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Alhaitham had known something was wrong for three days before Kaveh said anything about it.
It was the pacing first; uneven, looping, stopping short of the bedroom door before starting again. Then, the muttering. The kind of noise that carried through walls in fragments rather than sentences. Numbers, colours, the occasional frustrated huff that suggested an argument being lost to the air.
By the second night, there came the sound of drawers opening and closing with increasing urgency. Fabric sliding against fabric. A chair was dragged across the floor and abandoned. Once, something struck the wall hard enough to make Alhaitham look up from his book.
He did not intervene.
Intervening without being asked had never gone well between them.
Still, he noticed when Kaveh stopped sleeping. When the kettle boiled twice in a row and went untouched. When the muttering sharpened into something brittle-sounding, the words repeated not unlike an old building refusing to settle.
On the fourth morning, Alhaitham passed Kaveh’s door and caught a glimpse of colour through the crack; too many shades were layered together, none of them quite right. The scribe registered the detail without comment and continued to the kitchen, where he made coffee for two out of habit and left one untouched on the marble counter.
The cup cooled there.
By afternoon, Kaveh's muttering had turned inward. No pacing now. Just silence that stretched uncomfortably thin.
Alhaitham closed his book.
This must have been about the meeting, the scribe assumed. The important one Kaveh had been pretending not to care about whilst asking half the city what to wear to it all last week. Nilou’s thoughtful suggestions were too flashy. Tighnari’s practical objections were too dowdy and plain. Cyno’s enthusiastic, irrelevant puns on the subject of clothes simply frustrated the blond further. It seemed the architect was dead set on asking everyone.
Yet, Kaveh had not asked Alhaitham.
That, more than anything, was what finally drew the scribe to his feet. He paused outside the door, hand hovering for exactly one breath before knocking on the solid wood. Not loudly, not softly. Precisely enough to be heard.
“Kaveh,” he announced, calm as ever.
From inside, a sharp inhale through Kaveh's nose could be heard. Then, brittle and defensive, as if bracing for impact, the blond responded:
“What.”
It was at that moment that Alhaitham decidedly turned the knob and pushed the door open.
He did not step inside immediately.
Kaveh stood a few paces back, seemingly caught between motion and stillness. The blond stood tall; long-limbed, broad-shouldered in a way that lent him a noticeable presence even now, while frayed at the edges. His flaxen hair, usually styled with deliberate care, had escaped into disarray. Pale strands caught the afternoon light as they fell loose around his face. It only made his ruby eyes more striking. Bright and expressive. Far too honest for someone trying this hard to be composed, in Alhaitham’s opinion.
The scribe simply took in the scene without commentary. The way Kaveh’s shoulders were drawn back too far, how his chin lifted in defiance rather than confidence. A stance that said 'I am ready to be judged'. The shirt the blond wore sat wrong on him. The collar askew unevenly, sleeves rolled asymmetrically. Wrinkles marked where the cream fabric had been gripped, smoothed, and gripped again. Stress, not style.
Behind the architect, the remainder of the room bore the marks of prolonged indecision. The bed was half-buried beneath fabric; shirts sat in jewel tones and neutrals alike. Some were folded with care, others haphazardly abandoned mid-decision. A chair near the window nearly sagged under the weight of discarded jackets, sleeves dangling like exhausted limbs. Sunlight filtered through the stained glass and drawn curtains in uneven bands; catching on silk, cotton, and wool to cast soft highlights that only emphasised how little of it truly belonged together.
Kaveh’s gemstone gaze flicked to Alhaitham’s face, searching. Almost measuring, as if to expect the scribe to say something sharp-tongued. The expectation tightened something in Alhaitham’s chest he did not dare to name.
“If you’re here to say something unhelpful,” Kaveh said too quickly, voice already edged with defence, “you can just—”
Alhaitham crossed the threshold and closed the door behind him.
He still did not speak.
The scribe did not bother to look at Kaveh as he bent to retrieve the first garment from the floor. Meeting the blond's gaze now would sharpen the moment into confrontation, and this was not something that needed to be argued into place. The shirt he picked up was silk.
