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Al Haitham, contrary to what the myriad of books that crowd his shelves and, honestly, every other deserted spot in their spacious house that will fit them might suggest, is a man of few words; too few words, some might even say. It is not easy to wrap one's head around it, how he seems to know each and every word any dictionary might encompass, yet uses them so sparsely. There is a joke that never seems to stop circulating in the Akademiya which is based on a common experience every scholar seems to make at least once: if one neglects to use proper grammar in front of a Haravatat student, one will immediately be met with condemnatory looks and noses crunching up in distaste. Those on the lookout for trouble might even speak in incorrect terms on purpose just to evoke this comically hyperbolic reaction from the language devotees.
Al Haitham, however, is a living, breathing contradiction of this joke. To outstanders he appears to exclusively use short phrases consisting of verb, noun, and, on the odd occasion, might even add an object to get his point across - but in most circumstances, not much more verbal input can be expected of him. He uses words with an uncanny precision, never failing to choose the ideal phrase to convey his exact viewpoint. Nothing more, nothing less. This is undoubtedly an impressive skill; but among Haravatat’s academics, a person who doesn’t eagerly seize every opportunity to flaunt their extensive vocabulary by stuffing a sentence with as many intricate terms as it will fit certainly stands out. Back when Al Haitham was still a student, it was not uncommon for people to mistake him for a attendee of Spantamad, presuming that a rational person like him must have an affinity for the sciences; that is, until they saw him with Kaveh. Because whenever Al Haitham is in his presence - and Kaveh has spent such a ridiculously excessive amount of time observing this that he could write a thesis on it, really - Al Haitham never seems to want to shut up.
Sure, as a student, he loved to feign vexation whenever Kaveh tried to ignite a discussion with him. He’d show more facial expressions than ever, rolling his eyes, clicking his tongue in annoyance. But it took Kaveh a while to figure out that, if Al Haitham were truly disinterested in conversing with him, he would simply block out the noise with those ear pieces of his and walk off. It left him feeling very smug, the fact that he regularly managed not only to effortlessly involve Al Haitham, who, despite his fluency in over twenty languages, loved so much to rest his voice, in conversations, but also to coax monologues from his mouth, to provoke him so much he was forced to make use of expressions so abstruse Kaveh was sure he’d find them in texts moulded into the walls of ancient ruins.
It also made Kaveh feel very fond, Al Haitham’s willingness to take time out of his day to engage in discussions with him.
Al Haitham is very efficient in his use of language. He does not speak in hyperboles, nor does he euphemise. He says precisely what he means, and, as Kaveh gradually came to discover as they grew closer over the years, becomes quite frustrated when others do not.
It is this particular aversion to verbal vagueness that slides to the centre of conversation at their usual end-of-week gathering at Lambad’s.
“What do you mean, you’re not going to read it?” Tighnari, although his voice is laced with annoyance, leans forward on the table somewhat curiously to glance at the page held open by Al Haitham’s hand, causing the back of it to crease. Kaveh, upon seeing this, neglects his conversation with Cyno for the time being to snatch it from his grip, placing a finger between the pages to prevent it from closing while trying to smoothen out the untidy fold, in vain. He sighs. How can Al Haitham treat books so carelessly if he likes them so much?
“I am not going to repeat myself,” Al Haitham replies sternly, then, with his hands now free, characteristically crosses his arms. Like a sulking child, almost; Kaveh snorts, which earns him a brief glance from the man sitting next to him.
The book now in Kaveh’s hands is a collection of poems that Tighnari pulled from his bag a moment ago. Kaveh isn’t sure when he developed an interest in the literary arts, but he supposes the urge to indulge in poetry overcomes everybody once in awhile. Kaveh flips the page open again and instantly recognises the words on the page as something he must have stumbled across at one point when he was younger. A faint smile tugs at his lips as he reads the first lines and his brain automatically fills in the next, familiar with its contents already.
