Chapter Text
ACT 1
‘It is a truth universally acknowledged, that a single man in possession of a good fortune, must be in want of a—’
Al Haitham closes the book.
He must have grabbed the wrong one on his way out this morning. He turns his attention back to his latest tribulation: the mile-high stack of student thesis proposals on his desk.
He looks at the clock. It’s only been four hours since he’s sat down. He skims the paper, stamps a rejection in red, then moves on to the next one. If he can’t get through this pile by the time he leaves, he’ll have twice as much to go through tomorrow.
Reaching for the last file on his desk, he finds that it’s much heavier than the rest. Flipping the first page open, Al Haitham sees that it isn’t a proposal at all. It’s a request for funding for some building in the desert that’s somehow already cleared for construction. Al Haitham scoffs at its lack of coherence and notes the name of the incompetent student who is clearly trying to rob the Akademiya. He doesn’t give rejection a second thought: The red ink stamped on the cover dries as he leaves his office.
It’s been about a year since Al Haitham realised he is in love with his roommate. No matter how abrasive, confrontational, and outright outlandish he may be, the architect is his light, his guiding star and his rising sun.
Al Haitham knows a lost cause when he sees one, hence why he has never let himself indulge in his feelings. He discarded his dream of a life in the architect’s arms and convinced himself that any pursuit would have been in vain. It took him months to force himself into his state of dull content.
It took Kaveh seconds to blind him with hope in a few simple words:
“Our next place is gonna have so many more windows… maybe even one of those pretty chandeliers. There’s absolutely no way I’m letting you decorate. Hey! Don’t laugh at me like that! I’m serious!”
Kaveh scoffed and listed more changes in jest, but the gleam in his eyes and the soft upturn of his lips were real. They whispered desires that were, until then, unspoken.
That warm smile, that natural radiance,
That’s love.
The light that illuminates dark crevices and banishes sombre moods. The dawn that rises above all else.
Realising he fell in love with Kaveh was easy,
Which is exactly how he knows it’s real.
That was one of his grandmother’s first teachings. Love is heartfelt actions; a feeling one cannot express through superficial words. Her second lesson was the signs for ‘I love you’.
He’s read thousands of poems, verses, letters, and books about the subject. There’s not a single language that can capture the depth and bliss that comes with the feeling of love. Al Haitham’s grandmother loved him. She showed him every day.
Her last act of love was leaving him in peace with a goal:
To find that love again, hold onto it.
To never let it go.
Love isn’t supposed to be difficult. If it’s real, then it's effortless, natural. It’s not something that needs to be fought against, nor fought for.
Love is given.
Al Haitham knows what he wants. He always finds a way to get it. Whether it be through cunning manipulation or brute force, he’ll get it done. After all, he toppled the government,
How hard can a confession be?
He knows that Kaveh isn’t a fan of new rings. He’s very particular about things that cover his hands, hence why he chose rings that fit over his fingerless half-gloves. Al Haitham doubts that will change anytime soon, so why bother revealing his feelings with a ring at all?
This is how Al Haitham finds himself at the blacksmith instead of the jeweller. The smith greets him with his full name and title while a young girl flips through a book behind him. Al Haitham nods and hands him a sheet of draft paper from his bag with a detailed list of specifications.
He’s been a loyal customer for years, and yet, Al Haitham has never learned the man’s name. Why bother with such needless pleasantries? What matters is the quality of his work, not his life story. The smith hands him the invoice.
“Any other requests?”
“No, I’ll be back in three weeks to collect them.” With a curt nod, he leaves before the smith can start his usual attempt at conversation. He needs to get home and rest early. After all, he has quite the day ahead of him tomorrow.
Al Haitham will never know why Kaveh insists on travelling all the way to Port Ormos for furniture when there are perfectly adequate sales in the Grand Bazaar. He realises a year into their cohabitation that even if he asks the other man, he will never get the same answer twice.
Regardless, Al Haitham always asks him anyway. Al Haitham will never admit how much he likes the way Kaveh's demeanour seems to light up when he recalls their visits. As for why they’re here this time…
It was Al Haitham’s own fault, really. Had he not left the board on the edge of the shelf, they would probably be resting at home right now.
The frosted-glass chess set belonged to his grandmother. They spent hours together playing by the window, learning how to strategize and plot ahead. Through chess, she taught him the principles by which he follows every day: Never let an opponent distract you with emotions, both theirs and your own. Always keep a level head. Learn to read your opponents; don’t let them read you. Value your time and ignore those who seek to waste it.
Kaveh challenges him to a game every now and then. They always push each other to make the best possible move, even at their own expense. Half of their matches are decided in the heat of debates with pieces flying as quickly as their words. Others are slow: Pawns move once an hour in games that last days over carefully constructed philosophical discussions.
