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Food. Sustenance. A means of sustaining one’s self. Something that encourages life and growth. The amount one can and must consume varies by a multitude of variables, nevermind the circumstances in an individual’s day by day life. A linear perspective utterly fails to encapsulate the variety of things necessary in the production of food, described as cooking, or the range of end products that take new shapes and forms across cultures. It is not unreasonable nor outrageous to say that the process necessitates the formulation of an entirely new language to capture every aspect- taste, smell, texture. But at the core of things, the cooking of food and food itself is merely something that has to be consumed in order to carry out everyday activities.
Here is a fact, tested with scientific rigor and proven beyond a doubt. Despite its foundation, despite its biological basis, food has come to encompass the weight of human sentimentality. Created and shaped by illogical beings, food, too, has boundaries far beyond what should be reasonably expected.
…There’s a headache blooming at the edges of his temples as he walks home. His headphones are already blocking out as much noise as they can, and Alhaitham is careful to avoid the worst of the late afternoon crowd. People are easy to avoid and easier to ignore. He has long ago determined the easiest route home after work. Two of the main factors that play into his headaches are mitigated with a little bit of prior planning, but, the thing he can never completely account for is smell.
It isn’t unpleasant. How could it be when it’s the foundation of people’s livelihoods- if it was unpleasant, they would have lost business and disappeared long ago. It is the smell of grease and frying spices, of wood fires and roasted chickens- of sugar, bubbling away, waiting eagerly for nuts and hands shaping it while it is still a touch too hot to hold.
He sees people waiting in lines as he weaves his way through the crowd. He sees children eagerly waiting at stalls for the Aunts who are always a touch too free with treats to be good for business. He sees others in the Academiya uniforms tiredly floating their way to empty tables and stools, raising a hand to call for a drink. He sees the flash of glinting knives working through the day’s produce, the bubbling cauldrons that have been cooking the entire day.
He walks past all of this. Past the Academiya students whose arm gestures threaten to knock over platters and pitchers. A nod for the Aunt who gives him an approving glance- most likely for the fact he is not stopping by her stall for the third time this week.
He walks through it all, unbothered by people- a measure of peace granted to him after a workday of people insisting that he do a job that he does not want. It is the necessary 20 minutes he takes in order to decompress and lose any desperate staff on his heels.
Lurking at the edges of the Bazaar, minutes away from home, he presses a hand to his chest. A dull ache nestles itself between his ribs, making its home in the beats of his heart, as he slips past fragrant onions and drying meats and baking breads.
Alhaitham frowns. If he becomes ill from overwork, he is simply leaving the country.
It was his Grandmother who taught him how to cook.
“While I have no doubt that a book has wondrous recipes and techniques, enough to teach you how to get by,” she had said, wrapping her fingers around his hands, holding onto him and the knife firmly. She had reached down, folded his fingers into shape, knuckles curled and placed on top of the onion. “There are simply some things that people have not bothered to write down. If we, as a species, are to lose knowledge, it should not be out of arrogance.” She scoffs, the edge in her tone offset by how gently she presses down. “The fragility of life is the only surety we have and yet we are so often blindsided by it. Bah. You’re too young for this lecture- here, try it on your own-”
If he tries hard enough, he can remember the lines in her skin and the warmth of her hands as she led him through the simple steps of raising and lowering the knife. Some of it echoes in how he handles his swordplay today- where the weight of the blade should be enough to carry through, the difference between slicing in a smooth motion and sawing away, when the flat of his blade is more effective than the edge.
His Grandmother taught him how to change, how to transform things from one state of being to another. She showed him how to clarify butter, how to better preserve it so that it wouldn’t go bad. She let him experiment with unwashed and washed rice, with bottled fruits and sugar, of the differences between toasted and untoasted spices. She showed him how to prepare a bird, from beginning to end, and she had him run his hands across the skin of a fish to catch the scales her eyes could not see. She showed him how to knead bread, to adjust for temperature and humidity in his cooking.
“Cooking is not a standardized process,” she would tell him, hands fiddling with dried herbs and throwing them into the pot without a second glance. “A book can tell you what ingredients make up a curry or a cake, but it can not tell you what you already know. The secrets you keep to yourself in an extra spoonful of sugar or a chili less than standard. That is something you must discover on your own.”
