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Everything is gone.
Kaveh looks at the rubble of their home. When he closes his eyes, he can still see the blaze of Irminsul imprinted on the back of his eyelids. It would be impossible to forget: the smoke rising from the tree, covering the sky, the single, blazing tree in the center of it all. The darkness surrounding it only made it seem to burn brighter.
He thought the heat would be seared into his skin forever. The flames would reduce his home to dust, leaving behind nothing but burns that would brand his skin, hurting everywhere it was touched if it could feel at all.
Luckily, Kaveh is not dead, and he appears to be just fine. Tighnari has cleared him for now, and he’ll just have to accept his judgment, since Birmistan is flooded with people terrified of the health effects inflicted by the alteration of reality and the burning of the world tree.
Luckily, everyone is okay. Dottore is gone for good now (well, one can never really know. Hopefully, he’s gone for good now). Al-Haitham is standing beside him. He never left, not once.
On the roof of the mausoleum, Al-Haitham’s head was held high, brows straight and unexpressive. The scribe looked impeccably calm as if it were just another Tuesday, like the world wasn’t ending right before their eyes. Here stood a man who regrets nothing, as he says.
Kaveh knows better. If Al-Haitham were truly relaxed, were truly fearless, he would have picked up the book he brought with them to the mausoleum. He was already halfway through it. With the time they’ve spent waiting around for the world to end, he could have finished it by now. He hasn’t. Kaveh noticed every time Al-Haitham’s eyes flit nervously to him, like he had something he was stopping himself from saying. He put the book down, sure, but his fingers still rubbed against each other like there was a page between them. He would look at the sky as if he were searching for something, and at Kaveh as if he were saying goodbye. It just about tore Kaveh apart on the inside, watching Al-Haitham. He couldn’t get himself to stop, not when he didn’t know how much longer he was allowed this. So he looked at Al-Haitham and saw a man who wants to live.
“My grandmother wanted me to live a peaceful life,” Al-Haitham said when Kaveh asked him for the nth time how he was doing. It was his responsibility as his senior to check up on Al-Haitham, after all.
“Peaceful does not have to mean quiet,” Kaveh said in response.
Al-Haitham looked at him then, gave him the look he gets when he’s teasing Kaveh. His left eyebrow moved up just a smidge, the corner of his mouth lifted so the faintest crease of a dimple is visible.
“I know that.”
~~~
Kaveh supposes he’s lucky that Al-Haitham is still with him.
And isn’t it lucky, that not all of Sumeru burned to the ground? That some of the trees still stand, that the cobblestone Kaveh walked upon on his way to class is still there on the ground, even if stained by layers upon layers of ash?
That the home he’d built with Al-Haitham still has all four of its walls upright, even if the roof has collapsed, even if it smells burned, like it shouldn’t be here. Like the cremation of what once was.
He’s so lucky. Some of his stuff is even still salvageable. Some of the scholars closer to where Irminsul burned lost everything. They have nothing left to call their own but themselves. Look, that’s where the divan used to be, where Kaveh would plop down next to Al-Haitham after a long day of meetings. He’d work on his blueprints next to him, even if it hurt his posture more to work from the divan than at his desk. But he sat there because he liked being closer to the scribe, and Kaveh thanks the heavens he hadn’t moved away, because he’d never get that chance again to spend those precious hours beside Al-Haitham.
It was a beautiful thing to watch, as all of Sumeru City moved back into their homes. A sense of relief settled over the city as people cried and hugged each other. All care for decorum was shed as they danced through the city, arms spread as they hollered in relief at living to see another day, another sunset. All that mattered was that their home still stood, that they lived to see it. Kaveh couldn’t help the small smile that tugged at his lips as some researchers took their shoes off to run through the grass, whooping as the dew kissed their feet.
Even if the city is covered in ash, the small bits of color that poke through shine bright through it. Look at the leaves, and a million hues of yellowish greenish brownish look back at you. A couple of sprouts stick through the ash, life prevailing even as the world burns down around it.
Kaveh should be happy. He should join the rest of the city as they dance with joy across the street, especially with all he’s contributed to make it a possibility. But when he and Al-Haitham get to their home, all he can do is hold back tears as he looks at the rubble.
