? – and being a good senior, I decided that I should watch over your dumb ass lest you somehow die in your dreams."

"I wouldn't die." 

He wouldn't. Probably. 

He groggily sits himself up, head spinning a bit. His body feels a bit sweaty, so maybe that bit about the fever was true, too. His limbs feel a bit like lead, heavy and weighing down on him, but at least his head doesn't pound as much as it did before. Now, it's near silent.

Kaveh's words catch up to him and he blinks at him, a bit stunned, "You moved me?" 

"I don't lift that claymore for fun," Kaveh rolls his eyes, "And you're light for someone of your build. You should eat more veggies, Alhaitham, or the wind will blow your feeble body away next time you go out." 

Ridiculous. 

He should say something. Insult him somehow, maybe. That always gets the conversation on a track that Alhaitham knows how to deal with. Yet, his tongue doesn't seem to want to cooperate, because as soon as he opens his mouth, it stays unmoving. He realises soon after that it's because he doesn't know how to answer and move the topic further where he wants it. He, who graduated the top of his class; who made his words into a weapon – he sits in his roommate's bed and has no clue as to how to speak to him. 

Why do you care? He'd ask, maybe. 

He takes a deep breath, lets it out slowly, then says, "You could have just taken me to my bedroom." 

And Kaveh doesn't spare him so much as a glance as he replies, "The same one you apparently refused to sleep in since I went on that business trip?" 

He freezes, somehow feeling his body grow even heavier. Surprisingly, the man has a point. Alhaitham's unhealthy sleep schedule didn't begin with the man's absence, but the rapid decline of his health did and so did the shivers and abnormal cold. Or more accurately, those two things just became harder to ignore the longer Kaveh was absent.

How did he not figure that one bit earlier is beyond him. 

"A coincidence." 

A weak defence, that is. 

"Maybe so," there's a sigh, then Kaveh puts his sketchbook on the cluttered space he would call his nightstand and turns to look at him. He looks a bit more awake, a bit more clean – perhaps he had the time to wash up while Alhaitham slept. "How do you feel now?" 

That, he understands. Alhaitham pauses for a moment, then says, "Fine."

"Mhm," Kaveh doesn't look convinced, "No pain?" 

"Just the normal amount." 

That gets him a judgemental look and a frown, "Normal amount of pain is none." 

Oh. 

He doesn't feel bad, technically speaking. He gets a bit dizzy when he turns his head too fast, and his muscles protest a bit when he tries to move them and arrange them in a way that’s more comfortable, but he can safely say that he senses no migraine at the horizon. Compared to what he's used to, this is almost heaven and metaphorical relief. 

He's about to say so when his body shivers, betraying him once more. The slight movement catches Kaveh's attention. 

"You should really mind your business," Alhaitham says before Kaveh can speak, "I'm not a child that needs minding. Haven't you said so before?" 

"I did. And I stand by it. But must you be so stubborn? Can't you just let someone help you for once?" 

"Help me?" He scoffs. "With what?" 

"Your migraines," Kaveh's voice is hard, "That's one example. Don't think I didn't notice how often they happen."

"I dealt with them just fine before you came to live with me," he moves to stand, legs only a little bit wobbly as he puts his feet on the ground. Kaveh doesn't even twitch, staring him down almost in a silent challenge. And against his better judgement, Alhaitham continues the conversation, "And for your information, I did ask for help with it. Had you bothered to listen to me when I talk to you, you'd know." 

"You never said anything about it." 

"I did." 

"Yeah? Well? And how did it go for you? Where did you even get that 'help'?" 

"Bimarstan," Alhaitham bites out, angry. Kaveh watches him, suddenly interested, "And there's nothing to be 'helped with'. Those are regular stress headaches. Maybe I'd have less of them if you stopped being such a bother." 

SIlence. 

There's a shift in the air as Kaveh asks, "They told you they're caused by stress ?" 

Thrown out of a loop, Alhaitham's glare eases a bit, "Yes." 

"And what did they prescribe you?" 

"Just…  a painkiller." That's no good. How did the conversation turn to this? Why can he feel the anger leave him, wave after wave only to be replaced by the same old exhaustion? His vision gets a bit blurry at the edges and he raises his hand to rub at them. The confusion radiating off Kaveh doesn't help him, either, "Now, can you just…  leave me alone?" 

Kaveh finally stands up. Alhaitham only notices it when the man grabs his wrist and lowers his hand from where Alhaitham is trying to get rid of invisible sand on his eyelids. 

Ah. 

He's really tired. 

He must be, if he allows Kaveh to guide him back to the bed with no complaints, no cutting remarks. He must be, because he considers, for once, what it would be like if Kaveh didn't hate him that much; if it would be possible for them to spend at least one evening without a fight. He would miss their bickering, but maybe then…  maybe then he wouldn't feel so–

"The reason why I was gone for so long is because I stayed at Gandharva Ville for some time," Kaveh says out of the blue and Alhaitham considers the benefits of telling him to shut up, "I spoke with Tighnari for a bit. Told him of your migraines.  If he knew that Bimarstan ignored them like that, he'd probably want to give them some  piece of his mind." 

He stills. 

Kaveh sighs, "You'd probably have to speak to him yourself, but for now, I've brought some medicine for you to try. Please, don't fight me on this at least." 

What ? 

"Medicine?" His throat tightens up. 

"Just some herbs he said would ease the worst of it. " He speaks as if the matter was trivial. As if going out of his way, delaying his return, was just another thing that should have been done a long time ago. He always does that – never makes a big deal out of helping people. He rips his heart apart and gifts it to everyone as one would with their candy. "I didn't expect to find you in such a state when I came back though."

"Why would you do that?" He doesn't specify what. He doesn't need to. Kaveh looks at him, not in pity and not in annoyance, but with something akin to care. 

"Just because, Alhaitham," he doesn't even hesitate, "I may enjoy getting a raise out of you, but I don't find seeing you in pain especially pleasant, no matter what you think."

HIs mind can't wrap itself around that concept so it does the second best thing. It ignores it, shuts it  in the far back and tries to forget it even exists.

"I don't believe you," he still finds it within himself to say. 

Kaveh's hand does an aborted move, almost as if it wanted to reach out to his hair and pet it. Instead, he just nudges him further up the bed, silent. There are no words to be spoken after that, and since Alhaitham doesn't feel strong enough to debate him on the topic, he lets the man tuck him back into the blankets and doesn't kick up another fuss when the man settles next to him with his sketchbook again. 

The familiar cold is replaced by burning warmth, one that makes Alhaitham's lungs struggle to take in any air. 

"You never do," he ends up saying at last, not looking at him, "And I never believe you, for the record. What a match." 

You're ridiculous, is what Alhaitham thinks as he forces himself to stay awake for a bit longer. Your existence is a circling enigma, never to be solved.  

"This is a one time thing," Alhaitham says suddenly. 

"Sleeping in my bed?" 

"Technically, it's my bed as it's my house." 

"Well. You take care of yourself more and maybe you won't find yourself in it again," Kaveh's answer is confident and leaves no room for arguments, "I'd rather not waste my nights making sure you don't die in your sleep, either." 

That sounds familiar. Safe. 

He frowns, tugging at the blankets and releasing a shaky breath. 

"You make no sense," he whispers under his breath. Kaveh makes no acknowledgement of his words, and soon after, Alhaitham finds himself drifting off again. 

By the time he felt good enough to leave Kaveh's bed without feeling like he's going to collapse any moment, the time for his forced leave came to an end and he was free to come back to his office. Despite the initial worry of his headaches getting worse as soon as he finds his hands full of paperwork, Alhaitham vows to not abandon his post and so first thing in the morning, he clocks in and settles behind his desk. 

He has to admit, albeit a bit reluctantly, that he isn't a fan of office work as much as he claims to be. SItting in one position reading through reports, or sitting in meetings that drag on and on about academic achievements or the lack thereof, then transcribing them all by hand, sounds as boring as it realistically is in real life. Sometimes, Alhaitham spends more time trying to understand what one scholar wanted to say than he does actually writing said words down. Not to mention the Sages who, despite all their praise for him and his skills, have very specific requests as to how their speeches should translate to papers that will later be distributed to everyone else. 