Not crushed; silk resisted such a thing. Instead, it dulled. The fabric's surface was marred by careless handling. It slid cool and light through his fingers, catching the sunlight in muted flashes of green as he lifted it. The colour was familiar, chosen with care rather than trend. It was the sort of style Kaveh gravitated toward when he wanted to feel composed without feeling constrained.
The first expensive shirt the blond had ever bought with his own money from a job.
The memory surfaced with inconvenient clarity; Kaveh standing in the doorway that night, flushed and defiant, insisting far too loudly that it had been a reasonable purchase. He had listed the cut, the craftsmanship, even the durability, as if daring Alhaitham to argue. The architect had worn it to dinner and then folded it away again, careful, almost in reverence, as though afraid the feeling it gave him on their night out might disappear with overuse.
Alhaitham smoothed the fabric now, slow and precise to ease out the creases left by the blond's frustration. In his hands, the shirt looked less like a risk and more like what it had always been meant to be. A statement that was worn quietly.
Kaveh looks good in this.
Not impressive. Not artistic. Good.
Behind the scribe, Kaveh made an incredulous sound.
“What are you doing?” the blond demanded. “If you’re going to criticise my taste, just—say it already.”
Alhaitham pointedly ignored the comment. Deft hands set the pale green shirt carefully on the bed instead of the chair; aligning it with the edge as though the rest of the room were not in disarray. The contrast was deliberate. Order, introduced gently, without announcement.
The scribe reached down again.
This time his fingers closed around loose wool pants, folded once and then abandoned. The fabric was heavier, structured, the sort Kaveh favoured when it was cooler weather and he expected to be taken seriously (even if Kaveh resented the necessity of it.) The season was right; and nights were bitterly cold in Sumeru this time of year. Alhaitham straightened the fabric properly, smoothing the creases with the side of his hand before placing it beside the shirt.
Those were the pants Kaveh had worn the night he moved back in after a particularly egregious argument.
It was on the cusp of winter around then as well. The two ate together in silence as if Kaveh hadn't left for half a day after bickering, the space between them weighted with things neither had been ready to say. Kaveh had been careful that night, posture utterly rigid, as if he were afraid of being asked to leave for good. Alhaitham had noticed. He noticed everything about that night, down to the very way his own chest clenched at the sight.
The scribe noticed now, too, the way Kaveh had gone still.
Not calm. His breathing was still shallow, uneven; yet attentive. The restless energy in the blond had arrested mid-spiral. Kaveh stood a few steps away, arms crossed loosely over his chest in a defensive manner; a ruby gaze fixed on the bed where the beginnings of an outfit took shape. Long, lightly calloused fingers flexed and curled, uncertain whether they were permitted to interfere with the process unfolding before him.
“You’re not answering me,” Kaveh huffed, quieter now. “You know that, right?”
“I am,” Alhaitham replied, voice even. “Just not verbally.”
The scribe rose and scanned the room again, slower this time, as ideas quickly formed behind his turquoise eyes. What had previously been chaos resolved into possibilities. Colour relationships. Weight and drape. Pieces that belonged together, if only someone had the patience to see past the noise.
Fondness settled in Alhaitham's chest, unwelcome but undeniable. It was not sudden. Nor dramatic. Instead, it was the kind of blooming feeling that came from repetition. From memory. From knowing where something, or someone, fits in place.
Kaveh exhaled, long and shaky, and scrubbed a hand through his already dishevelled hair. “You’re being weird,” he relented, without heat. “You know that?”
“Yes.”
The corner of Kaveh’s mouth twitched upwards despite himself.
Alhaitham reached for the next piece and paused. Not because he had changed his mind, but because Kaveh had moved closer without realising it.
The space between them had narrowed to less than an arm’s length. Close enough now that Alhaitham could see the faint crease between Kaveh’s thin brows. He drank in the way exhaustion had softened the sharpness of Kaveh's expression without dulling it entirely. Up close, the contrast was clearer. Kaveh, all silk hair and expressive angles, hands that never quite knew what to do when he was anxious, and a presence that filled a room through motion and emotion rather than force.
