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Summary
Behind the doors of the nearest broom closet, Alhaitham pins Kaveh against the hard edge of an overfull shelf and shamelessly scents him, rubbing his cheek against the smooth skin of Kaveh’s neck. Kaveh yelps in alarm, his cheeks flushing. He smells faintly sweet, like desert flowers, buried underneath all that ink and paper.
There’s been a small explosion in Ghandarva Ville, it’s some sage’s 50th birthday, Kshahrewar scholars are protesting outside the Akademiya for more money, and Alhaitham doesn’t give a shit. Kaveh is in heat. Alhaitham's responsible for him, and that duty supersedes everything else. The Matra can deal with the explosion, the Grand Sages can’t fire him anyway, and the other scholars can go to hell. Alhaitham has better things to do with his time.