Archive of Our Own

~.*.~


1.

“—Hey, I said listen. Are you… are you sure about this?”

Al-Haitham glances over his shoulder; blinks away the damp strands of ash-grey hair from a narrowed gaze. It isn't the first time Kaveh had voiced his worries that night, and it certainly won’t be the last from the sound of it.

Al-Haitham shakes his head wordlessly before he shifts, tilts his hips back, defiant. Kaveh’s breath stutters at the abrupt movement, his fingers slipping—sliding past the slicked rim and further into the moist, inviting heat of Al-Haitham clenched firmly around them.

It takes nearly all of Al-Haitham’s resolve to stifle back a noise of arousal, of need that’s culminating at the back of his throat when the tips of Kaveh’s fingers brush against that one sensitive spot within, rubbing circles around the bud of nerves that stirs the coiling heat within his belly to the base of his cock.

Still, Al-Haitham keeps his composure; he is nothing but calm, collected. Placid, yet persistent. He exhales softly through gritted teeth, willing the action to steady the tremulous beat of his heart before he lifts his gaze to meet Kaveh’s concern once more.

“You’re already two fingers deep in my ass, and now you ask if I’m certain about this?” Al-Haitham says, impassive save for the subtle mirth inflected in his voice. “Perhaps you should be questioning your own hesitance, senior. Considering how you’re the one who initiated this.”

“Wha—!?” Kaveh splutters, looking almost ready to have an aneurysm at that. “Excuse me? You’re the one who was lying naked in my bed and touching yourself earlier. If you can’t even appreciate my help trying to ease you into this, then go be properly indecent in your own bed, you deviant!”

The left corner of Al-Haitham’s mouth twitches again with silent amusement. He doesn’t quite understand Kaveh’s fluster over this not-so-absurd situation they find themselves indulging in—stranger things have occurred between them before, after all—but it humours him, nevertheless.

Kaveh lets out a harrumph, clearly disgruntled by Al-Haitham’s unabashed smirk. A tinge of scarlet colours his face as his scowl deepens. “To think I’d taken pity at your feeble and obviously unschooled attempts at pleasuring yourself. It almost hurts to watch just how… how mechanical you are. There’s hardly any sensuality to it…!”

Al-Haitham arches an eyebrow at the supposed criticism. He's no stranger to Kaveh’s propensity for theatrics, of course. But he’s also well aware how Kaveh’s haughty fussing is merely another mask for his hesitancy, an attempt at restraint, at maintaining his crumbling sense of decorum and modesty. Al-Haitham frowns, his sharp gaze turning petulant at the thought. He grinds back against Kaveh’s hand again, clenching harder around Kaveh’s slicked fingers, as if to make a point. To which Kaveh can only choke out another stuttering noise of surprise, the rosy flush now rising from his face and neck up to the tips of his ears.

“Oh? To think that you’ve been observing me the entire time—truly the relentless spirit of a distinguished scholar.” Al-Haitham goads with the barest of smiles, voice coy as he slowly works himself against Kaveh’s fingers. He relishes at the way Kaveh sucks in a sharp breath at the contact; at the way his rim is stretched and spread out—so wet and hot and tight—around Kaveh’s knuckles. “Then, perhaps as the more seasoned masturbator between us, you’d care to demonstrate the full extent of your dexterity in debauchery.”

Kaveh’s expression flits between incredulity and chagrin at the retort, at every obscene squelch as Al-Haitham continues to move, but his hesitance doesn’t last. It’s a subtle, almost indiscernible change, a bird taking flight soundlessly—but Al-Haitham doesn’t miss the glimmer of anticipation, the spark of hunger that glints now within those bright crimson eyes, so remarkably different and yet not so dissimilar to the fervour that Kaveh pours into his art.

He doesn’t miss the knowing grin that tugs over Kaveh’s lips as he flicks a tongue over his incisors, as though he’d reached a decision of sorts. And before Al-Haitham can goad him again for taking too long, Kaveh abruptly reaches his free arm around Al-Haitham’s sternum, forcibly dragging him back and tipping them over sideways so that they’re both lying spooned upon the sheets instead.

With his arm still hooked under Al-Haitham’s right knee, Kaveh lifts Al-Haitham’s thigh up closer towards his chest, spreading him wider. Then, Kaveh drives his fingers in deeper, twisting and rubbing incessantly over that fleshy nub of nerves that soon has Al-Haitham writhing and squirming in his hold with a loud, strangled moan.

“Say, Al-Haitham,” Kaveh purrs into the shell of his ear, voice dangerously low and sultry, and a thrill of anticipation flutters wildly within Al-Haitham’s chest, a moth trapped in a jar. “You know what happens to mouthy, insolent brats, don’t you?”

Al-Haitham chokes back a wet gasp at another jab from those elegant fingers teasing his insides, struggling to keep his composure and yet craving for much more. He manages a huff of amusement as he glances back, eyes sharp with defiance; a challenge. “If this is—mhm—your idea of punishment, then I can barely feel it—A-Aah!!”

His breath now fanning hot, Kaveh sucks and bites mercilessly along the length of Al-Haitham’s flushed nape, his fingers curling in just so, and Al-Haitham shivers, stifling back another groan. Kaveh gradually adds a third, then a fourth finger—circling and rubbing against that pulsing bundle deep within that easily punctures through Al-Haitham’s resistance and self-control. Al-Haitham arches back into Kaveh’s chest with another involuntary gasp, a whimper of need, his thighs tensing and his cock already jutting upright, red-hot and swollen, against his stomach, precome dripping copiously from the slit.

“Kaveh, you’re going too… Kaveh, w-wait—!” Al-Haitham shudders again, the all-too-familiar warmth pooling at his groin, white-hot sparks coiling at the base of his spine. There’s a stinging pain at his neck when Kaveh sinks his teeth into Al-Haitham’s flesh hard enough to bruise, his fingers still persistent, hooking, curling, squelching in further, his thumb massaging firmly against Al-Haitham’s perineum, and—

The world seemingly grinds to a halt with bated breath; the heat catches in Al-Haitham’s throat, sweltering and thick, arousal flaring like molten sparks in his blood, in his core, the waves rising, cresting higher and higher, and—

And Al-Haitham is crying out, moaning and trembling in Kaveh’s hold when he comes, the sudden orgasmic rush of intense pleasure lancing through him, chasing all tangible thoughts from his mind.

2.

 
The problem began—as with most things in Al-Haitham’s current living situation, sharing a home with another person—with alcohol. Or at least, with Kaveh’s propensity to be inebriated, his reasoning and mental faculties too easily impaired after guzzling down his second round of Lambad’s house wine.

“Mmhh… Haitham, where…? Oh, there you are… Hmph, always hiding away with your nose in your books again.”

