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Kaveh is going to lose it.
There is only so much one man can endure—and on an otherwise rosy weekend morning, Kaveh’s frail sanity is tested as he stalks through the house, his roommate hot on his heels.
Quite literally , Kaveh thinks, and oh, he shouldn’t know this—but Al-Haitham’s skin is hot to the touch. He’s been following him around the house all morning, murmuring gibberish to himself, absentminded. A regular occurrence, except for one key difference: Al-Haitham’s hands. They’ve been far from absent; they’ve been seeking out Kaveh’s skin, wrapping themselves around the curves of his shoulders, dragging fiery streaks down Kaveh’s sides, his pinky finger nudging Kaveh’s hand on the kitchen table in clandestine intervals. Oh, Kaveh is going to lose it.
“Al-Haitham!” he chastises, pulse stuttering, when Al-Haitham drops his entire weight on him from behind, paying no attention at all to the fact that Kaveh is holding a can full of water and fertilizer, arm outstretched over a row of flower pots on the windowsill. Al-Haitham’s nose presses into the side of Kaveh’s neck while his arms snake around his front and cross over his navel. Heat spreads all across Kaveh’s body, Al-Haitham’s deep breathing thundering in his ears.
“Hey, stop that!” Kaveh shakes his shoulders, hoping it’ll make Al-Haitham let go of him. Alas, Al-Haitham doesn’t budge. He slumps against Kaveh, those heavy breaths tangling in Kaveh’s hair, raising it off the back of his neck.
Something is wrong.
Yes, he and Al-Haitham have been getting along—by which Kaveh means they haven’t torn each other’s heads off yet—but this is a bit much, even considering all the progress they’ve made. Al-Haitham isn’t a tactile person, never has been. Especially not with Kaveh, not since…well. The sudden contact is—unsettling. It gets under Kaveh’s skin, stirring his blood in ways he hasn’t felt in years.
“Get off!” Kaveh manages, an inelegant snap of the lips with too much bite, but it does the trick. Slowly, Al-Haitham’s weight is lifted off his shoulders.
Al-Haitham blinks at him, shyly almost, when Kaveh turns to face him. Kaveh looks him over, eyes traveling down from his face to his knees. When he circles back to Al-Haitham’s face, his physical appearance having given Kaveh little clue about the specifics of his roommate’s condition, Al-Haitham is studying the plants behind Kaveh with glassy eyes.
“What’s gotten into you today?” Kaveh asks, taking a step towards Al-Haitham.
Al-Haitham’s eyes climb, incrementally, from the plants back up to Kaveh. It seems to take a lot out of him, because Al-Haitham squeezes his eyes shut, thumb and forefinger coming up to rub over his eyelids.
He expels a low groan. “Sorry,” he says, blinking wetly against the light from the window.
Kaveh is half joking when he lifts his hand to Al-Haitham’s forehead and says, “Al-Haitham, did you just apologize to me? Do you have a fever?”
Kaveh expects a snarky remark, but it doesn’t come. It isn’t before he presses his palm gently against sweat-damp skin—jokingly, still—and it feels like plunging his fingers into an open fire that Kaveh realizes he hit the nail right on the head.
“Oh. You do have a fever,” he breathes, brushing Al-Haitham’s sweaty bangs out of his face. “You’re sick.”
“What an astute observation,” Al-Haitham says. It’s weak—it lacks the teasing lilt Al-Haitham employs so often in conversation with Kaveh.
Something about it makes Kaveh’s chest ache. He should have caught on much sooner. Looking at Al-Haitham now, the signs are clear; not just his elevated temperature should have given it away. His eyes struggle to stay focused, never opening all the way. And he’d barely touched his breakfast, pushing his eggs across his plate with his fork until they’d dissolved to crumbs. His movements have been sluggish all morning, and he’d been up much earlier than usual, slouching in his chair as he watched Kaveh tinker with the coffee mill.
