[ 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
no subject
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?
no subject
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.]
no subject
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.]
no subject
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.
no subject
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.
no subject
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.
no subject
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.
no subject
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.
no subject
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.
no subject
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.
no subject
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.]