Al-Haitham doesn’t lift his gaze at the approaching clamour; doesn’t even deign to reply with the customary acerbic remarks he usually keeps on hand for nights like this one. Normally, he would have preferred not to stay up past his usual bedtime. But he also preferred not to be rudely awakened in the middle of a good night’s sleep by the Matra banging on his front door on account of his roommate’s (mostly) verbal brawls at the tavern, or worse, to Kaveh simply stumbling blindly into the wrong bed again and mistaking him as a convenient pillow.

He's already been made aware earlier of his roommate’s drunken return from the fumbling sounds of a key unlocking the front door, followed by a string of intelligible curses when the key slips from Kaveh’s unsteady fingers just as the door creaks open; and then, the familiar singsong lilt of alcohol in Kaveh’s slurred voice after he snatches up said key from the floor with an exaggerated flourish—“Hah, you’re not getting away from me this time! Haitham isn’t—hic—fooling me again...!”—and finally sways past the threshold into the living room.

Al-Haitham frowns slightly as he turns a page from his book with an elegant hand, chin still propped languidly against his left knuckle. He doesn’t attempt to move from his comfortable seat on the divan despite Kaveh’s looming figure before him.

“Tch… What did I say about ignoring me when I’m talking to you, Haitham!” Kaveh snaps after an awkward silence passes between them. As he takes a step forward, he accidentally snubs a toe against the leg of the coffee table with a yelp, very nearly stumbling into the lap of his roommate—had Al-Haitham not swivel his body away at the last moment.

Kaveh barely manages to avoid hitting his cheek against the wooden back of the divan, landing face-first into the soft silk cushions instead. He whines out another incomprehensible complaint, voice muffled by the cushions, before he lifts his head and rolls around on his side, snaking his arms around Al-Haitham in retaliation.

Nettled at having his personal space suddenly encroached upon—and no less by an extremely drunk roommate who not only reeks of alcohol but is being unnecessarily loud—Al-Haitham clicks his tongue and tries to pull himself free. But Kaveh only tightens his hold, clinging to Al-Haitham’s waist like a particularly stubborn Dendro fungus.

“Kaveh.” Al-Haitham bristles at another grating whine in his ear, still not lifting his eyes from the page to look at Kaveh. He belatedly regrets removing his noise-cancelling earpieces earlier, but he’s still intent on finishing his book tonight, drunk roommate or not. “Let go.”

“Haahh?” Kaveh slurs again, doing anything but letting go. “Why are you—hic—avoiding me? You’ve always been so un-cute as a junior and you’re even worse now, what with the attitude… and those… those stupidly luscious pecs!”

Al-Haitham only arches a brow at that. What does the size of his chest have to do with his personality? He knows it's futile to question the logic of one so hopelessly inebriated, but Kaveh has been known to lament about similar grievances aloud even when perfectly sober. Still, Al-Haitham keeps his eyes on the pages of his book, stubbornly ignoring Kaveh and his soused tirade, even though the incessant complaints are making it rather difficult to concentrate on the text.

“I’d understand if it were the other pompous sorts at the Akademiya who don’t treat their underclassmen well… But I’ve always been more than a reliable senior, haven’t I?!”

“If being consistently inebriated after only two cups of wine is what counts as reliable these days, then perhaps you’re indeed the role model all juniors should strive for.”

“You—! Ugh, you’re always so disrespectful of your seniors. I just…I just didn’t want to spend the rest of the night alone! But fine… Be that way…”

At Kaveh’s sudden dejected tone, Al-Haitham exhales a weary sigh and finally puts his book away. He turns to meet Kaveh’s maudlin gaze, lifting a gentle hand to brush a thumb against those alcohol-flushed cheeks; an unsaid reassurance.

“You could’ve simply said so from the beginning.” Al-Haitham admonishes, his expression softening into something closer to fondness, the ghost of a smile upon his lips. “In any case, have we not already achieved a singularity beyond such superfluous academic titles? We know and understand each other best, after all. So, there’s no need to reduce this… kinship into shallow formalities such as senior and junior—being ‘Kaveh’ and ‘Al-Haitham’ is more than enough.”

Kaveh fixes him with a quizzical stare for a silent moment, as if he’s finally sobering up at Al-Haitham’s words. Then, he lets out a low chuckle, all the earlier tension diffused from his shoulders.

“And to think I’m supposed to be the romantic one,” he mutters, half-exasperated and half-resigned. But there’s a spark within his gaze, his smile growing wider when Al-Haitham only angles his head at his reaction.

Kaveh presses himself closer then, calloused fingers running down Al-Haitham’s spine and tracing circles at the divots of his lower back—and despite himself, Al-Haitham feels himself leaning into the touch, a tingle crawling up his spine. He inhales slowly at the sudden intimacy of Kaveh’s touch; at the heat of Kaveh’s palms pressed into the sliver of bare skin at his back, kneading against his muscles.

Before Al-Haitham can begin to protest, Kaveh moves again in a flash, his fingers now entwined with Al-Haitham’s own as he pulls them both to their feet. Kaveh stumbles about with another laugh, his bare-footed steps unsteady from the wine still singing in his veins. He drunkenly leads Al-Haitham in a poor mimicry of a dance around the living room, their knees bumping against each other, against the low coffee table at every clumsy twirl and spin.

It’s a ridiculous moment, one that Al-Haitham really should put a stop to, lest someone stubs their toes again against the furniture and ends up with splinters. But Kaveh’s smile is luminous even in this dim light, his laughter infectiously bright, the sudden intensity of his tactile affections—the way Kaveh’s right arm remains curled around the small of Al-Haitham’s back, their hips pressed closed and fingers interlaced as Kaveh continues his low humming, their foreheads and lips brushing so close that Al-Haitham can smell, taste the wine on Kaveh’s breath, Kaveh’s lips—overwhelming his senses enough that has Al-Haitham almost, almost yearning for more.

Kaveh’s humming gradually peters out, his face now slumped drowsily against the crook of Al-Haitham’s neck, his hands still clinging stubbornly at Al-Haitham’s waist and hips. Al-Haitham sighs then and wordlessly steers Kaveh towards his room before he can fall asleep on the divan.

Back in his own room and lying awake in his bed while he watches moonlight slipping in from the window, Al-Haitham tries not to dwell on the memory: the laughter ringing bright and vivid his ears; the sensations of Kaveh’s fingers and palms tracing a path up along his back to his chest, his lips, his face; the warmth of Kaveh’s touch lingering, pulsing with the fierce heat of the stars pressed into his bare skin.

3.

When the dreams are returned, the people of Sumeru begin to embrace them once more—some with a little more caution, while others with wholehearted enthusiasm. Where once the act of experiencing dreams itself would have been scorned as whimsical, irrational flights of fancy befitting only of a child or the unenlightened, an increasing number of Amurta and Rtawahist researchers now consider the subject of dreams a legitimate study on the cognitive potentials of the human mind, and one that may also allow a glimpse into the fates of living beings, much like the stars.

