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It’s never pretty, the way some evenings get when the café is full of people and someone drinks a bit too much and just can’t resist spoiling a perfectly fine outing. Kaveh’s used to it — unwanted attention from people who find him attractive and want to take him home, assuming that he would ever want something like this. It used to be flattering when he was younger, but now it just makes his wine taste a little bit sourer and his mood drop a bit lower.
“What a beauty like you is doing alone in a place like this?”
It’s so cliché it makes him sick.
Kaveh traces the rim of his glass with a finger and looks his unwanted suitor in the eyes. Some traveler, he thinks, because he doesn’t recognize neither his face nor the fashion of his clothes.
“The beauty is enjoying his wine,” he states as a matter of fact, still keeping his tone somewhat friendly. He is not an asshole, after all. Contrary to what a certain someone might believe. “Alone.”
That should be enough for any reasonable person to get the hint, but the man is nothing but persistent.
“I would love to keep you company,” he says, his voice dropping lower as he leans closer. “And then, maybe we could head somewhere more private.”
It is never pretty, the way evenings like this end. Especially if someone is too bold to place his hand over Kaveh’s own. Absolutely disgusting. Kaveh tries to suppress a shiver of disgust, because he’s still not an asshole. This situation doesn’t have to end the way they usually do.
“I think you had too much wine,” Kaveh says in a flat voice. “It’s better you head home to sober up on your own.”
Yet, the man doesn’t stop.
“Come on, pretty thing, I can make it worth your while.”
Kaveh puts his glass of wine aside and breathes out. So be it. His evening is beyond ruined anyways.
Just as he opens his mouth, he feels someone’s warm palm on his shoulder, the familiar smell of perfume filling the space around him. God fucking damn it.
“I presume you have comprehending problems if you don’t get simple statements,” The voice says in an authoritative way that makes Kaveh’s skin crawl. “I suggest you leave this place and never show your face here.”
The shadow looming over them is tall and imposing, leaving no room for argument. The man looks as if he is ready to combust with both anger and fear, and it takes him a few seconds to get away from the café, leaving a bitter aftertaste of his attitude behind.
What a shitshow.
Kaveh doesn’t say a word, just stands up, shaking the hand on his shoulder off and heading out. Some patrons turn around to watch the scene unfolding in front of them, but they quickly return to their business. It’s not like it’s the first time they witness this.
Cold fresh air doesn’t do anything to dissipate Kaveh’s frustration as he strolls down the street. He is so sick of it. It’s infuriating.
Of course he hears steps behind him. It’s no wonder someone grabs his forearm and makes him turn around.
Al-Haitham’s face is as stoic as ever, void of any emotions, and it makes Kaveh want to punch it till he feels blood on his skin.
“You could have thanked me, you know,” Haitham says, and those words are enough to make Kaveh lose control.
“Fuck you,” he spits out, swatting Haitham’s hand away. “Who do you think I am, some damsel in distress? I can stand up for myself, thank you very much. I don’t need a knight in shining armor to come and save me from big bad wolves.”
“You are drunk,” Haitham states as a matter of fact, as usual. It’s like he doesn’t need to ask questions or change his tone. He is always right.
“What are you, my mother?” He raises his voice, making some passer-by quickly turn around and take another route. “Do you have any idea of what I am capable of?”
“Do tell,” Haitham suggests. Kaveh hates his guts.
“I was born and raised in a fucking desert, you idiot. Do you think I wield claymore for nothing?” He asks, but he doesn’t need a reply. Not now. “A sickeningly pale boy with twigs for hands doesn't stand a chance in that fucking place. You know the stories, you are not that dense, about what people are like there. Bad people. Greedy people. Violent people. Yet I am here, so that means something.”
He thinks he sees something behind that aloof mask that is Haitham’s face, but it might just be the wine that is still coursing in his blood.
“Kaveh…” Haitham calls, stepping merely an inch closer, and it makes Kave snap out of it.
“Don’t Kaveh me,” he says and steps back, making the space between them even bigger. “And now, if you excuse me, I would like to go back to my room and sober the fuck up without looking at your face that makes me want to punch it. And I pack a mean punch, trust me.”
He turns on his heels and heads straight to his home — their home, to his chagrin, — without turning back.
He gets to the house faster than he expected and merely manages to take off his shoes before going straight to his room, slamming the door shut behind him. The anger boils inside, gnaws at his bones, and he can’t stand it anymore. He gets under the blanket without taking his clothes off, because he can’t be bothered with doing anything else. He just needs sleep. He just needs some quiet.
Kaveh almost drifts off to sleep when he hears a soft click of the entrance door.
It’s not pretty, the way evenings like this end. He is so fucking tired of it.
Tonight, he dreams of the desert, hot sand under his feet and merciless sun above his head. Nothing else happens, but it still feels like a nightmare.
***
His new project is a pain in the ass, to be honest. The contractor is beyond picky, yet has no clear idea behind what he wants. All he knows is that the building should be as practical as possible, even by the cost of its looks. Kaveh hates projects like that one.
He looks at his previous sketches, those already rejected, and it fills his heart with sadness. Beautiful archways that make the walls seem like they are weightless, stained glass that makes rainbow dance on the marble floors, lights that illuminate the whole building from inside in the evenings. And a garden. A beautiful garden filled with padisarahs.
It makes his eyes sting, like there are tears in his eyes, but that can’t be. He is not a crybaby, contrary to what some people might believe. He won’t cry over a project, once again rejected. He won’t cry over a garden of padisarahs that will never come to be.
He dresses for the day, out of his worn sleeping clothes, picks his outfit carefully and with an idea behind it. His whole wardrobe is meticulously chosen, not a single piece of clothes out of his style, however impractical they might be. There is no point in dressing in something that makes your body comfortable yet makes your soul feel trapped in its own flesh. He knows he looks like a dream — he is not blind, nor his self esteem is low. He sees the looks people give him, he knows the thoughts behind them, and he takes them gracefully.
He is the talk of the town, after all. Light of Kshahrewar in more sense than one.
