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i.
Al-Haitham has never been one for physical touch.
At least, that's what Kaveh thinks. To be fair, it's what Al-Haitham would have told anyone who asked only a few years before, but that was before Kaveh.
To live with Kaveh is to be forced to become desensitized to what is truly an assailment of casual touches—an hand on his shoulder in the morning to get his attention, a kick at his shins when he's being obstinate, an arm around his waist to lead him someplace.
And then when they put a name to it, when Kaveh winds his fingers through Al-Haitham's gentler than he's ever touched him before, when he says slow and sure things in the dark about love and such, Al-Haitham comes to expect the contact.
He learns to stop shying away from it when Kaveh reaches out to brush his cheek with his fingers or wrap a hand around his elbow or run a distracted hand through his hair. In truth, Al-Haitham has never disliked it; it's only that he feared that if they were to touch, he'd latch on and forget how to let go.
Maybe he'd never admit it, but Al-Haitham has come to anticipate Kaveh's touch. Were it anyone else, he'd put it in their mind never to try to come close to him again, but Kaveh has always been an exception of sorts.
So he doesn't hate it. Sue him. Blame it on love, if you will.
Or blame it on Kaveh. Most of it is his fault, anyway, the wanting, the needing, the unforgivable sense that things are not quite right when Kaveh is not around—all the stupid little irrational things Al-Haitham had always condemned before Kaveh.
Stupid little things like this. Like Kaveh neatening up their living room that inexplicably makes Al-Haitham's heart skip a beat.
"Anyone would look at you and assume you're a neat freak," says Kaveh, moving around Al-Haitham sitting in their living room with a book to go at their furniture with a dust cloth. "You look the part, too. You're so meticulous about inconsequential details and your stupid novels that it'd only make sense if you were. Unfortunately for me," Kaveh aims a kick at Al-Haitham's foot, which he deftly wards off with one hand, "you never ever clean up after yourself, so I'm stuck doing the job."
"It's an organized mess," Al-Haitham says, calmly turning a page. "Just because you cannot understand my system does not mean it does not exist. Though I am not sure what else I expected, given that it is you, after all."
"A contradiction, and you well know it, Haravatat. You're being difficult on purpose." Kaveh reaches out to flick Al-Haitham on the forehead, and it stings, the carefully filed point of his fingernail branding him like an ink stain, but he reaches out and smooths it over with the back of his hand. Cool and soft and velvet. Al-Haitham has no explanation for the kick in his stomach that Kaveh's touch elicits.
Al-Haitham is the first to look away, and it feels like conceding to something that has no name.
Kaveh moves away then and starts looking through the bookshelves that adorn the wall then. "You have way too many of these," he says, frowning, yanking titles out at random and inspecting their covers. "All of these full shelves, and you still have all those boxes sitting in my old bedroom. I bought you those nice decorative bookends and you can't even use them because the wall is filled from shelf to shelf."
"That was with my money," Al-Haitham reminds him, and receives a huff in response.
"It's the gesture that counts, Al-Haitham. Sorry I was thinking about you in the market. Celestia, you are so insufferable… Look at this, this is from your days back as a student in the Akademiya, you called its principles rudimentary in front of the author when he came to visit your lecture…"
Al-Haitham smirks. "What do you call it? Nostalgia? That was back before you got over your dignity and started harassing me day in and day out."
"Look at you, structuring your years by when you did and did not know me," Kaveh grumbles, shooting him a dirty look. He's blushing. "You embarrassing man."
"How am I supposed to remember the past? By the classes I didn't show up to except to take the exams?" Al-Haitham laughs then, and that's when Kaveh actually chucks a book at him, straight at his chest. It's a book of poetry Kaveh had bought him a couple years back in the hope that it would teach Al-Haitham something about romance—he'd barely skimmed a few pages before he'd set it aside to never be touched again because every line reminded him of Kaveh.
"Annoying," Kaveh huffs, then marches back over to grab the book from him and shelve it once again, humming in appreciation when he finds the rest of the shelves dusted to his liking. The curtains are adjusted just so to let in the afternoon light, and the rest of the wall decorations have been straightened and the table ordered.
The only obstruction is Al-Haitham lounging on the couch and the empty slot where the book in his hands should sit on the shelf, teasing Kaveh with its vacant spot.
Al-Haitham, hyper-aware of Kaveh's every movement, can feel when the other approaches him even with his eyes fixed on the page. "I only have ten pages left, and then you can put it away."
For once, Kaveh doesn't put up a fight. He nods once, docile, then curls up next to Al-Haitham on the couch, snaking one arm around his elbow to move closer. He's close enough to also read the words on the page, but he's not doing that—Al-Haitham can feel his breath on his cheek and his eyes glancing between the book at Al-Haitham's own face. It's distracting, is what it is. Where they meet feels like he is being burned, but pleasant—a mellow, muted scalding kind of hot.
Al-Haitham hardly shuts the book before Kaveh leaps up and snatches it out of his hands to put it away from him, beaming at the work he's done in the room. He moves back to stand proudly in front of Al-Haitham, hands on his hips. "There. Doesn't that feel so much nicer? Doesn't the space seem so much bigger? I certainly feel as if I can think a little more clearly."
Al-Haitham stands up too and uses the few inches he has over Kaveh to lean over him. "I suppose so. Thank you, Kaveh."