Kaveh should have noticed. Instead, he’d snapped at Al-Haitham, berating him for being so uncharacteristically clingy. Great going, Kaveh, he thinks, guilt eating at him. He’s sick, and I’ve—I’ve been less than kind to him.
Kaveh clears his throat, casting his eyes away from Al-Haitham. “Well, what are you doing here, loitering around the kitchen all morning! Off to bed with you!” he orders, hoping to mask the lingering discomfort of having possibly hurt Al-Haitham’s feelings. It burns brightly on the skin of his cheeks. He doesn’t recall when he started caring about that—when he first moved into this house, he couldn’t have cared less how Al-Haitham felt. He might have even relished the sight of frustration or anger on Al-Haitham’s face. Never would he have wasted a thought on what he could do to make things easier on him.
But now, after all the cleared-up misunderstandings and late night talks over fruit and wine, with bits and pieces of their old friendship rekindled between them, Kaveh can’t help it.
“Come,” he says, gently, guiding Al-Haitham towards the hallway with a hand on his back. “Let’s get you to bed.”
***
Al-Haitham, to Kaveh’s surprise, obeys. He lets Kaveh guide him back to his room, lets him steer him towards the bed and push him down to sit on it. Kaveh doesn’t go as far as tucking him in—he’s a grown man who can fend for himself, Kaveh reasons—but he does draw the curtains to dim the light.
Al-Haitham gets under the blanket, eyes closed. “The thermometer is in the commode, first drawer from the left,” he murmurs, which makes Kaveh crack a smile against his will.
“You think I need that thing to confirm what we already know?”
“What if it’s over 40 degrees?” Stubborn.
“You wouldn’t be talking like this if it was.” Nevertheless, Kaveh follows Al-Haitham’s instruction and retrieves the thermometer from the drawer. He slips it from the case and places it in Al-Haitham’s waiting palm.
“I’ll be right back. Don’t die while I’m gone.”
Followed by an amused huff from the bed, Kaveh returns to the kitchen and starts rummaging through the storage cabinet until he finds what he’s looking for. Satisfied with his find, he carries the basket of turnips over to the stove where he sets water to boil.
He returns momentarily to Al-Haitham’s room with a large glass of water and a mostly empty container of painkillers to set on his nightstand.
“39.5,” Al-Haitham says before Kaveh can ask, and Kaveh detects a childlike kind of self-satisfaction in his voice.
“Close enough,” Kaveh sighs. “There may be some cause for concern if it doesn’t go down soon,” he says, taking the thermometer from Al-Haitham and depositing it on the nightstand with the glass and pills. He’ll be needing it later, it seems.
“Mm,” Al-Haitham says, the corners of his mouth lifting minutely at his small victory.
***
Al-Haitham’s face scrunches up when Kaveh re-enters his room thirty minutes later with a plate of soft, salted turnips, cut into quarters, and a bowl of chicken soup balanced on a tray.
“Don’t even think about it,” Kaveh warns as Al-Haitham opens his mouth, undoubtedly to complain—he’s not sure if it’s for the turnips or the soup. Probably both.
“I’m not hungry,” Al-Haitham says weakly.
“You haven’t eaten anything of substance today. You’ll only get worse if you don’t eat. Come on, this is good for you.”
Kaveh watches Al-Haitham groggily pull himself into a sitting position to accept the tray from Kaveh. He eyes the turnips suspiciously, but when Kaveh urges him to try at least one bite, he complies. He chews slowly, eyes drooping, before he swallows and follows up with a sip of water.
“It’s…acceptable,” Al-Haitham says, which is almost as good as praise coming from him.
“Try the soup,” Kaveh says, biting his lip.
Dutifully, Al-Haitham tries the soup. In fact, he does not only try it. He finishes the entire bowl before he turns his attention back to the turnips. He leaves about half, but this is already more than Kaveh bargained for. Satisfied, he grabs the tray with Al-Haitham’s leftovers and stands from the edge of Al-Haitham’s bed, where he’d sat to make sure he’d eat.