Al-Haitham is here, when Kaveh steps out of his room, sitting on the sofa, reading a book as usual. He doesn’t even lift his gaze. It’s not like Kaveh expects him too. Haitham says nothing — even when Kaveh leaves the house, this time closing the door behind him softly.
***
Akademiya is never quiet, not even at night, but in the daytime even more so. There are people around from all the Darshans, and everyone seems to know him. He gets his fair share of greetings and small talks from people he barely knows, some students approaching him for advice on their thesis, some juniors wishing him good luck with his new project.
Kaveh still gets to the elective he teaches to a small group of students on time.
It’s an easy job, to be honest. Nothing he can’t handle without little to none preparations, and his students are eager to learn something new. He is kind of proud of them, honestly. Maybe one day they are going to be great specialists — without getting into enormous debt like he did.
Time flies when he talks about the things he loves, and today is not an exception. When the elective is over, he lets his students go and packs his bag. It’s time he gets to the library to find some old blueprints to help him with the project. Maybe it will give him some inspiration to get his work done and never come back to it again.
He is so deep in his thoughts he doesn’t pay attention to where he is going, so when he feels something slimy and scalding hot on his skin, it makes him cry out in pain. It’s some sort of liquid — and there is so much of it that it covers his front almost entirely. He instinctively steps back to fight off this feeling, but the liquid is already on the floor, and it makes him trip and ungracefully fall on his ass. It hurts, the heat on his skin and impact from falling. But it’s not enough to miss an enormous crowd around, all eyes on him. It’s quiet, but then someone laughs.
The sting of the fall, the excruciating pain of the burn — it all fades away, because of the way shame rises inside him, and it’s all-encompassing, it grips him by the throat and leaves him breathless. It makes him want to crawl out of his own skin. It makes his eyes sting.
“Oh my gods, Kaveh, I’m so sorry,” the culprit is trying to explain himself, dropping the now empty cauldron to the floor. “It was a potion I made as a project for Amurta, but it’s harmless, I swear! Please forgive me!”
Before he can humiliate Kaveh more and help him to his feet — please, don’t do it, don’t come closer! — Kaveh feels something cover his shoulders and eventually his whole body. All too familiar ridiculous green coat.
He should say something, should scream as he wants to, should stumble on his feet and run away from this nightmare, but instead he grabs the coat and wraps himself up with it even more.
“Here,” says Al-Haitham behind his back and lifts Kaveh up to his feet. “Let’s go.”
He doesn’t ask the crowd to mind their own business or teases Kaveh about the whole situation — just leads him out of the room, through the corridor, till they get to a big study. Haitham’s study.
And just like that, they are alone.
Kaveh knows he should say something. He should thank Haitham, should take this ridiculous coat off and go to the bathroom to clean himself up, but instead he does something he promised himself not to do, ever.
His eyes sting again, and this time he lets the tear spill, bitter, streaming down his face. He sobs, and it’s so pathetic, yet he can’t stop, he can’t stop because he needs to take this burning shame out of his system, because it’s too much, because he wants to disappear. It’s so stupid to break down over some clothes, over something so trivial anybody else would just brush off, but he can’t. It’s humiliating in a way only he understands.
He barely registers warm hands that keep him upright, but he still presses closer to Haitham and buries his face in the crook of his neck. And he wails. He weeps. He cries his heart out — like a stupid child lost somewhere in a big city.
Haitham holds him in his arms, quiet as ever, and lets Kaveh cry — even when he grabs Haitham’s clothes to ground himself in the most desperate way. He doesn’t seem to mind the slimy liquid that gets on his clothes, too.
Kaveh doesn’t know how much time it takes for him to calm down — all he knows is that his eyes hurt from crying, and his throat is sore, but at least he doesn’t sob anymore. Hiccups that leave his mouth from time to time don’t count.
He lifts his head, reluctantly, to look into Haitham’s face. There is no disgust or mockery as he expected, just his usual neutral expression. For the first time in forever Kaveh is grateful for it.
Haitham still keeps his silence, expecting Kaveh to say something, and so he does.
“Take me home,” he asks, barely audible, and presses his forehead to Haitham’s shoulder.
There is no dignity in him left, anyway.
***
They take a longer route home, the one where you can rarely meet anyone, and Kaveh is more than grateful for that. When they are finally inside, he tosses Haitham’s coat aside and leans on a wall, his knees suddenly weak. He is so out of it he doesn’t even notice Haitham who passes him by and heads through the hallway.
Probably to his own room, Kaveh thinks. He’s definitely had enough.
His boots fall to the floor unceremoniously as he kicks them off his feet to get to the living room. Just a little further, and he will get to his room, crawl under the blanket and never leave that fucking house. Just a few steps more.
“Here,” says Haitham, stepping into the living room — has he just stepped out of Kaveh’s bedroom? — and holding a pile of neatly folded clothes. “You need to change.”
“I don’t fucking want your pity,” Kaveh breathes out, and this conversation sounds all too familiar. He doesn’t need help. He’s got it under control.
“It’s not pity. It’s clothes,” Haitham says plainly, and it is so like him to say something like this.
He still holds clothes - silk pajamas, sage green. His favorite.
When he looks into Haitham’s eyes, he knows he won’t tolerate any objections. Stubborn idiot.
So Kaveh takes the clothes into his hands, carefully, not to soil it with that disgusting slimy potion that still clings to his now ruined outfit. It’s nice to hold something pretty in his hands. Something delicate. It’s soothing.
“Change and come back, you need to take care of that burn,” Haitham simply says and turns to head to the kitchen. “And before you say anything,” he stops Kaveh half-way into another complaint, “it needs treatment, or else you will sport a nasty scar on that chest of yours.”
To that Kaveh can’t object.
He hates it.
It takes him some time to clean up and get changed. Stupid potion won’t come off of his skin and hair, and he spends too much time trying to sort it all out without another fit of despair. When he gets to the burn, it hurts indeed. In fact, it hurts so much he has to grit his teeth not to swear out loud.
