Archive of Our Own ^beta

 🝮

Kaveh’s eyes are closed to the thrum of heavy droplets on the double-wide window panes. A steady plink, plink as melancholy morning blues thread their way through miniscule gaps under the door, taking residence upon the mismatched stools and rag-wiped surfaces minutes before customers can claim them as their own. A suspenseful quiet. A morning rush tempered by the sultry rumble of thunder and undercut by a Chopin nocturne that’s better suited for the dark hours after closing.

There’s something endearing about the tiny shop on the corner of Treasures Street, its little square feet lent to height over width, its use of bold red in a sea of chaotic neutrals, a space a little too at odds with Kaveh’s aesthetic sensibilities—usually.

But the walls and ceilings are made of twinking, jewel-stained glass; a patterned mosaic painstakingly etched into the floor is well-preserved; the internationally-sourced coffee surrounds his senses in seasoned scents of star anise and cinnamon, sticking to his sweater for him to further savor on the ride home.

He inhales slow. Debates making himself another latte before squirreling away on his favorite settee in the corner, letting the raindrops determine his view of the outside scenery—

“Kaveh.”

His eyes snap open to the unhappy scowl of his boss holding a broom out towards him. Right. Work. Sighing, he leaves the morning to play the remainder of its symphony unobserved, throwing his apron over his head as the clock anticlimactically ticks out the start of his shift. The bustle of customers sets an uneven tempo, swelling and tapering with the whims of the rain—but soon enough there’s a steady stream, and Kaveh’s smile becomes a permanent fixture as he brews his way to noontime.

Not that Kaveh dislikes it, exactly—he’s one of the rare ones that doesn’t mind the smalltalk, nor the challenge of the fast pace that comes with the job. It becomes an order of operations, a methodical rhythm: a hello, a what would you like, the scratch of a pen with a given name and a few quick taps for a total. Then Kaveh is off, fingers teasing against the meticulously lined-up bags on his way to the espresso machine.

His favorite part: the way the steam curls in Van Gogh brushstrokes; the rumble of the pour, like it's being dredged from the earth itself in shades of burnt sienna and chestnut. Something nostalgic that speaks of sunny breakfasts in his parents’ kitchen, trying to comprehend words on a paper too big for his tiny arms while his mother laughs over his voracious curiosity.

A generous splash of milk froths in a whir of clouds, a firm tap,

tap,

tap,

to let it settle.

A thirty-eight degree angle is ideal, Kaveh has discovered, and exactly three inches above to swirl the liquids together.

Pour fast, slowly level out the drink, and then the real artistry can occur. A stripe down the middle. Quick drags on either side, mimicked down the row—mastered by practice and the intuition of an artist whose skills easily transfer between mediums. Done.

And hah! Perfectly executed, if he does say so himself.

He slides the cup gently to awaiting hands, a pleased smile on his face. And then a lid is pressed over the design with no fanfare, and the customer departs without a word. Kaveh suppresses his devastated groan and turns to the next in line.

The rain clears, leaving behind inconvenient puddles and raindrop patterns; the feeble sunlight creates weak prisms across the tile. It’s not until two in the afternoon that the chaos slows. Kaveh takes the opportunity to grab an espresso pick-me-up, take his mandated five in the breakroom, and finally allow himself a yawn. (Archons forbid one slips out on shift and his manager sees).

Just another Monday.

Yup, just another Monday, and Kaveh is lost in a daydream about the new building draft (he’s been mentally fixating on it all afternoon) when the door swings open with a blinding shine of reflected light. Kaveh turns his sights to the newcomer and takes them in, like they were to be the subject of his next creation.

It’s a small game Kaveh’s taken to playing in his head, whenever he’s become overly restless or when he’s trying to distract himself from his aching feet—but come on, everyone psychoanalyzes strangers, right?

And this one is begging for Kaveh’s internal assessment.

Not just because he’s pretty—though, unfortunately, the man most certainly is. Tailored slacks lead a slender line under his suit jacket, a sea of greens peek from beneath the expensive fabric. Silver hair is partially obscured by the priciest set of headphones this side of Sumeru City. Pretty and rich. Ugh.

But no—because of the air of absolute disregard he’s brought in alongside him, attention laser-focused on the book in his hand. Because of the man’s audacity to not even look up at his cashier when he states,

“I’ll have my usual.”

Pretty and rich and rude. Kaveh’s mouth actually drops open because who in Sumeru does this guy think he is? Having a—a usual, expecting his barista to just know? And furthermore, Kaveh is new here! He doesn’t recognize this man and what—does he just expect the baristas to never rotate out? And to ask so bluntly, to not even grace Kaveh with a look?

Kaveh straightens to his full height and fixates his harshest glare at the crown of tousled hair.

“I’m sorry, sir. I don’t know what that is.”

The man pauses in his perusal of his page—Kaveh sees the exact moment the man realizes the inaccuracy in his assumption of their interaction—and lifts his head.

Bright teal eyes bore into him and oh. Kaveh swallows. Hard.

“You're not Cyno,” are the first words out of this gorgeous man’s mouth, and it helps knock sense back into Kaveh’s short-circuiting brain.

He crosses his arms and lifts his chin, as though that will force away the blush that’s absolutely rushed to his cheeks.

“Oh, thanks for noticing.”

“Hm.”

The man stares, considers him with all the academic scrutiny of reading a challenging text. Kaveh has a sudden urge to fuss with his own hair, remove the sticker-covered nametag pinned to his apron. Maybe ask why this man is observing so intensely, so intimately, as though Kaveh hadn’t just been doing the same not five seconds before.

Before he can put action to any of it, the man glances at the wall of coffee and says, “medium roast, black.”

Kaveh must make a face because the other raises a brow.

“Is there a problem?”

“What—no, I—”

He should… not continue. He should close his mouth, serve the man his boring coffee, and get on with his boring day. Rule number one of customer service: don’t cause a fuss—or is it that the customer is always right? Well, in this case, the customer is absolutely wrong. Kaveh can’t bear to serve such an injustice. He’s not getting paid under minimum wage to serve swill—er, well, technically he is—but that’s beside the point.

He has to say something.

“I just—medium black? That's the worst kind you could order.”

“It’s perfectly adequate. And I don’t like sweet coffee.”

“Well, it doesn't have to be sweet! You can tweak it a little, that’s all.” Kaveh, contrary to his own will to drop the issue, turns to his ingredients and taps thoughtfully at his chin. “For example, you could try spices—with a medium roast, maybe cinnamon, or cloves—oh! Or we cut it with a light or dark, depending on your palate. Let me try something—wait there.”

The man stares. “Is there somewhere else I’d go?”

Kaveh huffs and waves him off as he rubs his hands together. Finally, a new experiment, a new challenge. Starting with the first and most palpable point: this insufferable man, with his dour attitude and stiff expression, would definitely prefer a dark roast—the new drip from Fontaine, Kaveh thinks.

Per his previous consideration, Kaveh does indeed stir in a few choice spices. Miniscule touches to dissolve on the tongue, ones that remind him of fresh parchment and the darkwood panels of a dated library. Since this man obviously has an invested interest in books, he should at least appreciate the sentiment.

Even if it’s only proclaimed within Kaveh’s head.

The drink is topped off with two spooned dollops of milk foam—aesthetic is key!—and slid with a flourish across the counter.

“Voila!” Upon seeing the man’s dubious expression, Kaveh rolls his eyes. “Oh, just try it, will you? If you don’t like it, I’ll give you your tasteless medium black. Scouts honor.”

Alhaitham doesn’t respond, just plucks the cup from the granite and, with only a brief moment of visual inspection, takes a measured sip. Pauses. Takes another. When the drink is pulled away from his lips, it leaves a sheen of wet, a few stray dots of cinnamon sticking to the pinked skin. Kaveh licks his own and waits.

Nothing.

The man has taken to staring into the coffee as though it’d just asked him to solve a complex problem. Archons, a man who likes books shouldn’t be this hard to read. Another few seconds of silence and Kaveh can’t take it.

“So?”

Those eyes again lift to look at him for a long, long moment. Kaveh deflates and holds out his hand to take the cup back. What he gets instead is a sleek credit card pressed into the meat of his palm and nothing more.

“Oh, uh—you—” Gods. What is it about this man that makes him so off-kilter? And why is he just staring like that? Kaveh drops his eyes to the register and hastily rings up the price. “That’ll be four seventy-five, then.”

The exchange happens in silence, broken only by the light music still drifting from the speakers and the pitter-patter of raindrops signaling another bout of storm. Kaveh sneaks a glance at the name on the card when he hands it back.

Alhaitham.

Hmph. Well, fine. This Alhaitham doesn’t seem interested in answering Kaveh’s question outright, so Kaveh sighs, throws on his signature smile, and exchanges last pleasantries. Even if he’s not sure the man deserves them.

“Thanks. Well, I hope you have a good day.”

Alhaitham goes to turn, pauses. Takes another sip of the drink, sticks foam to his upper lip.

“Seeing as the day is mostly gone, I would think a ‘good evening’ is more appropriate.” His eyes flick down to the mandated, coffee-stained apron, the corner of his mouth curling upward in a smirk that has Kaveh seeing red. “See ya, Kaveh.”

And, with another swing of the door and a fading waft of cloves, he’s gone. Seconds later, a large rumble of thunder tears through the peace. Good, Kaveh thinks viciously, heart hammering in time with the pouring rain, I hope he gets drenched.

🝮

Oh for the love of the—

He’s back.

Kaveh’s been counting the seconds to the end of his shift—a sunny day, not a cloud in the sky—and at precisely five oh eight and thirty-eight seconds, there’s that swing of the door and a thrust into painful deja vu. Same time, same place.

Kaveh: sweating and shaking from his third espresso.

Alhaitham: another suit and another book and another request for his usual.

This time Kaveh gets a single, cursory glance, and he swears Alhaitham’s lip twitches when their eyes meet. The nerve. Kaveh inwardly seethes but his boss is in today, waiting behind the door of the breakroom for any missteps to criticize. So even though Kaveh would rather refuse the order—or better yet, toss the entire cup all over Alhaitham’s perfectly-fitted button down—he pours the dumb, boring medium roast and slams it down without fanfare.