It is…  admittedly not a hard job. Alhaitham doesn't waste time and he has learned during his school years at the Akademiya how to manage his own schedule so he can have enough freedom to do as he pleases for at least two hours in the day, and his efficiency has yet to decrease – not only that, even ridiculous  tasks given by the Grand Sage himself are not enough to make him want to quit the job altogether. He does wish, sometimes, that more people would be competent enough to replace him should things go awry, but he supposes that would be asking too much of a generation that relies only on the Akasha to get them through life. He, at least, takes great advantage of the fact that he doesn’t actually need to sit in for all of their meetings, which decreases the amount of time he needs to spend with people like that. 

That said, his first day back at work goes as smoothly as expected. FIlling out the paperwork that was left over the week at his desk takes him the most time, but meagre tasks of writing down the usual key points from the meetings take merely an hour at most. What is bothersome, however, is the fact that people upon finding out about his return, decided to try their luck and consult with him on various, meaningless things that could probably be better off if taken to someone far more qualified. A woman came to him to ask his advice and came out with a teary-eyed expression, slamming the door as if that was Alhaitham's fault that she couldn't take the truth. 

By the time the sun goes down and the piles of paper on his desk look more or less managed, Alhaitham is once again tired. He supposes it would be too much to say he's satisfied, but he's more or less pleased that he didn't have to stay the night at the Akademiya. Again. 

It's only when he's in the threshold of his own house that he remembers what he forgot to do during the day. He takes off his shoes, his coat. He walks into the kitchen and immediately after that,  his stomach growls loudly. 

"Ah," he says out-loud, a quiet realisation, "Food."

No wonder he was feeling a bit famished at the end. 

"This," says a voice from somewhere within the house, "is becoming a very unhealthy habit." 

He rolls his eyes, "I didn't ask." 

"You never do. And maybe if you did, you'd benefit more," Kaveh says, but still makes no move from wherever he's sitting to personally glare at him, "Who knows? Maybe you'd even develop a sense of romance and beauty in that pig-headed brain of yours." 

"From listening to you talk about marble?" Alhaitham asks, looking through his cupboards, and then he frowns when he doesn't find any of the dry snacks he stored in there. He looks through all of them just to be sure, but he finds nothing, not even a speck of dust in their place. Closing them, he brings up a hand to rub at his temple. 

As if hearing his own thought process, Kaveh speaks up again, "Looking for something?" 

"What did you do?" 

"Rather, dearest Scribe, what I’m doing." There's a bit of gratification to be heard as finally the owner of the voice appears in the kitchen, "I'm taking a drastic approach to fix  your poor lifestyle. You can call it an intervention."

He feels anger rise in him, swirling around him like a cloud as he turns to him. Kaveh is leaning against the counter, not even a meter away from him, obviously unbothered by the death stare he is getting as a reward for his 'efforts'. He's not even sporting an apologetic expression, probably not even  feeling guilty. Typical Kaveh, going ahead with something without asking permission first. 

He takes a deep breath and asks, very very calmly, "What did you do?" Maybe this is a misunderstanding; maybe Alhaitham's intuition is wrong and Kaveh didn't' make a grave mistake of throwing his snacks away without asking. 

Kaveh gives him a grin, "I hid them."

Ah. Because that is so much better. 

Barely restraining himself from doing something he may – not – regret, Alhaitham slowly turns his entire body to face the other man. It's not often that he finds himself that irritated and that off-put. Usually, when they argue, it's more of an innocent argument where the matter gets either resolved by Kaveh going out or with Alhaitham tuning out the rest of the conversation. Everything goes back to normal and it's almost never mentioned again. But this? 

This goes beyond. It's crossing the safe boundaries Alhaitham promised himself to never cross. The fine line between hate and like. 

"Pray tell why?" 

"Easy," Kaveh takes another step forward, taking great pleasure in seeing Alhaitham's scowl, "You were about to eat them instead of making a nutritious meal. Did you know not eating regularly can also be a trigger for migraines? Well?" 

"I'm aware," he mutters out, "and that doesn't explain how hiding my food would help the situation. Not to mention the fact that you are once again trying to stick your nose where it doesn't belong." 

A grin on Kaveh's face doesn't fall off but it does look strained at the edges, "And I explained how you running yourself into the ground is actually my business as I take care of you afterwards." 

"And no one ever asked you for that!" 

He startles. Not Kaveh, no. Alhaitham himself recoils from his own tone and genuine frustration, blinking rapidly to try and recenter himself when his vision goes a bit blurry. Maybe he’s getting worked up over nothing and it's just the stress of the day getting to him. It would explain his thundering heart, the clinging tiredness in his bones, and the  chill settling between his ribs. There surely can't be anything more underneath all that. 

Except, that's not really the truth, is it? 

Because Kaveh is standing in front of him, red eyes softened by the glow of the kitchen light and it's quite obvious that although Alhaitham's outburst didn't startle him, it did at least manage to take him aback. 

"No one needed to," Kaveh says, quiet, "I don't take care of other people because they tell me to." 

"Then what's it to you?" He grips the counter, knuckles white, "Why can't you just let me be? You managed perfectly in the past." 

"Because I care."  He makes it sound so simple. As if that was how the real world worked. As if Alhaitham didn't live for years alone, didn't spend his hours filling in the void in his life with knowledge of other languages because he couldn't ever hope to understand the language most people around him spoke and acted in. 

"If you're so worried about going back to living on the streets, you can rest assured that it won't happen. I made sure of that." 

There's an indignant noise, almost offended and Alhaitham seizes that moment of distraction to push past him, already planning on locking himself in his room and sleeping till dawn. Then, a new day would come, Alhaitham would wake up, dress and go to work and he'd come back extremely late, past the time Kaveh would be awake, just to avoid the confrontation. A routine that up until now worked without a hitch. 

Only this time–

"Ugh, you're such an asshole," Kaveh scoffs and that’s all the warning Alhaitham gets before Kaveh reaches out and grabs Alhaitham's forearm, wrenching him backwards and turning him so that he's standing pressed against the hard edge of the counter, with Kaveh blocking his possible exits with his arms. Caged in like that, Alhaitham has no choice but to look up at him. "I've had enough of this attitude!" 

Alhaitham bristles, "Attitude–!?" 

"Want to know why I care even though you have yet to show me even an ounce of respect?" Alhaitham's mouth snaps shut, eyes widening ever so slightly at the furious look in Kaveh's eyes. He has never seen them look so agitated before; had never the chance to see them up so close. "It's because I worry , Alhaitham."

Why would you?

It must be the money then, and not the place to stay itself , he manages to think in desperate effort to understand, before Kaveh continues with voice on the verge of becoming a real shout:

"You hate my approach to life, you despise the way I chose to spend my time outside and you never once approved of my choices – professional or personal. You are never quiet, Archon forbid you keep your opinion to yourself, so how is it that you can tell me I'm wasting my life but I can't do the same for you?" There's a pause as Kaveh stares at him, as if hoping he'd pierce through him, "You are neglecting yourself, and I worry because it's in my nature. Because whether you like it or not, you oblivious fool , I've come to see you as a friend. A friend who criticises me, tells me off when I do dumb stuff, but in the end stays by my side and covers me with a blanket when I crash on his couch. I refuse to let you waste away, Alhaitham."

Oh . 

Cold washes over him. 

He understands hatred. Has lived with it, embraced it, let it wash down over him with a shrug. He has been disliked and regarded with indifference, apathy.  Has been looked at without being seen, and never tried to change it. This, however, he doesn't get that. There's no logical reason as to why it makes him feel so unsteady and warm – why it bothers him so much and why he craves it to be the truth and not just an act of deception. 

A cruel joke, maybe. Could it–

But no. 

Kaveh has never been a liar. Has never been cruel, even when Alhaitham baited him and provoked him. 

"I don't–we're not–" Words stumble out of his mouth clumsily for the first time. His hands tremble ever so slightly. He's nervous, he realises. He hasn't been that nervous in forever. "What are you even…?" 

He trails off, eyes still locked on the other man and he wishes he had somewhere else to look, because seeing Kaveh so close that he can even tell what he had for dinner makes Alhaitham all too aware of the fact that the barest point of contact makes him shiver against his will. If he tilted, even a centimeter, he'd be able to feel the material of Kaveh's shirt; he'd be able to grip it and hide his face in–

He stiffens. 

"Alhaitham?" 

"Are you drunk?" 

It's the first thing that comes out of his mouth. Kaveh's eyes close for a moment, maybe in a silent prayer, before he shakes his head and sighs, "No." 

"Oh." 

The truth cannot be that simple. It cannot be that Kaveh actually cares. That he finds Alhaitham tolerable to the point of considering him his friend. 

