Work Text:
“Kaveh,” says Al-Haitham, approximately ten seconds after he’s finished confessing his romantic feelings for him, “you look like you’re about to pass out.”
Kaveh releases the breath he had apparently been holding, his hands curling into fists by his side. “I’m not going to pass out.”
“Are you sure about that?”
“Yes, I’m sure about that.” His heart is pounding so hard he can hear it pulsing against his ears. “Stop looking at me.”
Al-Haitham raises an eyebrow. “You’re standing right in front of me.”
“Well then avert your gaze,” says Kaveh, and then he swallows so hard he feels it pierce his throat. “You—okay, well. So.”
“Take your time.”
“Will you shut up?”
Al-Haitham falls quiet. Belatedly, Kaveh realizes that this is a really big deal. For both of them.
He looks up, meets his eyes. Al-Haitham has not looked away. He’s waiting, clearly, for Kaveh. For Kaveh to get a hold of himself. For Kaveh to parse through whatever he’s feeling and give him an answer. And he probably doesn’t even expect him to answer him right away—because he is Al-Haitham, and this is them, and…oh. Yeah.
This is them.
“Fine,” says Kaveh, finally, and then he watches as Al-Haitham’s gaze shifts, his eyebrows tilting about two degrees, “I…okay. Let’s be together.”
Kaveh wakes up the next morning and feels…normal. For the most part. He reaches up until his hand is hovering over his face, flexing his fingers as he blinks to consciousness. Then he feels his shoulders tense under him.
“I’m dating Al-Haitham,” he says out loud, to test the words on his tongue, or something. Then again, “I’m dating Al-Haitham.”
All right. Great. So he’s dating Al-Haitham.
He reaches for his hoodie and slips it on over his head. It’s colder this time of year, the wind turning the city’s tree leaves just a little crisper, and he shudders as he waddles over to his bedroom door.
He opens it to the sight of Al-Haitham standing in their kitchen, his phone in one hand and a mug in the other. He’s halfway through a sip when he notices Kaveh standing in his doorway.
He sets the mug down onto the counter. “Good morning.”
Kaveh blinks. Something settles in his stomach at the sight of Al-Haitham in his cream sleep shirt, pine-colored pajamas that loosely cling to his legs.
“Morning,” he says.
Al-Haitham turns, finding the pot of chai he probably brewed just a few minutes ago and pouring half of Kaveh’s favorite mug full. Kaveh breaks away from the doorway, finally, and slowly makes his way over to him just as Al-Haitham is topping the tea off with a bit of the spiced cream Kaveh asked him to buy last week from the market.
He hands him the mug and Kaveh takes it. He sips a little mouthful and lets it warm his throat as Al-Haitham starts to wash the dishes from last night’s dinner.
“Haitham,” Kaveh starts, then stops.
Al-Haitham glances sidelong at him. “Hm?”
“I—” Kaveh shakes his head. “Nothing. Do you have work today?”
“Regretfully,” says Al-Haitham.
Kaveh nods. “When will you be back?”
“Same time as always,” says Al-Haitham, and normally, it would sound more condescending. Or maybe that’s just Kaveh. “You have a meeting this afternoon. Don’t forget.”
Immediately, Kaveh groans. “Why did you have to remind me?”
“Because you would curse yourself out for weeks if you forgot about it,” says Al-Haitham. “I thought to remind you because your mind is probably elsewhere today.”
“No it is not,” says Kaveh.
“Of course it isn’t,” says Al-Haitham. “I believe you.”
“You don’t sound like you believe me. It isn’t good to lie, Al-Haitham.”
“You can think whatever you want to think,” says Al-Haitham. He fiddles with the last plate, loading it into the dishwasher before straightening up and walking closer to Kaveh.
Kaveh inhales sharply as Al-Haitham crowds into his space, stumbling back until his hip hits the counter and Al-Haitham’s arms are caging him against it.
“What are you—” he starts, breath catching in his throat as Al-Haitham’s gaze on him narrows. They’re so close like this—closer than they’ve been to each other in a very long time—close enough that Kaveh can make out faint flecks of hazel in his eyes, every crease in his skin around his temples, close enough that all he really needs to do is tilt his chin just slightly upwards and—
Al-Haitham backs away, a faint smirk ghosting the corner of his mouth.
Immediately, Kaveh feels heat enveloping his ears.
“Have a good meeting, Kaveh,” Al-Haitham says, and then he downs the rest of his tea and places the empty mug into the sink, slipping right past him in the direction of his bedroom door.
[17:03] haitham
are you done with your meeting?
[17:03] you
yea
why?
are u off work
[17:03] haitham
i just got off
i’m outside lambad’s
[17:03] you
is this ur way of asking me to dinner
i’ll be there in 15
[17:04] haitham
i’ll get us a table
“You know,” says Kaveh as he slides into the seat across from Al-Haitham, “a good boyfriend would have picked me up.”
Al-Haitham glances up from where he’s scanning the menu in his hands. “That would be impractical. I was already here.”