“Here.”

Alhaitham peers over the top of his book at it and furrows his brows.

“This isn't my usual.”

“What—” Kaveh lets out a noise of exasperation and tugs at his hair. “You just told me yesterday it was! How can you have a usual if it’s not even—”

“It was my usual. Until yesterday.”

Kaveh blinks, comprehending the statement but not quite believing the implication.

“Wait. You… actually liked it?”

Alhaitham pushes the cup back towards him and doesn’t answer the question. “No need to waste the coffee you’ve already poured, just balance out this.”

“You—for Archon’s sake, will you stop being so cryptic!”

“You seem to understand me perfectly fine regardless.”

“That doesn’t mean I enjoy it!” Kaveh whips the cup roughly from the counter, dribbling coffee to the floor. “Just because you’re the customer doesn’t mean you’re entitled to make me miserable!”

“Oh? Is that what I’m doing?”

Kaveh opens his mouth, a vehement yes sitting at this tip of his tongue. Alhaitham’s expression doesn’t change, but there’s danger in the glitter of his eyes that keeps the word from leaving Kaveh’s mouth—like he would lose whatever this—this thing is if it did.

“You’re impossible,” he hisses instead, and truly, Kaveh hates him.

Even as he mixes the ratio as close to the previous version as possible, even as he lays the foam painstakingly on the surface in perfect, bubbling hills. Even, and possibly most of all, when he slides the cup into a waiting hand and brushes steady fingers that don’t shy away from his touch.

Kaveh’s don’t either—there’s not a chance he’ll pull back first—and he stares up in defiance.

“That’s four seventy-five.”

Alhaitham doesn’t let go. No, he reaches easily into his jacket pocket with one hand for his wallet, book tucked under his arm. Opens it with an expert flick of a thumb, slides the card out and holds it neatly between forefinger and middle. It’s impressive. It’s annoying.

Well, if Alhaitham can do it, so can Kaveh—he, too, has an empty hand. He taps the screen and swipes the plastic, resolutely ignoring that they’re both clinging to this coffee cup like it’s tethering them to the counter. Kaveh isn’t sure if his hand is burning from its contents or from the warmth seeping from Alhaitham’s fingers into his own.

He rips the receipt hard and uneven and holds it out with the card. They’ve reached an impasse. Alhaitham can’t put away his things without his other hand, yet the transaction is complete and Kaveh cannot logically keep his hold on the product. An aromatic battlefield, their no man’s land a polished slab of granite and the humming cooler of mass-produced baked goods.

And Kaveh won’t yield, he can’t yield—

Alhaitham cocks a brow. “Do you expect me to drink this with you holding onto it?”

Alright. Kaveh knows the answer he’s about to give is childish—but Alhaitham is wearing that look again, like he knows he’s been difficult just for reactionary’s sake. The one that sparks an uncharacteristic stubbornness through Kaveh’s veins, that makes him completely disregard the customer-service etiquette that’s been impressed upon him since he took the job.

Alhaitham will not win. Kaveh returns the look with a haughty one of his own, and throws his hand on his hip for good measure.

“Yes.”

That should be it, but Alhaitham only lets out a small hum. Lifts their joined hands, cup and all, to his face—and without so much as a word, takes a sip. He keeps the coffee—and Kaveh—trapped there, small rivulets of steam hazing his eyes to watercolor. Every exhale further heats Kaveh’s fingers.

“Quite an inconvenience for us both, I’d think, unless you’re willing to follow me down the street until I’ve finished.”

Alhaitham is petty. Alhaitham is petty and ridiculous and—and—how was Kaveh meant to fight this? And still, inexplicably, Kaveh hasn’t let go. His pride won’t allow it.

“Why you—”

“Kaveh! What are you doing?”

Archons damn it all. He drops his hand quickly—a sad, anticlimactic concession—and turns to find the furious face of his boss staring at them both. How much did he hear? How much did he see?

“He was finishing our transaction,” Alhaitham says seamlessly, and Kaveh bristles reflexively.

Please. Alhaitham doesn’t need to be defending him—Kaveh is perfectly capable of explaining himself, thank you very much—although, it does come as a surprise that he would at all, really, seeing as it was technically Kaveh who wasn’t following proper protocol.

“I see. Well I apologize for any uncouth behavior. If he’s bothering you, please, do tell me. Kaveh is new and tends to forget himself.”

Kaveh’s shoulders slump as he grits his teeth. Oh, he’d absolutely love to give his shitty boss a piece of his mind, but Kaveh needs this job and he needs the referral and what if he’s fired anyway—

“Does he now?” Alhaitham’s eyes flick to Kaveh, searching, then flick back to Azar. “I think he’s perfectly fine… though I’m not sure I can say the same about the management.”

Kaveh almost laughs—he would, maybe, if he wasn’t absolutely bowled over by the statement. Azar, however, does not share the sentiment, casting a cold eye up and down Alhaitham as though he could force him into submission by will alone.

Alhaitham holds his gaze, unfaltering and neutral. There’s a moment of realization from Azar that this customer is abnormally difficult—infallible, even—and, for the first time since they met, Kaveh appreciates it.

“Well then,” Azar finally clips with a sneer, “you have a good day… sir.”

Huh. It’s… different when it’s someone else saying those words in that tone to Alhaitham. Not that Kaveh cares, of course. He and Alhaitham barely know each other, and hadn’t Kaveh just decided that he hates the man?

And yet. There’s a deep satisfaction in Kaveh’s bones when Azar stalks back to the break room and something else Kaveh can’t quite identify when Alhaitham’s eyes slide to his, minutely softening at the edges.

“See ya.”

Fine. Alhaitham wins.

Kaveh finds his fingers stay warm well past his shift.

🝮

Frankly, Kaveh can’t believe Alhaitham continues to come back after the confrontation. Right off the bat, it was easy to peg Alhaitham as the type who is unlikely to do anything that’s even a slight inconvenience to him—yet here he is, day after day, ordering his new usual and finding new ways to slide under Kaveh’s skin.

“I’m assuming you work close, since you come in here all the time,” Kaveh says, once he realizes the man is now a semi-permanent fixture of his evenings.

Alhaitham glances over from where he’s been studying the pastries on display.

“Isn’t that why most people are here? I'm assuming you wouldn’t take a job well out of your way—certainly not one that could suffer to pay more.”

“Why are you so—I was trying to ask where you work.”

“So then ask where I work.”

“Well, I wasn't going to interrogate you! I was trying to—you know what, forget it, I’m not sure why I even asked—”

So that’s how Kaveh finds out Alhaitham works at City Hall. Well. It explains the clothes at least, and how the man can afford a five dollar specialty coffee every damn day.

“You can’t just shoot down someone’s ideas like that!” Kaveh exclaims a week after, shoving a customer’s madeline into a paper bag. Crumbs scatter at his feet. “You need to encourage them first, before you just pick their proposal apart!”

“It had no points worthy of encouragement,” Alhaitham counters, stepping aside so Kaveh can hand the pastry over. Both miss the disapproving glare shot their way.

“It doesn’t matter. If you want them to continue working with you, there needs to be some semblance of tact.”

“That you comprehend the notion of tact at all is a surprise.”

“I refuse to serve you anymore.”

“Case in point.”

Alhaitham’s eyes glitter from over the rim of the coffee cup Kaveh already handed over.

Three weeks after that and Kaveh is scribbling on the back of Alhaitham’s receipt in a manic frenzy.

“—and with the addition of a domed roof, it’ll give the illusion of more space even with less square footage. It makes sense.”

“And the issue of less storage?”

“Mitigated by the addition of these sliding panels. Closed for aesthetic, open for functionality.”

“Seems passable.”

“Passable? The fact that more urban structures haven’t utilized this concept is an offense to the Akademiya!”

He expects a counter-argument—Kaveh’s learned by now to be ready with his own—but Alhaitham only takes the coffee from Kaveh’s hands and lets out a neutral hum.

(Alhaitham does that often. It drives Kaveh insane.)

Then he leaves with another infuriating see ya, tucking the receipt into his inside pocket and leaving behind a lingering bite of cinnamon.

🝮

“Your customer is sitting today.”

“He’s not my customer,” Kaveh huffs on reflex, but his eyes dart to where a familiar silhouette is pulling a chair out from one of the small tables.

“Uh huh.”

Cyno swipes a rag between the register, throwing Kaveh a sly look.

“Then would you say he’s your custom-sir? You know, because it’s custom when a sir—”

“Don’t,” Kaveh groans, snatching the rag from his hands and giving another furtive glance towards the table.

“I’ll leave him to you, then,” Cyno smirks, before nudging Kaveh from his spot at the register.

Kaveh hates Cyno. Well, okay no, that’s not true. He quite likes Cyno, actually, on the rare days they share shifts. Easy to split work with, has a surprisingly good knack for breaking up arguments, and always knows the best drink of the week. He only met Cyno (co-worker) because of Tighnari (partner) who told Kaveh (former classmate) that there was a potential position here (Brewmeru Coffee).

And so it went. Kaveh had only taken the job because, upon graduation, he couldn’t hold a steady stream of commissions for even a studio apartment in this overpriced city. No one wanted to hire an architect for anything else—something about non-transferable experience, which holds very little weight in Kaveh’s esteemed opinion—he’d graduated top of his class, for Celestia’s sake—and so he had to grovel for any entry-level that would have him.

Double shifts. Bad pay. The worst superior Kaveh’s known since his first year semantics class.

But there are benefits in addition to the pleasing architecture and the pleasing variety of people to glean inspiration from. Aromatic memories in chili powder and rich chocolate. The ghost of a hand over his as he froths a cup of matcha, chasen tines coated in the foamy colors of childhood meadows. The sip of his favorite blend like his father’s office, like faded newsprint and vintage leather. Like he was—

“Are you going over or what?”

Ah, right. Alhaitham.

It’s strange ducking out from behind the counter to approach someone he’s used to being at eye level with. Kaveh stares down at the top of Alhaitham’s head and has a sudden urge to tug at the small flyaways there. What the—he busies his hands with fumbling out a notepad from his apron and tugging the pen from behind his ear.