He doesn't know what compels him to do it—maybe it's the electric-hot pulse still thrumming through his veins from Kaveh's touch, his gentle fingers skating along the edges of his gloves, a heel tapping against his calf—but all Al-Haitham knows that it is Kaveh, on the edge of his peripheries, dancing just out of view, and he leans forward to place a single, delicate kiss along the bridge of his nose. Right along the freckles dotting his skin like stars.
The effects are immediate. A blush spreads like a wildfire along Kaveh's skin, which has always been a little too telling for Al-Haitham, and he splutters, blinking rapidly. "Why did you—"
He touches his nose in something akin to wonder, looking at Al-Haitham almost shyly, who grins and resolves immediately to learn how to be gentle if this is how he can make Kaveh come undone in return for peeling Al-Haitham apart like a ribbon with every glancing touch.
ii.
Today, Kaveh is cooking.
Al-Haitham had arrived home and Kaveh took one look at him before pushing him into one of their kitchen seats, pouring a glass of the expensive wine he buys in bulk from Lambad. Al-Haitham knows people consider him difficult to read, but Kaveh had seen his trying work day written on his face the moment he'd opened the door.
So now Kaveh is cooking, and Al-Haitham is swirling his wine in his glass watching him and thinking things like tugging at his hair ornaments to see him puff up in indignation or turning him around and trapping him against the counters until his lips are as red as the alcohol.
"I found this," Kaveh says proudly, brandishing an old, weathered cookbook with a grin. He opens the pages and steps closer to allow Al-Haitham to see its contents, close enough that the smell of aged parchment and a faint waft of jasmine oil and distinctive herbs makes itself known. It takes him back to his childhood, sitting in a kitchen similar to this one, watching his grandmother at the stove but in this instance so small that his legs dangle off of the chair.
"My grandmother," Al-Haitham says.
"That's what I figured," says Kaveh, flipping through a couple of the pages. "I know everyone has their own approaches to curry, but you mentioned her's once, so I thought it might be nice to try to recreate it. I was saving it for a special occasion, but—" he shrugs, "—what better time than some random weeknight dinner?"
"Oh," is all Al-Haitham says, taken aback by the sincere gesture. He can't remember the actual instance he had actually mentioned his grandmother's curry—but he is sure it was years ago, some passing comment that he had forgotten minutes after the conversation ended but something Kaveh clearly held onto.
"Is that okay?" Kaveh sounds nervous all of a sudden, closely examining Al-Haitham's face as if searching for some sign of annoyance. "I wouldn't want to erase your grandmother's influence, after all. It's entirely possible that I'd ruin it if I touch it, actually, I should probably just leave well enough alone."
Kaveh knocks his wrist against Al-Haitham's shoulder as if brushing off his proposal as a joke, probably out of embarrassment or fear that his eagerness to recreate part of his childhood would be taken the wrong way. But that fleeting touch is not enough, and Al-Haitham wants to hold onto Kaveh until he learns how to get used to the feeling of his warmth against his own, until his heart learns that it need not flutter every time they so much as brush near each other.
So he does, grabbing Kaveh's fingers before they move too far away. Kaveh responds in kind, twisting his fingers out from under Al-Haitham's own to bring them out and brushing circles along the top of his knuckles. Butterflies kick in his stomach, flinging themselves along the tender flesh of his stomach and fighting to fly their way up his throat.
"Ah," Kaveh says, blinking.
"Of course it would be all right," Al-Haitham replies. "I think she'd be proud if she knew I had someone like you to take care of me in the way she always wanted to for me."
Kaveh rips his hand away like it burns and covers his mouth to try to stifle whatever expression is trying to reveal itself on his face. "Archons, you are so embarrassing," he says in a tone that suggests he does not mind whatsoever. "I don't know what to do with that. Just drink your wine and keep your mouth shut."
Al-Haitham has no intention of listening to the latter request, but he does watch Kaveh shake his head and turn back to his tasks. There is something terribly poetic about watching the man he has chosen to love for the past years cook a dish for him in the memory of the woman he had entered the world predisposed to loving. The familiar spices that fill the air smell like sitting at his kitchen table completing school work.
The sounds of cooking rice and the faint crackle of the fire are soothing. If Al-Haitham squints, he can almost superimpose his grandmother's figure over Kaveh's own, even if the two look vastly different in terms of style and attire.
"It's later than I wanted it to be," Kaveh says, frowning at the clock on the wall and absentmindedly wiping his hands on a nearby towel. "I know you like to be in bed at a certain time. Sorry about that."
Al-Haitham feels so full of adoration just looking at him that he has to stand to relieve some of the pressure. "'I suppose I can find it in me to forgive you."
Kaveh sighs. "Don't be mean." When he sees Al-Haitham peeking curiously over his shoulder, he whips him on the side with the rag uselessly. "Hey, go sit back down! I haven't finished yet."
"Don't be mean," Al-Haitham repeats mockingly. "This is my house. Don't tell me what to do."
Kaveh rolls his eyes. "You get way too much fun out of lording that over me. Watch, one of these days, I ought to—"
A strand of his bangs loosens from its hold and swings down over Kaveh's eyes, breaking Al-Haitham's focus. He sweeps it out of the way, tucking it back behind his ear with careful fingers. Kaveh breaks off whatever it was that he was saying and looks at him with something excruciatingly gentle in his eyes.
Then, just because he can, Al-Haitham cups Kaveh's face in his hands and leans forward to press his lips against the perfect ridge of his nose, eyes sliding shut. Kaveh's eyelids flicker in response, his eyelashes fluttering against Al-Haitham's cheek, and he reaches out to put his hands on his hips and slide him closer.