Kaveh rolls his eyes. “Yeah, yeah, whatever. Why are you even looking at the menu? You already know everything on there.”
“It’s always good to survey your options,” says Al-Haitham.
“Right. So I take it you’re paying today?”
“When did I say I would do that?”
“Well, you’re the one that asked me out. So naturally, you should be the one who pays.”
“You have asked me to eat with you plenty of times before,” says Al-Haitham, raising a delicate eyebrow. “I don’t recall you opening your wallet a single time.”
“Well now we’re in a relationship,” says Kaveh haughtily, ignoring the way his chest tightens as the words leave his lips. “And you asked me to dinner, so technically, this is our first date.”
Al-Haitham’s expression shifts at this, just a little, and if Kaveh were literally anyone else, he would have missed it completely. “So I take it that from now on, if you ask me out on a date, you’ll be the one paying?”
“Well let’s not get too ahead of ourselves.”
“Hmm.”
“Okay fuck you,” says Kaveh, “all you do is sit around and archive documents all day and still you’re one of the highest-paid people in the Akademiya.”
“I don’t really think you should be complaining about my salary, considering the fact that we live together.”
“Maybe I wouldn’t complain if you used that money towards things that would actually benefit our shared living space.”
Al-Haitham tilts his head, his pretty silver hair curling around the space where his neck meets his shoulder. Kaveh forces himself to look away.
“Anyways,” he says, because Al-Haitham is still looking at him and really, it shouldn’t be affecting him because it is perfectly normal to stare at the person you’re having dinner with and also dating. “We have potluck dinner with Tighnari and Cyno tomorrow. Don’t forget.”
“I wouldn’t. It’s not good to project onto other people, senior.”
Kaveh’s face flares. “You—”
Potluck dinner is a biweekly thing. It started, hm, maybe three months ago, give or take a few weeks. Kaveh’s not really sure—all he knows is that it was not his idea. It was Tighnari’s, because of course it was.
“We only have to make one dish this time,” says Al-Haitham as he enters the kitchen the following afternoon.
Kaveh frowns, tilting his head. “What? Why? We always each make one.”
“The two of them only make one dish,” says Al-Haitham.
“Yeah? But that’s because they’re together—oh.”
Al-Haitham levels him with an unimpressed look. “For someone who graduated—”
“—with honors I can truly be so slow, yeah yeah yeah. Shut up. We literally got together, like, two days ago.”
“Technically it was yesterday,” says Al-Haitham primly, “since you accepted my feelings past midnight.”
Accepted my feelings, he says. What a loser.
Kaveh rolls his eyes. “Whatever. Same thing.”
“Well, no,” says Al-Haitham. “It’s not the same thing. It quite literally changes the day we will celebrate our anniversary every year.”
“Okay,” says Kaveh. His fingers curl around the bowl in his hands. “Yeah, you’re right. I guess. Now come help me with the food. Just because we’re only making one dish now doesn’t mean you get to luck out of helping. You’re a better cook than me anyways.”
“Thank you for your compliment,” says Al-Haitham, and then he slides up right next to Kaveh until their arms are pressed together, and Kaveh attempts to be completely normal about this for the next hour of meal prep.
“Welcome to our humble abode,” Cyno deadpans after he opens the door for them. “Come in—why did you only bring one dish?”
From somewhere behind him, Tighnari peeks his head out. “One dish? You guys aren’t allowed to bring only one dish.”
Kaveh pushes past Cyno, Al-Haitham languidly following behind him. “You guys make only one dish every time.”
“That’s because we’re in a relationship. The rule is two people in a relationship count as one unit. So we’re allowed to make one dish, while the two of you have to each bring your—”
“Oh,” Kaveh interrupts. Right. Fuck. “About that.”
Immediately the room is bathed in silence.
Approximately twelve seconds pass.
“What?” says Tighnari.
“What,” says Cyno.
Kaveh opens his mouth. How the hell is he even supposed to do this? He thinks back to when Tighnari told him about his and Cyno’s relationship—it was quick and easy, said between drinks and laughter at the bar. Maybe it was the alcohol that made it easier for them. Kaveh suddenly wishes he had some in his system.
“Kaveh and I are together,” says Al-Haitham out of literally nowhere.
Kaveh rounds him. “You can’t just say that.”
Al-Haitham doesn’t look the least bit off put. “I was waiting for you to say it, but it didn’t seem like it was on your agenda.”
“It’s not an agenda. I was just mentally preparing myself to say it.”
“Tighnari and Cyno were waiting for an answer.”
“Well they can wait longer then—”
“I’m sorry,” says Tighnari, effectively cutting into Kaveh’s voice, “but what did you just say?”
“Kaveh and I are together,” says Al-Haitham.
Kaveh drops his face into his hands.
“Okay,” says Tighnari. He blinks a little, and then he and Cyno exchange a look that Kaveh does not think he can even kind of parse. Couples things, he supposes.
He shudders, then, because now he and Al-Haitham might start to have those long stares between each other, those unspoken conversations with nothing other than their eyes. The kind that an outsider could never understand. The kinds that Kaveh often sees happen between Tighnari and Cyno.
