[Divesting Kaveh off his shirt doesn't even pass his mind when his fingers take charge, pressing them across collarbones, then wider to shuck the fabric off his shoulders. Everything is instinctive and irrational. His mind is—blissfully, he never thought it'd be blissfully—empty, and it's something it doesn't happen even when he watches the streams of this man, even when he'd been stroking himself to the image of him, his sounds, his flirtatious glances to the camera. The warmth of him is addicting, the way he presses back against him with his hips makes him hum, almost about to lose his mind. He steadies them, close, but unmoving, against his own.]
Driving me crazy. [He rasps.
And grabs the back of Kaveh's thighs to hike him high, picks him up.] I'll take you.
[ The curse falls from his lips on a whimper when Alhaitham stills his hips and then just drags him into his arms, his own wrapping tight around the other's shoulders as if afraid he's going to fall—
(he's not afraid, even drunk he can see and appreciate the tenseness in muscles that have no fucking right being so well defined— isn't the man a lifelong scholar?— and he feels light and protected in such a strong hold)
—and the second he's put down in the bedroom he's dragging that strong man into him, grinding his hips up against him as his mouth laves a path down the other's jaw and neck, sucking and nipping at the skin without thought as to how it will darken it. ]
Me too. Crazy. I want you—
[ His hand slips between them, to where his hips are rolling up against Alhaitham's, to rub against the other man through his pants. ]
[Still handling the back of those gorgeous, pliant thighs in his hands, Alhaitham lowers the man and hikes him deep into the bed, the smooth covers swishing underneath them, even if he pauses to roll his eyes back at the feeling of this heathen touching him so brazenly, and he has to roll his hips right into it, wishing the fabric of his trousers gone, wishing all of Kaveh's clothes discarded somewhere on the floor of his room, and yet unable to do so because he's holding onto that hair in a gentle fist, placing the stretch of skin between his thumb and forefinger underneath Kaveh's chin to tip at his head higher to kiss him hard with a groan, and then slide his palm down the beautiful column of his throat, followed by his lips.
He doesn't dare to bite, to brand, not really. Pharos is not just his, he's his viewers and that somehow makes him ache even further. But he'll rake his teeth and taunt at the skin until it's pink. Until Kaveh will need to cool it down the next day so the irritation leaves.
He picks up his hands, pins them next to his head against the mattress, and weaves their fingers together as he kisses him again and grinds against the beautiful cradle of his hips.] Let me feel you.
[ As he's pressed into the mattress, Alhaitham pins Kaveh's hands, and all the blonde can think about is what Mister E told him, about wanting to offer him pleasure and not just enjoy the show Pharos was putting on for him— that he wants to see Kaveh feeling good too.
And he knows he shouldn't be thinking of his crush at a time like this, but he can't help it; so much of what has happened tonight has brought his brain back to the other man time and time again. Alhaitham may drive him crazy in all the worst ways, but there's something about him that reminds Kaveh so very much of his favorite viewer, and..
He shakes himself free of the thoughts to listen to bring himself back into this moment, focusing on the man above him and the teeth taunting at his skin as his hips roll down and make him groan. And into the heat of that kiss, he moans again in answer, hips arching up to rock and grind, breath panting softly into Alhaitham's mouth. ]
You can feel as much of me as you want, I'm yours tonight—
[Words hold power, but as long as you know how powerful they aim to be, you can detach yourself from them and remain in your own power as long as you'd like.
Or so Alhaitham, master of over 20 languages and decipherer of the numerous ways those languages can imply, thought.
And yet, he's absolutely weak and powerless, faced with the strength of the words mumbled by Kaveh's mouth. He's groaning and pressing his body even closer, unable to withdraw even for just the short moment of shucking out their trousers, to feel each other's skin, to take in the warmth of the man underneath him fully, just for the sake of holding his hands, of squeezing them cherishingly, tenderly drawing a line from lips to chest with his mouth, curling on himself to press kisses across his pec to his nipples.]
