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Kaveh left.
To Alhaitham, it was just another one of their senseless quarrels – he took a jab at the Kshahrehwar's inability to do anything on his own, a vase was accidentally broken, they started their millionth back and forth, and…
And Kaveh left.
"If you hate me just half as much as you're making it seem," Alhaitham points out, "I'd say it's time to look for another landlord."
Kaveh's vermillion eyes gloss over, his jaw tight. "You keep saying that," he hisses through his teeth, his voice coming out small and unsure, "You keep suggesting that I leave."
"You know very well that I prefer being on my own, and you're worth at least five people."
Alhaitham genuinely doesn't know what exactly prompted Kaveh's departure – his words, his mood, the broken vase – but he does know that the blonde is bound to come back. He doesn't have anyone else to turn to, surely, otherwise he would've done that way before contacting Alhaitham. All the scribe needs to do now is enjoy the peace and quiet of having the house to himself until Kaveh comes knocking on his door like nothing happened, turning everything upside down all over again – just like it should be.
Whatever happened between them today was entirely inconsequential.
Alhaitham finds all of Kaveh's things gone the very next day. He doesn't even see the blonde, only the emptiness left in the wake of his last visit – one that occurred while the scribe was out of the house.
The hideous pieces of decoration Kaveh bought for the place are gone. His tools are no longer in Alhaitham's office, there's no shoes by the entrance, and there's a conspicuous lack of paintings adorning the walls. The scribe enters Kaveh's bedroom only to find no belongings there – clothes, jewelry, his "secret" dendro slime plushie; all gone – but, quite frankly, he considers all of that a mere whim: Kaveh's attempting to get a rise out if him… and failing. Typical.
While brewing some tea before bed, though, Alhaitham notices one item that shouldn't have been missing:
Kaveh's mug.
The scribe actually goes out of his way to search for the thing, opening drawers and cabinets, looking under the sink, even peeking into the trash, but it's nowhere to be found. He rests his lower back against the table, a hand to his chin and his eyebrows knit together. "He took his mug?" Alhaitham wonders out loud, eyes darting around in thought. Kaveh wouldn't risk damaging the thing, he said so himself; treats it like a treasure. Like a gift.
It was, a gift… more or less.
From Alhaitham.
Kaveh is more than an open book – he's the entire Akasha terminal, completely unlocked. He doesn't need to say it out loud when there's something he desires, because it shows in the depths of his eyes – the shades dance and blend, a cornucopia of brilliant reds that shine brighter than blazing stars. He's obvious. So, so obvious.
He always asks for what he wants anyway.
"Oh! Oh! Alhaitham—"
"I see it. Calm down," the scribe sighs, pointing at the mug full of intricate flower patterns to draw the street vendor's attention, "I'm taking this one, please."
"You?" Kaveh squints, "Surely you mean we. By which I mean me," he attempts, crossing his arms and cocking an eyebrow at Alhaitham.
"Who knows. I'm the one buying it, so I might as well keep it to myself."
Kaveh's jaw drops. He looks away, a frown forming, his cheeks puffing up with disdain. Alhaitham pays for the item and considers giving it to the blonde immediately, but there's something incredibly satisfying about the disgruntled glances he receives as they're going back home from grocery shopping.
"Alright, quit making that face before it becomes irreversible. It's yours," Alhaitham announces as they're about to go inside, handing over the item. Kaveh smiles so brightly it reaches his eyes, making their vermilion irises look incandescent under the sunset. His cheeks seem fairly pink as well, but it could be a trick of the lighting.
"Ha! I knew you'd come to your senses," he singsongs, pressing the mug to one of his flushed cheeks, "Much appreciated! I shall protect this with my life."
"Please don't."
Kaveh's spent weeks away from home for research before, but he never once took the mug with him – too risky, he'd say. Sometimes, Alhaitham would catch him staring at the item with warmth in his gaze, his delicate fingertips tracing unknown patterns on the ceramic almost in a trance. He truly cherishes it, and it shows – it's important to him, for whatever reason Alhaitham will never bother to understand. If Kaveh really thinks taking it out of the house poses any level of threat, then there's no way he would've done it out of spite.
…would he?
Alhaitham quickly decides that there's no use wondering about unanswerable questions, and decides to make better use of his time by reading instead – enjoy the peace and quiet while you can, he tells himself.
It's an entire week later when Alhaitham finds a hair clip.
