Chapter Text
Kaveh sighed wistfully as he looked around the immaculate studio.
It was too immaculate, really. The sleek countertops, glass partitions, and impossibly white walls gleamed under soft, ambient lighting like they’d never known the comfort of a chaos Kaveh had lived with his entire life. Every surface was made of the kind of material that rejected fingerprints and resisted clutter - sanitized, both physically and emotionally.
He stood near the sweeping floor-to-ceiling windows with one hand on his hip and the other curled around a disposable coffee cup long gone cold.
Though the district his new studio was in was posh and high-end, it was surprisingly devoid of a single decent coffee shop. Perhaps the elitist locals had never actually tasted good coffee and simply mistook bitterness in a designer cup for depth - much like their conversations.
So far, Kaveh had choked down three lattes and a macchiato that tasted like lukewarm regret with a splash of oat milk.
Taking a slow sip from the abomination in his hand, Kaveh gazed at his reflection in the shiny glass - perfectly styled hair pulled back into a bun, shimmering gold adorning his ears, and sleeves rolled up over forearms inked with elegant, delicate vines.
Given his profession, most people were surprised to learn that he only had two tattoos, so he made sure to keep them visible while he worked - lest his skin seem too untouched, too blank to be trusted.
Truthfully, they were the only tattoos he’d ever wanted. He’d drawn the stencils then inked them onto his skin himself after getting licensed, trusting no hands but his own to create something worthy of the space they marked.
The designs stretched far beyond what was visible. The vines wrapped around his arms, along his ribs, and across his torso, curling under the symmetrical scars beneath his pecs and tapering off on either side of his sternum.
He didn’t dislike his top surgery scars; they were a record of his body being made into a home that suited him better, nothing more. But they had always felt harshly clinical, etched onto him by strangers in a room that had been too cold and too quiet. The tattoos were his way of warming them - of reclaiming them as something beautiful that was distinctly his.
He’d wanted to create that for other people, too. To offer something deeper than a mere decoration or a trend - to give people the feeling of true ownership over their bodies who felt, for whatever reason, like it had been taken from them. It was the one part of the job that had ever felt holy.
And it was a sanctity he certainly didn’t feel in this new shop.
The studio was everything he’d once dreamed of being a part of - upscale, minimalist, and professional with a steady clientele that valued his skill and provided him with enough money to cover his massive monthly bills, not to mention with his best friend manning the reception desk. And yet, for some reason, it felt reminiscent of the loneliness that masterpieces must feel hanging in museums - admired in their clean, blank environments, but never truly seen.
“Okay, I’m done!” Kaveh’s client called from behind him. “Sorry, I just couldn’t miss prime posting time - you get it. Genshinstagram waits for no woman, I can’t leave my fans hanging.”
Kaveh snapped out of his reverie and turned to face the woman in his chair with a forced smile. “Sure.”
He’d tattooed this client once before when she’d been nothing more than a budding starlet. Two years ago, back in his old studio, he’d inked a quote from a reality TV star onto her ribcage - a tattoo equally as stupid as the infinity sign with initials carved into either side that Kaveh was halfway through etching onto her shoulder blade.
Her lips - now inflated to something reminiscent of two lumpy hot dogs stacked atop one another thanks to all the filler she’d pumped into her face - curled into what he could only assume was meant to be an impatient pout. She gestured for Kaveh to resume and pocketed her phone, settling back down against the headrest of his tattoo bench.
He pulled on a fresh pair of black latex gloves and returned to the tattoo he’d paused so that she could post her 'good-morning selfie' before her fans started to worry. Internally, Kaveh shuddered at the mundanity of a life in which he’d crave a picture of hot-dog-lips on a daily basis.
As his pen buzzed in his hand, tracing the dull lines of his stencil with delicate precision, Kaveh tried to keep his mind from wandering... yet he couldn’t help but linger on the dissatisfaction settling deep within his chest.
He was successful. He was sought after by celebrities and rich socialites with a months-long waiting list, praised in magazines and articles abound for his unyieldingly perfect linework and flawless style.
Yet nobody seemed to see deep enough to notice the sharp pain that it brought to his wrist with each line he drew... nor the emptiness that settled into his bones every time he inked yet another lifeless, meaningless shape onto someone’s body.
But the six digit student loan debt he’d racked up in art school, coupled with the truly unbelievable amount he’d somehow managed to set as his hourly rate, kept him motivated.
