Work Text:
It comes, first, as a bland flare of irritation, growing under his skin, spreading like a disease. It’s too loud. Too harsh, the voices like flame in his head, curling into his mind like a brand, searing him from deep inside.
Scribe Alhaitham. Grand Sage. Grand Sage, they call at him, as if he has not already given them enough of his time, his energy, his efforts and his space.
Frustrated, a sound nearly rips itself from his throat, but he keeps himself in check. Reminds himself that he is in public, with people from his work, and despite his notorious lack of care for his image he does not want to be seen as someone weak.
“Scribe Alhaitham,” the sound gets to him then, and he looks up from the papers he’s been gripping to the room full of faces that look at him — oblivious, expectant.
He squints, fighting the urge to close his eyes, the light on his face too bright— too much at a time like this, and despair crawls under his skin at the fact that he is expected to speak.
There are too many people.
“No,” he grits out, not remembering a thing they had been discussing earlier, what the objective of the meeting had even been. The paper in his hands feels like dust on his skin, against his fingers, and he burns, itching with a need to get it out of his hands but he clings onto it like a lifeline. “No, I—”
The eyes dig into his skin. Eats into him, the projection of their needs, the social normality of having to speak, to smile, to be nice.
No.
Abruptly, he stands up, his chair screeching against the floor in a way that hurts his ears.
“Excuse me,” is all he says before he tears out of the room and down the hall, even as the lights blind him, the stained glass panes doing nothing to soften the effect of sunlight on his person. The silence of the hallway is deafening. A ringing in his ears, consistent, numbing his mind, an ache he wants to scratch, or tear at, and briefly, Alhaitham wonders if he might simply explode from the emotion.
The carpet is too rough under his heels, thumping against his feet in a horrible, horrible way — his clothes, despite being so carefully picked out by him for its gentleness and breathable material suffocate him — and he flings the door to his office open with what strength he has left, and nearly collapses inside.
To his despair, his office is in a disarray from earlier. The papers are strewn across his table — a few pens strewn haphazardly across the papers — and his books are a piled mess on the side, not the least bit in order, the arrangement all wrong, and, had he wanted to put them in chronological order? Or was it by author? It is wrong, wrong, wrong, now, when he gathers the books into his arms, arranging them with the books that were larger in width and size at the base to the books that were smaller in width and size at the very top.
With a frustrated whine, he clears the pens into a small box he keeps for stationery, keeping that to the side too, before picking up a few of the papers and scanning through them so briefly he misses many keywords but it doesn’t matter right now.
It doesn’t sit right for him to leave it to organise another time, so he does what he can, unsatisfied until the papers are stacked neatly next to his books, and he picks a rag he keeps in his drawer to wipe at the table until it’s clean enough for him to feel somewhat relieved.
It doesn’t last long.
Home, he thinks belatedly, a foggy, overwhelmed thought. He needs to get home.
It barely registers to him that it is midday and he should not be home.
He stumbles his way home somehow, unaware of the unabashed, shameless staring of the other scholars.
He doesn’t stop for food, doesn’t even stop for water. He switches his noise cancellation on, the heat of the sun soaking into his already much-too-hot skin, sticky sweat another wrinkle in his already barely-held control, but when he finally opens the door to his house he realises he is not home.
Kaveh, his heart calls, thundering unevenly.
The lights are turned off, because of course, Kaveh is working, and Alhaitham will not be the undignified, idiotic scholar he’s always turned his nose upon—
He searches for his Akasha terminal almost blindly.
alhaitham
kaveh
The device that had previously been used for information gathering has been modified by the Dendro Archon to include the sending of messages as well, quick information that demands quick response without the need of going through formal terminals.
Kaveh replies quickly enough.
kaveh
alhaitham?
what’s wrong?
alhaitham
nothing
He lies like the bold-faced man he is, sliding to the floor with his back against his door.
kaveh
don’t lie
what do you need?
alhaitham
come home
Ashamed, haggard and painfully fragile, Alhaitham feels almost pathetic at the desperation of his own heart.
But Kaveh — his dearest Kaveh, his most beloved Kaveh. His Kaveh merely says:
kaveh
i’ll be right there.
And Alhaitham is ripping his clothes off his skin, leaving a messy trail of clothes as he makes a beeline to his room, drawing the curtains and crawling under covers the moment the device that cools the temperature of his room is switched on.
He huddles that way for what feels like hours, staring blankly into the darkness, his mind an agonised mess of sounds he can’t make out. The dark soothes his frazzled nerves a bit, as does the cool feeling of the comforter against his heated skin, the faded scent of detergent and his smell permeating the fabric in a warm puff, but it’s not enough, it won’t be enough until the scent of the one his heart loves most is near, within his reach.
It’s not long after that he hears the front door open, a little too loudly, the mess of a man Kaveh has always been, and then a rush of footsteps before a hand twists the handle of his door, and a blonde head peeks in, red eyes peering in carefully, adjusting to the dim lighting.
“Alhaitham,” Kaveh breathes softly when Alhaitham’s cyan eyes meet his. “May I come in?”
After a long moment of no answer, just a watchful stare from the younger, Kaveh invites himself in.
Carefully, he makes space for himself on the side of Alhaitham’s bed, intently watching Alhaitham for any reaction, any indication that he might not be welcome, but finds none, and after slowly smoothing out a hand over the ruffled comforter and settling down.
Alhaitham lets out a breath. Kaveh smells like the sun, like ink and papers — all things soothing to him, his racing heart.