“Anyways,” says Kaveh then, because quite frankly, he has had enough of whatever the fuck is happening right now. “I’ll help you get the food together, Nari. Haitham, you brought our TCG deck, didn’t you? Help Cyno set the table for the game.”
Al-Haitham doesn’t respond, but Cyno does offer a short nod, and Kaveh will take what he can get.
Tighnari practically drags him into the kitchen.
“Kaveh,” he starts, “what?”
“Don’t even talk to me,” Kaveh groans.
“Okay,” says Tighnari. He nods. “Okay, I won’t. But.”
“Of course there’s a but.”
“There’s always a but,” says Tighnari, and then he smiles and puts a hand on Kaveh’s shoulder. “Are you good? Are you happy?”
“Ugh,” says Kaveh. Somehow, he knew Tighnari was going to ask him something stupid like that. “Yeah, I am. I guess.”
“Well then, I’m happy for you.”
“Ugh.”
They’re pleasantly buzzed on the way back to their home after dinner. Well, Kaveh is at least. He doesn’t really know what’s going on in Al-Haitham’s head right now.
The night is quiet, birdsong the only sound around them, and briefly, Kaveh glances to his side where Al-Haitham is calmly walking along next to him.
And it’s not like this is new for them. This happens every other week, after all. They’ll go to Tighnari and Cyno’s place for dinner, Kaveh will drink, Al-Haitham will (maybe?) drink, and then they’ll go home together. Rinse and repeat.
But it’s different today. Of course it’s different today.
“Haitham,” he drawls, stumbling just a bit closer, until his chest is pressed up against Al-Haitham’s bicep, “isn’t this kind of crazy?”
“What is?” says Al-Haitham.
“This,” says Kaveh. He giggles a bit, then points to the nonexistent space between them. “The two of us.”
“No,” says Al-Haitham.
“No what?”
“No, it’s not crazy. This has been a long time coming.”
“Oh,” says Kaveh. His face suddenly feels very hot. “Oh, yeah, I suppose you’re right.”
“Mm,” Al-Haitham says, and then there is warmth enveloping Kaveh’s hand, and he starts in surprise when he feels Al-Haitham interlocking their fingers together.
Archons, what the fuck? What the fuck?
This is definitely because of the alcohol. There is no reason for Kaveh to be acting this way simply because Al-Haitham is holding his hand. His boyfriend, Al-Haitham. His boyfriend Al-Haitham holding his hand.
Kusanali above, he needs to get a grip on himself.
They make it back to their home eventually, and when Al-Haitham glances over at him, Kaveh immediately looks away. He can feel the budding red flush decorating his ears and the hearts of his cheeks, and he absolutely does not need to see Al-Haitham’s reaction to this.
All he hears is a slight inhale of breath, but that could be anything. So Kaveh will ignore it. Yup. Perfect.
When they’re inside, Kaveh shakes off his shoes and sets them neatly onto the shoe rack by the entrance. He feels a weight behind him, and then his jacket is being pulled off of his shoulders, and Kaveh immediately freezes as he feels Al-Haitham’s hands running down the length of his arms, then to the collar of his jacket, now bunched down by his waist. He gingerly peels it away from him, smoothing it out before hanging it in their closet.
Kaveh swallows as Al-Haitham slips past him, further into the house, his bicep lightly brushing with Kaveh’s as he passes. When he’s just an arm's length away, he looks back and meets Kaveh’s eyes.
“You shouldn’t drink so much,” he murmurs. “Your entire face is red.”
Quite frankly, Kaveh has never felt more sober in his life, but all right. “It’s just the lighting.”
“The lighting,” Al-Haitham repeats, his lips forming a small O shape. “Of course. How could I have been mistaken.”
“Rookie error, very unlike you,” says Kaveh. “I’m—I’m going to go to bed now.”
Al-Haitham nods, his gaze flickering to Kaveh’s bedroom door for a second. “Okay.” And then, “Good night, Kaveh.”
“Good night,” says Kaveh, and it isn’t till he’s laying in his bed an hour later and looking up blankly at the ceiling that he can breathe again.
It’s like a dance, this—whatever it is. Kaveh hasn’t put a name to it yet. He doesn’t know if there is one adequate enough to encompass something like this.
Here’s the thing: before they were together, Al-Haitham would make breakfast for the two of them, brew Kaveh’s chai just the way he knows he likes it, clutter their living room tables with his books stacked on top of one another. He’d knock on Kaveh’s door during a long night of work—three little taps, telltale of who it was behind the wood—and he’d enter with a small plate of fruit, apples and fresh zaytun peaches and plump harra and sometimes even imported lavender melons, all arranged in small little different-sized pieces.
Kaveh would look down at the plate and stick his nose up, a tiny smile playing at the corners of his mouth as he chided Al-Haitham for the uneven cuts, and Al-Haitham would roll his eyes and tell him that it doesn’t matter how he cuts it, that Kaveh should just be grateful that he’s getting the fruit cut for him in the first place.
