Work Text:
It was just one of those days.
It was just one of those days when the sky was gray, the house was quiet, and the lights were off. It was just one of those days when Al-Haitham knew without asking that something was wrong, that something was off, that something was… not right.
It goes without saying that he knows Kaveh almost as well as he knows himself. He knows how fragile Kaveh’s heart is, how Kaveh loves so deeply and so completely, how though Kaveh’s heart has room for the whole wide world, he hardly ever lets himself in because he believes, for some silly, stupid reason, that he does not deserve to be.
Sometimes, Kaveh hides this better than others. He smiles, he drinks, he laughs and he complains loudly well into the night and he is just so cheerful , so loud , so alive. It’s almost as though nothing is wrong. It’s almost as though he’s okay.
On the other days, though, when the sky is gray, the house is quiet, and the lights are off, Al-Haitham knows. He knows that poisonous, slow-killing thoughts are whispering loudly in Kaveh’s ears, reminding him that he’s not enough, that he’s to blame for all that’s happened, that he will never, ever be happy because he does not deserve to be.
He knows.
And it was just one of those days.
So when Al-Haitham opens the front door of their house and steps into a realm of unsettled silence, he does not reach for the lamp. He does not call Kaveh’s name, he does not loudly toss his bag to the floor, he does not reach for the books on decades old, worn wooden shelves.
Instead, he simply pulls off his shoes quickly and quietly before venturing deeper into the dark, cloudy space that they call home.
The walls of their house are freshly painted, the pictures on the walls neat and orderly. The rug underfoot is soft and smooth, clean and fresh. This is their home, the one Kaveh made when Al-Haitham could not be bothered to. The one he loves without saying, without having to tell Kaveh in words that he loves it, he loves it, he loves it.
The door to Kaveh’s bedroom is closed, the dark oak smooth and untouched, the knob of burnished brass dull and dead in the dark.
It is cold under Al-Haitham’s touch.
But it isn’t locked, it isn’t stuck. It turns easily and smoothly, silently and with not even a click.
The door opens and the bedroom is dark, the curtains drawn tight.
The room itself is neat and orderly, clean. It smells of paint and ink, of charcoal and wood, but it is clean. Tidy. Well-managed.
The desk, of course, is a different matter.
It appears as though it has been ravaged by war.
Sheets of paper hang off of the wooden top, violent smears of black ink coating their pages in jagged, angry stripes. Wooden chips of abandoned projects lie scattered across the surface, almost as though something has been smashed, though Al-Haitham knows better than to believe Kaveh would destroy something in his rage. He has never been prone to anger like that- he caves inwards, not outwards. When something is wrong, it is not the world that tastes Kaveh’s wrath, but instead his own shivering self.
It is Kaveh’s own bleeding, broken heart that is punished for failure. Never the world, never others, never those that deserve to be blamed.
Always himself. Always his own heart and mind and soul.
The figure lying prone on the bed stirs when Al-Haitham quietly shuts the door behind him with a quiet click.
Kaveh says nothing when Al-Haitham draws nearer, not even a single word as he sits at the edge of the bed.
He merely stares, unseeing, at the closed windows, his red eyes, usually so bright and cheerful and occasionally full of bitter annoyance, dull and dead and dark. He looks like a ghost in the heavy late afternoon, the flimsy gray light of a hidden sun painting his softly tanned skin sickly pale.
Are you alright? sits at the tip of Al-Haitham’s tongue, but the words are swallowed back, chewed up and drowned. The answer is obvious, it always is on days like these.
So instead, he simply cups the back of Kaveh’s neck, brushing back soft locks of blonde hair as two pairs of soft, even breaths mingle and intertwine, in and out and in and out and in and out again and again and again.
He stays like that for some time, stroking the back of Kaveh’s neck and back, his fingers gently untangling stubborn strands of honey gold.
Al-Haitham has never been good at words, so he does not say anything. He cannot afford to without the risk of causing more hurt, more harm. The things he says that sound so light, so easy to his own ears often come out twisted, teasing, almost mocking and he cannot risk it.
Not on days like these.
So instead he touches Kaveh. He holds him and he brushes back his hair, he loves him without words because some things simply do not need to be said. Some things cannot be said.
Carefully, he undos messy knots and unclips the red barrettes Kaveh always wears. Carefully, he rubs small circles into the tense muscles of a normally bent and aching back. Carefully, he tells Kaveh without words that he loves him, loves him, loves him.
And slowly, Kaveh’s eyes close.
His hands only still when Kaveh’s chest heaves once, twice, then again and again until there are tears running down his lover’s face as he crumples unto himself. He watches as Kaveh gasps, as he breaks further, as he shatters like glass into Al-Haitham’s hands.
“I’m sorry,” Kaveh sobs, fingers curling tightly into the sheets as though they are his lifeline. “I’m sorry for this, I’m sorry for being a burden, I’m sorry- ”
Al-Haitham silences him with a small, slow kiss, the taste of salt bitter upon his tongue.
“Don’t be sorry,” he murmurs, drawing back. He pulls Kaveh close and into a hug, wrapping his arms around him. Like this, he can feel him trembling. Like this, he can feel him shuddering and it hurts. It hurts, it hurts, it hurts. “There’s nothing to be sorry for.”
“I have everything to be sorry for-”
“No,” Al-Haitham says, holding him tighter, tighter, tighter. “You don’t.”
Kaveh sobs again. Kaveh does not believe him. Kaveh never does, but maybe one day he will. Maybe one day he will turn not to the bottle for comfort, but to Tighnari or Cyno or even Al-Haitham because they’re here, they’re right here, he’s-
“Here,” he murmurs in Kaveh’s ear, holding him tightly. Maybe if he keeps him here, against his chest, he will stay, he will heal, he will be pieced back together by nothing but the sheer will of Al-Haitham’s quiet love. “I’m here and I’m not leaving, Kaveh. Not you, never you. I will always be here for you and I will never leave you. Never,” he swears. “Never.”
Kaveh crumples. He breaks. He shatters like glass.
But he’s breathing, he’s calming, he’s drawing in deep breaths as Al-Haitham smooths back matted hair with the most gentle touch he can manage. He’s not healing, he never does, but he’s stilling, he’s trying, he’s taking one more step forward in the long, long walk towards self-love.
Kaveh sniffles and Al-Haitham holds him tighter, tighter, tighter and there is nothing more than thin cloth between them. He can feel the press of bone and muscle against his own, the feel of Kaveh, Kaveh, Kaveh bleeding and breaking and crying in his arms.
Al-Haitham closes his own eyes as Kaveh’s sobs trickle down into soft, faint gasps and, eventually, even those fade away into the soft rasp of aching breaths.
It’s one of those days when the sky is gray, the house is quiet, and the lights are off.
It’s one of those days when Kaveh’s wounds lie bare and bleeding, festering before him.
It’s one of those days when he can do nothing but stay, but hold, but tell him he loves him and he will never leave, never go, never toss him away and forget him.
It’s one of those days when he can do nothing but this.
Nothing at all, but this.
He hopes, as he lies Kaveh down and settles right next to him, that it will be enough.