[ twenty years ago on the fifth of may, alhaitham passed away. this is a metaphor reaching its inevitable conclusion, filtered through a poet's way of perceiving the world. through the looking glass, one can see the pieces align: a child barely five years of age, dead parents, a grandmother on life support and the fragments of an entire life before him shattered like fractal stars. alhaitham should have ceased to exist that day. children tend to do so when passed through the crucible of an overtaxed foster care system. but there had been a question posed that day - and alhaitham, who had looked to the choices before him scattered upon the broken flagstones of the path leading into an uncertain galaxy, had looked back, and merely said: yes.
they say chess is a primordial game that has existed since mankind have known games. if alhaitham were to describe it, he would akin it to a sea. its depths are known, but not mapped. its perils are described, but not catalogued. the colour of it on a sunlit day is the blue of a ravishing sky at dawn; the colour of it in storm is deeper than the far reaches of a hallowed galaxy. one could skim along its shores and make a good living. to wade too far into it is an ever-decreasing ratio of returns; to sink into its depth without a tether is folly. but if described in plain terms, alhaitham would akin it to this: chess is merely a means of survival. as a five year old child, he'd understood it as such. even now, the analogy stands. to win, one merely needs to be the last one standing.
tonight: alhaitham stands. the ticking of the grandfather clock reverberates beneath the rumble of the incoming storm. sumeru city has always been like this, with its roiling clouds tearing themselves apart over the peaks of jagged mountain tops, only to descend into its fertile, rainforest valleys before scattering over the expanse of an endless desert. the tailend of the monsoon season brings fresh migrants to its doors. there are those who live and die by the seasons. alhaitham's home nestles itself above the floodplains. its sloped rooves need seasonal cleaning. his gardens need biweekly trimming. his fences need yearly mending. there is always work to be done for those who look for it. and within its cloistered walls, alhaitham sends messages into the void, and waits.
the ritual is thus: a message to the service, a three-day waiting period. an appointment booked. in a fortnight, disappointment. it has been like so ever since alhaitham moved to the city proper with nothing but a slip of paper in hand and the knowledge that he owes a debt. at five years of age, he had not thought the debt could ever be repaid. but time has a way of whiling away the impossible. alhaitham works seven days a month. he finds solace in a private wall-to-wall library; he has found time to learn twenty languages. and every week, alhaitham sends a message to the service, and allows the wrong person in through his doors.
this, too, is a debt.
this week, alhaitham bends over his board and makes it his world. the doorbell chimes; a mere swipe of his phone, and the door unlocks itself. alhaitham does not bother to look up. he never does. the silence of the house steeps within the pages of the books that it keeps, muffled by the thick, dark carpet that wends its way through the sole animal trail that allows footfalls. the kettle boils. it whistles, announcing the completion of it task. and through the murk, alhaitham says: ]
[ twenty years ago on the fifth of may, kaveh, too, passed away. for this side of the story, there is nothing as sentimental, or special, or worth telling. it is a story easily forgotten, of a child who has been forgotten, in a world that prefers to remain forgotten.
twenty-seven years ago, a child had been born into a loving, caring family. that, too, is a story forgotten. at age four, that same child had learned the importance of care, and that all that is fragile is wont to break. it had lost its foundation, but it received, in exchange, a single pillar. that child had not lost its shine, or forgotten that to smile, the ends of a mouth must reach one's ears. the child still had room to shine, and gleam, and glister, until its light dimmed, and died. until its pillar had been taken, and the child crumbled, and fell, and lost itself amidst the rubble.
the child's story, then, begins here: a hand taken, and a child that could no longer be called a child, for it had then lost its innocence and purity. kaveh, the not-child, fell into the well of a world that knew only to abuse his desperation, his dependency, his need for attention. kaveh, barely ten years of age, not yet stripped of selfishness, would cry, cry, cry, and beg: please love me, please need me, please don't leave me.
he had, then, been loved. he had, then, been needed. he had, then, kept a company, and another, and another, until a debt, too, had been built. until a web had been formed, and at its center, kaveh. stripped of want, and need, and independence. all he had for himself was a name, and a filthy, scarred body. a suit that fits him just perfectly.
