sobaniiruyo, thirty four.

❛ finally ❜

I have a date with Al-haitham in two hours.

The reminder blinded Y/N's vision every few seconds, and yet, she just couldn't bring herself to get her shit together. Little droplets of fatigue had trickled down into her body, filling the well of her sleepy meter— meaning she was dangerously close to collapsing against her mattress and dying for at least four hours.

Cultural Festival? It was a joke. An excuse for teachers to sit and chill while their students were dragged through the mud. Y/N could no longer feel her limbs, let alone pick out a nice dress and prepare herself to get ready.

Two of her art pieces made their way into the exhibition hall, so that was one good thing she got out of being a cog in the wheel, meshing together with other gears. Or maybe they were chosen because she was a decent artist. (Highly unlikely.)

Her day was going suspiciously well for the most part, which should have raised her guard. She woke up, had a long, comforting shower, begged Nilou to help her find a cute outfit, and worked on the menial tasks she was given by her teammates — basically, passing her time until Al-haitham came to pick her up. Of course, something had to intervene and sabotage her mood to the point where even leaving the bed felt like a chore.

The cause? Oh the bloody fucking cause.

To get a call from a classmate was one thing, but to get a call from a classmate who openly didn't care about her was the first red flag she decided to ignore. Y/N, like the idiot she was, picked it up and greeted the girl enthusiastically like they were star-crossed lovers in their previous lives. They didn't even wave at each other otherwise.

What came next was a giant tsunami of silent fuck you's.

"Oh, by the way... you're free today, right?"

No, absolutely not. But she had to translate that sentence into a more approachable language or it would eat her alive.

"Sorry... I have plans around 2. What's up?"

"Good! The job will be done in a couple of hours, so you'll be free by then!" Her sickly sweet voice echoed from the other end, a relieved undertone following suit. That was yet another detail gone unnoticed. "The thing is, I got very sick last night... but I had to work at the stall with Albedo today. He is alone and really needs someone to help him..."

Albedo hadn't reached out to Y/N regarding this issue, and she knew exactly why. He never troubled anyone unless it was completely necessary. A part of her pitied him a little for that, and that part grew into a pool of 'He's just like me', leading her to the stall at 9 AM sharp despite her being off-duty for the day.

In short, she was a fool.

"Just a tiny nap..." She muttered to herself, the words coming out like a subtle warning instead. It had taken her months to convince Al-haitham to treat her like a love interest; she couldn't let her hard work go to waste simply because she was tired.

However, it was, in fact, not a tiny nap.

Y/N's phone vibrated next to her— a saving grace from the heavens. Her eyes were peeled open in an instant, her fingers latching onto the juddering device while she deluded herself into believing that she definitely wasn't knocked out for what seemed like an eternity.

"Hi!" She spoke into the speaker with artificial enthusiasm, not even bothering to check the ID due to all the adrenaline she was fighting against. Her intuition told her it was Nilou. It had to be. She'd forgotten to take her journal, one in which she recorded everything. From scripts to dialogues to lists to ideas. "It's on the table. Come."

"...Huh?"

Her feigned joy wore off, a frown replacing her profile. Nilou sounded kind of... testosterone-ish.

"Whatever. Give me ten minutes."

Fuck.

"Wai-"

A beep of finality rang ominously in the atmosphere.

The contact 'muse 😸' from the recent call log glared at Y/N, and to top the horror she was subjected to, a text slid into her notification bar as an ultimate nail to the coffin.

[ 1:43 PM ]

muse 😸:

You sounded exhausted.

Also, what's on the table?

Her intuition was fucking stupid. She was more amazed by the fact that she decided to trust her gut instead of confirming who she was talking to like a normal person. She knew damn well how terrible fate was to her, and she still leapt to take the risk.

Here was the summary of her predicament:

Y/N had just picked up Al-haitham's call and invited him over. She was, as of now, representing a creature that probably sneaked into the planet Earth. She had ten minutes to get ready.

Even the plot armour couldn't save her at this point.