After all, as their beloved Dendro Archon, Lesser Lord Kusanali, once said with a distant look in her crystal gaze and an all-pondering rueful smile: Wild and wondrous thoughts would emerge from the people’s dreams. That even knowledge that blooms within dreams are both extraordinarily insightful and humbly mundane; that it is these indescribable things, ever-changing, ever-shifting in shape, sound, and colour—much like the littlest bud that creeps up the trunk of the giant Rukkhadevata tree to blossom under the sun, to the fledgling bird that sheds its down feathers to eventually soar free in the endless skies—these are but the most profound things in the world.

“Only dreams can awaken consciousness from the deepest darkness.”

Al-Haitham ponders about his dreams often, the fleeting images and sensations often lingering in the dark recesses of his subconscious long after dawn. Like many adults in Sumeru City, he begins to dream again not long after he’d helped to free Lord Kusanali from her imprisonment, ousting Azar and the corrupt sages from their iron-fisted reign over Sumeru and its rightful Archon.

When dreams of his grandmother first return, two nights after the celebratory feast in the Grand Bazaar, they trickle in alongside a heart-aching familiarity, with the clinging nostalgia of his childhood. Fragments of colour, sound, and touch—cherished memories of the past—he recalls often enough even while awake: the comforting warmth of his Teyta’s turquoise blue shawl draped over his shoulders, and the scent of the kalpalata lotus oil she’d massaged into her hands; the rhythmic brush against his head as she combed wrinkled fingers through his tousled hair, loosening the stray kinks in his silver-teal tresses; the steady cadence of her voice as she described the schematics of her old design projects, or recited passages from his mother’s published journals and the meticulous annotations from his father’s research essays.

Even the strange forest folk that he still glimpses between the shadowed foliage of reality appear often in these dreams. They remain cautious yet inquisitive, much like when he’d first met them as a curious toddler. But here in the bright dream-fields, their rotund figures adorned with mushroom-like hats and leaf-propellers on their heads bob ecstatically before him, as though greeting an old friend. They tug gently at his own small fingers, leading him through the rainforest to pick the herbs and flowers that he’d read could be brewed into a soothing tea for when Teyta’s aching joints and wheezing coughs kept her longer and longer in bed with each passing day.

A whispered lullaby sounds through the veil of blue and green, fragments of images falling into place—

“You are such a smart and sharp child. It is not a bad thing to be different, but you must always take care to have a clearer mind than others,” his grandmother says, still soft and kind, the light in her eyes already fading too fast, too soon. “Vain pursuits are but dust, and you must always discern your own path with the greatest wisdom.”

A warm hand caresses his cheek then, the kalpalata lotuses slowly withering, waning in colour.

“Be well, my dearest Al-Haitham…”

“I will.” (Stay, please… I don’t want you to go!)

“I know you will find your own path and be a great scholar in your own way…”

“I promise I’ll do my best.” (Please don’t go, don’t leave me…)

“And always remember, my child… You can always find me there, between the pages of your books, and within your heart. May we walk together in the Dendro Archon’s dreams again someday…”

“But I want you here—!” At her fragile smile, he feels the sorrow, the jolt of despondency rise again within his chest, his composure almost faltering, fracturing. But—but no, he doesn’t want Teyta to leave filled with such sadness and conflict. So, he is determined to send her off with the same assurance and comfort she’d always bestowed him—even if his voice wavers for a moment, a wedge of emotion lodged in his throat.

He draws a tremulous breath and brushes the stinging moisture from his eyes instead; returns her smile with one of his own before he lifts and presses her limp hand to his face.

“…Yes. Goodbye, Teyta… And thank you, for everything.”

I love you.

The dream shifts, silver-green leaves and violet petals falling with the approaching lilac dusk, and—

And then, ten-year-old Al-Haitham is left to tread silently through the rainforest, alone with his thoughts, his tears, and the Aranara once more.
 

※

He is cognizant of the reasons, the emotions behind these first dreams, of course. That grief and loss is an inevitable and universal part of the human experience; that it does not always lessen with the passage of time—only tolerated better, moulded and adapted into one’s routine as life continues to move forward.

Al-Haitham knows this; has always understood that it’s a slow, self-healing process in its most logical and pragmatic sense.

Even so, he awakens with faded tears beneath his lashes each time, the hollow ache of Teyta’s absence returning tenfold alongside the lingering, bittersweet affection, like a knife shoved between his ribs. It’s only natural for one to miss and yearn for family, especially for one as esteemed and beloved as his grandmother—and despite the long years, Al-Haitham continues to keep her words close, cherishing his memories of her with a deep and lasting fondness.

4.

Since the incident of Kaveh’s intoxicated dance around the living room, Al-Haitham’s dreams shift once again, fragments of glimmering light and sound sieving through the wisps of colour—this time, to moments particularly focused on his days alongside Kaveh as students in the Akademiya.

It isn’t that he has never shared intimate touches with Kaveh before. Though it had been spurred mostly by a scholarly curiosity—and hormones, evidently—typical of many pubescent students their age, it had been common between them even then, when it was just the two of them, alone in their shared solitude and loneliness.

When Al-Haitham treads through his dreams again, down the bright hallways in the House of Daena, he ignores the buzz of energy, the daily bustle and chatter of the student body. His scrapped right hand is pressed against the ugly bruise on his cheek, but he continues resolutely past the heavy, cerulean-patterned doors out of the Akademiya, walking up the winding, sloped path until he reaches a secluded area in Razan Garden.

The fragments of the dream shifts, changes; and Al-Haitham finds himself seated at a familiar gazebo beside large violet and white blossoms. Kaveh’s brows are furrowed in concentration, his lips pursed into a grim line as he dabs a gauze soaked with antiseptic at the red scrapes along Al-Haitham’s knuckles. Al-Haitham knows the tense silence won’t last, and sure enough, Kaveh clicks his tongue and shakes his head with melodramatic disapproval.

“It’s the second time this week,” he chides, voice sharp, even as he dabs gently at the purpling bruise on Al-Haitham’s right cheek.

“I’m aware.” Al-Haitham only gives a non-committal shrug, wincing slightly when Kaveh begins cleaning the thin graze just above his right brow. At Kaveh’s reproving scowl, Al-Haitham releases a soft huff of amusement; an attempt to lighten the atmosphere, to at least reassure Kaveh that his injuries are mostly superficial. “You should’ve seen the scrapes on them. Comparatively, this bruise is nothing.”

Kaveh lets out a snort. “Am I supposed to be glad that you’re better at fisticuffs than most? And if this is ‘nothing’, then hold still and stop fidgeting already! Let me clean your wounds properly.”

Al-Haitham blinks warily when Kaveh lifts and cups his face with a firm hand.

“I said the wound isn’t serious; I never said it didn’t hurt,” he hisses, petulant, and flinches again when Kaveh dabs more stinging antiseptic over his bruised cheek. He struggles against Kaveh’s hold for a moment longer, before he gives up, relenting to Kaveh’s ministrations with a sulk.