Ideal Circumstance was something they came up with together. A process of experimentation where they took apart every ingredient of a Sabz Meat Stew and did something new with it. “If the food does not suit your palette, then you simply must find the form that suits it,” she said once he had refused to eat the soup. And she had put him to work- testing the things that they could change. The herbs chopped less finely while the meat was minced. The addition of flour and egg until the resulting mixture could be baked into a solid mass. The alteration of using crepes instead, stuffing a pocket until it could be fried. Variation upon variation until they reached a conclusion. “A delightful spinoff,” she had declared when they had cut themselves a slice to share when they could find no fault with it. “All of the good flavor in a book safe package, achieved with proper experimental procedure.” She had ruffled his hair with a smile creasing the well worn lines on her face. “Well done,” She had said, each word enunciated clearly and precisely. Each word injected with their own share of warmth. “My dear Alhaitham.”
When he sees a familiar blue feather at his front door, Alhaitham switches off the soundproofing on his headphones. Bright and colorful, Kaveh stands out from where he’s settled against the stairs- bright reds and golds against dark wood and emerald tiles. Mehrak hovers in front of him, adjusting his sketches as Kaveh dictates- his hands a flurry of motions, pinching and pulling at light, measuring lines with stretched out fingers. Alhaitham doesn’t notice the sack of rice and various groceries until he pulls out his key- and the clinking of metal catches Kaveh’s attention.
Immediately, Kaveh’s startled face falls into a scowl- his hand swiping through his model and scattering it back to light as he gets to his feet. “What is the point of keeping everything in the same place if you’re just going to take both keys without looking?” He says, sweeping up his bags and the conversation in one motion. Mehrak spins back to life behind him, letting out a cheery beep as she picks up the rest of the groceries. “You’re sending contrasting signals, you know? You ask me to pick up groceries and then immediately lock me out! You have only yourself to blame that dinner isn’t ready by now!”
Clunk. “You act like any of that would be safe for human consumption.” A twist of his wrist, the clicking of the lock.
“Why, you-! I’ve cut myself once , just let it go already!” Kaveh shoves his way past, shoes hastily kicked off as he marches through the door, but Alhaitham can see the tips of his ears glowing red from where he stands. He can see past him too, in the house that they’ve made. In between the books that line their shelves and sit on their table, in the paintings that Kaveh insisted on hanging, in the pillows they went to buy together. He can smell the coffee they’ve brewed, still lingering in the halls. It eases the tension in his head and chest, and-
He has to take a second. To breathe in the warmth of the home that they’ve created.
“Beep?”
Inhale. Exhale.
A step to the side. “Go on,” he says, and Mehrak just gives him a look. Her display flickers slightly. He’s seen her do this to Kaveh, when he’s on day three of an all-nighter and gearing up for a fourth. It doesn’t take a genius to notice that this is her way of displaying concern, but he can’t determine what triggered her alarm.
“Mehrak, dear, I need you over here please!” Kaveh calls out, and Mehrak’s face flickers again. This time, however, she floats through the door, lining up the remaining groceries and filing them through the door after her.
For some reason, Alhaitham takes a glance back out on the street. He can still hear the noises of the market below. Can still smell the food being made. But he also smells the Paradaisah perfume that Kaveh insists on using when he meets with clients, the oil that he uses when he cleans Mehraks, and the older, fainter smells of the flowers that his parents worked into the inks of their books.
He shuts the door firmly behind him.
The keys fall back into the basket together with a satisfying clatter.
It caught him off guard.
Not the death. She had known it was coming, and therefore, so did he. It ached, it hurt, but to believe that his Grandmother would last forever would be irrational. And so he was prepared for the funeral, for the management of the estate, and the eventual applications he would have to file to the Academiya.
It was the pantry.
Mostly empty. She wasn’t eating or cooking much toward the end, and Alhaitham had little interest in complicated, hours-long cooking sessions if she wasn’t involved. He runs fingers along bare shelves, judging what’s still left. Cupboard staples in dry rice, lentils, and beans. Some meat, cured and dried. Her favorite spices are still stored away in glass jars, half full, because they always bought them in bulk. Herbs hanging from the ceiling, dried from the last growing season. These are all expected. It wasn’t as if he had stopped cooking entirely. He had been in here frequently, had done his fair share of stir-fries and stews and breads.