Her arms reached towards the pile of potential attires, throwing around every fabric that didn't immediately appear perfect to her. It was minutes of agony and stress, the sensations gnawing at her insides until she released a sigh, a bead of sweat rolling down her forehead.

"Shit. Shit. And shit." Y/N groused after examining the clothes within her field of vision. Everything she owned was making her want to kill herself, because her wardrobe was brimming with garbage. Her mind bellowed that Al-haitham wouldn't care — in the manner it prompted her the same whenever she fussed about him.

But I care!

And then, amid the disaster, her gaze landed on something... pretty. Something she'd been unknowingly ruining the room for. It was a glimmer of hope, a sole raft on a stranded shore.

She grabbed the freshly discovered dress in her fist, as if she was choking the poor thing to death.

"You. You better look good on me today, understood?"

"Complete thieves."

"Yet you're eating their food."

Al-haitham crossed his arms over his chest, watching the girl aggressively bite into the bread roll she'd purchased from one of the food stalls. Within the campus, the organisers made sure to rob the visitors of their money. Y/N knew that, because the art students weren't any better. They listed their items at double the price and then sold them at 'discounted' rates to attract more customers — Elysia's idea. The discounted rate? 75% more than the actual one, with 25% as a bargain margin for difficult buyers to guarantee at least 50% profit. Business.

"I was hungry."

"I told you I'd get you lunch."

She stopped chewing for a moment. "Do you think I'll believe a man who forgot his wallet when he took me to a museum date?"

"...Do you keep track of all the times I've messed up?" Al-haitham let his palm rest on his face, but his stare remained glued to her. "Dumb question to ask. Obviously you do."

"Wow, so you do agree that you messed up. That's some major development, Al-haitham."

Y/N had to physically restrain herself from using the term 'sextie'. She was on her best possible behaviour for her beautiful date's sake, to show him that she wasn't batshit crazy in public settings.

"Eat."

"You? Gladly."

He pursed his lips together — a sign that he was going to disregard that comment. "I... have other things I want you to see. Hurry up."

"Hmm?" A small smile found its way to the corners of her mouth, forming a perfect crescent. "What I want to see is right in front of me."

There were a few adorable attributes of Al-haitham that Y/N had taken note of. His fear of storms was one of them, but she had found her new favourite very recently.

"Stop it."

"The tips of your ears turn pink when you're embarrassed."

The observation soon morphed into reality, a tinge of roseate dusting the exact area. She swallowed a chuckle, and that was ample reason for the boy to shield his ears with his hands.

"You're insufferable."

"Don't cover them!" Y/N protested, albeit with an amused grin. "Such a big man with such a sensitive heart. How cute."

He walked ahead, wordlessly urging her to follow his lead. She complied begrudgingly, but her head? It was packed with a multitude of thoughts, ranging from the best to the worst of things. Going out with louder people was always supposed to be an entertaining experience, and here she was, happy just to be in Al-haitham's overbearing presence. He didn't have to be bright to bring her warmth. He didn't have to be expressive to be the sun.

She hated the strangeness of that. Thinking about him — so delicately, wanting to be around him, wanting him. Such contemplations were often tailed by a river of doubts. Was it okay? Was it too soon for this? Where was the button that made it stop?

Doing anything about that was entirely out of her calibre. Perhaps, it was a fleeting crush that would dissipate soon. Perhaps, she paid heed to his intricate features because he was her muse. Perhaps, perhaps, perhaps.

I would hate to get my heart broken again.

After all, that muscle was quite a wild creature. That was why ribs had cages.

"Y/N?" Her name floated in the air, laced with the familiar deep notes that gave her goosebumps. "Take this."

In his hold was a neatly enveloped sheet. The letters 'Clue One' shone above the white background, written in a calligraphy she had memorised without intending to. Her brow raised with perplexity as she took it from his grasp.

"What's this?"

"A transaction."

That left her even more bewildered. "What does that mean?"

"It'll help me write the poem I told you about," He said, his focus anchored to the ground below. "And it'll help you too... somehow. A fair deal."

"Is that so?" That piqued more of her curiosity, but she went along with it. "Let's see what this deal entails."