and such is the other side of the mirror, deprived of light, deprived of importance. it is, after all, a story forgotten, until that same pillar is rebuilt. until a voice is heard. until a face is seen.
twenty years. kaveh, who clung to what made him whole, would not forget. kaveh, who held onto the debris, and dreamed of that pillar, told himself: this will not be forgotten. the kettle is. the birds outside are. but not the pillar. never the pillar. ]
... Alhaitham? [ twenty years. kaveh had never allowed himself to forget, but he knows well that he is so easily forgotten. that the child who had died twenty years ago is, after all, dead. that kaveh has not been that child in a long, long time. ] I, uh. Nevermind. Sorry, haha, I was just making sure you're the right person. ... That's your name, yes?
[ tea is not being made. it takes alhaitham a moment in the murk to understand why. they say the best stories are ones not worth repeating, the ones that each life lived knows down to its very marrow its beat and turn. alhaitham looks at the repetition of one such story standing there in his doorway. the motion-activated lights flicker on one after another, carving a path into the chiaroscuro of alhaitham's living room. in direct opposition: the spotlight lingering upon flaxen gold, the moonlit silver in the living room before the grid of a chessboard. surprise has always been worn in glinting threads upon the tapestry of alhaitham's self-expression: the barest flicker of his gaze, the curve of his eyes widening just enough to catch the moonlight. and then - no more.
it had not been the expected disappointment. alhaitham does not know what it means. but kaveh, the orphan, stands in alhaitham's entranceway like a wayward deer, LEDs refracting off of the deep, sanguine red of his eyes the way saline lights do in the unfettered dark. he is wearing little. alhaitham is aware of the service he has called and been calling. the two are congruent, but without true meaning: what alhaitham searches for is not relief, but release. tonight, however, can only be described by a word that has yet to be invented. alhaitham does not know if it will be, or by whom.
still, the gaze lingers, before it flickers downward. three chess pieces are moved in succession before alhaitham speaks again, his voice echoed and clear across the length of the apartment: ]
I said to make tea. [ the click of piece against board. it reverberates, as it has always done so, like clipped moonlight.
[ the script ends there. there is no sequel, no continuation of any kind. kaveh, who had been expecting something, knows not what that something is.
acknowledgment? a touching reunion? words of affirmation? fury? worry? disbelief? something. anything, even. but not... this. this nothingness without a name. he should have seen it coming.
he is, after all, the forgotten child, whose story begun and ended with no overarching plot, or development, or good ending. it had been just that: the story of an orphan who had everything he cherished and loved taken from him. his innocence included. himself, especially.
alhaitham's voice echoes. it stiffens kaveh's already-stiff body. he swallows, it hurts, and he's reminded that he is here for a job.
a job that should not involve making tea, or cooking, but there had been no rules against it, no. it almost makes him forget this him. this kaveh, unforgettable, a kaveh who weights down his mind, and grounds him to reality. ]
Um, somewhat. Mostly easy things, like rice, eggs, and uh... [ the kettle whistles, and kaveh attends to it, lost in his own thoughts. it is only when the tea is poured into a cup at the very least that kaveh becomes aware of his own inadequacy.
he sets the tea down on the table with the gentleness of a man with evident trauma, and continues: ] ... That's it, actually.
[ a harsh beat in the night. the silence is filled with misgivings and the endless, rewinding reel of time long-past. alhaitham does not listen for it. the hush is filled with din, but that is how it has always been. what is unsaid remains white space between neat lines of text. the death certificate, the insurance policies, the registration for adoption, and the signed documents certifying emancipation. each one documented in neat, black ink, typecast in government-standard beamer, but in reality, the value of each document lay in what was written between the lines: a child, a child, a child.
twenty seven years ago, alhaitham had died. alhaitham now lives in an apartment that has been renovated into a space meant for books and not people, and surrounds himself with the silence of a life bought and a debt unpaid. kaveh begins to move in the night. alhaitham closes his eyes to hear him. his footfalls carry him to the kitchen amidst the whistling of an annoyed kettle. the clink of alhaitham's tea cup. the shuffle of hands; the whisper of cup against table.
alhaitham opens his eyes. he does not look. he does not need to. ]
Call for takeout, then. The menus are on the fridge.