As if he didn’t know exactly what Alhaitham would want. Thus he does not say hello or ask for what he already knows, and resists the temptation to smack himself with the pad to clear his head. No, he glares at the back of Alhaitham’s neck and blames him for throwing Kaveh off-balance, for choosing a new ritual Kaveh is yet to set a precedent for.

“You’re sitting,” is what makes it out of his mouth a few seconds later.

Alhaitham doesn’t lift his head from his book. Typical.

“An astute observation.”

Kaveh scoffs and shoves the notepad back into his pocket. “I mean why are you sitting?”

“I sincerely hope your ask is rhetorical,” Alhaitham says, scanning his fingers over the yellowed parchment of his current page, “I left no space in my day to explain the concept of being tired on one’s feet—a concept I know you’re duly familiar with.”

“That’s not at all what I—ugh! You know, I’m thankful you’re the only person I know who is so—so contrary. Seriously, how do your co-workers put up with you?”

“By the merit of working the same job, I’d assume. Also, while you’re here—could I have my usual, please?”

“Hah! I have half a mind not to give it to you.”

Alhaitham’s hand stills on its paragraph; though his face is lowered, Kaveh can tell he’s got that smirk on his face, that self-satisfied one that makes the corners of his eyes crinkle.

The assumption is indeed proven when Alhaitham—with a soft sigh just loaded with melodramatics—abandons his beloved book to find Kaveh’s eyes.

“Oh?”

Oh.

A few years ago, Kaveh had taken a trip to the shores of Fontaine—searching for inspiration, or peace, or some combination of the two. He’d found it in a heron stalking serenely through the reeds and mist. Entranced, he’d watched the subtle rings of ripples left in its wake, tapering out into stillness.

So simple. So unlike Kaveh’s entire state of being.

Beautiful, Kaveh had whispered, bemoaning leaving his sketchbook back by his little dropsite. Yet even uttered so softly, the word must’ve carried—because the heron had frozen, lifting its proud head to stare at Kaveh with one sharp, beady eye. Kept him in its sights as it ducked down to take water into its beak before raising it to the clouds above.

A long line of slender delicacy, of gray white softness from wing to neck to crown.

Here, now, it’s found again—a mimicry of perfect angles, of silver feathers and intelligent eyes offering the silent challenge: and so what if I am?

Another memory, reincarnated. The pen drops from Kaveh’s hand and rolls across the sun scattered floor.

“I—”

Then a startling whiplash of noise; the smooth clash jazz of bass and saxophone drowning out dregs of conversation and coffee sips; hands heavy with nothing but warm air; the faint scent of bleach drifting from the rag Cyno’s using to scrub down the machines. A light furrow on Alhaitham’s brow, a question forming in his expression as Kaveh takes two beats too long with his retort.

“Fine,” Kaveh manages to say, hiding his face by searching for the pen—only to find it neatly captured by an unscuffed shoe.

Of course. Of course. Gods, can Alhaitham just not for a single second, be so impossibly—

He wrenches it from under the sole, straightens up with a huff, and turns on his heel towards the counter.

A yank of a mug off its shelf, set to clink on the granite. Grounds, grounding: coffee, medium. Coffee, dark. Spices. A stir of the spoon—no, that’s still the damned pen, thrown to the counter with a noise of betrayal. Now the spoon in hand. Stir once, twice, maybe three times, and Kaveh’s lost count. Foam, a last dusting of cinnamon for visual effect on a drink that, for once, won’t be hidden by a cover.

He turns back around, cup in hand, and is forced to stop short.

It isn’t his fault. If visual aesthetics are Kaveh’s language, then the scene before him is his favorite novel, one to pull out and re-read whenever his mood gets dark or when he’s in search of inspiration. It isn’t his fault—if anything it’s Tighnari’s for making the suggestion to apply to such a place, a place adorned with old wood and rough brick and colored glass and copious amounts of melancholy.

It isn’t his fault, the once-lacquered floor unevenly lightened from overuse and chair-scrapes, creating leading lines outward to infinity. The sun, bright with a vengeance, pouring in at the exact angle to irradiate the chrome detailing the machines, the clumsy screws keeping together the shoddy furniture, the handle of the door and every brass clasp on the wide, wide windows.

Silhouetted in gold, planes of Alhaitham’s shadow cast long to spill like dark roast over the counters, swallowing up Kaveh’s source of warmth like an eclipse by the moon. The spherical curl of hair tickling against Alhaitham’s forehead; an isosceles triangle from shoulder to elbow to forearm to gently curled fist resting feather-light against the apex of a chin. Light spills through its shape to illuminate yet another book splayed open on the table; shrewd eyes downcast, lashes spider-silk silver.

The culminated image is distorted, as many views in this place are, by curls of coffee heat vanishing into the ether with Kaveh’s breath. Unwillingly given, unfairly stolen.

Kaveh thought he’d become immune to Alhaitham’s physical state of being. It’s abhorrently detrimental to be shown so blatantly just how wrong he was.

“And you say he’s not your customer,” Cyno smirks, as he nudges past a Kaveh frozen in both time and space.

He finds he has no defense to give.

🝮

Cherry blossom season blusters in with a vengeance—velvet petals sticking to everything stickable, buffeting through the door alongside patrons and adding extra work to Kaveh’s cleaning. Pink and white confetti attaching themselves to Alhaitham’s jacket, no matter how hard the man attempts to shake them off. Accompanied with grunts of displeasure, it makes for an amusing scene, Kaveh hiding his smiles behind plates of pastries as he passes by.

With the flowery downpour comes the realization that Kaveh can no longer claim himself a new employee here, and that Alhaitham’s presence, too, is just another part of his workplace; as at home as the burnished copper measuring cup on its hook or the step ladder resting in the corner, splinter-heavy yet sturdy in the way newer constructions fail to emulate.

Now, Kaveh is allowed to muse on these things because he’s on his hard-earned break (and yes, it very well is hard-earned, as he’s told Alhaitham many times, only to be met with skepticism and the crisp turn of a page). He’s accompanied today by a double shot of espresso, newly acquired from Liyue and waiting for him on its saucer. Well, that, and—

“Nah. You wouldn’t.”

Kaveh stalls by sipping on his coffee. Earthy, heavy in the mouth, sultry endnotes that linger on the palate. Oh, this has the hands of Rex Lapis Imports stamped all over it. Kaveh really should give the shop a visit someday—not that he has time. Or money. Or anything, really, especially since his last client has him re-working his design, again—

“Aaaand he’s gone.”

Kaveh blinks up from where he’d been sightlessly staring at his empty cup. “Huh?”

Cyno rolls his eyes and prods Kaveh’s shoulder. “You were zoning out again.”

“I wasn’t.”

“Okay, then you were avoiding admitting the truth.”

They both turn to stare at what Kaveh now calls Alhaitham’s table. Eugh. The mere thought makes him cringe. The man is, of course, filling his usual chair, and Kaveh’s found himself wondering on more than one occasion if he owns some stake in a library the way he always has a different book with him.

“I wasn’t.” Kaveh turns back to Cyno and crosses his arms. “I would.”

Cyno only waves a hand. “Yeah? I bet you a week of morning prep that you won’t.”

Kaveh is filled with a sudden boldness that only a straight shot of caffeine to the veins can bring. “Fine.” He pours himself another coffee—a horrible choice, really, his hands already shaking—stalks into Cyno’s space, and leans in with dilated eyes. “Watch me.”

He ignores Cyno’s chuckle as he ducks out from behind the counter and makes for Alhaitham’s table… and promptly freezes not five feet from it. He’s yet to be acknowledged, Alhaitham’s attention lost to his pages. This is ridiculous—this, this tentativeness. But objectively, there is a difference between the way they interact now—with Kaveh hunching over his table minutes past excusable—and actually joining the man.

Furthermore, Kaveh hasn’t actually been invited. Alhaitham, Kaveh knows, likes his space no matter how often he puts up with Kaveh’s presence. Thus here Kaveh stands on a precipice, toeing an invisible boundary of weathered wood and banana bread crumbs.

“Do you plan on hovering there for the rest of the evening?”

Kaveh tries and fails not to startle, darting his eyes to the open book. Entertaining Alhaitham’s stare is pinning himself to a butterfly display.

“I’m not hovering! In case you’ve forgotten, it’s my job to make sure the tables are in order. That, to my misfortunate, includes yours.”

“And is it to your satisfaction?”

Kaveh scoffs and blows the steam from his coffee. “If you’re sitting at it? Not a chance. Anyway, since I’m here, you may as well show me what you’re reading. It’s different from the semantics book you had last week, no?”

Alhaitham raises an eyebrow but wordlessly flicks closed the cover. Oh. Great. Kaveh can’t ever decipher the language. Must Kaveh always look like an idiot? Well, too bad, here’s here now and Cyno is absolutely watching and Kaveh’s heart isn’t pounding in his ears, it isn’t, so he swallows and smiles and grips the handle of his mug and drops into the seat opposite Alhaitham.

It squeaks sadly upon impact.

“Looks interesting.”

Alhaitham exhales—Kaveh thinks that might be his version of a chuckle—and drags his fingers down the embossed letters.

“Not so far. But the information is useful.”

“Well, that’s something, at least…” Kaveh trails off, staring into his waiting coffee. Why in the world did he think he could do this? Why is he doing this? Rubbing his moment of bravery in Cyno’s face suddenly doesn't seem worth it. He makes to stand. “Sorry, I realize I’m probably interrupting—I’m on break for a few and thought I would—”

“It’s fine.” Alhaitham considers him for another second, then slides over a plate with a neat square of banana bread still remaining. “Stay. Help yourself.”

And then he re-opens his book and returns to reading. Just like that. Like this isn’t a big deal—which it’s not, of course—but then, it wasn’t Alhaitham who’d had to walk over. He hadn’t had the difficult job of making the choice to start the conversation.

Pah. If this could even be counted as such.

Kaveh thinks to leave but… well, he is hungry, and the banana bread happens to be an amazing recipe, so he pops it into his mouth and sighs, sinking back into the chair.

“You know, Cyno named that one,” he mutters, allowing his eyes to rest.

He hears the scrape of the tiny menu drag across the table.

“‘Orange you glad I didn’t say banana bread?’”

