Work Text:
It starts when Kaveh picks up a sketchbook at the supply store. "Hm," he says. "Hey, do you have any mora on you?"
"Yes," Alhaitham says. He pauses. "You realise—"
"Yes, yes, just add it to what I already owe you. Geez, you're so stingy. I'm gonna get a big one then!"
"... The only person you're punishing is yourself, you realise," Alhaitham says, but he pulls out his wallet.
-
-
-
Alhaitham forgets he even bought the damn thing, until—
"Wait wait wait hold on," Kaveh says. "Don't move! I want to draw you!"
"... Now?" Alhaitham says, but he allows himself to be shoved back down onto the mattress. He feels it shift and bounce as Kaveh scrambles off the bed, hears hurried footsteps and then the clamour of multiple drawers slammed open in succession.
Ridiculous. The sweat hasn't even dried from their skin. Alhaitham watches Kaveh pull a drawer out hard enough it escapes the railing entirely. Things clatter to the floor: Receipts, a tape measure, screwdrivers and pens.
"Your sketchbook is in the living room," Alhaitham says at last.
"It is? You couldn't say earlier!?" And then: "Don't you dare move, I mean it, wait right there—" And he's gone, the drawer left upside down on the floor.
Alhaitham lies back down. It is not, he reflects, as if he's prone to moving much after sex, anyway. His eyes, already heavy, slowly close.
Then the door slams open—with enough force it hits the wall, bouncing violently.
"Found it!" Kaveh declares.
"Did you just damage my wall?" Alhaitham asks. His eyelids lift just enough to reveal a slightly blurry Kaveh.
"I'll fix it later!" Kaveh says, "Didn't I say not to move?"
"I'm not moving."
"You turned your head!"
"..." Alhaitham sighs. Whatever. His own cum is drying on his stomach; Kaveh's is leaking out of his hole. And yet he feels pliant and relaxed.
Kaveh, when he works, can somehow fill the room with quiet. This despite the noises that accompany his projects—the hammering, the sawing, the grinding. As if his sheer focus draws all the tranquillity and peace in Teyvat to him.
This time is no different. Kaveh's pencil glides skrtch skrtch across the paper, and Alhaitham falls asleep.
-
It happens again, although this time not in bed.
"Fuck!" Kaveh says. "Don't move!"
"... I'm cooking breakfast," Alhaitham points out. "Do you not want these eggs?"
"Then cook very slowly," Kaveh says, "I mean it!" He scrambles off the chair fast enough the reaction force wobbles it back and forth. It nearly falls.
When Kaveh comes back, the first thing he says is, "What's that!?"
"Burnt eggs," Alhaitham says. "You said to cook slowly."
"I didn't mean—at least flip them over!"
Alhaitham does end up frying more eggs, if only because Kaveh doesn't even check to see whether the food he's shovelling in his mouth is burnt or not. Chili sauce gets on the page as he works. Alhaitham catches a glimpse of himself—staring down at the stove, steel-grey hair in his eyes—as he leans over to wipe the mess.
Kaveh immediately squawks, shielding his sketchbook with an arm. "No, don't look yet! It's ugly." And then, under his breath: "'Cause you move too much—hey! That's my breakfast!"
"You didn't seem to want it anymore," Alhaitham says. He steals another bite.
-
And again.
They're at a market. Alhaitham is contemplating halfmoon pancakes when he sees Kaveh furiously scribbling, that sketchbook of his balanced against Mehrak and the post of the neighbouring stall.
"Ah, damn," Kaveh says. "You—"
"Moved. I know. I am a living, breathing being, Kaveh," Alhaitham says. "If that upsets you, draw faster. Better yet, learn to draw people in motion."
"Forget it. If you buy a pancake, can we share?" Kaveh says, already putting the sketchbook away with a despondent air. "I'll feed it to you," he adds, with big, shining red eyes. "That way you won't get your hands dirty."
"... Fine," Alhaitham says. He turns to the auntie behind the stall. "One, please. Peanut."
-
-
-
Kaveh is a sporadic artist. He's decent at it, in Alhaitham's inexpert opinion, but he doesn't draw with enough frequency to truly become a master.
Kaveh’s hobbies are many and varied, but often short-lived. He likes to do everything. He dabbles in sculpting; was briefly enamoured with music; and even had a passing affair with origami.
And so Alhaitham expects Kaveh to follow the same pattern with drawing: For a few weeks, it will be all Kaveh wants to do. For the next few months, he might still exhibit some interest. But by this time next year... those sketchbooks and tools will be kept in storage, and Kaveh's desk will be littered with whatever new thing has caught his eye.
