you chose : treat ! 🎃 ( i loved your treat, thank you. )
Alhaitham watched you die on an insultingly ordinary Wednesday—if you ignored the tragedy.
It was overcast, yet there was no trace of rain. No notable events happening, no news to note. The regular bustle of Sumeru’s people flooded the streets, with far too many shoulders bumping into his for his liking, but the crowds were no denser nor thinner than usual. His desk was piled high with stack of paperwork to sign, and the last chapter of his current book was waiting to be read.
And then there was you, appearing at his door to have dinner, because “Kaveh’s cooking is just much better than mine!”
If you asked Alhaitham, it seemed like a cheap ploy to swindle a free meal and some company, but his roommate was never immune to flattery. You were let in, as you always were, with a bottle of wine as an olive branch, and a quick side-hug from Kaveh between ramblings about his latest project.
Alhaitham wasn’t going to complain, either way. Your company, unlike most, never felt like a chore.
The three of you shared a warm meal, and then a half-hearted debate over the practicality of arched windows, and then card games and chatter that never seemed to end. He checked out of the conversation very quickly, but stayed seated in an armchair nearby as you and Kaveh continued your laughing and talking. It was pleasant, as far as evenings went, even if socialising wasn’t his past-time of choice.
And it should have ended quickly thereafter, once the sky turned dark, and you realised how late it had gotten, but it did not. It did not end, because as you rose to your feet, your stomach let out a low growl, and Kaveh gasped in indignation, as if the very idea that you’d leave without eating your fill was an affront to his hosting skills.
So you stayed for a few more minutes, long enough for Kaveh to dig through the pantry in search of a snack. “Cherries?” He held up the box, almost overflowing with the sweet fruits. “They’re fresh.”
Hindsight was all he could cling to now, but if he could have stopped you from reaching for the container, he would. There were a dozen excuses he could have reached for—those were the fruits he had bought, after all, he had every right to tell you he was saving them for himself—but the simple fact was, he could tell you wanted them more. And for however selfish some might mistake him to be, he wanted to see his friend happy.
Was it worth it? the cruelest part of his subconscious whispers, once the night had settled. Was that little smile worth it, that split-second of joy?
It happened all too quickly. The satisfaction on your face as you wolf down the fruits was short-lived, replaced by a slowly dawning horror. Your hands reached up to your throat, eyes growing wide; Kaveh turned back to the sink, not noticing your struggle, and Alhaitham went still, the realisation coming far too slowly to do anything.
There was no sound coming out of your mouth, not even a choked gasp. And—
And he could have helped, if only he’d known how to help you. First aid was common knowledge, really, and he’d learnt it years ago. He could have helped, but in the moment his mind froze up. What use was he, if he couldn’t remember how to properly wrap his arms around you, if he didn’t know how to clear your airways? It was a cherry, for Archon’s sake! He should have—
“Oh my gods! Don’t just stand there—Alhaitham! C-Call someone! A doctor, we need a doctor! They’re… no, no. We need a doctor, we just need—Do something, Alhaitham! Do something, you need to—”
He jolted. You were sprawled on the floor, and sometime amidst his hazy panic, he’d joined you. Your arm was in his grip, his thumb pressed to the inside of your wrist. Kaveh fumbled for his phone, still babbling on about doctors and asphyxiation and lips turning blue. Alhaitham could barely hear a thing; the only sound in his ears was the dull, fluttering heartbeat in his hands.
“Alhaitham, are you listening—”
Your pulse had already tapered off, the soft beat stuttering to a standstill. In his grasp, your wrist went limp, like a puppet with its last string cut. His jaw went slack, and he—
“It’s… too late.” Alhaitham said, barely able to choke the sound out. “It’s too late. They’re gone.”
-----
You died on a Wednesday evening, and by Sunday afternoon there is a knock on his door once again.
Alhaitham ignores it, at first. He’d rather do anything than have to face whoever had the nerve to disturb his rumination, but the noise only becomes more insistent as minutes pass, the person on the other side refusing to quit. By now, he’d act the fool; slip his noise-cancelling headphones over his ears, and pretend he never heard the sound in the first place, but he knows if he doesn’t answer, than nobody would.
His roommate was never shy about answering the door, normally, but your death had turned him into a recluse. He was alone in his room for most of the day, only emerging to silently retrieve a meal from the kitchen, before closing himself inside again. Alhaitham couldn’t count on him, not in this state.
His hand closes around the handle, turning it and opening the door just a crack—just enough that he’d be able to shut it quickly once he figured out who it was. He didn’t plan for a pleasant conversation, or a sales pitch, or whatever else was disturbing his melancholy.
But, he also didn’t plan for you.
“Hey, ‘Haitham.” There’s a bottle of wine in your hands—your stiff, clammy hands, with fingertips still faintly tinged in blue. “Mind if I stay for dinner?”
For the first few moments, he doesn’t speak—he doesn’t even breathe, doesn’t blink, lest the sight of you disappears before he has a chance to open his eyes again. His hand, still clasped on the inside doorknob, unconsciously pushes the door open wider.
When he whispers your name, it’s in a voice so fragile he can hardly recognise it as his own, steeped in vulnerability and an emotion he can’t quite place. He doesn’t trust himself to speak any louder, to shatter the strange peace of the moment. A part of him wonders, numbly, if this is his mind finally starting to crack under the strain of your death, if his grief has manifested into hallucinations.
But there’s nothing dreamlike about the image in front of him. You’re solid, and you’re smiling, and he is painfully aware of his own lucidity. He isn’t granted the luxury of it being some sweet dream; it is undoubtedly you.
“Hello…?” You give a light chuckle, waving your free hand in front of his face. “You’re staring.”