[ Alhaitham's words bring a flush of pleasure to Kaveh's cheeks. He's too easily able to imagine the same words on his Mister E's lips, too desperate in so many ways to dream of it as what could be something between the two of them.
And when he's not drunk, later, perhaps he'll have the grace to feel guilty. As much as he can see Mister E in Alhaitham, he knows in his heart that they're not the same, that he doesn't even like the latter, that he's using him to enjoy a fantasy—
But right now he doesn't care. Not when he's busy writhing under the tenderness of those kisses, moving to stretch his body out properly to allow the other man more access to the span of chest he's peppering with kisses, and his hands reach to tangle fingers in his hair, pulling him close, even as his hips continue to arch and press up against the heat of the other's body.
And Archons, it's so much better than teasing himself with a toy. Alhaitham is real and warm and skilled, and offering him genuine pleasure that makes his toes curl, his heart pound.
(When did a stuffy scholar get so good at this anyway?) ]
[Truth to be told, Alhaitham is not that experienced.
All of this comes from those moments through a screen, a tally of when he's seen Pharos yelp, gasp, the way his flesh coiled suddenly from something that felt nice, something that felt ticklish. The shiver that comes when a toy or the lace or his fingers skimmed his skin.
E had looked at all of that and wondered how it'd be to be the one to cause that. Now, careful to nose at his piercing and blowing on it to cool the metal, he's thrilled on how Pharos—Kaveh—is reacting to all of this. It's because of him, it's because of him, it's because of him.
He wraps his arm around that gorgeous waist, arching his hips further into his own, and he can't help the groan, the slow but hard roll of him against the pressure, hiking it just an increment]. Fuck—
[His hand finds the hardness in Kaveh's trousers, squeezes and palms it roughly. The fabric is damp. He's about to lose his mind.]
[ The sound he makes when Alhaitham nudges at— and then blows on— his piercing is something unlike Kaveh has ever made before, a sharp and surprised moan of pleasure that shakes his lips and has his back lifting. He loves that the other man hasn't even asked about it, just taken advantage of its presence, and
Archons, Mister E really knew what he was doing on chat, telling Kaveh he'd take his time with him first. With another person, it's so much better like this than just rushing straight to the act; between mouth toying with his piercing between the curses on Alhaitham's lips, and the hand sliding between his legs, there's so much pleasure that Kaveh is dizzy with it— ]
F-fuck. Fuck, right there, please—
[ And then within seconds, a sudden, panicked change of tune, fingers pressing firm into the other's arms: ]
W-wait, it's too much, wait—!
[ But his protest arrives too late, Kaveh's inexperience in the face of real pleasure leading him to cum in his pants, hard, a wail on his breath that sounds suspiciously like the letter 'E'. ]
[Driving him crazy. Alhaitham should have known that this would be a rollercoaster when he first kissed Kaveh back, despite all the signs that would tell him to cease immediately. And yet, nothing in his brain told him to stop. The rational part of him has been strangely silent, subdued by the feel of his coworker against him, even despite throwing up on him, even despite all the anger. The knowledge of him being Pharos could be a deterrent, and yet here is Alhaitham, not E, making this man beg and then stutter.
He freezes upon the first 'wait', his hand stilling, eyes wide. After those sweet pleas, Kaveh is telling him no, but the momentum takes care of everything and he's wailing in his arms, right before him. And—
Seeing this right before him, without a screen to shield them, is so much more striking. He shivers when he hears something like the call of the nickname that Pharos so sweetly gave him, and it's his, his nickname, and no one else's.
It could just be his throat making a random sound, but irrationally, Alhaitham wants to believe it's him he's calling out.
(And if so: Has he really been imagining he's E, all this time? He supposed he should be jealous of himself.)
So he drops again, pressing soft kisses to the center of his chest, holding him close as he leaves more of his care with his mouth along his collarbones, along the line of his shoulder, up his throat.