When Al-Haitham pulls away, that wonderful inky blush is spreading across Kaveh's face again, but this time he doesn't wipe at it.
"You like my nose, don't you," Kaveh grumbles, looking away. Al-Haitham takes his thumb and runs a line down the bridge of it and down around the line of his lips, which part for him unconsciously before he pulls his hand away.
"I think it's cute," Al-Haitham says.
"That could be either a compliment or an insult, coming from you."
"For both of ours and dinner's sake, count it as a compliment."
"Shit! The curry!" Kaveh yelps, pulling away from him and turning back to the stove, but not without shooting him a dirty look. "Look, if it's ruined, it really is your fault this time, and you can't complain about going to sleep late because you'll be scrubbing our burned pans. I'll definitely ruin your grandmother's legacy this time."
Al-Haitham laughs because only Kaveh would think that anything that falls under the gentle care of his hands could ever be considered ruined, but he brushes one last kiss against his forehead before leaving the kitchen to stop distracting him from his work, savoring the small splutter he hears escape Kaveh's lips before he's gone.
iii.
It keeps happening. The urge to kiss Kaveh on the nose, that is. The first time is some inexplicable, primal urge that Al-Haitham had been unable to resist, but the second time is more so because he wants to see how Kaveh would react (and in part to interrupt whatever tirade he was about to embark on). All of the other times, however—he has no excuse.
They are about to go to sleep. Al-Haitham is already in bed because he always lauds the importance of keeping a strict sleeping schedule, and Kaveh, though he used to be worse about it, is getting there, still moving about making noise in the bathroom. Before they moved in together and back when they were still students, Kaveh would regularly pull all-nighters and then pass out in the library to leave Al-Haitham to deal with the fall-out. Now, he can pull him into bed with him to retain some semblance of a manageable routine and not completely screw up his circadian rhythm.
It works when Kaveh is feeling like being obedient, at least. There's no interrupting him when he enters what he calls a creative mania, but most days Al-Haitham can coerce him into going to bed at a reasonable time with him. There's the added bonus of being able to latch onto Al-Haitham, which he uses to incentivize it.
Kaveh always claims that he runs warmer than most and likes to snuggle against him during the night even though he has more than adequate space to himself. Oddly enough, he's never once gotten used to having his hands all over his body during the night, even though it should count as some convoluted form of exposure therapy to Kaveh's touch. He's not sure he'd ever want to get used to the feeling of his heart stuttering.
Kaveh walks through the door then, rubbing at his eyes. He pulls up short to Al-Haitham's side of the bed and sits unceremoniously on the floor, looking up at him with pleading eyes. "Will you brush my hair?"
Al-Haitham rolls his eyes but concedes, setting aside his book to start picking through Kaveh's hair with careful hands. It's a routine that had started once some years ago when Kaveh had been too drunk to take out his hair ornaments with his shaky hands, almost ready to tear at his scalp in vexation.
Al-Haitham had taken it upon himself to remedy the situation himself, and the night afterward, Kaveh had asked him shyly if he could do it again, and then they never stopped. Even on nights when they are too upset with each other to speak, they still hold themselves to the practice—Al-Haitham's fingers in Kaveh's hair, writing wordless apologies into golden locks.
Now, Al-Haitham starts by removing the trinkets in Kaveh's hair, beginning first with the feather tucked behind his ear. Next goes the clips, undone carefully so as not to press them too harshly into his scalp, and then he unfastens the various ties holding the braid in place and unravels the plait.
He takes a comb and starts at the bottom of his hair, pulling through with gentle hitching motions until all the knots are brushed through. Kaveh's shoulders fall with a silent sigh. Al-Haitham finishes the job with his fingers, pressing against the spots he's learned to memorize, releasing the tension in his skull that builds up over the day, eliciting a small hum of contentment.
Kaveh taps one of Al-Haitham's knees caging him in, indicating that he's ready to get up now. He turns around and props himself up on the mattress, smiling up at him. "Thank you, Al-Haitham."
Al-Haitham doesn't say anything in response to that because it's always been given that he'd do the job, but he keeps a hand on Kaveh's head because he feels warm and malleable and perfect under his fingers and he doesn't yet want to let go. That's part of the apprehension that comes with getting to hold someone like Kaveh within his hands, he supposes—he doesn't know when his touch will bruise, how hard he can push before the skin purples under his fingertips.
He thinks he's starting to get the hang of it, though. He runs his hand down the side of Kaveh's face and tilts his face up, depositing a kiss on his forehead. That's usually where he stops for the night, but because he can, Al-Haitham drops lower and kisses the tip of Kaveh's nose.
Kaveh climbs up and sits over Al-Haitham's legs so that their faces are close together, then tilts his head up expectantly and closes his eyes. "More."
It's one of the most endearing things Al-Haitham has ever seen in his life. He runs a thumb along the peak of Kaveh's cheekbone, marveling at the soft skin there, then fulfills his wishes and brushes his lips against his nose again, moving down along his jaw and then against the edge of his lips. The line of his smile. The spot where his ears meet his jawline. Up across his neck where his touch makes Kaveh buck under him because he's always been ticklish there.
Kaveh removes himself from Al-Haitham's grasp and laughs, rolling over onto the side and handing Al-Haitham his book to put on the nightstand before settling down and pulling him down with him with a sigh. When Al-Haitham lays down, Kaveh latches onto him like a particularly persistent fungal growth, though he'd be furious to be compared to that.