He pinches it between thumb and index, twirling it around in mindless examination while leaning back on his chair – what on Teyvat was this thing doing in the middle of his book? Kaveh really can't keep track of these things, can he? Massaging the bridge of his nose, Alhaitham prepares to call out for the blonde, his vocal chords on the verge of rumbling—
…oh. Right. He's not…
Hm.
Alhaitham relaxes again, eyes on the glossy surface of the hairpin. If only Kaveh didn't choose the oddest places to take naps on.
"Alhaitham! I require your assistance, and I assure you it's somewhat of an emergency this time!"
Of course, by that, Kaveh means he needs help with something so trivial he could've done it with both hands tied behind his back. Typical.
The scribe puts down his book – he's aware that Kaveh will pester him until this 'assistance' comes, and he doesn't feel like inviting an aneurysm today – before moving towards the hallway, where his blond roommate peeks underneath each of the items adorning the cabinet there. "What is it? Are you looking for something?"
"Yeah," he sighs, hands to his hips and a light frown as he glances at the scribe, "Lost my fifth hairpin."
So much for escaping an aneurysm.
"You mean you lost five hairpins?" Alhaitham tries, squinting at the loose locks of golden hair curling over Kaveh's shoulders.
"Uh, no? I have hairpins number one, two, three, four and six. I lost hairpin number five."
"And that makes sense because?"
"What? Seriously?" Kaveh shakes his head, his hair draping over his face. He blows it away like a disgruntled child. "Just help me find the damn thing, will you?"
They try.
Unsurprisingly, they fail.
"You have as much inside your head as an anemo slime," Alhaitham accuses as he sits down in his office. Kaveh rests his hip against the scribe's desk, his eye twitching.
"Did you just call me an airhead?"
"I just called you an airhead."
"Wonderful, now there's one thing we have in common," the blonde grumbles, eyes drifting away. His hair falls over his face again, curling over his cheeks and following the curve of his jaw. It glows under the morning light, silky threads of gold draping across a pair of vermilion irises that look right back at him. "What?" the architect inquires.
"What?"
"You're staring."
"Your hair's annoying me."
Kaveh clicks his tongue, curling some locks behind his ear. "Now you see why I need hairpin number five."
"Well, good luck finding it. I did my part."
The scribe leans further against the backrest, focused on relaxing and reading until Kaveh decides to leave. Something pokes at his rib though, seemingly coming from the coat he hung over the back of his chair. "Oh, don't tell me," he exhales.
Kaveh tilts his head sideways as Alhaitham takes the elusive fifth hairpin out of a fold in his coat, and flicks it towards him. The blonde catches it with a smile. "Number five!"
"What was it doing on my coat?"
"I– Well—" Kaveh smiles apologetically, his cheeks and the exposed tips of his ears blooming pink, "I may have used it as a pillow to take a nap, and–"
"You did what, Kaveh?"
"By the Archons; don't judge me! That's one hell of a comfortable coat, I'll have you know. Now if you'll excuse me," he flicks some hair over his shoulder, "I have a meeting to attend."
"Oh? With whom?"
"With my mirror."
Alhaitham wonders which hairpin this is. Maybe number five again?
Whatever the case, Kaveh must be a mess without it. Why didn't he come back to get it? Is he actively avoiding Alhaitham and everything related to him? The scribe hasn't heard a word of him ever since he left, and…
Well. At least it's still calm and quiet. Very, very quiet.
Almost too much so.
Almost.
Alhaitham quickly finds that his routine at home is boring – so much so that it begins to drive him crazy. He keeps activating the soundproof option of his earpieces out of habit, only to faintly hear Kaveh's voice inside his skull. Of course, there's nothing there when he removes the pieces – his stubborn roommate has yet to show his face anywhere around the city… as far as Alhaitham knows, at least.
In any case, he certainly didn't remember silence being this suffocating. Makes his house feel like a cage rather than a home, every room a torture chamber ready to receive and squeeze Alhaitham until his soul bleeds dry. It’s maddening. That day, he decides to read at the House of Daena rather than in this mausoleum, and leaves his earpieces behind – it awaits his return on top of his desk, right beside Kaveh’s hairpin.
The sounds at the Akademiya are different from those he’d get with the expansive architect wreaking havoc at home, but it’s better than the alternative. Alhaitham quietly slips into a seat and attempts to focus on his book, only to be reminded of a day many, many years ago when he had, too, come here without his earpieces – for different reasons, though. He had simply forgotten.
Alhaitham doesn’t always keep soundproof on and it’s easy to get so engrossed in his thesis that he forgets about the world around him, so he only realizes there’s nothing covering his ears when a puff of hot breath blows at his hair and tickles the sensitive cartilage. He frowns at his paper before throwing a sharp look at the Kshahrewar currently lacing an arm around his neck and resting his chin over his shoulder, vermilion eyes darting over the lines he’s written.