But for now, drawing is all Kaveh cares to occupy himself with in his free time. The first thing he will do when he gets home, even before taking a bath, is open that damn sketchbook. When they eat out, the sketchbook comes along. And at night... well. Alhaitham was woken up more than once to a pencil poking into his thigh, or papers crumpled under his face.
Even now, deep in the rainforest on a research trip, Kaveh brought the sketchbook along. Mehrak is starting to give it the stink-eye, as if only one rectangular-shaped object should be allowed to figure significantly in Kaveh's life at a time.
It isn't that Alhaitham doesn't understand—sometimes, a book will grab him by the throat and refuse to let go. He is no stranger to hyper-fixation. But what he doesn't understand is...
"Why don't you draw anything else?"
"Huh? What else would I draw?" Kaveh says.
Alhaitham looks around at the abundance of flora and fauna that surrounds them. "What else," he says, dry.
They are seated amidst the protective boughs of an old-growth tree. Kaveh's all bunched up, his long legs folded, sketchbook precariously balanced on his knees, his shoulders hunched as he furiously sketches. His eyes ping-pong from the page to Alhaitham. He's absorbed enough not to reply, or argue. That's fine with Alhaitham. He lies back down, and—
"No!" Kaveh cries.
"... What?"
"You moved," Kaveh says, the same way someone might yell you kicked a baby.
"Then draw me sleeping," Alhaitham says, exasperated.
"I've got so many sketches of you sleeping already," Kaveh complains. "I want variety!"
"Then draw something else."
"I don't feel like it," Kaveh says. He sounds distracted, flipping over to a new page.
"Why not?" asks Alhaitham, who is a little tired of getting yelled at for the crime of being in motion.
"..." Kaveh doesn't reply, and so Alhaitham opens his eyes to look at him.
Kaveh's face is flushed nearly as deep a red as his scarf. When their eyes meet, he jerks like Alhaitham caught him thieving snacks in the middle of the night. "I-I-I don't know!" he yells. "Don't ask me!"
Ridiculous.
-
Here's something else Alhaitham doesn't understand: Why Kaveh especially likes to draw him after sex.
(He did try during sex, once, but Alhaitham had climbed onto his lap and said, "Keep drawing if you want, I'll find a way to entertain myself," and taken Kaveh inside himself. That had put an end to that nonsense.)
"Stay still," Kaveh says.
Alhaitham's jaw works. "I—what?" he says. His voice is hoarse. He starts to turn over, but a hand on his side stops him. Alhaitham obeys the wordless command, his mind still not quite returned to Teyvat. "Yeah, good boy," Kaveh says. "Just stay still for me, alright?"
Alhaitham's eyelashes flutter. His fingers flex, the blanket bunching underneath his hands. "Alright," he agrees. He feels content.
He expects something to happen. For Kaveh to put his hands on him, maybe. Or, if they're done, for the feeling of damp cloth gliding on sweaty skin. But nothing happens... except for the by-now very familiar sound of a sketchbook flipping open.
"... Kaveh?" Alhaitham asks. His fingers spasmed. "You're... drawing?"
"I'm drawing," Kaveh says, sounding a little distracted. "You look b... argh. I mean. Can you just stay still for me, please? I swear, it won't take long." That hand traces a line from lower back to his neck; a thumb rubs soothing circles against his vulnerable spine.
Alhaitham's throat works. "How long?" he rasps.
"Not long, and it'll take less time if you stop talking."
Alhaitham stops talking. But some of that pleasant, floaty contentment is fading.
He is not, by nature, a man prone to feelings of shame. Not because he doesn't have his pride. (Kaveh would call it arrogance.) But because he seldom dwells on the things he has said or done overmuch. That is a tendency Kaveh has all the claim of.
But...
He's on all fours, on their bed, his knees still tucked under his torso. The sheets he is lying on are mussed. The room smells of sex: Of sweat, of their combined musk. His face is half-buried in a pillow. And—
And he can feel Kaveh's spend, still dribbling out of him.
All of this is on full display.
Alhaitham swallows. His heart thuds in his chest. "Kaveh," he says.
"Huh?" Kaveh asks, distracted. Alhaitham chances a glance. Kaveh is entirely immersed in his work. His gaze flits over Alhaitham. It is... surprisingly dispassionate, as if it isn't his naked lover displayed before him. For some reason, that makes Alhaitham's heart beat even faster.
Between his legs, he feels himself stiffening again.
The sound of Kaveh's pencil stops. "Haitham?" Kaveh asks.
Alhaitham presses his face into the pillow. A blush burns the back of his neck, his ears.
The sound of barefooted steps. And then a hand rests on the sensitive skin of his thighs. "Uhhh, I couldn't help but notice..." Long fingers curl around his dick, and Alhaitham releases a ragged exhale.