When he finally emerges from his bedroom, dressed in silk that instantly made him feel so much better, he sees Haitham on the sofa — this time without a book, but with some kind of salve in a small jar. In front of him, right on a small table, sits a tray with a teapot and two cups. Tea.
“Come here,” Haitham says without even turning to Kaveh.
It’s so frustrating, honestly.
“Don’t tell me what to do,” Kaveh grumbles but still sits on the sofa as far away from Haitham as possible.
“Unbutton your shirt,” Haitham instructs him, and Kaveh crosses his arms like a petulant child. He knows it’s stupid — but he just can’t comply. It’s just not who he is.
“I can’t just treat your burn over your clothes, however revealing they might be,” Haitham says, and yes, that’s why Kaveh hates him. Exactly for that reason.
But he is also right, and that makes him even angrier.
That son of a bitch.
Kaveh unbuttons his shirt, slowly and hesitantly, as if Haitham has never seen him naked — they are roommates, there've been an awful lot of awkward incidents of running into each other in the unlocked bathroom. And yet, it still feels wrong.
But Kaveh has already shown him too much today, after all. A little nudity won’t be more humiliating than his outburst of tears.
Haitham sits clother, and his hand covered in salve glides over the burn on Kaveh’s skin. It’s cold — soothingly so, and Kaveh closes his eyes, trying not to think about how vulnerable he feels at that moment. There is no point in dwelling on that.
Haitham applies the salve the way he does everything else — efficiently, silently, confidently. Kaveh looks anywhere but not at him, because he won’t be able to look Haitham in the eyes, he just knows it. So away he stares.
“Done. You can button up,” Haitham finally says after a couple of excruciatingly long minutes and closes the lid of the jar. “Apply it one more time before bed.”
Kaveh knows he should thank him. It’s the right thing to do, it’s what anyone would have done, but he can’t let these words fall from his lips, so he just stares at the jar sitting on the sofa between them.
He is so deep in his thoughts he doesn’t even notice a cup of freshly brewed tea that Haitham places in front of him on the table. It smells so nice — of earthy tones and spices, and Kaveh just can’t resist.Tea has always felt like something luxurious to him.
Something to treat himself to.
“Tell me about it,” Haitham asks when their cups are almost empty, and that makes Kaveh snap out of his thoughts. His confused face says it all, so Haitham has to specify.
“The desert. Tell me about the desert.”
Go fuck yourself — that’s the first thought that crosses Kaveh’s mind, because it’s not Haitham’s fucking business, it’s not anybody’s business to be exact.
But he knows that he owes him. If not a thank you, then at least some information. That’s how it always goes with Haitham, right?
“It’s hot. Dry. Vast. I don’t know what else to tell you,” he tries to weasel his way out of this conversation, but Haitham still looks at him as if he is waiting for Kaveh to continue.
Right. You can’t bullshit the bullshitter.
“I was born in a small settlement on the outskirts of the Upper Setekh,” Kaveh finally says. “Houses sloppily built over some ancient ruins, two wells to keep us alive — you know, the usual. Not much to talk about.”
“What about your parents?” Haitham asks.
There is anger in Kaveh’s eyes, scalding hot and hostile, but he tries to suppress it. It’s just a question.
“They used to be merchants who had nothing to their name, so they just decided to try their luck in the desert. A shitty decision if you ask me, but nobody did,” Kaveh lowers his gaze and stares at a little jar of salve still between them. “Father fell ill when I was about four — some kind of paralysis, I don’t know, it’s not like we had a proper doctor with us. So it was mostly me and my mother.”
“What was your life there like?”
“Is that some kind of interrogation?” Kaveh scoffs, but Haitham is as unmoving as a rock.
“No. It’s just a question.”
“Right,” Kaveh rolls his eyes.
What was his life like in the desert? How is he supposed to answer it?
“It was a fucking nightmare, to be honest. From a very young age you are supposed to do something if you want to stay alive, because the desert spares no one. I had to gather fruits from the cacti if I could find any. Then, they tried to teach me how to hunt birds of prey, but my bow skills were so poor they eventually gave up on me. So I picked another weapon.”
Haitham listens — for once in his life, without any witty remarks or interruptions, and that makes Kaveh feel like he is actually dreaming. Maybe he should pinch himself?
But instead, he goes on.
“I told you, people are not kind there. No one will give you special treatment because you are young or sick. If you are not working — you better leave and survive on your own. If you can, of course. So the first thing I learned was how to fight. And then… Then I learned how to build. Our houses were one breath away from collapsing on their own. No wonder, they were built by nomads who knew only how to place a tent. I don’t know how we survived sandstorms there. But then I just knew we could fix it. I knew how.”
It’s like he isn’t entirely there. It’s like he is reading pages from an old book forgotten by someone in the dustiest corner of the library. Useless, good for nothing novel with the most trivial of plots.
“So I built things. Sturdy things that would last for decades. That would keep them — and me — protected. But I hated it.”
“Why?” He hears Haitham ask and he doesn’t find any strength or will to bite back.
“It felt like I was building a sorry excuse for a mausoleum over my own grave,” he says, and his whole body shivers with the memory of stones stolen from ancient ruins, clay he mixed days and nights from sand and water. The scorching sun on his dry skin. The dirt under his broken nails. The insects in his short hair.
He doesn't wait for the next question from Haitham.
“So I ran away when I knew I was strong enough to cross the desert on my own. It took me some time to get to Aaru village — took too many wrong turns, got into all kinds of trouble on my way. I left my life behind and I have no regrets about it. Because if I stayed there one year longer, I would end up under those piles of stones and make them my grave for real. I wanted something different. I wanted a life I’ve always dreamt of.”
The room is silent. Haitham doesn’t move, and Kaveh still doesn’t look him in the face — he traces patterns with his finger over his silk pants. These patterns would make a beautiful addition to his rejected project.
They would look absolutely mesmerizing.
“Do you miss it?” Haitham finally asks, his voice lower than usual. “The desert?”
It’s such a ridiculous question, honestly. How can this man be so clever yet so dense?