They’re currently tied at 54 wins each.
54 wins, 54 losses.
A couple of stalemates called. A few tables flipped.
Plenty of 3 am contests. Plenty more lighthearted drunk tournaments.
A hundred and eight excuses for them to spend time together.
It was his own fault, really, but that will never stop Kaveh from blaming himself for the shattered board and his own bloody hands. Al Haitham never told him of its original owner, nor its market value. It would only make Kaveh feel worse, so, he lied:
“It was a cheap set. I’ll purchase another one myself."
“Just add it to my rent. I’ll pass by the Bazaar tomorrow and get a new one.”
“I’ll handle it. The carpet on the other hand…”
“This ugly thing? It’s about time we replaced it. What are you doing tomorrow?”
“We’re not replacing it.”
“But it’s hideous!”
“Then buy one yourself, let's say, four years from now, when you’ve earned something akin to financial freedom.”
Yes, it was a low blow, but he knows his roommate will never take such a comment to heart. Kaveh just chucked a book at him, missing miserably.
Al Haitham remembers the soothing comfort of Kaveh’s hands on his own as he wrapped his cut palms and threaded the bandages between each finger. He remembers looking up and catching a glimpse of Kaveh’s flushed cheeks.
The lame excuse he came up with for helping echoes in his mind: “It’s obvious that with two cut hands and the coordination of a child, you would only make them worse. I’m just making sure you don’t get more blood on my floors.”
And so here they are, in Port Ormos, looking for something to clean the carpet with and a new chess set.
He has to admit that it’s a beautiful town. The constant sounds of movement and music fill the air with life. Or at least, that’s what he’s been told. He’s sure to turn up his headphones when travelling around busy areas, muffling the sounds around him with soft music or white noise.
Silence is a space for one to think deeply. Seeing as how nothing around him requires his attention, he’ll opt to keep them on for now. Besides, no matter what’s playing, Kaveh’s voice seems to always pierce through the veil between Al Haitham and the sounds of life.
That’s the difference between Port Ormos and the Grand Bazaar: the lively sounds and animation of the Bazaar are smothered by the Akademiya's very presence. Port Ormos has nothing holding back its life.
At least, that’s Kaveh’s reason for today’s excursion.
He makes his way over to Kaveh, who has already found the tailor’s stand. Kaveh, ever the conversationalist, is so immersed in the woman’s story that he fails to hear Al Haitham approach. The bag hangs from Kaveh’s fingers, careful not to put pressure on his wrapped hands. Al Haitham reaches for the handles and smirks when Kaveh startles.
“Don’t do that!” Kaveh hands him the bag and shoots him an irritated look. “Was that you getting back at me for dragging you out here? You didn’t have to come, you know.”
“If I sent you alone, you would have come back with the cheaper cleaner by your budget.” Kaveh ignores him and turns back to the clerk.
“Don’t mind him, Miss Elham. Please, continue.” The woman is clearly holding back a smile at his roommate’s antics.
“It’s alright! Might be good for the Grand Sage himself to hear, anyway." She starts, unruffling a hanging carpet. "A lot of traders in the port are scared about their businesses' futures. Most of their skills aren't in books and have to be learned in person with physical guidance and years of practice. You can't get that from an Akasha terminal.”
Kaveh’s hands start waving with his speech, the way they always do when he’s passionately explaining something ‘important’. “I remember the terminals have plenty of information about the history of trading and its political influences, but nothing on trading as an art form.”
“And therin lies the problem. Many of these places are looking for students to pass their knowledge on to, but young people nowadays only learn from the terminals.”
Kaveh's smile falters. “You think their work will eventually die in Sumeru?”
“Unless something changes, a lot of talent is about to be lost to time,” she agrees.
Kaveh sends a look at Al Haitham. “This wouldn’t be an issue if the Akademiya valued art.”
Elham sighs. “Perhaps. If I could study and practise in Sumeru, then maybe I wouldn’t have to move to Fontaine.”
It’s brief, but Kaveh hesitates before responding. “Fontaine?”
“The land of booming industry. Even if I could afford it, I don’t think going will do me any good. Their textiles are machine-made, so I wouldn’t be able to replicate much of what I learn anyway—”
Elham keeps talking, but Al Haitham can see that Kaveh is no longer listening. A distant, solemn look dulls his eyes.
Al Haitham cuts in. “How much is the cleaner?”
The woman halts her rambling and stares at him, suddenly remembering he is there too. With an exchange of mora, Al Haitham takes Kaveh’s wrist and guides him away from the stand.
The walk is silent. Nothing needs to be said.
Al Haitham eventually releases Kaveh’s arm and watches him brighten with every stand they pass. When he notices Kaveh slowing his pace to watch the street performers with a widening smile, Al Haitham knows that he’s okay.