Kaveh stays silent for a few moments longer, before he asks, “Want to talk about it?”
Alhaitham stares at him, as if hoping that Kaveh can read his mind, and frankly, he probably can.
“Alright, alright,” Kaveh murmurs, “It’s fine now, I’m here.”
There’s a buzz of nerves under his skin. Unwittingly, Alhaitham’s mouth opens, struggling to find the space, the words and his voice to speak.
“The Akademiya–” He starts, before his voice dies in his throat, and he closes his mouth, and then opens it again, closes, like a fish out of water, confused, frustrated and lost.
“Take your time,” Kaveh says, quietly, but even that grates on his ears, a confused mess in his head.
Alhaitham shakes his head. “Not processing,” he makes out, and Kaveh nods, understanding in his kind, kind red eyes.
Unlike everyone else, Kaveh makes no abrupt movements. Nothing big or overwhelming. He keeps his voice soft, a low trill in Alhaitham’s ears. He doesn’t touch Alhaitham unless permitted. He doesn’t repeat himself over and over without permission when Alhaitham can’t respond.
Dazedly, Alhaitham recalls that Kaveh has always helped him with this little issue of his, since they were teenagers still fresh to the workings of the Akademiya. Every instance Kaveh has brought him home, come to his aid, learnt over time the Do’s and Don’ts of Alhaitham’s triggers and pains. The loss Alhaitham had felt when they had lost their friendship, his one friend; the one love he had always looked up to, looked towards, looked for, the one person Alhaitham had allowed in his minute world and felt comfortable with having in his overly private space.
“No need to answer,” Kaveh says, gently. “I can see it in your eyes.” And the gratitude and absolute relief that spreads throughout Alhaitham’s body might have shocked him on any other day.
“Bad day?” Kaveh starts.
Yes.
“Crowd?”
Yes.
“Someone messed up an appointment?” Kaveh guesses.
No.
“Meeting,” Alhaitham murmurs, and Kaveh nods in understanding.
“Want to rest?” Kaveh asks.
…
Alhaitham looks down.
“I can stay,” his light offers quietly.
Kaveh gestures for his attention, gently bringing Alhaitham’s focus back to him again.
“Touch?” He asks slowly, for his permission, and Alhaitham hesitates.
Kaveh laughs, a little bubble of pure, sweet amusement from the depths of his chest.
Kaveh presses two fingers to his lips, watching as Alhaitham’s eyes track his movements, and then lifts them to Alhaitham’s forehead, waiting, for a rejection — but there’s nothing, Alhaitham’s watchful, sleepy gaze on his, and then he gently presses those two fingers to Alhaitham’s head.
The younger draws in a breath, eyelids fluttering, before they draw to a close, his unsteady breaths from before petering out into slow, even ones, exhaustion from the day’s events finally overcoming his wakefulness, and drawing him into sleep.
It’s evening when Alhaitham finally emerges from his room, not wearing enough clothing.
Kaveh looks him over, from his bare chest to bare legs, but gestures him to come closer.
“Not uncomfortable?” He murmurs when Alhaitham is within earshot, a hand reaching up to smooth into grey hair.
Alhaitham’s arms slide around his waist, head dropping into his shoulder as Kaveh plays with his hair.
“No,” he mumbles, nosing into Kaveh’s neck, inhaling his scent, now less like the sun and more like a person fresh out of the bath, the scent of steam and the many different shampoos and oils Kaveh uses on the daily.
Slowly, Kaveh sets his hands on Alhaitham’s waist, turning around to face him instead, but it doesn’t deter the younger from nuzzling into him again. His fingers rub a soothing line into his hips, and Alhaitham rests his face in his collarbone, eyes drooping.
“You better not catch a cold,” he warns playfully. “I’m not taking you to the Bimarstan for this.”
“Mm,” Alhaitham hums. “Then you should warm me up, Senior.”
Kaveh makes an affronted noise, smacking at his shoulder. “If you can afford to pull jokes like this, you’re obviously already fine!”
“Not fine,” Alhaitham declines. “I’m not fine at all.” Decisively, he pulls Kaveh even closer.
Kaveh rolls his eyes. “You’re just a big baby,” he sighs, hand reaching up to sift through Alhaitham’s hair again. “Remind me how you managed to get the highest position in the Sumeru Akademiya?”
“I never wanted it.”
“Yeah, yeah.” Kaveh presses a kiss to his head. “Want to tell me what happened today?”
“Later,” Alhaitham mumbles.
“Alright,” Kaveh acquiesces easily. “Then, what do you want for dinner?”
“Your cooking,” Alhaitham mutters again. “Don’t overseason it. And no need for something fancy.”
“You really don’t trust my cooking skills at all!”
“Hm,” Alhaitham hums again, nosing into his cheek this time. “Give me a reason to.” And then he finds Kaveh’s lips, slotting their mouths together easily.
“Brat,” Kaveh mumbles half-heartedly, kissing back without much prompt.
Alhaitham says nothing, lazily stealing pecks from his lips, but when Kaveh’s eyes close with a small, contented smile, he presses in for a long one, tracing Kaveh’s lower lip with the tip of his tongue.
“Thank you,” Alhaitham says in a breath against his lips, so soft he could have imagined it.
But Kaveh hears it anyway, tinkling back against him. “Idiot,” he whispers. “I love you.”
After a moment, Alhaitham’s heart sings it back.
“I love you, too.”