Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

In hindsight, Kaveh should have known this would happen. Ever since Paimon almost exposed his living situation during the Inter-Darshan Championship, he’s been anticipating—dreading, really—the day when even the Traveler couldn’t stop her thoughtless blabbering in time.

Ever since Kaveh had left their home that morning, he’d been surrounded by people staring and whispering. They weren’t the normal type of stares and whispers he usually receives as the Light of Kshahrewar, either; they seemed more pointed, almost, like they concerned a specific piece of gossip. About him.

That's all to say that when Kaveh wraps up the last of his meetings and heads home for the day, he’s already feeling more than a little frazzled. This is, of course, before he unlocks the front door—thank goodness he remembered his key this time—and finds the Traveler sitting on his couch and Paimon floating next to them.

Before Kaveh can say anything, Paimon launches herself in his direction.

“Paimon’s sorry!!!” she wails, and Kaveh stumbles backwards.

“It’s okay?” he says instinctively. “I’m sure it wasn’t your fault.”

“No, it was definitely Paimon’s fault.” The Traveler stands and walks over to where Paimon hovers. They look unamused—or rather, more unamused than usual. “Tell him what you did.”

“Wellll,” Paimon says. “The Traveler and Paimon were at Lambad’s Tavern last night, and we were talking, and maybe Paimon was a little bit too loud when she talked about how you and Al-Haitham are living together, and maybe there were lots of people nearby, and maybe Paimon realized today that everyone now knows and is talking about it?”

There’s a moment of silence as Kaveh tries to process everything she’s said. Then it sinks in.

“WHAT????”

“What Paimon means to say,” the Traveler injects, “is that we were at Lambad’s Tavern last night, and she was definitely way too loud when she said that you and Al-Haitham are living together, and there were definitely lots of people around, now everyone definitely knows and is talking about it.”

That is not at all helpful.

“No, no, I got that.” Kaveh massages his temples, which fails to alleviate his growing headache, burgeoning dizziness, and encroaching nausea. He’s feeling a lot of symptoms right now, generally. “That was less of an ‘I’m confused’ 'what' and more of a, ‘How could you do this to me, you know this is my biggest secret, I trusted you, my reputation is ruined’ 'what.'”

Paimon holds her hands behind her back, adopting a morose expression. “Paimon’s really, really sorry,” she says.

Sometimes, Paimon reminds Kaveh of a child, so he finds it hard to get angry at her. Even when she says something insensitive, or her voice shifts from just high-pitched to actively grating, he looks at her slightly rotund body and adorable face and finds his annoyance draining away. This is not one of those times.

“How could you do this to me?” Kaveh says instead of accepting her apology. “You know this is my biggest secret. I trusted you. My reputation is ruined!”

Fortunately, the Traveler does look a little abashed, and Paimon looks downright devastated. It soothes a very, very, very small part of Kaveh, but he’s still feeling a little too strung out to play nice.

“Can we do anything to help?” the Traveler asks.

“Nope.” Kaveh shakes his head. “Absolutely not. You’ve done enough, thanks.”

And with that, he ushers them to the door and unceremoniously slams the door behind them. It doesn’t really make him feel better, but it should.

He’s about to turn around and pour himself a glass of wine—more like two, with the day he’s had—when there’s a telltale jingling sound outside and the door swings back open. Silhouetted in the doorframe stands the absolute last person Kaveh wants to see right now.

Al-Haitham raises an eyebrow. “Care to explain why you just kicked the savior of Sumeru and their sidekick out of our house?”

Looking at him, Kaveh knows, with a sinking feeling in his stomach, exactly what he must do.

“Haitham,” he says, “I need you to pretend to be my husband.”

At that, Al-Haitham raises his other eyebrow. The resulting effect is incredibly unserious, though Kaveh still isn’t in the mood to laugh.

“Not even a ‘hello’?” Al-Haitham asks. “I knew your manners had been slipping, but to ask for a favor like this without even the slightest show of courtesy is uncouth, even for you.”

“Uncouth?” Kaveh sputters. “Who’s calling who uncouth?”

Al-Haitham neatly steps past him into the foyer, slipping off his shoes and leaving Kaveh to shut the door. Kaveh trails behind him and continues speaking, as Al-Haitham begins his post-work routine while listening to his chatter with the grim resignation of a man sentenced for a terrible crime.

“Anyways, that’s not the point, Haitham,” Kaveh says, as Al-Haitham slips off his headphones and places them in the charging port on the small decorative table in their living room. “You’re not even going to ask why I want to pretend to be married?”

“What’s the point? You’ll tell me whether I want to know or not.” Al-Haitham says. He walks into his room with Kaveh close on his heels, already pulling off his jacket.

“You really didn’t notice anyone pointing at you and whispering today?”

“People do that every day.” A scowl tugs at the corners of Al-Haitham’s mouth at that thought.

“But it didn’t feel different?”

“Why in the world would I pay attention to how it feels?” Al-Haitham hangs up his jacket. Then, without any warning, he strips off his shirt.

Kaveh squeaks and whirls around, but not quickly enough to avoid seeing the smooth muscles of Al-Haitham’s torso—which, to be fair, are practically spotlighted by that shirt anyways. ‘Feeble scholar.’ Ha. What a joke.

Something about seeing his bare skin feels different, though. His chest and stomach are a shade paler than his dark, sun-warmed face and arms, and they seem delicate, almost, if such an adjective can be ascribed to any part of Al-Haitham at all.

When Kaveh turns back around, Al-Haitham has already changed into his house clothes: a loose pair of linen pants and a matching shirt. Their house doesn’t have a built-in cooling system like some of the newer buildings in Sumeru City do, and so both Al-Haitham and Kaveh wear as little as possible when inside. It never ceases to be terribly distracting—for Kaveh, at least.

“They know we’re living together,” Kaveh says when he finally manages to unstick his tongue from the roof of his mouth.

Al-Haitham hesitates very slightly at that. “Ah,” he says. “So that’s what you were mad at Paimon about.”

“I can’t let anyone know about my debt, Haitham, you know I can’t,” Kaveh says, following Al-Haitham into the kitchen.

Al-Haitham pauses for much longer when he looks into the kitchen sink. “You didn’t take out the chicken to thaw?”

Kaveh winces. “I forgot, okay?” he says. “And it’s so hot in here, it’ll melt quick.”

“Forget it. We’ll just have Leftovers Night early.”

“Don’t be mad, Haitham.”

“I’m not mad,” Al-Haitham retorts. “I’m just perplexed on how you can work from home and not take the chicken out of the freezer.”

Kaveh rolls his eyes and shoves Al-Haitham out of the way to wash his hands. “Anyway, the only other explanation for us living together is being, you know. Married.”

“Hm.”

“And word spreads fast in Sumeru. Lots of gossiping aunties and students.”

“Don’t forget the matra,” Al-Haitham says. “The chattiest of them all.”

“Sure, Haitham.” Kaveh sighs, recognizing exactly who the dig is aimed at. Cyno doesn’t even talk—and when he does, he doesn’t expose anyone but himself. “So if we just act married in public and tell everyone, everything should be fine.”

“It’s not the most ludicrous idea I’ve heard,” Al-Haitham says, suspiciously docile, then busies himself with pulling out plastic containers of leftover food from the fridge.

Kaveh won’t look a gift horse in the mouth, though, so he obediently reheats the food that Al-Haitham passes to him: three-quarters of a serving of chicken biryani, the last of the curry shrimp he brought home for dinner last night, and some lamb skewers. Not bad for Leftovers Night, though they’ll need some vegetables.

“Haitham, can you make us a salad?”

“No,” Al-Haitham says, already pulling out a head of lettuce.

Kaveh throws his hands in the air. “You think you’re so funny, but you’re really not funny at all. Actually, you’re the least funny person I know. Seriously. And I know Cyno.”

“Maybe if you said that even when you’re not mad at me, I’d believe it,” Al-Haitham says primly, then dodges the kick Kaveh aims at his shins without looking.

When they’ve sat down at the table with their meager feast, Al-Haitham brings up the subject again.

“We should act like we’re married when we’re alone, too. And inside the house,” he says abruptly.

“What?” Kaveh furrows his brows, spoon halfway to his mouth. “Why?”

“Nahida can read minds,” Al-Haitham says, noncommittal. “She might see that we’re faking and let it slip to the Traveler, who will tell Paimon, who will tell–”

“Everyone,” Kaveh finishes. He’s not about to forget who got them into this whole mess in the first place. “It makes sense.”

He looks up and finds himself pinned in place by the force of Al-Haitham’s stare. Al-Haitham has a naturally intense gaze. It’s something about the contours of his features, Kaveh thinks, of his sharp eyes and straight, thick brows, that make every glance appear penetrating. On several occasions, Kaveh has looked over and been startled to find Al-Haitham staring at him, eyes heavy and intent, only to remind himself that no—this is just the way Al-Haitham looks at things.

It’s with those piercing eyes that Al-Haitham asks his next question: “If we were actually married, what would you do?”

Kaveh’s cheeks burn, and he knows Al-Haitham can see the furious blush against his pale cheeks. “Why do I have to answer first?”

Al-Haitham shrugs. “I’m not the one that wants to pretend.”

“Fine.” Kaveh lets out a slow breath. It gives him barely enough courage to say what comes next. “If we were married, then… I would pack you lunch, sometimes.”

“If I was your husband,” Al-Haitham says, “I would brag about you to everyone at work, and I would show them the lunches you made me.”

“You’d be insufferable,” Kaveh laughs. “Well, even more insufferable than you already are. Okay. Um, if we were married… well… I would bring home those snacks you like when I go shopping.”

Al-Haitham raises an eyebrow. “And overspend again?”

“Screw you very much.”

“Hah. Well, if I were your husband, I would cut fruit for you every night.”

Kaveh scoffs. “You already do that.”

“That’s true. Then, if you were my wife, you’d actually eat the fruit I cut for you.”

“Hey,” Kaveh protests. “That’s not how this is supposed to go,” he says, though internally, he’s screaming.

Wife. Kaveh likes that word, though he’s embarrassed to admit it, even to himself. But, well– some days, Kaveh feels more son than person. The thought of being something other than a son to someone is… nice.

Al-Haitham rolls his eyes, unaware of Kaveh’s inner turmoil. “Fine. If I were your husband, I’d say thank you when you cleaned the house. And I’d take you with me when I went shopping for furniture.”

“You should be doing that already,” Kaveh mutters. Louder, he says, “Okay, I don’t have any more.”

“Seriously? Just two things won’t be enough to fool the God of Wisdom, Kaveh.”

“I don’t know, Haitham, it’s not like I’ve done this before,” Kaveh protests.

“Neither have I. And here I thought the Light of Kshahrewar would be creative and imaginative. Has a boring Haravatat really beaten you?”

Kaveh grits his teeth. “Fine. If I were your wife”—and his voice doesn’t crack on the word ‘wife,’ it doesn’t—“I would… I would work on my projects at night next to you, instead of in my room.”

“If we were married,” Al-Haitham says, “I would tell you about the books I’m reading, and I would ask you about what you’re working on.”

Kaveh doesn’t know what Al-Haitham’s been reading, to be able to say things so incredibly romantic.

“If we were married, I would towel your hair after you got out of the bath.” Kaveh’s seen that one in many an Inazuman light novel.

Al-Haitham hesitates, long enough that Kaveh’s about to proclaim his victory. Then, sounding oddly unsure of himself, he says, “If we were married, I suppose we would sleep in the same bed every night.”

At that, Kaveh feels a swooping sensation in his stomach, like he’s being tugged along too fast by a four-leaf sigil. “I– I suppose we would,” he says, sincerely hoping his face isn’t as red as it feels.

Al-Haitham lets out a long, slow breath at his answer. It must be a terribly discomforting idea, Kaveh thinks, to a man who values his independence so much. The fact that Al-Haitham is sacrificing so much to maintain this charade right off the bat—a charade Kaveh forced upon him—makes him feel vaguely guilty.

“We’ll do that tonight, then,” Al-Haitham says.

“Great,” Kaveh says, uncertain. The air feels odd now, in a way he can’t quite put into words. “Should we be writing this down?”

“No need. I won’t forget.”

“Right.” Kaveh rolls his eyes. “Your fabled Scribe skills, how could I forget.”

Al-Haitham laughs, that little chuff he does when he actually finds something amusing, though Kaveh can’t see what’s funny. “My Scribe skills,” he says. “Right.”

They have ripe, juicy peaches for dessert. Al-Haitham peels off the skins in long strips, working a small knife round and round each peach until its skin drops into the trash can below, then cuts the peaches into neat slices.

They take their peaches into the living room, and, as promised, Kaveh brings his papers out to work. Al-Haitham sits next to him on their divan, the perpetual chill radiating off his skin a welcome reprieve from the muggy summer heat, holding an atrociously thick tome.

Before he cracks it open, though, Al-Haitham turns to Kaveh.

“What are you working on?” he asks.

“Hm? Oh.” Kaveh looks down at his paper. “Just a conceptual sketch for a client.”

“The ones who wanted that open concept in Port Ormos?”

Kaveh blinks. “Well, yes,” he says, uncertain. He remembers chattering to Al-Haitham after his initial meeting with them, of course, but he doesn’t remember Al-Haitham actually listening. “I’m trying to harmonize the exterior with the surrounding houses while still giving it something– something special.”

“That Kaveh feel.”

“Exactly.” Kaveh snaps his fingers, then registers the amusement on Al-Haitham’s face. “Hey, you’re not laughing at me, are you?”

Al-Haitham turns his face away to hide his smile, though Kaveh manages to catch a glimpse. “I’d never dream of it,” he says.

“You–! Ugh. Fine. Whatever.” Kaveh sulks, blowing his bangs out of his face. When he's met with silence, he tentatively asks, “What are you reading?”

