Work Text:
i carry your heart with me(i carry it in
my heart)i am never without it(anywhere
i go you go,my dear;and whatever is done
by only me is your doing,my darling)
Love, Alhaitham discovers, is an act of preservation.
In the same way that Alhaitham is intimately familiar with the processes of poring over ancient texts, painstakingly transcribing every stroke of the script before him, or documenting Akademiya findings and ordinances, cautiously taking note of every minute detail in the syntax, he finds that love, too, is a form of documentation.
To love someone is to remember their habits, their mannerisms, their treasured foods and beloved pastimes, to recognize their favorite colors, favorite scents, and favorite flowers, to recall as if by sacred scrolls the way they prefer their fruits to be cut, how they like their clothes to be folded, and whether they sleep with one pillow or two stacked atop each other. And in doing so, to remember someone is to preserve their identity, clinging onto the documented fragments of their existence that dwell in the objects of your home; and to preserve someone’s identity is to also carry its weight upon your shoulders – to carry their heart within the shape of yours. Endlessly and perpetually.
Alhaitham is a skilled professional at documentation. It is, after all, part of his job description and a significant component of what he spent years of schooling doing. This is why he stops by the market on the way home from work today as he habitually does, ordering a basket of fresh fruits, two bottles of wine – one with a sweeter aftertaste than the other, and a rich and creamy stew.
“With extra cheese on the side, isn’t that right, dear?” the familiar old lady behind the stall asks, eyes curving around a patient smile.
“Yes,” Alhaitham nods in gratitude, brief but polite.
Up to a few years ago, the stall had been run by her husband. They’d been married for a little over 40 years, but not too long ago, her husband passed away from old age due to heart complications. Ever since her husband passed, the old lady wears the same small earring in her left ear that he once did, and sometimes Alhaitham will catch her jotting down orders with her left hand more often than not. Her husband, who was left-handed, often liked to brag about how capable his ambidextrous wife is.
“Ah, that’s right,” the old lady kindly touches his elbow before Alhaitham strolls away. “My niece is opening a pottery and sculpting workshop in the Grand Bazaar next week. You mentioned you’ve been trying your hand at sculpting, haven’t you? Why don’t you come on down to her workshop when you have the time to? She said it’s very beginner friendly.”
Pausing, Alhaitham considers this, “Noted. Thank you.”
“Of course. You take care now!”
There is a barely perceptible smile on Alhaitham’s lips as he walks down the known path towards home. He thinks he might attempt at making a wide clay bowl to put his and Kaveh’s house keys in by the front door. That way, Kaveh will have less of an excuse for continually forgetting his keys. Once he’s more familiar with the techniques, perhaps he’ll even try making a little ornamental sculpture to add to their house decor. He’s certain that Kaveh would appreciate it.
When Alhaitham passes the threshold of their front door to enter their house, he quietly unpacks the items he bought earlier, organizing them into their designated locations. He does so mostly by muscle memory now after having been nagged by Kaveh countless times to not leave things randomly lying about their living space. Then, he slips into their bedroom to change into more comfortable homewear. Once he steps out of the bedroom, a bright and lustrous voice with a lovely cadence greets him as usual.
“Welcome home,” Kaveh says, waltzing into the living room as he hastily wipes an ink smudge from his cheek. He peers around the kitchenette. “You got all my favorite foods today, huh?”
“They’re my favorite too,” Alhaitham answers, smiling fondly as Kaveh leans in close to press a quick kiss to his cheek.
“Oh, since when?”
“Living together with someone can result in that tendency. Is it so incomprehensible that my taste buds have adapted to your preferences in the years we’ve spent together?” Alhaitham bends down to pull the cutting board out from one of their cupboards, gesturing at the cabinets for Kaveh to take out the ingredients for tonight’s meal. “I love them because you’ve loved them first.”
Kaveh huffs, tomatoes in hand, “How uncharacteristically romantic of you. Growing soft, are you?”
“Perhaps for you, yes.”
“Shameless,” Kaveh pinches Alhaitham’s thigh, resulting in a rather undignified noise of surprise, as Kaveh lightly bumps his hips against Alhaitham’s to move the other man to the side and slots into the space next to him with ease. “You’ve been reading too many of my romance novels, haven’t you?”
“I’m a Haravatat graduate. We Haravatats read anything and everything, Senior,” Alhaitham says, replying with his own gentle quip, just as easy and intuitive as descending into their daily domestic routine. From the corner of his eye, he sees Kaveh reach for the salt in the cabinet above them before the man shifts behind Alhaitham.
Softly, Kaveh’s arms encircle him, strong and scarred hands coming to rest on top of Alhaitham’s own as Kaveh’s steady grip tightens Alhaitham’s hold on the kitchen knife. Kaveh watches with silent approval as Alhaitham curls his other hand into a paw, the knife cleanly and swiftly cutting through the tomato he placed on the cutting board.