"You were looking at me," he explains, voice muffled.
"... So you've got a kink for—"
"Kaveh."
"—being looked at," Kaveh finishes, voice unsteady. "Wow. Uh." And then, thank the Seven, he settles behind Alhaitham and puts his mouth to good use, taking him apart with lips and tongue and fingers.
-
One day, Kaveh leaves the sketchbook in the study.
It's balancing on a precarious pile of books. Alhaitham sees it while he's perusing his collection. After a moment, he finds himself reaching for it.
Well, why not. Alhaitham is someone who obeys his own whims. He takes the sketchbook down, finds his favourite chair, and then cracks it open.
The cover is already worn, proof of Kaveh taking it everywhere. Many pages are stained; an entire corner is browned from an unfortunate spill. (They'd been a very quiet duo at the tavern that day, for once. Kaveh had drawn; Alhaitham had read; and Lambad had asked, tentative, if they were fighting. "Actually fighting," he had clarified. "Of course not," Alhaitham had replied; in his experience, actually fighting means not being allowed in Kaveh's life.)
Alhaitham looks down at the first drawing.
It isn't very good. The shapes are ill-formed, the lines lacking confidence. It's Kaveh's first attempt at art in who-knows-how-long, after all. Yet there is a charm in the roughness, like the glint of long-buried treasure in the sand.
Alhaitham turns a page, intrigued.
There are many, many drawings of him in various positions of repose. There are also many, many drawings of him reading. There are some sketches of him in motion—quick gestures and hurried scribbles—that suggest that Kaveh prefers his subject to be still. Although on that (hah) subject...
There is only Alhaitham in this sketchbook.
If other objects or people feature, it is because Alhaitham was interacting with them. There he is at Lambad's, holding a bottle of wine. There is a sumpter beast, on which he is riding. There are an abundance of books, some of them with detailed covers, some of them the vaguest of rectangles. There are the various surfaces and chairs that he was lying or sitting on. But the main subject of each and every drawing... is Alhaitham.
He turns another page.
There is heat on his cheeks, in his chest. For all their intimacy, there exists a gulf between them. Alhaitham feels as if he is stepping closer and closer to the edge of a cliff.
Ah. And there he is on all fours, his ass on display. Kaveh had some breakthrough here, a more dispassionate, objective part of his mind notes. This sketch, more than any of the others, feels alive: The shadows on Alhaitham's thighs just right, the blush on his cheeks perfectly rendered, even the glistening juices leaking out of his hole vivid.
His eyes, slightly dazed, shimmer with a film of tears.
This is how he looks like after sex. This is what Kaveh sees after—
"NNnnnghaaaaaargh!?" Kaveh cries at the doorway. He sounds like a malfunctioning automaton.
Alhaitham closes the sketchbook with unsteady hands. "You're back," he says. His voice is less even than he hoped.
Fortunately, Kaveh doesn't notice. "Why were you looking at that!?"
"... It was on the shelf."
"Still! Don't look at it! Since when were you interested in my things!?" Kaveh cries, and strides forward. His hands are full but he manages somehow to snatch the sketchbook from Alhaitham. Alhaitham doesn't bother to protest, or to fight.
"Fine. Then I won't look at it anymore," he says. Then pauses. "Without permission."
"So you do want to look at it!"
"... It's all me, of course I'm curious," Alhaitham says. Emotion grips his chest like a vice.
"What?" Kaveh says, not even looking back. Objects clatter onto the table, and he sorts them absentmindedly.
"Why me? Why only me?" Alhaitham says. "What do you see when you look at me?"
"... Ah?" Kaveh stops. Turns.
Their eyes meet.
It is not as if they never look at each other. They live together, after all. They have conversations; have arguments; have sex.
So why is the room so suddenly fraught with tension?
Kaveh has looked at him so often, lately. It baffles Alhaitham. What is there to look at? Why is it enough to make Kaveh reach so often for the pencil?
"I see..." Kaveh says. Alhaitham watches him swallow; watches a blush slowly stain his cheeks. "I see... uh..."
Alhaitham waits.
"Does it matter?" Kaveh sputters, finally. "I... we live together, what's wrong with drawing you, you're the only guy around me half the time so of course I—!" He stops. Slams a wrench down onto the table as he turns back around. Even his ears are red, Alhaitham notes. "Of course I want to draw you sometimes," Kaveh mumbles, not at Alhaitham but at some gadget. "Fuck. You and your curiosity, I swear..."
Alhaitham studies the tense line of his shoulders; his jagged, angry movements; and says, only: "I see."
-
-
-
Kaveh stops drawing him.
Alhaitham feels some regret, but he also feels some relief. As if, having come to the edge of a cliff, he looked down into a vast chasm and... stepped back.