“I fucking hate it. Every time I have a commission in the desert I do it only because I need money, but I hate every second of it. I want to erase those years from my memory and never look back.”
It feels better — telling someone else about it, because nobody knows about his past. His meticulously crafted personality doesn’t let anything from his previous life slip in. He is an artist — a poet, an architect, a lover. Never the poor frightened kid with calloused fingers and sunburns all over his skin.
And yet something about Haitham’s question makes him think, and before he knows it he opens his mouth again.
“But you know… There is this moment, right at the dawn, when you stand in the middle of this desert, nothing but dunes all around you — not a soul to see. An infinite sea of sand. The sky is so big above your head, like a dome. And right at that moment you feel like another grain of sand amidst all this, so small and insignificant. But it makes you feel… endless.”
That’s when their gazes meet, and for a brief second Kaveh sees something akin to understanding in Haitham’s eyes. A real, true understanding of something that has no scientific value or research to make about.
It’s a complex feeling, and Kaveh hears its name in the back of his mind.
Longing.
***
After that, everything stays the same — yet changes completely. Kaveh can’t quite pinpoint that subtle shift in their dynamics, but it gets calmer, somehow. As if they can finally exist in each other’s space and breathe in fresh air. It’s not yet the same as the breeze you feel when you open your windows after the spring cleaning, but they are getting there, he thinks.
Being around Haitham is not a chore now. He is just here. And nothing more.
Kaveh still gets lost in his new project — well, it’s not entirely new now, more like a dead weight waiting to be lifted, or thrown into the ocean to never resurface. Sometimes Kaveh wishes he could just take all the blueprints and drafts and just scatter them in the wind. What a sight that would be. What a joy.
It is still hard for him to go to the Akademiya after that unfortunate incident. People still greet him, have their small talks, ask for advice. But it still seems as if everyone is just trying to be polite, but still talk about him behind his back. Probably about how awkward he is, how desperately he is trying to keep his facade, but everyone knows that underneath those pretty clothes and gilded jewels is just a lost desert boy who’s been playing pretend for too long. The thought is excruciating.
And that’s why he stays at home for most of the time.
He wakes. He works. He walks around the house looking for inspiration. He sleeps.
It renders him restless.
In the evenings, when Haitham is home and not in his study at the Akademiya, they drink tea in the living room. It’s always the same. Tea leaves. Milk. Spices. A whiff of fragrant steam rising from their cups.
They usually stay quiet. Haitham reads, just like he always does, and Kaveh brings his notebook with sketches to put his ideas in a vague shape of lines. His hand moves by itself, it seems, because sometimes he gets distracted — and there it is, a familiar view. A familiar face.
He flips the page.
“What do you like the most about Sumeru?”
It’s a sudden question. More sudden is the fact that it’s coming from Haitham, still nose deep in his book, as if he didn’t just pose a nearly existential question to one very confused Kaveh.
It is so random, the way Haitham’s mind works sometimes. His thoughts and his words, usually so out of line yet perfectly logical in his own eyes. It’s like his whole existence is just a big experiment to him, the one where the observer doesn’t interfere — just merely watches as life unfolds in front of his eyes and takes his silent notes.
It’s somewhat poetic.
But mostly it’s just confusing.
Kaveh knows that this question is a not-so-subtle continuation of their conversation from a week ago, and he should cut off these attempts to get under his skin, because there is no way Haitham does it out of concern or gods forbid interest in him as a person. He is most probably just curious.
Well, curiosity killed the cat.
“Flowers,” Kaveh answers honestly, because there is no point in making up something else. “So many flowers, colorful and delicate. I’ve never seen anything like it when I lived in the desert.”
“Which flowers exactly?”
Haitham still is immersed in his book. It’s kind of annoying.
“I like them all,” Kaveh says, quickly sketching a vague shape of a flower in bloom in his notebook. “Crocuses, lilies, roses. These little red flowers that bloom on the lianas in Gandharva Ville. But I like padisarahs the most, I suppose.”
He quickly adds more lines to his sketch, turning an unnamed flower into a beautiful padisarah.
“Why?”
Again with the existential questions, it’s so Haitham. Why, what, when, all practical and to the point. But somehow Kaveh wants to reply. Wants to open up a bit more. It felt so good the last time they talked.
“They are pretty. They are tender. They inspire, they bloom despite everything. They are the beauty incarnated.”
They are everything I want to be, that’s what is left unsaid.
When Kaveh lifts his head, he sees Haitham looking at him, and his expression puzzles him. There is something — an emotion, how rare of him — Kaveh’s not used to seeing on his face.
“They are beautiful,” Haitham says.
In two days, when Kaveh goes to the kitchen in the morning, he sees a vase filled with fragrant padisarahs.
***
When he was little, Kaveh liked to listen to the stories about King Deshret the grown-ups told at night when they all gathered around a bonfire. A powerful and wise god, benevolent and all-knowing, he still was a beacon for all the lost souls wandering the desert, even beyond his grave. But the part of his story about the Goddess of Flowers was his favorite, even if it was told less enthusiastically. Her body — an eternal oasis among the merciless sands, her woes and tears — beautiful flowers underneath her feet. It was a sad story, the way it ended for King Deshret and the Goddess of Flowers. But there was beauty in that sorrow, a masterpiece born out of pain. A paradise built upon infertile soil.
In his dreams, when Kaveh walks, beautiful padisarahs bloom underneath his feet. He, too, has too much pain and sorrow to bear, so it must mean something. It too must turn into something divine.
Something endless.
***
“I told you a thousand times and I will tell you a thousand more, if I have to. I need a simple and sturdy building that will withstand a tropical storm and an eremites’ attack. That’s all I’m asking of you, architect Kaveh!”
This man’s voice is disgusting. His words are knives in Kaveh’s back.
He wants to pull them out and cut the man’s throat open.
“But there is so much more this building can offer to this exact part of the forest! My earlier version can make it a part of the local ecosystem, both visually and practically, just let me show you the blueprints one more time!” Kaveh almost pleads, and he feels like a parrot, because he repeats these exact words for gods know what time. He is getting desperate.