Tighnari retrieves the book from him before he can flip through it. Kaveh frowns at him, then at Al Haitham when Tighnari places the book on the table between them and points a finger at the short poem. “I brought it to ask you to interpret it, since you know more about language than anyone else I can think of.” Although it is technically a compliment, Tighnari’s annoyance with the man in front of him makes it sound like a complaint. Which doesn’t really matter, since Al Haitham dismisses any kind of praise without acknowledgment, too confident - arrogant - to attribute much meaning to it.
“Poetry is redundant,” Al Haitham says. There is an edge to his voice that goes over Tighnari’s head. Kaveh rolls his eyes with an annoyed sigh.
“You can’t just say that,” he rebukes, and Al Haitham turns to face him only to raise one eyebrow. Kaveh promptly ignores the disparagement and reaches for the book, turning the pages until he finds another familiar text. He clears his throat and reads aloud,
“ I hadn’t told them about you,
But they saw you bathing in my eyes.
I hadn’t told them about you,
But they saw you in my written words.
The perfume of love cannot be concealed. ”
Tighnari hums in contemplation. Cyno, with his drink in hand, leans back in his seat. Kaveh blinks at the words in front of him, memories of himself resurfacing; sitting in the back of a lecture he can’t recall the topic of, running his eyes over those very same lines in secret on a warm afternoon.
Al Haitham clicks his tongue. “Redundant.”
“I disagree,” Cyno says before Kaveh can interject, leaning forward and setting his drink down. “It is a nice poem.”
Al Haitham’s face remains frigid. Tighnari nods. “And it has truth to it, as well.” With a pointed look, he adds, “It reminds me of the two of you, actually.” He says this so bluntly that Kaveh has to take a sip from his drink to restructure his thoughts. Al Haitham, because he is an unromantic brute, only shakes his head.
“There is no need to express oneself in such ambiguous terms,” Al Haitham says, and Kaveh brings his drink down to the table a little too hard.
“It’s called art, Haitham,” he says, pushing the book under Al Haithanm's nose sloppily, the alcohol in his veins rendering his movements imprecise. Al Haitham blinks twice, rapidly, but shows no further reaction.
“The forced vagueness gives these texts a melodramatic character,” he says, eyes averted from the book page right in front of him. Kaveh groans.
“How can you call this forced ? It is aligned perfectly! I’ve hardly read a poem that flows more naturally than this one!”
“Then maybe you should expand your samples.” Kaveh releases a sigh of exasperation, and Al Haitham’s lips curl slightly. What a complacent pedant he is!
“Sometimes I think you don’t have a single artistic streak,” he accuses, and Al Haitham shrugs.
“I see no point in engaging with such nonsensical-” the presumably very, very offensive rest of this already infuriating statement is muffled by Kaveh’s palm, which he briskly presses to his mouth. Al Haitham’s brows furrow.
“Stop talking. You’re giving me a headache,” he says sternly. When he removes his hand, Al Haitham wastes no time in delivering an even more migraine-inducing rebuttal,
“That would be the alcohol.”
Tighnari laughs, like a traitor. Cyno places a deck of cards he has been shuffling ardently for the past minute on the table. “Kaveh, you owe me a round,” he says, and Kaveh can’t decide whether he is glad or disappointed about the change of topic. Concluding that he will pester Al Haitham about it another time, when his brain is clearer, he concedes and moves to get his own deck from his bag.
･˚: ✧｡: *
Al Haitham is lying stretched out on the couch with a book firm in his hand, eyes running back and forth along the lines under the faint light of the lamp next to the sofa. Kaveh drops down beside him, the cushion sinking under his weight. Al Haitham hums instead of a greeting. Then, without looking up, he says, “This lamp is inadequate. We need to replace it.”
Kaveh silently agrees. With the amount of reading Al Haitham does daily, a too faintly lit room would land him at the optometrist’s office in no time. Although glasses would probably suit him, he would be too lazy to clean them all the time. He’d probably become like his grandmother; misplacing the glasses somewhere in the house and too short-sighted to find them. Kaveh pictures Al Haitham complaining about having lost his glasses while unaware they are actually in his hair. He huffs a laugh at the mental image.