[ the menus: pasted to the fridge via magnets, a mess of local take-out varieties and well-worn pamphlets. the eclectic mix is notably organised not by take-out variety but by distance to the apartment. also notably, none of the menus feature much soup. ]
[ there's a budding feeling in his chest that, kaveh finds, is suffocating. he does not know what to name it, but knows why it's there at all.
the normalcy is sickening, as though his body is allergic to it. the requests are unusual. kaveh does not make tea, nor does he have a tendency to order food for delivery. those, he finds, are luxuries. this is not a stage he belongs in.
and so, kaveh does not partake in it. ]
... You're aware what I'm here for, right? When they told you I could offer you my services, ordering food for you wasn't exactly included.
[ because, at the end of the day, it's still not against their terms and conditions. but what is kaveh to do with this nauseating feeling, if not push it away? is that not, after all, how he treats each and every inconvenience in his life? ]
If you just wanted company, I'm sure there are other services that do the job better, and for far cheaper. Or you could, I don't know, get yourself a housekeeper?
[ kaveh stops. the hush goes with him. into the silent din comes three questions - two said, one unsaid. two regarding the clarification of task and presence. one in a way of a wayward child: who am i, to you? what am i? alhaitham is fluent in all three. it has him look up at last into the murk to the spotlight of kaveh at the kitchen counter, peering past it with eyes the colour of a titian sunset. kaveh takes a stand. alhaitham thinks - good.
no self-respecting individual wouldn't.
in turn, alhaitham puts down his chess piece. the click of the piece reverberates throughout the enclosed space of the apartment. it bridges a gap between him and kaveh, a single sound meant both as bridge and entendre. ]
I do not have a housekeeper because I do not need one. [ alhaitham says, in the verbal form of a shrug. and then: ] Are you saying no?
kaveh takes a stand, not because he has an ounce of self-respect. it is exactly because he does not that he voices his concerns. it is because he would much rather be used the way he is meant to be that he speaks up. the normalcy is sickening. this is not a life he is meant to be part of.
still. still. the words make him recoil. it shows on his body, the way kaveh nearly cowers, the way he takes a step back, the way he lowers his head. what an embarrassing situation to be in. that a client could bring such a reaction out of him is repugnant. it eats at him, and kaveh feels himself bleed. saying no means defiance, and a want for autonomy. kaveh neither wants, nor has known independence in twenty years.
[ and the folding of a house of cards. it begins like this: the backwards step that reverberates along the hardwood floors of alhaitham's apartment. in chess, the pieces cannot go backwards. it is a rule as ironclad as the game is old, more law than regulation; for all that you can discuss and prod and pry answers from era-defining plays and the psychology of players involved, there are certain things that are immutable. kaveh takes a single step back in the face of an advancing pawn, and alhaitham thinks -
that the walls of this apartment are not large enough to encompass the both of them. it would be the last time he thinks this, but the realisation comes first. there is always a first. a child saying yes to a stranger with a lifeline had his first. every other assent that comes after, then, are merely stones that follow the first, each laid down through relentless hands. kaveh looks away, and alhaitham looks - first at the line of his neck in the hallway light, and then, once again, back down to his board. ]
Order two portions from wherever that seems will deliver the soonest. [ in the shadows of the living room, alhaitham pulls out his credit card. he places it on the other side of the chessboard.
the sound is a soft rasp of plastic against wood. alhaitham's head lowers. ] Use my card.
establishing kvh's outfit to be this: https://twitter.com/iluvecstasy/status/1677230302186336258
[ good, kaveh thinks. there is, at least, an unspoken mercy at his behavior not being brought to light, or questioned, or acknowledged. there would have been clients before that would use it against him. exposing his weaknesses to them would be a death-sentence. here, there is no gratitude to be felt. instead, it comes in bouts of relief, and kaveh finds composure again. it has been a while since he has been this afraid. trauma, after all, doesn't go as easily. it settles its roots deep inside his skin, and feed off his existence.
