Chapter Text
Alhaitham loves early mornings that announces the break of dawn. The midnight hues smudge away to paint warmer tones along the fresh dew of sunrise, and often times, you can see a gleam of delight in his emerald hues against the first rays of light that peak through the windowsills.
He finds comfort in taking a few moments to roll around within the bed sheets, soft and boneless from a good night’s rest and still fragile to the touch. This is when he still needn’t worry about his schedule for the day or the piles and piles of paperwork lined up upon his desk for him to finish and trust me — he’s been working on them every day but being a prominent doctor in the country’s most successful hospital comes with a responsibility of never ending work.
So Alhaitham would hush out soft groans, sinking into the mellow sheets and covers lathered upon his body for a few minutes to enjoy his peace. He subconsciously counts the number of ticks he hears from the clock swallowed by isolation upon the empty porcelain wall, then feels the weight of another body dip into the layers upon the mattress.
“Haitham, it’s time to get up.”
The voice of his housemate does not catch him by surprise; he takes a couple of seconds to blink his drowsiness away and turns towards the other presence, feeling slim fingers trail upon the pale frame of his cheek.
“Come on, now. You don’t want your coffee going cold, do you?” Kaveh presses a chaste kiss upon his temple, and Alhaitham gestures a low hum in response. He remains silent afterwards, finding comfort in the way his roommate traces soft circles upon his cheek as a sense of somnolence clouds his mind once more. A subtle chuckle reverberates throughout the space before Kaveh retreats his hand, and the bed that has taken the weight of two frames back up into its standard position.
Alhaitham opens his eyes to a room that no longer carries Kaveh’s presence, the door faintly left open as the pale light from the living room leaks into the darkness. He sits up in bed, heaving out a soft exhale before making his way towards the crack of light.
The scent of grilled salmon and roasted tea lingers faintly in the space of the house, curling through the hallways. Alhaitham pads across the wooden floor, his footsteps muted against the early hum of the city outside. The light that spills from the kitchen is golden — almost too bright for such a gentle hour — and within it, Kaveh stands by the counter, sweater sleeves rolled up, hair tousled in a manner that speaks of careless grace rather than sleep.
The dining table is already set. Two pairs of cutlery rest side by side — one filled with steaming chazuke, the broth shimmering with green tea and garnished with flakes of salmon that sit on top of a bed of rice. The other side, in stark contrast, holds a plate of a neat circle of apple slices, pale and crisp with the crimson peel still attached.
Alhaitham’s gaze drifts to his salmon chazuke, then to Kaveh’s slices of apple. “Is that all you’re having?”
“Mm?” Kaveh’s tone is airy, light. “Oh- Yeah. Just something small. They want me leaner for the photoshoot.”
Kaveh’s world, as Alhaitham understands it, is one drenched in light — the artificial kind that burns hotter than the sun. Flashbulbs, lenses, and a thousand eyes trained on him, capturing perfection that feels more like performance than truth. His face graces billboards along the city’s skyline, his smile immortalized in magazines where even his flaws are edited into beauty. Yet, beneath all that brilliance, there is a weariness, the quiet kind that doesn’t show up in photos. The long hours under harsh studio lights, the diets that whittle him down into something fragile and shining. He lives for art and appearance alike, both demanding sacrifices of the body, and the heart.
There’s a pause after the model’s words — barely a second, but it stretches between them like a thread pulled too tight. Alhaitham studies the way Kaveh avoids his eyes, the slight tremor in the hand that reaches for the cup of tea.
“You’ve been saying that for weeks,” he replies, his tone carefully neutral, but there’s a weight beneath it.
Kaveh laughs softly, brushing his hair back with that same theatrical ease he’s perfected for the cameras. “Occupational hazard, Doctor. Don’t start diagnosing me over breakfast.”
But Alhaitham doesn’t smile. His spoon dips into the bowl of chazuke, stirring slowly as if searching for words hidden within the rippling broth. The warmth of the meal fills the air between them, but somehow, it feels colder than before.
Their mornings have always been like this; quiet, almost domestic, but haunted by something unsaid. They share a home but not a rhythm; their lives intertwine only in fragments, like overlapping brushstrokes on different canvases. The apartment they live in is a remnant of a love that used to be whole; spacious, bright, filled with soft remnants of what they once shared. Kaveh had refused to leave even after the breakup, and Alhaitham had never asked him to. Perhaps it was practicality, or perhaps it was the way they both gravitated toward the familiarity of each other’s silence.
Now, they exist in a fragile equilibrium: two people orbiting the same space but never quite colliding. The air between them is laced with memory, like wilted flowers pressed between the pages of an unfinished story. Once, they were lovers — bright, fevered, alive. Now, they are something less definable: fragments held together by routine, by unspoken care, by the faint echo of a love that refuses to die quietly.
Alhaitham eats in silence. Kaveh finishes his apples slices and leaves the plate in the sink, eyes flitting toward the window where the city yawns awake beneath a layer of morning mist.