“Oh, let them in, Alhaitham!” Kaveh’s voice rings from somewhere behind him, his chiding tone far too light for the situation at hand. Too casual, too cheerful. Too close to him, for someone who was supposed to be wallowing in his room. “We have enough for one more.”
“Yes,” Alhaitham says faintly, not taking his eyes away from your hands. One of your fingers twitches in a spasm, before clenching tighter around the bottle. “Come in.”
He steps aside. And your lips stretch into a smile that’s near-identical to the one he used to see, but you pause for just a moment too long beforehand, as if you need to remind yourself how to make the expression. As if it is no longer a natural instinct. And he watches closely, with no trace of emotion on his own face, how the corners of your mouth twitch, betraying the uncertainty you’re trying to hide.
It is your smile, yes. But it is not you smiling.
That was the first mistake, the first little inconsistency, however it is far from the last. He takes note of the detail, files it away in the back of his mind. And with it, he pays attention to your walk as well, the way you hesitate before each step; he notes your clothes, identical to the ones you were wearing on Wednesday, the constant shivers and trembles.
It’s an impressive mimicry, but it would never be enough to fool him for more than a brief, vulnerable moment. Beyond the fact that you’d died right in front of him, he was simply far too attuned to your mannerisms and idiosyncrasies to ever be mistaken by an imitation. The illusion cracks and shatters as quickly as it is established, and his shock makes way for something that feels sharper; an emotion that burns his chest.
“How have you been?” Alhaitham asks in a slow drawl. His eyes are trained on your every movement, noting each twitch and every little muscle spasm. You don’t meet his gaze, not even once, but he can tell you feel the weight of his stare; your shoulders grow stiffer with each passing moment.
“I’ve been well.” You say with a thin smile. “It’s only been a few days since we’ve seen each other, though. Not much could have happened since then.”
His eyes narrow. “No, I suppose not. Do you remember the last time we saw each other?”
“Ah, I do…” You swallow slightly, the confusion flashing across your expression quickly smoothed out. It’s brief, barely there for a half-second. And yet, the sight of it stands out to him; it is as though you haven’t quite mastered controlling your smallest micro-expressions just yet, allowing your true feelings to slip through the cracks. “Last Sunday… right?”
“That was a week ago.” He shoots back, not bothering to hide the sharp edge to his words. “You visited on Wednesday.”
“Oh. My mistake.”
The awkward air is spared as Kaveh emerges from the kitchen, wielding a bowl, a spoon, and a wide smile. “My friend! It’s good to see you. Just in time too, I just finished making stew. Try some, won’t you? I’ll even let you have first taste.”
You take the offered dish in one hand, and the utensil in the other. The action is so small, so innocuous, but it makes his breath halt, eyes growing wide as he realises. And Kaveh doesn’t seem to have seen it—or at the very least the pieces haven’t clicked in his mind just quite yet, because he only smiles as you take a sip.
Honestly, it’s almost ridiculous how he was fooled for even a second.
But there are more pressing matters, namely his roommate.
“You’ve made… stew.” Alhaitham can’t even disguise his bewilderment. About an hour ago, Kaveh’s door was closed and locked, the kitchen was empty, and Alhaitham was—as far as he was aware—the only one in any sort of state to answer the door, let alone entertain guests. But there’s the smell of spices coming from the kitchen; fresh, as though it was just now manifesting. “You made stew.”
“Yes… as I told you an hour or two ago…?” Kaveh frowns, a flicker of concern crossing his features, before it is replaced with suspicion. “You’re acting strange tonight, Alhaitham. Are you feeling alright?”
At that, he can’t help himself; he laughs, in dry disbelief. It’s an absurd question to ask, when he is the only one in the room with some grip on reality left. Whatever twisted game you—or whatever the ‘friend’ at his door was—were playing, you’d already managed to pull his roommate in too. He wants to hiss the words out, to let you know just how much he knows, to not let you waste a single second thinking you’ve succeeded in whatever ruse you’re trying to pull.
Instead he bites his tongue. He turns, and frowns, and schools his voice into calmness. “I suppose I am feeling slightly… under the weather.” A pause. “I left some medicine on my bedside table. Would you mind bringing it to me, Kaveh?”
“I’m not your maid.” Kaveh snaps, an instinctual reaction more than anything, because he’s already turning on his heel and moving towards Alhaitham’s room. “You really must be sick…”
Once he is gone, the stony expression falls. There’s fury in his eyes now, an unhidden anger that he seldom lets show. You notice, the moment that his mask slips, your eyes widening minutely. “Alhaitham…?”
“You.” He doesn’t say your name. He doesn’t want to give you that satisfaction, especially now that he’s seeing you for what you are.
A nervous chuckle spills out, your composure beginning to undo. “What’s with that look, huh?”
“Hm. You made an effort, I can give you that. Maybe someone less perceptive would be fooled, but honestly. If you wanted to take the place of my friend, it would be imperative to learn—” His eyes fall to the spoon clutched in trembling hands, resting against the side of your bowl. “—Whether they are left or right handed.”
Everything seems to fall still. In his peripheral vision, he can see your body begin to shake, as though the fear has set in, and you've realised your game is already up. He almost scoffs at the sight; what right do you have to feel scared, when it is his world that has been shifted?
Alhaitham continues. “I don’t take too kindly to those who attempt to deceive me. I am even less amicable to those who chose to take advantage of my friends to do so.” He falls silent for a beat, considering his next words. “But I am not an unreasonable man.”
He gestures a hand towards the couch, the action vaguely threatening. You are not offered a choice, nor a chance to defend yourself; he only offers a seat.
“Why don’t we have a chat?”
- with love, 🎃 ( @jack-a-non )
word vomit utc //