Alhaitham straightened slowly.
The scribe was marginally broader, built with a solidity that favoured stillness over display, his posture unyielding even at rest. Where Kaveh radiated tension outward, Alhaitham contained it, compact and deliberate. Standing this near, the difference was unmistakable.
“Hold still,” Alhaitham murmured.
Kaveh blinked. “What—”
Alhaitham reached out before the architect could finish, fingers closing gently around the edge of the silk shirt where it lay against Kaveh’s shoulder. The fabric slid easily beneath his touch, cool and smooth, catching faintly on the warmth beneath. He adjusted the seam with care, straightening the line so it followed Kaveh’s frame instead of fighting it.
Kaveh froze.
Not rigid. Just suddenly aware.
The room felt smaller at this distance. The clutter blurred at the edges of Alhaitham’s vision. The half-drawn curtains, the bed behind them marked with careful order amid the chaos, the late-afternoon light settling into gold along the floorboards. What remained sharp was the rise and fall of Kaveh’s breathing, shallow but steady, and the way his shoulders eased as the shirt was decisively adjusted.
Alhaitham stepped back a fraction, assessing.
The change was subtle but immediate. The fabric sat cleanly now, the line of the collar framing Kaveh’s neck instead of bunching against it as it did previously. The blond looked less like someone bracing for judgment and more like someone prepared to meet it.
Kaveh glanced down at himself, then back up.
“Oh,” he breathed softly.
Alhaitham lowered his hand. “That,” the scribe lingered his fingertips at the hem to ensure the seam didn't roll, “is where we start.”
Kaveh did not move right away.
Alhaitham watched the reaction unfold in stages, subtle enough that most people would have missed it. The initial stillness gave way to a slow release of tension. The blond's shoulders dropped and his breath evened out as if something heavy had been set down without ceremony.
Kaveh’s gaze drifted toward the narrow mirror mounted beside the wardrobe. He turned his head slightly to study the line of the shirt where it fell clean now. The fabric felt as if it followed him instead of fighting for attention. The silhouette was mesmerising in the reflection, caught between the mirror and the way the light from the window haloed around his frame. For a moment, the architect looked almost startled.
Alhaitham recognised the expression. It was the same one Kaveh wore when a design was finally resolved after weeks of frustration. Not triumph, exactly, but relief edged with disbelief. As if he had expected the solution to cost more than it did.
Kaveh lifted a hand and then hesitated, fingers hovering near the seam Alhaitham had adjusted. He glanced back instead, ruby gaze searching Alhaitham’s face for confirmation rather than his reflection.
That, more than anything, confirmed it had worked.
“It doesn’t feel like…” Kaveh began, then trailed off, brow furrowing as he searched for the right word. “Like I’m trying too hard.”
“You aren’t,” Alhaitham confirmed.
Kaveh let out a breath that sounded like a quiet, incredulous laugh. The sound loosened something in the blond's posture, uncoiling the last of the tightness from his stance.
“I didn’t think it could be this simple,” Kaveh admitted.
Alhaitham said nothing. He had learned long ago that Kaveh needed space to arrive at his own realisations. Interfering too soon only sent him spiralling again. Instead, he noted the way Kaveh’s weight shifted, more balanced now. The way his hands, restless moments ago, settled against his sides. The way he stood; not braced, not defensive, but finally ready.
Fondness pressed in again at the scribe's chest, deeper this time, warm and utterly unable to ignore.
Not because Kaveh looked good.
Because he looked like himself.
Alhaitham reached for the edge of the bed and lifted the next garment with deliberate care.
“Come here,” The scribe hummed, not as an order, but an invitation, pitched low and steady.
Kaveh obeyed without comment, stepping closer until he stood where the light from the window fell cleanly across them. The late afternoon sun filtered through thin curtains and stained glass, warming the pale green of the silk and drawing out its undertones. In that light, the fabric deepened, richer and more grounded, no longer ostentatious but quietly assured.
“This colour,” Alhaitham began, holding the shirt up between them, “doesn’t demand attention. It rewards it.”