It's apologetic. Perhaps the asking to wait was Kaveh's final moment of reluctance showing up too late. So he lingers for a while against that warm skin before he lifts his head and brushes Kaveh's hair away.] Are you alright?
[Only to find Kaveh out like a light.
Alhaitham takes a deep breath. This is going to be messy, but he will not take advantage of a person while they're asleep—nevermind that they're both drunk.
Painfully, he withdraws himself from the Architect, shivering at how cold the room suddenly feels. Alhaitham softens, sighing. He needs a shower. A cold one.
He'll take care of Kaveh first, peeling off his clothes, wiping the mess down with a warm damp towel, then dressing him with a set of clean boxers and a t-shirt before tucking him in. As an afterthought, he goes get a bucket and leaves it by the bedside, as well as aspirins, vitamins, and a bottle of water on the nightstand.
Only then does he go take a—very cold—shower, get into is pyjamas, steal one of the unused pillows from his bed, and go sleep on the couch.]
[ It's certainly not what Kaveh intends to do. He's drowning in the other's kisses and touches, and he doesn't want any of it to stop— and while he may not be actively thinking about passing out, he's a smart enough man to know somewhere in the back of his head that all this stops the moment he does.
And he doesn't want this to stop.
But there's nothing for it: between the heaviness of the alcohol and the headiness of his orgasm, he passes out in almost no time at all, the lingering of Alhaitham's lips against his skin more than enough to lull him into the land of dreams.
(And dreams there are. A faceless figure with a silhouette built far too similarly to someone he knows, purring low words and promises in his ear as he fucks himself for a camera, knowing he's watched and admired and loved. When he cums, he turns his head and presses his mouth to the stranger's with a soft, contented sigh
and he tastes like smoke, fingers curling gently around his necklace to anchor him, to pull him close and hold him and cherish him and—)
He wakes with a start in a darkened room made of swirls.
...No, the swirls—
He blinks, and then closes his eyes with a groan. Fuck, how much did he drink?
And where is he? ...He doesn't recognize the clothes that he's wearing, either.
It takes Kaveh several, several long minutes to pull himself together enough to get out of the bed. (Perhaps even tens of minutes; he's not counting.) Thank all the archons and gods, he's not sick (again), but the aspirins and vitamins are downed without a second thought, the bottle of water emptied into his stomach so quick that it hurts, even as his throat is still parched. Only then does he emerge from the room, bleary eyes looking around a place that by all rights is far too nice for someone like him, and his voice cracks on a leftover hoarseness as he calls out lowly: ]
[He tosses and turns on his couch. It's not the first time he sleeps on it—but it's the first time he's sleeping on it in this living room, and the window is wrong, the light hits his eyes differently, and it's all so very new.
This is what he tells himself when he has trouble sleeping. Nothing to do with the blond vixen sleeping tightly on his bed. Nothing to do with how he had looked so comfortable in his Egyptian cotton sheets. Alhaitham did not, at all, want to slip under the covers and snuggle close. Never in his life.
Kaveh is Pharos. Of all things, of all odds. No theoretical process of elimination could have made him suspect of it in the slightest.
And yet, there he was, writhing beautifully underneath him, asking him to fuck him. Without knowing what to do with the fan across the ethernet, watching him closely.
Alhaitham fell asleep with the thought that at least, he wasn't alone. They had each other. Perhaps they always did.
So when he hears the 'hello' ringing in his apartment, he hadn't slept that much and he frowns, and sits up, looking over the back of his couch to where the voice came from. Who...?
Oh, it's him again. He smiles and lays back down, wanting to go back to sleep.]
[ He's still in the middle of looking around when a sleepy, hair-mussed head appears from behind the couch, peering over it for a moment before smiling and disappearing once more. And for a moment, Kaveh can only frown, tilting his head and taking a hesitant step closer until the reality of it slaps him in the face and he recognizes, a mortified sound leaving his lips.