“Besides, it’s not my fault that Siraj’s lackeys are terribly slow and bad at dodging blows. If they had wanted to escalate a verbal academic disagreement into a physical one, then they should be just as prepared to defend their arguments with their fists.” Al-Haitham pauses at a thought then, his teal gaze turning smug. “Anyway, I don’t think they’ll be heckling me anymore. I’m certain I’ve made my point.”

Kaveh scoffs again, but Al-Haitham doesn’t miss the relief that flickers over his expression, the way the corners of his mouth quirk upwards.

“Oh, I’m sure you got your point across when you landed that last punch. In any case, don’t go off all on your own next time! That way, they’ll think twice before going against the two of us together.”

“Seems like you’re much more enthusiastic about joining fights than stopping them, Senior Kaveh.” Al-Haitham shakes his head at the ludicrous proposition, even as his own minute smile grows a little wider.

Kaveh only chuckles, his crimson gaze bright with mirth and perhaps a touch of pride, now that most of his concerns have been assuaged. He pats clean gauze over Al-Haitham’s bruised cheek, securing it in place with tape, the pad of his thumb tracing along the bridge of Al-Haitham’s nose.

Al-Haitham sighs, leaning slightly into the warmth of Kaveh’s touch. Before he can speak, Kaveh lowers his hands to clasp his fingers around Al-Haitham’s wrists, his touch both gentle and firm as he draws them closer.

They sit in silence as Kaveh meticulously dresses the wounds over Al-Haitham’s knuckles and palms with bandages. Al-Haitham closes his eyes then to Kaveh’s careful ministrations, allowing himself to indulge the tenderness in every brush and stroke of Kaveh’s calloused fingers tracing over his skin; in the way the heat from Kaveh’s palms lingers when his hands dip further below to grip around his lower back, embracing him possessively.

“Kaveh?” Al-Haitham’s eyes flutter open at the growing warmth prickling all over his skin. The world around him turns in a whirl of starlight, the fragments fading to dust. Glancing about, he tries to pinpoint the source of this sudden wave of… discomfort (desire?) but there’s nothing tangible that his sight can discern through the greying mist, the swirl of emotions.

Another spike of heat runs through him, the sensations sending a tingle up his spine and Al-Haitham stumbles to his knees, disorientated. When he shakes himself and scans his surroundings again, he finds himself in Kaveh’s old house, seated on Kaveh’s old bed with his back pushed against the headboard.

Kaveh himself is sitting opposite him in this new dreamscape, one hand wrapped firmly around Al-Haitham’s left hand as he squeezes their slicked palms along the lengths of their erect cocks, fisting the throbbing shafts together, the pads of his fingers thumbing at their leaking slits. Each clumsy stroke and flick of Kaveh’s wrist has Al-Haitham gasping and shuddering bodily, his face flushed and pressed against Kaveh’s sweaty neck as he tries to swallow down the building heat from his groin.

“Haa… Haitham, are you close...? Here, let me—”

Kaveh lets out another shaky breath, his eyes aglow with need; with a kind of exhilaration that Al-Haitham has seen flickering over his profile whenever he’s thoroughly enraptured at tinkering with a particularly challenging artefact or puzzle, steadily picking the designs and mechanism apart, piece by piece, with a methodical precision.

Sitting this close to Kaveh, with his thighs straddled over Kaveh’s sides and their naked hips rubbing against each other, Al-Haitham feels the heat of arousal stirring, rising between their bodies as Kaveh’s deft fingers continue their work, fondling and pumping more lube up and down their thickening lengths. Al-Haitham wants to speak, to protest, but Kaveh only jerks them faster, his strokes growing more frantic and persistent as he loses himself to the chase of thrill, dragging them closer, closer to the edge, and Al-Haitham can only cling desperately to Kaveh’s neck as he tethers dangerously over the precipice.

“Kaveh… W-wait… No, this isn’t—K-Kaveh–!”

Al-Haitham is already spurting streaks of come before he realises he’s awake, his hips jerking involuntarily against the pillow under him, his cock half-hard and twitching, the pads of his fingers still stroking unconsciously against his rim. His heart is racing, his ears still ringing with the adrenaline rush as he blinks the dream-mist from his lashes in the dark, the slivers of heat and unfettered gasps dissipating with the approaching dawn.

5.

This latest dream leaves Al-Haitham far more disgruntled than he’d anticipated and cared to admit. Not one to remain unduly perturbed for too long, however, he shifts his focus, spending the next few days contemplating the events of the dream, mulling over shards of scattered memories, the meld of sensations—solace, contentment, elation… an almost indulgent and selfish gratification—and soon rationalizes that it isn’t all too strange or incongruous with his psyche.

To put it objectively: He and Kaveh both possess physical traits that can be considered fairly good-looking by the general populace, even aesthetically pleasing to the eye of hypothetical admirers and would-be suitors alike, both handsomely beautiful in their own ways. Given Kaveh’s exceptional brilliance and ingenuity, his proclivity to present himself with flair and a poised elegance, and the underlying camaraderie that they had shared since their burgeoning youth together in spite of all the verbal philosophical tussling and mundane bickering—to presume that Al-Haitham has never felt any type of attraction or affinity towards Kaveh would be almost… disingenuous.

(It's always the littlest things that Al-Haitham finds himself silently appreciating the most—the near-comical outbursts that comes with Kaveh’s clever retorts to Al-Haitham’s own witticisms; the crinkle of a smile and the flurry of excitement whenever Kaveh is hit by a wave of inspiration; the glimmer of sunlight over the carnelian clips clasped between woven braids of gold; the turquoise blue feather that somehow continues to bob upright even when Kaveh is at his most incensed and reactive; the elegant, winged lines of kohl that accentuates the intensity of Kaveh’s proud gaze).

And while some perceive him to be callous and too distant, Al-Haitham is not chiselled from stone; he's still flesh and blood, and fully capable of the physiological responses typical of humans. Despite his general indifference towards romantic, let alone sexual, relations, there have been rare moments where he’d experienced bouts of libidinous desires not unlike that of many Sumerian males of his age and health. With all of the above in mind, he’d considered that he would encounter dreams of such nature at least once in his life, and that this current phase would run its course and, like most dreams, eventually fade into the backdrop in due time.

Still, the dreams persist over several weeks. Perhaps it was sentimentality that had prolonged its stay, the quiet wistfulness that Al-Haitham still holds close within him even through their years apart; or perhaps it was the unexpected tenderness in Kaveh’s touch from that one night of drunken dancing, the intimacy of their embrace treading the line, the intangible walls they had so carefully constructed around themselves, despite how entangled they have become, sharing a home together once again.