“You’re getting better at this,” Kaveh comments absently, his chin falling against Alhaitham’s shoulder with care. “Still not as fast as this senior of yours, though.”
“Well, you were the one who taught me how you cut them.”
Kaveh throws his head back in a laugh and casually waves a hand in the air, “Hah! I remember what it was like when I first moved in with you. You took ages to cut a single vegetable. I would finish five different steps of the recipe and look over to see that you were only halfway through a single carrot. You were so endearing back then – your nose all scrunched up in a cute frown of focus. I can’t believe that’s how you’ve been cutting vegetables your whole life before I came into it.”
Alhaitham feels his ears growing warm, “It wasn’t like anyone taught me otherwise, until you.”
Kaveh’s eyes soften, “That’s true.”
They finish the rest of their dinner preparation in a mundane, comfortable silence, interspersed with momentary bouts of bickering or tender remarks languidly thrown at each other. It is sorely familiar and inviting. Outside, the bustle of the city streets flutters into a delicate lullaby as the sky dips into the countless shades of fading daylight, like the final flickering moments of a daydream, wavering in and out of the fabric of reality. Memories and people present in one moment and gone by the following heartbeat. Inside, as Alhaitham pours the creamy stew from the takeout container into a bowl, Kaveh lifts a hand to gently brush against Alhaitham’s hair.
“You’ve been using my clips without asking again,” Kaveh notes in a mellow voice, caressing the parts of his gray hair that have been brushed back and clipped into place with Kaveh’s signature red clips. Somehow, it looks rather fitting on Alhaitham.
“It’s fine, isn’t it? We use each other’s things all the time,” Alhaitham brings the plates and bowls of food to their dining table. His eyes, always too honest, do not meet Kaveh’s persistent stare. “It’s not like you use them anymore now.”
“Sure, but you should know that I don’t have an endless supply of them,” Kaveh sighs in resignation. “Well, never mind. It surprisingly suits you anyway.”
Dinner is a casual affair, filled with the flow of ordinary conversation as they recount the day. Throughout the meal, Alhaitham finds himself frequently glancing towards the doorway, where Kaveh’s white shoes rest neatly beside his own pair and Kaveh’s scarlet cape hangs placidly off their coat rack. There is a thin layer of dust innocently blanketing Kaveh’s shoes. Alhaitham makes a mental note to clean that off later.
“Are you expecting someone?” Kaveh asks, swiveling around to examine the doorway as well.
“No. I hardly invite people into our home, and I would have told you if I did.”
“Then why the sudden interest in our front door? Did you order a delivery?”
“No, nothing like that,” Alhaitham says. “I was pondering about your last trip to the desert.”
“My last trip to the desert eight months ago? That shitshow?” Kaveh scoffs in amusement. “I don’t think I’ll be going back to the desert for a long time after witnessing that ruin collapse. It was a frighteningly close call. You know, I should’ve sensed something was wrong from the start. The team I was with had little to no experience in visiting ancient ruins. Thankfully, I still got home safe.”
“Yes,” Alhaitham says distantly. “I am grateful you did.”
Kaveh coos at him and lifts a spoon at his face, “Were you that worried about me?”
Alhaitham can feel his palms growing sweaty in the typical telltale sign of an upcoming headache, “I was exceedingly concerned for you. You can hardly imagine my distress when there was no form of communication or signs from you, knowing you were out in the desert where I cannot reach you.”
Frowning, the cheeky smirk wilts away from Kaveh’s face, his spoon lowering back to its plate, “You’re right. It was no teasing matter. Lets… let’s change the subject. No need to talk about such heavy matters on a delightful evening as this.”
Alhaitham nods mutely. When he and Kaveh eventually rise from the dining table to place the cleared plates in the sink, he watches the wine in Kaveh’s glass ripple from their movements, still full and untouched, and the reflection of his own scrutinizing eyes peer back at him, engulfed in a dark red liquid. As always, he forces his eyes to look away.
While Alhaitham cuts the apples he bought at the market today, he notices Kaveh hovering close, a hand on his cheek as he observes Alhaitham’s handiwork.
“I’ve told you multiple times – you shouldn’t stand so close when I’m cutting things.”
“It’s fine, it’s fine. I’ll be careful, and this won’t hurt me,” Kaveh leans in further, watching with adoration as Alhaitham carefully peels the skin of the apple into little bunny shapes. “Aren’t you glad that I taught you how to do that, too? They’re adorable.”
“I’ve gotten used to it.”
“I know, and isn’t that amazing? My father used to cut apples like that for me when I was a child. He taught my mother how to cut them in that way, and then I taught you how to do it too. And now, you always cut your apples into sweet little bunny-shaped slices,” Kaveh chuckles, half in wonder and half in nostalgia. “Isn’t it amazing how we pass on habits and little pieces of ourselves onto the people we love?”