“What?” Al Haitham raises his brows at him. Kaveh shakes his head, waving it off, then moving closer as he remembers his initial intention. He shuffles on the couch until Al Haitham’s legs are draped over his lap, which Al Haitham complies with rather reluctantly, as ‘lying on the couch unmoving like a rock’ is an important element of his reading time.
“I have another poem,” Kaveh says. Al Haitham regards the sheet of paper in Kaveh’s hand for a moment before his eyes drift back to the page of his own book, clearly disinterested. Kaveh gasps and reaches forward to coax the tome from his hands. He places it over Al Haitham’s stomach before clearing his throat.
“ I wish to open a door
That the wind has closed a thousand years ago
That I may see what’s behind it
And how dreams hide within it
I wish to see how the forgotten daffodils are faring in their corners
And the jasmine and lilac atop yonder walls
O I dream of opening a door
That winds have closed a thousand years ago”
Al Haitham looks at him for a moment. Then he sighs. “Illogical.”
He wants to reach for his book, but Kaveh manages to stop him by placing his hands over Al Haitham’s. “Do you really think it’s illogical? Or are you exaggerating to mess with me?”
Al Haitham’s hands go tense under Kaveh’s. “I don’t exaggerate.”
Kaveh squints at him. There’s that same edge to his voice, the one he noticed that night at Lambad’s. “Then what about it is so illogical ?”
He blinks. “It simply doesn’t make any sense. I do not wish to concern myself with it any further.” He averts his eyes; not nervously, because Al Haitham doesn’t get nervous. But there’s something else there that Kaveh can’t ignore.
He frowns. “Are you upset?”
Al Haitham shifts his hands away and scoots back on the couch, placing his book on the low table beside it. His legs slide off Kaveh’s as he leans his back against the arm rest. “Why would I be upset,” he says, in an upset way. Kaveh’s frown softens a little bit.
“I don’t know,” he answers honestly. There are many things Al Haitham dislikes, but they don't normally affect him on a deeper-than-surface level. “You tell me.”
Al Haitham hums. “Poetry is redundant,” he repeats his words from that night, and Kaveh knows, by the twitch of Al Haitham’s mouth, that there is more to it.
When Kaveh says nothing, Al Haitham admits, finally, “It does not make any sense to me.”
Kaveh looks at the poem, then at Al Haitham. There are many things that don’t make sense to him. He doesn’t care to understand societal expectations or courtesy. He doesn’t understand music or paintings. He doesn’t understand Kaveh’s perfectionism. But he doesn’t usually let those things upset him.
Al Haitham leans forward to take the piece of paper from Kaveh’s hands, studying it for a moment. “What I mean is, the information provided is far too scarce. It communicates nothing.”
Kaveh hums, squinting his eyes at the poem. “Interpretations are still possible,” he starts, so lost in thought his words aren’t more than a mumble. Al Haitham has no trouble understanding him regardless. “I would say that the person wishes to discover a past that has been kept from them. The winds could hint at a greater force that is keeping them from pursuing this goal.” He glances up at Al Haitham.
“But who is this person?” Al Haitham muses. “And why should the reader care about this?”
“Poems are often kept ambiguous because it allows every reader to relate to them in their own way. I can’t believe I’m the one telling you this, Haravatat.” He nudges Al Haitham gently with his shoulder. Al Haitham hums in response.
“I avoided classes that had poetry in their syllabus. I,” he hesitates, and Kaveh is shocked to find him seemingly struggling for words. “I dislike it.”
“Yeah, I noticed,” Kaveh says, sliding down the couch a bit so he can rest his head against Al Haitham’s shoulder. He takes the piece of paper from him and folds it before placing it on the table, next to his book.
When Al Haitham speaks, his voice vibrates against Kaveh’s cheek that lies flush against the side of his chest. “If that’s really what the author wanted to convey, then why not just say it like it is?”