Al-haitham leaned against a pillar, his tall stature complementing that position a bit too much for the girl's liking. She needed to have a pencil and diary around him at all times — he was an effortless masterpiece.

"It's a scavenger hunt, to be precise. Is it easier for you now?"

"I'm not that dumb."

"I beg to differ."

Y/N gasped. "Watch me destroy this scavenger hunt, you emotionally challenged loser."

"By all means, go ahead," He shrugged with nonchalance, "I can bet you'll struggle with the first clue itself."

"I won't." She quipped, unfolding the paper to see what his cockiness was about.

"Shades of amber seeking shade across the forest's expanse,
And the wings of a canary perching on a breaking branch
They paint the stage for the flower's dance,
When the summer comes to put you in a trance."

"...Alright. I'm certain I'll figure it out in a minute or two."

Al-haitham mustered an insincere expression of compassion. "Yes, yes. The all-knowing, knowledgeable—"

"Okay. Yellow." Y/N cut him off abruptly, scared that the hint would leave her if she didn't spell it out. "Shades of amber and canaries— they're yellow. The third line talks about a flower."

"...Maybe I underestimated you."

"Yellow flower?" She muttered, fueling his agitation further. This was supposed to take a while, at least thirty minutes or so... but it had hardly been five, and she was already close to solving the first clue. "Daffodils? No, they grow in winter."

"Hey. Come on now." Al-haitham pinched the bridge of his nose. To his dismay, her eyes shimmered with satisfaction — she had braved the conundrum.

"Sunflower!" She exclaimed, searching the depths of his pupils for confirmation.

His shoulders fell with defeat. "...Yes."

"I have to find sunflowers now, I think?"

"God, yes. I didn't know you'd be this quick."

Y/N wanted to repel the smug behaviour that he was trying to display before, but decided against it. She was putting away all complacent remarks in a warehouse to shower them at him when she'd require their assistance the most.

Also, it was rather... fun.

"We don't have sunflowers here in this season, though." She forced her brain to function, clinging onto minute factors that she could pick apart.

At college, it was more or less impossible to spot sunflowers around this time of the year. She had personally nursed a bunch since Nilou had gifted her the seeds once, but that was about it. The freezing gusts of wind would certainly take them down in a month.

Could it be...?

"My dorm?"

"Ding ding." Al-haitham cheered monotonously, his gaze pursuing her as she led him through the crowd, visibly excited to get to the next stop. His ire dimmed upon basking in her juvenile ardour, a bud of contentment flourishing instead.

"When did you put it there?" Her voice yanked him from his momentary reverie, "I can't have missed it!"

"I may have conspired with some of your friends."

Y/N halted dead in her tracks. "Nilou? No way!"

Then again, it wasn't that implausible. She had brought in the San Rio plushie bouquet Al-haitham had asked her to, she had forced a number of circumstances over them that left them no choice but to interact with each other — her past record wasn't clean in the slightest.

"She's really rooting for you, huh?"

He didn't know what she was talking about, but Nilou rooting for him couldn't be bad. It would prove to work in his favour, if anything, and that spiked his pleasure by a lot.

"Welcome to my prison cell!"

Now, a plethora of things never affected Al-haitham. He had his exceptions, yes, and they included thunders and social gatherings, but mostly, he was okay with anything.

Another exception joined his list today — entering Y/N's room.

It smelled like her. Felt like her. There was just one problem.

"Um. Did someone break in or...?"

"Shh." She hushed, "Never ask a girl why her clothes are scattered around. We're enduring many battles."

He nodded, too overwhelmed to continue the conversation. His feet didn't move a centimetre, his body attached to the doorway akin to a mannequin.

"I'd prefer to be a bystander to your battle. Go ahead."

Y/N fished around her windowsill, finding another sheet tucked beneath the pot in which her little flowers bloomed. She beamed.

"Here we go, clue two!"

Al-haitham smiled to himself.

"And here we go, stanza one."