But whatever the triggers, the dreams stubbornly persist. Sometimes they’re simple dreams, snapshot images of old memories, vignettes of a shared kinship—He and Kaveh sitting together at their favourite spot in the shade of a large adhigama tree, on the highest hill overlooking the city; Kaveh scribbling out design calculations in his sketchbook while Al-Haitham buries his nose in an old handbound tome, reading until he falls asleep against Kaveh’s shoulder in the lull of the late afternoon breeze; Kaveh lying beside him upon a blanket on that same hill as they take turns looking through the amber spyglass Kaveh made (based on the design notes Al-Haitham found in his grandmother’s old journal), mapping out the constellations and stars that flickered across the velvet night sky with their fingers.

The dreams would begin as mundane simplicities but almost always grew in intensity. And soon, Kaveh’s hands and lips are roving, caressing over Al-Haitham’s naked body—his fingers, then his teeth, his tongue—mapping out his own constellation of kiss-marked bruises that he’d imprinted fiercely upon Al-Haitham’s face and neck like strokes from a paintbrush; over the geometry of the emerald piercing beneath his clavicles and the planes of his chest, trailing down the slope of his hips to the meat of his quivering thighs and the glans of his throbbing cock.

And Al-Haitham would finally climax as he jolts awakes, half-erect, with a disconcerted gasp, the flush of arousal and the vivid sensations—Kaveh’s fingers gripping bruises into his flesh; Kaveh’s tongue licking, invading hungrily into his mouth, swallowing his every moan as they grind against each other—the only lingering remnants of his receding dream. 

※

“Ah. I guessed you’d be reading in here too.”

Kaveh doesn’t wait for Al-Haitham to respond, already making his way past the door into their study, hands carrying a cardboard box filled with blocks of clays, crafting tools, brushes, scrap paper, and a large roll of canvas.

It’s late afternoon on a Saturday. Al-Haitham is seated languidly at his usual corner of the study table reading through his third book and jotting down annotations with a quill in his left hand. Kaveh has been busying himself with several errands since early morning, and it doesn’t seem like he’s planning to take a break anytime soon either. No rest for the wicked as they say, Al-Haitham muses with silent amusement.

He looks up from his book when he hears Kaveh padding over to the table, just opposite from where he’s seated, and places the box down.

“It's sort of a rushed job for two old-time clients I bumped into a couple of days ago.” Kaveh explains as he unrolls the canvas sheet over the table and begins to lay out the items before him. His lustrous hair is pulled back into a messy half-bun, and he’s dressed in an old painted-spattered lounge shirt, the one he typical dons when he’s creating a physical prototype from scratch.

“They’ve been really supportive when I first started as a freelance designer and weren’t a nightmare to work with each time. So, I’d like to try making a prototype sculpture that can double as furnishing and decor to brighten up their living room—I think it would make for a good wedding gift for them. Do you mind if I…?”

“Not at all,” Al-Haitham says, attention already shifting back to the contents of his book. “The table is large enough for the both of us... Oh, but if you’re going to start hammering away, I might have to consider banning you from the study. It’s bad enough that you cause such a ruckus in the middle of the night.”

“Erk… Do I look like I’m using a hammer right now?” Kaveh retorts a little defensively, holding up a block of terracotta clay and jabbing a silicone brush at Al-Haitham’s general direction with disconcertment. “Besides, as much as I can’t always brute-force or will my way into inspiration, I can’t be holding myself back either when the moment finally strikes! Hmph, you’d understand if you actually appreciated the artistic process.”

“I do appreciate the artistic process,” Al-Haitham intones flatly, with a near-imperceptible smile. “Except when it’s the cause of my sleepless nights.”

Kaveh bristles visibly for only a moment, before he coughs into a fist, unwilling to meet Al-Haitham’s knowing gaze. But he at least has the decency to look sheepish and somewhat contrite at the mention of his habit of hammering away at a project late into the night. Al-Haitham decides to refrain from needling Kaveh further and turns back to his book. Soon, a comfortable lull falls over them as Kaveh begins working on his prototype in earnest.

Al-Haitham glances over the page, searching again for the paragraph he’d paused at earlier. But he finds his gaze wandering again after a moment, catching glimpses of Kaveh from his periphery. Kaveh is seated now, oblong pieces of clay and his crafting tools lined up before him on the canvas sheet. His brow is creased in deep concentration, his eyes alight with a razor-sharp focus. Having Kaveh this close as he works with his hands, Al-Haitham finds himself unable to fully concentrate on his reading, his line of sight being drawn away by the movements before him.

He lifts his gaze slightly, teal eyes flicking past the edge of his book. Sunlight catches on Kaveh’s lustrous hair. His loose braids are weaved into the half-bun, held in place by the carnelian clips, with only a stray golden lock framing the right side of his profile, accentuating the cut of his jaw and cheekbones.

It’s a familiar sight that Al-Haitham sees nearly every day. He's used to seeing Kaveh like this at home; even prefers it, he thinks—dressed down and a little dishevelled, but much more relaxed and open with himself; more Kaveh, and less of the poised image of Sumeru’s genius architect, the Light of Kshahrewar.

Al-Haitham is used to the sight but finds himself unable to glance away this time. So, he watches on in silence, observing the way Kaveh’s hands move with precise care and attention as he works the terracotta clay; as his dabs water from a small dish with elegant fingers to run along a medium-sized column of moist clay, kneading and shaping it slowly to form an elongated body with a curved waist—a vase, or perhaps, a flagon.

As he continues to observe Kaveh work, enthralled by the deftness of every twist and stroke of Kaveh’s fingers meticulously sculpting the form and essence of an idea into the clay, encapsulating his vision of the design into a physical shape, Al-Haitham thinks back to an old folk tale he’d heard from the seas, a drunken story shared among the fishermen and ship merchants of Port Ormos. A master craftsman who had devoted years and years into his art, sculpting the perfect and ideal form of Man from pure marble, that he could no longer look upon mortal flesh with any vigour or joy, for he saw only blemishes where there should only be perfection. The craftsman had fallen so deeply in love with the beauty of his own creation that the young goddess of love and destruction took pity at his cries and prayers, transforming marble into living flesh and blood so that the two could live out their simple lives together.

Is it the same for Kaveh then? Al-Haitham ponders in the silence. Could he love only in the way he loves his creations and the process of creating? These imperfect things that he moulds from clay, from metal, wood, and dirt; that he shapes and refines into perfection from his own worn hands and overwrought mind, nourished with his blood and sweat and tears, forever chasing after an ideal so unattainable, it always seems out of reach?

Al-Haitham would not consider himself artistically inclined—despite what some merchants at the Grand Bazaar might say about the origins of the intricate designs on their best-selling luxury carpets. The human eye is, however, naturally drawn to motifs and symmetries, and he supposes there is a certain aesthetic appeal to the patterns of logic puzzles when it can be visualized in physical and concrete forms, beyond that of abstract concepts and hypotheticals.

Regardless, he does not think himself an artist, so he does not know; perhaps will never truly know, this eternal struggle that seems to beset the artistic soul. Still, he feels a shiver running down his spine as he continues to watch Kaveh’s hands working the moist clay; as he begins to wonder what ‘form’ he would take if Kaveh’s fingers were to thoroughly shape him into ‘art’; into something born of Kaveh’s ideal, of Kaveh’s love.