“Hm. Not bad,” the blonde comments, “Not bad at all.”
“Oh. Was that a compliment from my senior?”
“Nope, it was a ‘this could be even better’ to my junior,” he corrects, pointing at a particular line by the middle of the page, “There’s nothing wrong with the content, but your phrasing is off at some points. You’re so objective all around, if you tweak a few things, this may as well have been written by the Akademiya’s scribe.”
…a scribe, huh…
“So it was a compliment,” Alhaitham provokes.
“Of course you’d see it like that… hm?”
When Kaveh pauses, Alhaitham turns to face him. It causes their cheeks to brush together which, in turn, makes his blond senior back off just an inch or two, red irises flickering between Alhaitham’s eyes and his ear, while his sun-kissed cheeks gain another layer of color.
“Your—” Kaveh begins, only to seemingly choke on his own breath. He clears his throat, his expression returning to something neutral as he flicks Alhaitham’s earlobe with some hesitance. “Your ears… I didn’t know they were pierced.”
“That’s because I don’t wear earrings the size of a Statue of the Seven, like some people I know,” he jabs back, which makes Kaveh scowl and catch his neck in a deadlock that’s not there to suffocate, but to annoy. He succeeds. “Kaveh!” the Haravatat growls, hands curling over the blonde’s surprisingly sturdy arm to try and pry it off.
“Alhaitham!” the blonde roars back, “Respect your seniors, you knucklehead!”
“Did your earrings pierce what’s left of your brain? Maybe consider respecting your juniors!”
“You two!” one of the teachers calls from behind them, “This is a library! Take your senseless fights elsewhere!”
Alhaitham sighs, resting his forehead against the pages of his book – no luck concentrating. Maybe when Kaveh returns, they can have a six hours long discussion about the influence of hilichurl architecture in the modern Teyvat, only to have it end in a quarrel about celestial physics shaping the human perception of the environment, empty glasses of wine and a passed out Kshahrewar for Alhaitham to take like a potato sack back home.
That sounds like a plan. At least, it’s better than whatever tedious hellhole Alhaitham seems to have buried himself in.
Cooking for just one person is a chore, and not the good kind too.
Alhaitham keeps making too much food and the process itself is taxing, bothersome, unpleasant. He much preferred it when Kaveh cooked for them, even though the blonde more often than not recruited his help anyway. There was life in the kitchen – instructions being spewed back and forth, sometimes with music playing in the background, sometimes with Kaveh singing or humming himself, threats of stabbing each other’s livers with butter knives.
Not this – the muted chop-chop of a blade on the cutting board as Alhaitham slices two tomatoes too many, cracks one egg too many, sighs five times too many.
“I’ll definitely stab you when you’re back,” Alhaitham mumbles, staring at the wooden spoon he’s holding, “With this. On the head. Detestable Kshahrewar.”
“Okay, try this!” Kaveh suggests, dipping his finger into the cream he just whipped and offering to Alhaitham, “I added some mint and cryo slime essence for a punch!”
“I’m not tasting anything out of your finger,” the scribe scowls, “We have spoons, for Celestia’s sake.”
Kaveh scrunches up his nose, eyes crossing as he stares at the cream coating his fingertip. His vermilion irises then direct back at Alhaitham, squinting with mischievousness, his teeth showing from behind a grin. Before the scribe can even prepare for the evidently imminent attack, Kaveh pokes the tip of his nose, leaving it covered in that perplexing cryo-cream.
While Alhaitham quirks his upper lip for a growl, the blonde bursts out laughing – his shoulders rock with the happy hiccups, one hand holding his stomach while the other attempts to stifle the sounds, smearing cream over his rosy cheeks. Alhaitham retributes by grabbing a handful of flour and tossing it at the devilish architect, who gasps incredulously, eyes wide, and points at him: “You!”
It goes downhill from there – ingredients fly back and forth, dousing them in different flavors and aromas and making a mess of absolutely everything in their path. Kaveh slips on a puddle of cryo slime essence, losing his balance and toppling over the unsuspecting Alhaitham. They’re sent to the ground, the scribe instinctively holding on to Kaveh to cushion his fall; he lands backwards with a loud thud.
Kaveh has the gall to chuckle, lifting his head off Alhaitham’s chest to offer a brilliant smile that reaches his eyes and makes them curl. They look like glazed strawberries. “This means I win, right?”
