Work Text:
Kaveh felt like a crumpled, ink‑stained scrap of paper, long ago discarded into the darkest corner of the room. Sometimes someone picks him up, carelessly smooths him out, writes new lines on him — and then crumples him again, tosses him aside without a glance. All that remains is to wait: when will he finally tear? When will the thin fibres give way under this endless weight of others' words and his own?
Perhaps from the outside Kaveh seems frivolous, even carefree — he smiles, jokes, gestures. But he is not stupid. Oh, he sees perfectly well when people mock him, when they try to belittle his talent, trample his ideas. He knows where his personal boundaries lie, and to some he forgives such rudeness, while to others he tries to gently but firmly explain that certain words and gestures cause him pain. But there is one person to whom Kaveh allows everything. The one for whom he has learned to swallow a prickly lump in his throat, to snap back through tears just to hide the tremor, even when his chest tightens so painfully that he wants to collapse onto the floor and curl into a ball, hiding his face in his knees.
Al‑Haitham. Perhaps he truly does not notice when his words or his indifference wound Kaveh. Perhaps he sincerely does not understand when he should stop. Or perhaps he simply does not care. That thought is the most terrifying of all, but Kaveh pushes it away, clinging to a tiny, almost dying ember deep in his soul: what if he still loves him? What if this is just a difficult phase?
Even now, standing in Al‑Haitham's office, Kaveh silently stares at the bouquet in the vase on the desk. He remembers choosing those flowers at the market — sifting through stems, looking for the freshest buds, meticulously discarding the wilted ones. Then he spent almost half an hour arranging the composition: tying, trimming, positioning each flower so that it would be visible, so that all that beauty would speak of his feelings better than any words could. But now… now only a pitiful handful of drooping stems remains in the vase. Half of the flowers have disappeared — withered, shed their petals, been thrown away. The ones left are bending toward the water, as if apologising for their very existence. Kaveh looks at them and feels an icy emptiness spreading inside: what has Al‑Haitham done for him lately?
He runs through the days, weeks, months in his memory. When was the last time they took an evening walk, hand in hand? When did Al‑Haitham drop by the coffee shop to buy his favourite beans, flashing a tired smile across the counter? When did they simply walk home from work together, not discussing reports and projects, but just silently savouring each other's presence?
Kaveh meets Al‑Haitham from work almost every day. He patiently waits while he finishes with the endless stream of sages, wards off annoying colleagues, and then, hiding his own exhaustion, walks beside him — through the streets, past the streetlights, all the way home. He does it with a light smile, as if it brings him joy, as if it isn't he who has dropped everything just to be near. And Al‑Haitham walks along, buried in a book or his documents, not noticing that Kaveh looks at him with a hope that fades with every step.
Kaveh has even started drinking less. He no longer drops into bars after hard days, no longer seeks solace at the bottom of a glass. All because Al‑Haitham once said: he doesn't like seeing Kaveh in that state, he's tired of having to tend to him every night — washing his face, changing his clothes, putting him to bed. Kaveh was hurt then, but he took it as concern, as a plea. He doesn't deny that he sometimes overdid it — to the point of oblivion, to the point where his legs wouldn't hold him. But before — before, Al‑Haitham used to come to the bar himself, find him among the tables, gently take his arm and lead him home. At home he would carefully wash his face with warm water, brush his teeth, change him into pyjamas that smelled of their shared laundry detergent, and tuck him into their bed, kissing his temple, his cheek, the corner of his lips. And even through the drunken haze, Kaveh could feel those touches — warm, tender, filled with something far greater than mere habit. And in the morning, despite the pounding headache, he would wake up with the feeling that he was loved.
Now, though… now he wakes up at the front door. Cold floor, numb back, dry throat, and only one question in his head: "Why?" When he finally dared to ask Al‑Haitham about it, the answer came dryly, even irritably: he's tired from work, he has his own affairs, he can't waste time picking Kaveh's drunk ass off the floor and dragging him to bed. Kaveh said nothing then, swallowed the resentment, but something inside him broke. Even then he thought: but before, Al‑Haitham never considered it a waste of time.
Now their home is filled with cold. Hugs have become rare — and they no longer warm him; they only remind him of the closeness they once had. Kisses that used to leave warmth on his skin now touch it as indifferently as dry leaves touch the ground. Everything has been reduced to rituals: two mugs of coffee in the morning (without a word), breakfast for two (in silence), a curt "I'm leaving" before heading out. No "I love you," no "I miss you," not even "see you tonight." Kaveh has noticed that the warm light in Al‑Haitham's eyes — the one that used to kindle when he walked into the office — is gone. Now there is only emptiness, a hint of irritation, or indifference. No one greets him at the door, no one touches his shoulder, no one leaves a kiss on the crown of his head when he steps closer. Al‑Haitham nods silently, closes his documents silently, puts on his coat silently and walks to the exit, not even glancing at Kaveh. And if Kaveh dares to step forward — to reach out, to embrace him, to brush his lips against his cheek — he meets an invisible wall. Icy, prickly, impenetrable. And from that cold, his breath catches, and his heart clenches in pain.
Kaveh cannot remember when it all began. He sifts through the days, the weeks, the months — in vain. It happened gradually, like water seeping out of a cracked vessel. Maybe three weeks ago? Maybe half a year? He has grown so used to this cold routine that he no longer notices how that light, gentle warmth — which once warmed him even on the darkest nights — has slipped away from their relationship. He has grown used to not being hugged, not being kissed, not being awaited. Used to feeling like an outsider in his own home, in his own life.
But somewhere deep down, at the very bottom of his battered soul, a spark still flickers. A tiny, trembling, almost desperate hope: what if he's just tired? What if tomorrow — or in an hour — Al‑Haitham suddenly turns to him, takes his hand, looks at him with those same warm eyes and says, "Forgive me, I didn't mean to, I still love you"? And Kaveh waits. He waits, feeling the flowers in the vase wither along with his hope. But he keeps looking at them, unable to look away, because as long as they are still standing — even dying — there is at least some sign that he is not alone. That he hasn't been completely unloved.
Only the silence in the office is deafening, and on the desk — on the desk the petals are falling, like tears he has never allowed himself to shed.