Kaveh laughs. “Because that wouldn’t sound poetic.”
He laughs even harder when Al Haitham’s brows furrow more deeply, his forehead creasing into a frown. “You can’t tell me you don’t see how “I want to explore the past but I can’t” doesn’t sound nearly as beautiful as “ I dream of opening doors that winds closed a thousand years ago. ”
Al Haitham hums. This time, it’s in agreement. “Still strange.”
Kaveh says nothing, just contemplates. After a while, Al Haitham clears his throat.
“Why do you like poetry?”
Kaveh thinks about this for a moment. “I like how the words are so carefully chosen and woven together. And the emotions they convey.”
Another hum. “Which emotions does this one convey?” He lifts a finger to point at the table.
“A kind of desperation, I think. And a sense of having lost opportunities. But not regret,” he lifts himself into an upright position to grab the piece of paper so he can study it once more. “No, not quite regret. More like, I don’t know. Hopelessness.”
Al Haitham shuffles a little on the couch, giving Kaveh a look that asks him to lie down again. Kaveh complies, settling against Al Haitham’s chest. Al Haitham’s hand finds his waist and tugs slightly at the fabric of his shirt there, fidgeting with it in a way that makes Kaveh smile.
“In school, we spent a whole semester working on poetry interpretation,” Al Haitham starts, and Kaveh wraps his arm around his middle, nuzzling closer. It is comfortable; the low hum of Al Haitham’s voice.
“And what did you do? Skip class?” Kaveh tries to picture it; teenage Al Haitham hiding away in the bathrooms from his language teacher.
“I did not. But the poems were extremely nonsensical, so I refused to work on them. The teacher was furious.”
That, Kaveh can picture perfectly well. An infuriated teacher trying to stare down an ever so nonchalant Al Haitham who seems to have inexplicably started to hate literature. Kaveh laughs against his chest.
“Which poems were you supposed to interpret?”
Al Haitham sighs, and even though Kaveh isn’t looking, he knows he is rolling his eyes. “Something about a heartbroken man. Tried to draw his lover in the dust, or something similarly ridiculous.”
Kaveh chuckles at his bluntness. “So unromantic,” he says, and pokes Al Haitham’s side with his finger. Unfortunately, he has done this so many times already that Al Haitham is no longer ticklish.
After a while, the lamp that illuminated the room so faintly suddenly goes out. Al Haitham extends an arm and flicks the lamp shade, his finger nail colliding with it producing a small clang. Kaveh laughs. “Like that will help,” he says, and Al Haitham’s hand finds his, laces their fingers together on top of Al Haitham’s stomach.
“We’re going to have to replace it,” Kaveh says, and feels Al Haitham nod.
･˚: ✧｡: *
It is at work where Al Haitham finds the first paper sheet, folded and stuck to the box containing his lunch. He unfolds it to find, in Kaveh’s neat handwriting, a few lines that stretch over the page. Leaning back in his chair, he neglects the biryani he carefully prepared last night in order to read,
“I draw a picture of her in the dust
And cry, my heart in torment
I complain to her about her: for she left me
lovesick, badly stricken
I complain of all the passion I have
suffered, with a plaint toward the dust
Love makes me want to turn to Layla’s land
complaining of my passion and flames in me.”
But the poem is not the only thing on the page; next to the lines are scribbled notes, pointing at particular words, and it takes Al Haitham a moment to realise that Kaveh has written down his interpretation of the poem. “ Found the cause of your highschool agony. Enjoy your lunch! ” It says on the very bottom of the sheet. Al Haitham stares at it for a good two minutes before finally putting it aside.
And this is how his fervent dislike of poetry, after all those years, suddenly seems to subside. Al Haitham still doesn’t understand most of them; but their vagueness no longer frustrates them. And with Kaveh’s notes next to them, they miraculously make an impressive amount of sense.
He receives one the next day, too,
“Love, how I'd love to slip down to the pond,
bathe with you close by on the bank.