Speaking into Al-Haitham's collarbone, his voice muffled by the flesh underneath his lips, he says, "Turn off the lights, will you? I'm starting to think you're right about this 'going to sleep early' stuff, even if it makes you seem like a grandpa."
"You and I both read that study on the importance of a good night's sleep," Al-Haitham retorts, and he leans over to snap the lamp off, blanketing them in darkness. Even blind, he can feel the outline of Kaveh's body pressing against his own, a comfort in the sudden black.
Kaveh sighs, the feel of it ghosting over Al-Haitham's chest, and he mutters, "Yeah, yeah, yeah. You were right. Is that what you like to hear, you insufferable man? Just go to sleep."
Al-Haitham huffs. Even in the dark, he can tell where Kaveh's nose is, so he kisses it gently, lovingly, and he can hear Kaveh's lips break into a smile. He begins tracing indeterminable shapes onto Al-Haitham's bare skin, and that's how he falls asleep, the comforting sound of Kaveh's breath and his leg slotted between his own.
iv.
Kaveh's claymore zings as it whizzes past Al-Haitham's body in an explosion of sparks. He jumps out of the way just in time as it beds itself into the dirt beside him with such force that dirt flies out of its path and within its vicinity, spraying a little onto Al-Haitham's shoes.
With a frown, Al-Haitham gingerly scrapes the filth off of his clothes with his blade, then turns his glare onto Kaveh. "You're in charge of laundry this week."
"Whatever," Kaveh huffs, hauling his claymore out of the ground. "As if I don't somehow end up doing all of your chores anyway."
"Bold words coming from a freeloader," says Al-Haitham, then attacks before he can hear whatever undoubtedly furious response he will be met with. He leaps forward with a burst of dendro, infusing his sword with the energy and stepping forward with a barrage of attacks.
Kaveh dodges most of them, an intent expression on his face, before he finally raises his claymore to parry and leans into his vision as well, the force of it splintering into jade-green strikes that imprint bright lines into Al-Haitham's eyes. When he blinks he can see its effects.
When their weapons clash, dendro against dendro, the place where the metal meets is shrouded by a kind of unpleasant aura, like pushing his hand through a quicksand pool in the desert or forcing two magnets of similar poles towards each other, a feeling that makes his teeth clench and the flesh under his skin itch uncomfortably.
Al-Haitham pushes through the feeling anyway, resisting the inherent discomfort of fighting against his own element. Kaveh shoves back with equal force, never one to concede in a fight.
"A freeloader?" he pants, chest heaving, then has to pause when Al-Haitham takes advantage of the moment to drive forward. He plants his heels into the ground and regains his footing. "That's not what you were saying when you started refusing my rent money all those years ago. Cyno said you were going soft. And here you are still, holding it against me as if it were not something I would readily give to you."
"Gone soft? Clearly, Cyno has forgotten what it is like to spar against me," Al-Haitham says, then thrusts forward with a renewal of dendro energy, emphasizing just how much he disagrees with that statement. Kaveh's claymore slides out from under his sword and he jumps back, eyes dark.
"He's lucky not to have to deal with you," he spits out, then releases a pulse of dendro energy that surges out around him in a large radius, viridescent force turning the ground around him an unnatural, glowing green.
The trembles in the land unsettle Al-Haitham, and Kaveh seizes the opportunity to jump forward, claymore sweeping out in long, elegant moves. Kaveh's weapon of choice takes significant energy to wield, and its large range of attack and hard-hitting damage is hindered somewhat by the time it takes to swing it around.
Al-Haitham knows this, has fought against Kaveh for so many years that he knows each swing like the back of his hand, and it is somewhat easy to avoid the attacks. Still, if he were to be caught under its onslaught, the resulting wounds would not be pretty—he's had enough experience being too slow to avoid it to know that firsthand. Having Kaveh fuss over him and visibly try not to pick a fight out of guilt almost makes it worth it, though.
However, it is not often that Al-Haitham likes to sacrifice the upper hand. He has known Kaveh long enough to have long appreciated the artistic yet mathematical approach he takes with his fighting style. He was there for the development of most of it, even. Thus, he need not waste time admiring how Kaveh manages to make the hefty claymore appear as light as the feather tucked behind his ear.
"I was under the impression that you enjoyed spending all this time with me," Al-Haitham says, smirking, "at least that's what I understood when you were clinging onto me this morning in bed, whining like a pitiful child about how you didn't want me to leave for work."
"Listen," Kaveh begins, but Al-Haitham doesn't give him a moment more before sending large bolts of dendro energy that ping off of an invisible perimeter, each one shooting individually for Kaveh and threatening to pierce through his skin. He doesn't get to finish his sentence before he's rolling away, dodging the attack.
The last projectile singes the air before disappearing in a flash, the silence it leaves behind sudden and unsettling. Kaveh clambers back onto his feet, wiping a smudge of dirt off of his cheek and advancing on Al-Haitham with parted lips.
Al-Haitham, on the other hand, has his mind on other things; he glances at the sky, whose paint-streaked tapestry tells him that they ought to get home soon if he wants to eat at a reasonable time and have the laundry ready for washing.
Kaveh most certainly will not back down, however, not without a clear victor having been defined. Al-Haitham has a weapon up his sleeve that he hasn't yet revealed because he just knows Kaveh will complain greatly about it after it's been done, but he has to sit in on a meeting tomorrow and it would invite an unpleasant talk with some of the higher-ups if he were to fall asleep midway through it.