"Are you done processing what I just told you?" 

"You find me annoying, though," Alhaitham ignores him, frowning. 

"Yes," Kaveh nods, all too serious, "Absolutely insufferable."

"You never agree with me." 

"Which always makes for an interesting debate. And that's not true. When you told me Sumeru's educational system is rigged and too rigorous – which then produces scholars who memorise stuff instead of actually learning it – I told you that I agree. And when you went on a tirade as to what could be changed, I even encouraged you to draft a better program." Kaveh thinks for a moment, dangerously leaning even closer. Alhaitham holds his breath, "Oh, and once  when I told you that Sumeru's architecture could use some fresher approach, you nodded your head." 

"That's not an agreement," he protests. 

"Coming from you?" Kaveh raises an eyebrow, "We fight more than we talk, but that has never been a problem."

Alhaitham's frown gets bigger, more conflicted. He finds the courage to look away, somewhere above Kaveh's arms, just to get away from that gaze. It doesn't quite work as he can feel the burning stare at his face either way, but at least he's not directly seeing those eyes. 

When he's silent for too long, Kaveh changes the topic back to the original one, "Are you still mad that I hid your snacks?" 

He doesn't even hesitate even though his mind is elsewhere, "Yes." 

"Understandable, I guess," Kaveh nods, and leans slightly backwards. Alhaitham lets out his breath, relaxing slightly, "But I did it in good faith. I have an unhealthy sleep schedule and questionable eating habits, but at least I make sure to have something good once in a while. Meanwhile you, if I didn't pester you about it, probably would just live off those dry fruits and random ready-to-eat meals from Auntie down the street."

"They're good." 

"They are, but they're not meant to sustain you." At that Alhaitham tries to find a good reason to argue, but in the end, he just closes his mouth again. "And coming from me, it must mean something."

"You talk nonsense most of the time." 

"I'm most flattered that you listen to me enough to conclude that everything I say is nonsense," Kaveh comments dryly, "Now, if we're done proving that you're as stubborn as the bull in your Darshan's crest, could you please eat something normal for once?" 

"I'm…" Alhaitham finds himself at loss, "Hmm." 

As if sensing his next words, Kaveh sighs and says, " I will cook you something and you will eat it." 

"I don't–need–" 

"Yes? Great. Go sit before you fall over and I will be back with something in a bit." He pauses for a moment, thinking. Then, as if struck by an idea, he raises one of his hands and pats the top of Alhaitham's head, almost cooing as he speaks, "Good junior. Senior is really proud of you." 

It's so unexpected – the action, the words – that Alhaitham's cheeks heat up in embarrassment and he wrenches himself away from him, heart thudding against his ribcage in a panicked rhythm and he nearly runs into the living room. Once he's on the couch, he risks a glance into the kitchen and finds Kaveh blinking at the space where he was standing just a moment ago, hand still in the air, before he, too, glances in Alhaitham's direction. 

"Alright," Kaveh clears his throat, "A very normal reaction." 

Alhaitham resists the urge to curl up and die, "Shut up." 

There's some muttering that can be barely heard, something about ' a cat ' and ' touch-starved ' and most audibly ' a moron ' before the kitchen is filled with the familiar sound of humming and the smell of actual fresh food. 

Something in his chest settles, something that has been uneasy ever since Kaveh went away on that business trip of his. It clicks into space, a piece of a puzzle Alhaitham did not know he was trying to solve until  the whole picture came into his view. When he's sure that Kaveh is not looking in his direction, Alhaitham's frown disappears and instead, he gazes at the table in front of him and wonders. If the source of warmth were to be other people's care, then did Alhaitham deprive himself of it early on in his life? Was it his fault that his bed was always cold? That the air was thin, suffocating? 

He had never felt loneliness before. Or at least, he never experienced it to that degree, never knew the name of it. Perhaps it really is as they say, that you only realise what you have when you lose it, when something you take for granted leaves and you are forced to remember how you breathed before they came into your life. 

Maybe you didn't breathe, then. 

Maybe you just went through mechanical motions because you had to; because those were the expectations – and it worked so well that you never questioned it, never had to stop and think how you felt because you were only meant to feel what others wanted you to feel. How could you ever know what you are missing if you accepted that 'existence is a chore ' is an ultimate truth?

Alhaitham wonders. HIs brain kicks in, as if energised by the flood of new information, and he lets his thoughts trickle in, slowly but surely replacing the dull, monotone colours of his own perception. 

No matter what everyone else says, Alhaitham is still a scholar at heart – he does not do something if he's not certain he will pull it off; he will not believe something if he has not confirmed it himself; and he will never, ever take a step without knowing whether there's a still a ground underneath his feet. Therefore it should not surprise anyone, least of all Kaveh himself, that Alhaitham warily approaches the new-found dynamics of their relationship. 

At first, he only tries to see when Kaveh will give up and when his new efforts of being ' accommodating ' and ' decently nice ' will become tiring to him. He watches each small gesture, a tiny caress here and there, a mug of coffee or tea on his desk, like a hawk ready to pounce on its victim. He wants to see the cracks in the facade, the inevitable undoing of the other man realising that Alhaitham will never change. He tells himself it's for his own amusement, because he doesn't care whether Kaveh will finally get fed up enough to stop trying; that it's fun to watch him run around to make sure Alhaitham is not somewhere there overworking himself. 

He waits for the shoe to drop, and it never does. 

Step number one, failed. 

It is no longer amusing, he decides one day, to see it all happen. Kaveh should not be this nice to him – he is a good man, a caring one at that, far too caring actually – but never to Alhaitham. Never in this capacity. While Alhaitham found himself draping a blanket over Kaveh once or twice, he has never actively cared for him in that way. All those nice gestures of Kaveh's make him feel like the balance has shifted somewhere where Alhaitham can't see it and he doesn't know how to get it back on the right track. 

It leaves him fumbling. Leaves him uncertain and hesitant. 

"I'm not a good man," Alhaitham finds himself saying when Kaveh finds him at his desk, hand gripping the pen a little bit too tightly. In Kaveh's one hand, there is a steaming mug of green tea and a plate of cut fruit in the other.  "You're wasting your efforts. You should focus more on getting a better job." 

There's stillness in the air, a suffocating one. Kaveh doesn't look irritated all that much and Alhaitham noticed that he reacts less and less to his obvious taunts nowadays when he senses that Alhaitham tries to use them as a distraction or deflection. 

"You're not," Kaveh agrees, placing the food and the drink down on the desk carefully, "But you are kind." 

What kind of lies—? There are kind people and then there are those who use others for their own gain. Alhaitham has never bothered himself with the likes of people who stumble on their paths and he never claimed to understand them or help them in any way, either. He wants to lead a peaceful life, one where he can do what he wants, where no one dictates how he should spend his free time. No matter what bullshit Kaveh spouts out of his mouth now, it is indisputable fact that Alhaitham is selfish at heart.

"All that time in the desert must have deluded you somehow," he tells him, "Have you checked at Bimarstan, if you didn't sustain any damage to your head?" 

"Do you not think of yourself as kind?" Instead of leaving, Kaveh leans his back against the wall next to Alhaitham's desk, clearly intending to stay – once again to make sure the fruit is eaten and not thrown out – and to keep the conversation going. 

"I believe in the past that you've called me cruel," Alhaitham reminds, "And that I would do well to learn some empathy." 

"Yes," Kaveh agrees, with a slight grimace that disappears with his next words, "And then, not even a year later, you offered me your place to stay." 

Alhaitham looks away. Wanting it as he might, he cannot even find one good reason to argue that this alone cannot be proof of Alhaitham's so-called goodwill. He somehow knows that if he did try to say that in defence to his own point, Kaveh would find a way to turn his words against him. 

"I don't think that was kind."

"It is not up to you to decide whether what you do is an act of kindness," Kaveh says, crossing his arms, "It's up to the person who is the recipient of it."

Foolish , he wants to say, but he doesn't. He can't find anything else to add, cannot even argue further. He is, once again, speechless and he doesn't like that – it's as if something is crawling underneath his skin, trying to set him off. It drives him mad, the kind of power that Kaveh seems to have over him. And he has spent years ensuring that no one would ever be able to order him around, to tell him what to do, just so he could live the way he wants to. Having no control over the actions of the other; having no way of predicting them, it makes him all too aware of his own vulnerability. 