He helped Kaveh further straighten out the thin undershirt he had been wearing; cotton, serviceable, but wrinkled beyond saving, and guided the silk into place over it instead. The contrast was immediate. The fabric skimmed rather than clung, catching against Kaveh’s frame in a way that suggested intention instead of effort.
Alhaitham adjusted the collar, cool fingers careful as they traced the line of Kaveh’s shoulders. “You tend toward brightness when you’re anxious,” he continued. “It reads as urgency. This—” The scribe smoothed the silk flat against Kaveh’s chest “reads as confidence.”
Kaveh glanced down, watching the way the light shifted as he moved, how the colour seemed to change subtly with each breath. “It feels… Steadier,” the blond mumbled.
“That’s because it is,” Alhaitham replied. He stepped back, turquoise eyes narrowing in assessment, not unkindly. “The cut gives you structure without constraining you. You don’t need to look imposing. You need to look like someone who knows what he’s doing.”
He reached for the loose pants next, holding them up long enough to allow Kaveh to see the line before handing them over. The fabric was heavier than the silk, anchoring the outfit and grounding it. When Kaveh pulled them on, the effect was immediate. Balance was restored; the softness of the shirt felt correctly offset by the clean fall of fabric.
Alhaitham crouched briefly to adjust the hem, fingertips brushing Kaveh’s ankle as he corrected the line. “These keep your silhouette intentional,” he said. “They give weight to the design without overwhelming it.”
The scribe stood again, circling slowly, turquoise gaze taking in the sum instead of the pieces. The room seemed to quiet around them, the earlier chaos receding into the background as order took shape.
“You don’t need ornament,” Alhaitham concluded. “You need clarity. Let them see you before they see the work.”
Kaveh turned slightly, catching his reflection in the mirror at last. The man he saw looking back in the reflection stood straighter, calmer. The edges of his anxiety softened into something more resolute.
“I look as if I'm…” He stopped, searching for the word.
“Someone worth listening to,” Alhaitham supplied.
Kaveh smiled. It was small and genuine; the kind that reached his vivid eyes without effort. “You make it sound simple.”
“It is,” Alhaitham said. “Once you stop trying to prove anything.”
Kaveh reached for his coat and hesitated.
Not because he doubted the choice. Alhaitham could see that now; the way Kaveh moved was with a certainty that hadn’t been there an hour ago. It was because leaving their shared space always required a moment of recalibration for the blond. The architect slipped the coat on, rolling his shoulders once as if settling into it, and then turned toward the door.
The room looked different like this. Quieter. Order was restored not just to the bed, but to the air itself. Late afternoon light had nearly faded entirely, stretching thin across the floorboards, catching on the edges of clean lines of the outfit and lending them warmth.
Kaveh paused with his hand on the handle.
Alhaitham watched the blond from where he stood, already bracing for the familiar exchange. Final instructions, a reminder not to rush, something practical and unnecessary.
Instead, Kaveh turned back.
The architect crossed the room in two unhurried steps, close enough now that Alhaitham could see the calm settled behind his gemstone eyes; the tension now eased into something steadier. Before Alhaitham could part his lips to speak, before he could even adjust his stance, Kaveh reached up and pressed a kiss to his lips.
It was gentle. Brief. Almost chaste in its restraint as soft lips brushed against his own.
Alhaitham froze. Not because he didn’t want it, but because he hadn’t entirely anticipated it. Because Kaveh rarely surprised him like this anymore, and the simplicity of it landed harder than any grand gesture could have.
When Kaveh pulled back, there was a small smile on his mouth, soft and unguarded.
“For earlier,” he explained quietly. “For… everything.”
Alhaitham’s response came a beat slower than usual. “You’ll do fine,” he said, and meant more than the meeting.
Kaveh nodded, as if he already knew that now. He opened the door, the sounds of the city streets filtering back in, distant and yet still manageable.
At the threshold, Kaveh glanced back one last time. There lay no uncertainty in his expression, simply an acknowledgement.
Then he was gone.