When Al-Haitham comes back to himself, Kaveh is nearing him, his claymore already flashing green with dendro. "It's time we end this," he calls out. "If I knock you down, and I will, then that means I'm right about the tapestry from earlier."
"This spar and your unnecessary bickering about our decorations have no correlation," Al-Haitham says, "but if you wanted me to finish this up, then you could've just said so."
Kaveh rolls his eyes. "Ever the self-flattering jerk, I see. How modest of you."
"Still presumptuous as ever. As an architect, even you must know that the numbers do not lie, and they tell the simple truth that I have won more spars between us than you have."
"All bravado does not a victor make."
Not bothering to deign that with a response, Al-Haitham summons a second sword and flashes forward with a multitude of quick strikes, each seemingly cutting through the air in front of him and difficult to defend against.
Panting, Kaveh struggles to parry the attacks while trying to find an opening and the opportunity to strike back. Amid the scuffle, Al-Haitham uses the short-term teleportation his vision grants him and jumps into the air, utilizing the small window of time that he has before he plummets to the ground to steady himself against the lower trunk of a nearby tree and launch himself straight at Kaveh, who he takes down with him as they both go rolling across the clearing.
It works; he dissipates the second sword and moves the actual blade out of the way to avoid actually hurting Kaveh in the process. Kaveh does the same, the two of them familiar enough with this situation with either party on top that it is standard practice.
Usually, Kaveh likes this part—it allows him to get creative with his response, especially in a situation where most of his body is physically hindered, but Al-Haitham would like to cut this spar in particular short.
Al-Haitham is on top, caging Kaveh under his body with one arm and his sword. If he lowered himself down any further, their bodies would be flush against each other. This is a familiar position to him.
Quickly, before Kaveh can surge up and prolong the fight any longer, Al-Haitham brushes Kaveh's bangs away and leans down to drop a kiss on the tip of his nose, excruciatingly gentle in the context of all of the brutality they'd just shown each other.
When he pulls away, Kaveh's eyes are wide, and the early evening sun does wonders to highlight the spreading blush on his cheeks. His next breath leaves him like a gasp.
Grinning, Al-Haitham does it again, and again, and again, letting his sword fall out of his grasp on the side with a small thud. Kaveh loses the claymore as well, freeing his hands to link them behind Al-Haitham's sweaty neck and kiss him fully on the lips.
There are only so many moments that can pass before they realize they're lying on each other in the middle of the forest, so Al-Haitham pulls away from his mouth to hover by his ear.
"Do you admit defeat?"
"Fine, fine, just get off of me, you brute," Kaveh grumbles, slapping his backside. "This is cheating, by the way," he says when they've both clambered up and gotten ahold of their respective weapons. "We agreed that we wouldn't be able to weaponize our emotions in physical fights."
"I don't know," Al-Haitham sighs, holding his hand out for Kaveh to take, which he begrudgingly reaches for, "that all seemed pretty physical to me. I don't think I violated any of our rules."
"Bastard," Kaveh says, squeezing his hand threateningly. "You've smeared dirt all up the back of my white shirt. Do I still have to do the laundry if this one's your fault?"
Al-Haitham looks back at him and almost bursts into laughter at the outright petulant look on Kaveh's face, but he knows that it would certainly not be appreciated, so instead he pulls him in by the hand, steadies him with one hand on the waist, and kisses him, and kisses him, and kisses him.
v.
Arguing, for Kaveh and Al-Haitham, is never something they partake in because they want the other to hurt. Maybe it is when they are younger, more immature, more prone to baseless competition and drawing blood, but not now when they've learned to dull their teeth and satisfy the itch without tearing skin.
That is not to say that it never hurts. Al-Haitham is aware that where he and Kaveh clash is where their ideologies come into play. Al-Haitham is too logical to the point of cruelty and Kaveh toes the line of absurdity with his emotions. Rare it may be, sometimes they forget where they've marked the line.
"Al-Haitham." Kaveh storms into the doorway of their bedroom and strides to Al-Haitham's desk, frantic energy pulsing off of his person. "Have you seen my sketches for that new client of mine? I can't find them anywhere."
He starts searching through the items on Al-Haitham's desk, rifling through stacks of official documents and pulling apart stacks of books. Al-Haitham catches his wrist to still him. Kaveh tries to twist away to no avail.
"Kaveh."
Kaveh rips his hand out of Al-Haitham's hold and turns toward the desk again, opening up drawers as he goes. His movements grow more frenzied with each passing second.
"You know I don't touch any of your things if they're work-related," Al-Haitham reminds Kaveh, pulling him up from where he's kneeling on the floor and directing him to the bed so he can sit. "When was the last time you saw them?"
Kaveh starts anxiously braiding a section of his hair, fingers deftly twisting and unwinding a singular plait. It's a habit he'd once explained to Al-Haitham that he picked up as an alternative to picking at the threads of his clothes when he was stressed.
"Last night, around dinner time," Kaveh says. "You forced me to eat at the table, and I think I brought my papers with me."
There had been nothing on the table the last time Al-Haitham walked by. He says so, and Kaveh stiffens in visible annoyance.
"You think I don't know that?" he snaps, then drops his head into his hands. "Sorry. I'm stressed. The client was generous and is offering to pay me more than what the job entails, but if I'm late with the work then that will certainly be reduced. And it's a big project. Some of the equations I had in the notes are essential to the entire design."