But there are things in here, long forgotten. Dried candied fruits that she had bought for him, something to keep his hands and mouth busy while his mind delved into books. A dried fish he does not recognize and can’t remember when they had bought it. He’s not sure what to do with it and can only set it aside as he roots further through. There is her favorite licorice that he can’t stand, too medical and bitter with little else to offer. Dried chilis that were a part of her version of the Fish with Cream Sauce-
Pain lances through his chest. Caught off guard, he crushes the chilis in his hands, the bag suddenly full of dusty seeds and powder, but he’s focused on pressing a shaky hand to his chest. It’s hot and cold, it’s unimaginable pressure on his lungs that make each breath a wheezing struggle.
Logically. It shouldn’t hurt.
He knew this was coming. She knew, and therefore, he knew.
Death is a cessation of the mind and body. Of course it would mean that they would never do the same things again. She can’t guide him during his research anymore- a hand with an interesting book that sends him on another research tangent. She doesn’t have any more stories to share with him. She will not reach out and brush the hair out of his eyes, clicking her tongue and already reaching for the scissors.
He will never taste her cooking again.
He will never taste “home” again.
There’s a sharp keen in his ears, but all he can do is cover his ears. He can’t stand the sound. He can’t stand the silence. But he can’t stop -
And there is no one there to help him.
Alhaitham leans over, checking one of the bags that Kaveh has left out on the counter. “Did you get scammed again?” He sorts through the inside of the bag. Meat. Mushrooms. Meat. Meat- “Or were you attacked by a vicious herd of Shroom Boars?”
“See if I do anything nice for you ever again,” Kaveh says. He’s pulled his hair up and rolled up his sleeves, but he’s struggling with the apron ties. He sighs, letting them fall to the side as he pulls the bag closer to himself. “I go through the depths of the market for you, put up with the Aunties- who, for some reason, are all aware that we live together and have no problem with letting me know it-, and get saddled with what feels like the entire market’s worth of food, because now that you are the Acting Grand Sage, it’s clear that you’re being ‘overworked and overwhelmed-’” Kaveh lifts his hands out of the bag long enough to give him air quotes. “- and now I’m cooking you food, only to be met with your ridicule?!” He scoffs, but Kaveh’s eyes are curved up at the edges. “Outrageous. Absolutely horrendous.”
“What is horrendous is the idea that you’ll be cooking,” Alhaitham says because he has to respond. If he doesn’t, it’s out of character and concerning- a wrong note in their pre-established rhythm. But it’s hard to get anything out over this sudden flood of warmth, this not so sudden surge of affection for a man this ridiculous. He walks over, grabbing the ends of Kaveh’s apron strings, and winds the strands together. “Your long proven and continued ineptitude at basic cutting skills astounds me,” He says, pulling strings tight, but not too tight. “How can you not cut an onion but are able to form breads into a house?”
“How can you be so exacting and yet so uninterested?” Kaveh shoots back, turning to face him directly. His words are cutting and pointed, but their edges are dulled by the smile on his face. They know what it takes to hurt the other, they know what it’s like to wield words like blades. But they also know what the other needs to see, what the other needs to feel. So Kaveh playfully jabs a finger at his chest. He smiles with his whole face because he knows his professional smile annoys him. “Show me how it's done if you’re so confident.”
Alhaitham reaches up, slotting his fingers next to Kaveh’s. It’s easier to pinpoint his emotions like this. Standing next to the liveliest person he knows, who lives through each moment as if he’s running out of time. It’s easier to pinpoint that ache now that it’s gone- to identify the absence that it’s been filled. Easy to marvel at how emotions can correlate to physical feelings, of what its like for loneliness, for grief to linger in the scooped out hole in his chest. Becoming ill from overwork is not so strange of a thought if work would deprive him of this. Of Kaveh.
He brings up Kaveh’s hand to his face, pressing the back of his hand against his cheek. Alhaitham smiles, watching Kaveh’s face light up red. “Okay.”
Kaveh sputters, pressing his other hand into his face. He doesn’t pull away, not quite yet, and Alhaitham smiles a little wider for it. “I- you-!!!” He covers his eyes, but Alhaitham can see the glimpse of Kaveh’s eye, squinted shut and tilted up at the corners, peeking through. “Ridiculous,” he says, a shy smile on his face. “Utterly ridiculous.”