“Of course. Congratulations,” Alhaitham offers, “Your prize is cleaning up this mess all by yourself.”
Alhaitham finishes the most mundane and uneventful session of cooking he’s had in years, sits down to eat, and finds that he has no appetite.
It takes one of his fellow scholars commenting on his bad mood for Alhaitham to even notice it. It's been well over a month ever since his fight with Kaveh, and it wouldn’t take a genius to deduce that’s the reason.
That idiot hasn't showed up yet.
He decides to go for a drink that evening, to hopefully calm down and think things through. Alhaitham usually prefers being by himself, tavern fun included, but there's something awfully infuriating about sitting by himself in the corner while watching everyone interact tonight. Every time he sees a glimpse of golden hair, he thinks it's Kaveh drunk out of his mind and making a fool of himself, maybe hitting on someone only to dump them moments later like he always does.
It must be some kind of game that Alhaitham doesn't understand – getting someone's attention only to push them away before achieving anything else. Sometimes, he'll look at the scribe while he does it, the vermilion of his irises bleeding down to his cheeks, exposed pectorals flushed with alcohol, lips glistening as he drags his tongue across them.
He should be here, offering Alhaitham his attention while pretending to give it to his temporary catches.
He's not, and it makes Alhaitham feel sick.
Two glasses of wine in, and he starts to think this whole thing may have been his fault – that he was unreasonable, that he could've gone easier on the blonde, that he must be just as atrocious as Kaveh's always said. That the blonde actually hates him, and that he’s not wrong in doing so.
Past halfway into a bottle, he's sure of it.
"Oh, you're here!" Kaveh greets, "Great! I'm kinda vertically challenged, so if you could put this vase up here for me—"
"Not now. I'm busy," Alhaitham interrupts. It was an awfully packed day and if there's one thing he hates more than that, it's being the Acting Grand Sage and having had a migraine ever since he woke up.
"Busy doing what? Being angry and looking pretty?" Kaveh provokes, standing quite precariously over a chair as he tries to place a vase on their tallest shelf, "You're off work, aren't you? Come on, help a man out. You can tell me about your day while we rearrange the deco–"
"I'm not doing this, Kaveh," he insisted, starting off for his room, "Do it yourself."
"Uh, unless I can spontaneously grow an inch taller, that's not happening. Lend me your height. It's real quick! I'll brew us some tea after—"
"I said no," Alhaitham growls, "Is there nothing you can do on your own?!"
Startled with the outburst, Kaveh lets the vase slip off his grasp. It drops to the ground, shattering loud enough to nail Alhaitham's migraine to the back of his skull. The blonde doesn't say anything at first, taking a long glance at the mess on the floor, then forlornly climbing down the chair and crouching to pick up the shards he finds. Alhaitham's about to leave him be when he calls out – "Wait, Alhaitham. What's gotten you so worked up? You're not like this," he tries.
Alhaitham's patience suffers the same fate as that vase.
"No? I'm tired of you asking me for help with everything. You need my house, my money, you can't cook on your own, you want me to help with your chores, you forget your tools in my office all the time, you can't even bother to take your own damn towel when you bathe. Celestia; you asked me to help you straighten up a painting the other day—"
"Enough," Kaveh interrupts, his jaw tight. He takes a moment to continue, locking his uncharacteristically cold gaze to Alhaitham's. "Is that really how you see me? An incompetent fool?" he inquires in a low voice.
"It's how you make yourself to be."
Shaking his head with a disappointed smile, Kaveh visibly bites into his lower lip. He takes a while to say whatever it is that’s weighing on his tongue, and the silence that permeates the room meanwhile is deafening. "It's the only way you'll spend any time with me," he finally murmurs.
“Why would you even want that? We’re not friends anymore. I think we never really were,” the scribe accuses, “Do you see Cyno and Tighnari fighting like we always do? We don’t like each other, Kaveh. We don’t want to spend time with each other. This is an arrangement that’s minimally functional; you don’t have to go out of your way to be something that I don’t need.”
Kaveh’s hands curl up into fists beside his body, his posture tense and taut. "Damn you, Alhaitham! Why are you always like this?! I thought–" He makes a pause then, his expression morphing many times before settling on defeat. "I thought we could get closer, and—" He shakes his head, frowning, "You know what? You're terrible, Alhaitham. You're the worst."
"If you hate me just half as much as you're making it seem," Alhaitham points out, "I'd say it's time to look for another landlord."