"I understand," Al-Haitham says, which he has learned is one of the best responses when Kaveh comes to him beleaguered.
"Are you sure you haven't seen them?" Kaveh asks again. "You didn't think it, like you do all my other work, ridiculous and threw it away?"
"I already told you," Al-Haitham says, "that I have nothing to do with how you handle your work. Nor do I appreciate a baseless accusation on the matter."
"You are the first to point out flaws in my work. Sue me if I think that you would consider my designs frivolous."
"And you are the one jumping to conclusions because of your heightened emotions. Following that line of reasoning, if I supposedly think all of your work is so trivial, why would I even bother throwing it out? It is ridiculous to assume that I am at fault for what is most likely your own oversight."
Kaveh glares at him. "Must you source every issue I have to my, by your standards, flawed emotional state?"
"If it is the cause for you exacerbating every problem of yours, then yes," Al-Haitham says, crossing his arms. "If you took a second to breathe, then perhaps you could clear your mind and think back to where you misplaced the papers."
Kaveh rolls his eyes. "For all your supposed rationality and logical approaches, those certainly aren't helping me find anything, are they? Talk to me about being overly emotional when you've actually found them."
Al-Haitham turns his back on Kaven and picks his book back up. "Do not place me at fault for your own failures."
"You—!"
Al-Haitham hears Kaveh jump to his feet behind him, furious at his words. He stalks over and rips the book out of Al-Haitham's grasp and grabs him by the collar. He looks back at Kaveh as if bored.
"You are such a bastard sometimes," Kaveh spits out, which are words that Al-Hatham is familiar with but not usually in the context of actual anger. "Why do you—"
He stops, trailing off, his grip on Al-Haitham going slack as something complicated passes over his face. Then he lets go entirely, stepping back and pressing at his temples furiously as he thinks.
"Fuck. Fuck. Al-Haitham, I think I—I think I know what happened to them." Kaveh pauses. "You know how I was clearing out some of the storage boxes that have been sitting in my old bedroom for years now? I set aside a pile of old blueprints to be thrown out, and I think I may have put my commission work in that pile." He swallows, finally meeting Al-Haitham's eyes. "Is it gone?"
"I took them out, just as you requested." Al-Haitham sighs. "Look, Kaveh, next time you succumb to your own carelessness, don't take it out on me. I am not and have never been responsible for your negligence."
Kaveh just stops and stares at him, all the fury escaping from him at once. He opens his mouth to say something, then changes his mind and closes it, a strange tremble at his mouth. Al-Haitham has never seen him look so defeated before, not even when he had first come to him complaining about his newfound debt.
"Archons, you are just so—so cruel, sometimes," Kaveh whispers. "Though I suppose you can't help it, stating things as they are. You're right. It is all my fault."
This isn't about his lost paperwork. Even Al-Haitham knows this, and he's the one who has inadvertently put that lost expression on Kaveh's face. If he looks closely, he thinks he sees two pinpricks of wetness shine in the corners of Kaveh's eyes before he turns away abruptly, fists clenched by his side.
For all that Al-Haitham condemns what he calls Kaveh's over-sentimentalism, he loves to see it on Kaveh: his bright, all-encompassing joy manifesting itself as an unrepentant smile, pride making a home in the set of his shoulders and the broad expanse of his back, the stubbornness that makes him as interesting as he is insufferable in the way that he stands. Love, effusive and overflowing, present in the way he calls Al-Haitham's name and twines their legs together under the dining table.
But not like this. Not in the form of dismay or shame or disappointment. To see Kaveh cry evokes some strange, unnameable emotion cracking through his chest.
"Kaveh," Al-Haitham says, getting up and ghosting one hand over Kaveh's shoulder, hesitant. "Kaveh."
He turns, and the soft downturn in his lips is enough to make something squeeze unpleasantly in Al-Haitham's gut. When Kaveh blinks, one of the tears in his eyes overflows, spilling out and over his cheek, which he wipes away roughly, almost spinning back around before Al-Haitham catches him firmly and draws him in around the neck.
"I didn't mean it," Al-Haitham says quietly.
"Yes, you did," Kaveh whispers back. Al-Haitham's thumb traces a meandering path over Kaveh's cheek, catching the tear streaks there. "And it's true. You're right. Isn't that what you wanted to hear?"
"I do not like being right if it makes you cry," Al-Haitham says quite honestly. "And I will take responsibility for every mistake you make if you like."
Another tear falls, which Al-Haitham catches quickly. Kaveh sniffs once, a small, heart-wrenching sound, and Al-Haitham's urgency to make it better immediately takes over him. He cradles his head into his shoulder, stroking the back of his hair.
"This error is not unsalvageable," Al-Haitham says into Kaveh's hair. "I know you write out your more important calculations on a separate document in case of occurrences like this. Whatever you had drawn will be better the next time you sketch it out. That's just how your brain works."
"I know," Kaveh replies. "It is just upsetting that I made such a stupid mistake. I feel stupid. And I'm sorry for blaming you for it. I was stressed. I know that doesn't excuse it but it's all I have to offer."
"I was mean. I did not have to be."
"You were cruel," Kaveh agrees, lifting his head back up and shakily punching him softly on the arm. "The thing about knowing someone so well you could recite their entire life back to them is that you know where I hurt the most. How to make me bruise."