“Do you think we can save it?” Al-Haitham asks, none the wiser. “It’s just the roof that’s gone. I would trust you to make the arrangements, senior, if I weren’t so worried you’d bankrupt me.”
Kaveh does not take the bait, does not bite back at all. Instead, he holds a hand up to an ash-covered wall. His fingers come back stained.
He wants to say yes. Tell Al-Haitham that it’s fixable; they can move back in as soon as the roof gets fixed and return to their normal lives. They could pat themselves on the back for a job well done, laugh at how lucky they are that their home survived. They could even pretend none of this had ever happened at all.
He wants to say yes, but he doubts that he can. He scrambles through what was once the rooms of their house. In the kitchen, their coffee maker is blackened beyond recognition, like their dinner that one time Kaveh got distracted from his cooking when he heard Al-Haitham cry out upon seeing a spider on the floor of their bathroom. In the bathroom, the tiling Kaveh and Al-Haitham picked out together is left cracked and covered in the gray of ashes, the color they’d fought over gone. The bookshelves, where Al-Haitham keeps the journals his family passed onto him: ashes. The box under it, where the remainders of the torn pieces of their Akademiya thesis were hidden: gone.
He wanted to keep it. It left a painful sore in the middle of his heart every time he thought of it. But Kaveh lives with Al-Haitham on borrowed, finite time, so it doesn’t really matter. He’ll keep every ugly moment sunk into his bones just to keep as much of Al-Haitham as possible. What matters is that it was theirs.
There’s nothing Kaveh wants more than to close his eyes to block out the burnt, blackened view of the house destined to fall. He could imagine it exactly as he left it then: sunlight streaming through the beautifully stained windows. Al-Haitham on the divan, a Kaveh-shaped spot beside him. Not that it would work, even if Kaveh never opened his eyes again. Gods, Kaveh tries, squeezing his eyes shut when the sight becomes unbearable. But the burnt smell permeates the air, inescapable, as the heavy feeling of soot clouds his lungs.
The house is unlivable. The plaster of the wall comes apart where Kaveh touched it, cracked and crumbling. It stands now, sure, but who knows if it would even survive the rebuilding of the roof? It would take more measurements for Kaveh to know exactly how much it could hold, but it takes one look to know it won’t be enough. Kaveh thinks of the life he’s built here, the early mornings bickering over coffee, the fiery cohabitation he’s found. He doesn’t want to let it go, start over again. But then he thinks of watching it fall again, this time right before his eyes rather than from the distance of the mausoleum. He thinks of hearing the crash as it happens, hearing Al-Haitham’s cry as the rubble crushes him. What’s a home without shelter? It doesn’t matter if he’s not ready to go—his time is up.
“It’s not that easy.”
Kaveh’s voice doesn’t sound like his own. It’s like he’s being told himself.
Al-Haitham looks at him, raising an eyebrow.
“The house is unfixable, Al-Haitham.” He says Al-Haitham’s name then, like it’s a reminder he’s still there, that he hasn’t quite lost everything yet. That Kaveh still has more to lose. “The fire has weakened the walls. They’ll never support the roof as it is. We’ll have to move.”
And isn’t it lucky? Now that Kaveh’s paid off all his debt, he can get a new place all to himself. He’s been debt-free for a while now, but conveniently never had the chance to move out. He’s a busy man, and their arguments have lessened in hostility and increased in playfulness. He’s grown used to living with Al-Haitham and looks forward to coming home to him, feeling the warmth of his body beside him as laughter fills the air of their living room.
He has no excuse now to keep living with Al-Haitham. This could very well be the end of it all. Kaveh would have woken up on the morning of that very last day living with Al-Haitham without knowing a thing. He made their coffee in the morning, fixed Al-Haitham’s collar before he left for work, like it was any other day. He would have had no idea it would be the last time he could do so until it was over. And now it is.
Because it was one thing to live with Al-Haitham while he was struggling and in debt, needing a place to stay until things calmed down. It was one thing to come to him in his needy hour, temporarily, while he rested his wings. It’s another thing to move into a new house together for no other reason than wanting to. How long would he stay, when he has no debt to use as an excuse to stay close to Al-Haitham? There are two reasons people cling to each other: protection and love. If he does not need protection, what else can he use as an excuse?