When he stands to leave, he reaches for his jacket draped over the back of the chair, shaking it out before slipping it on with practiced ease. His fingers run through his hair, taming the loose waves that catch the early sunlight, and a soft scent of cologne — something clean, faintly floral, and undeniably him — lingers in the air. He smooths the creases that aren’t really there, a habitual act of vanity that feels more like armor than confidence.
“See you later,” he murmurs, leaning down to press a gentle kiss to Alhaitham’s temple. The touch is fleeting, but it leaves a warmth that lingers long after Kaveh straightens up.
The door clicks shut behind him, and the apartment falls into quiet once more. Only the faint trace of his cologne remains, suspended in the golden air like a memory that refuses to fade.
݁˖
The hum of fluorescent lights replaces the quiet of dawn. Alhaitham’s office is a sterile cathedral of glass and paperwork — the scent of antiseptic and coffee laced together. Medical charts and documents line his desk in neat piles, names and diagnoses scrawled in tight handwriting that only he can decipher.
He works with the same precision he lives by: methodical, deliberate, detached. His days unfold in quiet repetition — a steady rhythm of consultations, diagnoses, and neatly typed reports. The morning begins with the soft hum of coffee machines in the hospital lounge, then merges into the sterile light of his office where contracts and medical records stack like miniature fortresses around him. Lunch is an afterthought, often reduced to a quick sandwich eaten between appointments, and by evening, the city outside the hospital windows has already changed colors twice without his noticing.
His world is one of constancy. The same corridors, the same antiseptic scent, the same mechanical greetings from nurses who admire and fear his exacting calm. Even his movements carry the weight of routine — the measured steps, the habitual tug at his gloves, the quiet exhale before speaking. There’s comfort in the monotony, a sense of control that keeps the chaos of emotion at bay.
It is, in every way, the opposite of Kaveh’s life; spontaneous, erratic, glittering with unpredictability. While Alhaitham’s days are charted in precision, Kaveh’s are dictated by the shifting whims of art and demand: photoshoots that last until midnight, parties he doesn’t want to attend, sudden calls that whisk him to distant studios. Their schedules rarely align, and when they do, it feels almost accidental — a brief crossing of paths between two different worlds.
Patients come and go, faces blurred by routine, but a soft knock at his door pulls him from the monotony.
“Come in,” Alhaitham says without looking up.
The door opens, and a familiar voice cuts through the sterile air. “Sorry I’m late. The shoot ran over.”
Kaveh steps inside, wearing something that isn’t the jacket he’d left with that morning; a different coat, thinner, hastily thrown on, as though borrowed or chosen in a rush. His makeup has been wiped away, leaving behind the ghost of exhaustion. Even the light seems hesitant to touch him.
Alhaitham finally looks up, his expression unreadable. “You should have called.”
“I didn’t want to bother you.”
He gestures toward the chair across the desk. “Sit.”
The silence that follows is heavier than any reprimand. Alhaitham flips through a file — Kaveh’s file — and the rustle of paper fills the void. Notes in his own handwriting stare back at him: Weight fluctuation. Nutritional imbalance. Signs of self-induced emesis. Words that taste clinical but feel like knives. Each line is a quiet record of Kaveh’s undoing — a body punished in pursuit of beauty, a disease that hides behind mirrors and applause.
He remembers the first time he’d recognized the signs — the rawness in Kaveh’s throat, the faint chemical tang on his breath masked by mint, the way his hands trembled when offered food. Bulimia, written in the fragile patterns of a man who’s built his life around perfection. It’s an illness Alhaitham can treat on paper, prescribe for, monitor, but never truly heal, not when the world keeps asking Kaveh to be less of himself to be seen.
When he finally speaks, his voice is softer than expected. “You haven’t been eating properly again.”
Kaveh’s eyes dart away. “I told you; it’s for work.”
“And I told you,” Alhaitham replies, his tone low but firm, “that what you’re doing isn’t sustainable.”
The room hums with quiet machines and unspoken grief. For all his rationality, Alhaitham cannot chart this — cannot map out the fractures of someone who hides their pain behind laughter and beauty. He can only watch, helpless, as Kaveh forces a smile and says, “You worry too much, Haitham.”
It’s the same line every time.
And still, he does.
Kaveh hesitates, the exhaustion in his eyes softened by a flicker of something almost like hope. He shifts on his feet, avoiding Alhaitham’s gaze for a moment before speaking softly, “Hey.. are you free after work today?”
Alhaitham looks up, surprise flickering briefly behind his steady calm. “Why?”
Kaveh’s lips curve into a small, uncertain smile. “I’m done with everything for the day. Thought maybe we could.. go grocery shopping for the week. Together.”
The invitation hangs between them, fragile and unexpected.
Alhaitham considers the weight of the request; the quiet yearning beneath it, the unspoken truth that they haven’t been able to spend much time together lately, their lives pulled apart by different schedules and worlds that barely intersect. Kaveh’s hectic shoots and late nights, Alhaitham’s endless hospital shifts and paperwork — they exist side by side, but rarely truly together.
Then, with a nod, he replies simply, “Yes.”
And in that moment, time seems to loosen its grip — a rare pause in the relentless ticking of their separate clocks — where two fractured rhythms might, however briefly, find a quiet harmony.