Alhaitham stood where he was, the house still warm with Kaveh’s presence. The faint echo of that kiss lingered like a solution. Outside, the world would test the architect. The only reasonable thing to do was to wait for his return.
The key turned well past midnight.
Alhaitham did not look up from his book despite having read it many times over. He had calculated Kaveh’s approximate return time with reasonable accuracy, factoring in the meeting’s scheduled end, the walk back through the city, and the high probability of a celebratory detour should things go well. The sound of the lock confirmed the hypothesis.
The silence that followed did not.
It wasn’t the weary shuffle of defeat, nor the loose exhale of exhausted relief. It was charged. The air in the sitting room grew dense, as if pressure had been introduced into a closed system and left to build. Alhaitham turned a page. The sound landed obscenely loud in the otherwise quiet space.
Fabric slipped free from the form behind him. The coat, the one Alhaitham had chosen, caught softly on the divan. Footsteps followed, unhurried; stopping just behind his chair. Only then did Alhaitham glance up, his expression a carefully maintained neutrality.
Kaveh stood in the pool of lamplight. The outfit was a studied ruin: the silk shirt untucked, open at the throat, the clean lines softened by use rather than carelessness. Alhaitham’s attention caught on the visible collarbone, on the way the fabric moved with the blond now, loosened and alive. The scent that reached him resolved into something complex. Sharp adrenaline, sweet dusk wine, and beneath it, the familiar warmth of Kaveh himself.
His ruby eyes were not triumphant.
They were certain.
“The client,” Kaveh said, his voice low and deliberate, “was convinced. Thoroughly.”
“I never doubted the outcome,” Alhaitham replied evenly. “The parameters were sound.”
Kaveh smiled; slow and knowing. “Parameters,” he echoed. He stepped closer, closing the distance until his knees brushed the chair. His fingers, still cool from the night air, traced the spine of the book in Alhaitham’s hand with intent that had nothing to do with curiosity. “I spent the entire presentation aware of the drape of this fabric. The way the wool held its line.”
Alhaitham’s grip tightened minutely. A useless, telling adjustment.
Kaveh leaned down, lips close to his ear, his voice dropping to a murmur that carried pure provocation.
“It was… distracting.”
The scribe's control snapped.
It did not shatter; it transmuted.
Alhaitham moved in one decisive motion. His hand came up to the back of Kaveh’s neck, fingers spreading into warm, familiar hair. It was not a caress, but a claim, firm and certain. The book tipped easily from his grasp and fell shut, forgotten quickly and pushed to the side as he used that anchor to draw Kaveh down into a kiss that answered every unfinished thought at once.
It was anything but gentle.
Kaveh made a startled sound against his mouth; something dangerously close to relief, and then responded with equal fervour. Lightly calloused hands found Alhaitham’s broad shoulders as if to ground himself. The scribe took advantage of the parted lips without hesitation, tasting wine and heat and something uniquely Kaveh, cataloguing familiar edges and textures with ruthless focus. It wasn't until Kaveh's hands dipped lower than Alhaitham’s shoulders to play with his chest, partially exposed from his night shirt, was he aware of what the other seemed to want from him.
When Alhaitham straightened, he did not release the architect. He instead, rose and took the blond with him by the hand instead, keeping his mouth occupied as he turned them in a single, controlled movement and circumvented the divan in his steps. Kaveh was made to walk backwards until the ledges of the nearby shelves pressed against the architect's back. The books gave slightly beneath the impact, leather and parchment shifting.
Kaveh gasped in a sharp, punched-out sound as his head tipped back; sun-kissed throat exposed in unconscious invitation.
“Haitham—”
“Quiet.” The word was rough, pressed against Kaveh’s jaw, more instruction than reprimand. “You’ve been making noise for days. Now you will listen.”
Alhaitham’s presence closed in, broad and unyielding. One arm braced against the shelves beside Kaveh’s head, the other still firm at the nape of his neck, holding him exactly where he wanted him. Kaveh’s breathing stuttered beneath the sudden, complete containment, his composure slipping as the implications of it settled.