“Listen, young man. I’m sure you’re a clever one, that’s what people say about you anyway,” the man says, angrily crossing his hand on his chest. “Why would I need a beautiful building that would only attract attention? I don’t need your stained glass windows or domes, don’t need your fucking gardens. I just want a box-shaped sturdy building. That’s it. Make it happen, or you are fired. And trust me, I will make you pay the forfeit in full.”
His reddened face, his ridiculous mustache, his gaudy clothes — and most of all, his fucking audacity. It all makes Kaveh want to strangle his contractor with his bare hands. He is this close to committing a cruel murder right here, on the construction site.
“Who would want your atrocious ideas anyway,” he hears the man mutter under his breath.
And that’s when Kaveh sees red.
He grabs the man by the collar — it’s not that difficult, considering that Kaveh is much taller than him, — and shakes him, rendering him speechless.
“You know what, you piece of shit?” Kaveh asks, voice lowered, eyes glinting dangerously. “Consider yourself lucky today, because I’m not in the mood to beat you right here and now.”
There is fear written all over the man’s face — panic and horror, because he didn’t expect it from diplomatic and charming Kaveh. No one does.
“I quit,” he says, releasing his grip on the man’s collar and pushing him back, till he stumbles right into the pile of building blocks. “Good luck with your building.”
There is nothing composed and graceful in a way that he tucks his blueprints and notes into his bag, because he is angry, oh gods, he is so angry it eats him alive, it makes him want to tear his own skin apart just to get rid of that feeling.
He can barely breathe.
“You can bill me your fucking forfeit.”
He walks away, and he keeps walking, far away, faster and faster, until that ugly feeling inside his chest tightens its grip on his heart.
Only when it gets nearly impossible to inhale, he finds a name for it.
It’s the same shame he felt back then, in Akademiya. The shame of losing his face and letting his ugly past self show up. This time not awkward, but violent.
It is so fucked up he wishes he was dead.
***
“Kaveh? I thought you were meeting your contractor today…” he hears Haitham say, but he ignores his words. Kaveh heads right to the living room, where Haitham stands, and in one quick motion cuts the distance between them.
And then he buries his face in the crook of Haitham’s neck — like he did a few weeks ago.
“Don’t say anything,” he whispers, and it sounds almost like a plea, and he hates himself for it, but there is no one else who knows him as much as Haitham. For better or worse. Haitham just stands there, unmoving as always, the only thing that reminds Kaveh that he is holding a human in his arms is a steady beat of the heart. “Please, don’t say anything, just hold me.”
And then Haitham does exactly that.
His hands are warm when he circles them around Kaveh’s waist, bringing their bodies impossibly closer.
It’s unexpectedly good, this pressure around him. It grounds him, doesn’t let him spiral down even further, and it anchors him in the best way possible.
Why Haitham of all people? Why him? That emotionless rock of a man, the most unbearable person in all the city, the one who made his blood boil just mere weeks ago. What has changes?
Why?
Kaveh doesn’t want to think. So he just puts his hands around Haitham’s neck and lets himself be held.
And it feels so nice.
When Haitham shifts, Kaveh expects him to pull back and put an end to this… whatever this is, but Haitham still holds Kaveh in his arms as he steps back till he sits on the couch — and just like that, Kaveh is in Haitham’s lap.
He is scared to breathe, because somehow it makes it all weird, it makes it all almost intimate, and despite everything it fills Kaveh with warmth. When Haitham’s hand gently caresses his hair, Kaveh chokes on a sob.
No one has ever held him like this.
Kaveh knows that right in this moment he is ugly. His made-up image crumbles, exposing him as weak, volatile, aggressive, and so, so lost. No one wants that Kaveh. But somehow the warmth of Haitham’s body and his gentle hands make him feel like he is enough — just the way he is.
It’s pathetic.
It’s everything he’s ever dreamt of.
When Kaveh pulls back just slightly to look into Haitham’s eyes, he thinks he sees right through his mask — and there is so much vulnerability under all that attitude. There is so much hurt, too.
Their noses almost touch, hot breath on each other’s lips, and Kaveh is waiting, waiting for something, for a sign or a push, anything, because he is so confused it hurts. So when Haitham leans in closer, Kaveh closes his eyes — just to feel Haitham’s lips on his forehead.
It’s so tender. It’s so fucking unfair.
“You need some sleep,” Haitham says in his ever-flat tone, and it hurts, it hurts so much, because a sudden wave of anxious nausea reminds him that no one actually wants him like that. He’s a fucking mess.
He lifts himself up from Haitham’s lap and his whole body aches with the loss of warmth, but he has no time for that. He doesn’t wait for another second — just heads to the bedroom and closes the door behind and turns the lock.
On his bedside table, there is a fresh bouquet of padisarahs.
***
Kaveh can’t sleep. It’s as if he is cursed, because the blood in his veins feels poisoned, and he can’t just keep still. His thoughts are racing, and so is his heartbeat, and there are so many thoughts swarming inside his head. Images of his past life, terrible and merciless, where the barren land is cruel to every living thing. Where stories come to die and become legends.
Kaveh doesn’t want his story to be a legend. He wants it to be like a fairytale, where the hero is elegant and just a little bit sly, where he gets what he wants and everybody loves him. Where he is wanted and adored. The main character of his own grandiose life.
But this pathetic fool that lives under his skin is no hero. He is a tragic story by himself, a sorry excuse of a cautionary tale about a boy who was nothing — and who returned to that nothingness despite the attempt to pretend to be someone else.
The desert claims everyone who belongs to it.
But he doesn’t want it.
He can’t just give up.
Kaveh gets up and unlocks the door — a soft click in the quiet of the night. He knows exactly what he needs.
He knocks on the familiar door once, twice, three times — and when it opens suddenly, he almost trips. Haitham is here, right in front of him, obviously ready for sleep, and for the first time in forever his surprise is not covered by his aloof mask.
“Kaveh?” he calls out, and the sound of his own name is Kaveh’s undoing.
“Kiss me,” he asks, looking Haitham right in the eyes. “Kiss me, or I might just die.”