How can he feel lonely like this? When Kaveh fills up their house and his life and more?
Alhaitham squeezes his hand one more before letting go and reaching for the knife.
“You’re going to cut yourself,” Alhaitham says, and Kaveh shoots him a glare. They’re on day four of this desert expedition- halfway to the site they’re supposed to be studying. He doesn’t quite understand why Kaveh has bought fresh produce with them when they were traveling through Aaru Village when they already have rations. He had said as much when Kaveh was handing over the mora to the merchant, and Kaveh had given him an astonished look.
“Haitham, you can’t possibly enjoy eating those!” He exclaimed. Which. He’s not sure what that has to do with anything, but yes, he does not. Kaveh had gestured, bag in one hand and other arm spread wide. “We’re going for research, not to torture ourselves,” he said, “If we can have good food while we’re out there, then I’m certainty not going to pass up the opportunity to do so!”
…The line of thought was something he’s come to expect from his Senior, but it was a level of irrationality that he struggles with comprehending. “That’s additional equipment we must lug across the desert,” he had pointed out. And then, “Can you even cook?”
He’s not sure what about that was so offensive, but Kaveh had puffed up like an Anemo Slime and exploded in a burst of indignant words. And it simply became less troublesome to let him have his way here.
Which brings him to watching Kaveh cut vegetables by firelight. His hands are clawed, gripping peppers with his entire hand splayed out flat on top of the peppers. His faith in Kaveh’s competence is dying a slow and ugly death.
Kaveh flips him off. “I don’t see you doing anything!”
“This wasn’t my idea. I shouldn’t have to do more work because my senior’s dreams are too much for his level of skill.”
A huff. “Well, excuse me for trying to do something for the both of us!” Kaveh doesn’t meet his eyes, focusing on the peppers sloppily sliced. Even by the firelight, the tips of his ears are visibly red.
In the cool desert night, the only sounds are of metal against rock. Of fire crackling merrily. Of taunting winds in the sands.
In the cool desert night, they are the only ones who not yet dream.
“We’re still here,” Kaveh says, voice low, just barely audible in the space between them, “While everyone else has given up. Forgive me for wanting to celebrate something after that whole debacle.”
“That whole debacle” is certainly one way to describe an incident that almost cost Kaveh his life. He could open his mouth and tell him that everyone else's failure to keep up was not their responsibility, that it should have been expected. He could light a fire in Kaveh’s eyes and set up another blistering argument that leaves them both overexposed and angry. But he does remember, watching the rocks fall and wondering. Of the overwhelming fear, and later, the anger that he even now refuses to tamp down on. Now, he sees Kaveh, struggling to cut peppers and downtrodden after days of travel.
In the cool desert night, it is just the two of them.
Alhaitham presses his eyes shut and sighs. Sets aside the book in his hands.
He plucks the knife from Kaveh’s hands, ignoring the “hey!” he gets in response, and folds his hands over the peppers- fingertips safely folded away and knuckles facing out. Flipping the knife the right way round, he presses down with the knife, letting it carry the weight forward and through, making little rounds of peppers. “What are you trying to make?” He says, flicking his eyes up at Kaveh’s face.
Eyes wide and mouth agape, Kaveh sputters. “ You know how to cook?”
“Yes.” He uses the back of the knife to slide the peppers into the bowl. He eyes what other things Kaveh has bought- tomatoes, flour, rice, beans, some herbs, potatoes, and some greens. “Aaru Mixed Rice? We should have been soaking the beans first then.” He reaches for the tomatoes.
“For how long?! Everytime I see you eat anything, it’s always just Pita Pockets!”
Roughly chop the tomatoes. They’ll cook down faster into mush, no need for even pieces. “Why does eating Pita Pockets disqualify someone from being able to cook? You may not be aware of this, but Pita Pockets do require cooking.”
Kaveh throws up his hands, exasperated. But there’s a lightness to his senior’s shoulders as he slides next to him. Alhaitham can see him watching him, even as Kaveh starts filling a pot with water for the rice and beans. “You haven’t actually answered me.”