The silence between them tightened. Not empty, but charged; filled with shared understanding and the promise of what Alhaitham had finally decided to stop restraining. Alhaitham’s hands left Kaveh’s neck only to move with purpose.
The scribe went first to the fastenings of pants, fingers deft and unhesitating, undoing clasps with the same economy he applied to everything else. The fine wool slid down Kaveh’s hips under his guidance, pooling at his feet, followed by the last thin barrier beneath. Kaveh shivered from the sudden exposure, from the air, and especially from the way Alhaitham’s gaze did not soften or linger, assessing.
Alhaitham lowered himself without breaking eye contact, the motion deliberate, inevitable. His cool hands settled at the backs of Kaveh’s soft thighs, firm and anchoring, urging them apart just enough to make the expectation from the blond unmistakable. Heat from the blond's half-aroused state radiated between his thighs, immediate and undeniable, and Alhaitham paused for a fraction of a second. Not in hesitation, but in calibration.
Kaveh’s breath hitched above him. His fingers tightened convulsively in Alhaitham’s grey hair, encouraging the scribe.
Alhaitham leaned in, breath warming Kaveh's sensitive skin, registering the sharp intake, the shift of weight, the way Kaveh yielded once the intention became clear. Only then did the scribe close the distance, focused and unerring, allowing his attention to replace thought entirely as his mouth managed to quietly press a wet kiss to the side of Kaveh's member before swallowing him whole.
The response was immediate.
Kaveh cried out, the sound torn free and unguarded. His knees buckled slightly as sensation from Alhaitham’s hot tongue and wet mouth overtook his composure. Alhaitham held the blond there by the thighs, steady and relentless. The scribe worked with the same ruthless precision he brought to everything that mattered; as his head bobbed slowly and methodically, and his tongue lathed at the slightly salty flavour invading his senses. He listened to the fractured syllables of his name, to the rhythm of Kaveh’s breathing breaking apart; filing each sound away as confirmation that he was on the right track.
When he felt the tension coil too tightly, felt Kaveh’s body tipping toward something uncontrolled, Alhaitham withdrew.
The absence landed like a shock.
Kaveh gasped, trembling, ruby gaze blown wide with need and disbelief, his grip tightening instinctively on grey silken locks as if to drag Alhaitham back.
“Not yet,” Alhaitham hummed quietly, the words closer to a promise rather than a denial.
Alhaitham straightened, leaving Kaveh trembling against the shelves, and turned only far enough to reach the side table beside the divan. He opened the drawer without looking, fingers closing around a small glass vial. It was a contingency accounted for long ago and never questioned by the blond. The scribe uncorked it with a practised twist and the faint scent of oil cut cleanly through the air. It was only when he poured a measured amount into his palm that he was able to observe the way Kaveh’s attention tracked the movement despite himself, pupils dark and unfocused, breath still unsteady.
Alhaitham coated his fingers with deliberate care. Preparation was not indulgence. It was respect. When he reached around and pressed one slick finger inside, he did so slowly, giving Kaveh time to register the intrusion and stretch. The reaction came as a sharp intake of breath that loosened into a long, shuddering exhale. The blond's head tipped back against the shelves as his body adjusted.
Alhaitham watched closely. He moved with the same patience he had used earlier, curling his finger just enough to test, to find the response that made Kaveh’s hips jerk and a broken sound spill from his throat. He held his attention there, repeating the motion until the tension in the blond's body shifted into something much more pliant and receptive.
Kaveh’s hands reached up to clench in grey hair once more, no longer bracing himself but clinging. The blond's composure unravelled audibly now as his pride stripped itself down to want. “H-Haitham,” he breathed, voice rather staccato. “Please.”
Alhaitham slid a second finger inside, stretching the blond carefully and yet relentlessly abusing the bundle of nerves deep inside. He braced his free arm against the shelves to cage Kaveh in, controlling the angle until Kaveh was forced to feel every measured adjustment. Tears beaded at the corners of Kaveh’s eyes from the strain of being held so precisely at the edge while being denied release.
“More,” Kaveh begged, his body arching forward in unconscious appeal.