Just for you I'd wear my new Memphis swimsuit,
Made of sheer linen, fit for a queen--
Come see how it looks in the water!
Couldn't I coax you to wade in with me?
Let the cool creep slowly around us?
Then I'd dive deep down and come up for you dripping,
Let you fill your eyes with the little red fish that I'd catch.”
He doesn’t suppose he likes them now, poems. But he likes hearing Kaveh’s thoughts about them. Under this one he wrote, “We should make an excursion to Yazadaha Pool sometime, I haven’t swum there in years.” Al Haitham does not like swimming, nor does he like the heat. Needless to say, he searches his appointment calendar for a vacant day almost instantly.
The day after, he finds another poem. He wonders when Kaveh writes them down. While working on his drafts, maybe? He doesn’t do it in the morning, since Al Haitham leaves for work earlier than Kaveh even gets out of bed.
The following three days come with three poems respectively, stuck to his lunch box as always. Al Haitham smoothens the paper out like Kaveh does with the book pages he dog-ears because he can’t be bothered to find a bookmark, and places them in his drawer until he retires for the day. He makes sure they don’t get crumbled in his bag on the way to their home, and when he gets there, he neatly piles them on his desk.
･˚: ✧｡: *
Kaveh is slumped over a sketch of a house he thought would be more trouble to design than it ended up being, so he supposes the archons are on his side today for once. There is still much to be refined, but the most difficult part is done, so he allows himself to lean back and relax for a moment. He stretches his arms, shoulder tense from sketching.
The sound of the door falling open and subsequently being pushed closed reverberates through the house, and Kaveh smiles as he listens to the rustling produced by Al Haitham hanging his coat to its designated hook, the dull sound of his shoes being toed off and placed next to each other against the wall. He listens to the floorboards creak under Al Haitham’s socks as he makes his way to the room Kaveh uses as his working space. He doesn’t bother knocking at the ajar door.
“Hey,” Kaveh says, glancing up at Al Haitham who walks over right away and slides his hands from Kaveh’s shoulders down to his chest, where he lets them rest. Kaveh dips his head back against him.
“Kaveh,” Al Haitham mumbles, with his nose in Kaveh’s hair.
“Yes?” Kaveh asks, his smile evident in his voice because he loves when Al Haitham asks for something.
Al Haitham leans back for a moment to pull something out of his pocket. Slowly, he hands Kaveh a small stack of sheets he is, of course, familiar with. Then he pulls him up from the chair by his wrist, gently, before saying, “Kaveh. Read them to me?”
Kaveh looks at him, his soft eyes and his brows which are raised in question. He is still smiling when he brings his hand to Al Haitham’s face, running his thumb over his cheekbone. “Of course,” he says, whispers, because they are so close that Al Haitham hears him anyway.
Al Haitham stares at him, his eyes wandering over his face in quick movements, before he says, “I’m going to lie down,” with a subtle incline of his head toward the door. Kaveh recognises this as an invitation to come along, as Al Haitham wouldn’t have said it but rather just gone straight to the bedroom as soon as he arrived at home if he wanted time to himself. Kaveh nods and pulls the door open. “After you.”
Settled on the bed, their positions are similar as a few days ago on the couch, only now it’s Al Haitham whose head is resting against Kaveh’s chest, breathing in sync to the low rise and fall of it. Kaveh looks at the paper sheets in his hands, flapping through them to remind himself which poems exactly he chose to sneak into Al Haitham’s bag over the last few days. He smirks when he finds the first one. Al Haitham didn’t specify which one he’d like Kaveh to read out to him, so he might as well…
“I draw a picture of her in the dust ,” he starts, but is interrupted by a noise of protest Al Haitham releases against his chest.
“The one from today,” he says. He might be a man of few words, but he has no trouble stating what he wants.
Kaveh sighs, flapping through the sheets again. “Alright,” he mumbles, until he finds the one he stuck to Al Haitham’s lunch box this morning. He flushes slightly upon reading the first line; which, admittedly, is probably the reason why Al Haitham is so set on having him read it out loud.