“...My grandmother taught me,” Alhaitham says instead of measuring that time in years. He’s not quite sure, honestly, when his grandmother had recruited him into learning. It doesn’t matter. He learned how to do it in the end. He nudges Kaveh’s arm lightly- ignoring the silence that wants to settle between them. “Do you want the tomatoes in now or later?”
“Does it matter?”
“Yes.”
“...Would it kill you to explain anything? How am I supposed to make a decision without knowing all the factors?”
“It was your idea. I would have thought you had a direction.”
“Well, now that I know that you know how to cook, isn't it only right that I follow your lead?”
“Are you telling me that you went to all of this trouble without knowing how to cook? Is this why you were so defensive earlier?”
“Now, listen here-!”
The resulting meal is thick and heavy. They argued for too long, and the bottom of the rice was slightly scorched. Kaveh overestimated the amount of water that it would take to cook the beans and rice. The rice that wasn’t scorched was soggy and too soft, and the beans were a little too hard without having been soaked beforehand. If it wasn’t for the tomatoes and peppers, the resulting mush would have been inedible. The freshness and sharp spice cuts through the texture and at least makes it interesting. It is not particularly good technically.
It is one of the best things he has had in years.
Arguing in the cold night of the desert with hot food in front of them. How could he have been cold with Kaveh’s fiery passion in full force in front of him? What would he do, without Kaveh here to bounce ideas off of?
Perhaps, Kaveh was right, when he said they still had something to celebrate.
When they dream that night, they dream together.
“What is the point of reorganizing our cabinets if you put the pot behind everything else?” Alhaitham says, closing the cupboard.
He expects a retort- something along the lines of his ineptitude at recognizing aesthetics- but there’s nothing. It’s unlike Kaveh to let silence sit, much less ignore an well-worn argument that has lost all its edges. But the man is simply leaning over the counter, elbows propped and hands, covered in spices and the stickiness of raw meat, are carefully kept out of his hair. He doesn’t notice when Alhaitham walks up behind him, his own curiosity making him lean over to see what has Kaveh so enthralled.
It’s a book. From his collection even, one of the older ones. Its pages are loose from where the binding is starting to fray. The pages are yellow, and the inks are starting to fade from where fingers have run over them again and again.
Of course he recognizes it.
It’s one of his grandmother’s journals.
His lips press together in a thin line, but the hand that touches Kaveh’s back is gentle.
Kaveh yelps, jumping a little, stepping back into Alhaitham’s braced hands. His arms go flying, one of his hands smearing a line of sticky spices across his face and into his hair. But nothing touches the book- even as his elbow lands into Alhaitham’s side and he forgets how dirty his hands are to press them onto his face to brace himself.
“Fucking- Haitham!” Kaveh curses, back firmly settled against Alhaitham’s arm, hand pressed to his forehead. “Would it kill you to make some noise!? Do you enjoy my suffering-?”
Alhaitham simply nods at the journal, and Kaveh wilts. Puffing out a breath, he sinks in Alhaitham’s side. “Ugh, I was hoping you wouldn’t notice.”
“A difficult thing, considering how rarely you pick up anything to read.”
Another elbow into his side. “Some of us have actual jobs that require hard work- ugh. Look. Considering how often you harp on my cooking ability-”
“It would be more adept to call it an liability-”
“- ability , I had assumed it would be a safer thing to cook from a recipe.” Kaveh gestures, not with his hands but his elbow. “Given the age of this one, I had figured that someone must have enjoyed it, but the details were so meticulous that if I transcribed it, I’m sure I would have missed something .” He sighs loudly and then a little quieter, a little less Kaveh - “I have to give myself a fighting chance somewhere .”
…In the mood that he is in, in the mood Kaveh is in, Alhaitham can not be sure that the words he says next won’t lead to a fight that neither of them want. Him, in his honesty and his failure to understand Kaveh’s need to be something more when he is already the Sun, and Kaveh, in his guilt and need to be better than his sand-sunken failures. So he squeezes Kaveh’s shoulder with his hand and reaches out with the other. Flipping through the journal the way each and every book is meant to be handled. Meant to be read. Feels the tension bleed out of Kaveh, feels the way breath shudders in his lungs.