Of course Kaveh was grateful. Of course Al-Haitham already knew that.
They’d sit together at their dining table over a meal they took turns cooking, sometimes in silence, sometimes exchanging small words between mouthfuls. They’d sit together on opposite ends of the couch in the living room, doing work side-by-side as some random channel played on the television, the volume slider dimmed to just a mere point or two in the background.
The thing is, now that they’re together, nothing really changes.
Al-Haitham will still watch calmly from his spot in the kitchen as Kaveh stumbles out of his room, running just a few minutes late for a meeting with a client—except now, he’ll help Kaveh into his jacket, he’ll stare at him openly as he grabs his keys, he’ll smile as he waves goodbye.
Kaveh will still watch as Al-Haitham calmly exits his own room, all prim and proper, ready for his fun little office job—except now, he’ll tug on Al-Haitham’s shirt as he’s bent over putting his boots on, he’ll press a to-go cup of coffee into his hands and smooth down Al-Haitham’s silver hair where it curls just a little awkwardly by the shell of his ear.
They’re close like this. Closer than they’ve ever been, probably. Kaveh will resolutely ignore the way Al-Haitham’s eyes are fixed on his face as he gently tucks his hair back, his finger trailing along Al-Haitham’s neck after he’s done.
“Don’t you know how to brush your hair properly?” he’ll mutter, just barely under his breath.
“I don’t see why I need to,” Al-Haitham will say, “when you fix it for me every day anyways.”
Immediately, Kaveh will scoff. “I shouldn’t need to!”
“You don’t need to,” Al-Haitham will say. “You do it anyway.”
And then Kaveh will kick Al-Haitham right out the door. Ridiculous. Absolutely ridiculous.
Al-Haitham will still bring him fruit during long nights—except now, he’ll set the plate down onto Kaveh’s desk, and instead of leaving immediately, he’ll pick up one of the slices and press the fruit against Kaveh’s lips, until Kaveh is opening his mouth and feeling the juice on his tongue, and Al-Haitham is hovering over him and watching him as he chews.
So many things they already used to do, now categorized in Kaveh’s head as something else entirely. But then he remembers what Al-Haitham said, no, it’s not crazy that we’re together, this has been a long time coming, and well…maybe it really has.
Two weeks into their relationship, they’re sitting together on the couch, watching a show recommended to them by Cyno. It’s an animated series, a romantic-comedy by the looks of it, and Kaveh and Al-Haitham sit with their knees just barely touching, a bowl of popcorn balanced between them.
“He’s being stupid,” Kaveh scoffs at the screen as he shoves a bit of the popcorn into his mouth. “It’s so obvious she likes him. How dense can someone even be?”
“You’d be surprised,” says Al-Haitham from next to him.
Kaveh turns to him, frowning. “What do you mean, I’d be surprised? This is fiction, and it’s funny, so it gets a pass. But I seriously doubt anyone would actually be this dumb in real life.”
Al-Haitham doesn’t reply. Instead, he shifts his position, until he’s directly facing Kaveh and their faces are mere inches apart. Like this, Al-Haitham’s arm is pressing into Kaveh’s, teal eyes meeting red.
Kaveh blinks. “Haitham, what?”
Al-Haitham squints at him, saying nothing.
Oh. “Oh.”
“Hm,” says Al-Haitham.
“Okay, fuck you,” says Kaveh. “I wasn’t oblivious. And I’m not stupid. You don’t think I’m stupid.”
“I don’t,” Al-Haitham acquiesces.
“Good,” says Kaveh. “That’s what I thought.”
The show continues.
Eventually, the bowl of popcorn is empty, and several episodes have passed. Kaveh stretches, then glances to Al-Haitham.
He freezes, eyes finding Al-Haitham’s shoulder.
Is he supposed to put his head on it? That’s what couples…do, right? Is Al-Haitham the type to enjoy that, though? Would he get weirded out? Pull away? But Kaveh is tired, and he wants to rest his head somewhere, but wouldn’t it be weird if he leaned on the backrest of the couch instead of, you know, his boyfriend’s shoulder? Would Al-Haitham find that strange? Stranger than putting his head on his shoulder from the get-go?
Wow, this is so fucking stupid. They’re literally dating. This should not be this complicated. This is so—
“Kaveh, what are you doing?”
Kaveh blinks, breath catching in his throat as he finds Al-Haitham’s eyes staring at him.
“Oh,” he says. “Um.”
Al-Haitham raises an eyebrow. “You were staring at me.”
Heat rises to Kaveh’s face. “So? Am I not allowed to look at you?”
“You are,” says Al-Haitham easily. “You don’t, though. Not openly like that. You do it when you think I can’t tell.”
“That’s just not true!”
Al-Haitham tilts his head away from him, and Kaveh watches the invitation unfurl before him.
He swallows.
Carefully, he slots his head into the space connecting Al-Haitham’s neck and his shoulder, and Al-Haitham relaxes as Kaveh makes himself comfortable. Al-Haitham pauses for a second, and then he brings his arm up behind Kaveh’s back and pulls him against his side.