His imaginary pen readied itself to scribble down his sentiments. He had countless entries that described love, countless stories that included it, orbited it. It was such an endearing element to introduce in his fantasy realm, in humanity, in life. It was sad he didn't excel in it.

What isn't my innate talent, I'll mould it into one with practice.

He'd perceived romance from afar, and that had distorted his views beyond repair. After learning what it truly was like — courtesy to Y/N — he could see it through a twin-coloured lens. A perspective that allowed him to break through its romanticized variations, and to bathe in its downsides. Rose and grey, present together, unveiling the truth of its taste. One second it was bitter, another, it was sweet.

When you ask what love is, every being is eager to sing their bit
For some, it's a meadow of yellow,
For some, a puzzle to fit

Alongside, Y/N recited the contents of the slip in her hands.

"The Capulets and Montagues, the epic of Odyssey,
Some a comedy, some a tragedy
Your friend and mine, behind that door of mahogany,
Splattered paint on skin, and the moment of epiphany."

She didn't even need to take a second to think. The answer stood right in front of her, not concealed by the strings of a riddle. Her chest tightened subconsciously, with anxiety or affection, she didn't know. A mix of both would be a more appropriate response.

"The theatre club." She whispered. Her revelation didn't require an additional corroboration from the creator of the hunt.

"To the theatre club we go." Al-haitham solidified her response in the same gentle tone she had used.

Why the gentleness? Because they were afraid. Afraid of breaking the fragile string that connected them. The string that an increase in the decibels could snap in half. The string that an innocent mistake could sever. His bluntness and her fervour were irrevocably linked.

Treading the road carefully was the best option until they could be mindlessly transparent.

Their path to the club room was relatively quiet, save for the occasional laughter of the strangers that roamed around them, enjoying the game booths and shops set up by the duo's peers.

They threw the doors open in sync, familiar faces greeting them. Nilou was giving orders, fixing the errors others brought to her, Yelan was fussing about her itchy costume, Cyno was sipping at the straw of his milkshake, watching the chaos ensue with uninterested hues, and Najia... Najia was handling a random person who was engaged in an argument with her. It was deafening.

Al-haitham and Y/N made a silent agreement to avoid them as much as possible.

Then began another quest for her— how would she find anything in a place so packed? If three was a crowd, then this was no less than a concert venue. Even though the play had been over for an hour, the mass continued to linger, hogging away the space.

Y/N's initial choice was to look through the cupboard. That was where she got the supplies for the banner, and the paint incident happened while working on it.

Unfortunately, that wasn't correct.

She could sense Al-haitham's gratification at her failure, annoyance permeating through her visage.

"Mr. Big boobs, when I catch you..."

"A hint. It's where you sketched me for my birthday."

A hint? That was the whole answer. This man was weak for her. Eager for this to be concluded, too. Not because he hated it, but because what awaited her at the end was evoking restlessness within him.

"I know now. I mean, I knew it already, but you see, I was just a bit transfixed."

"I trust your lies."

"Die."

Y/N filtered through her suffocating surroundings, approaching the window that invited the blanket of golden rays inside. The current of her memories flowed when she soaked in the scene. It hadn't changed at all. At all.

I should sketch him here more.

In between the negligible gap of the metal borders, the third clue glistened. She snatched it free from its clutches, seeking a comfortable corner to scrutinize the matter held captive by her fingers.

Al-haitham was busy carving his own art. The second stanza poured itself, like an overflowing cup of tea.

The writer helps love grow, the artist is why it exists
For some, it's a spill of sunshine,
For some, a place, because you fall into it

"He's so good at this," Y/N said, amazed by his methodically devised pointers.

"An empire in itself, a palace of words,
Within its walls, reside the rulers of literature
Amid their land, within the house of Eyre,
After 222 steps, you'll get what you desire."

"This is where I start growing rusty."

Al-haitham furrowed his brows. "This one is the least complicated."

"Are you serious? Palace of words could be anything!" She adjusted herself on the floor to soothe her weariness, absently tracing the hurried movements of foreign individuals. "Poem? Story? A speech? A book?"

"Close."

"Rulers of literature... authors?"