Kaveh's vermillion eyes gloss over, his jaw tight. "You keep saying that," he hisses through his teeth, his voice coming out small and unsure, "You keep suggesting that I leave."
"You know very well that I prefer being on my own, and you're worth at least five people on a good day."
Kaveh's lips press into a thin line, the tip of his nose reddening. He visibly gulps down, his throat bobbing with the movement, fists trembling beside his body. "I see. I won't bother you anymore," he murmurs, reaching into his pockets to retrieve his set of keys. He pushes them roughly into Alhaitham's chest. "I hope you’re happy.”
He never was. Not back then, riddled with the heat of anger, and not now, assaulted by an all-consuming agony that claws at his ribcage and constricts it in its thorny grasp. Feels like there’s nothing in there, and it still hurts.
Why did Alhaitham say those things? Why did he let Kaveh go?
More importantly than that – why is he even thinking about this? He got what he wanted, didn’t he? Peace. Solitude. Silence. There's no more hammering away at projects in the middle of the night, no more singing in the bath, no more lengthy discussions about trivialities, no more Alhaitham, I require your assistance to fix the most unnecessary of things.
This is exactly what Alhaitham wanted.
Wanted. Past tense. A mistake, a misconception.
For someone who prides himself in his academic prowess, Alhaitham can be painfully stupid sometimes.
The scribe sees the empty bottom of his wine bottle and decides to call it a night. He pays probably more than what it’s worth before stumbling his way out of the tavern and back home, patting away at his pockets in search of his keys. He pulls them out with a click of his tongue, quickly realizing he took Kaveh's keys instead of his own.
Karma.
He accepts it.
He doesn't go to his own room. He marches to Kaveh's, expecting to see the blonde passed out on his bed, golden hair draped over his pillow like threads of silk, drool trickling down his cheek as he tilts his head to the side, exposing his sun-kissed neck.
He's not there. No one is.
Alhaitham drops onto his bed, his body heavy, his mind swimming, his skin feverish. It doesn't smell like Kaveh anymore. Alhaitham knows his scent by memory though, hints of wood and flowers swimming in a thick sea of musk. He also remembers Kaveh's pink tongue dragging against his lips as he smiled provocatively in the tavern, remembers how his slender fingers curled around other men's shoulders, remembers the fire in his gaze as he rejected them all while making eye contact with Alhaitham.
In his drunken stupor, the scribe thinks it may have meant something. That all the little things Kaveh has always done meant something. That his desire to spend time with Alhaitham, that his wish to get closer, was rooted in something tangible. Affection, lust, anything.
He wants that – wants that anything Kaveh was willing to provide. That anything Alhaitham trashed like a fool.
Wants Kaveh, plain and simple, and his body feels it.
He inhales that phantom aroma, his gut tightening with arousal, hips bucking into empty air. "Kaveh… Kaveh," he murmurs, his hand reaching for the stiffness inside his pants.
Maybe if Alhaitham did something instead of staring like an absolute fool while Kaveh provoked him, they'd have stumbled into each other's arms. Maybe Kaveh would've showed him what else his pretty mouth is good for; maybe he'd have spread his legs and begged for Alhaitham to fill him up, to stretch his walls open with his fat cock.
It’s easy to picture it – after all, he knows every curve of Kaveh’s body; he’s seen the blonde countless times dripping wet in the tub, leaning over to grab the towel he forgot out of the scribe’s hands. Alhaitham knows how sharp his collarbone is, how rosy his nipples are, how intensely red his eyes become when they’re half-lidded. He knows all the inflections of Kaveh’s voice, knows its reach, knows how it massages his skull in a husky rumble when its timbre is low.
He strokes himself fast and hard, his grip tight, drunken, desperate, his cock slick with precum as his body tenses up. He’s sensitive. Maybe Kaveh is, too; maybe he’d come undone with just Alhaitham’s fingers inside him, maybe he’d cry out the scribe’s name as he shot all over his own stomach, that pretty pink tongue of his rolling out as he reached nirvana – as Alhaitham made him reach it.
The scribe's cock throbs in his hand at the thought, and just a few more quick pumps is all he needs to go taut with tension, his muscles rigid and breath locked up as he cums all over the mattress.
Kaveh’s mattress.
It doesn’t take long for him to sober up with shock, sitting on the bed as he takes labored breaths and stares in disbelief at the way he just soiled his roommate’s sheets.
Throughout his life, Alhaitam sincerely thought that his undoing would come through knowledge – that it would eventually drive him insane, irreversibly flick off his loose screws. He was wrong. He was so, sorely, wrong. He mistakenly believed he was very thorough with his calculations, but the thing that actually tipped him over the edge of madness hadn’t even been taken into consideration.