In lieu of answering, Al-Haitham lifts up the book a little higher so Kaveh can read the title: A Study of the Ancient Runic System Employed in Pre-Sumerian Rainforest Cave Systems, Vol. II. It sounds like one of the books Kaveh would read for class but complain incessantly about.

“Is it… fun?”

“I suppose,” Al-Haitham concedes. “The methodology is laughably flawed, which makes for an uninformative but highly entertaining read.”

Kaveh scoffs. “Of course that’s why you’re reading it,” he mutters.

“It also leaves me with enough attention to think about our plan,” Al-Haitham continues, blithely ignoring Kaveh’s jab. “I’m thinking of making an announcement about it tomorrow.”

“Oh.” Kaveh blinks. He hadn’t thought about the logistics of it at all. “That sounds… good.”

Silence settles over the room. It isn’t uncomfortable, per se—for all his loudness, Kaveh rather likes the silence—but the preceding conversation leaves him on edge. He and Al-Haitham simply don’t do this type of thing, these nice conversations about their work. Then again, he and Al-Haitham aren’t really married, either.

“Thank you, Haitham,” Kaveh blurts out. “I know it’s a big favor, and you’re already planning so much for it, and I–”

“There’s no need to thank me,” Al-Haitham says nonchalantly. “I’ve become much more of an eligible bachelor since my unfortunate rise to fame, and my personality isn’t enough to drive all of them off. Having a husband will remove that bother.”

Kaveh shifts in his seat. He hadn’t realized that Al-Haitham had been receiving that type of attention lately. The thought of another person in their home—in Al-Haitham’s home, rather—choosing the paintings, rearranging the furniture, and cooking dinner irritates an ugly part deep inside of him.

At precisely midnight, Al-Haitham stands, stretches, and places the book on the table. Kaveh scowls at him and moves to put it on the bookshelf.

“If you were my husband, you’d actually listen to me and put your books away,” he grouses.

“If you were my wife, wouldn’t you lovingly nag me but deal with my flaws anyway?”

“Not this one.”

Kaveh moves to sit back down, but a sharp glance from Al-Haitham stops him in his tracks.

“Isn’t it time to get ready for bed?” Al-Haithm asks.

Kaveh glances down at his draft. He hasn’t made as much progress as he would like. The challenges of integrating a building into an existing neighborhood make him nervous; he’s much more used to designing large, isolated buildings, or ones that are intended to appear distinct. These clients, though, want a subtle yet beautiful home, something that stands out but not too much. It’s been a frightfully difficult line to walk.

“Let me rephrase.” Al-Haitham interrupts Kaveh’s train of thought. “It’s time to get ready for bed. Come on.”

“Haitham…”

“You’ll work much better with a full night’s rest. Besides, you’ll wake me up if you come into my room in the middle of the night.”

“Fine,” Kaveh concedes. He knows Al-Haitham is right, though he’d never say that aloud.

He brushes his teeth, washes his face, then ducks into what was once his room and is now his former room to apply his skincare and change his clothes. If he drags out the process a little longer than usual, that’s nobody’s business but his own. When he finally shuffles into Al-Haitham’s room, he finds Al-Haitham already in his pajamas, which are, of course, entirely different from his house clothes.

Al-Haitham has a strict uniform system, which consists of outside clothes for the outside, inside clothes for their house, and pajamas for bed. Kaveh likes to tease Al-Haitham for it, but is, as per usual, ruthlessly ignored.

Wordlessly, Al-Haitham moves to turn off the light while Kaveh climbs into bed. They don’t have to discuss it before moving to their familiar sides of the bed: Al-Haitham on the right, closest to the wall, and Kaveh on the left, facing the rest of the room. It’s the same position they slept in during their time at the Akademiya, which now feels like lifetimes ago.

Kaveh holds his breath as Al-Haitham climbs over him in the dark. His eyes have adjusted enough to trace the outline of Al-Haitham’s figure, and the moonlight creeping past the curtains shines off the silver of Al-Haitham’s hair. Though they don’t touch, Kaveh can feel the coolness of Al-Haitham’s body behind him, and he tries and fails to fight back a shiver.

“Goodnight, Kaveh,” Al-Haitham murmurs.

And Kaveh honestly doesn’t know what possesses him, but he whispers back, “Goodnight, husband.”

There’s a moment of silence, then Al-Haitham slings a cold, heavy arm over Kaveh’s side. “Goodnight, wife,” he says.

Kaveh listens as Al-Haitham’s breathing turns slow and steady. Though he’s always struggled to fall asleep, Kaveh finds his eyelids getting heavier and heavier with the sound of Al-Haitham’s breaths, with the calm thump of his heartbeat. Being a wife consumed his mother until she couldn’t be a mother—or a person—anymore. Maybe Kaveh can do things differently.

And with that thought, Kaveh sleeps.

–

Over the years, Kaveh has memorized the exact time Al-Haitham leaves for work in the mornings. It isn’t hard, and it certainly doesn’t say anything about Kaveh, because Al-Haitham departs at precisely the same time every day: 8:37 am. According to Al-Haitham, it’s the perfect time to leave, allowing him to sit down at his desk at precisely 9 am without having to rush.

Today, though, Al-Haitham rises from the kitchen table two minutes earlier than usual, and lingers at the front door.

“If we were married,” he says, “wouldn’t you kiss me goodbye every morning?”

Kaveh’s so taken aback that he hardly thinks before answering: “Yes, I suppose I would.”

He barely finishes his sentence before Al-Haitham appears in front of him and, swift as a bird, leans down to press a firm, dry kiss against his mouth. It’s not really a kiss—more of a peck, really—but Kaveh’s face catches on fire anyway.

“Hmm,” Al-Haitham says, pulling away. His face looks oddly inscrutable in the way that means he’s carefully schooling his expression. He opens his mouth as if to say something further, hesitates, then says, “Have a nice day at work.”

“You too,” Kaveh manages to squeak out.

As soon as Al-Haitham shuts the door behind him, Kaveh whirls around, buries his face in his hands, and, in retrospect, hopes the door is thick enough to muffle the sound of his scream.

Just as Al-Haitham said, the Office of the Scribe releases an announcement later that morning. The Office of the Scribe is pleased to announce the marriage of Scribe Al-Haitham and Kaveh, famed architect and Light of Kshahrewar, the memo, distributed to every shopkeeper and denizen of Sumeru City, says. Please join the Office in celebrating their union.

The news spreads like wildfire. Within the day, people go from staring and whispering to outright congratulating Kaveh, who barely manages to keep the panic off his face.

“How long have you been married?” one person asks.

“Um,” Kaveh flounders, searching around for an answer. “A few months now?” is what he finally settles on, hoping that Al-Haitham hasn’t said anything conflicting.

“To think that all that quarreling was really a cover for their undying love,” a young man whispers to his friend, just audible enough for Kaveh to overhear. “This is just like the plot of Help, My Enemy the Former Supreme Leader Who Also Hates Me Just Professed His Undying Love!”

“Shh,” his friend hisses back, elbowing him in the ribs. “He’ll hear you!”

That night, Kaveh startles when Al-Haitham comes home. After hearing everyone call Al-Haitham his husband all day, Kaveh half-expected a complete stranger to step through the door—as if being his husband would irrevocably change Al-Haitham. But the man that walks into the living room is the same Al-Haitham that Kaveh has known for over a decade. It soothes the part of Kaveh that’s been tense and on edge all day.

“I saw the announcement,” Kaveh says in greeting. “Good job on that. People already seem to believe it.”

“Nahida also seemed fooled,” Al-Haitham says. “Though we’ll have to maintain tthis charade, of course. There’s space on my dresser for your skincare, so you can move it over tonight.”

“Okay,” Kaveh says, feeling shy. “I took out the chicken earlier. It should be defrosted soon.”

Al-Haitham blinks, evidently taken aback, then smiles. It’s a quick, crooked thing that flickers knife-fast over his face. “You’re becoming a proper, domestic wife,” he says, and walks over to place a large, heavy hand on Kaveh’s hair. “I’m pleasantly surprised.”

Kaveh huffs but makes no move to shake his hand off. “I don’t just want to be known as the former Acting Grand Sage’s wife, though,” he complains, but it’s half-hearted.

“I agree,” Al-Haitham agrees, and raises an eyebrow when Kaveh whips his head up in surprise. “I’d much rather be known as the Light of Kshahrewar’s husband,” he adds, and Kaveh gives into the urge to smack him on the shoulder.

–

The news of their marriage spreads even beyond Sumeru City, if the lovely wedding gift Kaveh receives from Tighnari, Cyno, and Collei is any indication—delivered by none other than a contrite-looking Traveler, who shimmers into being at a teleport waypoint while Kaveh is out the next day.

Kaveh tries to hold onto his anger, but one look at the Traveler’s nervous expression and Paimon’s wide eyes is enough to make him cave.

“Look,” he sighs, “I’m not mad anymore, okay? And I’m sorry for kicking you guys out.”

The Traveler shakes their head. “We’re sorry too,” they say. “We’ll treat you to a congratulations dinner sometime.”

“Yeah! Paimon didn’t even realize you were m–” Paimon starts, but the Traveler slaps a hand over her mouth.

“We’ll catch you later,” they say, grimacing apologetically. With another flash of blue light, they’re gone.

Kaveh turns the package over in his hands as he walks home, which is, in all actuality, probably just from Tighnari and Collei. Kaveh doesn’t know exactly how serious the feud between Cyno and Al-Haitham is, but knowing Al-Haitham’s… everything, he’d rather assume the two aren’t on the level of sending each other presents.

He opens the gift when he arrives back home. It consists of a lovely glazed tea set and a note. I’m very happy that you and Al-Haitham finally figured things out, the note says in Tighnari’s nigh-unintelligible handwriting. Congratulations on realizing your love for each other.

Kaveh crumples the note in his fist and throws it in the trash, hiding it below the wrapping the tea set came in. He didn’t need to realize anything—and for Al-Haitham, there is nothing to realize at all.

The tea set is lovely, though, and Kaveh goes to make chai for when Al-Haitham returns. But to his dismay, he finds the milk carton empty. Kaveh groans and tips his head back to glare at the ceiling. Al-Haitham never tells him when they run out of something.

They only need milk, so Kaveh leaves Mehrak at home while he heads back out. That turns out to be a mistake—because before Kaveh can reach the grocery store, he feels a sharp blow at the back of his head, and the world turns dark.

Kaveh wakes to a splitting headache and a stiffness in his limbs. When he goes to rub his temples, he finds that his hands are crudely tied behind his back. Ugh.

“I’m awake now,” he calls out, wincing at the echo. They’re in a large, empty building—a warehouse, from the looks of it. “Hello?”

“You’re awake,” a man says, stepping out from the shadows.

Kaveh rolls his eyes—isn’t that what he just said?

“Sorry for the rough treatment,” another adds, stepping out from the same patch of shadows. “And the kidnapping. It’s nothing personal—we just want a private audience with the Acting Grand Sage.”

“There’s easier ways to do that, you know,” Kaveh retorts. “Like filing a complaint. They have a whole system for that.”

A third man walks out from—get this—the same patch of shadows.

“Kidnapping you was pretty easy,” he says, shrugging. “And this is probably the fastest way to get him to show up.”

Like Haitham would even care, Kaveh almost says, before remembering that the whole point is making everyone think Al-Haitham would, in fact, care.

“Oh, he’ll show up, all right,” he says instead. “He’s going to show up so hard, you don’t even know. Because he cares. So much. About me.”

His abductors trade looks with each other.

“Why do you think he’s into him?” the first man whispers, perfectly audible.

The other shrugs. “Maybe the ex-Acting Grand Sage likes blondes?”

Kaveh scowls, then stops when the motion makes his head throb. “Did you at least send him a ransom note or something?”

They all trade looks again—but instead of bemused, these looks seem panicked. Great. Not only was Kaveh kidnapped, he was kidnapped by amateurs. If he had Mehrak, he’d dispatch these men easily. Not for the first time since he woke up, Kaveh kicks himself for leaving her at home.

“How do you expect Haitham to show up if he doesn’t even know you kidnapped me?” Kaveh demands, then hisses. “Ow, geez, did you have to hit me so hard?”

“Should we gag him?” the third man asks, but the others don’t get the chance to respond before a new voice rings out through the warehouse.

“Trust me,” Al-Haitham drawls, stalking closer to them. Kaveh sags in relief. He doesn’t think he’s ever been so happy to see Al-Haitham’s flat, furious expression. “I know.”

“The Scribe!” the first man exclaims. “Welcome, welcome. I apologize for all this, but–”

He doesn’t get the chance to finish his sentence, because, in the blink of an eye, Al-Haitham whips out his sword and flings it so that the blunt end hits the kidnapper straight in the head. The man wobbles for a second before unceremoniously collapsing.

“I don’t care,” Al-Haitham says, and snatches his sword as it zips back to him. Kaveh definitely doesn’t watch the muscles of his shoulder flex.

The other two kidnappers scramble to pull out their weapons, but Al-Haitham’s close enough now to jab the other in the temple with his sword handle. He turns to the third—the one who wanted to gag Kaveh—and punches him square in the face.

“Keep your hands off my wife,” Al-Haitham snarls as the men collapse, and Kaveh feels light-headed in more ways than one.

With that, Al-Haitham finally turns towards Kaveh. The same hands that just knocked a man unconscious feel unspeakably gentle as they cut the rope from Kaveh’s hands and cradle his jaw. Al-Haitham turns Kaveh’s head from side to side, peering into his eyes.

“Where did they hit you?” he murmurs.

“Hm?” Kaveh says. The adrenaline rush that sustained him fades rapidly, leaving him fighting to stay awake.

“Kaveh.” There’s a note of urgency to Al-Haitham’s voice. “Stay awake. Where did they hit you?”

“Back of my head.”

Long, deft fingers probe the back of Kaveh’s head, feeling blissfully cold. Kaveh sighs in relief and nuzzles closer.