Kaveh grins at the insides of his eyelids. “He thinks himself clever.”

“Does he now?”

“Mmm.” Kaveh cracks open an eye to where Alhaitham is squinting, frowning, at the rest of the list. “If it weren’t for the puns, I’d say Cyno would be as serious as you—but then again, Cyno actually knows how to have fun from time to time. So, actually, maybe not.”

Hah. Kaveh one, Alhaitham, zero. He closes his eyes again, fully intent on enjoying his couple minutes left of respite in the silence Alhaitham normally brings to the table.

“If I’m not fun, then why choose to sit here?”

Or not. Kaveh scoffs and keeps his eyes resolutely shut.

“I’m tired. And anyway, aren’t you normally the one knocking at those making one too many attempts at paltry conversation?”

“Whoever said I consider our conversations paltry?”

Kaveh groans and drags his eyes open to glare at the ceiling. “Pretty sure that was you.”

“Your evidence?”

“Wh—” Kaveh sits up, crossing his arms against the table. “Seriously, do you take enjoyment in answering every single question with another? And I don’t have evidence, I’m not a tape-recorder! Even if it wasn’t said, it was absolutely implied.”

“If I felt our conversations were lacking, I would state as such. There would be no need for assumption.”

Kaveh angrily jams the rest of Alhaitham’s banana bread in his mouth and then immediately tries to talk through it.

“You. Arr. Annyig.”

“Everyone is annoying sometimes—statistically, it’s an impossibility that someone isn’t annoying one-hundred percent of the time if you take into account a human’s range for subjectivity and their compatibility with others.”

Kaveh swallows painfully. “You’re so—I don’t have time for this. In fact, I think I’m having an embolism.”

Alhaitham’s eyes drift to Kaveh’s untouched cup of coffee.

“You do consume too much caffeine,” he says, extremely unhelpfully.

“Excuse you! My consumption is within the normal constraints of the people who spend their time in this establishment.”

“Using skewed data points to form your arguments is ill-advised.”

“And attempting to start such an argument when you are one of said patrons in this shop is even more so.”

“This isn’t about me.”

“Hah! On the contrary,” Kaveh scoffs, lifting his chin, “everything is about you.”

Alhaitham stares for one beat, two. Then, the slow unfurling of that subtle smirk.

“Is it now? I was unaware. But I appreciate the compliment.”

Kaveh flushes scarlet. “Don’t—that’s not at all what I meant and you know it! Twisting my words to suit your needs is manipulative, you know.”

He hums, which Kaveh absolutely takes as confirmation of it—but before he can say so he’s interrupted by Cyno’s call from the counter.

“Kav! Break’s up!”

Well, that was fast. So much for a calming respite. Kaveh stares sadly at his cooling coffee and forces down a few sips. (It would be a shame to waste such a good blend.) When he looks up to verbalize some barbed words of parting, he’s surprised to find Alhaitham’s gaze waiting for him. And when Kaveh opens his mouth, Alhaitham, annoyingly, gets there first.

“What are your shifts?” He asks, bluntly and without pretense.

“My—” Kaveh blinks. “What?”

Alhaitham snaps his book shut. “Your shifts. I can easily deduce they’re long and continue through the evening. But I’m asking for specifics.”

Kaveh is aware his mouth is hanging open; anyone’s mouth would be. Talking to Alhaitham is honestly the worst kind of whiplash, both topically and emotionally. Anyway, why does he care about Kaveh’s shifts? And what’s he planning on doing with such information?

“It’s not a question that requires an answer, if you find yourself too uncomfortable to provide one,” Alhaitham says, cutting through Kaveh’s maelstrom.

“I’m not uncomfortable!” Kaveh snaps. “I’m thinking!”

“Is it so complicated you need such time to remember it?”

“It’s a flex schedule, Alhaitham.”

“And yet I see you at the same time, four days a week, every week. Or has the term flex changed since I entered the workforce?”

“Ugh, for someone asking a question of me, you sure aren’t giving me reasons to tell you.”

Alhaitham opens his mouth, closes it. Sighs, and runs fingers along the edges of worn pages.

Funny. Kaveh wouldn’t take the man for a fidgeter, not from someone so put together. His mind explodes with unbidden curiosities: why is he fidgeting? Is he anxious—does he even have the capability to be anxious? What other habits does Alhaitham have?

And Kaveh is hit with the sudden realization that he knows very little of the man, even after months of conversation, and wonders why the first feeling associated with that realization is disappointment.

“I usually take doubles,” he blurts, scraping from his chair and risking a glance into sharp eyes. “You know the days—Tuesday through Friday, nine to eight. Plus opening and closing time, so more like eight to nine. Sometimes Sunday, eleven to five. It’s flex, technically, but we’re understaffed, so it’s been pretty consistent.”

Alhaitham holds his gaze—Kaveh can see the gears turning in his head—but whatever he’s thinking is locked behind a wordless language Kaveh cannot yet understand. If he keeps watching, keeps searching, maybe it’ll be enough—maybe some connection will occur, like suddenly spying the right route in the maze or the cipher of a puzzle.

He catches the moment a conclusion is made, but it’s still somewhere far out of Kaveh’s reach. With it, Alhaitham nods.

“Okay.”

“Wait—that’s it? Just, ‘okay?’”

“Well, yes. You answered my question and I’m acknowledging it. Also, I believe Cyno needs your assistance.”

The angry hiss of their failing espresso machine supplements his words—they really need to invest in a La Marzocco—and Kaveh, panicked, rushes to fix it before the whole shop explodes.

When the danger has passed, when their irate customer has been mollified with a free coffee and croissant and Kaveh finally has a spare moment to look over, Alhaitham’s table is empty.

🝮

It’s five-thirty-nine. Kaveh knows this because there’s an unclaimed coffee at the counter and a waiting chair across the room. Each tick from the clock in the corner ricochets through Kaveh’s skull. The door swings open again and again; each time Kaveh’s head snaps towards it, a Pavlovian response with the perpetual cycle of disappointment. Bubbled foam pop pop pops down to nothing.

Twenty-one minutes later Kaveh calls it, drinks the lukewarm blend himself and finds no enjoyment in its flavor.

He’s furious with himself and his needless anxiety, because that’s all this is. Alhaitham’s lack of presence is nothing close to rejection—how could it be? There’s nothing to reject! Kaveh’s body, unfortunately, hasn’t gotten the message, filled with a manic compulsion to reorganize random items until Cyno stays his hand along with a worried glance.

“I’m fine,” Kaveh says, however unconvincing it is.

The clock continues its relentless pace.

He finds himself overly grateful for the Friday evening rush of early twenty-somethings needing a boost before their bar crawls. Kaveh may be tearing at the seams, but he’s still a professional and the restless energy bolsters his efficiency. It’s just enough of a distraction to bring him to half past seven, where Cyno throws on his jacket, clasps a hand on his shoulder, and departs alongside the last trickle of customers.

Abruptly, Kaveh is left to his own, too-quiet, devices. Propping elbows on the counter, he sinks his head into shaking hands and lets out a ragged breath. How did this happen? When did this happen? It’s a culmination of things, really, of late shifts and design refusals, of lonely nights in a cramped apartment and barely enough mora to get by.

Alhaitham is just the final layer atop his unsettlement; another wrench thrown into the uneven cogs of Kaveh’s machine.

The door swings open.

Kaveh’s head snaps up, wide carmine meets steady teal, and the cycle is broken.

“Alhaitham—?” Kaveh straightens, furious this time at the wind of emotion buffeting at his figure and threatening to topple him. He grips the lifeline that’s the counter. “You’re here.”

“Stating the obvious, as par for the course.”

He approaches the register and Kaveh forces himself to stand his ground. The man is still in his work clothes, and an imaginary line spans from yesterday’s conversation to now—that maybe Alhaitham knew he’d be late and the ask about Kaveh’s shifts was, if he dares believe it, to make sure they didn’t miss each other.

Well, if that’s the case then he should’ve said something! Kaveh doesn’t exist solely to be at the man’s beck and call, whatever it might look like. Just because he’s an employee doesn’t mean Alhaitham has the right—

Though it seems he thinks he does, standing here, waiting in expectant silence.

We’re closing soon, Kaveh thinks to say. Well, you took your time, is another perfectly reasonable option. What makes you think we have any of your blend left? Would be a little rude, sure, but not unwarranted. It’s Friday. It’s late. They’ve run out before.

“The usual?” is what Kaveh mutters, and Alhaitham’s lips twitch in the suggestion of a smile.

🝮

It’s close to eight and Kaveh is in trouble. He hadn’t expected Alhaitham to linger, not so late, but once the coffee changed hands he’d made his way to his usual table, slumped down, and pulled out—shocking—another book from his bag. At least this one seems to be in their modern language.

Between them the sun sets, creating a cadence of color from spun gold to sultry red, ending in a finale of deep hues that shroud the outdoors from perception. Until it's just their interior illuminated in warm light, the stillness that had once been oppressive now a pleasant backdrop to Kaveh’s end of shift routine.

The languid sweep of a broom; the textured turn of a page. A melody Kaveh doesn’t recognize overhead, barely audible, notes of a piano suggesting a moment out of time yet residing congruently. Something that would play in the quiet of one’s kitchen once a night of entertaining has ended, the cleaning has finished, and all that’s left is the fading echo of companionship and the gentle temptation of a warm bed.

Kaveh pauses in his cleaning. If Alhaitham caught his stare, it would definitely give him away—it’s missed, thankfully, thus Kaveh permits his gaze to take its time. Alhaitham’s got that dent between his brows again; something in that book must be vexing him. Really—he’s gonna pop a blood vessel if he keeps that up.

Kaveh drifts over with the excuse of wiping down adjacent tables, and, when he gets close enough, he taps at Alhaitham’s back with the spray bottle.

“Hey, don't you have somewhere to be?”

“I am where I want to be.”

His answer comes so quickly that Kaveh has the nagging suspicion he may have been waiting for the question. (There’s something irritating about being seen so predictably).

“Ngh, I mean—don’t you want to be home?”

Alhaitham shrugs, laying his book aside. “If I did, then I’d be there. To be frank, it’s not much different from how it is here—though, perhaps quieter than the present company.”