But he also reads the words on the page. The words, so precisely and elegantly done, that he feels like he lives each day trying to match. The letters he grew up on, that gave him the gift of knowledge, spelling out words he recognizes in every step of life. “You were right,” Alhaitham says, “I have enjoyed this recipe before.” Anything else, he feels, Kaveh could use to hurt himself. But he sees the phantom hand of his Grandmother penning each line, careful to record every last detail of her dishes before she dies- only to have Kaveh come in, afraid of losing any of her detail in a dish that made for the both of them-
There are warm hands on his face, slightly tacky. Kaveh’s eyes are red, a fiery warmth that lights up his whole face, and curved up at the edges. “Are you back?” He asks.
Alhaitham closes his eyes, feeling Kaveh’s thumb stroke just under his eye. “Mm.”
“Should we keep cooking from it?” Kaveh asks, “We could always just improvise.” There’s still a stiffness he can feel in Kaveh’s hands. “It was just a thought- we can always just do what we usually do.”
He wants to press his mouth into Kaveh’s hand. He wants to get out of his own skin, away from all the emotion brimming under it. Instead-
“No. You had a plan, senior. We’ll follow your direction, just this once.” And then, “But you should take a shower first. You’ve touched every possible surface with raw meat on your hands.”
Silence.
“ACK- ALHAITHAM, YOU LET ME TOUCH MY HAIR WITH THAT- OH ARCHONS -”
Alhaitham cooks for himself frequently.
It is a waste of money to eat out every day, and while the hassle of getting groceries is something that he’ll never get over, he ultimately has to deal with less people if he gets groceries once a week and cooks dinner at home. There is no fuss over portion sizes or what nutrition he may or may not be getting from overwhelming, well-meaning people. It’s really only practical.
At the beginning of each week, he’ll meal prep. Curries are easy to reheat throughout the week, and rice is something he can set up before he leaves for work- and if he truly can not be bothered, he can use some of the frozen rice. With his current position as Scribe, he finds that he has very little to stress-bake over, but he bakes a loaf each week because sandwiches are convenient and take very little time to make. Vegetables can be cleaned and pre-sliced ahead of time, and it’s easy to take it a step further by baking them and storing the cooked vegetables. He preps a tandoori chicken for day one so he can save the leftovers for said sandwiches and sometimes his curries.
There is very little reason to change this system.
Everything he makes is tailored to his palette, and therefore, he enjoys every meal he has.
Today, however, he frowns down at Ideal Circumstance.
He used the written recipe from his Grandmother’s journal, and he altered very little from the original dish that they workshopped together on. The spices are not exactly the same- his pantry is not as well stocked as his childhood’s home. However, the quality of the ingredients are better, he thinks, considering that he knows what to look for and has multiple Aunties shoving produce at him.
…So why does it taste worse than usual?
A little blander, despite the toasted spices he’s used this time. A little drier, which, fair enough, he’ll reduce the amount of flour next time.
….He didn’t expect it to taste the same. He knew. He knows. That time is long beyond him.
He…
….
Moving to the living room, he sets himself on the divan. Headphones on, book in hand, he takes another bite of Ideal Circumstance.
(Grandmother,
What did you mean by a peaceful life?)
“I can not believe you got a pan commissioned specifically to brand, ‘Contemplation,’ into your food ,” Kaveh says, putting away the leftover stew into the icebox. “Do you even use this pan for anything else?”
Alhaitham flips their dinner out onto a serving plate, shaking the pan slightly to feel that soft thump as the pancake drops. “It is a pan that is used for cooking. It serves its function.”
“Oh gods, you do. ” Kaveh takes the pan from him and puts it into the sink. Grabbing the plates on his way back to the table as Alhaitham settles into his chair, Kaveh slices to serve. “If you were anyone else, I would assume that it was some absurd good luck thing, but you do it because you actually believe it. Gods.” He slides a plate in front of Alhaitham and settles into his own seat, his own portion already being lifted up to his mouth.
It looks the same as it ever does when he feels inclined to make it. Wrapped in a slightly soggy crepe, the filling is mostly just torn up meat with the sauce reduced down until it’s simply coating everything. Bits of greenery scattered throughout the golden wrap. Steam gently billowing up.