“It doesn’t seem like there’s a cut,” Al-Haitham says, “but I can feel a bump. Do you feel nauseated?”

“No.”

“Dizzy?”

“Not really.”

“Tired?”

“Of your questioning, yeah,” Kaveh grouses. At this point, he just wants to sleep

Al-Haitham rolls his eyes. “You might have a concussion,” he muses. “Let me take you to Bimarstan.”

“Mm, okay, Mr. Amurta,” Kaveh teases.

Maybe he shouldn’t have said that, because the next thing he knows, Al-Haitham has swept him up into a princess carry.

“Haitham!” Kaveh shrieks, clutching at Al-Haitham’s unfairly built shoulders. His breath quickens, both at the sudden change in elevation and at his frankly mortifying position. “Let me down!”

Kaveh doesn’t know where to look. He and Al-Haitham are very nearly the same height, so he’s not used to seeing Al-Haitham’s face from this angle. Like this, Al-Haitham’s jaw looks unfathomably sharp.

Perhaps Kaveh does have a concussion. That’s the only explanation for why his arm rises without his permission, why his finger traces the curve of Al-Haitham’s nose.

Al-Haitham laughs at that, a soft puff of air that brushes against the skin of Kaveh’s inner wrist. “You really are out of it,” he says, and starts walking.

“I can walk,” Kaveh complains. He wriggles half-heartedly, but quickly gives up and sinks further into Al-Haitham’s arms.

“I know you can,” Al-Haitham agrees. Still, he makes no movement to put Kaveh down—and if he’s truly being honest with himself, Kaveh doesn’t really mind.

The doctors at Bimarstan tell Kaveh he doesn’t have a concussion. Unfortunately, the fact that several people saw Al-Haitham carrying him bridal-style through the streets is its own type of injury. Fortunately, the sight does seem to confirm the validity of their marriage. At least, that’s what Kaveh has to tell himself.

Besides that, the following days are good. Great, even. Kaveh packs lunch for Al-Haitham—fish with jasmine rice and green beans, falafel, his signature fatteh—and actually gives it to him, instead of hiding it in the fridge for Al-Haitham to find himself. Al-Haitham actually thanks Kaveh when he cleans the house, instead of skulking around and pointing out all the dirty spots Kaveh missed. They keep sharing chaste pecks goodbye in the morning and sleeping together in Al-Haitham’s bed at night.

Al-Haitham even stops reading books at the dinner table, after Kaveh looks at him one day and says, “You know, if you were my husband, you wouldn’t bring books to dinner.”

People keep stopping Kaveh on the street to congratulate him, sometimes when he’s with Al-Haitham, sometimes when he’s alone. Their effusive praise gets a little easier to bear each time, though Kaveh still flinches every time someone says Al-Haitham is lucky to have him.

And, weirdly enough, Kaveh encounters a not-insignificant portion of the population who insist on calling Al-Haitham his wife.

(“You think Al-Haitham is the wife?” Kaveh had sputtered. “Why?”

The aunty who first mentioned it had clicked her tongue like Kaveh was the one acting ridiculous. “Isn’t it obvious? He nags you, he brings you back from the tavern when you drink too much, and he works a nice, sensible job while you go and do your… art.”

“We’re progressive, you know,” her friend had added. “Just because one man is taller and stronger and more muscular than the other, it doesn’t mean he’s the husband.”

The first aunty had nodded. “My cousin’s daughter’s friend’s aunt has a sister who moved to Mondstat. They’re very free there. We learned a lot from her. Why, you both could be the wives, if you wanted.”

“Right,” Kaveh had said, feeling all too out of his depth. “I will… let him know. Thank you, aunties.”)

And, true to his word, Al-Haitham keeps cutting fruit for Kaveh. One night, Kaveh enters the kitchen and peeks around Al-Haitham’s shoulder to see a neat row of apple slices, each one with its rosy red skin still on.

“Why didn’t you take the skin off?” he asks.

Al-Haitham doesn’t turn. “The skin has all the nutrients.”

“Says who?”

“Says all of Amurta,” Al-Haitham retorts. He still isn’t looking at Kaveh and doesn’t seem willing to budge, so Kaveh whips out his most rational, logical, convincing counterargument:

“But Haitham,” he whines, “I don’t like it.”

There’s a second of incredulous silence, then Kaveh feels more than hears Al-Haitham let out a low, rumbling laugh that sounds for all the world a little… helpless.

“Well, if you don’t like it,” Al-Haitham teases, but his hands are already moving to peel the skin off the slices with swift, neat movements.

Kaveh hums, pleased. “Do you want one?”

“Sure.”

And Kaveh doesn’t know what possesses him—doesn’t know what’s been possessing him—but he reaches around Al-Haitham and snags an apple slice off the plate. He doesn’t need to ask before Al-Haitham turns around so that they’re nose-to-nose.

“Open,” Kaveh says, and places the apple slice into Al-Haitham’s waiting mouth.

“Hm,” Al-Haitham says. He chews and swallows; Kaveh watches his Adam’s apple bob, mouth dry. “Sweet,” he remarks, looking at Kaveh with those sharp, dancing eyes.

That’s all to say—things go well. Until, of course, Kaveh gets kidnapped again.

Chapter Text

While Kaveh could reasonably dodge responsibility for the first kidnapping, he’ll be the first to admit that this kidnapping is kind of, maybe, partially his fault.

But who can blame him? Nobody, especially when they hear how it starts:

A kid—no older than seven, if Kaveh had to guess, though he’s usually pretty bad at guessing—runs up to him at the market and tugs on his pant leg.

Kaveh, of course, melts. “Hey, sweetie, what’s up?” he coos, crouching down to meet her eyes.

The girl smiles. “Can you follow me over to that dark alleyway?” she asks, pointing to the dark alleyway in question.

Kaveh doesn’t think twice. “Sure!”

When they walk over, though, Kaveh comes face to face with a pair of Eremites. Oddly enough, they don’t look particularly hostile, besides the length of rope one holds in his hands.

“Thanks, kid!” that Eremite says. Instead of the signature red bandana tied around his head, he wears an orange one. He hands the girl a wrapped candy and some coins, which she accepts with both hands.

“Thank you!” she chirps. She shoots Kaveh a gap-toothed grin. “Bye, mister! See you later!”

“Bye?” Kaveh says.

He waits until she runs out of sight before turning to the Eremites, Mehrak already summoning his glowing claymore. Sure, he may be shorter—by a centimeter!—and weaker and less muscular than Al-Haitham, but that doesn’t mean he can’t hold his own in a fight.

“Wait!” another one says. She wears a cast on her left arm covered in signatures and drawings, perhaps from her fellow Eremites. “We don’t want to hurt you, besides the inherent harm present in kidnapping someone, which we apologize in advance for.”

Orange Eremite nods in agreement. “Truth be told,” he says, leaning in close and looking around nervously, “We usually don’t do this type of thing, but we’ve been hired by someone to kidnap you. They offered really good money for this.”

“We really don’t want to hurt you,” Cast says. “Could you follow us into a secondary location for a few hours, just so we can report that we kidnapped you and get our money? We’ll let you go right afterward.”

“I don’t know,” Kaveh says, dubious. “My husband will worry.”

“Three hours, tops,” Orange Eremite says. Next to him, Cast nods vigorously.

And, well, Al-Haitham always did say that Kaveh’s biggest flaw is his soft heart. While Kaveh has never been driven to the point of kidnapping someone for pay—not that he’s ever been asked—he does know what it feels like to need money. To feel, perhaps, pushed to that brink of desperation.

“Alright,” he sighs. “But if Al-Haitham somehow catches word of this, I really can’t help you guys.”

“Thank you so much,” Orange says. Cast holds out her non-injured fist for Kaveh to bump. He doesn’t bump it, and she drops her hand after a few awkward seconds.

They bind Kaveh’s hands with the rope they hold, tying it so loosely that Kaveh has to hold onto it to stop his hands from slipping out. Then, they ask Kaveh to look as helpless as possible, and take a picture to give to their mysterious employer.

Instead of leading him to another abandoned warehouse, the Eremites bring him to a small hut on the city outskirts. The hut is devoid of furniture, save for a single, rickety-looking chair and a dusty mat that seems to have been enthusiastically, if ineffectively, beaten.

Cast gestures to the chair in a clear invitation, but Kaveh shakes his head and plops on the floor, making sure to look as disgruntled and inconvenienced as possible. He gets their plight, he really does. But he was planning on having a nice, hot shower once he got back, and his hair is starting to feel uncomfortably greasy—so if he’s going along with this scheme, he’s at least going to make them feel as guilty as possible for it.

“Soooo,” Orange says, “you mentioned your husband earlier. Al-Haitham, right? How’s that going?”

“Fine,” Kaveh sniffs.

Orange nods repeatedly. “Cool, cool,” he says, looking as awkward as Kaveh hopes he feels. “That’s great. I also got married recently.”

He pulls out a small photo from his pocket. Judging from its deep creases, Orange has unfolded and folded the picture dozens of times. Kaveh leans in to get a better look, and sees Orange standing next to a tall, weedy Eremite with dark skin and a pair of spectacles perched on his nose. They are, unfortunately, a very cute couple.

“My husband, Vineet,” Orange says proudly.

Against his will, Kaveh finds himself softening, just a bit. “That’s very sweet,” he says a bit more genuinely. “How long have you been married for?”

“Just a few months, now. I wanted to wait until I could afford a ring, but Vin said he didn’t care about a ring—he just cared about us, and our future together.”

“Congratulations,” Kaveh says, and is surprised to find that he really means it. “Any tips for newlyweds?”

“Honestly?” Orange refolds the picture delicately and puts it away, then flops down to sit across from Kaveh. “Does he treat you right?”

“He does,” Kaveh says. Oddly enough, it’s the truth.

“Do you treat him right?”

“I’m trying to.” That’s not a lie, either.

Orange nods, seeming appeased. “See, me and Vin have been married for only a few months, but we’ve been together, gosh–”

“Twelve years,” Cast cuts in. She joins them on the floor, listening intently. “They get sappier by the day.”

“Twelve years, right. Do you want to know our secret?”

“Yes,” Kaveh says. “Please.”

Orange leans in close. “Always try to treat the other person better than they treat you. Try to make your relationship 70-30, except you’re both trying to give the 70—that way, it’s 140% of a relationship.”

“A mega-relationship,” Cast says, helpfully.

“A mega-relationship,” Kaveh echoes thoughtfully.

And it makes sense. Really, when Kaveh thinks about it, Al-Haitham has always treated him well—no matter how much Al-Haitham himself pretends otherwise. He complains about Kaveh’s hammering, but walks out of his bedroom in the morning wearing his noise-canceling headphones. He teases Kaveh for freeloading, but cuts fruit for him every night.

He pulls his name off their joint research project, but transforms their original research site into a home—and makes a space for Kaveh.

In their relationship, Al-Haitham has, objectively, been giving the 70. Maybe Kaveh needs to do the same.

“Thanks, guys,” Kaveh says. He smiles, and it comes out a little warmer than it would have at the start of this whole ordeal. “This was actually really helpful.”

Cast smiles back and goes to say something, but she’s interrupted by the sound of someone kicking the door open.

It’s Al-Haitham. Kaveh feels simultaneously relieved and mortified to see him, which is a painfully familiar sensation.

“Hello.” Cast stands in greeting. “You must be the Scribe. My name is–” she begins, but stops abruptly when Al-Haitham materializes his sword and flings it straight at her chest.

“Wait!” Kaveh jumps to his feet and runs in front of Cast. He squeezes his eyes shut, bracing for impact, but feels nothing. A second passes, then another, before Kaveh feels brave enough to slowly open one eye.

Al-Haitham’s sword hovers an inch away from his chest, quivering minutely in the air. When Kaveh looks up, Al-Haitham’s face is strained with the effort of stopping it, and he painstakingly recalls the sword back to his hand.

“Kaveh,” Al-Haitham says darkly. “I knew you had too soft a heart, but defending your kidnappers is ridiculous, even for you.”

“They were paid to do it, Haitham. And honestly, they’re pretty nice—they even gave me relationship advice.”

“Relationship advice?” Al-Haitham raises an eyebrow. “Like what?”

Well. “I can’t tell you,” Kaveh hedges.

“I did not advise him to say that,” Orange interjects. “Communication is an essential part of any relationship!”

He quails when Al-Haitham turns towards him, which Kaveh takes as a sign to approach Al-Haitham, projecting peace and calm as if nearing a particularly territorial raptor.

“I’m so sorry about him,” Kaveh says to the Eremites. He places a hand on Al-Haitham’s elbow, not that it would do anything to keep the other in place, if push came to shove. “He’s usually like this, if I’m being honest, but not as violent.”

“You kidnapped my wife,” Al-Haitham says, voice flat, talking past Kaveh. “Give me one good reason I shouldn’t incapacitate you and leave you for the matra to find—or better, deal with you myself.”

“Because I asked, Haitham,” Kaveh says, drawing closer. He lowers his voice so only Al-Haitham can hear. “Look, they didn’t lay a finger on me, I promise. Let’s just leave, okay?”

Al-Haitham stands stock-still before the fight drains out of his body. At another pointed look from Kaveh, he sheathes his sword.

“Wait!” Cast says, just as they turn to leave.

Kaveh whirls around and throws his hands in the air. “Seriously? I just stopped him from stabbing you!”

“I know, I know,” Cast says, “but the person who hired us wanted us to tell you this: The Acting Grand Sage is kindly advised to stop his machinations before those he loves gets even more hurt. Oh, also, he told us to rough you up a bit, but we don’t believe in the execution of meaningless violence.”

Kaveh sees Al-Haitham’s fingers twitch—a clear sign that he’d pull out his sword again—and, without thinking, reaches down to grab Al-Haitham’s hand with his own. Al-Haitham shoots him an incredulous look.

“You see? They didn’t hurt me,” Kaveh whispers.