"You're getting there."

She pressed all three of the clue slips together and fanned herself with them to keep her hands busy. The action seemed to have clicked something in her.

"Library. Palace of words, where authors live. Oh my God, I'm wonderful."

"Of course." Al-haitham sighed, matching his pace with hers as she made a beeline for the college library. The closer they got to the end, the more impatient he became.

Y/N had blanked out again.

"We're here but... is there another clue here?"

"Yes. The last one."

"There are thousands of books. Don't play with me."

He stifled a snort. "Read the third clue again. You'll know where to look for the fourth one."

With reluctance, she let her eyes run through the whole thing again. The house of Eyre, after 222 steps, was what it was directing her towards. She had zero ideas as to what either of the two lines meant.

"Is our librarian Miss Eyre?"

"No."

"Is it a writer's name?"

"No."

She clicked her tongue, infuriated. "Who the hell is she, then?"

"What else can you think of?" Al-haitham asked, "Not the librarian, not the writer, then who can she be?"

"Maybe she just doesn't exist."

"Exactly."

Her lips parted in surprise, feeling dense for not being able to guess that.

"A character. She's a— shit, Jane Eyre."

He had made sure to use a book she had read before, so she wouldn't have a hard time putting two and two together. Nilou held a treasury of Y/N facts that acted as Al-haitham's stepping stones for the scavenger hunt. He needed to thank her later.

"222 steps, meaning 222 pages? That was clever." She whistled softly, trying not to garner any unnecessary attention from the three studious kids who were scattered across the library.

As Y/N slid the book out of the shelf and skimmed through its yellowed pages, the fourth, and the only remaining clue, fluttered outside, landing on the ground. She reached down to catch it.

'Clue Four', the backside read. She unfolded the crisp paper with a held breath.

Al-haitham had his own internal strifes he was dealing with. He pushed every emotion around to try and come up with something good for his poem, until it all fell into place.

In winter they love the sun, in summer the fog
Love is a book left unread,
For we have yet to reach the epilogue

"Al-haitham. You've overestimated me." Y/N abstained from the impulse to rip her hair follicles out. "I give up."

There wasn't a way she could ever successfully analyse whatever this was. The possible solutions were making her insane, sending her into a state of turmoil.

"Life imitates its beauty, life reflects its vigour,
It's a brush's calculated stroke, it's a painter's rigour
Whether weather be lethal or soft, its allure grows bigger,
Yet it cannot rival this girl before a mirror."

"Really? This is your forte. You should know." He spoke, indirectly nudging her forward. Her forte could only mean one thing.

"Art. Is it the art club?"

"Think more."

"...Art class? Teacher? Student?"

His countenance revealed that Y/N had strayed far away from the actual answer. She couldn't collect enough precise options even if she tried to.

"It's related to the Cultural Festival."

"Exhibition?"

The cupid's bow of Al-haitham's mouth quirked upwards. "Smart. Exhibition it is."

"Our last destination?"

"Our last destination."

Their lungs felt deprived of air for a brief moment. Their musings were infested with an abundance of prospects — what they would encounter after reaching there, what this was about, why they felt the way they did. Al-haitham was aware, and at the same time, he couldn't get any more clueless. Apprehension climbed up to the precipice of his paranoia, then to his neck, immobilising him.

A quiet flooded between them. It was the calm of a water's surface, a deceptive veil over their unspoken words that were clamouring underneath but not quite breaking through.

Keep it cool.

"Good job." He managed to utter out without stumbling over. That was an uncanny thing to be proud of.

"What?" She blinked. Her eyes darted around, shattering the daze she was confined with, and then she understood what made him say that. "Ah."

They were standing in the centre of the art exhibition, where Y/N had spilt every ounce of her efforts. Whatever she was asked of, she did. Arranging the paintings, introducing the pieces to everyone who sauntered in, whether they listened to her rambling or not, and the like. It was one thing she was remotely good at, one thing she could use to deem her worth, one thing she could let her define.

It was the last day of the festival, but that didn't explain why it was... wholly empty.