Alhaitham leaned in, close enough that Kaveh could feel his breath against his temple.
“Since you finally asked,” he murmured, voice low and even, “I will.”
Alhaitham withdrew his fingers slowly, earning a sharp, frustrated sound from Kaveh at the sudden emptiness. A focused turquoise gaze observed the way Kaveh’s body chased the sensation instinctively, hips tipping back before he caught himself, breath coming uneven and desperate. The scribe took a moment for himself then; shedding the last barriers of clothing and the semblance of control that came with it in the same impatience he applied to anything that had outlived its usefulness.
Unhurriedly, he slicked his member with what remained of the oil, breath hitching despite his intention not to. Denial had made him acutely aware of every sensation now; the press of skin into his palm, the uneven breathing from Kaveh as he watched, even the warm fingertips that now traced against his bare chest in admiration.
Alhaitham finally moved fully back into Kaveh’s space and lifted the blond by the thighs to pin him against the shelves once more. It took only a brief moment for Kaveh to hook his legs eagerly around the scribe's waist and for his hands to find purchase on broad shoulders. He pressed forward just enough to make his intentions unmistakable, holding himself there; not in teasing, but asking the question in the only language that mattered.
Kaveh answered by shifting forward, uncoordinated and urgent, breath breaking as Alhaitham stretched past the ring of muscles at his entrance and claimed his attention completely.
They both reacted at once.
Alhaitham let out a rough, involuntary sound, grip tightening on soft thighs as the heat from Kaveh's insides closed around him, immediate and overwhelming. Kaveh cried out, head falling back and hands scrambling for purchase as sensation overtook thought.
Alhaitham did not rush.
He held himself still, allowing Kaveh time to adjust, to breathe. He watched the tension in Kaveh’s body gradually ease, the initial shock melting into something deeper, more insistent. It was only when Kaveh’s breathing steadied, when his body stopped resisting and began to relax, did Alhaitham move again. The scribe pushed forward slowly until there was nowhere left to go and their bodies were flush, aligned with a precision that made the way they fit together feel inevitable rather than forced. They stilled once Alhaitham was buried inside Kaveh fully, both of them trembling slightly.
It had been a while, after all.
For a brief, suspended moment, Alhaitham allowed himself to simply be there, fully present and focused on Kaveh, before setting the pace. There was nothing tentative about it. He moved with purpose, each motion deliberate and measured, establishing a rhythm that left no room for mistakes. The shelves at Kaveh’s back began to respond from the way the blond leaned his weight against them; a low creak of wood under pressure as book covers pressed and slid against one another.
Kaveh’s breath caught with the first deeper thrust, his composure finally giving way entirely to a wanton neediness. The blond's hands clutched at Alhaitham’s shoulders, then the shelves themselves, fingers scrambling for purchase around leather bindings as if they might anchor him better.
They did not.
A book slipped free, striking the floor with a dull thud. Another followed, dislodged by the tremor that ran through the wall with each steady movement. The sound threaded through Kaveh’s broken gasps, grounding and overwhelming all at once. Alhaitham felt the way Kaveh’s reactions grew sharper, less controlled, the way the blond's body responded before thought could intervene. The scribe adjusted minutely, angle and pressure refined with devastating accuracy in his thrusts, and Kaveh cried out, the sound torn loose and unguarded.
The shelves rocked against their actions once more, several tomes tipping forward in a soft cascade, pages of drafts sandwiched in between sliding out of some as they fell. The orderly rows they’d once occupied turned quickly to scattered disarray. Kaveh could no longer answer coherently. His sounds dissolved into breath and instinct, his body giving in to the overwhelming rhythm Alhaitham had set with each thrust, responding without reservation or restraint.
Alhaitham maintained his rhythm; relentless, and precise, until there was nothing left for Kaveh to hold onto except for him. The shift came subtly, but Alhaitham felt it immediately.
The blond's breathing changed first; sharp, uneven, each inhale cut short as the sensation began to crest beyond his ability to manage it. His grip tightened, warm fingers digging into Alhaitham’s shoulders and then slipping, nails scraping uselessly against the bare skin of the scribe's back as his body chased something his words could no longer articulate.