Before Al-Haitham realises it, he finds himself becoming aroused, flashes of desire stirring within his belly when fragments from his dreams rise again: Kaveh’s palms pressed hard against Al-Haitham’s waist as he holds him down, moulding his pliant shape with every curl and flick of his wrists and palms; calloused fingers and then a teasing tongue tracing, mapping over burning, sweaty skin before moist lips encircle his glans; the rush of pleasure when Kaveh begins to lick, to suck, to swallow—

Al-Haitham snaps his book shut with more force than he’d intended, the sound reverberating abruptly through the room alongside the blood pounding in his ears. He blinks; tries to steady the tremulous beat of his heart, his breath. Kaveh’s concentration breaks then and he jolts upright in his seat.

“Huh, wha–? You… What was that even about?!” He scowls at Al-Haitham’s seemingly impassive stare, perplexed by the jarring noise and movement.

But before Kaveh can voice another question, Al-Haitham rises wordlessly from his seat and turns on his heels, retreating from the study and into his bedroom, much to Kaveh’s chagrin and confusion.

 
6.
 

It’s an hour and a half past midnight when Al-Haitham finally tosses his blanket aside. He’s lying curled on his side, the weight of fatigue heavy on his eyelids.

The blanket is thin enough for Sumeru’s humid summer nights, made of high-quality moisture-wicking fabrics that help regulate body temperature by dispersing heat away while keeping out the occasional predawn chill. On most nights, he would have taken comfort in the softness of the woven bamboo cotton and muslin wrapped around himself, lulled to sleep within minutes. But tonight, the texture seems to only increase his sensitivity, his skin warm and flushed from the brush of fabric, from the heat of arousal prickling all over his body.

A month, and yet his dreams of Kaveh have not subsided in the least.

At first, the dreams had only been mildly bothersome; an unexpected, erotic inconvenience, but one that he would hardly consider a disruption to his everyday routine. At most, he’d only lost about two or three hours of proper rest in the night. And while it had taken him slightly longer to rouse the next morning, he always managed to arrive at the Akademiya on time for work, feeling merely a touch more languorous and tetchier than his usual—nothing that couldn’t be solved by enjoying two additional cups of brewed coffee at his desk by midday.

But when the dreams persisted every other night past a week, he realised it was becoming much more than just a simple distraction.

The drunken dance in their living room might have been the (likely) catalyst to all this trouble, but the incident in the study room with Kaveh working on his sculpture certainly escalated the intensity of the dreams. Even someone as collected, as placidly guarded as Al-Haitham would find difficulty in keeping his composure for long, his nerves gradually worn and frazzled by nights of restlessness and disturbed sleep cycles.

He releases a soft breath, before he pushes himself up, one arm braced against the mattress beneath him while he reaches down his back with the other. The slow-burning heat and arousal within him had made him strip down to only his underwear earlier. He tugs the underwear off now, slipping it past his hips and long legs, and reaches for the flared base of the plug that’s still slotted neatly into his anus. It’s a nondescript silicone toy he’d recently procured from an equally ordinary-looking shop tucked in an alley in Port Ormos, dark cherry-red in colour and slightly curved with a thick, bulbous head.

(The young assistant at the counter had frozen in shock, eyes wide with recognition and possibly mild panic, when he’d first entered the shop.

“Welco—M-Mister Scribe?!” He’d spluttered nervously at Al-Haitham’s nonchalant gaze. “H-Here? But why…?”

Fortunately, Al-Haitham was saved from further awkwardness from the poor assistant when the elderly lady boss, Madam Zharifeh, gracefully stepped in. Shrewd enough to catch on that Al-Haitham had appeared in her shop as a customer—and not in the capacity of a Mahamata conducting a random check to ensure the licensed adult goods have received proper approval from the Akademiya—she was quick to offer some choice suggestions once she’d discerned his particular needs with a few specific questions. Al-Haitham appreciated her straightforward honesty and confidence in her products, and the transaction was completed without much fuss within twenty minutes.)

He shakes his head, dispelling the idle thoughts as he slowly angles the plug further in. He’d procured it as a viable method to ease the nightly arousals, the aching need that lingered from his dreams of Kaveh. It had worked for a time, the sensation of being stretched out and filled satiating him enough to fall into a dreamless sleep for several hours.

But ever since Kaveh left for an assignment in the desert two weeks ago, the dreams had increased in intensity and frequency. Plagued by endless bouts of arousal through the nights, Al-Haitham can only lie fretfully in his bed, unable to doze off without the dreams resurfacing, and this continued throughout Kaveh’s absence.

Surely this must be some twisted form of separation anxiety, Al-Haitham reasons then, frustration steadily gnawing away at the cracks in his composure. A rueful longing for something that can never be… Or perhaps it is merely the weariness from the continual stress of arousal and lack of sleep? He closes his eyes, his fingers reaching tentatively for the base of the plug again before he’s visited by a sudden thought; a single radical idea breaking through amidst the clamour of his musings and the searing rush of desire.

Al-Haitham opens his eyes and sits himself upright at the edge of the bed, his decision made. There’s no avoiding it after all, he thinks, as he leaves his bed and silently pads towards Kaveh’s room.

※

Lying down on his side in Kaveh’s bed, he takes in the familiar scent of citrus and oakmoss—the fragrance from the moisturising oils that Kaveh dutifully massages into his hair and skin every night before bed—from the sheets and soft pillows surrounding him. Al-Haitham presses his face against the tunic Kaveh had left draped over a pillow, drawing in the lingering scent of Kaveh’s own natural musk with each slow inhale. He thinks back to that moment in the study; tries to imagine the flick and curl of Kaveh’s fingers brushing against his skin, Kaveh’s palms kneading him like he would with the moist clay, bending, shaping and moulding him into the perfect form.

Al-Haitham lets out a soft gasp at the memory, fingers reaching back for the plug inserted within him. He tugs at the base slightly before he pumps the silicone length in and out rhythmically to further loosen the tight ring of muscle. Every glide of the toy within him wrings a deep, shuddering moan from his chest, the angle of that bulbous head rubbing hard against his prostate with each awkward hook and twist of his wrist. At the same time, he’s circling his other hand around his half-erect cock, stroking along the length slowly and clumsily.

This is a radical and potentially very bad idea that could bring even more trouble his way. Al-Haitham knows this, is completely aware of it. But—his breath hitches at another thrust from the plug, pleasure pooling in his groin as he jerks his cock faster—but no, he reasons that it’s only a bad idea if Kaveh were to find out. And Kaveh doesn’t have to find out; never needs to know, of the dreams, of the lingering heat and desire, of the glimpses of emotion that’s always poised steadily on the verge, skimming briefly at the edges of Al-Haitham’s features, from within the folds of Al-Haitham’s heart, before slipping back again under elusive waters.