“Well done.” The praise sounds foreign on his lips, but Kaveh feels like Al-Haitham has earned it. He makes a pitiful sight, sliding back down onto his back and tugging feebly on the blanket. Despite himself, Kaveh sets down the tray and helps him.
“You should get some sleep now,” he says when he’s finished tucking Al-Haitham in. He tries not to think too hard about it.
Under the blanket, Al-Haitham mutters something unintelligible.
“Do you need anything else?” Kaveh asks.
Al-Haitham inhales deeply, creases forming between his brows as if he were contemplating a tricky puzzle.
“Cold,” he says eventually, looking past Kaveh.
“Oh.” Kaveh pauses to think. “I can get you another blanket from the living room,” he offers, but he finds Al-Haitham shaking his head abruptly. He winces, one hand coming up to rub at his temple, regret written plainly over his face.
“No,” Al-Haitham supplies, as if Kaveh needed the translation.
Kaveh clicks his tongue. “Well, what else do you want me to do? You don’t have a fireplace in here.”
Another deep breath. Then, hesitatingly, one ungloved hand emerges from the blanket, Al-Haitham’s fingers uncurling to pull lightly on the fabric of Kaveh’s pant leg.
Kaveh blinks. “What?”
Al-Haitham’s eyes flick up to him then, still cloudy, but he’s more present now. He tugs on Kaveh’s pants again, more firmly this time. “Can you spare a few minutes?”
Kaveh swallows, breath quickening. There is no use in pretending he doesn’t know what Al-Haitham is asking. It’s just that it’s—unexpected. With the way things have been between them, this isn’t exactly on the table. Kaveh doesn’t think Al-Haitham ever gets the urge to seek closeness to others. It’s not like him. And what if this is a joke?
What if it’s not? What if he agrees, but Al-Haitham changes his mind, suddenly finding the thought of sharing a bed with Kaveh revolting…?
In the back of Kaveh’s mind, there is one more concern, subdued, for the healing scars across his own heart. What if this undoes their stitching?
Quietly. “Please.”
Please.
That single word off Al-Haitham’s lips, quiet and wanting, is what makes Kaveh’s resolve crumble.
“Fine. F-five minutes,” he says with a huff.
Al-Haitham manages to peel back the blanket before Kaveh can reach for it, revealing his pajama-clad body underneath. Swallowing, Kaveh sits gingerly on the edge of the mattress, before, under Al-Haitham’s impatient stare, he pulls his feet up onto it and stretches his limbs out as far as the small space allows.
The blanket falls over him. For a moment, Kaveh lies there, stiff as a board, not knowing what to do with himself.
Then, he is plunged into Al-Haitham’s arms.
Kaveh’s breath catches behind his teeth as he is enveloped, pulled closer into Al-Haitham’s embrace. The heat swallows him up, and for a moment he wonders if he isn’t still asleep in his own bed and this is just a very odd, very pleasant dream.
Al-Haitham’s voice catches Kaveh’s attention before he can follow the thought further. A contented murmur billows against Kaveh’s clavicle before the warm swirl of air is replaced by a burning cheek against the bit of skin showing above Kaveh’s collar. Al-Haitham shifts against him, naked feet brushing Kaveh’s ankle, and then he is still: one arm looped over Kaveh’s torso, and the other wedged between their bodies (pressed up against Kaveh’s own arm), he has tucked himself under Kaveh’s chin, head pillowed on his chest. Kaveh catches the mild scent of Al-Haitham’s soap from his hair, and with it comes the intense urge to bury his nose in it.
He resists.
Kaveh releases an overdue breath, careful not to ruffle Al-Haitham’s hair. His heart thuds rapidly against his ribs, and the unbidden thought that Al-Haitham must be able to hear it sends a rush of warmth to Kaveh’s cheeks.
Still. He agreed to five minutes of this. He has made his bed, and now he must lie in it.