"I saw your work." Al-haitham started, "I suppose your paintings here are the ones that you used me as inspiration for?"

A blush crawled up to her cheeks. Not visible, but there. Her skin grew hot, her body itching to avoid looking at him for no particular reason. She had always, always been direct about her art and what stimulated her to create it. Why she suddenly felt so uneasy about him seeing it, she didn't know.

"Yes. Only the proportions." Y/N replied distractedly. "Anyway," She added right away, a pathetic shot at subduing her awkwardness, "Why's it so deserted? Did we flop or something? I mean, it wasn't like this yesterday..."

Al-haitham hummed. "I have borrowed it for a while. For you."

"For me?"

"You'll see."

She marvelled at his dedication. Her art teacher was not one to be easily swayed. He probably had to beg her for this. For her.

"You... did all this, and it's not even my birthday or anything special."

He smiled. "Any other changes except for the lack of visitors?"

She stood back, giving the area a once-over. Nothing was out of place to her — just a bit of littering here and there.

Wait.

Two anomalies highlighted themselves, causing her to squint so she could concentrate on them harder.

One was a tall object with a curtain draped over it. Another was a deft inclusion that was not as vivid.

There was definitely an extra artwork sneaked inside the gallery. She didn't remember hanging that creepily familiar painting — Picasso?

"How did this get in?"

Al-haitham was entertained by her hesitance. "Who do you think is the culprit?"

Questions, questions, questions.

But oh, how could she not know? The evidence of mischief clung to his stare, a blatant giveaway. She wanted to ask him why, but it wasn't often she got to assess the copy of a renowned artist's product.

When she recalled what its name was, her jaw dropped.

Girl before a Mirror, 1932.
Pablo Picasso.

Her head whipped around to find the pair of irises that had been following her for hours, but Al-haitham put a finger on his lips, gesturing for her to be quiet. He advanced closer, an act so ordinary yet so intimate. An act that said, I like it better when the distance is less.

"The Girl before a Mirror... that is the prize of the scavenger hunt. Do you know who that is?"

Y/N swallowed, her body blazing with heat.

He was standing in front of her, his indifferent mien trading itself for a tender one. His arm found her waist, and for a second — a single second — a torrent of tints and shades and pigments seized her. As if the world was black and white before, and his contact alone hurled her into a tunnel of scorching technicolour.

He led her towards the blanketed article, and neither of the two seemed to be breathing. Really breathing.

In a swift motion, the curtain of silk fell to the floor, revealing a mirror.

"You."

Me.

The whisper resonated for a blink before getting whisked away by the tranquility. Y/N could hear them- the beats of her heart. Rapid, roaring, and unruly. She didn't speak. She couldn't bring herself to.

Al-haitham's chin rested on her shoulder, his spellbinding scent rendering her paralysed. Strong. It was undoubtedly strong. Like he was drenched in the nectar of a sugared flower. Like he had worn that perfume on purpose. Their reflection stared back at them — a girl who was having a hard time respirating, and a boy who had a hard time looking away from her.

Is love a sentence, a prose, an answer?
A chord for the singer,
A step for the dancer

His fingers intertwined with hers, navigating their laced hands across the glass. It felt cold, a stark contrast to the feverish sweltering his touch was emanating.

Leaning closer to her ear, his husky voice echoed, silencing the cacophony of her brain. Suddenly the chilling breeze slicing at her exposed legs didn't seem that bad. Suddenly no amount of cold was cold enough. Everything was in flames. Boiling.

"Look at yourself. At this," He moved their weaved hands to her eyes, "And this," they meandered to her nose, "And this," they slithered over to her lips, then grew limp. He sounded no louder than a wavering exhale.

"You're Y/N. Cherished by whoever you meet. Sprouting with skills I can't even comprehend bearing. Loved. Very loved."

Y/N turned to face him, knowing the proximity would leave them powerless. Never, never had she yearned for something as much as she did now. Never. Every uncertainty, every qualm evaporated when their gazes fused. Their lips, inches apart, were the opposite ends of a magnet.

Kiss me — she wanted to say.