Unbothered by Kaveh’s tepid responses to her endless chatter, hot-dog-lips babbled on about her fanbase - something about going viral with the tattooed initials of her boyfriend who’d dumped her last week but that still looked too cute in this font to deny.
“... Anyway, I just know they’re going to go crazy when I post it,” she gushed. “Like, it’s not even about the meaning of the initials, you know? It’s the vibe. I’m all about vibes. I’m a sagittarius, so ...”
Kaveh answered her with vague hums and rolled his eyes behind her back. But as he dipped his pen in the ink and glanced out the window again, his focus caught on a sleek black and dark green motorcycle that was quietly drifting down the street.
It purred to a stop directly across from him in front of the only shop that looked out of place in such an upscale district - a slightly weathered storefront with sun-faded wood trim, a few plain steps leading to a large oak door, and a neat, simplistic sign that simply read: Books.
But what truly caught Kaveh’s attention was the man atop the bike.
He parked and swung one muscular leg over the side, boots landing heavily against the pavement. Kaveh’s gaze traced over his frame - tall and broad-shouldered beneath a dark, tailored jacket, hands gloved in leather as he removed the keys from the ignition.
An asymmetrical silvery-green tipped strand of hair peeked out from the bottom of his helmet, capturing Kaveh’s eye with an odd nostalgia for something he couldn’t quite name. Kaveh watched as he walked toward the bookstore with graceful, confident steps, grunting a vague affirmation to whatever hot-dog-lips was talking about and waiting in breathless suspense for the man to remove his helmet... but he never did.
Instead, he pulled off his gloves and twirled his keys in an easy loop, revealing broad, bronze hands as he unlocked the bookshop. Without a second glance, he disappeared inside with the faintest tinkle of the bell above the door.
Kaveh stared at the doorframe in a daze, fingers frozen against the client’s back.
“... Everything okay?” hot-dog-lips asked as she glanced at Kaveh over her shoulder.
“Hm? I - fine,” Kaveh said breathlessly, resuming the line he’d been partway through tracing with a shake of his head to clear the goosebumps that had skittered across his skin. “Just... wanted to make sure I had the placement correct. You were saying something about mercury and gatorade?”
“Uh... retrograde.”
“Sure. That.”
Though she raised a skeptical eyebrow, she seemed satisfied enough with his answer and resumed her nonsensical rant as she turned back around. But between every line Kaveh etched onto her skin, his eyes drifted back to the bookstore across the street... and the sleek motorcycle out front.
It became apparent to Kaveh within a few short days that the man was habitual to a fault. Every morning at precisely 9:57 AM, his motorcycle would roll to a stop outside the bookstore - which Kaveh had looked up on google, convinced that half the sign must have fallen off, only to discover that its name really was registered simply as Books.
Helmeted and maddeningly anonymous, the man routinely dismounted his bike, undid the straps of his gloves with a deeply enticing flex of his muscles, then unlocked the shop’s heavy wooden door and disappeared inside.
Kaveh began watching the window in anticipation for the moment the man would arrive with strangely bated breath. Each morning, he noticed another miniscule detail, a small thread to add to the steadily forming tapestry of the mysterious stranger he was weaving together in his mind.
The man was tall and well-built, that much was obvious. But each movement he made had an otherworldly elegance to it, as though he were certain of every step in a way Kaveh had never quite managed to be. Every time he pulled up to the curb, his routine was the same.
He always checked his bike’s alignment exactly twice before turning away.
He always tilted his head at the same angle as he adjusted the cut of his helmet.
He always removed his left glove before the right.
He always twirled his keys in a circle with seductively nimble fingers before unlocking the door.
And he always looked ungodly sexy doing it - especially for a man whose face Kaveh had never even seen.
“Staring again?” Tighnari drawled from behind the front desk, dry and amused.
Kaveh didn’t even glance away from the street. His client hadn’t shown up that morning, so he’d simply been standing in front of the window and staring at the curb for the past ten minutes like a puppy waiting for its owner’s car to pull into the driveway.
“I’m admiring the architecture,” Kaveh said flatly as the motorcycle came into view and the morning routine began.
“The shop or the man?”
Kaveh’s lips lifted into a smile. “Are you accusing me of being shallow?”