“Fine,” Al-Haitham whispers back. Louder, he calls, “Who hired you?”

“I don’t know,” Cast says. She shrugs for good measure. “He didn’t tell us his name.”

“What did he look like?”

“Short, brown hair. He wore Akademiya robes—oh, and he said he had a bone to pick with you. That’s all I know, though.”

Kaveh can tell she’s being genuine, so he squeezes Al-Haitham’s hand. “That’s all they know,” he says. “You can figure things out later. Come on, Haitham—let’s go home.”

Al-Haitham sighs deeply, before intertwining his fingers with Kaveh’s. “Yeah,” he says, his other hand coming up to rub at his temples. “Let’s go home.”

Al-Haitham remains silent the entire way back. Kaveh peers up at him from time to time, but his courage fails him whenever he tries to say something.

When they reach their front door, Al-Haitham finally speaks.

“What you did today was incredibly stupid,” he says. “Not to mention reckless, idiotic, and ridiculous.”

“I know,” Kaveh says. “I’m sorry. I know I’m inconveniencing you with all of these kidnappings.”

Oddly enough, that’s what makes Al-Haitham angry. He stares at Kaveh. “Are you kidding me? That’s what you think I’m mad about?” he says.

“...Yes?” Kaveh ventures to say.

But clearly, it is the wrong thing to say, because Al-Haitham snarls, shakes his head, and opens the front door. He’s still holding Kaveh’s hand, which allows him to tug Kaveh inside and push him against the wall of the foyer, using that extra centimeter of height to loom over him, making Kaveh feel small in a way no one else can. Small as in safe, though—not as in lesser.

“I’ll say this as many times as I have to,” Al-Haitham says, “to get it through your thick skull. I’m not mad because I’m inconvenienced. I’m not inconvenienced. At all. I’m mad because you’re putting yourself in danger, Kaveh. What would you have done if those Eremites had actually followed orders? Had actually hurt you, because of whatever this person has against me? What would I have done?”

Kaveh peers up through his lashes. The light filters in through the stained glass of their front door, casting the side of Al-Haitham’s face in yellows and greens and blues. He looks insufferably handsome like this.

“I’m sorry,” Kaveh repeats. “I really am, Haitham, honest.”

Al-Haitham groans and leans in to thunk his forehead against the wall, right next to Kaveh’s head. “What am I going to do?” he mutters, more to himself than to Kaveh. “You make me act so illogically.”

At that, Kaveh laughs breathlessly. “Silly,” he whispers back, one hand coming up to card through Al-Haitham’s thick, silky, bird-feather hair. “Now you know how I feel.”

The next day, the Office of the Scribe releases a second, curter announcement: If you kidnap the Scribe’s spouse again, he will personally come and kill you.

Kaveh stares down at the paper that had been slipped under their doorstep that morning, feeling his cheeks burn. For all his musculature, Al-Haitham is loath to kill, usually preferring to knock people out with just enough calculated force to avoid permanently harming them. And yet, here he is, threatening murder to those who'd want to kidnap Kaveh. Not for the first time since yesterday, he thinks of what Orange had told him: Try to treat the other better than they treat you.

That’s why, when Al-Haitham returns from work that night, it’s to dinner made and the table set. Kaveh walks to meet Al-Haitham at the door with his apron still wrapped around his waist.

“Welcome home,” he says, suddenly feeling nervous.

Al-Haitham pulls off his headset and sets it down on the table. It leaves his hair ruffled and messy. “I’m back.”

“I was thinking,” Kaveh starts. “Um. If I were your wife, I suppose I’d give you a welcome home kiss too, right?”

Al-Haitham blinks, then smiles, that quick, knife-flash thing. “Yes, that would make sense,” he says.

“Good. Great. Good, then.”

With that, Kaveh inches closer, peering up expectantly. Al-Haitham seems perfectly content to stand there and wait, though, so Kaveh settles his hands on Al-Haitham’s shoulders and sways up to press a soft, chaste kiss to Al-Haitham’s mouth.

Or at least, that’s what he tries to do. Because when they kiss, Al-Haitham springs into motion, settling one large, cold hand against Kaveh’s back. The other comes up to cup Kaveh’s jaw, tilting Kaveh’s head until—oh, they’re kissing, real kissing now, long and slow and leaving Kaveh dizzy for air.

Jeez, Kaveh thinks, head swimming. He must really need to convince Nahida.

They kiss and kiss and kiss until a loud pounding at the door makes them startle and jump apart. They stare at each other, Kaveh breathless and Al-Haitham’s mouth red and wet, until another round of knocking jolts Al-Haitham out of his stupor and he goes to open the door.

“What?” Al-Haitham snaps, yanking the door open.

Kaveh peers around his back and sees Cyno, who holds a familiar sheet of paper in his hand and looks rather aggrieved. Funnily enough, he usually doesn’t adopt that expression until after conversing with Al-Haitham.

“Al-Haitham,” Cyno says in greeting. “You do realize that what your announcement is threatening is highly illegal activity, right?”

Al-Haitham shrugs. “Cyno. So is kidnapping.”

“Yes, and if it happens again, the matra will handle things.”

“He’s my wife, Cyno,” Al-Haitham snaps. “Not all of us are fortunate enough to be the General Mahamatra, and be able to handle it ourselves anyway.”

Cyno rolls his eyes, then tilts his head to the side to make eye contact with Kaveh. “Evening, Kaveh,” he says. “Congratulations on your wedding.”

“Hi,” Kaveh says. “Um, thanks. And thanks for your present, too—I keep meaning to write back, but I’ve been busy–”

“Living in domestic bliss and getting kidnapped a few times?” Cyno shrugs. “No worries, I get it. ’Nari and I went through the same thing when we got married.”

Kaveh blinks. Al-Haitham’s eyebrows climb higher and higher on his forehead. Then–

“You’re married???” Kaveh can barely restrain himself from shouting. “What? Since when? Why didn’t you tell us? Why didn’t you invite us to your wedding?”

Cyno shrugs. “We got married right after Tighnari graduated. We didn’t really know you then. Why didn’t you invite us to your wedding?”

Kaveh sputters. “Um, well, that’s–”

“We eloped,” Al-Haitham interjects, wrapping a large, heavy hand around Kaveh’s waist. “No ceremony. Sorry,” he says, not sounding very sorry at all.

“Yeah?” Cyno challenges. He looks pointedly at Kaveh’s hands. “Where’s his wedding ring, then?”

Al-Haitham doesn’t miss a beat. “Right here,” he says. With the hand not on Kaveh’s hip, he reaches into his pocket and pulls out a ring that Kaveh has never seen before.

It’s beautiful, made out of smooth, warm gold. The band is carved to look like a raptor streaking across the sky, its sleek head and hooked beak welded to its sharp, angular tail feathers to form a perfect circle. Its eye consists of a single emerald gem that glitters fiercely under the lamplight.

“We had to get it fixed after the first kidnapping,” Al-Haitham explains. He then turns his own hand so both Kaveh and Cyno can see the ring on his finger, which is carved to look like a flowing bird of paradise with a beautiful amber gem for an eye.

Cyno clears his throat. “Well then,” he says. “Sorry for questioning you. I guess it really must be true dove.” At Kaveh and Al-Haitham’s blank stares, he continues, “Get it? True dove—like true love, except doves–”

“Okay!” Kaveh interjects. He’d really rather still be kissing Al-Haitham. “Is there anything else we can help you with? Do you want to come inside for a cup of tea?”

Cyno shakes his head. “No need,” he says. “I have a few more people to… check in with. But you”—he points to Kaveh—“need to stop your husband from committing a crime. As for you”—he points to Al-Haitham—“don’t commit a crime. And for both of you,” Cyno says, then smiles, “come over sometime. Collei misses you.”

“We will—it has been a while,” Kaveh says, smiling back. He continues smiling until Cyno leaves and the door shuts, upon which he whirls to face Al-Haitham.

“A ring?” he demands. “Since when do we have wedding rings?”

Al-Haitham adopts that still, unmoving expression. “I never got around to giving it to you,” he says, which is a terrible explanation. “You can have it. If you want it.”

“Are you kidding me?” Kaveh says, incredulous. “Of course I want it!”

His heart leaps into his throat when Al-Haitham grabs his left hand, eyes intent, and slides the ring onto his finger. It fits perfectly.

“Well,” Kaveh says. He brings up his left hand and wiggles all five fingers. “How do I look?”

Al-Haitham hums. “Beautiful,” he says, but his eyes are trained firmly on Kaveh’s face.

Kaveh blushes. “Come on,” he mumbles, cursing his pale skin that betrays far too much. “Dinner’s probably cold by now.”

After dinner, Kaveh pours over his draft on the divan while Al-Haitham rustles around in the kitchen. His initial concept had been rejected by the clients—one thought it was too ostentatious, while the other thought it was too understated. And somehow, they both still agreed with each other.

Al-Haitham finally walks in with a plate in hand. Kaveh looks up and sees a neat row of apple slices standing like sentinels, and makes a small, pleased noise. Only one slice still has its skin on.

“Eat that one first,” Al-Haitham instructs.

Kaveh grumbles, but acquiesces. He then picks up another apple slice, one without the skin, and reaches up to hold it to Al-Haitham’s mouth.

“Open.”

Al-Haitham leans down to accept the apple with a content sound of his own, and Kaveh can’t help the smile that spreads over his face. Al-Haitham comes to stand behind Kaveh’s shoulder.

“For those Port Ormos clients?”

“Yeah.” Kaveh stretches, feeling the tension in his upper back, his wrists. “It’s not going well, though.”

“No?”

“I mean.” Kaveh huffs out a not-laugh, not-sigh. “It’s no Palace of Alcazarzaray, right?”

For all it sent him into debt, the Palace of Alcazarzaray was—is—Kaveh’s magnum opus. He’ll never top it, will never make anything as good, for lack of a better word. Al-Haitham found him in those tense, tenuous days after its completion, where Kaveh felt almost mad with bereavement and guilt and the hollow, horrible sense that he’d never accomplish half as much again.

“Hm,” is all Al-Haitham says. Then, “Frankly, there are a fair number of complaints I have with the Palace of Alcazarzaray. I find the walkways unimaginative and clunky, and the tiles on the roofing were–”

“Okay, okay!” Kaveh jumps up. “Just eat another apple, jeez, I get it.”

“I could keep going,” Al-Haitham offers.

“No need. Besides—” and maybe Kaveh looks up through his eyelashes on purpose, here, to say words he doesn’t quite believe—“I’ll just have to make the next one better, right?”

“I guess you will,” Al-Haitham says, then leans in and takes the apple slice from Kaveh’s fingers without complaint.

Still chewing, Al-Haitham rounds the couch as Kaveh sits back down, settles the plate of apples between them, and pulls out his latest book: A Study of the Ancient Runic System Employed in Pre-Sumerian Rainforest Cave Systems, Vol. III. According to Al-Haitham, it’s even worse—and thus, better—than the second one.

At midnight, like they’ve done for the past few weeks they’ve been married, Al-Haitham stands up like clockwork and puts his book away. He doesn’t need to say anything before Kaveh follows. Though he hates to admit it, Al-Haitham might have been onto something with the whole healthy sleep schedule thing.

But this time, Kaveh takes a long look at Al-Haitham’s dresser as he goes to get ready for bed. It looks more like his dresser now, to be honest; Al-Haitham hadn’t owned much before Kaveh moved in, and now Kaveh’s products are scattered across the surface: eye creams, sunscreen, various lotions and makeup products. Hair clips, bangles, rings.

His clothes, too, mostly hang in Al-Haitham’s closet and sit in Al-Haitham’s drawer. Al-Haitham had moved all of his old clothes and winter wear to Kaveh’s room, which they now use as storage space. As if Kaveh is never going to move back. As if they’re going to pretend to be married forever.

He doesn’t mind that thought at all. And really, what escape from this ruse do they have? Nahida will always have her mind-reading powers, and it’s not like Kaveh can move out—if there’s one thing he hates more than being interrogated about their marriage, it’s the thought of being interrogated about their divorce.

But Kaveh knows that if he brings it up, Al-Haitham will devise some clever, unexpected solution. That’s why he hasn’t brought it up—so that Al-Haitham won’t think of a way to get out of this mess.

It’s a terribly selfish thought, Kaveh knows. Al-Haitham deserves to act this way to someone he actually loves, not someone he’s just faking a marriage with. But that’s the side effect of being treated like a pampered, spoiled wife for the past few weeks: Kaveh is becoming more and more okay with being a little selfish, sometimes.

“Haitham,” he asks once they’re both in bed.

“Hm?” Al-Haitham rests his bony chin on Kaveh’s head, and Kaveh squirms in half-hearted protest. It’s terribly ineffective.

How long will you want to do this? Kaveh doesn’t ask. Instead, he says, “Did you like what I made for dinner today?”

“It was okay,” Al-Haitham says, and catches Kaveh’s elbow before it can make contact with his ribs.

Besides netting Kaveh a beautiful wedding ring (!!!) Al-Haitham’s second announcement seems to largely backfire in a way his plans never do. Now, instead of using the Akademiya’s notoriously unresponsive and neglected complaint system, everyone in Sumeru’s dark underbelly who wants an audience with the former Acting Grand Sage now targets Kaveh.

The identity of the abductors vary. Some are actively vengeful—they have a bone to pick with Al-Haitham for how he ran the Akademiya, or for how he took down the Akadmiya, and try to take their frustrations out on Kaveh. Others are mostly benign, like those Eremites he encountered; they mention working for a mysterious employer but hold no actual resentment of their own. Others still just want to get in on the trend.

Kaveh can dispatch most of them himself—he never goes anywhere without Mehrak, not after that first disastrous kidnapping. On the rare occasion the kidnappers get the best of him, Kaveh barely has to sit in whatever abandoned location they take him and listen to whatever monologue they’ve prepared before Al-Haitham appears, knocks them unconscious, and rescues Kaveh in a dramatic and not at all swoon-worthy show of heroism.