Can I kiss you? — he wanted to ask.

It was a vicious cycle of dubiety. Of wanting the same thing but inaudibly. Neither had the courage to just say.

The hair-thin space between them teased the ache buried under the map of their nerves, igniting what was previously a dying ember into an inferno set aflame. The round lights above them flickered. The hall oscillated with their heavy breaths. Their eyes traversed every inch across the other's frame, finishing their journey once they connected.

"Al-haitham." She called, and he heard. Despite the violent thrumming in his flushed ears, he heard. Involuntarily, his hold on her wrist and her waist hardened, the tips of his fingers digging into her. Not eliciting pain, but craving.

Say it.

Do it.

Push me away.

Just don't leave.

"Y/N."

Love is a question,

"I... I might be looking too much into it. You're— This— Listen. I don't want to assume the wrong thing." Y/N blathered on, remaining rigid, "And you're not hel—"

"I definitely don't like you." Al-haitham interjected, realising what she was bothered about. That should be the least of her worries. "That was the lie."

There was a big, red question mark over Y/N's face. She tilted her head, trying to make sense of his intentions. Turned out, she had forgotten about that part of the letter he had given her.

"Huh?"

"The letter. The one I gave you on the night you threw up—"

"I remember now!" She struggled against his grip, mortification plaguing her at the mere mention of that night. "I... see."

One second. Two seconds. Three seconds.

"Hold up."

Four seconds.

"I like you." He clarified with more diction, giving her no moment of respite. "You're my muse — not just in an artistic sense. You're my muse, because you inspire me to love. You inspire me to think; of you. Every goddamn day. After waking up, before going to bed, during the middle. Hell, even in my dreams."

"Al-haitham."

He stared back at the mirror. "You're Y/N. An artist. Nilou's friend. Dehya's role model. Cyno's card-game companion. There's just one thing missing."

She inhaled sharply.

"My partner."

"Will you want me, even though I'm flawed?"

Y/N turned to fully look at him, taken aback by his candid confession. Somewhere in her throat, a ball of fondness flared. Her chest was filled with all sorts of things. Her soul chanted, I want you, until she couldn't take it. Whatever that could go wrong with her mind, it did.

The small of her palms found his cheeks, holding him in place. A slight chuckle escaped her inevitably.

"Finally."

Her lips captured Al-haitham's, sighs of relief and desperation mingling together to form a song of their own. The molten emerald of his pupils melted as his sight savoured the girl up close, eventually losing the war against his drooping eyelids. Her fragrance left him bewitched and nebulous, unable to function. The short gasps she took were a melody in themselves, inducing his need for her. He was increasingly aware of how her arms wrapped around him, how her skin seared through his. She tasted just like he had imagined her to - as if every synonym of devotion had materialised into reality.

He experienced the kiss with all five of his senses. He was muddled. He was in shambles. He was alive, and he was dead.

She knows how to make me want her more.

He felt her tugging at the roots of his grey strands, his knees turning to jelly at the contact. His lungs throbbed, demanding broken chunks of air, but he wasn't keen enough to listen.

And the answer—

Al-haitham's watch blinked, compelling him to divide his attention between Y/N and the stupid device.

When they broke apart — unwillingly so — he could sense the disappointment in the base of his spine, a heavy weight in the pit of his stomach, a faded gloominess in his stance. His thumb ambled to her bottom lip; it felt like a wisp of cloud beneath his touch.

"Your watch..." Y/N drawled, but when she noticed why it was beeping like that, a peal of laughter burst out of her mouth before she could stifle it.

Abnormal heart rate detected.

Al-haitham was quite literally the personification of everything red that existed in the world. Some of the crimson was sheltered by his hair, the rest was shamelessly advertised, charging his misery.

"Shouldn't have worn it."

"You know what you shouldn't have worn?"

The man rolled his eyes at her antics, yet a little grin threatened to form on his features.

"I don't even want to feed into this."

Y/N smiled—  so big that her cheeks hurt.

"Your shirt."

—just keeps being yes.

papá came back with 5.7k words, a confession, and a kiss