Never mind that Alhaitham apparently wants to sleep. Kaveh stalks over to the other side of the couch, staring down at him in what is meant to be anger but no doubt shows more like the mortification cutting him down to his very bones. ]
What the hell am I doing here? [ he seethes. ] Where are my clothes?
[ And then, as he belatedly recognizes the acrid taste on his tongue, the remnants of a cigarette he could never have smoked— because he doesn't: ]
[Okay, so getting some more sleep is definitely not on the cards for him. Alhaitham rubs at his eyes, yawning, and then rolling to a seating position on the couch. As much as he'd like to tell Kaveh to calm down, he understands that the previous night was a mess. That's sobering in on itself, even if his own head was pounding.]
Our clothes are hanging to dry. You threw up on me.
[He tilts his head.]
You don't remember? [He didn't seem that drunk. At least not enough to be blackout drunk and not recall.]
[ He's not drunk enough to have blacked out; a reminder is all he needs, and when it comes, his eyes open wide— first in recall, and then in mortification. The dreams, apparently, weren't just dreams, and... ]
Holy fucking shit. No.
[ He threw up on Alhaitham... but that's not all. Then, he came in his own pants like a schoolboy experiencing his first time. But for that to have even happened, they... the two of them... he...
Urgh.
Archons, Alhaitham had been far less drunk than he was, but he'd been into it, hadn't he?
Kaveh's arms fold protectively over his chest. ]
I hope you don't think that that meant anything. I don't give a fuck if you've got some stupid crush on me. I was drunk.
[Tilting his head just slightly at Kaveh's reaction, he's surprising himself with how he's not hurt by this outright and outraged rejection. Alhaitham arches his eyebrows when he's being accused of having a crush—which, sure, Kaveh is probably right but he didn't have to say it like that.
Eyes straying to how he folds his arms over his chest, Alhaitham nods.] You don't have to worry about that. What happened doesn't need to be anything if you don't want it to be.
[ He hates— hates— how calm Alhaitham's response is, as if he's somehow not mortified that the pair of them all but fucked last night, a fact that only fuels Kaveh's impotent anger onwards, making him more inclined to accuse the other of things that aren't true. It doesn't help when the other man's eyes move to his chest, when he nods and says that this doesn't need to be anything Kaveh doesn't want it to be, and— ]
Oh my god. [ His laugh is harsh, bitter. ] You do. You do have a crush on me. What the fuck— I'm not okay with that. I don't want you to look at me that way.
I'm sure you're aware of how attraction works.[Meaning, Kaveh can't really just tell Alhaitham to stop finding him attractive or, like he's said, have a crush. That's exactly like asking him to stop obsessing over his favorite viewer— it's not an impossible thing, but it takes time, effort, and a lot of other factors that lead to a person to get over something or someone.]
I will not act on it at all from now on, to the best of my ability, or unless you want me to. [He gets up from the couch, padding barefoot towards the kitchen.] C'mon, we both need a cup of coffee.
[ Oh, he hates this man. Alhaitham is so matter-of-fact about the fact that he apparently has some kind of feelings toward him, and Kaveh— Kaveh is still very much not okay with it. He scowls. The other can say that he won't act on it— ] I don't want you to act on it! Asshole. [ —but that doesn't mean he won't think about—
Ugh. This whole thing is just...
Ugh. ]
No. I'm fine. I don't need coffee. I just— I want my clothes, and I want to go home.
That is fine. [He had known this would be the reaction he'd get. Never in a Million years would Kaveh be delighted that he had lost his control with two measly drinks. Or three. Or four. He had left the counter so he's not sure how many he had had anyway. He'll allow himself to wonder about Kaveh's potential reaction to his identity later, anyway.]
Well, I do. [Need coffee, he means. He points at a side of the kitchen.] And the hanger is in the kitchen as well, I placed our clothes in an electrical one so they'll dry faster, but I'm not sure if they're completely dry yet.