“I would never,” Tighnari insisted with mock sincerity, slapping a palm to his heart. “I am, however, accusing you of being tragically horny.”
“I am not -” Kaveh paused. “... Okay, maybe a little. But my god, Nari, look at him - he’s tall. He’s self-assured. He’s muscular. He rides a bike. He looks great in a helmet. He... reads. Possibly.”
Tighnari raised an eyebrow at him in silence.
“What?” Kaveh muttered defensively. “I don’t know that much about him, okay? I can only glean so much from the thirty seconds I get to stare at him every morning.”
“He could be old and married and think tattoos are trashy. Or he could be a serial killer,” Tighnari offered.
“Whatever.” Kaveh scoffed and waved a dismissive hand, finally tearing his gaze away as the man disappeared into the bookstore for the day once again. “We’ve all got our faults. Maybe he’s just a nice, sexy, well-dressed serial killer with a great ass and impeccable taste in motorcycles. I could fix him.”
Tighnari rolled his eyes. “Why don’t you just go over to his shop so you can see his face and introduce yourself?”
Flopping dramatically into the chair beside reception, Kaveh made a noise somewhere between a swooning sigh and a groan. “And say what? 'Hi, I work at the tattoo studio across from your bookstore - which I sincerely hope you did not name yourself - and I’ve been stalking you every morning through my window because you look unfathomably hot even though I’ve never seen your face?' That what you had in mind?”
“Maybe just start with your name. Stalking is strictly second-date disclosure.”
Kaveh puffed his cheeks out and shook his head. “No. I’m not running into the street to chase some sexy stranger. I’m an artist. I pine with grace.”
“You’re hopeless.”
“You’re just out of the loop because you’re happily married,” Kaveh grumbled, gesturing flippantly at the corner where Cyno was reviewing piercing aftercare with a client. “Go back to being smug with your husband and let me be tragically horny in peace.”
Within two weeks, Kaveh could predict the man’s arrival with such precision he’d developed his own routine to match.
Each morning, exactly thirty seconds before 9:57 AM, Kaveh would scoot away from whatever boring client was in his chair under the flimsy pretense of grabbing a new ink cap from the sanitized bin in his drawer. He’d pretend the latch was stuck and fumble with it as he sat perched by the window, all to get a better look at the man he and Tighnari had taken to calling Book Daddy.
A strange tension began to build in Kaveh’s chest with every passing day. He found himself imagining what the man beneath the helmet might be like - the colour of his eyes, the length of his hair, the timbre of his voice, whether he’d be an avid reader or sell books with polite disinterest.
The cycle was so predictable that Kaveh began to list the steps off in his head once the bike rolled up to the curb.
Book Daddy dismount.
Double check of the alignment.
Tilt of the head, adjustment of the helmet.
Left glove removed before the right.
Sexy key twirl. Door unlocked.
Then, regrettably... gone for the day.
Every movement remained the same. Still, each morning, Kaveh found a new detail to fixate on - the faint outline of defined back muscles rippling beneath his jacket, the steady movements of his hands, the taut pull of fabric over biceps that looked far too strong for Kaveh to retain any shred of composure.
His fixation didn’t fade when he had to peel his eyes away and return to his tattoo sessions, either. In spite of his best efforts, the mental image of the stranger followed Kaveh through every appointment... and back to his apartment, too. More than once, he’d found himself sketching a design on his iPad late at night only to realize his pen had traced the distinct shape of a muscular arm or the curve of a helmet instead.
But after the third week, Book Daddy apparently decided a crisp Monday morning was the perfect time to disrupt Kaveh’s comfortable daily hunk-watching schedule.
Elbow-deep in an uninspired tattoo of a butterfly tangled with a social media logo, Kaveh was absentmindedly wondering if the man was in a relationship - and if so, if he ever took his partner on late-night rides on that sleek motorcycle he maneuvered with such tantalizing ease. But his thoughts were abruptly interrupted by the roar of an engine tearing down the street.
He glanced up just in time to see the familiar bike screech into its usual parking spot. Frowning, Kaveh whirled around to look at the clock.
9:55 AM. Two minutes early.
Today, there was no smooth dismount, no cursory double-check of the alignment, and no slow, deliberate tilt of the head as he adjusted his helmet. Instead, the man yanked at the keys and cut the ignition, stumbling off his bike.
And then, for the first time... he ripped the helmet off.