The dancers twirl to the music, drawing in onlookers by their hands to join the fray.
“I’d love to watch you dance. I bet you’re horrible at it.” Kaveh’s voice finally pierces through the white noise of his speakers. He turns the volume down.
“I would be fine if I had a tolerable partner.”
He feels the other man smile. Kaveh veers left and hurries towards another stand that grabs his attention. By the time Al Haitham catches up to Kaveh, Kaveh is already talking to the clerk, Pooria, the elderly gold jeweller. He takes his headphones off. This is not an elder to disrespect. Pooria smiles widely when he sees him.
“Is that you? Al Haitham? Why, it’s been years!”
“You two know each other?” Kaveh looks confused. He lowers the earrings he was holding.
“Yes, he was a good friend of my grandmother’s before she passed. She loved his necklaces.”
“As I recall, you also loved my earrings,” Pooria teases as he rummages through his stock with intent, looking for something in particular.
Kaveh gawks. “Your ears are pierced?”
“Of course they are.”
“But you nev—”
“Here they are!” Pooria interrupts as he sets two small boxes on the table. “I remember making these last week with you in my mind. Perhaps it was because news of your new title was spreading through the city like wildfire. Bah, whatever the reason, take a look!”
Kaveh and Al Haitham each take a box. Inside are pairs of large teardrop earrings—one of emerald and silver, the other of ruby and gold.
“I liked the design so much that I made a matching set.”
Al Haitham holds the gold ornaments, letting the rubies catch the light. They’re perfect. A true testimony of master craftsmanship and love. Ruby gems will bring out the fire in his carmine eyes, while gold will complement their flecks of citrine. Perhaps he can come back for them another day. They’d go nicely with the other gift he commissioned from the blacksmith earlier.
He’s so deep in thought that he doesn’t notice Kaveh’s approach until he feels soft fingers brushing his ash hair away from his ear. The silver is cold on his skin. Al Haitham freezes, cheeks as red as the rubies. Another bandaged hand rises with the other earring, mimicking the first.
Al Haitham can’t breathe.
He wants nothing more than to lean into those hands, let them caress his cheeks, breathe in their warmth. There’s no doubt now — his fluster must be plain as day.
Kaveh holds in his laughter, having certainly noticed. He mercifully draws back, leaving Al Haitham to compose himself before asking, “What are you wearing to Cyno’s party tomorrow? These would look great with that green dhoti you got last week.”
“It’s not a party, it’s a late gathering.”
Kaveh rolls his eyes and holds the earrings up once more. Even when obscured by the translucent gems, his irises are crystal clear, to Al Haitham at least. “There’s gonna be booze, dancing, and TCG tournaments. It’s obviously a party.”
Al Haitham is about to retort when they hear a soft chuckle from Pooria. He sets the gold earrings down.
“What I’d give to be young again…” A soft smile follows his brightening eyes. “I love this set, you see. Like many of my works, they are perfect for newlyweds!”
Kaveh chokes on air and stutters, “We— we’re not together, sir, we’re just roommates.” Pooria’s head tilts as his brows furrow. His flash of confusion is quickly masked with a smile that sees straight through them.
Al Haitham feels his heart pang at the denial with something he doesn’t quite know how to define.
“No matter. My eyesight may be fading, but I can see enough. You better enjoy my work while you still can, Grand Sage.”
“Acting Grand Sage. And what do you mean?”
Pooria’s face grows solemn. “Well, with no apprentice to teach the art to, I’ll be taking my craft to my grave.” The comment seems to snap Kaveh out of his flustered stupor.
“There’s really no one? You don’t have any family that could learn?”
“They all went to study at the Akademiya.” Pooria looks morosely at the earrings in their hands. “I’m the proudest grandfather in this port, but the thought of having no one to pass my skills on to pains me.”
Al Haitham closes the box in his hand and sets it on the table, reminding Pooria of his audience.
“Enough of my negativity. It was good to see you again, Al Haitham. Come by more often, perhaps when you are in the market for a lovely gift for an even lovelier someone.”
Pooria gives him a look that Al Haitham pointedly ignores. Kaveh sets down his box.
“To you as well, but I wouldn’t count on seeing me for quite some time.”
“Oh, I wouldn’t be too sure about that.” Pooria smiles as the two leave.
It’s past noon by the time they reach the cafe that Kaveh has been rambling about for weeks. The massive window display floods the interior with natural light. The smell of masala chai and traditional mithai hits him as they order by the wood serving counter. Al Haitham watches as Kaveh fails to discreetly ogle at the colourful display of sweets. He takes his seat with his chai, leaving Kaveh by the counter.
Kaveh sits across from him moments later with a decorative box, probably filled with a pound of assorted sweets. He sees the architect perk up at the sound of laughter behind them. A couple seems to be exchanging gifts.