"Eat your fruit,  Alhaitham," Kaveh speaks up when it's apparent that Alhaitham won't continue arguing, "Or I will really sit here with you until you've finished." 

He bites into the cut pieces of apples – shaped into horrible disfigured bunnies – and angrily chews them as he turns back to his work. Not even once does Kaveh speak up again. 

It's not like they stopped fighting altogether. No. That would be far too simple, far too easy to ignore and bury somewhere deep. Instead of fighting about mundane things while feeling miserable and annoyed, Kaveh and Alhaitham somehow manage to always spiral the discussion somewhere where either Kaveh admits defeat or Alhaitham gives up halfway because there simply isn't anything to argue over anymore. Often, they find a common ground and settle the conversation over a meal. WIthout Alhaitham noticing, the routine that so far was easy to understand, shifted in a direction of the unknown territory where Alhaitham struggles to find where he stands. 

This is no longer a game nor a project. Alhaitham cannot ignore the fact that the longer he tries to pretend everything is as it always was, the more confused he becomes. 

He…  never expected that outcome. He never expected to find someone who would stubbornly cling to Alhaitham despite the wide range of differences between them. He was fully prepared to exist in the same circle he drew himself since young age – where the edges are visible and understandable; where life goes on in a predictable pattern; where knowledge can be easily acquired through intense reading sessions and research conducted in controlled space. 

And. And nothing about this – whatever this is – is controlled. It's spinning and spinning, evolving into something that goes beyond the scope of what Alhaitham is able to understand and dissect. It gives him a sense of dread and then it also excites him and he doesn't get it. He doesn't want to get out of his grey bubble where everything is measured perfectly. And yet every time he's taken aback by something Kaveh does, his heart flips onto itself and his stomach eats itself, fluttering.

"I've always wondered," Kaveh muses to himself, but loudly enough that Alhaitham is forced to acknowledge him anyway, "but I never asked. How is it that you knew about my debt with Dori?" 

Life is not simple. Alhaitham desperately wishes it were; wishes that he could just follow a set formula for it and solve it like a maths equation. And yet, even if that were the case, Alhaitham isn’t even good at maths to begin with. Likely, he'd feel just as lost, if not more. 

"Everyone in Sumeru knows the Light of Kshahrewar. It would be a greater feat to not hear about your downfall." 

It's the truth. It is. 

Really.

"A downfall. Is that what you think about the palace I built?" 

They've argued about the Palace of Alcazarzaray, about Kaveh's magnum opus, too. Many times. With various results. Sometimes, it ended up with Kaveh slamming the door on his way out and drinking while putting it under Alhaitham's tab; sometimes Alhaitham refused to speak, choosing to just listen to another lecture about 'beauty' and 'art' and his own stubbornness and lack of sensitivity. Everytime, without fail, they couldn't find a reasonable answer that would satisfy both the pride of Kshahrewar and Haravatat. 

"What else would you call it?" Alhaitham asks, tired. For the past few days, he had tried to come up with a new routine that  wouldn't make him second-guess his entire worldview. At the end, he only had more questions than answers, and a resulting headache must have been a trigger for his migraine. He curses himself out for choosing to stay on the couch and let it ease its way there, and not coming back to his bedroom. At least then, he wouldn't have to nurse his pounding head along with Kaveh's curiosity. 

"A masterpiece," Kaveh answers, no hesitation, "A legacy." 

"A reminder, more like. That you were naive enough to construct something and sign a contract with the biggest scammer of Port Ormos," Alhaitham closes his eyes, wishing he could turn off his hearing and sight, "That you let your arrogance guide you." 

There's silence. Or at least, there's an absence of words. 

Alhaitham opens his eyes, sees his vision swim in colourful hues that cause more nausea than awe. 

"Is wanting the world to have something beautiful in it, arrogance?" Kaveh wonders and Alhaitham hears him shift closer. He flinches away from that, feeling the air on the naked skin of his shoulders as Kaveh leans his side against the couch, "To be remembered?" 

"There's no gain in being remembered by a bunch of people that will never know you nor you them," Alhaitham tells him and grits his teeth. Something in him clenches and his breath hitches pathetically. He doesn't realise that he's raising his hands to his head until he feels them grip his hair tight enough to hurt. It's the only sensation that doesn't make him want to vomit. 

He wants the conversation to be over. 

Then, he thinks, he just wants his life to come back to the way it was before. Back then, it didn't hurt that much to think about the concepts of existence, of perceiving. Back then, being in pain was natural and Alhaitham had no witness of it. 

This time, Kaveh sits by his side. 

"Have you taken the medicine I brought from Tighnari?" 

Alhaitham squeezes his eyes shut and turns away from him, pushing his head against the pillows of the couch, not answering. His hands come up higher to cover up his face and ears, and his breathing hitches ever so often, almost edging into a cry. It's unsightly, to feel this upset and to let stress get to you so much that you have to curl up or else it  feels like you're being ripped apart, but Alhaitham is too far gone to contemplate that train of thought again. 

"Alhaitham?" Kaveh's voice is nothing more than a whisper but it's still like thunder to Alhaitham. 

"No," he chokes out. 

Of course he didn't. If Kaveh didn't remind him of it, he's sure he'd never remember its existence. There's nothing that can be done about it now, anyways. Alhaitham cannot get up and even if he could, he wouldn't want to move from his spot either. 

The thing about the migraines is that they will go from one to one hundred in the span of a minute sometimes. You can sometimes feel them coming, something like an itch at the back of your mind, but other times it will suddenly appear and punch you from the inside and bang against your skull as if that were a playing field for fungi. Alhaitham has yet to calculate the exact time it takes for them to manifest so he can appropriately take some medicine to stall them. Not like it would work very well, anyways, but–

"Alright," comes the voice again and Alhaitham twitches, "Can you sit up for a moment?" 

He doesn't answer. That seems to be speaking for itself. 

"Can I touch you?" 

For a brief moment, Alhaitham wonders if Kaveh would back off if he told him 'no'. If he would respect him even at the cost of Alhaitham's own health, or if he's the type of person who would push at him regardless. He doesn't try to find out, this time. Instead, he nods, a movement so small someone who wasn't looking wouldn't even notice was there. 

Immediately, he feels hands on his skin and it scalds him. And yet, he's lifted into a sitting position so swiftly that the moment he opens his eyes, he's already vertical and the hands stop touching him almost as quickly as they started. It startles him, the ease in which Kaveh manhandles  him, and he feels as though that alone should also unsettle him. 

"Here," Kaveh presses something into his hands, "Drink." 

He does. He doesn't know why, but the action is automatic. He lifts it up to his lips and swallows the substance without really tasting it. He thinks it may be just desperation at this point. Maybe a little bit of helplessness and a wish for anything to just knock him out. 

Yet, knocked out he is not. He almost wants to cry when he feels nothing has changed. 

Kaveh's hands reach out to him, curling around his shoulders. The contact makes him heave at first, an action unexpected and unwelcome before it registers in his mind that the touch is grounding, that his body tethers itself to the solid pressure of the couch somehow. That the light and the sound is not that bad when he solely focuses on the calloused skin of Kaveh's palms and the steady breathing next to him. 

A minute passes and out of sudden, his head becomes lightheaded to the point of Alhaitham momentarily tipping sideways. His head is still pounding, still hurting and yet numbness spreads through his body, slowly. His breathing picks up when it gets to the tips of his fingers. 

"Tighnari told me it may feel frightening at first," Kaveh speaks up, right next to him and Alhaitham's hand is picked up and squeezed, a body curling against his. It makes him feel rather than see that at some point Kaveh must have shifted them so that he's sitting in the corner of the couch, with his back against the arm of it and that Alhaitham's back is against Kaveh's chest. "The medicine spreads slowly and it may feel like you're getting cold, but that just means that it's working." 

His tongue feels like lead and his head tilts backwards. He tenses up. 

"Are you scared?" Kaveh asks, slow. Alhaitham wouldn't answer him even if he could, frozen up with something words cannot describe, "It's fine if you are." 

You should stop talking , Alhaitham thinks, almost angry. 

Kaveh continues, making sure he's not moving too much, "It's like a loss of sensation, I think, but Tighnari told me it lasts a maximum of five minutes at most. I should have…  probably told you about that earlier, I know how much you despise feeling out of control." 