Swatting furiously at something near his neck, his lips formed what looked like frustrated curses as a bug fluttered out from beneath the visor that had just been covering his face.
His face.
Kaveh’s lungs emptied. His pen slipped from his fingers and clattered loudly onto the tray, bouncing once before going still.
He was on his feet before he realized it, muttering a rushed, “I’ll be right back,” to his client as his heart pounded wildly against his ribs.
Kaveh didn’t think. He just moved.
He shoved the studio door open with shaking hands and stumbled over the curb as ten long years collapsed into dust.
There, standing beneath the stupid Books sign and holding his helmet in one hand... was Alhaitham. He was older and broader - somehow impossibly more attractive - but it was undeniably him.
Kaveh staggered to a halt in the middle of the street and tried to recall how to breathe as he devoured the sight of the same handsome bone structure he had spent years trying to either find or forget - only now more chiseled, more ruggedly defined... more ruinous.
But as Alhaitham’s eyes snapped up to meet his in surprise, something surged through Kaveh’s body - slow and creeping, impossible to suppress.
Alhaitham’s eyes, at least, hadn’t changed at all. With a breath that caught audibly in his throat, Kaveh lost himself in the piercing, hypnotic teal irises that he hadn’t seen since their gazes last locked across a study table in the high school library.
“Alhaitham?” Kaveh’s voice wobbled, breathless and disbelieving.
For a long moment, Alhaitham’s expression remained blank - not cold, simply unreadable. His lips parted slightly as his chest began to expand, eyes dragging slowly down the length of Kaveh’s body in a sweep so thorough and unapologetic Kaveh felt like he was being scorched from the inside out, his already shallow breathing growing heavier still.
When Alhaitham’s focus finally returned to Kaveh’s face, his chest deflated with a long, satisfied exhale - as though blowing out a breath he’d been holding for years. As their eyes met once more, the edge of Alhaitham’s mouth curved faintly.
It was the ghost of a smile that had haunted Kaveh for the better part of a decade.
“... Kaveh?”
In an instant, Kaveh was seventeen again. His body thrummed with static as Alhaitham’s voice washed over him - deeper now, huskier, like aged whiskey had taken up residence in his throat and smoothed out all the edges.
Kaveh, coincidentally, had very much come to like whiskey.
“You remember me?” Kaveh breathed.
Alhaitham took a step closer and nodded absently. “How could I not? You used to throw dictionaries at my head.”
“They were pocket-sized,” Kaveh said, immediately defensive even through his stupor. “And it was your fault, anyway - you were always correcting me. You were so annoying about definitions...”
Alhaitham’s smile deepened by a fraction. “Still am.”
A flush crept unbidden onto Kaveh’s cheeks as he mirrored Alhaitham’s movement and stepped forward. He bit his lip, instinct warring with uncertainty; he wanted to pull Alhaitham into a hug that felt long overdue, yet for a reason Kaveh couldn’t quite name, it felt too intimate, too heavy, for a chance reunion in the middle of the road.
If it had been any other old friend Kaveh ran into like this, he wouldn’t have hesitated... but touching Alhaitham didn’t feel like something Kaveh could do with any sort of casual façade.
“You’re an artist at that shop?” Alhaitham asked, nodding first toward the latex gloves on Kaveh’s hands, then to the door of the studio behind him.
“I... yeah,” Kaveh answered in a voice far airier than he meant it to be. “And you work at this bookstore?”
“I own it.”
Kaveh’s face broke into a grin. To this day, Alhaitham was the only person Kaveh had ever met who read more voraciously than he did, and there was something comforting about the fact that his habit had grown into a career. Kaveh couldn’t think of anyone he’d trust a book recommendation from more than Alhaitham.
“At least tell me you’re not the one who named it.”
With a smirk as sharp and penetrating as it was familiar, Alhaitham raised an eyebrow. “What’s wrong with the name? It’s simple and accurate. Sorry I didn’t create a title of muddled nonsense like Ink of the Kshahrewar Design Collective.”
“Wow. That’s just -” Kaveh began, but he was cut off by the jingle of the studio door swinging open and Tighnari’s voice calling out from behind him.
“Kaveh, hey - sorry, I don’t want to interrupt what I’m sure is a very... stimulating conversation, but...” he trailed off with an apologetic sigh and pointed at the window as Kaveh turned to look over his shoulder.
