Work Text:
“At last I was recaptured by his love. Resisting had no effect.”
– Raba’a; Rabia Balkhi.
It was night outside already, the room was dim at medium light. Thomas was sitting on Alastair’s bed, eyeing multiple books and papers splayed over it. Persian copies and translations of Alastair’s favorite texts.
Alastair was supposedly reading a book on his own while sitting in a chair in front of his desk, but his concentration had relented a while ago. He stared at Thomas instead, who seemed unaware of it.
His dark eyes roamed down his profile, Thomas’s factions were a touch too rough to be called sculpted, but they were defined as an unfinished marble statue. Alastair hesitated if to compare him to Michelangelo’s David; his looks fitted – his face and thick neck, and broad chest, and his arms exposed by his rolled-up sleeves – yet there was something about him, something so heartfelt and loving, that Alastair could not bring himself to relate it to an inert statue.
The scarce light created shadows across the dips and curves of his muscles, driving the attention to them. It proved Alastair was not the one to blame for his current inability to focus.
The thrill of having Thomas in his room grew the more time it passed, the stronger the night became. However, Alastair was uncertain if to even move from his chair. There was a certain intimacy in only being here in his bedroom, just the two of them, that Alastair did not know how to proceed. He had never reached this level of trust with anyone before.
Thomas interrupted his wandering thoughts: “I am thinking about learning Persian,” he said suddenly.
Alastair was not necessarily startled since all his attention had been on him for a while now, but he still blinked at the abrupt break of the silence.
“You are?” he inquired.
“Yes, that way I could come back to read these poems and appreciate them better,” he assured, “Which one did you say was your favorite?”
Alastair stood up and approached the bed, picking one of the papers from a corner.
“Raba’a,” he answered, handing it to Thomas and sitting on the bed as well.
Thomas took the poem and passed his eyes over it. Alastair, naturally, took the chance to stare some more at him.
This close, he could discern the perfect outline of Thomas’ lips, the gentleness of his eyes. Thomas had always been ridiculously handsome, unbearably so; Alastair felt a physical ache just for being in this much proximity and applying so much restraint into not touching him, and…
Thomas intersected his thoughts yet again: “I meant to say this earlier, but,” he lifted face to look at Alastair, smiling with fondness and softhearted amusement, “it is impolite to stare.”
Alastair kissed him, his hands cupped each side of his jaw and he felt a pulse of excitement course down the other boy’s throat.
Thomas’s mouth answered eager but tenderly, and so slowly at first that it made Alastair’s lips throb with expectation and want. That physical pain he felt increased as he fought to retain a share of self-possession; bit by bit, torturously but freeing, he quitted his efforts on it.
The two of them fell to the mattress rather inelegantly, spilling and rolling on top of the papers spread all over it.
Thomas supported himself on his fours above Alastair as the latter caressed another pulse on his throat. He was drunk on the knowledge that Thomas’s heart was beating so strongly because of him, for him.
His hands went to undo Thomas’s vest and, shortly after, his shirt.
They rolled to the side once more so it was now Alastair the one who was on top. He took off his own shirt without pulling away. Without care. Frenetically. Their skins burned for the hot blood pumping through their bodies, their lips were inflamed and feverish for the friction and the ferocity of the kiss.
Alastair’s mouth moved to Thomas’s neck, his lips still sore. He kissed the curve of Thomas’s throat and sunk his teeth in it, sucking. Thomas made a keen, vibrating sound, lifting his jaw, exposing more of his neck.
Alastair passed his lips all over Thomas’s body, biting his shoulder as well. Kissing his sternum, his abs, his hipbone. Thomas squirmed under him and grabbed Alastair in for another ferocious kiss on the mouth, taking and taking from Alastair’s breath and strength. And Alastair was willing to give those to him. He wanted to. He wanted it so badly.
He had wanted this for such a long time.