Kaveh huffs, but there’s no bite to it. “So… No family? Partner? Roommates?”

Alhaitham blinks slowly. “No.”

Oh. That’s—surprising?

“Well, I guess that’s…”

He watches Alhaitham watch him, overwhelming in a circumstance when no other company exists to dampen the intensity of weighing another’s consideration. For not the first time, Kaveh wonders what Alhaitham sees in these moments. Kaveh also wonders what it is he himself sees—or, more accurately, what he’s searching for past the eyes that toss him through churning waters of a tumultuous sea.

Kaveh clears his throat and thumbs at the rough texture of his cloth.

“Same here,” he finishes, and turns abruptly to start lowering the blinds. “I-I mean, that wasn’t always the case. I’ve had a roommate before, back when I was first out of college, but… we didn’t get on well. Hah—not that things are much better now, my apartment can barely be called such—but at least I don’t have to risk having my drafts tossed out with the trash because they were, and I quote, ‘in the way.’ I mean, who does that?!” Kaveh sprays down another table viciously, the scent of lemon pungent between them. “And furthermore, he always expected me to do everything! Rooming should be a joint effort. For example: I cook, you clean. You do the laundry, I do the dishes. It’s not rocket science.”

He swings back towards Alhaitham—who’s observing a little too obsequiously for Kaveh’s liking—and colors.

“What?”

“As someone who's never had a roommate, you’re not selling the idea. It sounds like a high-maintenance arrangement.”

“High-maiten—Archons, you sound exactly like him! Just so you know, it’s rude to—”

“I never said you were high maintenance,” Alhaitham interrupts, “just the situation.” His brow furrows ever so slightly. “And I would never throw away something as important as one’s livelihood.”

“You—oh. Well, still, I think—”

“Though I do believe a direct split of duties with no consideration for both parties’ schedules is an oversight.”

“Will you stop interrupting me! And there was consideration!” Kaveh stalks to the counter and tosses the rag and cleaner across it, before storming back to tower over Alhaitham’s frame. “If anything, I worked more than him! It should’ve been split in my favor, not his.”

“I see.”

“Exactly,” Kaveh smirks, cocking a hand on his hip. “And that was also right when I was clamoring for any commission I could get my hands on. You know, the Port Ormos lighthouse renovations wouldn’t have done themselves. I didn’t have time to do two people’s worth of work!”

Alhaitham’s mouth twists in consideration, fingers drumming on the table before he abruptly asks: “Why are you working here?”

“Well, he—wait, what?” Kaveh’s arms fall to his sides. “Do you take pleasure in completely throwing off conversation, or is it just an innate skill of yours?”

“It’s a related question. For a newly-graduated architect to be trusted with such a commission, I find it unusual that you’re working a minimum wage job. If your talents are thus, wouldn’t your time be better spent elsewhere?”

“Hah! You’ve been spoiled by the luxury of stability, Alhaitham. Some of us aren’t so fortunate.”

“You misunderstand me. There are many jobs related to the field of architecture that would be more worth your while. I can think of at least five that would fulfill such a requirement that you would more than qualify for.”

“Well, if you must know—” Kaveh glances to the clock and startles. “Archons, I’m late to close! Uh—” he looks wildly around, to the door, to the register, and back to Alhaitham. “You, ah, well, it’s not exactly allowed—I mean, I guess Tighnari did stay late once—but if my boss finds out he may actually kill me—”

Alhaitham is not being helpful, allowing Kaveh to flounder without offering a modicum of input nor movement. He’s such an ass. Whatever, let him linger—at this rate it would be more of a pain to attempt to kick him out.

“Fine! Fine. Just… stay there while I clock out and lock up.”

“Mmm. I was planning on it,” Alhaitham says, and this time he doesn’t even try to hide his self-satisfaction as he goes back to his ridiculous text.

Kaveh departs with a huff and does just that. Logs out of the register, returns the cleaner to the back and shuts the break room lights. Slips his keys off the ring. The music cuts and leaves nothing but reflections of its mood in its wake.

In the quiet, the lock clicks loud—a little too intimate, too suggestive, but something settles in Kaveh all the same, knowing it's just the two of them with no potential interruption.

Alhaitham doesn’t seem to be phased. Just flips another page, the creases of amusement still lingering at the corners of his eyes. Kaveh stares at them a second longer than he has to.

And when he approaches the table once again, he takes the opposite seat.

“So, to answer your previous question—”

Alhaitham marks his page with a glance and shuts his book, raising his head. The immediate shift of attention throws Kaveh off.

“Right. Um. To be honest, I was afraid of settling. And I don’t mean with money! I mean with—Hm. How do I explain this? It’s easy to find a job that’s half-decent, checks off half your boxes, right? But how many people do you know who do that in pursuit of something more, then… never get to more?” They become complacent. Content enough.” Kaveh shakes his head. “Taking smaller commissions is fine because they are the essence of my pursuits. But a semi-related job in the field… I didn’t want to lose myself in something easy, and wake up ten years from now in the same place. Does—does that make sense?”

Alhaitham digests the words, knuckles to chin. “I suppose. Though if you are constantly aware of the dangers, it seems unlikely for you to fall into them. But you know your sense of temptation more than I, thus I concede your logic is, at least somewhat, sound.”

“Did—” the keys still in Kaveh’s hand clatter to the table. “Did you just admit I was right about something? With no argument? No follow-up questions?”

An actual chuckle leaves Alhaitham’s mouth and a surge of tipsy delight balloons in Kaveh’s chest, threatening to steal his breath.

Oh Gods. This—this an unfavorable reaction. It’s just a laugh. Kaveh cannot be frantically thinking up other ways to get him to do it again.

“Just one follow-up,” Alhaitham continues, innocent to Kaveh’s inner plight, eyes darting to the metal in front of them. “A lion?”

Kaveh blinks and instinctively curls his fingers around the burnished gold, finding his bearings in the familiar weight.

“Hmph. I wouldn’t call that any sort-of follow-up.”

“Using semantics to stall isn’t fooling anymore.”

“Isn’t that calling the kettle black.” Kaveh lifts the chain between them anyway and sighs fondly. “It’s… what my dad used to call me when I was young. When I graduated and permanently relocated to the city, a vendor was selling charms, and, well, it spoke to me, I guess. It felt like a sign for a fresh start. Even if he’s no longer around to see it.”

The little charm sways gently from Kaveh’s finger, sending little sparks of gold through Kaveh’s vision. It’s a humble thing, so worse for wear now it’s hard to tell what it is anymore. One too many drops from his pocket, a smash against the door on a day Kaveh couldn’t hold back his frustrations and needed something to throw.

“I’ve, uh, been meaning to fix it,” Kaveh mutters, a sudden spark of shame running through him. “But I think the vendor moved locations, and I keep forgetting…” He sighs, bringing it back to rest on the table. “Not that it really matters. Just a keychain, I suppose.”

“Relative,” Alhaitham says, eyes fixed on the small charm. “If it’s important to you, I’d argue it matters.” They flick up, catching Kaveh in a way that makes him feel too exposed. “And I’m in agreement. A lion suits you.”

It’s Kaveh’s turn to chuckle, hoping it’s enough to hide his fluster. “Sometimes I’m… not so sure.”

“You’re entitled to your opinion.” Alhaitham’s lip twitches. “Even if it’s poorly biased.”

“Every opinion is biased, Haitham, that’s why it’s an opinion. And do not start arguing with me about this!” He adds, when Alhaitham opens his mouth to do just that. “I’m not in the mood to banter over trivialities. It’s too late for it.” Kaveh closes his eyes, desperate for a subject change. “Anyway, what about you?”

A sigh. “What about me what?”

Kaveh would roll his eyes if they weren’t closed. “I shared something personal. It’s your turn.”

A prolonged silence, and Kaveh wonders if maybe he’s pushed too far, has crossed a line, somehow. Then—

“My grandmother didn’t really have nicknames for me.”

Kaveh’s brows furrow. “Wait—your grandmother? But what about—”

“They died when I was quite young. Car accident.”

“O-oh, I’m…” Kaveh’s eyes crack open in guilt. “I’m so sorry.”

“The sentiment is appreciated but there’s no need for apologies—I remember little of them, and the few memories I have are fond. I was fortunate to have a guardian just as kind. She, too, has passed, but after a long life. There is nothing to be sad about, though I will admit there are times I cannot help getting lost in memories.”

“You… say that as if it were a bad thing.”

Alhaitham looks toward the window. “Objectively, I’ve always found it unproductive to linger in moments that have already passed—however, recently I’ve found myself amending those conclusions. I’ve been reminded of the importance of remembering those close to me. To be appreciative of what came before.”

Kaveh rests his head on his forearm, blinking slowly. He’s never seen Alhaitham so pensive, mind existing somewhere outside the present. Kaveh realizes this must be wildly out of the norm for him. Not just to speak on the topic, but to even think on it in the presence of another. Guilt nips at his heels for asking—but then, Alhaitham wouldn’t share if he didn’t truly want to, so Kaveh kicks the emotion aside and settles on another, appealing, subject change.

“Hey, Haitham?”

Alhaitham’s eyes find his, steady as they always have been. Kaveh quirks a smile and allows his own to fall shut again.

“Will you tell me more about the book you’re reading?

🝮

Awareness comes slowly. First, sensations: dry mouth; stiff neck; full bodied warmth. Then, sound: velvet quiet punctuated with measured breaths and the occasional rush of a car. No sight, because Kaveh lingers in darkness—still only semi-lucid, it’s tempting to give in to heavy limbs and wander back through dreams.

But he can’t. Why can’t he? He’s… hmm. Where is he?

Bitter lemon and dark roast coffee. Drifts of cologne scented like the sea; distant thunderstorms; the crumpled pages of worn newsprint.

The explanations of chapter three: Dissembling Modern Language into its Latin roots and chapter four: Applying Linguistic Procedure to Untranslated Works. Passages rumbled softly in a steady baritone that turned from informative to a meditative segue to unconsciousness.

The coffee shop. Alhaitham.

Kaveh jolts upwards with a start and almost topples from his chair.

“Hey, are you—”

He focuses his gaze across the table and promptly snaps his mouth shut.

Not again.