If Kaveh won’t come back on his own, then Alhaitham has no choice but to make him.
“Where is he?” is Alhaitham’s greeting to the apparently busy General Mahamatra – not that he cares. Celestia; he wouldn’t give a shit if Cyno had been in the middle of a meeting with the Seven damn Archons – he wants his answers. The Matra spares him first a glance, then a sigh before dismissing his subordinates with hushed words and the flick of a hand.
“Your social skills seem to be degrading,” Cyno grumbles as he crosses his arms across his chest, his visible crimson eye looking terribly cold in the bluish lighting of the main hall, “You’re supposed to greet me with ‘apologies, great General Mahamatra, but as the Acting Grand Sage, I would like to make an inquiry’—”
“Where,” Alhaitham interrupts, mimicking Cyno’s pose, “Is Kaveh?”
The silver haired Matra huffs, lip quirking up in a grimace, “What makes you think I know? Do I look like a private investigator to you?”
“I came to you because I’m aware you know about everyone who sets foot in and out of the city, and because Kaveh is a subtle as a Ruin Guard with a tree growing out of its ass – someone like you would know about his adventures even if they happened on the other side of Sumeru, upside down. Now,” he squints, “Considering how oddly defensive you’ve been ever since I showed up, I’m sure you’ll be able to provide me with a precise location rather than any tidbits of general information I was hoping to acquire.”
“You are,” Cyno pauses, “Despicable.”
“Thank you. Kaveh?”
Rubbing a hand over his face, Cyno lets his eye dart around for a while before finally settling his gaze on Alhaitham again. “Alright. He’s been staying with me ever since… well, whatever you put him through. He didn’t tell.”
The surprise of this finding aside – he didn’t tell Cyno about their fight? Kaveh always tells everything that happens between them to their mutual friends – cryo-cream on the nose included. “Well, what did he tell you?”
“Nothing,” Cyno shrugs, “Just asked for a place to stay while he sorted things out. I just assumed you two had a fight and that it was something serious because, honest to Kusanali, I’ve never seen him look so down.”
Alhaitham finds that he can’t keep holding Cyno’s gaze. He lets it fall to the floor between them, right where his gut feels like it is.
“Look… what goes on between you isn’t my business, so do what you want with what I’m going to tell you,” the Matra informs, “Kaveh was out on a business trip; came back just a couple days ago. He said he’d kill some time in the Bazaar today, so maybe that’s where he is right now.”
“Alright.” Alhaitham takes a deep breath, arms uncrossing. “I’m grateful for your cooperation, great General Mahamatra.”
Cyno cocks him a smirk, shaking his head in disbelief. “T’was my pleasure, o’ Acting Grand Sage.”
Alhaitham hasn’t visited the Bazaar in so long that he’d forgotten how cramped it feels. There’s been more people loitering around after things were said and done with Lord Kusanali and the Akademiya, like a small breath of inspiration turned into a hurricane – the artistic, the exotic became more acceptable and even desired.
There’s something else that’s exotic, highly desirable, begrudgingly fascinating, and which draws even more attention than the striking surroundings of the Bazaar: Kaveh.
The scribe finds him holding a cup of what he guesses is liquor in front of one of the stalls, another man’s arm draped over his shoulder. The sight makes Alhaitham’s blood heat up so quickly that he gets lightheaded, his head pounding like he just put it through a pressure cooker. Jealousy.
It takes Alhaitham all of three seconds to cross over to where Kaveh is, grabbing him by the arm none too gently to pry him away from that man’s grasp and drag him away, the sound of his cup dropping to the ground ringing just as loud as his complaints of “Alhaitham, you brute, let go of me!”
He doesn’t. Instead, he pulls Kaveh into one of the hallways leading to the Bazaar and holds him even tighter by the biceps, drowning in the vermilion of his eyes as they widen with every inch Alhaitham crosses between their lips. Kaveh stops struggling the moment their mouths meet, his muscles liquefying in Alhaitham’s grasp and his thick eyelashes fluttering down towards his rosy cheeks.
Alhaitham licks the expanse of his mouth, smaller and more delicate than his own, a perfect fit for his tongue as he slides it inside and probes at Kaveh’s. He draws it across teeth, drags it against the roof of the blonde’s mouth, fills and devours that hot crevice while pressing Kaveh to the wall behind them. The blonde whines tiny, choked, responding with just as fervently and hungrily as Alhaitham, hands firm on the scribe’s shoulders, drawing him closer, attempting to become one.