The one downside is that Al-Haitham keeps insisting on carrying Kaveh bridal-style out of those situations, even when Kaveh isn’t injured.

“Don’t get kidnapped, then,” he says whenever Kaveh tries to protest.

“It’s not like I’m trying to,” Kaveh always retorts, cross.

(And on quite a few occasions, Kaveh adds, “Seriously, Haitham, are you sure I’m not inconveniencing you? Don’t you have work to get to?”

Every time, Al-Haitham says, “Don’t worry—it’s a surefire way to get out of a meeting without people getting angry with me.” He follows it by jostling Kaveh in his arms, gently. “Don’t take that as an invitation to get kidnapped, though.”)

Soon enough, word spreads that the former Acting Grand Sage isn’t all that receptive when he shows up to rescue his wife and that actually, he’s rather angry and terrifying. Kaveh pouts only a little bit before more word spreads that the former Acting Grand Sage’s wife is just as terrifying and competent—certainly not spread, of course, by the Office of the Scribe.

And now, in the mornings, instead of those chaste pecks they once shared, Al-Haitham kisses Kaveh long and deep and slow goodbye.

On one such morning, they kiss until Al-Haitham’s music player chimes, and Kaveh reluctantly pulls away. Al-Haitham chases after Kaveh’s mouth until the sound registers. Then he glances at the clock, swears, and, with one last peck to Kaveh’s cheek, dashes out the door. With a hand pressed firmly to the spot Al-Haitham kissed, Kaveh laughs and laughs and laughs at the rare sight of Al-Haitham actually speed-walking.

The kiss leaves Kaveh in a spectacularly good mood, and he lingers out on their doorstep, grinning like a fool, until someone comes by to bring him his mail.

“Good morning!” he calls, and the girl delivering his mail waves back.

“Morning,” she says, and hands him a letter. “Kaveh, right? This is for you!” It’s sealed in a blue envelope, with no other hint as to the sender’s identity.

Kaveh frowns. “Who’s this from?” Neither he nor Al-Haitham get unexpected letters often, and none of their friends would leave an unmarked letter—or use an envelope this fancy.

The girl shrugs. “Some lady in Fontaine. Anyway, could you leave a five-star review for Komaniya Express?” She waves a hand in front of Kaveh’s face when he doesn’t respond. “Hello? It’s okay if you don’t want to.”

Kaveh shakes himself out of his stupor. “Um, no, yes, I’ll be sure to leave a review,” he stammers.

“Thanks!” the girl chirps, and dashes away.

Before she’s even out of sight, Kaveh’s legs give out and he crumples to the floor. There’s only one woman in Fontaine that would plausibly be contacting him, and she hasn’t done so in months, if not years.

He rips open the envelope and slides out the letter within. Kaveh, my dear son, he reads, and immediately throws the letter down. He doesn’t know what he feels—happy, sure, but also nauseated and panicky in a way he shouldn’t feel when thinking about his mother.

What is he even doing? Playing house, playing games. Playing something he stole from his mother, when he took her husband from her all those years ago.

Kaveh has a draft due in two days and another meeting with a client tomorrow. He can’t afford to feel like this, not right now—and yet, he feels it anyways. Numb, he stumbles to his feet, leaving the letter behind, and barely has the thought to pull their front door shut behind him. He’s locked himself out again, but right now, Kaveh doesn’t care.

Like a zombie, Kaveh traces a familiar path to Lambad’s Tavern and does something he hasn’t wanted to do since he and Al-Haitham first started this whole charade:

“Lambad,” he says, “please get me drunk.”

Lambad blinks. “Are you sure? I haven’t seen you in here since you and Al-Haitham got married.” He leans in close and whispers, “Has he been mistreating you?”

“No, no,” Kaveh says. He buries his face in his arms. His nose burns in the way that it does before he starts crying. “He treats me so well, Lambad.” Better than he should, he doesn’t say. Better than I deserve.

“Oookay,” Lambad says, before sliding a glass of something across the bar. “Does Al-Haitham know where you are?”

“He’ll find me,” Kaveh says morosely, and wishes the thought wouldn’t make him feel better. “He always does.”

Time passes. Kaveh doesn’t know how much. He doesn’t know how much he drank, but it’s a lot, probably. When he next looks up, he finds himself surrounded by curious Akademiya students, released from their late-night study sessions.

“Are you okay, Senior Kaveh?” one asks tentatively.

“No,” Kaveh mumbles into his glass. He sighs. “Look, I’m really not in the mood, okay?”

The kids don’t disperse. Apparently, being married makes Kaveh seem soft.

“What’s wrong?” another asks instead of doing something sensible, like fleeing.

Kaveh hiccups, and his mouth opens against his will. “Haitham doesn’t love me,” he starts, then remembers their ruse at the last minute. “Not as much as I love him,” he tacks on hastily.

“What?” several voices shout at the same time.

“No, no, Senior Kaveh,” one student shouts. “Scribe Al-Haitham loves you so much.”

“Yeah,” another one adds. “He talks about you all the time.”

“He always shows off your lunchboxes.”

“He’s recruited a bunch of us into letting him know if you get kidnapped.”

More voices add themselves to the fray, talking about how often Al-Haitham talks about Kaveh’s projects, and his accomplishments, and his food. About their life together, despite Al-Haitham’s notorious desire for privacy.

“I don’t deserve it,” Kaveh moans, but it’s lost beneath the chatter. Good. He’d be mortified if people actually heard.

It’s that time of the night when Kaveh just wants to go home. The alcohol makes the world seem too fuzzy and the voices too sharp, and Kaveh feels sluggish in a way he usually doesn’t when he drinks.

“Hey, Lambad,” he slurs. “What’d you give me? I feel a little weird.” Or maybe he just thinks it, because Lambad doesn’t seem to hear him.

Kaveh whines. “I want to go home,” he complains. He fully expects no one to hear him again, and so he startles when a large hand settles at his back. Tipping his head backward, Kaveh catches sight of Al-Haitham.

“Then let’s go home, Kaveh,” Al-Haitham sighs, already moving to pull Kaveh up. He tosses Mora on the counters and says, “Thanks for letting me know, Lambad.”

“No problem, Al-Haitham,” Lambad calls, and Kaveh tries to whip his head around to glare at him but stops when it makes the room spin. Traitor. “Get home safe.”

“Goodnight, seniors!” the Akademiya students call after them. Traitors, all of them. “Get home safe!”

The crisp night air sobers Kaveh up somewhat, but he’s still plenty drunk. Next to him, Al-Haitham sighs.

“Do I have to carry you again?” he asks, and Kaveh knows he’s just teasing, but he’s drunk, and he’s sad, and it stings in the way it usually wouldn’t.

“No,” he snaps, batting Al-Haitham’s hands away. “I’m serious. No. Why do you always have to come get me?” A tear slides down his cheek, unprompted. “I don’t like it.”

This is supposed to be the part where Kaveh storms off, dignified, but he mostly just wobbles in place. Al-Haitham sighs again and lifts Kaveh up.

“No, Haitham,” Kaveh sobs. “I don’t like it.” But he does like it, he does, and it makes him cry even harder. He buries his face in Al-Haitham’s neck to try to stifle his sobs, but they come out anyway, large, heaving things that wrack his body and make him shake in Al-Haitham’s arms.

“I know,” Al-Haitham says, sounding soft and sad and helpless and all these things Kaveh never wanted to make him feel. “I know you don’t. I’m sorry, Kaveh.”

Kaveh’s tears slowly subside as they walk home, leaving him quiet and trembling. Al-Haitham never sets him down once, never even seems tired. Even when they reach their front door, Al-Haitham just shifts Kaveh’s weight onto one arm in order to pull out his keys and let them inside. He only puts Kaveh down once they reach their bedroom but Kaveh, feeling wrung out and dizzy, crumples to the floor.

I’m sorry, he wants to say, but stops, feeling sudden nausea overtake him. “I’m about to throw up,” he says instead.

“You’re not about to throw up,” Al-Haitham says, crouching down next to Kaveh.

“Haitham, I’m serious.” Kaveh’s panicking now. His breaths come in short, tight bursts. He hates throwing up. “Oh my god, I’m about to throw up.”

“You’re not going to throw up,” Al-Haitham says, then runs one large, cold hand up Kaveh’s back to rest on his neck.

It settles him, and Kaveh breathes deeply as he feels the nausea recede. He sighs and tips over to press his face into Al-Haitham’s neck. It’s slightly warmer than his hand, but something’s fluttering under Kaveh’s cheek, fast and delicate like the beating of a hummingbird’s wings.

“Haitham,” he says woozily, “why’s your heart beating so fast?”

Al-Haitham shifts slightly, so Kaveh’s head is nestled on his chest instead of his neck, hearing that quick, fast heartbeat, and peers down with one sharp eye.

“You really don’t know why?” he murmurs.

Kaveh knows what he wants to be the reason why. “I wish it were because you loved me,” he whispers into Al-Haitham’s chest. He’s met with silence. “I love you,” he tries again.

If possible, that heartbeat gets even faster. But Al-Haitham’s voice when he speaks next is as calm and placid as ever. “You’re drunk, Kaveh,” he soothes. “Let’s go to bed, and we’ll talk in the morning.”

But when Kaveh wakes, it’s to an empty bed and a glass of water and some painkillers on the nightstand. His head is killing him—but unfortunately, he remembers everything that happened last night.

“I love you.”

“You’re drunk, Kaveh.”

That’s a rejection if he’s ever heard one, and Kaveh’s left to stew, humiliated and alone.

Chapter Text

The letter from his mother sits innocuously on the dining room table when Kaveh stumbles out from their—from Al-Haitham’s—room. It’s been obviously moved and refolded by hands not his own, but somehow, Kaveh knows that Al-Haitham hasn’t read it. Next to the letter sits a glass of juice and a plate covered by a bowl.

Lifting it, Kaveh is greeted with a few slices of toasted bread and thick, ripe-looking slices of melon, peaches with their skin cut off, and neatly chopped bananas. Nothing acidic or too heavy, because that always upsets Kaveh’s stomach after he drinks too much, but substantive enough to settle his mild nausea. 

Kaveh inhales the food gratefully, too shaky and starved to think deeply about its implications. Only then, with shaking hands and a mildly receding headache, does he unfold the letter and read its contents. 

Kaveh, my dear son, the letter reads. I know it has been a while, and for that I am deeply sorry. 

I wanted to congratulate you on your marriage to Scribe Al-Haitham. Your father and his were good friends, though they pretended not to be; your father respected him deeply. If he is half as good as you, Kaveh, I will be glad to know that Scribe Al-Haitham is a wonderful man. It’s the other way around, Kaveh thinks, but grimly reads on. 

May he treat you well; may you treat him well. May you both be happy with each other. And I know I forfeited my right to say this long ago, but Kaveh, may you love him and let yourself be loved by him, without fear. 

If I am not overstepping, I would like to return to Sumeru to see you and Scribe Al-Haitham again. Please let me know if you would be amenable to this. I certainly would understand if you are not. 

Love, 

Your mother

Kaveh sits motionless at the table, as the sunlight brightens outside and the intermittent bustle of the street ebbs and flows. He loves his mother. He would give the world to her. And yet, only in the darkest of nights when the moon does not shine, can he admit that the thought of her feeds that deep, ugly thing inside him. 

He is so much like her, he knows: the soft gold of their hair, their love for art and architecture, their preference for fruits with the skin peeled off. The palpable fear he can read in every clumsy, painstaking word she’s written, the same fear that sits like a pit in his stomach and seizes him, sometimes, when Al-Haitham draws near. 

May you love him and let yourself be loved by him, without fear. What a joke, Kaveh thinks, with no small amount of vitriol. At least his mother loved someone who loved her, too. 

So, instead of working on that frankly godforsaken house or drafting up a contract for his new clients, Kaveh imagines all the things he’ll say to Al-Haitham when he gets home.  

“What are you doing, Haitham?” he might say. “What are we doing?”

Or perhaps, “I knew you were cold-hearted, but kissing someone you don’t love is frigid, even for you.”

That’s one difference between him and Al-Haitham—when he’s angry, truly angry, Kaveh gets mean in a way that Al-Haitham, for all his bluntness, never is. 

So that’s what Kaveh plans to say to Al-Haitham. But when the front door swings open and shut and Al-Haitham appears in the entrance to the kitchen, where Kaveh has busied himself peeling and mincing garlic—half to avoid having to look at Al-Haitham when he enters and half because, well, dinner plans are dinner plans, right?—Kaveh finds those words dying in his throat. 

Kaveh doesn’t know when the mere sight of Al-Haitham became enough to diffuse the worst of his anger. Funny; it used to be the opposite. 

“What are you making?” Al-Haitham asks, drawing near. 

Kaveh stiffens. “Sabz Meat Stew.”

He finishes chopping the garlic and moves onto slicing some onions, tearing up as soon as he makes the first cut. Al-Haitham sees his red, watery eyes and sighs. 

“This always happens,” he chides, but his hands are deft and gentle as they turn Kaveh’s head towards him and dry the tears from his eyes with a tissue, careful not to smudge his makeup. 

Kaveh can’t help it. He looks at Al-Haitham, really looks, drinks in the sight of his stained-glass eyes and strong nose and full mouth, drawn in soft amusement. He thinks he sees Al-Haitham, too, looking; his hands remain on Kaveh’s chin and cheek even though the tears have stopped.

Welcome home kiss, Kaveh’s brain not-so-helpfully reminds him.

No, Kaveh snaps back at it. Regardless of Al-Haitham’s commitment to this ruse, Kaveh won’t force him to keep kissing someone he doesn’t love. 

Kaveh turns his head away. The moment breaks, as fragile as gossamer. Al-Haitham steps away, his expression settling into something inscrutable. 

“I could have made it,” Al-Haitham protests half-heartedly. A clear distraction, which Kaveh takes gratefully.