Alhaitham passes a slice to Kaveh before he takes his own bite out of a slice. The stark sweetness unfurls at the tip of his tongue as he swirls bits of the apple around his mouth. With no one else in his life to instruct Alhaitham otherwise, Kaveh had been the one to teach Alhaitham how to pick and choose the best apples at the market, how to feel the firmness of the flesh beneath and how to seek out the brightest, fullest colors. That day, he brought his hand around Alhaitham’s own as they held the apple in their shared grasp, and Kaveh asked him if he could feel this weight. Alhaitham was too engrossed in the warmth of Kaveh’s hand enveloping his.
“An inherited practice can be a heavy burden to bear,” Alhaitham says simply. Kaveh’s apple slice remains whole and unbitten.
As Alhaitham settles into bed that night, he fluffs up the pillows on the left side of the bed and stacks two of them atop each other. Kaveh has always been adamant about sleeping on the left side of the bed, after all. Then, he slips under the covers on the right side, and feeling Kaveh’s arms sliding around his waist, he shifts a little closer to his beloved behind him.
“Haitham, can I ask you something?” Kaveh whispers faintly against Alhaitham’s neck. “How much have you put into preserving me?”
There is an old sketchbook on their bedside table that once belonged to Kaveh throughout his youth as a sort of scrapbook to store memories. Now, Alhaitham finds himself scribbling within its pages as well. His gaze lingers there and on Kaveh’s handwriting across the sketchbook’s well-worn and aged cover. Around his waist, his fingers curl around Kaveh’s hand protectively.
Alhaitham answers Kaveh with honesty – always, with honesty, “Everything I possibly can.”
Kaveh’s Our Sketchbook
(The thick old sketchbook is filled with two distinct handwritings. The first hundred or so pages are written in large, bubbly letters that are more often capitalized than not. The lines are bold and quick, as though they’ve been swiftly penned with whatever was found lying around. The rest of the sketchbook’s pages are written in cursive, clean, elegant letters, each stroke of the ink deliberate and sure. There is no longer any sign of the first handwriting in the contents after the 115th page.)
Page 116: A list of items, names, addresses, and contact information, all of whom were close to Kaveh. Postscript: “Things to prepare and people to contact.”
Page 117: A list of Kaveh’s key possessions. Postscript: “Things to organize at some point.”
Page 120: Copies of Kaveh’s birth certificate, his family register, his Sumeru citizenship certificate, the certificate of title of their house with Kaveh and Alhaitham’s names on it, Kaveh’s Akademiya diploma, and his and Alhaitham’s marriage certificate with a small black-and-white photo of Kaveh and Alhaitham. No postscript.
Page 125: Copies of Kaveh’s bank statements, including his checking accounts and his current liabilities. Postscript: “Allocated, paid, and closed.”
Page 130: A messy and haphazardly drawn sketch of Kaveh’s face. The lines are unsteady as if they were drawn with shaking fingers. It is evident that the person who drew this did not have artistic training – it is a trembling attempt, at best. There are circular splotches throughout the page indicative of droplets where the page had been wet and later dried. No postscript.
Page 132: Cut-out excerpts from letters of communication. The handwriting on these letters is lovely and graceful, and there is a Fontaine stamp on each of them. Among the letter excerpts is a copy of a baby photo of Kaveh. Postscript: “Letters from Faranak.”
Page 134: A doodle of Kaveh’s hand, exquisitely detailed and painstakingly drawn. The number of scars, calluses, and moles are clearly drawn through careful reference. Postscript: “Scars and calluses from working with building materials directly. 2 cm below his left pinky, 4 cm in length. 3 cm to the left of his right thumb, 5 cm in length, deeper than the others. Right beside his left fore finger, 3 cm in length. Writer’s bumps on both left and right hand.”
Page 135: Another hand-drawn sketch of Kaveh’s face. The sketch is unfinished and the face has been violently crossed out with brutal strokes of ink. Postscript: “Where was that freckle on his face… How far was the mole from his chin… I can’t remember I can’t remember I can’t remember I can’t remember.”
Page 138: A hand-drawn sketch of Kaveh’s face. This time, it is highly intricate and trained, as though it took a significant amount of time and practice to complete. Postscript: “My Kaveh.”
Page 145: An excerpt taken from an academic publication. Postscript: “On Cruel Optimism”
“What’s cruel about these attachments, and not merely inconvenient or tragic, is that the subjects who have x in their lives might not well endure the loss of their object/scene of desire, even though its presence threatens their well-being, because whatever the content of the attachment is, the continuity of its form provides something of the continuity of the subject’s sense of what it means to keep on living on and to look forward to being in the world. This phrase points to a condition different from that of melancholia, which is enacted in the subject’s desire to temporize an experience of the loss of an object/scene with which she has invested her ego continuity. Cruel optimism is the condition of maintaining an attachment to a significantly problematic object.”