If he hadn’t been before, Kaveh would now be fully convinced that Alhaitham knows what he’s doing. He must know. There’s no way someone can be that clueless to their own state of being.

There’s a difference in studying a person in slumber. Here, Kaveh has no worry of being discovered, doesn’t need to formulate a defense when he’s inevitably caught staring. It’s not the first time—and won’t be the last, Kaveh is certain—that he’s been so greedy taking in every minutiae of Alhaitham’s form. Birds and spiders, geometric shapes and obtuse angles, coalescing into something unmistakably beautiful.

Tonight is… different. Alhaitham is, certainly, still all of those things. Still appreciated through every conceivable detail: the small moles that dot constellations along his cheek, the slight curve of his index finger, the subtle bump of his nose solidly supporting a pair of thin-frame glasses—an item only ever seen tucked into a breast pocket.

But what Kaveh finds now lies in the placidity of Alhaitham’s expression—the absence of any airs, of any worry Kaveh may have brought with their earlier conversation. He finds the relaxed curve of Alhaitham’s neck, the hand that’s open and still splayed across pages he’d been reading aloud. A coffee down to its dregs, a pair of headphones resting beside the cup. A moment of domestic intimacy, paused outside time.

A moment Kaveh wants to play on repeat for the indefinite and infinite future.

Kaveh is thunderstruck by his sudden, raw need. He’s been aware of this need, of course, clawing at its cage in the back of his mind when he least expects it—but it's impossible to contain here, in their shared, hazy silence. It rushes through his veins like pouring rainwater, strikes in his chest like jagged lightning. Unexpected tears threaten at the corners of his eyes, and it takes every ounce of effort not to disturb the moment, to temper the urgency deep in his marrow begging to reach across and close their distance in any way Alhaitham would accept.

His fingers clench and release with a slow, shaky breath. They fumble for his pen, relieved to find the one normally behind his ear still in place. A crumpled receipt is pulled from his pocket, smoothed close to its original form. The furious sounds of scribbles play alongside Alhaitham’s breaths, the smallest of symphonies captured in ink and muted minutes.

When Kaveh is just about finished, Alhaitham stirs. The pen joins the rest of the items on the table, and Kaveh, finally, risks speaking.

“Haitham?”

Teal eyes pull open slowly, and for a long moment, Alhaitham just stares. Kaveh tries for a teasing smile, but he thinks it comes out a little too fragile—and when he speaks, it’s hushed.

“Hey—it’s late. We should go.”

Alhaitham shifts, the foot across his knee returning to earth, the retract of his hand and the gentle close of his book. Kaveh mourns the loss, but true to his own words, gathers himself and stands. The shift of fabric at his shoulders has him clutching at it instinctively, and he realizes with a jolt that Alhaitham’s jacket has found its way around them.

And then Alhaitham is standing, and taking a step towards him.

“I trust it was the content of the text, and not my interpretation, that had you falling asleep,” he murmurs, a soft mockery that Kaveh fails to find a retort for.

The jacket is gently slid away and Kaveh has never felt so bereft.

“Come on,” he hears himself whisper, “we’ll leave out back.”

They become murky outlines with the lights killed, only the vague, filtered light from outside loosely guiding them through the storeroom to the exit. A soft wind blows at Kaveh’s hair, jinging his keychain as he locks the final door and stealing away a sleepy sigh.

“So, um—”

He turns, preparing to make a fool out of himself with words too fumbling and mediocre for the gravity of the evening, but Alhaitham doesn’t give him the chance. He’s here, and closer than he’s ever been; all Kaveh can see is the curve of his jaw and the gentle stubble of a five o’clock shadow, the rumpled collar of his dress shirt creased from his earlier, poor posture. The streetlamp pours yellow down the bone of his shoulder and Kaveh shies away from the light, back into the intimacy the darkness provides, where cheek brushes warm cheek and Kaveh is afraid to ruin it with an inhale.

And when he does, eventually, risk it, that scent fills him again. Ancient parchment, ocean waves. Kaveh wonders how one single person can encapsulate so many maudlin moments, how his childhood home with all its sunny floor beams and flower bed gardens can linger on the cotton of a jacket and the silver hairs tickling at his nose.

His eyes close. The music from earlier flows through his mind, wistful, yearning, terribly soft, and Kaveh is filled with an emotion he isn’t sure he’s ready to name.

“Goodnight, Kaveh.”

Alhaitham’s quiet murmur puffs against his ear, a hand at his nape teases at delicate flyaways. It’s all too sudden, all too much. He’s frozen here, at the mercy of Alhaitham’s whim, and finds himself wholly accepting of whatever fate that brings.

He isn’t sure how long it takes for his eyes to open again; perhaps it was a mere few seconds, or perhaps eons had passed. When they do, all that’s in front of him is an expanse of dim concrete and the fading scent of the sea.

🝮

Dreamstate follows him home and through to morning.

It goads him down dangerous pathways. By his next shift, Kaveh has convinced himself it's time to stop dancing around this—this thing the two of them have. That today’s the day he reaches for something more.

Kaveh is dimly aware of his hands moving; steaming milk, stacking mugs, straightening tables. But his mind floats on a vast, teal ocean, and anytime he blinks it’s tempting to sink into that momentary darkness where last night’s memory can play on repeat without interruption.

Cyno is at his side, gratefully not remarking on Kaveh’s lack of proffered conversation—though, it’s not like he’s any better. It was almost disappointing when Kaveh had walked in five minutes late to his shift and hadn’t even gotten a “someone’s asking to be grounded” for his trouble.

But Kaveh isn’t one to look a gift horse in the mouth—he’s more than fine not having to verbalize the reason for his inattentiveness, for dropping the pourer no less than four times before lunch break, or for gripping the counter whenever the hair tickles at his ear as a mediocre imitation of Alhaitham’s breath.

It’s just odd, that's all.

More so when late afternoon bleeds to early evening and Cyno starts throwing furtive glances between Kaveh and the door. Kaveh’s struck by a startling worry—does he know? Did someone tell him, or had he somehow not left the way Kaveh’d thought he had? Not that there was anything to know—aside from Alhaitham’s prolonged stay after closing, it’s not like they’d done anything inappropriate.

Alright, he’ll have to temper down his trepidation and feel Cyno out. Keep it casual.

“So,” he starts, leaning into the other’s space as he passes by. “I haven’t asked yet today. How was your—”

Their eyes catch and Kaveh is met with a grimace not quick enough to hide. Oh Gods. He knows. Kaveh’s shoulders drop in defeat—so much for being casual.

“Alright… how much did you see?”

Cyno’s discomfort morphs to confusion. “Come again?”

Kaveh blinks. “Well, you obviously saw at least something, though why you’re being weird doesn’t make much sense to me, if I’m being honest—I didn’t think it would bother you. Quite the opposite, in fact.”

Cyno’s brows raise up past his hair. “Uh, no offense, but what the hell are you talking about?”

It’s Kaveh’s turn to wear confusion, albeit much more aggressively. “What are you talking about? What other reason would you have for being all—” he flaps a hand towards Cyno. “I don’t know! Unfunny—”

“Let me stop you right there. First of all, there’s no such thing,” Cyno says, dangerously serious, “and second of all…” He breaks off and lets out a loaded sigh. “Listen, Kaveh, I’m not supposed to say anything but, judging from your lovestruck demeanor today, there’s something you should know.”

“Wh—I—” Kaveh sputters and fumbles the pourer, and it clangs against the floor for the fifth time. “My demeanor isn’t lovestruck—”

“Please don’t make me share the number of deep sighs you’ve heaved in the last hour alone.”

“Ugh, you sound like Alhaitham! A sigh is not indicative of such a thing by its own merit! People sigh for many different reasons, you know.”

Cyno squints before crossing his arms. “Okay, fine. So what happened last night?”

Kaveh blanches.

The door chimes.

Both Kaveh and Cyno jump, heads swiveling to the newest occupants of the coffeehouse. It’s a good thing, perhaps, that Kaveh’s already dropped the pourer, otherwise this would be another disastrous time for him to do so.

“You’re early,” Kaveh rushes out, side-stepping Cyno to place himself in front of the register. “Short day? I didn’t think—oh.”

Alhaitham also seems quite serious—which is less of a concerning observation of him due to his nature, but there’s a tension in his jaw Kaveh doesn’t recognize and doesn’t like. Furthermore, he’s not alone. Alongside him are officials of some sort, most likely the coworkers Alhaitham’s mentioned in passing.

“Um, hello,” he greets them, before turning back to Alhaitham. “Is everything—”

“Kaveh.”

Alhaitham’s expression softens when their eyes meet—infinitesimal, but Kaveh can see it in the kind slope of his brows and the smoothed out lines around his mouth. He’s reminded just how close they’d been, how the next time Alhaitham tells Kaveh good night, the words should be pressed into his skin.

He shakes his head to dispel the intrusive thought, clearing his throat.

“Haitham. Is everything okay?”

There’s a sudden flurry of movement behind Kaveh, and the lines of Alhaitham’s face harden once more; a tragedy, one Kaveh only has time to lament briefly.

“And what is this?”

Azar.

Kaveh whirls around to find him cross-armed and narrow-eyed, gaze locked onto Alhaitham. His sneer breeds contempt, but there’s an undercurrent of fear in his eyes that gives him away.

Alhaitham ignores him and pivots to Cyno. “Captain. Please read the charges.”

Kaveh blinks, utterly nonplussed. The what?

Cyno straightens and takes a step forward. “Afshin Azar, you are under arrest for suspicion of embezzlement, neglectful management, and tax evasion. You have the right to remain silent, anything you say can be used against you in a court of law—”

“What—how dare you! You have no proof—no reason—”

“Judgment decisions will be performed under the jurisdiction of the Court of Fontaine and by the code of Sumeran Law.”

A thundering moment of silence, where Kaveh’s eyes dart back and forth between Azar and the others. It—it can’t be—how in the world could he not have picked up on it? Is everyone in on this aside from Kaveh? Was he—does that mean that Alhaitham, all this time, was only—?

The man in question steps around the counter to join Cyno. “The charges have been thus stated, and may I remind you of them once more so you don’t further incriminate yourself? Though, I wouldn’t be opposed if you do. Now, if you will.”