When they pull out it’s because they’re both gasping for breath, and just maybe because of the guard passing by and requesting they stop eating each other’s faces in public.
Kaveh looks just as beautiful as the day he left. Alhaitham is unable to form words while watching the blush painted across the blonde’s cheeks and nose, the glossy nature of his vermilion eyes, the mess his golden hair has started to become.
He wants to make that mess even worse. Wants to ruin Kaveh.
“Al– Alhaitham,” he exhales breathlessly, “What’s the meaning of—”
“I missed you.”
Kaveh draws in breath. The shades of red in his irises twirl around like a kaleidoscope, glistening wetly, stars caught in the bottom of his vermilion oceans. It makes Alhaitham’s chest feel so full, he thinks it may be love.
“Let’s go home, Kaveh,” he whispers against the blonde’s lips, “I want to offer you a proper apology.”
“Proper—!” Kaveh chokes, “Apology?! This is what you had in mind, you—?! Ahn—”
Alhaitham smiles, his fingers rubbing at that bundle of nerves again and again, making Kaveh writhe in the sheets and arch his back off the bed, his cock twitching over his stomach. “You look like you’re enjoying yourself,” he provokes, “Is that not apology enough?”
He plunges his fingers deep inside, all the way to the knuckle, Kaveh’s walls clamping tight around them. The Kshahrewar whimpers, hands clawing at the pillow beneath his head, his naked body flushed with sweat. “I– I swear I’ll— I’ll fucking—!”
“What? What are you going to do to me, Kaveh? Tell me all about it,” the scribe presses, leaning forward to press wet kisses to the blonde’s chest. His tongue flicks at a rosy nipple, already swollen and abused, causing Kaveh to cry out with sensitivity.
“Hnn— M’m– G-Gonna— Kill—!”
“Ah. You really will,” Alhaitham exhales, removing his fingers from inside the blonde to reach for the bottle of massage oil lying on the bed, “You’ve been slowly killing me all this time, Kaveh. Did you know?” he presses his lips to Kaveh’s ear, lubricating his cock while pressing its head to the blonde’s entrance, “I need you. I need you so much it’s not even funny; it’s not rational.”
“Hah! If I knew getting your dick wet was all it took to give me some appreciati—"
Alhaitham pushes his cockhead inside, and Kaveh chokes.
" Hnnhh— Ah! Nn– Just– How big—!”
“Shh,” Alhaitham breathes into his ear, soothing him by peppering his cheeks and lips with small kisses as his cock slides in, engulfed by the hotness of Kaveh’s walls, “It’s going in so easy. Look how compatible we are, Kaveh. You were made for me, weren’t you? We were made for each other, my bird of paradise.”
Kaveh chuckles breathlessly despite his situation. It’s a joyful sound that’s also displayed in the way his eyes twinkle, his fingers weaving around Alhaitham’s hair. “You’re… awfully romantic today. Ah—” He grimaces, his body tensing up. “Is it… all the way in…?”
Alhaitham gives one last push to fully sheathe himself, causing Kaveh’s eyes to shoot to the back of his head. The blonde’s fingernails dig into his shoulders, his ass squeezing the scribe’s cock; Alhaitham grabs him by the back of the thighs to part them wider open, further exhibiting his naked body. “Ah… Kaveh…! Kaveh,” he moans, pulling out to watch his girth sliding out of his partner’s delicious pink hole, “You feel so good inside…!”
He thrusts back in, building a slow tempo, burying himself all the way in before diving in once more. The friction around the sensitive flesh of his cock makes him see stars behind his eyelids, his hips instinctively grinding against Kaveh’s ass to fill him to the brim.
“N–No– Alhaith— Ah– T-Too deep—!”
“Hhgh… that’s it, Kaveh… let me hear your pretty voice,” the scribe moans huskily, picking up the pace and strength of his thrusts. His hips slap soundly against Kaveh’s every time, the blonde’s eyes glazed over and spilling tears that cascade down his cheeks; he complies with Alhaitham’s request and becomes more vocal, his whimpers bouncing off the walls to join the creaking of the bed.
Kaveh eventually tenses up, clamping tight around Alhaitham, his back a perfect arch. “Oh— Oh no, Al– Right– Right there, again, fuck me like that!”
Alhaitham angles his thrusts to continue hitting that place that makes Kaveh cry with bliss, his rhythm slipping as he approaches his finale; he compensates with raw strength, slamming into the blonde as his nerves are set alight, all the accumulated pleasure coiling in his gut so sharply it feels like a ticking bomb.