[He picks up a coffee grinder from a cupboard, gets a specific kettle from another. Then grabs a bag of coffee beans from a pantry. His movements are mindless but methodical—he's done this over and over again, like a ritual.] You're free to take a shower, too, and leave whenever you wish. I won't hold anyone here if they don't want to be.
[ His scowl only deepens. Of course Alhaitham is trying to decide what's best for him when that's not what he asked. He stalks over to the hanger and picks up his clothes— definitely not completely dry, but he doesn't care. ]
I'll put these on and leave. I'll shower when I get home, I don't need anything from you.
[ Fuck, he hates this. With the still-wet clothes in his hands, he just feels stupid, not confident (which is what he was aiming for). He keeps his head high though as he stalks back to the room and changes quickly.
He does, at least, fold what Alhaitham changed him into, and leaves it on the edge of the bed. ]
I'm leaving, [ he snaps as he storms past the kitchen. ] And I don't want to talk to you next time I see you.
[Alhaitham doesn't follow Kaveh to the door. He stays by the kitchen counter, his hands paused in the middle of grinding coffee beans, the coarse scent hanging in the air like a promise unfulfilled. The sound of Kaveh's departing footsteps echo through the apartment and a part of him wants to call out, to say something—anything—that might mend the chasm that's opened between them. But he knows better than to think words could bridge the gap now. Silence, he decides, is perhaps the kindest response he can offer to Kaveh's clear desire for distance.
Once the door clicks shut, the silence grows heavier, settling into the corners of the room with a palpable weight. Alhaitham resumes grinding the coffee beans, methodical, therapeutic even, but it does little to distract him from the replaying scenes of last night and this morning.
Kaveh's anger, his mortification, and the clear rejection sting, of course, but Alhaitham is no stranger to slipping it into a veneer of rationality. He pours water into the kettle, sets it on the stove, and waits for it to boil, allowing himself a moment of vulnerability. He's always prided himself on his self-control, his ability to navigate the complexities of most relationships. Yet, with Kaveh, it seems he's perpetually at a loss, always one step behind, reacting rather than acting.
The kettle whistles, pulling him from his reverie. He prepares his coffee with practised ease, each step a part of a ritual that's as familiar as the back of his hand. Yet, today, the comfort he usually finds in this routine is absent. The coffee tastes bitter, a reflection of the morning's events, perhaps, or maybe just an oversight in his brewing process. He takes a sip, contemplating the latter as a metaphor for his interactions with Kaveh: too much heat, not enough patience.
He wonders, not for the first time, what it is about Kaveh that so thoroughly dismantles his composure. Is it the architect's passion, his vibrancy, the way he wears his heart so openly on his sleeve? Or is it the challenge he presents, a puzzle that refuses to be solved, pushing Alhaitham to confront the limitations of his emotional intelligence? Or rather, that somehow, even in person and without knowledge of their actual identity, they make each other feel seen.]
Can't be just that. [He mutters, and tsks his tongue when the coffee burns it.]
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sempiternals2023-10-04 01:27 am
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Driving me crazy. [He rasps.
And grabs the back of Kaveh's thighs to hike him high, picks him up.] I'll take you.
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[ The curse falls from his lips on a whimper when Alhaitham stills his hips and then just drags him into his arms, his own wrapping tight around the other's shoulders as if afraid he's going to fall—
(he's not afraid, even drunk he can see and appreciate the tenseness in muscles that have no fucking right being so well defined— isn't the man a lifelong scholar?— and he feels light and protected in such a strong hold)
—and the second he's put down in the bedroom he's dragging that strong man into him, grinding his hips up against him as his mouth laves a path down the other's jaw and neck, sucking and nipping at the skin without thought as to how it will darken it. ]
Me too. Crazy. I want you—
[ His hand slips between them, to where his hips are rolling up against Alhaitham's, to rub against the other man through his pants. ]
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He doesn't dare to bite, to brand, not really. Pharos is not just his, he's his viewers and that somehow makes him ache even further. But he'll rake his teeth and taunt at the skin until it's pink. Until Kaveh will need to cool it down the next day so the irritation leaves.