“Kaveh…” He exhales another low gasp and moan, precome dripping from his bright-red slit. Kaveh is only due to return three days later—Al-Haitham figures there is more than enough time between now and then for him to clean up Kaveh’s bed and wash the sheets should there be any unfortunate… accidents.

Yes, Kaveh doesn’t need to know of this, never needs to know; it’s fine, nothing will need to change and—

“Al-Haitham?”

He freezes then at that all-too-familiar voice, the sharp intake of breath; at the shock and incredulity flitting over Kaveh’s expression when his gaze finally meets the barely concealed alarm in Al-Haitham’s heated look.

… Ah.

Now this will be… troublesome.

Kaveh stares at him, utterly confounded and red with second-hand embarrassment.

Al-Haitham only stares back flatly, willing his racing heartbeat to slow down.

Another awkward beat of silence passes between them, then—

“Why are you back earlier than scheduled?”

“Why are you in my bed and naked?”

“… Well then. Goodnight.”

“You—Hey! What do you mean ‘goodnight’? That’s not even an explanation!”

“Tch.”

Al-Haitham knows he should apologize for intruding into Kaveh’s bed like this, or at least attempt an excuse—this wasn’t simply a bad idea; he’d merely miscalculated the possibility of Kaveh completing his work assignment sooner and returning home earlier—but he decides that he doesn’t want to deal with the aftermath of his lapse of judgment at the moment. He tries to sit up, intending to dodge any further questioning and somehow retreat back into his own room.

But Kaveh is looming over him now, the bed creaking under his weight, his arms bracketing Al-Haitham back down against the mattress. There’s a sudden glint in those crimson eyes, his glare morphing into something close to daring, to hunger. He reaches down, fingers tracing the edge of the plug that’s still slotted inside Al-Haitham before he presses a palm against the flared base. And Al-Haitham arches up with a cry at the sudden jolt of pleasure up his spine.

“Hey, Al-Haitham,” Kaveh says as he moves closer, his breath tickling Al-Haitham’s sensitive ear. “Are you getting yourself off in my bed because you want me to touch you?”

Al-Haitham can feel the flush of mortification, spike of arousal rushing through him, even as he opens his mouth, ready to retort, to deflect. But Kaveh presses against the plug again and Al-Haitham is all but stifling back another moan, body squirming, jerking beneath Kaveh’s weight.

And before Al-Haitham can find his voice again, Kaveh leans further into him to catch his lips, his tongue, kissing him fiercely and hungrily.

7.

When Al-Haitham gradually comes to, he blinks away the tears from his lashes, his vision misty around the edges. His mind is still dazed, clouded with a lingering euphoric fog, and it takes him several seconds to remember how breathing worked. He draws in another deep inhale to steady the fluttering in his chest, descending back into himself and grounding himself to the soothing warmth of a familiar hand cupped against his face.

“... Haitham? It’s all right… Deep breaths, okay?”

Al-Haitham blinks again, his vision finally focusing enough to recognise Kaveh’s form leaning over him, a gentle hand brushing back the sweat-drenched fringe from his half-lidded eyes. He releases a sigh, curling into Kaveh’s touch for a moment longer, savouring the silence, this rare moment of shared tenderness laid bare between them.

Kaveh chuckles softly as he tucks the tousled strands of silver-grey and teal away from Al-Haitham’s face, kissing over his cheekbones. “Haha… To think I would finally be able to see you like this—the perfect picture of a cute and demure junior. You looked so good sprawled like that, Haitham. So pliant, and so wrecked just from my fingers alone, begging for your senior’s help to make you come.”

Al-Haitham huffs at the remark. He lifts his head to glance over Kaveh, his brows furrowing when he notices the outline of the bulge in Kaveh’s underwear, his cock still unmistakably hard and leaking from the tip. He realises then that Kaveh had hardly touched himself all this time, so focused as he was on whittling down Al-Haitham’s composure and overstimulating him with the pleasure from his deft fingers.

For some reason, Al-Haitham finds himself somewhat irked by this fact. Not because it gives Kaveh the leverage to lord it over him, to provoke and tease him in return. Nor is it simply because of how easily Kaveh had found Al-Haitham’s most sensitive spots—the skin beneath the edges of the jewelled piercing above his sternum; the fleshy underside his nipples; the divots at the base of his spine; the juncture between his waist and hipbones—effectively bringing him to climax each time.

No, Al-Haitham is also vexed from this aching deep within that craves much more than just Kaveh’s fingers teasing him, the desire growing stifling hot in his veins again.

“I want you inside me,” he says abruptly. It’s not so much a request as it is a demand.

Kaveh gapes at him again, incredulous, before he clears his throat. “H-Huh? But… Hasn’t it been a while since we… I mean—it’s better for you if we ease into it slowly, you know?”

“The plug and your fingers have loosened me enough.” Al-Haitham insists with scowl, nettled by Kaveh’s misplaced concern. “Now fuck me already.”

“You… Seriously…” Kaveh turns to where the anal plug had rolled off earlier to the foot of the bed, looking over it with a critical eye. “That’s not even close to—” He stops himself mid-sentence, his face colouring again.

But Al-Haitham is tired of waiting. Despite his limbs still feeling near-boneless, he manages to hook a leg over Kaveh’s hip. Then, with one quick twist of his body, he easily rolls them over so that he’s straddled on top of Kaveh instead, one hand splayed firmly over Kaveh’s bare chest to push him back down against the mattress.

“Oh? Seems like you’re pretty confident about your own girth—You must be remarkably endowed, senior, to be so certain.” Al-Haitham remarks with a roguish grin, teal eyes almost sultry as he glances down at Kaveh. “All the more reason it needs to be inside me. Now.”

He grinds against the bulge in Kaveh’s underwear, smirking with satisfaction when Kaveh shivers bodily at the touch, bucking upwards with a low groan.

“Fuc—H-Haitham… Wait—” Kaveh whines when Al-Haitham reaches down to tug his underwear past his slender legs. He feels the curve of Kaveh’s erect cock jutting up between his thighs, brushing against the underside of his own throbbing cock, and he gasps, exhilaration thrumming in his veins.

Al-Haitham runs his hands over the planes of Kaveh’s body; watches as Kaveh trembles at every heated touch, naked and flushed below him. He traces careful fingers over the latticework of old, fading scars—scrapes from when they had fallen down a ruin in their youth; a larger graze from a tussle with bandits in the desert during a work expedition—scattered across Kaveh’s shoulders and biceps, ghosting over the lean muscles of his chest to his navel, and down the slope of his hips, before Al-Haitham reaches for the lube and slathers the squelching liquid all over their cocks.