He clears his throat. Then, with the softest voice he can muster, he starts to read,
“Finally I will drink life from your lips
and wake up from this ever lasting sleep. ”
Al Haitham hums, and Kaveh exhales shakily.
“The wisdom of the earth in a kiss
and everything else in your eyes.
I kiss her before everyone
That they all may see my love.
And when her lips are pressed to mine ,” he breaks off at that, with a gasp as Al Haitham runs his hand up his chest and presses his thumb just below Kaveh’s collarbone. His eyes wander from the paper to his face, their eyes locking, and Al Haitham gives him a slight smile. “Is something the matter?”
Kaveh huffs, smiling also. Smug bastard he is, he knows exactly what he’s doing! Fine, Kaveh can play that game.
“And when her lips are pressed to mine ” he starts again, this time in a lower tone of voice,
“I am made drunk and need not wine.
When we kiss, and her warm lips half open,
I fly cloud-high without beer.” Al Haitham’s lips are on his neck, pressing soft kisses to his skin, trailing from his collarbone up to his jaw, where he hesitates, breathing almost against Kaveh’s ear while steadying himself with a hand on Kaveh’s chest.
“His kisses, ” Kaveh continues, “on my lips, my breast, my hair…
Come, Come, Come, and kiss me when I die, ”
Al Haitham is kissing his cheek. Kaveh tosses the papers aside and cups Al Haitham’s face in his hands to gently push him away, just a little bit, so he can look at him, at his flushed complexion, his widened pupils staring up at him expectantly. Kaveh wastes no time in bringing their lips together, inhaling sharply through his nose when Al Haitham immediately presses closer so they’re chest to chest. He trails his hands down, one thumbing just under Al Haitham’s jaw while the other rests on his upper arm, the tips of his fingers sliding under the black fabric covering his shoulder. Kaveh sighs against his mouth, eyes firmly closed, brows furrowed as he focuses on the sensation, lets it take over him until it’s all he can register; Al Haitham’s lips moving against his and his hand clinging to his waist, warm and firm against the fabric of his shirt.
When Al Haitham pulls away, Kaveh follows his movement instinctively, before blinking his eyes open reluctantly. He sends Al Haitham a critical look as a noise of protest involuntarily sounds in his throat.
Al Haitham is avoiding his eyes, staring at his lips instead. “You,” he starts, interrupting himself in favour of taking another breath. “You haven’t finished reading yet.”
Kaveh scowls at him as hard as he can; he can’t believe Al Haitham, just can’t believe him, can’t believe he’d tease like this when they’re on the bed, their bed, kissing like they haven’t done in days, not like this. Al Haitham ignores his pained look as his hand travels up Kaveh’s side. Then he raises an eyebrow.
“You’re…” Kaveh trails off, distracted by the movement of Al Haitham’s smooth fingers. “Shut up.”
Before Al Haitham can counter, Kaveh makes sure his wish is realised as he pulls Al Haitham back in, raking a hand over his back. “Don’t care about the stupid poem,” he says, choked-off, in between kisses. He does not miss the grin that spreads on Al Haitham’s lips.
･˚: ✧｡: *
Two days pass and Kaveh finds a sheet of paper, folded twice so it fits neatly into the pocket of this coat alongside his keys. It’s grocery day, and as Al Haitham is at work, he has agreed to visit the bazaar by himself. He is vaguely aware he’s standing in a queue to a vegetable stall amidst many other customers, but he cannot refrain from unfolding the sheet, right then and there, and peeking at the words. It’s not more than a few simple words, written in black ink - Al Haitham, because he is ridiculous, has even written down the name of the author and the source from which he extracted the short text. Kaveh chuckles. Al Haitham does not like to express himself in long monologues, so beneath the needlessly formal citation, Kaveh finds merely three lines,
“Because my love for you
Is higher than words,
I have decided to keep quiet.”
And Kaveh’s heart swells, full of fondness, in the middle of the vegetable waiting-line.