He picks up his hands, pins them next to his head against the mattress, and weaves their fingers together as he kisses him again and grinds against the beautiful cradle of his hips.] Let me feel you.
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And he knows he shouldn't be thinking of his crush at a time like this, but he can't help it; so much of what has happened tonight has brought his brain back to the other man time and time again. Alhaitham may drive him crazy in all the worst ways, but there's something about him that reminds Kaveh so very much of his favorite viewer, and..
He shakes himself free of the thoughts to listen to bring himself back into this moment, focusing on the man above him and the teeth taunting at his skin as his hips roll down and make him groan. And into the heat of that kiss, he moans again in answer, hips arching up to rock and grind, breath panting softly into Alhaitham's mouth. ]
You can feel as much of me as you want, I'm yours tonight—
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Or so Alhaitham, master of over 20 languages and decipherer of the numerous ways those languages can imply, thought.
And yet, he's absolutely weak and powerless, faced with the strength of the words mumbled by Kaveh's mouth. He's groaning and pressing his body even closer, unable to withdraw even for just the short moment of shucking out their trousers, to feel each other's skin, to take in the warmth of the man underneath him fully, just for the sake of holding his hands, of squeezing them cherishingly, tenderly drawing a line from lips to chest with his mouth, curling on himself to press kisses across his pec to his nipples.]
You're so beautiful.
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And when he's not drunk, later, perhaps he'll have the grace to feel guilty. As much as he can see Mister E in Alhaitham, he knows in his heart that they're not the same, that he doesn't even like the latter, that he's using him to enjoy a fantasy—
But right now he doesn't care. Not when he's busy writhing under the tenderness of those kisses, moving to stretch his body out properly to allow the other man more access to the span of chest he's peppering with kisses, and his hands reach to tangle fingers in his hair, pulling him close, even as his hips continue to arch and press up against the heat of the other's body.
And Archons, it's so much better than teasing himself with a toy. Alhaitham is real and warm and skilled, and offering him genuine pleasure that makes his toes curl, his heart pound.
(When did a stuffy scholar get so good at this anyway?) ]
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All of this comes from those moments through a screen, a tally of when he's seen Pharos yelp, gasp, the way his flesh coiled suddenly from something that felt nice, something that felt ticklish. The shiver that comes when a toy or the lace or his fingers skimmed his skin.
E had looked at all of that and wondered how it'd be to be the one to cause that. Now, careful to nose at his piercing and blowing on it to cool the metal, he's thrilled on how Pharos—Kaveh—is reacting to all of this. It's because of him, it's because of him, it's because of him.
He wraps his arm around that gorgeous waist, arching his hips further into his own, and he can't help the groan, the slow but hard roll of him against the pressure, hiking it just an increment]. Fuck—
[His hand finds the hardness in Kaveh's trousers, squeezes and palms it roughly. The fabric is damp. He's about to lose his mind.]
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Archons, Mister E really knew what he was doing on chat, telling Kaveh he'd take his time with him first. With another person, it's so much better like this than just rushing straight to the act; between mouth toying with his piercing between the curses on Alhaitham's lips, and the hand sliding between his legs, there's so much pleasure that Kaveh is dizzy with it— ]
F-fuck. Fuck, right there, please—
[ And then within seconds, a sudden, panicked change of tune, fingers pressing firm into the other's arms: ]
W-wait, it's too much, wait—!
[ But his protest arrives too late, Kaveh's inexperience in the face of real pleasure leading him to cum in his pants, hard, a wail on his breath that sounds suspiciously like the letter 'E'. ]
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He freezes upon the first 'wait', his hand stilling, eyes wide. After those sweet pleas, Kaveh is telling him no, but the momentum takes care of everything and he's wailing in his arms, right before him. And—
Seeing this right before him, without a screen to shield them, is so much more striking. He shivers when he hears something like the call of the nickname that Pharos so sweetly gave him, and it's his, his nickname, and no one else's.