“Absolutely not,” he retorts, dropping the garlic and onions into an oiled pan, which had been placed on the stovetop earlier to slowly heat up.

“The garlic will burn if you add it that early.”

“What are you, a nagging wife?”

“Sure,” Al-Haitham shrugs. “If you listen to the aunties.” 

When Kaveh turns to him, mouth opening to respond, Al-Haitham takes the opportunity to drag him into a quick, featherlight kiss. 

“I’m home,” he murmurs. 

Kaveh’s helpless in the face of it. “Welcome home,” he whispers back. 

Al-Haitham steps back. From the crinkles at the corners of his eyes and the way his mouth has lifted, he’s evidently pleased with himself. 

“I’m going to change,” he announces. Then, as he leaves, he tosses over his shoulder: “By the way, Nahida and the Traveler are coming over for dinner tomorrow. I’ll cook.”

“You and your inside clothes,” Kaveh mutters to himself. He knows Al-Haitham hears, but he does them both a favor by pretending that he didn’t. 

The garlic burns. Al-Haitham eats the resulting dish with minimal—well, minimal for him—complaint, anyways. 

At midnight, Al-Haitham rises from the divan and shoots Kaveh a pointed look. Kaveh, who had been planning to just stay out there and conveniently fall asleep in the living room, avoids his gaze. 

That’s a mistake. Kaveh’s too busy looking away that he fails to see it coming when Al-Haitham scoops Kaveh up bridal-style into his arms, leaving both his book and Kaveh’s papers behind. 

“Hey!” Kaveh protests, struggling only half-heartedly—a tendency born of being carried one too many times in that fashion. 

Al-Haitham, insufferable as he is, pretends to drop Kaveh, causing him to shriek and throw his arms around Al-Haitham’s neck. 

“You have a lot of meetings with contractors tomorrow, remember?” he says. “Can’t have my wife being tired.”

“If you were my husband,” Kaveh challenges, “wouldn’t you make me coffee?”

“I would,” Al-Haitham acquiesces, peering down at Kaveh. He doesn’t let Kaveh down though, and Kaveh, grumbling, turns to hide his pout in Al-Haitham’s chest. He feels more than hears Al-Haitham’s laugh rumble in his chest.

— 

Dinner with Nahida and the Traveler goes fine, all things considered. Kaveh returns home later than Al-Haitham for once, and steps in to the sight of Nahida, the Traveler, and Paimon sitting in the living room and the smell of fragrant spices emanating from the kitchen. 

Al-Haitham steps into view. “Welcome home,” he greets. 

“I’m home,” Kaveh responds and, overly aware of their audience’s eyes on them, stays still and obediently lets Al-Haitham draw him into a brief kiss. 

Al-Haitham has made a veritable feast of Selva Salad, Tandoori Roast Chicken, and lubia polo. Irritatingly, he did not burn the garlic. 

All throughout dinner, Kaveh expects Al-Haitham to be touchier than usual, in order to fool their audience—to sling an arm around his waist or place a large, cold hand on his thigh. He doesn’t act any differently than normal, though, save for calling Kaveh “wife” and, on occasion, turning his head to press a kiss to the side of Kaveh’s head. But that’s all stuff he does regardless. 

Still, Nahida’s luminous green eyes don’t look any more knowing than usual, and the Traveler and Paimon are far more occupied with eating the food, oblivious to the panic bubbling within Kaveh—panic that abates, if only momentarily, with each kiss Al-Haitham plants in his hair. 

Then, the Traveler mentions something about their travels in Fontaine, and Al-Haitham turns to whisper in Kaveh’s ear: “Speaking of Fontaine, have you responded to your mother?”

“How did you know?” Kaveh jolts, more from Al-Haitham’s breath on his ear than the words themselves. 

“I figured there was only one person in Fontaine who would write to you on stationery that nice, and whose letter would put you in such a state.” It’s the closest either of them have gotten to bringing up that night.

“I haven’t,” Kaveh said, “and I probably won’t.”

Al-Haitham draws back to look at him with placid eyes. “As your husband, I’ll support you regardless. But,” he adds, “as your husband, I feel compelled to ask whether you won’t respond because you don’t want to, or because you’re scared to.”

Thankfully, the Traveler interjects while Kaveh is still scrambling for a response. 

“Not that I mind watching you two lovebirds,” they drawl, “but Paimon and I should be getting back. Thanks for the meal.”

“But-” Paimon tries to interject, gazing longingly at the remaining food, but the Traveler is already walking to the door. She trails frantically after them. 

Nahida, too, stands and follows them out. “Thank you for dinner,” she says. “Al-Haitham, I’ll see you at 9 tomorrow?”

“And not a minute sooner,” Al-Haitham responds. He catches Kaveh’s elbow before it can jab into his ribs. 

Nahida laughs that sparkling laugh of hers. “Of course,” she nods. “Well, it was lovely to see you both. Congratulations on your wedding—and if you ever have a ceremony, please let me know.” 

With that, the door swings closed behind her. Kaveh turns to Al-Haitham, newly relaxed at having successfully pulled the ruse off—and, though he doesn’t really want to say it, maybe getting to drop this act—but he can’t get any words out before Al-Haitham drags him into a kiss. 

“Haitham, wait,” Kaveh gasps out between kisses. “Nahida and the Traveler already left, we don’t need to–”

“So you don’t want to kiss me?” Al-Haitham interrupts. His eyes, half-lidded like this, look extraordinarily like a bird of prey’s. 

If Kaveh’s going to give 70-30, he can at least do the bare minimum of being honest. “Of course I want to kiss you, but what I’m saying is–”

“Do you want to kiss me right now?”

“Yes, Haitham, b–”

But he can’t say anything else, because Al-Haitham leans in, cups Kaveh’s cheek with his hand, and leans in, and, and–

Kaveh pushes him away. “Why are you still here, Haitham?”

Al-Haitham stills, seeming—hurt? But Kaveh knows his eyes are just deceiving him. 

Undeterred, he pushes on. “Why are we doing this? Is it because–”

“I love you.” Al-Haitham’s face appears as frozen as those statues in the desert’s temples, belied only by the steady rise and fall of his chest.

Kaveh is hit with a wave of light-headedness so intense he almost passes out, or throws up, or both. “What?”

“I love you.” And now Al-Haitham’s face pinches, like he’s pulling teeth or having his teeth pulled, because he hates repeating anything twice. “Admittedly, I was waiting for you to fall in love with me through this ruse, but I know that’s–”

“I love you!” Kaveh explodes. “Of course I’m in love with you! Why do you think I’m here? Putting up with this, with you? 

“But that’s not the point, Haitham,” he continues. His cheeks burn and he feels feverish—like he’s having hot flashes and chills at the same time. “It was never the point. This– this thing between us would never work. We’d never be able to make it work.”

Al-Haitham just looks at him. “Isn’t this us making it work?” he asks. 

“What?” 

“This. Us living together. Us being married.”

“We’re not actually married,” Kaveh starts, but Al-Haitham talks over him, louder and also faster.

“Don’t we do all the things that husbands do? Is it that you aren’t comfortable with this? With me?” 

“Haitham, you never meet me halfway,” he protests, but he knows that they both know that it isn’t true. Not anymore. 

It irritates Al-Haitham anyways. 

“You want me to meet you halfway?” he says, stepping closer. Kaveh feels like prey pinned beneath his piercing gaze. “Fine. This is me meeting you halfway.”

With that, he brushes past Kaveh and walks towards the front door, grabbing his keys. “I’ll sleep somewhere else tonight,” he throws over his shoulder. “Until you can figure out what you want. Don’t stay up too late.”

The door closes. The house feels too quiet, all of a sudden. Kaveh realizes, belatedly, that Al-Haitham was still in his inside clothes, and that thought makes him let out a breath that teeters on the edge of being a sob. 

—

Al-Haitham does not come home the next morning—how did he brush his teeth? Or change into his outside clothes? How did he sleep without changing into his pajamas? 

How was he planning to know when Kaveh figures out what he wants? Kaveh stews at the audacity of this insufferable, awful, wonderful man, all throughout lunch—leftovers from dinner that are, unfortunately, still delicious—and the afternoon. 

Too frantic to do anything else, Kaveh rereads his mother’s letter.

Kaveh, my dear son.

Once upon a time, Kaveh had similar handwriting to his mother. But while his has stayed the same—rushed and slanted and scrawling—his mother’s has changed over time, becoming less and less used to Vedanagari script the longer she lives in Fontaine. It aches, like an old, bone-deep bruise, but the hurt doesn’t feel entirely bad. It’s tangible proof, perhaps, that Kaveh is not entirely like his mother. 

What was Al-Haitham getting at? Of course Kaveh is scared to write back. Those are the two things he has most in common with his mother—their fear, and that ugly thing inside of them. The thought that Al-Haitham knows him this well only fuels Kaveh’s anger. 

But then the end of the workday stretches into dinnertime, and then the late evening, and Al-Haitham still does not come home. Kaveh’s anger first turns to fury, then downright rage, but before long it dissolves into the type of worry that has him pacing the floors and gnawing at his knuckles. 

“Nahida,” he finally says—prays, really—“do you know where Al-Haitham is?”

There’s a moment of silence, then a little statuette of a finch they keep on the little table in the hallway rattles. 

“He’s not with you? He left the Akademiya at the normal time. Perhaps he just stopped by the market?”

“No,” Kaveh says. His face feels numb and overly hot. “Al-Haitham doesn’t like to go to the market on Wednesdays, because all the fruit is bruised and his favorite book vendor leaves early.”

Nahida starts to say something else, but she’s cut off by frantic pounding at the door. Kaveh pulls it open to find a gaggle of Akademiya students from various Darshans, wearing expressions ranging from solemn to downright petrified. 

One girl stands at the front, her fist still raised as if she were ready to knock again. 

“Senior Kaveh,” she says, her voice overly loud but resolute, “Scribe Al-Haitham recruited us to notify him whenever you were abducted. We wanted to let you know—he’s been kidnapped.”

“Our network is calibrated to best track abduction attempts against you, which is why it took us so comparatively long to realize Scribe Al-Haitham is missing.” The girl says all this while keeping pace with Kaveh, which perhaps isn’t all that impressive, given that Kaveh himself will be the first to admit that he’s not the fastest runner. 

“But we’ve located him,” she adds, and Kaveh almost stumbles in relief. “He’s nearby.”

Fortunately—or perhaps, insultingly—enough, Al-Haitham’s location isn’t that far away. It’s a modest, unassuming home, built in another neighborhood likely designed for Akademiya scholars. 

Kaveh turns to the two fastest students, who had led the way to the house. “Go grab the matra,” he instructs. “Stay together and be vigilant.” 

They nod before dashing off into the night. 

Then, Kaveh turns to the three remaining students—the girl, a student from Haravatat, and another wearing the colors of Amurta, and barks out orders with the experience of someone who has never missed a deadline in his life. 

“Amurta, go to Birmarstan and alert them that a patient will be coming soon. Better yet, bring one of them here. Haravatat, you go with her. Contact Nahida on the way.”

The Haravatat kid stammers. “How do I do that?” they ask. 

Kaveh waves his hand dismissively. His husband is kidnapped, for goodness sake; the last thing he needs to see is this disgrace to Al-Haitham’s darshan. 

“Just do,” he snaps, and watches as the Haravatat kid lets themself be dragged away, still confused. 

Then, he turns to the girl. “You, stay behind me,” he orders. “Do not, under any circumstances, engage with whoever we see inside unless they come after you.” 

She nods. She’s from Haravatat too, from the looks of her robes, and her too-serious expression paired with the lingering baby fat on her cheeks reminds Kaveh so much of a younger Al-Haitham that he lets himself soften, for just a second.

“Thank you,” he says, “for looking after him.”

The girl blinks, obviously taken aback. “We were recruited to look after you,” she points out, but then stops and thinks. “Though I guess that means taking care of him, too.” 

Kaveh can’t help but smile. She’s right, in more ways than one. Taking care of Kaveh ensures that Al-Haitham, too, is partially taken care of—because even though Al-Haitham doesn’t love him like that, not really, the past few months have shown that he holds at least some form of love towards Kaveh. And taking care of Kaveh, in turn, entails making sure Al-Haitham is taken care of. 

With that thought, Kaveh has Mehrak summon his claymore and knocks down the front door. 

The door opens straight into the living room, where a small, scrubby-looking man wearing Akademiya robes stands in front of Al-Haitham. Al-Haitham sits bound to a chair in the middle of the room, still in his inside clothes from yesterday. His head lolls down so that his face remains unseen, but even from where he stands, Kaveh can see dark blood matting his hair. 

Kaveh sees red. “Stay back,” he barks over his shoulder at the girl, before striding forward to strike at the man. 

“Woah, woah, woah!” The man raises his hands in outrage. “Seriously? You won’t even let me say anything first?”

“Why should I?” Kaveh scoffs. “You kidnapped my husband. You don’t deserve to say anything.”

“It’s been terribly hard to get an audience with either of you, you know,” the man continues, unfazed. “I mean, I sent so many Eremites after you, but this one—” he kicks Al-Haitham’s chair, who remains unresponsive—“kept getting in the way! And then I tried to take you from the tavern, but he messed that up, too. At least I could refine the sedative.”

Kaveh didn’t know he could get even more furious. “You sedated him?” he hisses. 

“Jeez, what a reaction. So you really love him?” the man asks, incredulous. “I half-expected it was fake, you know. A cold, rude, awful man like him—being loved? Having someone love him? I mean, what a joke.” 

That’s it. 

“Do not,” Kaveh snarls, “talk about the love of my life like that!” And with that, Mehrak hits the man, once, twice, then three times with the claymore. Kaveh then takes it into his own hands for the fourth strike. Then, for good measure, he hands the claymore back, rears back, and punches the man square in the face.