Alhaitham trembles. Kaveh pauses, almost thoughtful, "Now, if I were in your place and you were in mine, I bet you would comment something very snarky. Your words are sharp enough to cut through anyone's self-esteem and I don't think you know that." There's a movement, Alhaitham knows, almost shy and then he feels it. Kaveh's other hand began to draw soothing circles over his ribs, featherlight touches that lit up something forgotten in the space behind his heart. "But since I'm feeling generous, I will refrain from doing the same." 

Then, almost in an afterthought, "And also Tighnari told me he will smack me if he finds out I did something like that while you're under the influence of a drug."

He stares at the space in front of him, muscles that have been coiled up in tension gradually unfurling as he tries to make sense of reality around him. It's true that the medicine works slowly, but it sounds like it could be used better as means of torture than a relief, to be able to hear and understand but not answer and move. It's like sitting underwater, pressured from all sides. Is this how a person who gets high feels like? Like they're somewhere beside their body, just seeing everything unfold?

He tries to move his hand, the one Kaveh is holding and manages to move his fingers only. Kaveh's words cut off – he must have been talking the whole time, then – and he waits – for something. Alhaitham doesn't know what. He spends more time trying to get his hand to do something more, but he's only able to force it to squeeze back. 

He breathes out, shaky.

"Does it still hurt very badly?" Kaveh asks. 

Alhaitham swallows thickly, "N-no."

It still… still feels like his nerves are tender, like his veins are pulling themselves apart, swelling up inside of his head, but it's a more bearable pain. Whatever was in the medicine managed to drop the intensity of his migraine from a fluctuating ten and eleven, to a solid and steady four. 

He digs his fingers into the hand that's holding him, feeling the nails sink into the soft skin. Kaveh hisses but doesn't try to pull away. 

Alhaitham waits for a minute, then another just to be sure, and only then he lifts his legs, curling them up. He waits for Kaveh to comment, to say something, to mock him maybe, for the fact that Alhaitham is trying to make himself smaller, to shrink in the space between Kaveh's arms, but there's silence. It feels like permission. The position itself allows Alhaitham to feel more in control, more anchored. He doesn't spend much time pondering the circumstances and how it must look from the outside, him being so close to Kaveh – how foreign it is to feel another body's warmth, how it seeps into him. 

An overwhelming urge to cut into Kaveh's chest, to clave a space between his ribs and burrow himself in there, overcomes him and he digs his nails further, scared of it in a way he has never been scared before. Of the pure need. The desire for closeness. For skinship. 

It must be the medicine, he thinks, almost delirious. 

"Do you want me to let go?" Kaveh's voice is close, far too close. Alhaitham's sweaty body must feel uncomfortable to him, disgusting. "Tighnari says that touch feels bad to someone who–" 

Alhaitham turns his head, positions it so it's more in the crock of Kaveh's neck, but he hesitates. This is strange. It must be, right? Kaveh was only helping him because taking medicine like that is a shock to the body, Alhaitham shouldn't expect much more. The reasonable thing to do would be to pull away, to let Kaveh get back to what he was doing before Alhaitham collapsed onto the couch. It would save Alhaitham from embarrassment. 

If it were any other day, the touch would be unwelcome. It usually is. But this time, Alhaitham feels like a creature starved and hungry. Like his heart will wither away if he so much as tries to get away and go about his day. It's a terrifying thing, to be wanting. And yet, he stays exactly where he is.

Kaveh is silent, before his arms adjust to a better position with a quiet huff. Now, it's as if he's shielding Alhaitham from the outside world, curling around him in a way that shouldn't feel so good, so fitting. Alhaitham's lungs at last feel like they're not squeezed with wire, they allow him to relax, to let his head fall fully on Kaveh. 

"Is this okay?" Kaveh asks then, careful. 

There's a pause as Alhaitham searches for any sign of discomfort, but when he finds none, he whispers, all too honest, "I'm sorry." 

"You really must feel bad if you're apologising to me, out of all people," That's all the answer he gets from him, "I'm just glad Tighnari's experimental drug worked somehow." 

All at once, exhaustion crashes into him. Adrenaline leaves him in waves. 

He slumps further against him, fighting to stay awake. It must have alerted Kaveh somehow, because he huffs again and a hand finds its way to Alhaitham's forehead, resting over his eyes. There's a complaint on the tip of his tongue as he sucks in air, startled, but he doesn't get to voice it before he hears Kaveh speak again, "Don't fight it." 

Alhaitham's fingers stop digging into the soft skin, "Don't–"  He doesn't even know what he wanted to say, but it feels important. Kaveh's oddly quiet form doesn't help Alhaitham in that matter, either. 

"It's fine," is what he hears next, words slurring into undecipherable gibberish. It's horrifying when he thinks of all the times his guard slipped around Kaveh recently, that his body is not even alert enough to flinch away when hands start massaging his scalp. "Just rest already, you stubborn mull." 

The world fades away, quiet and easy. 

It's the most peaceful Alhaitham has ever felt. 

They do not speak of it again. 

Alhaitham settles back into a new routine, where he wakes up in the morning with a noticeably decreased amount of anxiety. It's still ridiculously early when he gets out of bed, and he still finds himself at the table alone with his thoughts, waiting for something to change but it no longer feels like his head is one step from blowing itself up. It is a mystery itself, how it went from being completely unpredictable to having almost a schedule. 

He doesn't tell Kaveh of this, though. He doesn't tell him a lot of things, like how he likes it when he sees him in the kitchen  cooking food or when he hears him humming and tapping his fingers on the surface of any piece of furniture he can find. He would never tell him how those sounds, often regarded as an annoyance in the past, bring comfort to Alhaitham. That house…  It used to be very quiet. Deadly silent. If it were to ever come back to that state, he thinks he wouldn't be able to adjust to it. 

It's a cloudy evening night today when Alhaitham is roused from restless sleep and his bedroom offers no respite against the chill in the air. Laying still, changing positions, counting sheep seemed to be of no help and Alhaitham finds himself reminded of those days when Kaveh was not around. The bleak walls of his room looked just as unwelcome as they do now. It's not even an hour later when he decides that sleep is not an option, instead he ventures out to the kitchen. 

He lights up the small lamp, takes out the mug and hesitates. 

How did he usually deal with nights like this? Did he choose coffee or tea to get him through them? Which of those options was less likely to result in a hangover-like state the next morning? 

Did he read a book then? Or did he fill out the rest of the paperwork meant for another evening? 

A bothered frown appears on his face as he wonders. It's impossible to remember the exact steps he used to follow on nights like this – so many details seem blurry, unnecessary or  plainly useless now. If Alhaitham were to start cleaning the living room, the noise would wake up  his roommate; and if he were to start cooking something that would most likely end up inedible, the smell would cause the neighbours to bang on his door again. 

When did he even start caring about those things? 

He sighs, swiping a hand over his eyes, pushing his palms in, hoping that maybe the pressure would ease their irritation. No matter how tired they appear, Alhaitham knows it's a futile fight, going back to bed and suffering until dawn. The sheets are cold, the air is cold, everything seems to be uncomfortable, but then the thought of staying in the kitchen just staring blankly at the stove weighs down on him. The prospect of just letting the time pass him by sits wrong in his gut. 

He's in the middle of trying to think of a reason why it's so hard today and why it feels like something once again has shifted around him, when there's a screeching noise of the doors opening that makes Alhaitham wince. 

"Alhaitham," Kaveh starts as he stands in the threshold, rubbing his eyes. The deep purple bags underneath them are proof of the man's own unhealthy sleeping habits, but once he zeroes in on Alhaitham's still form in the kitchen, he immediately looks more alert. "Alright, you better have a good explanation for that." 

"This is my house and I can do whatever I want," slips out of his mouth and from the looks of it, that excuse doesn't sit well with Kaveh, "What are you doing awake?" He narrows his eyes, suspicious, until Kaveh levels him with a glare and gestures at him with his hands. 

"Talking to you, duh," he comes closer, steps slow but confident and as soon as he's near enough to touch him, his hand raises to Alhaitham's forehead, "Are you getting sick again?" 

"What? No," he leans away but then the counter gets in his way and he's forced to endure Kaveh checking his temperature. When the man doesn't sense any heat, he pulls  back, staying close enough to look him up and down, searching for the cause of Alhaitham being awake. He still finds nothing. It only makes him frown harder. "Stop it." 

Hearing a demand in his voice, Kaveh raises an eyebrow, "Stop what?" 

"Looking at me like that." 

Like you actually care. Like you want to ease my burden. Like it's a chore for you to talk to me and yet you do anyway for some reason. 