Kaveh yelps as he’s suddenly pressed against warm skin, and yeah, maybe that’s it. That’s why his entire body is heating up right now. It’s Al-Haitham’s fault. When isn’t it Al-Haitham’s fault?
Al-Haitham. Right, Al-Haitham. Damn Al-Haitham for being so comfortable to lay against, actually. Who gave him the right? Are people just born for this kind of thing? You, child, when you grow up, you will have a shoulder built to house another. You will become the home of another.
Speaking of the devil: “Kaveh, you’re staring again.”
“Oh,” says Kaveh. He doesn’t move a single muscle as Al-Haitham turns his head and looks down at him. “Why do you keep saying it? Are you uncomfortable with me staring at you? I don’t care if you are, by the way. These are the privileges I get from dating you. Our relationship status has to be good for something, after all, don’t you think?”
“I am honored that you consider being able to look at me a privilege,” says Al-Haitham.
“That’s not what I meant. Stop putting words in my mouth.”
“Oh, so looking at me isn’t a privilege?”
“Anyone can look at you, Al-Haitham. You’re not some museum exhibition.”
Al-Haitham’s eyes glint, and from this close, Kaveh can see the crease around his eyes, every line of his face, the way he moves with every breath he takes. He wonders what it would be like to close the gap between them, right here, right now. They’ve never done it before. They’ve done lots of things, but never that. Not yet.
Yet? Is there a yet? Kaveh supposes there is. There has to be, right? They’re together. They’re in a relationship. It’s going to happen. Of course it’s going to happen.
Does he want it to happen? Yes, of course he does. It would be stupid to think otherwise. He knows himself. He knows himself. He knows himself.
“Kaveh,” says Al-Haitham. The TV is still going, somewhere in the background. Kaveh thinks the couple might be on the verge of their first kiss.
“Haitham,” says Kaveh, and then he lets his hands come up, his fingers pressing into the sides of Al-Haitham’s face, his thumbs swiping across his jaw. Al-Haitham’s eye twitches, but he remains still, and Kaveh busies himself with running his fingers all over Al-Haitham’s face, over his nose and his cheeks, over his eyelids and over his eyebrows, across the curve of his forehead, his smile lines, evidence that he has been happy, that he has lived a life worth living for.
Then, the pad of his thumb ghosts over Al-Haitham’s bottom lip, and Kaveh looks up, sees Al-Haitham already looking back at him.
He smiles. “Hi.”
“Hello,” says Al-Haitham.
“We’re crazy.”
“Just you.”
“I think about what you said a lot,” says Kaveh, voice growing just a little quieter, “about how we’ve been a long time coming. I’m sure you felt that way for a while, Haitham. How long have you liked me for?”
“Long enough,” says Al-Haitham simply.
Kaveh shakes his head. “Tell me.”
Al-Haitham looks conflicted for a second, but then his shoulders are relaxing, and his arms are wrapping around Kaveh’s middle, fingers digging into his lower spine. “Years.”
Kaveh blinks. “Years? How many?”
“Since before you left,” says Al-Haitham, and, god, he looks so small all of a sudden. Like the years have done nothing to him but pass by. Like they haven’t latched onto his skin, sunk into his bones, dimmed the light in his eyes. “Your graduation.”
Kaveh inhales sharply. “My graduation? But we weren’t even—”
“—on speaking terms, I know,” says Al-Haitham, and then he leans his face into Kaveh’s palm and flickers his gaze away. “You leaving made me realize.”
“Oh,” Kaveh breathes. “Oh.”
Al-Haitham shakes his head. “No need to be like that.”
“What? Like what?”
“You’re the type to feel guilty over something like that. I’m telling you not to.”
Kaveh frowns. “Haitham—”
“I’m serious,” says Al-Haitham. “We were young. Really young. We weren’t like how we are right now.”
This makes Kaveh smiles. “And how’s that?”
“Well,” says Al-Haitham, “for starters, the you of seven years ago would never agree to be in a relationship with me.”
“You don’t know that.”
“Yes I do.”
“Okay,” Kaveh sighs. “I guess you do.”
“It’s fine,” says Al-Haitham. “I wouldn’t have agreed either, if you were the one who asked. Which you wouldn’t have been, for the record.”
“Hey! You don’t know that!”
“Yes I do.”
“Yes you do,” says Kaveh, and then he sighs, because yeah, wow. Okay. Um. “For the record, I’m glad we got here too. I guess.”
“You guess?”
“I guess,” says Kaveh, and he’s smiling, and the world is so bright, so so bright. “Now shut up and cuddle with me, idiot.”
“It’s not nice to call your boyfriend an idiot, you know.”
“Yeah yeah, whatever. Just shut up and come here.”
“Hm.”
Two and a half weeks into their relationship, Kaveh rises from his spot on the couch and says good night, about to make his way to his room just like always, when Al-Haitham stops him.