“Ow!” Kaveh yelps, pain shooting through his fist as the man finally slumps to the ground. “Ow, ow, ow.” 

At that moment, Al-Haitham finally stirs, groaning. “Kaveh?” His eyes flutter open and he pulls weakly at his bonds. 

“Shh, Haitham,” Kaveh murmurs, kneeling before him to untie the ropes. He winces as his hand twinges in pain. “I’ve got you.”

“You’re hurt,” Al-Haitham insists. “I heard you cry out.”

“I’ll be okay,” Kaveh says, shushing Al-Haitham when he tries to protest. “You always take care of me,” he continues, smoothing his uninjured hand over Al-Haitham’s forehead. Like this, with his hair pushed away from his face, Al-Haitham looks unfathomably, impossibly young. “Let me take care of you, too.”

A commotion at the door draws Kaveh’s attention just as the last of the ropes fall away. The four Akademiya students have returned, with a gaggle of matra, a physician from Birmarstan, and Cyno and Tighnari.

“Kaveh,” Cyno says in greeting. His eyebrows shoot up to his hairline when he sees the man on the floor. “Nice job.”

As he and the matra gather the man up, Tighnari and the Birmarstan physician approach Kaveh. 

“Are you okay?” Tighnari asks. He kneels beside Kaveh and places his hand on Kaveh’s shoulder in support. 

“He said he sedated Al-Haitham,” Kaveh says, numbly. That’s answer enough. 

“A few superficial scrapes, too, and a larger head wound that requires sutures,” the Birmarstan physician says, brisk and no-nonsense. Kaveh can appreciate that. “I’ll have to do that and draw some blood samples to determine the nature of the sedative, which will take a few minutes.”

“Okay,” Tighnari says when Kaveh fails to answer. He and the physician move Al-Haitham to lay on a nearby divan—Kaveh scrambles to help, but is pushed away not unkindly—before Tighnari drags Kaveh to sit against a nearby wall. 

“You know,” Tighnari says, conversational, as both of them watch the physician draw a kit from her sleeve. “When Cyno and I got married, we were each kidnapped a few times as well. Him, to make me return to the Akademiya. Me, to extort the matra to do one thing or another. Fortunately, we were both too stubborn for that.”

Kaveh huffs out a laugh, unable to tear his eyes away from his fake husband. “Yeah, thanks for letting me know you two were married, by the way.”

“The kidnappings were so publicized, I thought for sure you would have known,” Tighnari teases. “But then again, you and Al-Haitham always were too caught up in each other.” 

The implication turns Kaveh’s stomach. “We’re not actually married,” is what tumbles out of his mouth. “We’re just pretending.”

Beside him, Tighnari stays silent. 

“He doesn’t actually love me,” Kaveh whispers. It’s his first time saying it aloud to somebody, and it stings more than he expected it to. “It’s all an act on his part. If he fooled you, it’s because he’s just good at pretending.”

A beat passes, then another. Then Tighnari speaks. 

“I think, Kaveh,” he says, voice quiet, “it would hurt Al-Haitham a lot to know you think of him like that.” 

At that, Kaveh turns to look at him, incredulous. Him, hurt Al-Haitham? Tighnari meets his gaze, mouth drawn tight in a wry, not-quite smile. 

“I didn’t want to get married at first, you know,” he says. “I didn’t want anything to define me besides the work I did. Not my reputation in the Akademiya, not what my professors expected me to be, and certainly not the man I loved.

“I couldn’t see how that hurt him,” Tighnari continues. “It wasn’t just that I didn’t want to get married. It was that I thought he would let our relationship define me. That I thought he would ever try to pull me away from what I love to do. It was like I’d thought the worst of him, even though I didn’t mean to. Even though I love him with everything I have.”

He looks across the room to where Cyno is interrogating the man, holding him up by the front of his robes. Kaveh watches, fascinated, as the taut line of Tighnari’s mouth softens. As if sensing Tighnari’s eyes on him, Cyno looks up, the stony set of his brow dissolving as the two trade a glance. Then the moment breaks, the unspoken message having passed between them. Tighnari turns his luminous, moon-bright eyes back onto Kaveh, while Cyno turns back to the man. 

“Just think about it,” Tighnari urges. Then his eyes flicker back to the physician, who walks over upon being acknowledged. 

“The drug administered was potent but rather standard,” she says. “Sedating effects, lowered inhibitions. You might notice he has less of a filter, if he wakes tonight. It might be better to let him just sleep it off. No long lasting damage, fortunately, and the sutures should dissolve in three to four days. Be gentle while washing the area. Do you need help transporting him home?”

Al-Haitham would just carry Kaveh home from his kidnappings, but Kaveh knows well enough that he won’t be able to lift all 180 pounds of pure muscle back. 

“Help would be great,” he says. “Thank you for caring for him.” 

The physician nods, then carries over a stretcher she had propped up near the door. She and Tighnari help move Al-Haitham onto the stretcher, then Mehrak lifts the stretcher up. 

Kaveh has the matra walk the students back to their dorms, while Cyno and Tighnari insist on walking him and Al-Haitham to their home. Al-Haitham sleeps deeply on the way back. Kaveh intertwines their fingers as they walk, willing away the heat in his cheeks and pretending not to see the looks that both Cyno and Tighnari give him. 

When they lower Al-Haitham onto his bed, though, Al-Haitham finally stirs. “Kaveh’s hand,” he murmurs. “He hurt it.”

Tighnari shoots Kaveh a sharp look. Obediently, Kaveh offers up his injured hand. He knows better than to resist at this point. 

After probing it for a few seconds, Tighnari drops Kaveh’s hand. “Fortunately, it doesn’t seem sprained or broken,” he says. “You might have a nasty bruise for a few days, but that’s about it.”

And with that, Tighnari and Cyno say their goodbyes. Kaveh sees them off at the door. 

“Thank you for all your help,” Kaveh says. He meets Tighnari’s eyes, and they both know that he means it in more ways than one. 

“Tell him I said I hope he feels better soon,” Cyno says.

“He might not believe me if I do,” Kaveh responds.

Cyno laughs, half-agreeing, and the two turn and walk down the road. Kaveh watches them, watches the way they lean towards each other as if magnetized, the way Cyno’s hand settles at the small of Tighnari’s back, before the darkness swallows them up and they disappear from sight. 

Then, Kaveh turns to head back to their bedroom, intending to change Al-Haitham into his pajamas. Not in a creepy way, of course; Al-Haitham would throw a fit if he learned that his inside-now-outside clothes had even touched the bed, let alone if he’d slept the whole night in them. 

But to his surprise, Al-Haitham is standing in the doorway, wobbling slightly. 

“Kaveh,” Al-Haitham says. Then he drops to his knees. 

Kaveh rushes over and tries to tug Al-Haitham up, but he simply sits, near-supplicant. 

“Kaveh,” he says again, insistent. “I am selfish, and I am rude, and I think too little of other people and too highly of myself.” Kaveh tries to hush him, to pull him up, but Al-Haitham bulldozes on.

“I am callous and I am too blunt and I lied to you, when I agreed to fake getting married. And—” here Al-Haitham’s voice cuts off, strangled—“and I am yours, Kaveh, even though I’m not very good to have.” 

Al-Haitham looks up, his hair falling across his forehead. What surprises Kaveh, though, is the sheen of tears across Al-Haitham’s eyes, a layer of moisture that fractures his irises into a kaleidoscope of color. 

At that, Kaveh, too, falls to his knees and pulls Al-Haitham into a tight hug. His nose burns and tears prick at the corners of his eyes as Al-Haitham burrows his face into the crook of Kaveh’s neck. Perhaps he had been hurting Al-Haitham, all along. Perhaps his fear had been hurting more people than himself.

“Haitham,” he says quietly. He can’t mess this up. “You are a silly, ridiculous man, who sticks too religiously to his routines. Who says things too bluntly but doesn’t say the things most important to him. Who passes judgment like it’s his full-time job. And you are wonderful to have, and I love you. And I am yours, Haitham, just the way you are mine.

“We’ll talk about this more in the morning,” Kaveh continues. “If you remember.”

“I’ll remember,” Al-Haitham promises. He pulls back, and Kaveh feels silly thinking this, but—Al-Haitham looks reverent, almost, eyes flitting across Kaveh’s face, drinking in his features greedily.

Kaveh helps Al-Haitham stand up and change into his pajamas, his face flushed and trying to look anywhere but Al-Haitham’s broad shoulders and soft chest and strong stomach and– well. Then, after making sure Al-Haitham is settled into bed—on the right, closest to the wall like always—Kaveh climbs in after him.

This time, when Al-Haitham turns to drape one cold, heavy arm over him, Kaveh snuggles readily into his chest.  

He’s changed his mind about what he’ll say to Al-Haitham in the morning, he thinks. He will not deflect or snap or lash out. Maybe, just maybe, giving the 70 percent in the relationship means loving Al-Haitham, laying himself and his emotions bare even if—and it’s an if, now—Al-Haitham does not love him back. 

When Al-Haitham wakes up, Kaveh will make sure Al-Haitham feels loved, each and every day, just like he would if Al-Haitham actually were his husband. Because Al-Haitham is loved; because Kaveh loves him. 

—

When Kaveh wakes, Al-Haitham is still sleeping deeply. He’s pressed against Kaveh’s side, both arms wrapped around Kaveh’s waist and his face tucked into Kaveh’s neck. He huffs in protest as Kaveh leaves to grab his draft, and presses his face into Kaveh’s hip as soon as Kaveh returns. 

Kaveh sighs, more out of fondness than exasperation—like how most of his sighs have been lately, if he’s truly being honest with himself—and turns to his papers. Two people, one who thinks his work is too ostentatious and one who thinks it’s too understated. And yet, they both agree. Kaveh thinks he understands now. 

The ink flows as easily as water. Kaveh works and Al-Haitham sleeps until the sun rises high and filters through the curtains to cast their bedroom in warm yellow light. 

Kaveh waits until Al-Haitham stirs, pressing the heels of his palms against his eyes and grumbling, to lean over and press a kiss to Al-Haitham’s forehead. 

Al-Haitham stills. Gingerly, he opens first one eye, then the other. 

Kaveh can’t help but smile, fondly exasperated at this wonderful, exasperating man. “Do you remember what happened last night?” he asks. 

Shrugging, Al-Haitham glances away. “Maybe.”

“Haitham,” Kaveh probes, still uncharacteristically gentle. “Tell me.”

“Yes,” Al-Haitham breathes, like a prayer. 

And Al-Haitham might call it caution or hesitance, but Kaveh sees the emotion in his eyes for what it is: fear. 

“Let’s take a bath,” Kaveh suggests, feeling settled in a way he hasn’t been for a long time. There is no rush, not anymore. They have all the time in the world. 

Kaveh fills their bathtub with hot water—it’ll cool rapidly, and he doesn’t want Al-Haitham catching a cold—before calling Al-Haitham in.

“Strip,” he says, and Al-Haitham’s eyes widen, just briefly, before he regains his composure.

“Why, senior,” he drawls, pressing a hand to his chest. “How scandalous.”

“If you’re well enough to crack jokes, clearly you’re well enough to bathe by yourself,” Kaveh teases, pretending to stand up. He tries to muffle his laugh as Al-Haitham drops all pretenses and rapidly strips off his shirt, but fails miserably. 

But Al-Haitham’s the one who laughs when he moves to take off his pants and Kaveh whips around, face burning. 

“You can look,” he says, but Kaveh keeps his head turned away until he hears the water slosh as Al-Haitham gets in the tub.

Then, Kaveh turns his head back and pulls off his own shirt. His face hasn’t cooled down—and with the way Al-Haitham is blatantly staring, eyes impossibly dark, it won’t any time soon. 

The thing is, though, Kaveh isn’t as fit and slender as he was when they were students. Unlike Al-Haitham, he’s not blessed with genetics that grant him impeccable abs without having to lift a finger. In fact, a plush layer of fat has settled on his hips and around his tummy and even on his chest and arms.

“I know it’s not much,” Kaveh says, only half-joking, but Al-Haitham shakes his head. 

“You’re the most beautiful person I’ve ever seen,” he says, like it’s a fact. Like he’s reciting a passage from a textbook or saying that the sun sets in the west. 

Kaveh is helpless in the face of it. All he can do is duck his head and shuffle closer to perch on the edge of the tub, scooping up handfuls of water to wet Al-Haitham’s bird-feather hair. Gently, he uses his fingers to detangle where Al-Haitham’s hair is still matted with blood, brushing lightly over what’s bound to sting. Al-Haitham sits near-motionless, betrayed only by the rapid rise and fall of his chest and the reddening of his ears. 

Then, with the same gentle care, Kaveh massages in shampoo, then rinses it out. Then he adds in conditioner, letting it sit while he lathers up a washcloth and scrubs at Al-Haitham’s back and shoulders. Al-Haitham takes it from him wordlessly to clean the rest of his body. They don’t need to speak. The air hangs hazy with warmth and the strong smell of Sumeru rose and honey, and the tension slowly seeps from Al-Haitham’s shoulders. 

After Kaveh rinses the conditioner from Al-Haitham’s hair, he drains the bath—again averting his gaze as the water level lowers—before filling it up with clean warm water. 

“Soak for a second,” he says. “I’m going to change the bedsheets.”

“Okay,” Al-Haitham agrees, uncharacteristically docile. Kaveh pushes the wet strands of his hair back from his forehead and plants a kiss there, then another kiss on the bump of Al-Haitham’s nose, then pulls back to meet Al-Haitham’s wide-eyed gaze with an innocuous look of his own. 

“What?” he teases. “Isn’t that what I’d do as your wife, Haitham?”

Al-Haitham huffs out a laugh, that knife-quick smile flickering over his face, sweet and shy. “Whatever my wife wants,” he acquiesces. 

Hope blooms, warm and heady, in Kaveh’s sternum. He rises, towels off his damp arms, and goes to change the sheets and wash the ones contaminated by Al-Haitham’s outside clothes. 