Page 153: The draft of a eulogy that has been torn up, then put back together. No postscript.
Alhaitham loves learning and reading because his father and mother loved learning and reading first. He inherited his father’s eyes and his nose and his smile, and he inherited his mother’s hair and her eyebrows and her chin. He loves hard-copy books because his grandmother loved them first. He folds his clothes in the way his grandmother taught him to as a child, and he organizes his books in the library in the same way his grandmother organized them in his old family home.
And Alhaitham learns that love is preservation because he and Kaveh loved each other first.
However, he discovers that love as an act of preservation is also a vow of sacrifice. To carry someone’s heart inside your own necessitates emptying your own heart out in order to make space for the precious cargo you now possess. It is to build a gaping cavern out of your own heart, even if it means having to tear the veins, arteries, and valves from your aching, beating muscle. It is to press the walls of their heart close against your own until you feel the heartbeats syncing as your own heart takes shape in the image of theirs, ruthlessly molded through the feeble thrumming of their pulse becoming one with yours. It is a sacrificial offer of your heart to be devoured by the preserved existence of theirs – a blessing as much as a burden to bear.
On the 160th page of their old sketchbook, there is a note written as such:
- Carry | verb
- Car·ry
- Carried; carrying; carries
- Transitive verb
- 11: “to sustain the weight or burden of"
- Intransitive verb
- 1: “to act as a bearer”
- Transitive verb
When Kaveh left for his trip to the desert eight months ago, he did not return home. Or, rather, Kaveh returned home from the desert as a lifeless corpse, his body and limbs horribly disfigured, brought to Alhaitham with a cloth over his normally bright and charming face.
Eight months ago, the ruins that Kaveh went to examine collapsed on itself with Kaveh and all six members of his team inside it. None of them survived and it was a quick death, according to the investigators. Alhaitham still isn’t sure if that is entirely true, or if it is merely what was ordered to be told to him in order to avoid the excruciating image of Kaveh slowly bleeding out in agonizing pain beneath piles of rubble. The extent of the injuries on Kaveh's body in comparison to the bodies of the other team members suggests that Kaveh had pushed most of them out of the way so that he would take the worst impact from the ruin collapse. They later did the best they could to prepare Kaveh’s body for the funeral, but even with all the preparations, Kaveh’s injuries were gruesome and his body was a barely recognizable sight. His Kaveh, ever so selfless.
Alhaitham was the one who organized Kaveh’s funeral by himself. It was a familiar task, and as he sat there silently, surrounded by Kaveh’s many grieving friends and acquaintances, he thought of how he had been the one to organize his grandmother’s funeral on his own as well. He is thankful for that tiny semblance of mercy – at least he knew everything he needed to do despite the excruciating blanket of loss weighing down on his shoulders.
Alhaitham’s heart is a house turned coffin, and he bears the weight of Kaveh’s preserved heart within the walls of his own, carrying it with him wherever he goes.
He carries it with him in the way that he keeps Kaveh’s shoes and Kaveh’s cape immaculately maintained in their usual spot beside his own pair of shoes and on the coat rack, brushing the dust off their surfaces every now and then; how he wears Kaveh’s clips in his hair, buys Kaveh’s favorite foods and favorite wines and favorite fruits, and pierced his ears with the sharp end of Kaveh’s earrings to wear them with him; how he cuts his apples in the same way that Kaveh once did and how he prepares Kaveh’s side of the bed every night without fail.
It’s in the way he cuts his vegetables, attempts pottery and sculpting, and tries drawing and sketching to keep filling the pages of Kaveh’s old sketchbook just like how Kaveh did. It’s in the way he keeps every one of Kaveh’s possessions in their usual places around the house. So that it’s as though Kaveh never left at all, and that Alhaitham is simply waiting for his Kaveh to come home. Steadfastly and eternally waiting for as long as it requires.
Each night, the Kaveh that his mind conjures from the depths of his being, the details of his visage still flawlessly maintained from the documentations of Alhaitham’s memory down to the last freckle, asks Alhaitham how much he’s put into preserving him, and Alhaitham will endlessly, perpetually answer, “Everything I possibly can.”
“Why?”
“Because I love you – enough to carry this with me for the rest of my life.”
And when he closes his eyes to fall into the fleeting comfort of his dreams, he tries not to think about how the left side of the bed will always be cold, the filled glass of wine on the dining table will always be untouched, the half portion of apple slices will never be eaten, and how Kaveh’s shoes will forever remain unused beside his own pair at the doorway, continuously collecting layer upon layer of dust to be brushed away at the end of every month.