Kaveh whips around. “What—”
Al-Haitham says nothing. Kaveh inhales sharply as he’s pulled along, stumbling in his step as Al-Haitham leads him to the other end of the hallway, to where his own bedroom door is.
Kaveh’s mouth snaps shut as he’s led inside, and he barely registers Al-Haitham using his heel to slam the door shut before he’s being tugged toward the bed.
For a moment, he wonders if Al-Haitham is going to kiss him.
He doesn’t. Instead, this is what Al-Haitham does:
He looks back only once, just to see if Kaveh is still following, and when he makes sure that he is still there, he brings his hand up to Kaveh’s forearm and gently wraps his fingers around his bare skin. Kaveh blinks at him, his lips twitching down into a frown, before Al-Haitham climbs into his bed and pulls him toward him.
“Haitham—”
“Kaveh, let your voice rest,” Al-Haitham interrupts, and immediately, Kaveh shuts up.
He wants to say something in response to that. Something snarky. Something like excuse me? What is that supposed to mean? Al-Haitham, tell me what that’s supposed to mean. But instead all that comes out is a gentle hiss through his teeth as Al-Haitham’s hand slides across the span of Kaveh’s stomach, tracing small circles into his skin over the thin material of his nightshirt, touch featherlight, delicate, so unlike anything Kaveh is used to. It feels so…intimate—more intimate than something like this should feel.
Al-Haitham sighs against Kaveh’s neck as his hand fumbles with the blanket, drawing it over both of them. He takes Kaveh’s wrist and moves it away from the edge of the mattress, guiding it to rest between their chests, pressing their palms together, lacing his fingers through his own. His other hand comes around to pull Kaveh into the crook of his neck, and as he threads his fingers through Kaveh’s hair, Kaveh chances a glance up and is barely able to see past his chin.
“Are you drunk?” he asks into the silence.
Al-Haitham huffs. It is barely audible, but they’re so close like this. Of course Kaveh hears it. He swallows it down and lays there, completely still, until Al-Haitham says, “I don’t need alcohol to want you close to me.”
“That is a crazy thing to say, Haitham.”
“Why?” Al-Haitham murmurs against Kaveh’s bangs. “I am not like you. I know that even if you wanted this, you wouldn’t initiate it.”
“Well that’s just not true.”
“Isn’t it?”
Kaveh closes his eyes. “Okay, it’s a little true.”
He feels Al-Haitham’s lips curl into a smile against his forehead. It tickles a little against his temple, and a shiver runs down Kaveh’s spine.
Immediately, Al-Haitham falls still.
Kaveh curls inward, until his nose and mouth is pressed into Al-Haitham’s collarbone. The heat radiating off him is warm, comfortable despite the slight chill in the air, and Kaveh breathes deeply, letting himself relax into it. He can hear Al-Haitham’s heartbeat from this close, a steady thump against his own body, a gentle reminder, a gentle affirmation.
It is like this that he eventually slips asleep.
Three weeks into their relationship, they’re walking home from the Grand Bazaar, huddled together as they recount an anecdote from Kaveh’s last meeting with a particularly difficult client.
“You should have just told her that her request was unreasonable,” Al-Haitham says, frowning.
Kaveh groans, bringing his hands up to bury his face in his palms. “Well how could I do that? It was a design that her late grandfather always wanted to replicate!”
“Her late grandfather was not an architect,” says Al-Haitham pointedly. “He didn’t know how to construct a building to where it would be able to stand for more than five seconds. You know how to do that.”
“Haitham, you don’t get it. She wants this specific design in memory of her grandfather! I can’t just change it! That’s not what she wants!”
“If my grandmother had left me a note before her death outlining something completely unreasonable and frankly extremely unsafe, I would have at the very least tried to find a solution that would both honor her and let me keep my life.”
Kaveh’s shoulders slump downward as they walk. In the distance, he can see their house coming into view. “I don’t know. I’ll try to talk to her.”
“Good,” says Al-Haitham, and then he fishes out his keys and plucks the one for the front door. Kaveh watches him as he inserts it into the little keyhole, the familiar click sounding into the silent night air. Al-Haitham looks back over his shoulder, meeting Kaveh’s eyes. “It’s a difficult situation.”
Kaveh’s posture relaxes. “I’m fine. You know me.”
“I do,” Al-Haitham nods. “I also know you enough to know that you’ll blame yourself if she fires you.”
Kaveh frowns.
Al-Haitham continues, “It’s okay if you can’t be the architect for her. Don’t let the quality and integrity of your work go down because your client wants something you cannot do for her.”
“Okay,” says Kaveh, his voice coming out softer than usual. “I—you’re not wrong.”
“I never am,” says Al-Haitham, holding the door for him.
Kaveh follows him inside. “Well I wouldn’t go that far.”
“Well I would.”
“Well no.”
“Well yes.”
“Well no,” says Kaveh as he slips his shoes off, Al-Haitham doing the same beside him. They stack them next to each other, and when they’re done, Kaveh looks over, finds Al-Haitham already staring back.
Then Al-Haitham takes a step closer.
“Kaveh,” he says.