it's always easier to relent and give in. that, kaveh has learned many, many years ago. life is kinder when one does not say no. he has scars, unseen, to back-up that belief. he takes one, then two, then three steps forward, and relents. what kaveh considers: the tea, the price, how long it would take to be prepared, and then, how long to be delivered.
the café nearby that sells pita pockets is his choice, and he places the order with the voice of a man who does not have the job that he does, that has not lived the life that he has, who is not nearly as broken as he is. to wear a well-polished mask is a necessity if he is to survive in this field of work. this much, kaveh has learned long ago. ]
They'll be here in fifteen minutes, [ is what he says, eventually, as he composes himself enough to approach the table again. he takes a look at the card, but does not take it yet. ] Anything else?
[ kaveh places the order. alhaitham listens to the cadence of his voice, not to the substance of it. it's deeper, but of course it is. the intervening years has filled out kaveh in ways that leave his younger self a mere figment of a shadow - the length of his hair, the shape of his face, the long line of his body and the way his fingers curve along the length of the phone. but he is still there, alhaitham thinks, that kaveh of years ago. that kaveh has never left him. it is in the steeped silence. it is in the gold of kaveh's hair and the red of his eyes. it's in the fear.
across the room, alhaitham continues to set the board. the pieces line themselves in orderly rows, the careful arrangement of which alhaitham knows in waking sleep. these are the pieces that have fought the battle most needed to be won. they now sit, prickled, in the gap between the act and the motion. the phone clicks off. kaveh speaks. and alhaitham, he lifts his head to look.
kaveh, like a polished mirror, looks back. he does not take alhaitham's card. ]
Come. [ alhaitham says. he gestures with the tip of his head. there is a seat across from him. the angle of his head says thus: sit with me. ]
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there is a loneliness more precious than life; / GAY FOR PAY ✨
no subject
they say chess is a primordial game that has existed since mankind have known games. if alhaitham were to describe it, he would akin it to a sea. its depths are known, but not mapped. its perils are described, but not catalogued. the colour of it on a sunlit day is the blue of a ravishing sky at dawn; the colour of it in storm is deeper than the far reaches of a hallowed galaxy. one could skim along its shores and make a good living. to wade too far into it is an ever-decreasing ratio of returns; to sink into its depth without a tether is folly. but if described in plain terms, alhaitham would akin it to this: chess is merely a means of survival. as a five year old child, he'd understood it as such. even now, the analogy stands. to win, one merely needs to be the last one standing.
tonight: alhaitham stands. the ticking of the grandfather clock reverberates beneath the rumble of the incoming storm. sumeru city has always been like this, with its roiling clouds tearing themselves apart over the peaks of jagged mountain tops, only to descend into its fertile, rainforest valleys before scattering over the expanse of an endless desert. the tailend of the monsoon season brings fresh migrants to its doors. there are those who live and die by the seasons. alhaitham's home nestles itself above the floodplains. its sloped rooves need seasonal cleaning. his gardens need biweekly trimming. his fences need yearly mending. there is always work to be done for those who look for it. and within its cloistered walls, alhaitham sends messages into the void, and waits.
the ritual is thus: a message to the service, a three-day waiting period. an appointment booked. in a fortnight, disappointment. it has been like so ever since alhaitham moved to the city proper with nothing but a slip of paper in hand and the knowledge that he owes a debt. at five years of age, he had not thought the debt could ever be repaid. but time has a way of whiling away the impossible. alhaitham works seven days a month. he finds solace in a private wall-to-wall library; he has found time to learn twenty languages. and every week, alhaitham sends a message to the service, and allows the wrong person in through his doors.
this, too, is a debt.
this week, alhaitham bends over his board and makes it his world. the doorbell chimes; a mere swipe of his phone, and the door unlocks itself. alhaitham does not bother to look up. he never does. the silence of the house steeps within the pages of the books that it keeps, muffled by the thick, dark carpet that wends its way through the sole animal trail that allows footfalls. the kettle boils. it whistles, announcing the completion of it task. and through the murk, alhaitham says: ]
Make tea.