Kaveh just finishes smoothing out the blanket when Al-Haitham emerges from the bathroom, clad in the inside clothes Kaveh had left on the counter for him and with a towel draped around his neck. 

At Kaveh’s urging, he sits cross-legged on the bed in front of Kaveh, who wordlessly pulls the towel from his neck and begins drying his hair. When Al-Haitham’s hair is mostly dry and unbelievably fluffy—Kaveh stifles a laugh behind his hand as Al-Haitham casts a wry look over his shoulder—Kaveh pulls a wide-toothed comb through Al-Haitham’s hair and rubs in some hair oil. 

“There,” Kaveh says, wiping his hands off on the towel as Al-Haitham turns to face him. “How are you feeling?”

“Better,” Al-Haitham says. Then: “Thank you. For taking care of me.”

“You always take care of me, Haitham,” Kaveh says. “It’s about time I returned the favor.”

Al-Haitham shakes his head. “You’ve always taken care of me, too,” he says. 

The little voice in Kaveh’s head that has always screamed at him to wait, to hesitate, to second-guess himself has gone quiet. Now, a new voice screams in his head: Now, you idiot. Do it now!

“I love you, Haitham,” Kaveh confesses. “I want to kiss you for real. I don’t want to pretend anymore.”

“I was never pretending,” Al-Haitham breathes, before leaning in and kissing him, and kissing him, and kissing him. 

Eventually, Kaveh pulls back between kisses, half-laughing, breathless. 

“I’ll be a lot of trouble,” he says. 

“I know.” Al-Haitham leans in to steal another kiss. “So will I.”

“I never took you to be the type to put up with all this hassle.” 

Al-Haitham has the nerve to shrug. “Only when it’s worth it.”

Kaveh is the one to kiss Al-Haitham this time, and they kiss, and kiss, and kiss some more until the new sheets are rumpled and their mouths are warm and swollen and the sinking sun casts the bedroom in vibrant orange light and dark, stretching shadows. 

—

“Kaveh. It is wonderful to see you again.”

Faranak was—is—a beautiful woman. It’s hard for Kaveh to think about her in the present tense. She looks as radiant as she did at her wedding, all laugh lines and golden hair streaked with grey. She pulls Kaveh into a hug, and he goes readily; drawing back, Kaveh looks at her and sees a woman who is happy. He also sees himself, decades into the future, with Al-Haitham by his side. 

Speaking of Al-Haitham—

“Hello,” Al-Haitham says. He looks hilariously nervous. “I’m Al-Haitham, Kaveh’s husband. It’s nice to meet you.”

Faranak pulls Al-Haitham into a hug, too. Even though he’s a good three heads taller than her, he freezes for only a second before bending over to tentatively hug her back. 

“It’s great to meet you, Al-Haitham,” Faranak says, stepping back. She smiles. “You look so much like your father,” she says, and Al-Haitham visibly softens. 

“And Kaveh looks like you,” he says. 

Faranak laughs, turning back to Kaveh. “I think he’s even more beautiful,” she says, cupping his face in her palms. Her hands are warm and dry, soft as her thumbs rub tenderly at the corners of his eyes. “You’ve truly inherited the best parts of your father,” she whispers to him, and Kaveh has to scrunch up his nose to keep the tears at bay. 

Thankfully, his mother seems to understand, and she steps back to let Kaveh regain his composure. Al-Haitham draws near and wordlessly slips an arm around Kaveh’s waist, the chill radiating from his hand settling Kaveh. Soothing him. 

“You know,” Kaveh says, when he’s finally sure he won’t burst into tears. His mother deserves to be happy—is happy. Kaveh is, too. “We haven’t had the ceremony yet,” he says, chancing a glance at Al-Haitham. Al-Haitham looks back like a man in love. “I’d love for you to come when we do.”

Faranak smiles again. “I would love that, too,” she says. 

Later, after they’ve dropped Faranak off at her hotel—Kaveh loves her enough not to stick her in their spare, dust-filled room or on the divan in the living room—and returned to their home, Al-Haitham turns to him, eyes dancing. 

“A ceremony, huh?”

Kaveh sighs, only a little bit put out. “Haitham, will you marry me?” he asks. 

Al-Haitham looks at him, faux-wounded. “You want a divorce?” 

“You know what I mean,” Kaveh mutters, rolling his eyes. At Al-Haitham’s smug, expectant look, Kaveh groans. “Fine,” he says. “Haitham, will you stay married to me?”

“Say it again?”

“Haitham, stay married to me.”

“Important things-”

“-must be said three times, I know,” Kaveh cuts in, unable to stop his smile. It must be in defiance of the heavens, to love a man this much. “Haitham, please, please, please stay married to me.”

“Anything for my wife,” Al-Haitham breathes. He draws Kaveh in close with a hand on his waist and another on his jaw, and kisses Kaveh’s left cheek, then his right, then the tip of his nose. Then he brushes kisses, featherlight, across both eyelids, then on Kaveh’s forehead, before Kaveh loses his patience and drags Al-Haitham down into a kiss himself. 

Chapter Text

They hold their wedding ceremony outside, near the banks of the river, where the padisarahs are in full bloom and the nilotpala lotuses float, closed but no less jewel-bright, on the surface of the water. 

In formal attendance are all their friends and acquaintances—Nilou and Nahida, who has dragged along a surly-looking young man wearing a frankly ostentatious hat; the Traveler and Paimon; Tighnari, Cyno, and Collei; Candace and Dehya. Kaveh’s mother, looking resplendent with flushed cheeks and a richly embroidered gown, stands with her new husband, a genial, if slightly clumsy man who looks at Kaveh’s mother with nothing short of adoration. 

There too are the various Eremites and mercenaries who had been gentle with kidnapping Kaveh. It pleases neither Al-Haitham nor Cyno—who are even more disgruntled, Kaveh thinks, at the fact that they agree with each other. Still, Cast has upgraded to a sling, and Orange catches Kaveh’s eye from where he stands with a lanky, bespectacled Eremite and offers a wave. 

A gang of Akademiya students—easily close to 30—who Kaveh deduces must comprise Al-Haitham’s abduction detection squad, sit near the front. Kaveh spots the Haravatat girl at their head, who stops looking serious for a second to offer them a wide, chubby-cheeked smile. 

Behind the audience and on the bank opposite their ceremony stand what must be well over a hundred individuals. It seems like the whole of Sumeru City has turned out to witness the wedding of the former Acting Grand Sage and the Light of Kshahrewar. 

A nearby table is piled high with food, provided free of cost by Lambad: rich, vibrant jeweled rice and savory meat kebabs; a towering love cake, flavored with rose water, cardamom, and pistachios; and assorted cheeses, fruits, and fresh herbs. 

Kaveh and Al-Haitham themselves sit at a long, low table draped with gold-embroidered silk satin and filled with clusters of flowers. On it sits a mirror of fate, with two candelabras on either side, symbolizing light, fire, and the two of them; a tray of poppy seeds, wild rice, angelica, salt, nigella seeds, black tea, and frankincense, to ward off evil; flatbread inscribed with saffron, for prosperity; and a basket of richly adorned eggs and nuts to symbolize fertility. Kaveh blushes furiously at that, while Al-Haitham simply sits back and smirks. 

Beside them sits another basket of pomegranates and apples, for a joyous future; a cup of Sumeru rosewater, which perfumes the air; a bowl made of crystalized sugar, to sweeten their life together; a brazier filled with hot coals upon which they sprinkle heady incense; a bowl of gold coins; a luxurious white shawl; two sugar cones; a cup of honey; a needle and colored thread; a book of Al-Haitham’s favorite poems; and an assortment of pastries and sweets, which Paimon can’t stop eyeing. 

Al-Haitham wears a silky white suit, embroidered with gold thread. His eyes gleam brighter than usual, and his placid expression keeps tugging into a smile. He looks, Kaveh thinks, incredibly handsome like this. Kaveh himself sits in a similar white suit, streaked through with strands of woven silver. Al-Haitham keeps leaning in for a kiss, but is blocked by Kaveh’s hand and the loud reprimands from their audience. 

Nahida claps her small, chubby hands, and the raucous crowd—even the one on the opposite shore—settles down. Her Dendro magic hovers the shawl over Al-Haitham and Kaveh’s heads. 

Nahida delivers her preliminary blessings, then reads one of Al-Haitham’s favorite poems—a decision, Kaveh knows, that Al-Haitham has spent weeks agonizing over:

This is how I would die

into the love I have for you:

As pieces of cloud

dissolve in sunlight.

The crowd coos. In the corner of his eye, Kaveh sees the Traveler discreetly dabbing away tears, but he finds he can’t turn his head away, too enraptured by the sight of Al-Haitham in front of him. 

“Al-Haitham,” Nahida says. “Do you, under my eyes as the watchful bird guiding Sumeru, take Kaveh as your husband?”

“I do,” Al-Haitham says, so immediate that he almost cuts her off. 

Nahida turns next to Kaveh. “Kaveh. Do you, under my eyes as the watchful bird guiding Sumeru, take Al-Haitham as your husband?”

And Kaveh knows that traditionally, he’s supposed to wait in silence until the third time Nahida asks. Important things must be said three times, after all. But as the silence stretches and Al-Haitham sits, near-vibrating with anticipation, Kaveh can’t find it within himself to care about tradition.

“I do,” is what bursts out of him. “I do, I do, I do.” 

Nahida breaks at that to laugh, sparkling. The crowd in front of them and across the river explodes into noisy cheers, so loud that it covers the sound of Al-Haitham laughing, almost in disbelief. That sound is for Kaveh’s ears only. 

Then, they each dip their pinky fingers into the cup of honey to feed the other. Kaveh watches, enthralled, as Al-Haitham’s eyes darken and fall half-lidded when Kaveh dips his head to taste the honey from Al-Haitham’s finger; Kaveh’s face erupts into what must be a truly furious blush when Al-Haitham does the same. 

Tighnari rises afterward, tail wagging furiously, and he rubs two sugar cones over Kaveh and Al-Haitham to bestow sweetness upon their lives. Kaveh manages to break away from Al-Haitham’s gaze long enough to see the way Cyno’s eyes soften. He suspects a vow renewal ceremony will come soon.  

Then Al-Haitham leans in, turning Kaveh’s head with a gentle touch on his jaw and kissing him once, twice, three times, pressing Kaveh flat on his back in the grass with the force of it. All thoughts of the vow renewal ceremony—or any other person, for that matter—flies out of Kaveh’s head. 

(For his dowry, Kaveh converts the spare room into a study for the two of them. They have far too many guests over these days, now that Kaveh doesn’t need to hide his residency, to keep using the living room as their prime work location. 

Their home is small, but the perfect size for two people. The foundation is sturdy and the walls are well-built. It has good bones, Kaveh thinks. Fortunately, that means all that Kaveh has to do, when drawing up the plans to convert the spare room, is design the custom furniture he’ll build for the space. 

“How would you like your books?” he asks Al-Haitham, and together, they draft plans for a towering bookshelf that reaches the ceiling. 

For the middle of a room, Kaveh builds a large double-sided desk made of dark, reddish wood with plush chairs on either side. He commissions a new rug to lay down beneath it, and drags Al-Haitham through the market to find new paintings for the walls and trinkets for the shelves. When he’s feeling extra charitable, he even lets Al-Haitham pick one out himself. 

Large, leafy potted plants are placed near the window, where they drink up the sunlight greedily. Glass-petaled lamps are placed in the corners to light up the room with warm greens and yellows. Between them, Kaveh places a large, plush sofa, perfect for two people to curl up together to read at the end of the day. 

They stack the storage shelves with rolls of paper and sticks of ink, and Al-Haitham spends an entire day fastidiously organizing and reorganizing his books. The resulting system makes sense to no one but Al-Haitham himself. 

“Does this mean you’ll put your books back when you’re done now?” Kaveh asks. 

“Of course not,” Al-Haitham says, and, as if to prove his point, piles a few books onto his desk, cheerfully ignoring the remaining spaces on the shelves.

After a week, the study is finally done. Kaveh curls up against Al-Haitham’s side on the new sofa and opens the book he had been planning to start for a while. 

“By the way,” Al-Haitham asks, absent-mindedly pressing a kiss to the side of Kaveh’s head, “what happened to those two clients?”

“Hm?” Kaveh looks up. “Oh, they approved the plans a little bit ago.”

“Finally,” Al-Haitham says. “So, what was the secret?”

Kaveh laughs. “Design something each thinks the other person will like.” Al-Haitham chuffs in amusement at that. “And what are you reading?” Kaveh asks. “A Study of the Ancient Runic System Employed in Pre-Sumerian Rainforest Cave Systems, five? Six?”

In lieu of a response, Al-Haitham simply lifts his book so that Kaveh can read the title: Help, My Enemy the Former Supreme Leader Who Also Hates Me Just Professed His Undying Love!

Heat rushes to his face and he sputters, shoving ineffectively at Al-Haitham’s unfairly-firm shoulder. “How did you even find that book?”

“It’s all the rage with the Akademiya students, these days,” Al-Haitham says. “Don’t worry though,” he adds, showing Kaveh an illustration of a slender man with an overly-small chin and implausibly long eyelashes. “You’re prettier.”

“Flatterer,” Kaveh huffs, trying not to show how pleased he is at that comment. From the smug way Al-Haitham settles back in at his side, he’s not terribly effective.)

After their wedding, Al-Haitham insists on carrying Kaveh in his arms over the threshold. Not that Kaveh put up a convincing show of protesting, anyways.

“Well, my wife,” Al-Haitham says before he enters, gazing down at Kaveh. From this angle, Kaveh can see the small pouch of fat under Al-Haitham’s jaw, the slight roughness of his skin; the makeup lining his eyes, the soft brightness within them. “Welcome home.”

“Welcome home, husband,” Kaveh whispers back, and the married couple step into their home together.