Kaveh’s eyes widen. “What?”
Al-Haitham’s fingers twitch by his sides—Kaveh just barely sees it in his periphery. He’s standing right in front of him, looking down at him, and Kaveh should be used to this sight by now. After all, they’ve been together for enough time where being in this close proximity isn’t a surprise anymore. They often sit together on their couch with their thighs pressed together, and when they cook together in the kitchen, Kaveh leans his weight against Al-Haitham’s back, and it’s nice. It’s nice. It’s very nice. It’s something that Kaveh is getting used to, has gotten used to, kind of. A little. It’s a work in progress.
“Kaveh,” says Al-Haitham again, and oh, is he closer now? Kaveh didn’t even notice.
Except maybe he did. Somewhere in the back of his mind, perhaps. Though maybe that’s because close is never close enough with Al-Haitham. Even now, as Al-Haitham is basically backing him into their living room wall, his arms coming up until they are caging around him, trapping him, holding him there like some helpless hostage—it’s not enough.
It hits Kaveh suddenly, with no warning. It pools in the pit of his stomach, drop by drop, until he’s inhaling and Al-Haitham is closer than he’s ever been before, and Kaveh’s eyes are falling shut and there’s a weight on his shoulders and then the sides of his face and then—
He used to wonder, sometimes—only sometimes—back when he and Al-Haitham were still in university, what it would be like to kiss him. It wasn’t a thought he indulged in often; he can probably count on one hand how many times it crossed his mind, but he can’t say the thought completely eluded him. He can’t.
And, well.
Al-Haitham kisses with the desperation of a starved man, the heat in his hands burning Kaveh’s face where they grip him. There’s no finesse about it—no hesitation, no fear, no regard, but that is just how Al-Haitham is. If he’s sure about something, then he is sure about something, and of course he would be sure about this.
Kaveh’s mouth opens, and Al-Haitham closes it, and, oh, Kaveh thinks he could drown in this. This feeling—the way Al-Haitham’s hands are everywhere all at once, pressing into his skin as if they will break if they go anywhere else, as if he will die if he stops kissing him, as if he was born for this, as if he has lived only for this moment. The feeling of his tongue, the way it slides around his mouth, over his teeth, like he wants to taste all of him, like he can’t get enough of him, and then Kaveh is gasping into Al-Haitham’s mouth and wrapping his hands around his shoulders and digging his fingers into his scalp and oh, oh, fucking hell, fucking hell—
“Kaveh,” Al-Haitham murmurs into Kaveh’s parted lips, “you’re going to be the death of me.”
His voice is a ragged whisper of a thing, breathless and needy and reverent. His hands move down from Kaveh’s shoulders to his waist, his thumb drawing circles into the small span of skin just barely visible beneath his shirt. His fingertips scrape against Kaveh’s hip bones in slow increments, and when they reach the hemline of the shirt, Al-Haitham’s grip tightens, and there is a whimper that elicits from somewhere deep within Kaveh’s chest.
His breath stutters in his lungs. “Haitham—”
“Archons,” says Al-Haitham, breaking away for just a sliver of a second, leaning forward until his forehead rests against the wall Kaveh’s back is pressed to. “Fuck.”
“Fuck,” Kaveh agrees. His hands come up to the small of Al-Haitham’s back, fingers featherlight against his spine. He watches, almost fascinated, as Al-Haitham’s entire body curves forward as Kaveh’s index finger trails along the center.
His hips press upward until they are flush against one another, and Al-Haitham hisses through his teeth.
“Don’t do that,” he mutters.
“Don’t do what?”
“That.”
Kaveh fights back his smile. “You’re going to have to be a bit more descriptive.”
Al-Haitham looks up through his bangs, eyes sharp, so dark that Kaveh almost regrets even opening his mouth.
Then Al-Haitham’s shoulders drop, and he’s turning on his heel and Kaveh’s being yanked sharply away from the wall. It’s nothing like how it was a week ago, when Al-Haitham was all gentle and coaxing, like he was scared, almost, that Kaveh would want to turn back, turn away. No—this time Kaveh isn’t being given a choice.
This time, when Kaveh’s back meets Al-Haitham’s mattress, Al-Haitham is climbing on top of him, his knees caging around him, his hips hard against his waist. Kaveh swallows, and he aches, and then Al-Haitham is crowding over him and kissing him again, running his tongue over the seam of his lips before prying them open and closed, biting gently on the lower one, inhaling Kaveh’s responding gasp.
And then—
And then—
Al-Haitham’s lips leave their stationary position, stopping by the corner of Kaveh’s mouth and ghosting a kiss to the heart of his cheek. Kaveh breathes it in, before Al-Haitham hums a satisfied little sound and his hands begin to wander across Kaveh’s arms, goosebumps erupt outwards, and Kaveh shudders, his head dropping back as Al-Haitham trails light kisses along the shell of his ear, moving down all the way till he’s sucking gently on his neck.
“Oh,” Kaveh breathes, and his voice sounds foreign to his own ears. “Oh, okay.”