Exhaling softly, he encircles his fingers firmly around their lengths, pumping their lube-slicked cocks together the way he had watched Kaveh do many times in the past (in his dreams), flicking over the glans and thumbing at the wet slits. It’s enough to make Kaveh shiver again and buck upwards, enough to elicit low noises of pleasure from him. Al-Haitham tightens his hold, wrist flicking in a steady rhythm as he continues to squeeze, polishing along their throbbing shafts together with swift, long strokes.

“H-Haitham…” Kaveh moans again, his pupils dilating with need now, lips pink and swollen from the earlier, intense kisses they had shared. “I can’t—I need—”

Al-Haitham doesn’t reply; merely leans forward, one hand still splayed firmly over Kaveh’s chest, over his heart. He smiles, teal eyes piercing, sharp with allure and a desperate fervour—one that has Kaveh almost losing it then, his hips shuddering, straining from the effort to keep himself from tumbling over the edge all at once at the sight of Al-Haitham’s yearning, at the intensity of his raw emotions on display.

Kaveh’s skin burns hot under his touch, sweaty with a sheen of grime from the desert. Al-Haitham can almost feel it, the thrum of Kaveh’s heartbeat against his palms, a pulsing, reverberating echo through his ribcage—steady, clear, alive.

He presses his forehead against Kaveh’s heaving chest, tasting the salty beads of sweat pooling on Kaveh’s sun-freckled skin as he laves a tongue over his hardened nipples. Sweat beads from his own temples, slipping down his nape and back, between the taut lines of muscle in his chest, his abdomen, his thighs. And Al-Haitham relishes it, the way their bodies glisten and grind against each other; the sounds of pleasure, of need that Kaveh tries to choke back with every involuntary thrust of his hips.

So Kaveh feels this way too under my touch…

“Al-Haitham… Haitham, please. I—” Kaveh whines again, the tremble of his low voice twisting further into Al-Haitham’s core, the heat of arousal spiking, flaring over his skin now like wildfire, his own erection throbbing in time to his racing heartbeat.

He releases his hold on Kaveh and pulls himself upright, still straddling over Kaveh’s thighs. Then aligning himself carefully, he lowers his hips, impaling himself on Kaveh’s swollen cock in one jarring movement.

Al-Haitham stifles back a gasp at the contact, an electric jolt running up his spine. It almost, almost seems too much, and he spreads his legs wider to accommodate, lean thighs quivering from the building pressure.

But as he begins to move, working himself up and down the length of Kaveh’s engorged cock, and when Kaveh rolls his hips up with erratic thrusts to match his pace, Al-Haitham finds himself relishing the burning stretch, the fierce rush of sensations through him, savouring both the pain and pleasure of their intense joining. Kaveh bucks again in response, callous fingers gripping flowering marks into Al-Haitham’s waist and thighs, his breaths coming out sharp, his groans growing louder now, until he’s thrusting relentlessly at an angle, at that sweet spot, over and over, that has Al-Haitham all but wailing out—"Ka..veh... K-Kaveh!"—as he comes, white-hot and sticky, all over Kaveh’s abdomen.

Spurred by the obscene sounds of sex, by the heat and squelch of come and sweat between their slicked bodies, Kaveh surges forward, pushing himself up to catch Al-Haitham’s lips with a fervent kiss, to lick and swallow his noises of pleasure. Al-Haitham feels Kaveh’s cock twitch just before he tenses up and spills inside of him. But before he can catch his breath again, Kaveh’s cock is swelling within him, stretching and filling him up again as Kaveh groans into his neck, his fiery gaze lust-addled and needy with want.

Kaveh rolls them over easily then, pinning Al-Haitham under him again as he continues to fuck into him, and Al-Haitham can only let out a full-bodied moan, even as he rides through his own receding orgasm, breathless and writhing under Kaveh’s frantic hold.

“J-Just a little more—Ah, fuck, Haitham, you’re so hot, so tight around me—” Kaveh pants incoherently, kissing, biting hungrily at his ear, his neck, his lips, rocking their hips together as he thrusts deeper, harder, until Al-Haitham’s body clenches and grows slick and taut under him again; until Al-Haitham is clawing, grasping desperately into Kaveh’s sweaty back, moaning and arching and shuddering against him with overwhelming pleasure again and again, unfurling, undone, with Kaveh following suit again soon after.

.

.

.

.

.

※

“I dreamt of you, of our Akademiya days together… Of all the ways I can still remember your touch,” Al-Haitham says later, as they lay entwined between the sheets, their flushed bodies pressed close. “And it wasn’t just about the physical intimacy or even about the act of sex itself. I think that… Perhaps it was simply the manifestation of a desire. A wish, if you will.”

“And what wish is that?” Kaveh asks, fingers tracing gently over the edges of the glimmering emerald embedded in Al-Haitham’s chest.

“To close the rift between us. Or at least, to rebuild that bridge once more.” Al-Haitham pulls Kaveh’s hand close, pressing it to his heart. “To mend the pieces we both seem to carry within us, even till now.”

Kaveh doesn’t respond for a time, contemplating in the silence; his expression softens then before he lets out a chuckle. “Heh… Seems like there are times where you can be honest with yourself.”

“I don’t know what you mean,” Al-Haitham replies, cat-like and almost coy. “I’ve always been honest and true to myself.” His eyes are bright, dappled sunlight in the forest, as he holds Kaveh’s gaze once more. “Regardless of what has happened in the past, and of our differences… You’ve always been a piece of home to me, Kaveh. You always will be.”

Kaveh blinks, a tinge of rose dusting his features at this sudden declaration. He glances away, raising a hand over his face, as if torn between mortification and smugness. But Al-Haitham recognises his tells all too well—it’s hard not to, with a grin as wide as the one that’s tugging over the corner of Kaveh’s mouth now.

“… Stop sounding so romantic,” Kaveh grumbles, almost haughtily. “It doesn’t suit you.”

“Oh?” Al-Haitham hums with the barest of smiles. “Looks like you do actually prefer my awful personality, after all.”

“Well, yes—Wait. No! No, I do not. Tch… Quiet. Stop teasing.” Kaveh looks ready to argue again, with another sharp rebuke on his tongue. But Al-Haitham’s soft laugh is infectious, the glint in his eyes playful and alluring, and Kaveh can only press his face against Al-Haitham’s marked neck, nipping at the sensitive skin there in mock retaliation.

“You’re still incorrigible, you know.” Kaveh sighs when he finally pulls away, leaning back into the sheets.

Al-Haitham beams wider, irreverent and unabashed. “Evidently so.”

Kaveh shakes his head, even if he can’t quite hide the mirth, the tenderness in his gaze. “Still… I suppose I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

“Of course; in essence, we're merely two individual halves of a whole.”

“Hah! Any more of this and you’ll soon be writing poetry.” Kaveh laughs before he reaches for Al-Haitham once more, embracing him for another kiss.

And Al-Haitham thinks then, that perhaps things will be all right; that whatever happens from here on, whatever comes their way, he’s willing to try once more together with Kaveh.

And that alone is enough for him, for both of them, to begin again.  

—End—