Kaveh gives him a weird look, then sighs, "I look at you like you're a pain in the ass. As usual." He sends a glance at the door to Alhaitham's bedroom, suspiciousness showing up on his face when he notices the made bed through the crack, "Is there actually something wrong with your bed?" 

It's a standard question, one that has been asked in the past many times and every time, without fail, Alhaitham lied and said that there isn't. Because there shouldn't be. It's finely made, the mattress is soft and high, just like he likes it and his pillows are just the right amount of firm. The silky covers feel nice against his skin, too. There's no roughness, no unpleasant texture anywhere. Alhaitham made sure. He did!

Maybe that's why this night feels worse than all others before. There really isn't anything wrong with his bedroom and yet something is off  there. Even though the insolation of it is clearly fine, Alhaitham cannot get warm. He tried everything he could and it still feels bad. 

There must be something that he's overlooking, surely. A detail so small his eye cannot see it. 

He  opens his mouth, to deny the question again, but this time, his tongue fails him and what comes out is entirely different to what Alhaitham wanted to say: "It's cold." 

Kaveh's starts to speak, then he cuts himself off. There's a clear surprise on his face, and it's apparent he didn't expect that answer. Still, it seems like he's determined to use that rare show of honesty as he nods, then waves his hand, wanting him to continue, "Elaborate." 

Against his better judgement, Alhaitham does. 

"There are approximately ten blankets  in the house, not counting the ones I already have in the bedroom. They are pure wool. And they were fine for years, but lately, even if I surround myself with five of them, it's still cold." His voice doesn't shake even though Alhaitham feels like it should for  some reason, "It can't be the blankets's fault. You use them all the time and moan how great and warm they make you feel. It's not the insolation, either – I checked it with the specialist not so long ago. I close the windows during the night, so nothing gets in and it's  still the same. No matter what I do, it's still cold."

He expects laughter. Mockery. 

Instead, Kaveh tilts his head and crosses his arms over his chest. He makes it look as  if Alhaitham presented him with a challenge, a puzzle and expected him to solve it. Him, a master architect. All other times, he'd probably really laugh it off. This time, though, it looks like he's taking it seriously. 

"Is it only your bedroom?" Kaveh asks, suddenly. 

Alhaitham frowns, "Usually." 

"Usually?" 

"When you were away, I slept on the couch. It was still chilly." 

He doesn't get where this line of questioning comes from, but Kaveh's eyes do that thing where they glint, inspired and he nearly bounces in his place. He thinks for a little while more, all while Alhaitham leans on the counter, utterly tired and resigned. 

"Alhaitham," Kaveh's voice is a bit too  exhilarated this hour, "You slept just fine in my bedroom."  

There's a beat of  silence. 

He blinks, confused, then remembers. There was a time where he got sick and Kaveh somehow manhandled him to his own bed. That must have been the only time that Alhaitham felt fine and slept through the whole night. 

"... I slept in your bedroom before, though." Alhaitham speaks  slowly as if trying to convince him of something, even though Kaveh still looks like he's got something big figured out, "Before you moved in. It was still cold." 

"I wasn't there at the time, though," Kaveh points out, "That one time you  slept fine, I was next to you, remember? You were so out of it you practically snuggled up to me." 

"I did  not–" 

"And–" Kaveh continues, loudly interrupting Alhaitham's protests, "–didn’t it feel warm?" 

His breath catches in his throat as he stares at him. 

Suddenly, he doesn't want to answer. He even regrets saying anything. Talking about anything to Kaveh always goes badly somehow, always manages to make Alhaitham confused even more – they will be fine one moment and then Kaveh will say something weird and all of a sudden, either they get into an argument or Alhaitham has to change his perception of something to see another point that Kaveh would speak about. 

"What does that have to do with anything?" 

Everything, he thinks even as he asks. 

"We're both exhausted," Kaveh says, "You refuse to sleep in your bed, and mine is already warmed up."

He stills, "What." 

"Let's just sleep next to each other." 

"To  prove a point?" Alhaitham blinks. 

"To see  what happens. Yes, Alhaitham, to prove a point, if that's what you want to see it as," Kaveh's eyes don't lose their excited glint as he reaches out to him, "What's the worst that could happen, hm?" 

Everything. 

You will shift my world again. I will have to reorient myself again. 

Alhaitham lets himself be pulled out of the kitchen and into Kaveh' s room. He lets the man guide him down onto the bed, lets himself be covered with the blankets and sheets and he doesn't kick up a fuss even though Kaveh takes an unbearably long time to get under the covers himself. Nothing is going to happen , he tells himself. It's just one night. 

He underestimates the impact one night can have. 

"You're laying halfway across the bed," Kaveh whispers, "That can't be comfortable." 

"I'm stuck here with you," Alhaitham snaps back, "Of course, I'm not comfortable." 

Kaveh rolls his eyes, then scoots closer, and then in a blink of an eye and with a strength a sword user like Alhaitham could never hope to match, he pulls him closer by the waist. Alhaitham only manages to yelp and twist, trying to get away, kicking at Kaveh with his legs, before he's tugged even closer and his back meets the man's solid chest. 

He jolts, as if electrocuted. Kaveh pauses. 

"Alhaitham?" 

His breath gets stuck somewhere as he tenses up, "What?" 

This is unexpected. Unfamiliar. Strange and terrifying. Alhaitham would never admit that to anyone, would never tell how his skin tingles in every place that touches Kaveh's body, how there are goosebumps on his arms, how his hairs raise. All at once, his senses feel overwhelmed with the tactile feedback. 

It's as if the information loops back, corrupted. Alhaitham feels weird. 

"Just relax." 

"What are you doing?" His voice is tight, strained. Kaveh doesn't answer immediately, instead he adjusts himself and lets one of his arms encircle Alhaitham's waist while the other rests under the man's head. That for sure is not comfortable. "Kaveh–"

"It's okay," It definitely is not . "I'm just hugging you." 

"Hugging…"

"You looked like you needed it," Kaveh says, calm. Then he adds, "I wanted to, too. You're really warm and all that talk about the cold chilled me to the bone." 

Warm? If he's warm, then Kaveh is boiling hot, a literal furnace. 

He should definitely get out of that…  ' hug ' and go back to sulking in the kitchen, but he finds himself stuck. Once he gets used to the weight of another body against his, his muscles involuntarily relax and his breath shudders out of his mouth. 

"Kaveh?" 

Silence. Nothing. 

Alhaitham stares in front of him, paralyzed, before his hands hesitantly come up to  grip the arm around his waist. It feels like being set on fire. Like something is being overwritten in his DNA. And despite that, he finds himself drawn closer to it, like a moth to a flame. 

He falls asleep soon after.

There had been one time in the past when Alhaitham felt this warm – he doesn't even remember that much of it, memories clouded with the rust of years that have come after, but that feeling of safety and acceptance nestled into his chest. A sleeper emotion, he called it once. A traitorous feeling that comes back every time it's terribly inconvenient for him. Nevermind that it feels nice; never mind that his body always longs for that emotion to stay for a little while longer than an hour or two. An emotion like that had been a seed of doubt planted underneath his skin, and he wished for it to disappear far more often than he wished for it to stay. 

He thinks it had been his Mother, then. Alhaitham barely remembers her face now, and those rare photographs in the old albums have been chucked into boxes when Kaveh came to live with him, tucked away in the small attic above Alhaitham's office. She, admittedly, hadn't been a good mother nor a good wife. She hadn't been good anything, really, but once upon a time it had been only her and Alhaitham, and those times are not very easy to forget. Stolen moments, ones that bear no repeating, often leave far more impression than something that would happen all the time. 

That is why when Alhaitham wakes up and he's surrounded by warmth, he can't help but close his eyes, insistent for the first time to not face the reality. 

In dreams, Alhaitham could pretend that his life back then wasn't as bad as most people would describe it. Back before there was Sumeru City and busy markets, back before there was the Akademiya, back before Alhaitham was the Grand Scribe, life was far more difficult and it was treasured a bit more than it was now. Now, Alhaitham looked at those beneath him and didn't think twice about passing them by, but once upon a time, he had not been able to. It took years to stop offering a helping hand to every weeping person who asked for it with their sad, teary eyes. 

It was his Mother who took Alhaitham's heart and shaped it into something in her image. It was her who Alhaitham sought out when faced with a deeply emotional issue that couldn't be solved with a textbook. No matter how complicated their relationship had been, Alhaitham still seeks out some answers in his memories of her. The few that remained after her death. 