"You trusted me with that knowledge," Al-Haitham says. "And I am sorry for using it against you."
Kaveh smiles and brushes his lips against his jaw. "It's okay. To be loved is to be forgiven, isn't it?"
What a wonderful way to put it. Celestia knows just how much forgiving both Kaveh and Al-Haitham have had to do to remain as content as they are now—to choose and to forgive are what truly define love, though he has never formally studied it. Not outside of Kaveh, at least.
Al-Haitham kisses away the remaining tears on Kaveh's face, undoing the damage he had wrought and replacing it with something beautiful. To finish it off, he kisses the bridge of Kaveh's nose as well. Kaveh tilts his head up as if he expects it, which he might as well with how often Al-Haitham has come to seek that particular part of his face out.
"Enough of that," Kaveh says. He's blushing, pushing Al-Haitham away with his palm and turning his head as if he can't see the flush of his skin. "I have calculations to make up."
"Right," Al-Haitham says, amused, and finally lets Kaveh go. When they part, his hands and mouth and cheeks ache in a certain way that can only be assuaged by Kaveh's touch.
Kaveh sends one last flustered look over his shoulder at Al-Haitham, who tries to go back to his desk and pick up his book again, only to find that he cannot force his mind to focus on any of the words on the page.
+ i.
Kaveh has been acting… odd, lately. Not in a worrying way, just. Odd.
"Kaveh," Al-Haitham says, setting down a plate of breakfast in front of him one morning, and Kaveh actually jumps when Al-Haitham draws near, though he relaxes when he sees what he's holding.
"Kaveh?" Al-Haitham says again, but this time in the form of a question that he does not know is asking. He leans forward, intending to see if his strange behavior is the result of a fever or some sort, but before he can even brush his forehead Kaveh jumps up out of his chair, the screech of its legs loud and scratchy.
"I have to go to the bathroom!" he announces, very solemnly, though it is undercut by the somewhat anxious look he sends Al-Haitham's way, then runs off to the bathroom. Al-Haitham is left wondering what he had even done.
So. Odd.
The thing is, Kaveh won't let Al-Haitham get close enough to get any answers out of him. And he does try: direct interrogation has proved itself, in the past, to be the quickest way to get answers. But it doesn't work when Kaveh is darting out of Al-Haitham's embrace, is strangely hesitant when they turn in for the night, and when he doesn't try to kick at his shins under the dinner table when they take their meals.
He's being flighty, which Al-Haitham only ever remembers him acting in the weeks leading up to the both of them confessing to each other, upon which his behavior immediately resolved itself.
Besides his sudden aversion to touch, Kaveh is acting completely normal, so Al-Haitham knows he shouldn't have a reason to worry. But Kaveh has spoiled him. Over time, Al-Haitham has gotten so used to his constant contact that to have it taken away aches.
Questioning is a dead end, and referring to past occurrences doesn't tell Al-Haitham anything useful either, so his next best bet is observation. He takes notes.
1. Kaveh has stopped initiating physical touch. This is the most visible change, given how often he used to seek Al-Haitham out. He's always liked holding onto him in some capacity, even if his hands are occupied—by tangling their legs together, for example, or throwing his feet into Al-Haitham's lap. There is a noticeable lack of this.
One odd thing Al-Haitham notes about this is that Kaveh, as it seems, is holding himself back from touching him. On more than one occasion, Al-Haitham has seen him reach out naturally only to remember something and snatch his hand back, pretending he had never outstretched an arm or was swatting at some nonexistent bug in the air.
2. When Al-Haitham tries to touch him or gets within a certain radius of his skin, Kaveh dodges him. If he gets too close, he visibly stiffens up, tracking Al-Haitham's body and a kind of focus settling into his eyes, and if he gets closer still then he will abruptly make some excuse for why he has to stretch or leave the room. However, if Al-Haitham chooses to sit next to him or simply spend time in the same room, he has no qualms about this as long as he keeps his distance.
3. Sometimes, Al-Haitham sees Kaveh trying to catch his attention or look at him, leaning in towards his face only to abort the movement and change his mind. He will walk over to where Al-Haitham is sitting on the couch and move as if to sit down on his lap, then pivot suddenly and take a seat next to him instead.
Other times, when they are in bed and the lights have already been turned off, Kaveh will hover over Al-Haitham's face with hesitant fingers when he thinks Al-Haitham has already fallen asleep. He can't, of course, not when Kaveh is acting like he wants to grip him by the throat and choke him in his sleep, though he does not consider that a possibility. Instead, he'll lean close almost as if he's smelling him, then throw himself back and land back onto the pillows with a huff.
Conclusion: ???
Al-Haitham does not know what to do with this data. Usually, there is some sort of correlation to be found or result to be drawn, but none of Kaveh's actions actually make any sense. Why would he suddenly become averse to touch after years of bothering Al-Haitham until he was let in? It isn't some issue with Al-Haitham himself, because he seeks out his attention and company just as often as he used to do his body. Furthermore, if he wants to, why would he restrain himself from it? He never has before, even when Al-Haitham was first unfamiliar with the idea.
If anything, he should be elated that Al-Haitham is the one initiating physical touch now. And when Kaveh wants things, he takes them for himself. He has never spurned things that have been as easily in his reach before.
An interesting datapoint: Kaveh's odd behavior started sometime after Al-Haitham gave in to his urge to kiss him on the nose. Is that what inspired this change? Does he dislike it in some way? If so, then why hasn't he just told Al-Haitham? And this point still does not explain why he would hold himself back from touching Al-Haitham if he so obviously wants to.