He chances a look down at Al-Haitham’s face. His eyes are closed, his muscles relaxed. He breathes deeply, steadily in and out, lips slightly parted. He looks peaceful—unthinkable mere months ago, when Al-Haitham would have never allowed Kaveh to see him like this.
Before Kaveh can think better of it, his free hand has found its way to Al-Haitham’s back, thumb rubbing gentle circles into clothed skin. A hot burst of affection spreads throughout his chest when Al-Haitham presses closer, nudging one of his feet between Kaveh’s calves.
“Still cold?” Kaveh asks.
“No…just...”
Al-Haitham’s hold on him tightens, and Kaveh understands. His heart stumbles over itself as he says, “Do you want me to stay?”
Almost imperceptibly, a nod against Kaveh’s chest.
Al-Haitham must be more out of it than Kaveh thought, asking this of him. He wonders if he’ll even remember any of this once the fever breaks, has half a mind to snap a picture with his Kamera—but the idea of getting up now seems cruel.
“Are you sure you don’t want any medicine?” Kaveh asks instead, his hand never ceasing its movements against Al-Haitham’s back.
There is no response except for Al-Haitham’s rhythmic breathing. He’s finally fallen asleep.
Kaveh’s throat is thick as he looks up at the wooden panels on Al-Haitham’s ceiling, his fingers drawing patterns onto his back. How long has it been since Al-Haitham dared to touch him? To ask for Kaveh to comfort him? To ask anything of him, really. He comes up empty.
Kaveh’s mind drifts, reflecting on the past months he’d spent in this house, with Al-Haitham. He recalls returning from the desert to find Al-Haitham promoted to the position of Grand Sage (“ Acting Grand Sage”), completely out of the loop of everything that had transpired during his absence. He remembers, all too clearly, his own frustration, and the underlying pangs of worry of what could have been if the circumstances had been different. Of what he might have lost if they’d all been less fortunate.
He recalls the proceedings of the Interdarshan Championship, the reopening of old wounds—and the unlikely kindness behind Al-Haitham’s clandestine research for no one else’s sake but Kaveh’s.
There’d been his birthday, coffee-scented and lovely, spent lounging at home for most of the day before Al-Haitham had taken him out to the bazaar.
There had been, for the first time in years, the exhilaration of research and speculation sprung forth from his and Al-Haitham’s cooperation, a night of drinks and laughter suspended momentarily for the good of something greater.
They’d made up for it twofold some days later, talking late into the night, entirely undisturbed.
They’ve come so far.
And yet. With Al-Haitham curled into him in his bed, Kaveh realizes with a start that they never reclaimed this part of their old relationship. The casual touches, never asked for but willingly given. Never questioned. They’d left them buried in the sand of time, destined to be forgotten.
Kaveh blinks against the sudden hotness in his eyes, his lips spreading into a wobbly smile. He would never wish illness on Al-Haitham, but he can’t help the spark of gratitude to have been given this opportunity to get closer again. He hadn’t realized how much he’d missed this until Al-Haitham had dared to ask for it, but now Kaveh’s synapses are firing, recalling everything he’d given up when he’d torn their thesis apart all those years ago. It’s as if his body has awakened from hibernation, his cells craving Al-Haitham’s touch with all of their capacity.
Still stroking Al-Haitham’s back, Kaveh lets his eyes fall closed. He cares not for the tear streaking down his cheek as he buries his nose in Al-Haitham’s hair and breathes him in greedily.
This little fever dream, he’ll make the most of: until Al-Haitham tells him to leave, until his time is up, he will stay, bodies intertwined so intricately as if they had been made to fit.
Kaveh finds himself praying, feeling little shame, that Al-Haitham may take his time to recuperate. Just a little while, let him have this.
In his sleep Al-Haitham makes a tiny sound, and it echoes in Kaveh’s ribcage, right next to his heart.
Just a little while, Kaveh thinks, stroking Al-Haitham’s back one last time before he, too, slips into the welcoming arms of sleep.