He thinks it's because of her that he's allowing this dance to continue – that he lets Kaveh's arms rest around him even now, when there's no longer any excuse for it. 

That one time when Alhaitham felt as warm…  It had been that one day when his Mother was on her deathbed, and young Alhaitham had the opportunity to say his goodbyes to her before she could completely fade away. 

It was nothing grand. She wasn't even that sick. If Alhaitham were to give a cause of her death, he'd probably say it was a weird mixture of overworking herself and not taking proper care of her various illnesses. His Mother hadn't been a good person, but she had been horribly naive and gullible – to the point of wasting all of her money on somebody not worth her time. Ridden in debts, it was obvious she wouldn't have lasted all that long anyways, even if she were healthy. 

That day, when she died, Alhaitham hugged her. It must have been the first time that he had done so, and it took both him and his own Mother by surprise. It was also the first time her own arms wrapped around him, engulfing his entire body, cradling him to her weakened chest. Alhaitham hadn’t cried, but something in his chest hurt anyway. That one time, he thinks, was the only time he felt genuine love from someone close to him and it filled him to a brim with warmth unlike any other. 

He doesn't think, now that he remembers that, that he ever felt this warm again. 

That is, until now. 

"I can hear you thinking," a voice rasped out behind him, leaden with sleep, "Just stop." 

"Between us, you're the only one capable of not thinking. It seems like a default option for you," Alhaitham shoots back immediately, feeling the arms tighten around him. He wheezes, curling up. Kaveh loosens his grip soon after, sighing. 

"You're so much more docile when you're asleep," Kaveh complains, "And then you wake up and it's as if you just chose violence from get-go." 

"As I've said before," his breath stupidly hitches when Kaveh's arm travels up, somewhere closer to Alhaitham's heart, "If you can't stand my personality, you are free to find another place willing to host you." 

"You'd miss me too much." 

Ah. 

His heart clenches, overcome with something that cannot be put into words.  

This is how it feels to become horribly dependent on someone, Alhaitham thinks with no small amount of annoyance. How did he not notice that before? How could he let someone else's presence become so big in his life, how did he let that person just slip past all those defences and worm his way underneath his skin? Like a slow-spreading disease, it just…  it just happened and he had no idea. 

Outrageous.

"You must enjoy fooling yourself then," Alhaitham tells him honestly, "Because I wouldn't. At least then, I'd avoid tripping over paints all the time. And stepping into them."

Truly, this dull existence–

When exactly did it become so convoluted? So devoid of reason? 

"Hey, that happened one time–!" 

Alhaitham closes his eyes. 

The reality of studying languages is that no matter how much you actually comprehend their structure, there will still be things left uncovered; left up to the imagination. A strict set of rules will evolve, surely, because of the complicated nature of human minds and then the process will start all over again. You will never become a master of one language; no one ever will. 

Is it doomed then? A doomed endeavour, a goal never to be achieved? 

Alhaitham's pride is made up from facts that he has gathered over the years – he is an accomplished scholar with a high position that grants him the privilege of researching various topics without ever having the need to beg for funding; his linguistic expertise is still widely sought after and other Darshans regard him with some amount of respect (despite disliking his overall character);  and overall, his reputation even though questionable, has yet to hit a bottom. 

Why is it so, then, that he feels out of his own depth now? What is this feeling of inadequacy that plagues him day and night, and how is it possible that Kaveh, although it seemed impossible before, manages to appear so unaffected and composed? 

He dislikes the current situation, and yet–

"Five," Kaveh's voice rings out from the kitchen, startling Alhaitham back to the real world, "You've sighed exactly five times while looking at me." 

Alhaitham doesn't even deny that, "I find your existence unbearably exhausting," he tells him, a bit too honestly, "It brings me discomfort." 

Kaveh pauses, his hands doing something in the air – Alhaitham thinks he's putting down the pan, but it might as well be another plate, it's hard to tell when he's only able to see his back – then he snorts, "Oh, how the mighty have fallen."

"Pardon?" 

"Your existence is just as vexing to me as mine is to you, but it is very enjoyable to see you finally look as if I presented you with a peculiarly stubborn set of runes to decrypt.” Alhaitham’s face twists into a frown. “Tell me, what is it that brings you so much discomfort?”

Alhaitham has tried before to figure out the root of the problem. He tried to make Kaveh tire himself out with his pretentious acts of care and affection and he had even dedicated days, weeks to taunt into a fight with no satisfying result. Kaveh clung to him as he always did in the past, determined to make Alhaitham suffer maybe. 

He tried everything. Except–

“I don’t understand you,” Genuine frustration creeps into his voice and he’s almost as surprised as Kaveh, “What is your end goal?”

“I don’t have one,” he raises an eyebrow when Alhaitham scoffs in disbelief, “I really don’t. You know I do things because I enjoy doing them.”

“Then why do you stay?” Alhaitham nearly snaps. And then he stops. 

Kaveh’s face does something that makes him look awfully unattractive, as if he was stuck between looking thoughtful and angry, a combination he didn’t think was possible up until now. Alhaitham hasn’t said anything wrong or untrue. Not so long ago, Kaveh was ready to choke him out of spite for so much as suggesting that they’re more than roommates. He even insisted that there’s no way they could ever exist by each other peacefully. And now it’s–it’s all messed up. It’s all out of order. 

Kaveh isn’t the same man he was when Alhaitham took him in that one day. Although his job doesn’t pay him much because he’s unfairly selective about what commissions he takes up and which ones he doesn’t; and despite the poor pay that the Akademiya gives him – Kaveh is more than ready to go out and live on his own again. It would probably be rough for a couple of months, settling into another routine where he’d have to budget his money himself again and he wouldn’t be able to use Alhaitham’s coffee machine, but he has no doubt that Kaveh would manage to get back on his feet either way. 

At least, at his own home, he wouldn’t argue with Alhaitham all the time. He wouldn’t have to complain about Alhaitham not appreciating the beauty and artistic valour that various little trinkets that Kaveh buys bring to the previously empty windowsills. He would be free to make a mess out of his own living room, he’d be able to scatter his things all around without any worry. 

There truly isn’t anything keeping him here, besides maybe the comfort and luxury of depending on Alhaitham’s steady income. 

“Is it about the fact that I forgot to pay you for my half of the bills this month?” Kaveh tilts his head, “Because you know I always–”

“It’s not about the bills,” Alhaitham cuts him off, “It’s about the fact that you–you–”

“I…?” Kaveh prompts, but Alhaitham falls silent. “Alhaitham? Come on. Speak to me.”

How can I? When you don’t see the things I see?

There’s a sigh, a loud one, obnoxiously loud, in fact and then the kitchen light is turned off and Kaveh walks into the living room, arms already crossed. He no longer looks thoughtful, or even angry. There are many faces that he wears on a daily basis but this one Alhaitham is not familiar with. It’s just there wherever Alhaitham finds himself confused, as if to taunt him and mock him. As if to say: look here, all that composure and I’m still the one in the know.

He hates the way it makes him feel. 

“Would you rather that I debate with you about it?” Kaveh asks,  “I can do that. You know I can. We once turned the issue of me painting the walls in my room pink and I still won, so it’s really no problem for me.”

“You didn’t win,” Alhaitham blanches, “You did that without my permission.”

“No? I said, ‘I’m going to paint the walls pink’ and you said, ‘I’d like to see you try’. You enabled me.”

“What–How did you even make that into an invitation?”

“Everything you say is a challenge, don’t you know?” Kaveh grins at the insulted expression on Alhaitham and leans forwards a bit, just the right distance to get into his personal space if he so much as titled a bit more forwards, “And I really, really despised that.”

“You still do.”

“Well, I did some thinking, dear Scribe,” Kaveh leans his elbow on his knee, putting his head on his hand, “And I found that I like it when we argue. Too many people run away from a good argument just because I’m Kaveh of Kshahrewar. You never bothered with that.”

“What?”

“I’m saying,” Kaveh sighs, “that without you, life is boring. As impossible as it sounds.”

Alhaitham cannot smell alcohol on him, so there’s no way he’s drunk but his words don’t sound like the words of a sober man either. It’s unlikely that Alhaitham has been poisoned, so it cannot be a hallucination either. Then comes the fact that Kaveh’s hand is on Alhaitham’s knee and that touch is searing right through his clothes, so obviously that has to be real or else Alhaitham wouldn’t feel like his skin is trying to melt off of his bones. 