Kaveh’s client was yelling at one of the other artists and gesturing wildly. Her voice, sharp and shrill, cut across the street through the open door as she demanded someone finish her tattoo that instant - something about the paparazzi being scheduled to take pictures of her and her new situationship at brunch in an hour.
“Were you in the middle of a tattoo?” Alhaitham asked. As Kaveh turned to face him again, the smile on his handsome face grew intoxicatingly deeper.
“Unfortunately,” Kaveh muttered. “But I just, um...” Dropped everything in the middle of a session like an unprofessional idiot just to run outside and see you...
Thankfully, Alhaitham didn’t give Kaveh the chance to flounder. “It’s okay, I’ll let you get back to work. But you should come by when you’re free.”
Far too quickly, Kaveh replied, “I’m free at noon.”
“Good.” The gentle, grounding glint in Alhaitham’s eyes as he hummed his approval held Kaveh in place like a magnet. “Then I’ll see you at noon.”
With a perfunctory nod to Tighnari and one final, unabashed once-over of Kaveh’s body that ignited something molten in his stomach all over again, Alhaitham retreated into his bookshop.
Dazed, Kaveh spun on his heel and hurried back to his side of the street.
“Holy fuck,” Kaveh hissed under his breath as Tighnari held the door open for him.
“How’d it go? Did you make plans for a steamy romp in the alley later? Because from what I saw, he looked very into you.”
“Nari, it’s him.”
“... I’m aware. You’ve been staring at him nonstop for the better part of a month.”
“No, it’s - it’s Alhaitham,” Kaveh whispered fervently.
Tighnari’s eyes widened. “Like... school Alhaitham?”
“Yeah.”
“Damn,” Tighnari muttered, letting out a low, impressed whistle. “Holy fuck is right. You told me he was hot back then, but Jesus - that guy looks like he walked straight out of a magazine. I didn’t know he was like... hot hot.”
Alhaitham had always been attractive, even as a teenager - but the wall of pure man he’d become felt like a cosmic joke. Or maybe a gift.
... Perhaps both. Kaveh wasn’t entirely sure yet.
“I know.”
“You’re screwed,” Tighnari said as he handed Kaveh a fresh pair of gloves.
“I know.”
Kaveh’s entire body was buzzing as he dropped back onto his stool. A faint trace of a heady, masculine aroma clung to his skin - like Alhaitham’s presence still lingered in the air. It wasn’t a cologne, nothing artificial... but it held the scent of the wind, a hint of cedarwood, and something undefinable. Something clean and sharp. Something dangerous.
“You good, dude?” Kaveh’s client snapped, voice dripping with snark. “You literally ran out mid-tattoo. I have seven million followers, you know. You don’t want a bad review from me.”
Though Kaveh wanted to roll his eyes, she wasn’t wrong. With a heavy sigh, he changed out his gloves and gave her a smile as sincere as he could manage.
“I’m sorry. That guy was my...” He trailed off.
What was Alhaitham?
High school sweetheart? They’d never been sweethearts.
Long-lost love of his life? Maybe... but he hadn’t seen Alhaitham since he was seventeen, and no seventeen-year-old had any real grasp on that sort of certainty.
First love who had inexplicably changed him forever? ... Okay, maybe that one fit.
But as his silence stretched too long, his client released a delighted ooh of understanding.
“Oh my god. Is he like, your soulmate? You must be an aquarius! True love with a stranger is so in your horoscope for this month. I didn’t know you were gay! I’ve always wanted a gay best friend. Like, someone to hold my bags while we go shopping. We should totes hit up the new Prada store that just opened! I’ve heard it’s...”
Kaveh sighed and tuned her out, letting her voice dissolve into meaningless, vapid background noise. Fighting off the urge to correct any one of her many incorrect and frankly inappropriate assumptions, he simply focused on maintaining steady linework.
But even still, Alhaitham’s captivating gaze replayed over and over in his mind - penetrating ocean-blue looking at Kaveh like no time had passed at all, mapping his body as though it were familiar terrain and setting him alight from within.
Kaveh thought his schoolboy crush would have dried out by now, faded into something distant and harmless... but all it took was one quiet, burning look from Alhaitham and suddenly every fiber of his being was alive again, vibrating beneath his skin like his body had simply been waiting for a reason to reawaken.
Tighnari was right - Kaveh was screwed.
And, god help him... Kaveh hoped so.