He’s on his own now, just as he was all those years ago when his father died, and his mother fell to her knees in grief; just as he was when Alcazarzaray fell, and Kaveh sought shelter in a tavern. He doesn’t know where he’ll go, who he’ll go with, if he’ll go with anyone at all. He wants to turn to Al-Haitham, put his hands on him and dig his fingers into the meat of his arm so that they’re embedded there forever, so that he can never pry him off of him. And Sumeru is always warm, blisteringly so with the burning of Irminsul, but Kaveh never wants to go without feeling the heat of Al-Haitham beside him ever again.
“Kaveh,” Al-Haitham says. The architect jerks at the sound. When will be the last time he hears his name from Al-Haitham’s lips?
“What are you thinking about?”
Kaveh can barely get the words out of his mouth. It feels like sand is lodged in his throat. He can hardly breathe, hardly look Al-Haitham in the eye.
The scribe only looks at him expectantly, as if waiting for him to say something. Like it’s no big deal that their home is gone, that all their history has gone up in flames, leaving nothing behind but charred, unrecognizable ashes.
“Everything is gone.”
The words linger in empty air. A wind drifts through the building, bringing the suffocating smell of smoke with it.
“We’re still here, aren’t we?”
Kaveh looks at Al-Haitham. He stands just out of reach. They’re still here, yes. The end isn’t here yet, their last goodbye. It could be, and it makes Kaveh feel like dying.
“Our home is gone, Haitham.”
“Yeah,” he says. “No matter. We can make another one.”
Like what they had is replaceable. Like all the memories they made can be moved aside to make room for new ones. Kaveh wants to scream at him, see if raising his voice will make Al-Haitham hear him the way he needs him to.
‘I’m scared,’ he doesn’t say. ‘When the morning comes, will you be by my side? I don’t know anything. We have nothing left of the history tethering us together. Please care enough not to leave me.’
“I suppose we have different interpretations of the word ‘home’.”
Because there is nothing replaceable about how he and Al-Haitham had intertwined their lives together.
Al-Haitham raises an eyebrow at him. “Do we?”
Kaveh shakes his head. “I don’t know what I expected from you. So little sentiment, even when your house burns down.” A pause.
What comes next is harder to say. Kaveh’s consciousness feels larger than his body as his head pounds, his heart in his throat beating faster than he can manage.
“I couldn’t find the journals your family left you. I looked everywhere. I don’t know if we still can.”
Al-Haitham’s eyes cast downward. “I memorized them. I could replicate them if I wanted to.”
Kaveh doesn’t want to tell him it’s not the same.
“I found some of yours,” comes Al-Haitham’s voice. It almost sounds hopeful, like having something means they haven’t lost all of everything else. “Old blueprints, and some of your notes from our Akademiya days. Journal entries, too. They were in the middle of a pile of some of our other things. I guess they protected them.”
“That’s nice,” Kaveh replies absentmindedly. He starts to shake, then. He feels out of control; everything is out of control. Kaveh didn’t want any of this, doesn’t want to leave, doesn’t want to find somewhere new to stay, but it happens anyway. It never matters what he wants. Who knows what he’ll lose next?
A warm hand settles on Kaveh’s shoulder, and he turns his head to see Al-Haitham, his brows creased in worry.
“Our thesis is gone, too. I looked everywhere. Our home is gone. Everything is gone.”
“Not everything, Kaveh,” Al-Haitham says, and he sounds exasperated, like he’s begging Kaveh to understand.
“Does it mean nothing to you, everything we’ve lost?” Kaveh’s yelling now, hot tears in his eyes. He’s sick of the heat. It spreads through him, a fire blazing in his veins. Kaveh wants it to stop, but can’t get it out of him. His breaths are shallow as he fights for air, only to breathe in more soot. Al-Haitham stands still, and Kaveh goes to grab him by the shoulders. “Did it mean nothing to you, the time we spent together?”
Al-Haitham grabs Kaveh’s hands then, holding them tight. “Kaveh,” he says. Kaveh can hardly hear him over his sobs, wracking through his body uncontrollably.
“Kaveh,” he says again, an air of desperation touching his voice now. “Look at me. I wouldn’t think you cruel enough to tell me I’ve lost everything when you are still standing in front of me.”