Azar doesn’t heed their words, stubborn and deadly as a viper cornered. “This is a set-up, a ploy—” Cold, greedy eyes find Kaveh, and he unintentionally backs into the counter. It causes Azar to laugh—a hissing, ugly thing that leaks venom at their feet. “Cowering in fear, Kaveh? Don’t think I’m fooled by their words—I know this is all because of you.”

“This has nothing to do with him.”

Alhaitham’s voice is steel, and Kaveh, despite himself, clings to it like a lifeline. Azar’s eyes shift back to him, a gaping smile creating a black hole in his face.

“Oh? And what is he to you? You know what? I think you care too much, Alhaitham.” Another laugh, another step in Kaveh’s direction. “And here I thought you were incapable of such emotion; a pity it didn’t stay your ability to manipulate. Does he even know who you are? Or was his assistance through ignorance, just a doting fool to play as a pawn in your plans?”

The next second, Alhaitham is between them; a warm grip on Kaveh’s forearm, protective and possessive. Within it Kaveh can feel the uncharacteristic shake of his hand, the only give away of his rage aside from the grit in his voice.

“Either leave voluntarily or we will remove you. Make your choice wisely—do you really want all of Sumeru to see you being dragged from your establishment, or would you like to maintain whatever miniscule level of dignity you’re left with?”

Azar goes red, his last defenses crumbling at Alhaitham’s infallibility. “Dignity!” he shrieks, staring wildly around as though the espresso machines and coffee mugs will help him. Ironic; the man doesn’t even know how to brew a decent cappuccino. “You will pay for this! I will not be treated as a criminal! Heathens! Fools!”

“Cyno,” Alhaitham says through the tirade, and within seconds Cyno has spun Azar around and clapped handcuffs around his wrists.

Azar screams as he’s tugged towards the exit, death threats falling on the deaf ears of shining tables and aged wood. He never did anything to merit their loyalty, and now they exist to bear neutral witness to his sudden and anticlimactic downfall.

Alhaitham turns, instantly shifts his focus. The hand on Kaveh’s forearm loosens then drifts to catch his cheek instead.

“Are you alright?”

For a moment, Kaveh is. For a moment, the softness in Alhaitham’s eyes is enough, the gentleness of his touch a placation Kaveh wants to sink into and never leave. The next, Kaveh yanks away as it all comes crashing down on him.

“How can you even ask that? I don’t even—what did Azar mean? Who even are you?”

“Alhaitham.” His head jerks up to where Cyno is waiting. “You’re needed.”

The hand falls away, the space in front of Kaveh widens. Through the open door Azar can still be heard, descending into a quick madness that Kaveh is rapidly falling on the same side of. Alhaitham’s halfway to the exit before he suddenly pauses, like he’s actually considering turning back. He won’t—Alhaitham always does what needs to be done, and didn’t Azar just remind them both of his preferred method of logic before emotion?

“Go,” Kaveh bites out, turning his back to the door.

He doesn’t—never did—stand a chance in comparison. There’s no need to witness the tangible proof.

The air within the room suffocates. Even amidst the tension, the sun beams hot through the windows, quite unwilling to read the room; it casts Kaveh’s shadow over the bags behind the register, comical and distorted. It’s within this concept of light that Kaveh processes the movements at the threshold, the dappled swing of glass and the dissipation of smaller shapes until he stands alone.

Bitter as coffee down to the dregs, he succumbs to tears.

🝮

Kaveh is not, as he’d immediately assumed, out of a job. Turns out, the owner of the establishment had been away for quite some time and, upon her return, was just as shocked as the rest to hear of the turn of events.

When she stopped in he’d first thought her a child, but the words out of her mouth had directly contradicted the youthful voice she’d delivered them in.

“My name is Nahida. I’m so sorry for what you’ve been put through. Now that I’m back, I promise to be more attentive to the needs of our workers, and I will personally oversee the shop until we find a new manager. Please allow me to offer compensation for the stress you’ve been under.”

“O-oh. I—”

Kaveh could only see the tips of splayed fingers and bright green eyes, peering brightly at him from over the counter. Now this made sense. The whimsy and oddity of the coffeeshop, the plants stuffed in all the corners. The same magic within these walls seems wholly contained within her, and any resolve Kaveh could’ve possibly had crumbled at the distraught expression etched into her face. He sighs and attempts a smile.

“Of course. It’s much appreciated.”

Two days after, Cyno appears. At least he had the decency to look apologetic.

“I thought you’d like to know that Azar is standing trial next week, and the proof we’ve gathered is irrefutable.”

“Right. Well that’s. That’s good.”

Cyno sighs, swinging over the counter and resting a firm hand on Kaveh’s shoulder. “I’m sorry it went the way it did. I know it came as a shock.”

An understatement if Kaveh’s ever heard one. He’s had little time to process as it is. It’d been what—a few days? The first of which Kaveh had spent face down on his mattress, letting the day drift sunbeams across his bedding until they ignited to orange, red, and finally died back to nothing. The multiple calls buzzing from his nightstand went ignored.

And when he’d finally heaved himself from the sheets to the bathroom, his reflection revealed too much; though Kaveh is used to viewing himself in many stages of disarray, that had been by far the worst.

At present, the mirror glass lays cracked in hundreds of beautiful, glimmering shards, tinted in red. He still hasn’t had the heart to pick them up nor sketch them in all their violent beauty.

The worst part is, logically, Kaveh sort of gets it. Logically, such information needs to be collected carefully, slowly, over a long time span that predates Kaveh’s coffeehouse existence. Logically, Kaveh should be grateful for what’s been done. But logically just makes his thoughts stray to Alhaitham—how he hasn’t stopped by, or gotten Kaveh’s number from Cyno, or had any further explanation for his actions. How he’d just… left.

His persistent silence confirms the blunt truth: Alhaitham’s increased closeness had just been a means to an end.

“Yes,” is what Kaveh answers, swallowing the lump in his throat. “It was.”

Should he ask? Should he care? His mouth moves before his brain tells it not to.

“And Alhaitham?”

Cyno’s grip tightens. “I… think it’s best I let him speak for himself.”

Kaveh scoffs. “As if that’ll happen. I’m over it, Cyno. He shouldn’t bother, not when he’s so obviously busy.”

The look he gets in return is too full of pity for Kaveh’s liking, but Cyno doesn’t push it. He stays a while, makes himself an espresso marked with the stamp of Vimara Village without Kaveh’s permission. Helps Kaveh with a few customers, which Nahida allows with a small smile when she comes to check up on them. He hates to admit that it helps dull the hurt, but maybe that’s because his ire was never truly directed at Cyno.

Besides, the man was dating his best friend. There had to be something to be said for that… right?

“Call Tighnari,” Cyno says, apparently reading Kaveh’s mind as he dumps his glass in the sink. “He’s been worried. He would’ve come here himself if he wasn’t out in the forest on his research project.”

“Yeah, yeah, I know,” Kaveh mutters, small trickles of guilt bedding their way under his skin.

When Cyno makes it to the door he pauses, glancing over his shoulder. “And listen—when Alhaitham does come, do me one last favor if you can find it in yourself. Give him another chance.”

He’s gone before Kaveh can reply.

🝮

Give him another chance.

Please. As if Alhaitham deserves anything.

The fragments are swept away, the fine dust vacuumed up until Kaveh’s floor is spotless once more. He does not buy a replacement, taking to storefront windows to tidy up his appearance on the way to work—it’s distorted enough that he doesn’t have to face the brunt of his own dishonesty.

And yet, as inevitabilities tend to be, Kaveh is not spared the confrontation of his own emotions.

He’s locking up—which in itself sends angry twists of deja vu through Kaveh’s bones as he vividly recalls the last time he’d closed—but is at least appreciative that he now finishes at a reasonable hour. He may even miss the predicted rainstorm at this rate.

The lock clicks, a sound punctuated by the quick approach of hurried footsteps. Kaveh turns to observe the stranger and immediately drops his keys. Archons.

“We’re closed.”

“Kaveh.”

Oh, Kaveh’s such a liar—no wonder Cyno had looked at him like that the other day. He’s gotten past absolutely nothing concerning Alhaitham, the torrent of clashing reactions causing him to both float and drown simultaneously. No. This is nothing, means nothing.

Give him another chance.

“You don't need to explain,” he says, parroting his past words. “I’m… glad if I was helpful in Azar’s capture. He was a shit boss, you did us all some good.”

He bends down, swiping his poorly-dented keychain from the street. In the distance, thunder roils.

“But you don't need to—I don’t know, do whatever it is you’re about to do. Explain it away. It is what it is, and I was a fool kept in the dark.”

Alhaitham stands his ground, an immovable object in Kaveh’s way. “I couldn’t tell you.”

Kaveh knows that. It doesn’t stop the flare of anger that says you should’ve told me anyway. He shakes his head, staring down at the cracks in the pavement.

“I know.”

“Yet, regardless of fact, you’re upset.” A lengthy pause, another ominous warning from the sky that they’re overstaying their welcome. “Cyno mentioned he’s been by. It seems strange that your frustration hasn’t been equally distributed to both offending parties.”

The flare of anger roars into an inferno—Kaveh snaps his head up, eyes wild.

“I can only assume you’re saying such things out of cruelty and not ignorance. At this point, I’m not sure which is worse.” His fists curl, and distantly Kaveh wonders if what’s dripping from his palms is rainwater or blood. “You know the circumstances are entirely different.”

Alhaitham’s brow has the audacity to dent, a suggestion of an unforeseen reply.

“How?”

“How? How?! Cyno didn’t try to get close to me the way you did.” Kaveh steps forward, and Alhaitham, for the first time since Kaveh’s known him, steps back. “Cyno didn’t stay late.” Another pair of parallel steps, a swan song, a tormented dance. “Cyno didn't fall asleep at that table—” Step. “Didn’t lend me his jacket—” Step. “Didn’t linger so close.”

Step.

“Cyno didn’t—”

Alhaitham is trapped against the door and Kaveh is closer than he should be, than he meant to be. Scattered rain pinging off the streetlamp, a whisper swallowed by the sound of it.

“Cyno didn’t almost kiss me.”