And then, just like that, his wish is granted.
Haitham’s lips are soft, impossibly so, and the kiss is so tender as if Kaveh is something precious. Something to cherish. And it’s wrong, it’s so wrong.
Kaveh is the first to deepen the kiss, tilt his head just the right way to lick over the seam of Haitham’s lips and, as they part for him, Kaveh makes sure to taste Haitham on his tongue. The kiss is not desperate, not yet — languid and sensual, it makes Kaveh’s head spin, gets him dizzy and light-headed, just the way good wine makes him feel. He gently caresses Haitham’s face with his fingers, such contrast to what their lips and tongues do. It’s getting heated between them, the way they cling to each other. In a flash of clarity, Kaveh only now realizes they are still standing in the doorway and pushes Haitham inside, and he complies so easily. Kaveh would have laughed were it a different situation.
It takes just a moment to push Haitham on the bed and climb over him — a hotter, messier version of the embrace they shared a few hours ago. Kaveh straddles Haitham’s hips and desperately reaches for his lips again.
“I need you,” he whispers between their kisses. It’s utterly shameless, the way he almost begs, but there is nothing he can do to stop it. “Need you now, Haitham.”
He craves touches, craves kisses and attention — but most of all, he craves that warmth he somehow finds only in Haitham’s arms. It’s poetic in a way, that desperation. But poets don’t write about this — they wouldn’t imagine the way Haitham moans into the kiss and grabs Kaveh by the waist.
It takes one swift motion for him to change their positions on the bed — Kaveh now pinned under his body, pliant and eager, legs spread around Haitham’s hips. Haitham’s kisses go lower: jaw, neck, collarbones, chest, stomach. He carefully unbuttons Kaveh’s pajamas, kissing pale skin, and it makes Kaveh arch his back in a desperate need to do something — anything, really, that would make him forget the thoughts that are still looming over his head. He clumsily gets rid of his pants and underwear with the help of Haitham, and now he is finally naked, finally can feel that warmth even closer.
But he needs more. He needs so much more.
“Fuck me,” Kaveh whispers into Haitham’s ear, carding his hand through short silvery hair. “Fuck me till i can’t think.”
Haitham’s hand, just a second ago caressing his side, now harshly grabs him by the hip, and oh, that will leave a nasty bruise. Kaveh needs more.
“Come on,” he whines and lifts his hips up, rubbing his already leaking cock over the bulge in Haitham’s pants. Those need to go. Now.
“Take it off,” he says, desperately tugging at the buttons of Haitham’s shirt, sending some of them flying across the room in his frenzy. “All of it. Need to feel you.”
Kaveh doesn’t know what he expected Haitham to be like in the bedroom. It’s not like he thought about it before. Right now he expects Haitham to be his usual sarcastic self, teasing and arrogant, but it’s not like that. He undresses as quickly and efficiently as he does everything else — and just like that he presses into Kaveh’s body again, skin on skin, and it already feels so good.
“Is that what you wanted?” he asks Kaveh, and okay, that might be a bit arrogant, but he can let it slide — especially when Haitham moves and rubs their cocks together, making them both gasp.
“Want more,” Kaveh breathes out, and Haitham licks into his mouth again, a short but desperate kiss. “Want you inside me. Make a mess out of me.”
As if he isn’t already a complete and utter mess.
“Greedy,” Haitham smiles into another kiss they share and slides his palm lower down Kaveh’s body, movement teasing.
Kaveh whines — an utterly humiliating sound, but he is far too gone to be ashamed now. He tries to push into the touch, closer, desperate for a contact, but all he gets is a gentle caress and a chaste kiss to his lips.
It’s maddening.
Haitham briefly lifts himself to retrieve a bottle of oil from his bedside drawers, and Kaveh prefers not to dwell on the thought of why he would need to keep that thing so close to his bed.
“How do you want to do it?” Haitham asks, and it takes Kaveh merely a second to make up his mind. He untangles their limbs to slide from underneath Haithams body and turn around on all fours, his back arching.
“Want you like that,” he says, turning his head to look into Haitham’s half-lidded eyes.
Yes, that’s perfect.
And then, warm hands are all over his body again.
Haitham takes his sweet time exploring every part of Kaveh’s body: his shoulder blades, the arch of his spine, the curve of his waist.
“Beautiful,” he hears Haitham whisper into the nape of his neck, and it makes Kaveh wince as if he is in pain.
Liar.
But it feels so good to believe him.
He nearly misses the sound of the vial being uncorked behind his own panting breath. Everything is slow — so slow that he gets beyond impatient and tries to move his hips back, seeking friction. It’s futile, because suddenly Haitham’s hand is on his hip, keeping him still.
“We are not in a rush,” Kaveh hears Haitham’s voice and he wants to bite back, he honestly does, but then he feels slick fingers tracing the rim of his entrance and chokes on his own words.
It’s just a tip of a finger inside him, but Kaveh already feels tight heat pooling in his body, craves the release, but Haitham wouldn’t be Haitham if he didn’t do everything so slowly and thoroughly.
“Breathe, Kaveh,” he hears that steady voice behind him and can’t find his usual anger in the back of his mind. So breathe he does. Inhale. Exhale.
The finger inside him goes deeper, and it’s a tight fit, but Kaveh makes an honest attempt at relaxing. Just breathe.
Haitham’s other hand keeps tracing his body, a touch so gentle that the contrast between it and the thrust of the finger inside him makes his head spin.
“Another, Haitham, please,” he mutters under his breath, and Haitham complies without any protest.
It gets good. That’s exactly what he’s been craving, that’s exactly what makes his body pliant and his head empty. What a beautiful feeling for such an indecent act.
“More?” Haitham asks, and Kaveh only nods in agreement. More, even more, please, please, please. He is afraid to open his mouth, because he won’t stop pleading, he just knows it.
But still, Haitham understands. Three fingers inside now, moving in a tantalizingly slow manner, drive Kaveh mad. He knows that his release is close, especially when Haitham curls his fingers just right, but it’s not enough, it won’t be enough, and the frustration almost makes him cry.