It could just be his throat making a random sound, but irrationally, Alhaitham wants to believe it's him he's calling out.
(And if so: Has he really been imagining he's E, all this time? He supposed he should be jealous of himself.)
So he drops again, pressing soft kisses to the center of his chest, holding him close as he leaves more of his care with his mouth along his collarbones, along the line of his shoulder, up his throat.
It's apologetic. Perhaps the asking to wait was Kaveh's final moment of reluctance showing up too late. So he lingers for a while against that warm skin before he lifts his head and brushes Kaveh's hair away.] Are you alright?
[Only to find Kaveh out like a light.
Alhaitham takes a deep breath. This is going to be messy, but he will not take advantage of a person while they're asleep—nevermind that they're both drunk.
Painfully, he withdraws himself from the Architect, shivering at how cold the room suddenly feels. Alhaitham softens, sighing. He needs a shower. A cold one.
He'll take care of Kaveh first, peeling off his clothes, wiping the mess down with a warm damp towel, then dressing him with a set of clean boxers and a t-shirt before tucking him in. As an afterthought, he goes get a bucket and leaves it by the bedside, as well as aspirins, vitamins, and a bottle of water on the nightstand.
Only then does he go take a—very cold—shower, get into is pyjamas, steal one of the unused pillows from his bed, and go sleep on the couch.]
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And he doesn't want this to stop.
But there's nothing for it: between the heaviness of the alcohol and the headiness of his orgasm, he passes out in almost no time at all, the lingering of Alhaitham's lips against his skin more than enough to lull him into the land of dreams.
(And dreams there are. A faceless figure with a silhouette built far too similarly to someone he knows, purring low words and promises in his ear as he fucks himself for a camera, knowing he's watched and admired and loved. When he cums, he turns his head and presses his mouth to the stranger's with a soft, contented sigh
and he tastes like smoke, fingers curling gently around his necklace to anchor him, to pull him close and hold him and cherish him and—)
He wakes with a start in a darkened room made of swirls.
...No, the swirls—
He blinks, and then closes his eyes with a groan. Fuck, how much did he drink?
And where is he? ...He doesn't recognize the clothes that he's wearing, either.
It takes Kaveh several, several long minutes to pull himself together enough to get out of the bed. (Perhaps even tens of minutes; he's not counting.) Thank all the archons and gods, he's not sick (again), but the aspirins and vitamins are downed without a second thought, the bottle of water emptied into his stomach so quick that it hurts, even as his throat is still parched. Only then does he emerge from the room, bleary eyes looking around a place that by all rights is far too nice for someone like him, and his voice cracks on a leftover hoarseness as he calls out lowly: ]
Hello?
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This is what he tells himself when he has trouble sleeping. Nothing to do with the blond vixen sleeping tightly on his bed. Nothing to do with how he had looked so comfortable in his Egyptian cotton sheets. Alhaitham did not, at all, want to slip under the covers and snuggle close. Never in his life.
Kaveh is Pharos. Of all things, of all odds. No theoretical process of elimination could have made him suspect of it in the slightest.
And yet, there he was, writhing beautifully underneath him, asking him to fuck him. Without knowing what to do with the fan across the ethernet, watching him closely.
Alhaitham fell asleep with the thought that at least, he wasn't alone. They had each other. Perhaps they always did.
So when he hears the 'hello' ringing in his apartment, he hadn't slept that much and he frowns, and sits up, looking over the back of his couch to where the voice came from. Who...?
Oh, it's him again. He smiles and lays back down, wanting to go back to sleep.]
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Never mind that Alhaitham apparently wants to sleep. Kaveh stalks over to the other side of the couch, staring down at him in what is meant to be anger but no doubt shows more like the mortification cutting him down to his very bones. ]
What the hell am I doing here? [ he seethes. ] Where are my clothes?