“Seems like they got each other the same thing.” Kaveh’s soft smile flattens when the students start reading each other’s cards. Both are limericks.
“You look disappointed. Isn’t poetry the fruit of affection?” Al Haitham smirks.
Kaveh rolls his eyes with mock annoyance. “Of course you would say something so… Haravatat.”
“It’s not my fault that you can’t understand poetry.”
“It’s not that. Poetry is…” He concentrates, searching for an answer. “A gamble. One bad sonnet can ruin the whole thing. Besides, I just don’t understand how someone can be so moved by words on a page.”
“Well, if not through poetry, how would you express something as arbitrary and subjective as love? I’m sure that you, of all idealists, have an answer.”
Kaveh considers for a moment. He swirls the chai in his cup before looking up.
“Dancing.” He closes his eyes and smiles. “Even if I barely tolerate my partner.”
Kaveh finally opens the box. He spots ladoo, barfi, and gulab jamun among others. “Here, I got too many. Take some.”
“You know I don’t like sweets.”
“Yeah, I know. Here, take this one.”
Al Haitham ignores him and puts his headphones back on with a gentle tune. Kaveh goes back to his sweets and chai.
The atmosphere lulls him into a state of calm. He takes in the sounds around him through his headphones — the grinding of spices, the boiling of chai, the shuffling of the man in front of him. Maybe Kaveh does know what he’s talking about, occasionally.
The students have moved into talking about psychology and the theatrical arts. Al Haitham turns up the volume on his headset. He watches as they leave the cafe hand in hand.
Kaveh is looking at him now.
“She’s right, you know.”
Al Haitham’s blank look immediately tells Kaveh that he wasn’t listening.
“About theatre being important.”
Not this again. “You mean to tell me that art is as important as history and medicine?”
“Of course!”
He can feel a headache coming on. “The Akademiya would never entertain such an idea.”
“The Akademiya is outdated. It’s about time they looked into new fields of study. Which reminds me,” he savours another bite of barfi, “I’ll be heading off to the desert in a couple of days. I got a commission to explore some ruins with a couple of grad students.”
“So, what I’m hearing is that I can finally enjoy some peace and quiet at home.”
Kaveh ignores him. “I’m on a team of Spantamad and Kshahrewar grads.” He bites into his sweet. “We’re looking into the structural integrity of some new ruins. We’ll clear the area of monsters and make sure everything is structurally safe enough for amateurs to explore.” Al Haitham is still staring disinterestedly at his tea, so he continues.
“It’s going to give students a great hands-on experience with their Akasha material.” He leans back in his chair and smiles at his cup while cutting another barfi in half with a spoon, content with his plans.
“That’s completely illogical.”
Kaveh almost drops the sweet. “What? Why?”
“Well, it’s performative at best and dangerous at worst.”
“Don’t you see how important this could be? If it goes well, we could change how the Akademiya approaches teaching forever.”
“And if it goes poorly, then it will serve as proof that there is nothing wrong with the Akademiya’s current methods of teaching through textbooks and the Akasha system.”
“You’re an insufferable pessimist.”
“I prefer the term realist.”
Kaveh groans in mild frustration. Al Haitham takes it as a sign to continue.
“Why bother funding new approaches that might not be successful when those funds could be better spent rebuilding the Akasha and updating textbooks? That would solve that tailor woman’s problem as well.” Kaveh gives him a dumbfounded look.
“I’m talking to a wall.” He gulps the rest of his tea. “It’s a valuable new experience, one they can’t get from books.”
“Of course book-learning alone is not enough to cultivate intelligence. All those scholars in the Akademiya are prime examples.” Kaveh smiles like he’s won, so Al Haitham continues, “Investing in new ruins when the Akademiya already has access to adequate sites, however, is a waste.”
His smile flattens. “How is a so-called genius so narrow-minded?”
“Asks the genius.”
“I’m not a genius!” He sets the cup on the table with a rough thud. “I spent hours slaving over my desk every day so that I can get to where I am today.”
“So you think you're just an ordinary person who pushed himself to success?”
“Of course.”
“You’re not.”
“What do yo—”
“And that’s exactly why you’re suffering.” Al Haitham takes another sip of his chai and leans back in his chair. “You're exceptionally brilliant; however, you've always let guilt compel you to help those who haven’t earned your support. Truly, you would be much better off if you abandoned your altruism.”
Kaveh doesn’t meet his eyes, but Al Haitham can tell his hands are twitching with irritation. He puts the empty cup down. “People don’t need to earn help, especially those with less than us.” His shoulders rise and fall as he takes a long breath. “We’re in public right now. I’m not going down this road with you again.”
Kaveh closes the box of mithai and carefully places it in his bag before heading out.
They didn’t replace the chess set.