“Get on with it, I can’t wait any longer,” he pants and looks over his shoulder, just to see something absolutely incredible.
Haitham’s expression looks nothing like Kaveh’s ever seen before. It’s vulnerable, it’s tender. It’s reverent. Like he is looking at something perfect. Something divine.
Haitham is so beautiful it hurts.
Kaveh almost whines at the sudden emptiness he feels inside as Haitham withdraws his fingers, but the feeling is soon replaced with a slight, barely there pressure of Haitham’s cock. It’s just the tip — but Kaveh feels like his last crumbs of sanity leave him.
“Come on,” he says, trying to push his hips back, but Haitham’s hands keep him still in a strong grip.
Kaveh should hate him for it — for not letting him set the pace, for taking his time in favor of his own desires, but he just can’t bring himself to do it.
When Haitham’s hips are flush with his body, Kaveh moans and lowers his head onto a soft blanket.
“Move,” he says. “Please, move.”
And Haitham moves.
His pace is once again slow, excruciatingly so, and Kaveh is restless. His previous partners fucked him hard, fast, chasing their pleasure, and Kaveh took his own pleasure from them too — such a selfish act. But this.
This doesn’t feel like they fuck.
This feels like they make love.
And the thought sends Kaveh spiraling.
“Faster, Haitham! I’m not made of glass,” he breathes out, but it does nothing.
“I know you are not,” Kaveh hears him reply, and it’s not fair, it’s so fucking unfair.
“You can be rough with me,” Kaveh says, his voice suddenly so small. “I want you to be rough with me.”
Haitham buries his hand in Kaveh’s soft hair — not tugging, not moving at all. Just a warm touch, barely there pressure.
“No, you don’t.”
Kaveh wants to cry. It’s cruel, because he knows what he wants, he knows what he likes, and Haitham is a selfish prick for thinking he knows best. But his thoughts are all messed up, his feelings in complete disarray, and it’s all too much. Maybe he really doesn’t know what he wants anymore.
“At least move faster. Please.”
And Haitham does exactly that.
The pace is still careful, almost loving, but it steadily grows faster, and there it is again — that heat Kaveh feels in his core, unraveling him, rendering him vulnerable, as if his chest is being split open.
“You are doing so well,” Haitham whispers, placing a gentle kiss on his shoulder. “You feel so good.”
“Just for you,” the words spill from Kaveh’s lips, and it does something to Haitham, because his next thrust is sharper, deeper, and the angle makes Kaveh cry out and arch his back to seek that pleasure again.
They keep going like that for some time — Haitham’s panting filling everything around Kaveh, those little suppressed moans doing terrible things to his composure. Kaveh traces his hand down his body, touching his leaking, painfully hard cock, but Haitham’s fingers gently circle around his wrist and pin it down to the bed.
“Let me take care of you,” Haitham says, and it takes Kaveh’s breath away.
Suddenly there is emptiness inside him, and it fills him with panic, but then he is flipped onto his back, Haitham looming over him, pupils blown wide, hair disheveled. He looks scandalous. Kaveh wants to ravage him.
He spreads his legs more, inviting to touch, to connect their bodies again, and the caress of Haitham’s fingers on the tender skin of his inner thighs feels electric.
“Want to see your pretty face,” Haitham says, and it makes Kaveh’s eyes sting with tears.
Haitham cock is inside him again, thrusted in with one smooth motion, and it knocks air out of Kaveh’s lungs.
“You are a vision,” Haitham whispers, his tone so tender it hurts. “I wish you could have seen yourself the way I see you.”
And just like that, Kaveh’s eyes are filled with tears. He doesn’t want to see himself like this, doesn’t believe he can be anything but ugly in that state of vulnerability, because without his carefully crafted front he is exactly who he tried to bury in the sands of the desert. Someone disgusting and vile. Undeserving of tenderness. Undeserving of love.
Yet Haitham kisses his closed eyelids, the tip of his nose, the curve of his lips. Haitham says he is beautiful — and it’s so hard not to believe him, even if Kaveh desperately tries.
Kisses bloom on his skin like tender flowers, and he puts his hands around Haitham’s neck to keep him closer, even closer than they are now.
“I’m almost… almost- Please, don’t stop,” Kaveh whispers in Haitham’s ear and bites his earlobe, eliciting a sweet moan from those beautiful lips.
“I won’t,” Haitham promises.
He thrusts in faster, their bodies in perfect sync with each other, hot and glistening with sweat, and Kaveh arches his back in the search of his pleasure. He is so incredibly close, and it might take just one move to make him unravel.
“Inside, Haitham,” Kaveh moans into a messy kiss they share. “Cum inside. Fill me up.”
It takes the last crumbs of Haitham’s restraint away, rendering him utterly desperate, and he moves faster, his rhythm frantic. Haitham’s fingers circle around Kaveh’s cock, glide slippery and so easy, his moves uncoordinated and just as hurried.
“Cum for me, love,” he says, and that’s what tips Kaveh over the edge. He digs his nails into Haitham’s shoulder, crying out in pleasure, and it seems to be never ending, that feeling of pure bliss, hot-white behind his closed eyelids. All-consuming.
He is still high on that ecstasy when he hears Haitham moan and feels his warm release inside.
And it all feels so right.
They both are panting, their foreheads touching, their heartbeats in sync. And for the first time in his whole life Kaveh feels like himself — and doesn’t hate it.
He feels loved.
When Haitham tries to pull away, Kaveh only grips his shoulders tighter, bringing them even closer, even though it gets uncomfortable.
“Stay,” he asks simply.
And Haitham stays.
When he wakes up in the morning in Haitham’s bed and in Haitham’s embrace, Kaveh watches the first rays of sun caress his skin and can’t resist tracing his finger over that warm light on that handsome face. So serene. So calm.
Why Haitham of all people, he thinks to himself. They hated each other, right? Right..?
Kaveh remembers their constant bickering, his own hot-white anger he felt any time Haitham tried to get closer and overstep his boundaries, and suddenly he knows the answer.