“Kaveh,” Alhaitham breathed, offering an anchor as he leaned in and pressed his forehead to the blond's.
The sound of his name seemed to visually shatter what remained of Kaveh’s composure.
His body seized, breath tearing loose in a broken, strangled cry as release overtook him all at once. The reaction was almost violent, as his muscles locked and tightened around Alhaitham in frantic, involuntary waves. The blond clung desperately, leaning in to capture Alhitham's lips greedily as his climax overwhelmed him.
The sensation was devastating.
The sudden, relentless clench dragged a sharp groan from Alhaitham’s throat, the final vestiges of control giving way under the force of it. He drove forward once more in a deep thrust and that was enough. Heat surged inside Alhaitham and scattered whatever thought that was forming entirely as he followed Kaveh over the edge. His vision blurred at the edges.
For several long moments, neither of them moved.
The shelves finally stilled and the room hummed with the aftermath; hot and somewhat stuffy despite the cool outside air. Their shared breaths echoing along the walls between messy uncoordinated kisses were all that filled the silence. Alhaitham remained braced around Kaveh, holding him in place with a firm grip to his thighs as the tremors gradually subsided, his own breathing rough and uneven against the skin of Kaveh’s neck as he made his way down along the area with careful pecks.
When Kaveh’s legs finally threatened to give out completely, Alhaitham shifted at once, gathering the blond closer, weight redistributed instinctively against the shelves to keep him steady. Only then did the urgency ease, replaced by something slower; likely the quiet gravity that followed their actions.
Alhaitham withdrew himself slowly, carefully, one hand steady at Kaveh’s hip as he eased them apart and helped the blond to his feet. Kaveh whimpered at the sensitivity, his body sagging almost immediately once the last of the tension released, legs no longer willing to hold him upright.
Alhaitham caught him without hesitation.
He gathered Kaveh against his chest, solid and anchoring, murmuring something low and unintelligible as he shifted their weight away from the shelves. The books at Kaveh’s back had been reduced to spines and loose pages littering the floor like the remains of a dismantled argument.
They made it only a few steps before Alhaitham guided Kaveh down onto the divan, easing him onto the cushions with a care that bordered on reverent. Kaveh allowed himself to be arranged, pliant and boneless now. His breath remained uneven, but slowed, and his gemstone eyes shone half-lidded with unfocus.
Alhaitham followed, settling behind the blond and drawing Kaveh back until he was flush against his chest. He adjusted them both until the position felt right; one arm secure around Kaveh’s middle, the other resting where Kaveh could find it easily.
Kaveh instantly curled his fingers around Alhaitham’s hand with quiet insistence.
For a while, there was only the sound of their breathing evening out together, the room dim and warm around them. The earlier chaos lingered; clothes discarded where they’d fallen, books strewn across the floor. It no longer felt like disorder.
It felt settled.
Alhaitham pressed his face briefly into Kaveh’s flaxen hair, breathing him in. The scent was familiar now, stripped of adrenaline and the sharp sharp edge of anxiety and wine, reduced to something warm and deeply known. His thoughts, usually precise and a relentless constant, fell silent without effort.
Kaveh shifted slightly, a small sound leaving him; content, exhausted. “You know,” he murmured, voice still rough, “the meeting wasn’t the hardest part.”
Alhaitham huffed softly, the sound more felt than heard. “I know.”
Kaveh’s thumb traced an absent line over Alhaitham’s knuckles, slow and grounding. “Still,” he added, after a pause. “Thank you. For earlier. For… always knowing where things fit.”
Alhaitham tightened his hold on those warm fingers just enough to be felt. “You just forget to stop carrying everything at once.”
Kaveh smiled, the expression relaxed and unguarded, and leaned back more fully into the other man.
Silence settled once more. Simply full and pleasant.
Outside, the city of Sumeru slept on, unaware and irrelevant. Inside, amid lamplight, quiet kisses, and scattered pages, everything was finally, precisely, in its place.