He’s huffing now, as holding himself together. “I’ve known loss, Kaveh, we both have. I had a roof over my head the first time I lost everything. I had shelves filled with books with no one to read them to me. Words upon words upon words, with no voice to go with them. There was food in my fridge before it rotted because I was too struck with grief to feed myself. The second time, I held myself together enough to finish my degree and get a nice, cushy job with plenty of financial freedom. I was rewarded with an empty house, the ghost of the thesis we lost. No matter how many books I bought, it was never enough to fill the silence.”
Al-Haitham bows his head, his grip on Kaveh’s hands loosening. “I was under the impression that the Light of Ksharewar was merciful to a fault. That he gave and gave and gave even at his own expense.” His voice softens then, tender as a wound. “I wouldn’t think him so cruel as to deprive this feeble scholar of his company, when he has lost so much already. You would make me lose you, too?”
Kaveh’s eyes widen, while Al-Haitham looks unwaveringly back at him.
“The memories are not gone, because they are here.” He moves his hand from Kaveh’s then, touching the side of his head, his heart. “And there will be more. We can get another house, make it a home as we did before.”
Al-Haitham breathes a sigh, like he has been holding his breath for a long time. “So long as we are together.”
Together.
Kaveh exhales, and it feels like the weight of the world has been lifted off his shoulders. He didn’t even know that his muscles were so tense, but they ache now with the sudden release.
He can’t help it anymore. Kaveh throws his arms around Al-Haitham’s neck. They’re both sweating from the heat, skin a little gray with the soot that covers them both. But Al-Haitham’s skin shines golden in the light of the sun, and Kaveh couldn’t care less as long as he was warm between his arms, heartbeat wild against his own.
Al-Haitham huffs a laugh. It’s a subtle thing, a sweet secret between the two of them. His eyes crease in the corners just slightly, the way they do when he’s happy, and Kaveh wants to kiss him. He can’t think of anything else except pulling this miracle of a man closer and closer until they’ve melded together. He wants to pour the weight of him into all the cracks left in him, drink the honey of his voice. Kaveh buries his face in Al-Haitham’s chest. Every color that shines off of him looks like love.
This could be his. This is his. Al-Haitham puts his hands on Kaveh’s face, their chests still pressed together.
“I’m coming with you,” says Kaveh. “I’m not going anywhere.”
Al-Haitham smiles at that, like they hadn’t thought the world was ending just the night before. “I know.”
And he’s so sweet in his hands, the light at the end of the sunset forming a halo around Al-Haitham’s head. No one could really fault Kaveh for what he does then.
Al-Haitham’s lips are cracked from the heat of the world literally setting on fire, but Kaveh couldn’t care less. All that matters is that they move against his own, that he feels Al-Haitham’s gasp when their lips meet.
“I’d let you design us a new home if I weren’t so worried you’d bankrupt us both in the process,” Al-Haitham says when they finally catch their breath. His voice hitches just a little before his tongue darts out between his lips.
Kaveh smacks him on the shoulder, and Al-Haitham huffs a laugh, leaning his head back.
“If only you could refrain from constantly reminding me of how little you believe in me.”
Al-Haitham raises an eyebrow at that. “I believed in you when it came to stopping Dottore.”
“I’m starting to think you live to oppose me.”
“Caught me there,” replies the Scribe, as if he isn’t holding Kaveh like he wants to keep him for the rest of his life. “How about I decide the budget then?”
Kaveh tries to look as disgruntled as possible. “Please, I’ve seen the way you distributed funding as Acting Grand Sage. Don’t scare me like that. How about we negotiate?”
Al-Haitham hums. “As if you wouldn’t protest at whatever number I suggested anyway. But I suppose it wouldn’t be any fun if we didn’t have any back and forth.”
Kaveh looks at this stupid, stubborn man and pushes his bangs out of his eyes. He pats him on the cheek, but it’s more affectionate than aggressive. He knows Al-Haitham is right—he’ll almost automatically take the side opposing the scribe (especially when it comes to design) like it’s instinct. The architect shakes his head at him, as if he isn’t imagining the curve of the roof they’ll build together, as if he doesn’t want stained glass windows the color of his eyes.
“Whatever,” he grumbles instead. “You’d be helpless without me.”
Al-Haitham rolls his eyes. “And don’t I know it.”