no subject
twenty-seven years ago, a child had been born into a loving, caring family. that, too, is a story forgotten. at age four, that same child had learned the importance of care, and that all that is fragile is wont to break. it had lost its foundation, but it received, in exchange, a single pillar. that child had not lost its shine, or forgotten that to smile, the ends of a mouth must reach one's ears. the child still had room to shine, and gleam, and glister, until its light dimmed, and died. until its pillar had been taken, and the child crumbled, and fell, and lost itself amidst the rubble.
the child's story, then, begins here: a hand taken, and a child that could no longer be called a child, for it had then lost its innocence and purity. kaveh, the not-child, fell into the well of a world that knew only to abuse his desperation, his dependency, his need for attention. kaveh, barely ten years of age, not yet stripped of selfishness, would cry, cry, cry, and beg: please love me, please need me, please don't leave me.
he had, then, been loved. he had, then, been needed. he had, then, kept a company, and another, and another, until a debt, too, had been built. until a web had been formed, and at its center, kaveh. stripped of want, and need, and independence. all he had for himself was a name, and a filthy, scarred body. a suit that fits him just perfectly.
and such is the other side of the mirror, deprived of light, deprived of importance. it is, after all, a story forgotten, until that same pillar is rebuilt. until a voice is heard. until a face is seen.
twenty years. kaveh, who clung to what made him whole, would not forget. kaveh, who held onto the debris, and dreamed of that pillar, told himself: this will not be forgotten. the kettle is. the birds outside are. but not the pillar. never the pillar. ]
... Alhaitham? [ twenty years. kaveh had never allowed himself to forget, but he knows well that he is so easily forgotten. that the child who had died twenty years ago is, after all, dead. that kaveh has not been that child in a long, long time. ] I, uh. Nevermind. Sorry, haha, I was just making sure you're the right person. ... That's your name, yes?
no subject
it had not been the expected disappointment. alhaitham does not know what it means. but kaveh, the orphan, stands in alhaitham's entranceway like a wayward deer, LEDs refracting off of the deep, sanguine red of his eyes the way saline lights do in the unfettered dark. he is wearing little. alhaitham is aware of the service he has called and been calling. the two are congruent, but without true meaning: what alhaitham searches for is not relief, but release. tonight, however, can only be described by a word that has yet to be invented. alhaitham does not know if it will be, or by whom.
still, the gaze lingers, before it flickers downward. three chess pieces are moved in succession before alhaitham speaks again, his voice echoed and clear across the length of the apartment: ]
I said to make tea. [ the click of piece against board. it reverberates, as it has always done so, like clipped moonlight.
then, as if in afterthought: ] Can you cook?
no subject
acknowledgment? a touching reunion? words of affirmation? fury? worry? disbelief? something. anything, even. but not... this. this nothingness without a name. he should have seen it coming.
he is, after all, the forgotten child, whose story begun and ended with no overarching plot, or development, or good ending. it had been just that: the story of an orphan who had everything he cherished and loved taken from him. his innocence included. himself, especially.
alhaitham's voice echoes. it stiffens kaveh's already-stiff body. he swallows, it hurts, and he's reminded that he is here for a job.
a job that should not involve making tea, or cooking, but there had been no rules against it, no. it almost makes him forget this him. this kaveh, unforgettable, a kaveh who weights down his mind, and grounds him to reality. ]
Um, somewhat. Mostly easy things, like rice, eggs, and uh... [ the kettle whistles, and kaveh attends to it, lost in his own thoughts. it is only when the tea is poured into a cup at the very least that kaveh becomes aware of his own inadequacy.
he sets the tea down on the table with the gentleness of a man with evident trauma, and continues: ] ... That's it, actually.
no subject
twenty seven years ago, alhaitham had died. alhaitham now lives in an apartment that has been renovated into a space meant for books and not people, and surrounds himself with the silence of a life bought and a debt unpaid. kaveh begins to move in the night. alhaitham closes his eyes to hear him. his footfalls carry him to the kitchen amidst the whistling of an annoyed kettle. the clink of alhaitham's tea cup. the shuffle of hands; the whisper of cup against table.
alhaitham opens his eyes. he does not look. he does not need to. ]
Call for takeout, then. The menus are on the fridge.