Eventually, as most things turn out, he gets his answer.
"Good morning," Al-Haitham says when he hears the telltale sounds of shuffling from the body next to him. It's a weekend, a luxurious time. It's one of the few days he gets to wake up with the sun and to Kaveh.
Kaveh pops his head out from under the covers so that only his eyes and the tops of his cheekbones show, his golden hair spilling out around him. When he sees Al-Haitham, his eyes curve into crescents and his cheeks puff up, smiling. "Good morning," he says in return, instinctively rolling a little closer to Al-Haitham.
Al-Haitham leans over to drop a kiss onto his cheek, then thinks better of it and moves away before his lips make contact. Under him, Kaveh stares up at him, looking a little shy.
"Why didn't you do it?" he demands, turning his face a little and poking his cheek.
Al-Haitham raises an eyebrow. Has he finally given up whatever game he's been playing? Nevertheless, he leans over and fulfills Kaveh's request. "You're the one who has been acting weird," Al-Haitham reminds him when he's done.
Kaveh rolls his eyes. "What do you mean? You're making things up again."
"I mean the way you run out of the room every time I so much as touched pinkies with you the past week."
Kaveh flushes and hides part of his face beneath the sheets again. "No…? That's not—I wasn't—"
"See, you do know what I'm talking about," Al-Haitham says accusingly. "You're getting avoidant again."
"Fine," Kaveh says, sitting up now. "I was, okay? But I was thinking about things. Look."
He puts one hand onto Al-Haitham's arm, and the touch feels like salvation. Something about his fingers settles something buzzing underneath his skin so he can finally relax. Flips a switch he hadn't even known had been running all this time.
Carefully, Kaveh positions himself over Al-Haitham's face, then leans mercifully close, an endearingly determined look on his face. His eyes dart over his eyebrows, his cheeks, his jaw, and finally settle onto his lips, and Al-Haitham thinks that this is the first time they will get to kiss in a week, and then Kaveh goes and kisses him on the nose instead, a replication of all the times Al-Haitham has done the same to Kaveh.
His lips are soft against his skin. A tendril of his front bangs brushes the top of his forehead. When Kaveh draws back, Al-Haitham finds himself stunned.
"I did it," Kaveh announces to himself, hands on his hips, but he looks just as embarrassed as Al-Haitham feels. He rolls over and buries his head into the pillows, groaning into them. "All that lead-up was worth it, I think."
Al-Haitham carefully touches the spot on his nose that Kaveh had touched and actually feels it tingle, a spark of electricity drawn out of the skin. "What was that for?"
Kaveh pulls his head out of his pillow and turns on his cheek to look at him. "I had to work myself up for that, you know," he grumbles. "I was scared I would do it wrong. I just wanted to do to you what you were doing to me."
Under the covers, he throws one leg over Al-Haitham's and draws one of Al-Haitham's arms over his own waist to pull him close, snuggling in with a content sigh.
"You mean to say you've been avoiding me for the past week because you had to pull together enough willpower to kiss me on the nose?" Al-Haitham says incredulously.
"Don't say it as if it was a trivial matter, Al-Haitham," Kaveh says scathingly, face buried into Al-Haitham's torso. It seems as if he is as touch starved as Al-Haitham is after the week of abstinence. "I had to summon a lot of strength for that. It was very, very embarrassing."
Al-Haitham stares up at the ceiling. "You couldn't touch me for days because you were flustered? Nose kisses make you shy? I couldn't kiss you for a week because you were embarrassed about what it did to you?"
Kaveh pulls his head up angrily. "Listen. How was I supposed to react when you, who I thought only tolerated my clinginess, suddenly started returning my affections? And you were so—you were so sweet with it, I felt like I was dying every time you did it. My heart was beating so fast that I thought it would burn itself out and I would die, and then it would be all your fault and your name would be listed on my autopsy report."
Al-Haitham laughs and cradles Kaveh's head in his hands. "Why do you think you are the only person I let get remotely close to me? Have you seen anyone else even touch me before?"
Kaveh wilts. "Well, no…"
"It's nice to see that you are obsessed with me, what with the way you couldn't keep your hands off of me," Al-Haitham muses. Kaveh opens his mouth in indignation, but Al-Haitham places a hand over his lips so he can't speak. "It's flattering that you think of me as often as I think of you."
Under Al-Haitham's hands, Kaveh turns suddenly and viciously red, and he blinks rapidly. Just to prove his point, Al-Haitham leans over and kisses Kaveh softly over the bridge of his nose, the freckles dotting the expanse of his cheeks, over his closed eyelids and the feather of his eyebrow.
When he's done, sitting back and laughing at the flustered look on Kaveh's face, Kaveh pokes Al-Haitham halfheartedly to express his displeasure. "Stupid, embarrassing, irritating, vexing, brute," he hisses.
"Oh? So you want me to stop?"
"I hate you," Kaveh loudly complains, and then latches onto Al-Haitham's neck, biting the flesh and gnawing at it as if saying just how much he hates him. After a moment, he leans back and looks at his work appreciatively.
"Are you proud of yourself?" Al-Haitham says, amused.
"Yes, I am," Kaveh says, satisfied, then curls back up again on Al-Haitham's stomach. A few seconds pass, and then he looks up again. "Won't you kiss me again?"
Kaveh doesn't need to ask Al-Haitham twice.