It crunches the same way in his mouth, with thin flakes of the wrap falling apart in his mouth. It’s the warm and bright spices in a rich sauce and the way the meat melts in your mouth. The mix of soft and crunchy onions, slightly sweet and spicy, from different stages of cooking. Savory and salty lingering in the mouth-
“Oh, wow, this is actually annoyingly good,” Kaveh says, voice muffled.
It tastes like home.
He sits here in a kitchen, fruits and wine on the table to be shared. Each and every plate argued over until they snuck their way in through compromise or spite. Their meal, made together with gentle but firm instruction from a book far out of its own time. It is Kaveh, freshly washed from his own cooking mishaps, sitting at the other side of the table. His eyes alight with satisfaction as he chews away on a dish that his Grandmother tailored specifically for Alhaitham. His Grandmother, who’s lined eyes crinkled at the edges and a gentle hand ruffled through his hair.
He has not been lonely in a long time. Not with a house built for two, not with a roommate this lively.
But maybe this is what it means, for a meal to be homemade-
Alhaitham slides out of his chair and crosses the distance- Kaveh looking up with surprised and then uncertain eyes-
Something’s filled that ache in his chest, but it’s overflowing. Spilling out of him with every move, just like before. But there’s no food safety concerns this time, nothing stopping him from holding Kaveh’s face and pressing his lips against his.
Can you feel it, senior? The crush of emotions, the love he has for you. The love you’ve taught him to recognize? The way you’ve taught him sentimentality, with poor cutting techniques and half-assed plans? The way that his home has only ever been a person?
The way Kaveh kisses back tells him yes.
(Grandmother,
When you wrote down your recipes, did you think this would happen? Did you foresee my peaceful life to have someone who loved me enough to re-make the taste of home? To craft it anew, in between arguments and broken dreams?
Two teaspoons of sentimentality, one and a half tablespoons of self-reflection, and one whole Kaveh. What does this make? Is it love? Is it grief? What am I supposed to be chasing?
Grandmother, what did you mean by a peaceful life?
I no longer have an answer to this question, but.
I think you, too, would have loved him.)
“It was my Grandmother’s recipe,” Alhaitham says in the quiet of the night, Kaveh tucked into his side.
“...what?” Kaveh looks up at him, eyes wide.
“She had multiple journals,” Alhaitham continues because he knows perfectly well Kaveh heard him. “But I suppose she saved this one for the perfected recipes she had.” And then, before Kaveh can start demanding answers or worse- “Why did you pick one of my recipe books for dinner today?”
“I told you-”
“Allow me to rephrase then. Why did you decide to make dinner today?”
Silence settles in like a well-used blanket. He’s in no rush as Kaveh mulls over his thoughts, deciding how honest he can be. He thinks he knows, but to make assumptions without clear data is just the height of folly.
He can feel the burning warmth of Kaveh’s red face as he presses further against his side. “...I know I prod and poke at you about your job, but you seemed stressed,” he says, “We’ve had more bread than I know what to do with these past few weeks, but your hands twitch in that way where you want to be doing more.” Kaveh counts with his fingers, tapping each one against Alhaitham’s stomach as he goes through the list in his head. “You have your headphones on more frequently than not, you’ve stolen my key 4 times this week alone, and you’ve eaten nothing but your meal preps since I got back.” A pause and then a sigh. “Forgive me,” he says, “But I thought it would be nice for you to have something familiar.”
…He is glad. That he still knows Kaveh well enough to have assumed correctly.
Alhaitham rolls over, pulling Kaveh closer. He can feel Kaveh’s hands reaching up, playing with Alhaitham’s hair nervously. He huffs out a sigh, feeling the tension leak out of Kaveh. “I told you once that earnest thanks should be given thrice,” he says here, in the quiet of the night. “Then let me say this:”
“Thank you for being here. Thank you for staying. Thank you, Kaveh.”
Yes, it should be said that food impacts more of our lives than should be reasonably expected. But it is the whims of the illogical, of the people who can never be predicted that shape it. It is a language that takes its own shapes and forms, from clumsy hands and well-meaning sentiment to well practiced motions and experimental risks.
From one illogical being to another, this meal means I want to see you well. I hope you’re alright. I hope that this brightens your day. I love you.
From words on a page, to dishes clumsily made, from the dead to the living, from two lonely people to the other, I love you.