[ the menus: pasted to the fridge via magnets, a mess of local take-out varieties and well-worn pamphlets. the eclectic mix is notably organised not by take-out variety but by distance to the apartment. also notably, none of the menus feature much soup. ]
no subject
the normalcy is sickening, as though his body is allergic to it. the requests are unusual. kaveh does not make tea, nor does he have a tendency to order food for delivery. those, he finds, are luxuries. this is not a stage he belongs in.
and so, kaveh does not partake in it. ]
... You're aware what I'm here for, right? When they told you I could offer you my services, ordering food for you wasn't exactly included.
[ because, at the end of the day, it's still not against their terms and conditions. but what is kaveh to do with this nauseating feeling, if not push it away? is that not, after all, how he treats each and every inconvenience in his life? ]
If you just wanted company, I'm sure there are other services that do the job better, and for far cheaper. Or you could, I don't know, get yourself a housekeeper?
no subject
no self-respecting individual wouldn't.
in turn, alhaitham puts down his chess piece. the click of the piece reverberates throughout the enclosed space of the apartment. it bridges a gap between him and kaveh, a single sound meant both as bridge and entendre. ]
I do not have a housekeeper because I do not need one. [ alhaitham says, in the verbal form of a shrug. and then: ] Are you saying no?
no subject
kaveh takes a stand, not because he has an ounce of self-respect. it is exactly because he does not that he voices his concerns. it is because he would much rather be used the way he is meant to be that he speaks up. the normalcy is sickening. this is not a life he is meant to be part of.
still. still. the words make him recoil. it shows on his body, the way kaveh nearly cowers, the way he takes a step back, the way he lowers his head. what an embarrassing situation to be in. that a client could bring such a reaction out of him is repugnant. it eats at him, and kaveh feels himself bleed. saying no means defiance, and a want for autonomy. kaveh neither wants, nor has known independence in twenty years.
he looks away, and accepts defeat. ]
... What do you want to eat?
no subject
that the walls of this apartment are not large enough to encompass the both of them. it would be the last time he thinks this, but the realisation comes first. there is always a first. a child saying yes to a stranger with a lifeline had his first. every other assent that comes after, then, are merely stones that follow the first, each laid down through relentless hands. kaveh looks away, and alhaitham looks - first at the line of his neck in the hallway light, and then, once again, back down to his board. ]
Order two portions from wherever that seems will deliver the soonest. [ in the shadows of the living room, alhaitham pulls out his credit card. he places it on the other side of the chessboard.
the sound is a soft rasp of plastic against wood. alhaitham's head lowers. ] Use my card.
establishing kvh's outfit to be this: https://twitter.com/iluvecstasy/status/1677230302186336258
it's always easier to relent and give in. that, kaveh has learned many, many years ago. life is kinder when one does not say no. he has scars, unseen, to back-up that belief. he takes one, then two, then three steps forward, and relents. what kaveh considers: the tea, the price, how long it would take to be prepared, and then, how long to be delivered.
the café nearby that sells pita pockets is his choice, and he places the order with the voice of a man who does not have the job that he does, that has not lived the life that he has, who is not nearly as broken as he is. to wear a well-polished mask is a necessity if he is to survive in this field of work. this much, kaveh has learned long ago. ]
They'll be here in fifteen minutes, [ is what he says, eventually, as he composes himself enough to approach the table again. he takes a look at the card, but does not take it yet. ] Anything else?
no subject
across the room, alhaitham continues to set the board. the pieces line themselves in orderly rows, the careful arrangement of which alhaitham knows in waking sleep. these are the pieces that have fought the battle most needed to be won. they now sit, prickled, in the gap between the act and the motion. the phone clicks off. kaveh speaks. and alhaitham, he lifts his head to look.
kaveh, like a polished mirror, looks back. he does not take alhaitham's card. ]
Come. [ alhaitham says. he gestures with the tip of his head. there is a seat across from him. the angle of his head says thus: sit with me. ]