[ And then, as he belatedly recognizes the acrid taste on his tongue, the remnants of a cigarette he could never have smoked— because he doesn't: ]
And what the fuck did you do to me?
no subject
Our clothes are hanging to dry. You threw up on me.
[He tilts his head.]
You don't remember? [He didn't seem that drunk. At least not enough to be blackout drunk and not recall.]
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Holy fucking shit. No.
[ He threw up on Alhaitham... but that's not all. Then, he came in his own pants like a schoolboy experiencing his first time. But for that to have even happened, they... the two of them... he...
Urgh.
Archons, Alhaitham had been far less drunk than he was, but he'd been into it, hadn't he?
Kaveh's arms fold protectively over his chest. ]
I hope you don't think that that meant anything. I don't give a fuck if you've got some stupid crush on me. I was drunk.
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Eyes straying to how he folds his arms over his chest, Alhaitham nods.] You don't have to worry about that. What happened doesn't need to be anything if you don't want it to be.
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Oh my god. [ His laugh is harsh, bitter. ] You do. You do have a crush on me. What the fuck— I'm not okay with that. I don't want you to look at me that way.
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I will not act on it at all from now on, to the best of my ability, or unless you want me to. [He gets up from the couch, padding barefoot towards the kitchen.] C'mon, we both need a cup of coffee.
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Ugh. This whole thing is just...
Ugh. ]
No. I'm fine. I don't need coffee. I just— I want my clothes, and I want to go home.
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Well, I do. [Need coffee, he means. He points at a side of the kitchen.] And the hanger is in the kitchen as well, I placed our clothes in an electrical one so they'll dry faster, but I'm not sure if they're completely dry yet.
[He picks up a coffee grinder from a cupboard, gets a specific kettle from another. Then grabs a bag of coffee beans from a pantry. His movements are mindless but methodical—he's done this over and over again, like a ritual.] You're free to take a shower, too, and leave whenever you wish. I won't hold anyone here if they don't want to be.
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I'll put these on and leave. I'll shower when I get home, I don't need anything from you.
[ Fuck, he hates this. With the still-wet clothes in his hands, he just feels stupid, not confident (which is what he was aiming for). He keeps his head high though as he stalks back to the room and changes quickly.
He does, at least, fold what Alhaitham changed him into, and leaves it on the edge of the bed. ]
I'm leaving, [ he snaps as he storms past the kitchen. ] And I don't want to talk to you next time I see you.
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Once the door clicks shut, the silence grows heavier, settling into the corners of the room with a palpable weight. Alhaitham resumes grinding the coffee beans, methodical, therapeutic even, but it does little to distract him from the replaying scenes of last night and this morning.
Kaveh's anger, his mortification, and the clear rejection sting, of course, but Alhaitham is no stranger to slipping it into a veneer of rationality. He pours water into the kettle, sets it on the stove, and waits for it to boil, allowing himself a moment of vulnerability. He's always prided himself on his self-control, his ability to navigate the complexities of most relationships. Yet, with Kaveh, it seems he's perpetually at a loss, always one step behind, reacting rather than acting.
The kettle whistles, pulling him from his reverie. He prepares his coffee with practised ease, each step a part of a ritual that's as familiar as the back of his hand. Yet, today, the comfort he usually finds in this routine is absent. The coffee tastes bitter, a reflection of the morning's events, perhaps, or maybe just an oversight in his brewing process. He takes a sip, contemplating the latter as a metaphor for his interactions with Kaveh: too much heat, not enough patience.
He wonders, not for the first time, what it is about Kaveh that so thoroughly dismantles his composure. Is it the architect's passion, his vibrancy, the way he wears his heart so openly on his sleeve? Or is it the challenge he presents, a puzzle that refuses to be solved, pushing Alhaitham to confront the limitations of his emotional intelligence? Or rather, that somehow, even in person and without knowledge of their actual identity, they make each other feel seen.]
Can't be just that. [He mutters, and tsks his tongue when the coffee burns it.]