There’s a mixture of pain and pleasure as Al-Haitham alternates between softly rolling Kaveh’s skin between his teeth and leaving bruising kisses with his tongue. It doesn’t hurt, not really, but Kaveh’s hands move up without him thinking, his arms wrapping around Al-Haitham’s neck to pull him impossibly closer.
“Don’t—” He stops to gasp as Al-Haitham’s breath tickles his collarbone. “Marks…don’t—I have meetings tomorrow.” Al-Haitham kisses him harder. “Haitham— Archons, you’re a fucking asshole.”
“Am I,” says Al-Haitham, lightly pinching Kaveh’s rib through his shirt.
Kaveh yelps, then swats him. “Yes, oh my—fuck you!”
“I’m sure you’d like that.”
“Kusanali fucking above—”
“Quiet,” comes Al-Haitham’s voice, so much closer all of a sudden, and when Kaveh looks up, all he sees is the teal of Al-Haitham’s eyes. “Take your shirt off.”
Kaveh scoffs. “How deeply unsexy. Aren’t you supposed to take it off for me?”
Al-Haitham raises an eyebrow.
Immediately, Kaveh’s hands move down to the hem of his shirt, arching himself off the mattress and pulling the fabric over his head in one clean sweep. When he resurfaces, he finds Al-Haitham staring down at him, lips pulled into a tight line, gaze so dark Kaveh can practically see his reflection in his pupils.
Kaveh holds the eye contact. Briefly, he wonders how he’s even still in one piece, though maybe that’s just his brain playing some nasty trick on him. Maybe he exploded long ago, a million tiny little specks of gold and dust.
Everything after that is a blur, a tangle of limbs and clothes thrown haphazardly over the floor. When Al-Haitham enters him, Kaveh cries out, his hands gripping desperately to Al-Haitham’s back. Every thrust is accompanied with a sharp moan, every gasp with stuttering pressure against his hips, and then his entire body goes tense, all noise around him fading to white. He comes and feels it envelop him, Al-Haitham still buried inside, panting against his mouth and saying his name over and over again—Kaveh, Kaveh, Kaveh, and then the night goes still. And everything stops.
This, he thinks, is when things truly feel changed.
“Kaveh,” says Al-Haitham one night, when they’re laying together in his bed—an occurrence that happens more often than not, nowadays—“I’m glad you came back.”
Kaveh looks up at him, blinking. “Ah?”
“I’m glad you came back,” Al-Haitham says again.
“I heard you the first time. What do you mean, you’re glad I came back? Of course I came back. I thought you said yourself that we’re a long time coming.”
“You’re still hung up on that,” Al-Haitham comments thoughtfully.
Kaveh frowns. “Well, yeah. Not hung up, though. It just kind of pops into my head sometimes.”
“Hm,” says Al-Haitham. “Do you not agree with it?”
“I’ve already told you I agree with it.”
“You could have just said that to please me.”
“Are you stupid? When have you ever known me to say anything just to please you?”
Al-Haitham squints at him. “Well.”
“Anyways,” says Kaveh as he tucks himself against Al-Haitham’s chest again. “I’m glad I came back too. Though I guess the me from before I came back would probably kick myself if he knew I was saying this now.”
“It’s in the past,” says Al-Haitham.
“Mm, you’re right,” says Kaveh. His next words are muffled against Al-Haitham’s chest: “Haitham, I love you.”
Instantly, he feels Al-Haitham’s entire body go deathly still.
And then, “What?”
“I love you.”
“What?”
Kaveh groans. “I know you heard me, asshole.”
“Good things must be said thrice,” says Al-Haitham. “So say it again.”
“Greedy prick,” says Kaveh. He leans his head back, finds Al-Haitham’s eyes through the murky night. “I love you. I guess. Ugh, fuck you. You’re so goddamn annoying. Why am I even dating you?”
At this, Al-Haitham tilts his head. “Clearly it’s because you love me.”
“Idiot,” says Kaveh, but he’s smiling now. He can feel it pulling the corners of his lips. “Well? Are you going to say it back or what?”
“I’ll have to think about it.”
“What the fuck?”
Al-Haitham darts forward, kisses Kaveh straight on the lips. They linger there, a few short moments, and then Al-Haitham is peppering kisses across Kaveh’s jaw, down until his mouth is against his shoulder. “I love you, Kaveh.”
Kaveh shudders, softly exhaling. “Well, obviously.”
“Obviously,” Al-Haitham agrees.
“As you should.”
“As I should.”
“Dumbass,” Kaveh curses, lightly swatting Al-Haitham’s shoulder. “You’re not supposed to agree with me. Don’t just let people take advantage of you like that.”
“You’re not just people,” says Al-Haitham, like it’s the simplest thing in the world. “You’re Kaveh.”
Kaveh bites his lip, then darts forward to kiss him, their legs tangled together beneath the covers. A slice of moonlight falls through the window by their bed, the night still and long and ticking by—but none of that matters. Not really. Not right now. He thinks he could sink in this.
What a wonderful thing it is to love and be loved.