It becomes another chapter in the unfinished book of his life. Another incident to occasionally think on. Alhaitham prefers living one day at a time; so it is when he deals with Kaveh. How does it affect him if Kaveh draws him or not? And it is not as if his opinions or thoughts have ever swayed Kaveh's behaviour, anyway, except in unexpected or unintended ways. Why dwell overmuch on what is, in the end, just another one of Kaveh's fleeting hobbies?
-
-
-
"Fuck," Kaveh says. "You feel so good." Alhaitham stares down at him. Kaveh can't kiss him when they're like this—he can't reach—but he reaches up with a scarred hand and rubs Alhaitham's lips. Calloused fingers slide into his mouth, and Alhaitham takes them in as easily as he's taken Kaveh inside.
Kaveh's eyes are dark with lust; the expression on his delicate face makes Alhaitham's chest tight. It makes him want to squirm away.
And then Kaveh says, "You look... you look..." He swallows. "Shit. I want to draw you."
Alhaitham tilts his head back, until only the tips of Kaveh's two fingers touch his lips, and then slowly draws his mouth back down, swallowing those fingers as if they were something else. His tongue presses flat against the ridges of Kaveh's nails; the swollen knuckles. And then he pulls away, leaving a trail of saliva behind. "Now?" he says. He doesn't look away.
"N-now what?" Kaveh asks, voice high-pitched and cracking. "Ah?"
"Good," Alhaitham says.
"G-good... no, that's you," Kaveh says. Alhaitham's eyelids flutter. "It's 'cause you look good, you look so unbelievably good right now—"
Ah, Alhaitham thinks. He's reached the babbling stage already.
"—every time you look this beautiful I just wanna... I wanna draw you."
And then Kaveh looks stunned. As if he were drinking at the tavern, and realised he'd just drunkenly blurted out something he shouldn't.
"Oh?" Alhaitham says. Kaveh stops moving. Alhaitham leans close; raises his hips, the corded muscles of his thigh flexing; and then he slams himself down, with enough force that Kaveh jerks, the hand on Alhaitham's hip tightening hard enough to bruise. "Then draw me after," Alhaitham says, and raises himself up again.
"Ah... a-after," Kaveh answers, or tries to answer. "Haitham, Haitham, you're being so good, you're too good for me, fuck fuck fuck keep going—"
Alhaitham does.
Later, he wakes up later to the feel of the mattress shifting underneath him. Alhaitham's eyelids are heavy as anchors; he opens his eyes nevertheless. "Where you... going?" he mumbles.
"Um," Kaveh says. "To get get my sketchbook."
He won't meet Alhaitham's gaze, like he's going out to commit a crime rather than simply drawing.
"Because you think I look beautiful?" Alhaitham asks.
"I never said—! Okay, I did," Kaveh admits. His voice drops to an urgent whisper, as if they weren't alone in Alhaitham's bedroom and some passerby might overhear. "But it's only because... because you...!"
"Is it a bad thing?" Alhaitham asks. "To want to draw me?"
"... Because you—huh? What? Of course not."
"Then keep doing it. Do what you want. Isn't that what you always do?" Alhaitham turns over, moving himself one heavy limb at a time. He has to, to hide his blush. "Kaveh," he says. "Thank you for finding me beautiful."
This is already far too much coherency—and honesty—for the dead of night. "If you're drawing," he finishes, "don't turn on the lights."
"... You want me to draw in the dark?" Kaveh says, but the reply sounds rote.
"Don't turn on all the lights, then."
Kaveh doesn't reply. And then Alhaitham feels a hand in his hair. Kaveh's fingers are rough, but his touch has never been anything but soothing.
"Fine, fine, I'll only turn on the bedside lamp," Kaveh says. His words hint at complaint, but his tone is fond. A kiss brushes against Alhaitham's forehead.
-
Alhaitham wakes up to the sight of Kaveh half-fallen off the bed. His sketchbook is tucked under his chest. When Alhaitham sits up, he dislodges a pencil.
Alhaitham eases the sketchbook out from underneath Kaveh, smoothing the crumpled paper carefully. His fingers, dragging across the graphite, accidentally leave a few streaks.
The sketchbook feels heavy in his hands. Every page, Alhaitham realises, is full of Kaveh's regard for him.
He finds the most recent drawing. It's rough, the shadows of Alhaitham's face only vaguely blocked out with the flat side of Kaveh's pencil. But Alhaitham thinks he detects the slightest curve of a smile in that graphite mouth.
It perfectly matches Alhaitham's own as he looks down not at the drawing, but at the artist.
Warmth floods his chest. Alhaitham leans down to press a kiss against Kaveh's lips. Maybe he'll buy Kaveh another sketchbook.