He never hated Haitham. He was just scared to show him who he really is.
But it’s time to become brave, Kaveh supposes.
Just like the hero of his own story he is supposed to be.
***
“Where are you taking me?”
Haitham packs their bags with his usual efficiency, not an item out of its place, everything arranged so neatly it takes two times less space than if Kaveh would have packed himself.
“Then it wouldn’t be a surprise, now would it?” Haitham says and takes Kaveh by the hand, lifting it to his lips and kissing his knuckles. Kaveh blushes.
Haitham might not be the most affectionate partner when it comes to random physical contact, but when he is — oh, when he is, it’s the most magnificent feeling in the world.
And for that, Kaveh excuses that little ploy Haitham apparently planned behind his back.
It takes them some time to arrive at their destination, and Kaveh looks utterly confused when they arrive at the Caravan Ribat’s gates. The sun is setting, and white walls look all shades of pink and orange, and it’s pretty, but he still doesn’t get why they came here.
Unless…
“No,” he says, stepping back, and his face pales in realization. “No, Haitham, please, why would you do this?”
“Kaveh,” Haitham softly says, approaching him slowly, as if Kaveh is a scared animal in trouble. Well, maybe he is.
“You know how much I hate that place, you know it makes me sick,” Kaveh says, his hands gripping his bag so tight his knuckles turn white. “So why would you take me there?”
The voices of merchants in the streets are a distant noise behind the strong walls, yet the silence between them is almost deafening.
“Do you trust me?” Haitham finally says, and Kaveh wants to scream. He doesn’t want to go back to the desert, he can’t bear a thought of it, he wants to be angry so much. But he trusts Haitham, and that trust is stronger than that desperate hatred towards the place he loathes the most.
“I do,” he finally says and takes Haitham’s hand, intertwining their fingers.
And that seems to be all Haitham wanted to hear.
***
Crossing the desert at night feels like a death wish, but Haitham insists they do it now. He says it’s not too far away, so Kaveh desperately hopes he is right.
It’s freezing cold at night, so they have to stop a couple of times and light a small bonfire, dozing off for a few minutes in each other’s embrace, sharing the heat of their bodies.
Kaveh always wakes with a gentle kiss on his head, signaling that they have to move.
The sky gets a few shades lighter when they finally climb a cliff Haitham says is their final destination. Kaveh is so tired, honestly, so he doesn’t know what kind of surprise it would take to make up for all that suffering. But when they turn the corner around a huge rock, his heart almost stops.
It’s a garden.
A garden among the sands of the merciless desert that is nothing but cruel to all living things. Shaded by a perfectly crafted canopy, there are rows and rows of padisarahs in full bloom. Even in the darkness, their delicate petals gleam with a barely-there glow.
But they are blurry — why are they so blurry?
Only when Haitham gently swipes his fingers over Kaveh’s cheeks does he realize that he is crying.
Those are not frustrated or angry tears Kaveh’s used to, nor they are sad. It’s another kind of feeling that resides in his heart and makes his tears spill.
It’s the beauty. The kindness. The happiness.
It’s love.
“How did you..”
“A few weeks of research. A little help from our friends and some specialists from Akademiya. And there it is,” Haitham says, and his face is open and vulnerable again, the expression only Kaveh gets to see.
“Come,” Haitham says and extends his hand towards Kaveh. He leads them right into the middle of the garden, and Kaveh is so scared they will stomp on the flowers, but padisarahs seem to part under their feet, feeling the Dendro energy emitting from their Visions.
It’s like they bloom right underneath Kaveh’s feet.
As if he were the Goddess of Flowers.
“That’s not all”, Haitham says, holding Kaveh’s hands as they stand in the middle of this beautiful, dream-like garden. Kaveh doesn’t know what else can there be when all this already feels like so much, like he’s died and ascended to Celestia, because no way this is real.
Haitham steadies himself and closes his eyes before taking a deep breath.
“I’m not sure it will work,” he says and looks into Kaveh’s eyes. If Kaveh were a tad bit more insane, he could have thought that Kaitham’s hands were shaking. “I’m not very good at it.”
Hearing Haitham say that he is not very good at anything surely sounds like a dream, because no one has ever heard that from him. Ever. It makes Kaveh chuckle, and Haitham smiles back at him.
And then his Vision glows.
Vines emerge from the fertile soil of the garden, careful not to harm the flowers, and make their way up to the sky.
Kaveh watches them, mesmerized, as the vines weave together, forming a carcass of some sort. They intertwine and shift, softly rustling as they grow around Kaveh and Haitham.
Kaveh can’t look away.
Once the vines still, he can finally see what kind of construction they’ve formed, and as he realizes it, his heart nearly stops.
“This is…”
“Yes, one of the towers from your last rejected project,” Haitham says, bringing Kaveh close and putting his hand on his waist.
It is. It really is. Beautiful archways and high ceiling, delicate patterns over the columns formed with delicate lines of the vines. A divine shrine to beauty.
His breath hitches.
“Do you like it?” Haitham asks, a barely noticeable hint of hesitancy in his voice. Kaveh finally looks him in the eyes.
Haitham is beautiful in more ways than one. Haitham is everything Kaveh missed in his life.
It’s like their souls fit perfectly together, like two missing pieces of a grand puzzle, rendering the picture complete. It’s like Kaveh’s heart is ready to burst everytime he looks into those eyes, overflowing with warmth and amazement.
It’s like they were meant for each other.
Kaveh doesn’t say anything — doesn’t need to, because they are impossibly close, because their lips finally touch as if it’s their first time. Without saying a word, Kaveh tries to express what he feels, and there is only one word for that all-encompassing, blissful feeling.
Love.
And when Haitham kisses him in return, Kaveh knows that he means the same.
As they stand here, in the middle of a miraculous garden of padisarahs, under the green dome of a magnificent building that has finally came to be, Kaveh looks far away, where the desert lies, infinite and unmoving, cruel and merciless, as the sky pales and colors the darkness in the shades of a new dawn, he finally feels it.
He is endless.
They are endless.