“And you… decided that, when?” Alhaitham’s voice is full of scepticism, a mirror of Kaveh’s own characteristic perception. 

Kaveh looks him straight in the eye, “I decided that you’re more than an asshole when you covered me with a blanket that one night you thought I was asleep on your couch.”

Alhaitham stills, then forces himself to relax, “And what am I now?”

“An asshole with a heart,” Kaveh says, almost proud, then narrows his own eyes, “Ah. Or maybe a soft spot. For me, obviously, although Auntie down the street is sure you’re secretly waiting to have kids on your own, with how taken you are with those who run around your house.”

He feels his brain come to a sudden halt as he leans backwards, “I’m tired of you.”

“Aren’t you always.” Kaveh smiles, all sharp edges somehow softening when he looks at Alhaitham, "But don't you love it?" 

"Constantly nagging you?" Alhaitham closes his eyes, "Trying to get you to stop wasting your money on other people? Trying to get you to understand that you can't save everyone? To maybe, grow some common sense?" 

"Yeah," There's no hesitation, as if Alhaitham's words weren't as harsh to him anymore, "Doesn't that spice up your life? Tell me, be honest with me for once–" 

"I'm always honest–" 

"How did your life look like before I came here?" That makes Alhaitham pause, mind unwillingly replaying the scenes where days were spent in solitude, meals usually grew cold before he could taste them because he was so taken with his work; and nights where sitting in the living room with a book was his only form of entertainment after a long day. And he cannot deny that being alone has its perks, that it wasn't always so bad, so empty to him – but there are limits to what your nature can take, and there's just no denying that a human being is a social creature at heart. "Alhaitham, there's nothing wrong with admitting that you like me." 

"Like you–?!" Alhaitham nearly blanches, straightening out immediately and snapping his eyes open, "You're the bane of my existence." 

"Ahh, am I, though?" Kaveh looks unreasonably smug for someone who, not so long ago, cursed Alhaitham out for not buying him more coffee. He doesn't have the upper hand here! It's Alhaitham who graciously allows him to sleep in his bedroom, who shares his money and kitchen appliances, "I don't think so. You're a man who clearly knows what he wants from life, so I find it doubtful that you'd let me live with you if you didn't at least tolerate me." 

"Tolerating someone and liking someone aren't the same," he argues, "And if you keep making such wild assumptions, I might just be persuaded to kick you out regardless."

Yet, Kaveh doesn't look like he believes him, instead he smiles wider. Alhaitham has an urge to lean back again, but something stops him. He doesn't quite understand what it is, only that it spreads from somewhere within him to all parts of his body, slowly but surely warming it. It's a weird phenomenon. Weird and oddly pleasant. 

Without him realising, with mind elsewhere, Alhaitham relaxes, expression turning from indignant to thoughtful. He doesn't even see the way Kaveh's gaze flicks to him, all fond. 

"Say, if I do like you," Alhaitham starts and hesitates. Kaveh's attention snaps back to him, fully focused, "What does that mean?" 

What would it change? 

"It means," Kaveh shrugs, "that you like me."

Alhaitham's eyebrows furrow, confused, "That's it?" 

"It doesn't change anything," Kaveh tells him, "You're still insufferable and you think you're better than anyone else. I still don't listen to you and drink all of your wine. It just means that I will boast to everyone that the Grand Scribe of the Akademiya finds my personality positively enchanting." 

Instinctively leaning forwards, almost knocking his head against Kaveh's, Alhaitham snaps, "That's not what I said." 

"What did you say then?" 

"That your horrendous lifestyle and uneducated choices have become such a norm that I no longer bat an eye at them." 

He splutters, "Excuse me–!" 

"And," Alhaitham continues, merciless, "you should definitely build yourself a mansion. With advanced heating, and a bigger kitchen so you can stop making a mess out of mine." 

There's a beat of contemplative silence, and then Kaveh reaches out and takes Alhaitham's hands, bringing them closer to his face. Then, without waiting for permission or even asking one, he presses a featherlight kiss to the back of each of Alhaitham's hands. Startled, Alhaitham jolts in his seat, a flash of heat settling somewhere over his bones. 

"Of course," Kaveh nods, serious, "And what else?" One of his hands trembles in the other's hold as he blinks up at him. "Well?" 

"A library," Alhaitham blurts out, feeling the calloused tips of the other's fingers smooth over the skin of Alhaitham's palm, sliding up and down where his wrist begins – naked skin, with no wrist guards or gloves to protect them from the outside world. "A big study with–with…" A cloud settles over his mind, a kind of fog that unknowingly makes him trail off. 

He glances down at where Kaveh is stroking his hand, movement repetitive and soothing and all the same it burns so, so fiercely that Alhaitham has to swallow thickly as the feeling travels up to his throat and then tingles inside his stomach. 

"With…?" Kaveh prods, gaze locked on Alhaitham's dazed expression, "A view over Sumeru City? With dark curtains for when it's too sunny?" 

HIs voice gets stuck in his throat as he manages a strained, "Mhm."

As if mesmerised, Kaveh spends a good while just looking at him, just letting the circling movements of his fingers over Alhaitham's skin seep into the other man, and then he moves closer, hovering a bit over him as he brings his other hand to Alhaitham's cheek. The first caress against it has Alhaitham's brain stutter to a halt, elevated from the touch and yet terrified of it at the same time. His breath hitches and he automatically tries to press himself against the couch. 

Kaveh pauses, then with his knuckles he traces the outline of Alhaitham's jaw, from the top to down, slow. Attentive even. 

They've touched before, of course. In the bed, they were so close that Alhaitham could feel Kaveh's breath on the back of his neck and their legs were tangled together so much that you wouldn't be able to see where one of them began and the other ended. And in the midst of a migraine and the aftereffects of the experimental medicine from Tighnari, Kaveh was the one to hold him through the worst of it.

But it has never been like this. It was not this tender. Alhaitham wishes the other would slap him instead, that he would wring Alhaitham's hair and pull with his fingers, because then he would feel more at ease; he'd understand the violence and he'd feel more in control. 

This, however. This is–

"Oh," Kaveh's voice sounds like liquid sloshing inside a vial in Alhaitham's ears, full of wonder,  "You're so–" 

So, so what? What?  

He doesn't get to voice the question. Kaveh's other hand raises up to his face and he gently takes off Alhaitham's headpiece, placing it down on the table. And then, without thinking, with one hand on Alhaitham's cheek still, he trails a finger over the man's earlobe with his other one. 

His thoughts turn to static and for a moment, he feels so overwhelmed that something alien comes out of his throat. It cannot belong to him. It sounds too needy, too carnal. And yet, his throat aches as his breath hitches again and his body starts to tremble and shiver, as if overcome with a cold. Kaveh has a second to blink before Alhaitham lurches forwards, dislodging  the hands on his face and head, and burying himself in Kaveh's foreshirt. 

Kaveh curses, that's what Alhaitham registers. As Alhaitham's hands clutch at the other, as he tries to calm himself, calm his thundering heart and the rushing blood in his head, Kaveh curses and then they're both on the couch. They've fallen over, by a pure accident, in a heap and even though the couch is too small for them both, Alhaitham cannot move.

"Sorry," a hushed whisper reaches him, apologetic hands stroking up and down his back. That, too, makes Alhaitham too hot and too cold simultaneously, "Sorry, sorry, it's alright now." 

I'm fine , he wants to say, but he doesn't. 

And then, Kaveh laughs, chest rising up and down with Alhaitham on it, "We will work on that." 

Work on what? Kaveh? 

He doesn't voice his doubts and questions anymore. He shutters his eyes close again, breath easing into something less panicked, less on the verge of breaking and then, he listens. Listens to the faint heartbeat underneath his ear, to the humming sound above him. He tries to memorise the pattern Kaveh's hands make on his lower back. That, at least, is familiar. The pressure and the weight of arms around him, the easy rhythm he can hear in the air as Kaveh lulls him steadily back into safety and comfort. It was alarming before, to surrender himself to someone so fully, and now the dread is still somewhere there, but Alhaitham welcomes it somehow. 

His fingers clench into Kaveh's shirt and although Kaveh pauses, a bit taken aback by that gesture, he resumes what he's been doing soon after. 

This is the language he has failed to grasp before. 

The one Kaveh speaks so fluently through his actions, words. 

One that slowly but surely, Alhaitham is learning to speak.