For a moment, they suspend. For a moment, he wonders if Alhaitham will take the statement to heart and try—the way his eyes dart between Kaveh’s, then down to his mouth and stay there, suggests it. It scares Kaveh—that even now, he might let it happen. No. No. No. He wrenches himself away, retreats across the span of the concrete and puts a world of distance between them.

“It's no matter now. I really should get going.”

He’s revealed too much; he has to leave, has to escape from this holding pattern he never asked for. A speck of wet dots the ground dark, another lands on the crown of his head and soaks through. The loudest grumble from the sky yet.

Time’s up.

He makes it about twenty feet before loud footsteps chase from behind (silly, really, because Kaveh isn't running, just walking very, very briskly) and a hand wraps around Kaveh’s wrist. It spins him around, forcing him to be in that close proximity where he can’t avoid the look in Alhaitham’s eyes and the lingering scent of what he now fully recognizes as home.

“Let. Go.”

“No.”

Kaveh's wrist burns, remembering the touch it craves and betraying Kaveh’s weak insistence. “You don’t own me. You don’t get to—to—”

“Please.”

A downright bizarre word coming from Alhaitham’s mouth, directed at him in a tone too genuine to be overlooked. It has, to Kaveh’s chagrin, its desired effect: a way to freeze him in place.

With his free hand, Alhaitham reaches into his pocket. A moment later Kaveh is released; held out to him in an open palm is a shining piece of metal. Raindrops fall perfectly against the surface, splashing miniscule water droplets across the creases of Alhaitham’s fingers.

“I came to give you this.”

Kaveh stares in shock.

“This is—but how—?”

“I searched everywhere over this past week. You were indeed correct—the vendor has taken up residence in Port Ormos. It took a while to travel, what with my other work. I apologize for my delay in coming back to you.”

Well that’s—why did he have to say it like that?

Kaveh is wordless, absent of verbal coherence for what feels like the hundredth time. His hand moves on its own accord; sleek bronze edges press into his skin, fingers curl to leave prints. When he retracts, when he opens his palm once more to the fading light, a lion smiles up at him. Just as Kaveh remembered it from over a decade ago.

Looped on its ring: a single, golden key.

“Kaveh.”

He lifts his head, eyes wide; rain pours from two points.

“Kaveh,” Alhaitham repeats, softer, closer. “The first day we met.”

He shakes his head, goes to start over. The fabric at Kaveh’s shoulders begins to stick to his skin.

“When I was younger, my grandmother would take her time making coffee in the mornings. Our stove was a small thing, a single coil burner that was as efficient as it was practical. The brew would leave the house fragrant for hours. When I was eleven, she began to teach me, and when I was twelve, I had my first taste.”

Here his chin lifts to the churning sky, unconcerned by the drizzle that’s morphed to a steady cadence. Kaveh is again reminded of that long past day by the water, of a bird with its wings unfurled and uncaring of what they may touch.

“Heavy and bitter,” he continues, wistfulness passing like a stray cloud across his features. “I didn’t enjoy it at all at first, of course—but as time passed, I grew to appreciate its subtleties and the painstaking process of its creation. I’d almost forgotten those moments—apparent by my previous orders in your shop.”

He hums then tilts his head to meet Kaveh’s eyes; drops slough from his jaw to seep through the front of his shirt.

“And then: you.”

Kaveh swallows, clenching the keychain so tight he fears he might break it.

“Me?”

“You. An anomaly, unplanned. Stubborn to a fault, challenging my every move. The blend you forced upon me was only the catalyst to a change I never could’ve foreseen. Though he may be incorrect in most other statements, Azar was right—I cared too much in conjunction with the job at hand. But I couldn’t, and would not have, ceased visiting you, even if it’d meant compromising our investigation.

“I cannot apologize for keeping things from you, as it was necessary. But I can apologize for its implication. You say my actions were borne from deceit, but I am here to tell you that such an accusation is as far from the truth as can be; my actions were my own, and performed for my own, selfish desires.”

Give him another chance.

Kaveh shivers—how foolish to not invite Alhaitham inside, out of the elements—though he doubts his chill is from the rain alone. And anyway, what is he supposed to say—supposed to think? He’s tempted to refute Cyno’s request out of spite, and tempted to walk away if only to gain a momentary upper hand. Anything to alleviate his powerlessness. Anything to alleviate the soul-deep ache of wanting to lick every word from Alhaitham’s mouth and keep them forever.

“Azar. He said I didn’t know—he said—” Kaveh feels himself slipping, and takes a slow, shaky breath. “Who are you, Alhaitham?”

His expression stays open when he answers. “I was honest with you the first time. I am a city hall employee—however, part of that job includes overseeing investigation of non-violent crimes throughout the city. It’s slightly convoluted, the explanation of how it came to be—and I cannot say I’m entirely happy with the arrangement—but I am more than willing to explain anything you wish to hear. Such details were only kept—”

“I know, I know. Because of the job, I—I understand. I do.”

Alhaitham seems out of words, and with it looks strangely out of his element. Like he’d only planned up to this point and doesn’t know how to proceed further. And maybe that’s it—maybe he leaves, and Kaveh is given the time to process and decide his next course of action. Maybe he reaches out in a couple of weeks and they talk, or meet up for a drink. Maybe he never tries, and Alhaitham never returns, and everything goes back to how it’d always been.

Except no—things can’t go back to the way they were before. Like Alhaitham, Kaveh too has been subjected to a change, stubborn and all-consuming in its permanence. Any disentanglement from the man in front of him would’ve been a laughable venture. Give him another chance? Please. Really, Cyno must’ve known it would’ve come to this conclusion—there’d been no other option for Kaveh, not since the second Alhaitham had walked himself through the coffeeshop door.

“Alhaitham?”

He’s standing there, waiting for Kaveh’s next move. And Archons does he look ridiculous, hair matted and dark from the storm, clothing now a second skin and shoes most likely beyond repair.

And Archons, does he look like the most beautiful person Kaveh’s ever known.

“Are you going to leave again… or are you actually going to kiss me this time?”

The skies completely open up to accompany Alhaitham’s stride. Three full steps, and Kaveh could’ve sworn lightning struck the way electricity stings through his nerves and his hair stands on end. But no, that’s just Alhaitham, reaching out and taking his face gently between rain-slick palms. That’s just the swell of ocean tides, at once carrying Kaveh away and keeping him tethered. That’s just the low murmur of affirmation, and the seconds before the climax of the story.

This is where Kaveh hales the line out into infinity, where he can appreciate every patter of rain pinging off road signs and street lamps. How his soaked clothing drags his body to earth, how goosebumps rise from forearm to thigh yet every inch of him is scalding and bubbling over. Every fleck in Alhaitham’s eyes, expanding until they’re all Kaveh sees.

Then darkness; a heated puff of breath; collision.

A heron flaps its wings and takes to the skies. A first sip of morning coffee and fractals of morning light laying themselves across shining counters and wooden tables. Piano, at a distance. A yearning for everything and nothing at all. Violent sunset, dark lashes. Sinking into a worn couch, the comfort of a well-used blanket. Cloves and spice, salt and honey, fire in the hearth. Hands fumbling, interlocking, a muted moan, the slow sink of teeth and the give of flesh.

Alhaitham, everywhere. Alhaitham, home.

A deafening boom of thunder and Kaveh jerks back, somehow, minutely, unwilling. It’s suddenly beyond freezing; Alhaitham’s nose is pleasantly pink from the little Kaveh can see of it. There’s a rogue flower petal sticking in his hair, hopelessly tangled.

“I hate being out in the rain,” is the first thing he says, slightly breathless and entirely unromantic.

Of course, of course he does, looking like that. Kaveh laughs and cries, and, despite the cold, goes back in for more.

When they stop again the rain has tapered, as though it knows what it’s doing and deems them deserving of a respite. The streetlamp has kicked on, white light making every droplet misting between them glitter like diamonds. Kaveh reluctantly unwraps his arms from where they’d migrated around Alhaitham’s neck, and fidgets with the keychain still in his palm.

He’s afraid to ask, and more afraid of the answer. But Alhaitham wouldn’t… right? Then again, there were many things Kaveh had put past the man he really shouldn’t have.

“Haitham…” His thumb trails over the jagged edges of the key. “What is this?”

“A key,” he says simply, and oh, he’s just answering like that to make Kaveh crazy.

“Well yeah, of course it’s a key, you know what I—”

“It’s to my apartment.”

True to form, it meets the same fate as many things held in Kaveh’s hands; it crashes ungracefully to the pavement.

“What?! You can’t just give that to me! I barely know you—well not barely, but—and you—I’ll disrupt everything! And you like your quiet!”

Alhaitham sighs, retrieves the keychain and presses it back into trembling hands.

“Yes to both points. I’m not telling you to live with me, per se. But I am telling you to come home with me.” His hands curl over Kaveh’s, solid and steady as they’ve always been. “Come home with me, Kaveh… and stay for as long as you’d like.”

“You’re serious,” Kaveh whispers, incredulous. “You’re actually serious.”

“When have you known me to not be?”

Even through his shock, Kaveh can spare a disbelieving look. “Oh please, don’t make me supply evidence to the contrary, the way you purposely goad me.”

“Huh, and here I remember you saying you weren’t a tape-recorder. Well—which is it?”

Oh, yes. Alhaitham is truly going to make Kaveh crazy. He’s going to tease and Kaveh is going to fall for it, everytime. Kaveh wonders if they’ll do such things wrapped up together, perhaps nestled on some dated couch Alhaitham no doubt owns. Wonders what color said couch is. If Alhaitham’s living room lends itself to a pleasing view and wide windows, or if Kaveh will have to persuade him to hire a certain architect to improve the space.

All discussed with their favorite brew in hand, watching the rain from the dry safety of home. Maybe Alhaitham’s gesture is not absolutely insane, way too fast, and thoroughly overwhelming.

No. It definitely is. But maybe it’s everything Kaveh wants, too.

“I choose not to answer that, and instead have one stipulation to your offer.”

He searches Alhaitham’s eyes—a color Kaveh knows intimately from the geometry of stained glass windows—and asks the most important question of all.

“Please… tell me you at least have a way to make coffee?”