“Al— Haith— Am,” Kaveh cries, “Y-You’re gonna… make me—!”
Something snaps inside of Alhaitham. He’s not sure what it is. Doesn’t question it.
What he does is releasing all of his pent up emotions, charging his thrusts with them, fucking Kaveh into the mattress until the blonde’s spilling his cum all over his own chest, the pearly liquid running down the creases of his sculpted abdomen. His ass hugs Alhaitham’s cock tight, constrained, milking him dry as he pounds into that wet heat until his consciousness collapses and gives way to the carnal explosion of his orgasm.
He pushes in and holds deep, the veins on the back of his hands and arms popping out as he holds Kaveh’s thighs mightily, his cock pulsating inside to pump him full of Alhaitham’s essence – a claim. No longer something human, but rather an uncivilized fool marking his territory as deep as he possibly can, branding this man as his own.
He needs Kaveh to be his, desperately, desperately.
Alhaitham pulls away only to drop down on the bed beside his partner, watching the rise and fall of his flushed chest as he recuperates his breathing. Kaveh’s long hair folds over his shoulders, drapes over his cheeks, sprawls on the pillow beneath him, rivers of the shiniest golden sand adorning the flawless expanse of his sun-kissed skin. Flawless… until the scribe finds the hickey he left in the Kshahrewar’s neck. Quite fitting, if he may say so himself.
And “You’re beautiful,” Alhaitham concedes for the first time, brushing Kaveh’s bangs gently out of his face. The architect tilts his head to the side to properly face him, the glint of curiosity making his eyes shine.
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
“That why you grabbed me like a madman and took me to your bed?”
Alhaitham sighs – of course he’d wonder. The scribe pulls Kaveh into an embrace, tucking his chin over ticklish locks of blond hair, the curves of their bodies aligning perfectly and their legs tangling. This is what comfort is, not whatever delusional bullshit Alhaitham convinced himself of for all these years. “I did that because you said you were leaving, while I didn’t agree with anything.”
“Oh? The higher ups didn’t accept your resignation yet, so you didn’t want to accept mine out of spite?”
“It’s… more complicated than that.”
“We have time.”
“I’m not good with words.”
“You shameless liar; you’re the scribe!” Kaveh growls into his sternum, tightening his grip around Alhaitham’s waist. “I spent all this time thinking you hated me, only for you to show up out of absolutely nowhere, ruin my liquor, drag me away like I’m a bag of groceries and, you know what? For someone who’s supposed to be rational, you fuck a lot like an animal. If you have any explanation for any of these things, now would be a good time to spill the beans, please and thank you very much.”
“I think I love you.”
Silence. Kaveh tenses up in his arms, though, as if merely processing that information puts a strain on him. Maybe it does. Since Alhaitham seems to have short-circuited Kaveh’s brain with this revelation, he figures he may as well finish the job and cause a malfunction that they can hopefully fix together.
“I think I really love you. And I think,” he adds, “I’d like you to feel the same way about me.”
“By the Archons,” Kaveh breathes into his skin, his grip becoming constrained. “Seriously, Alhaitham… why did you think I wanted to get closer to you? Why I made a fool of myself when, I assure you this much, I’m a very competent and capable individual—”
“I know. It’s one of the things I find the most attractive about you,” Alhaitham confesses, “Like everything else, honestly.”
“Good grief. You could’ve realized that before.”
“I could’ve. I’m sorry.”
Kaveh releases a small breath before rolling them around, crossing his arms over Alhaitham’s chest to watch him from above. He looks absolutely stunning in a state of disarray, lips pressed tight together as if he’s unsure about what he wants to say. “You said you missed me,” he whispers, the vermilion of his eyes glistening with blooming teardrops, “Did you mean it?”
“I did. I was starting to go crazy without you,” Alhaitham murmurs, wiping Kaveh’s tears with the back of his fingers, “I wish I knew how important you really are to me before I hurt you.”
“I– It’s okay, I–” he presses his mouth together again, “I said some really mean things to you too. I always do. I should’ve found another way to get your attention.”
Alhaitham smiles, and it feels like relief.
“You got my attention in a lot of ways. Did you leave your hairpin on purpose? I think it’s the fourth one.”
Kaveh groans, letting his head fall to his folded arms. “So it was here. It’s the second one,” the blonde corrects, “Good guess, though. The fourth hairpin has a little scratch just a little to the left; you can’t really see it unless you’re looking for it. Makes sense that you’d confuse it with number two, since it has a scratch just a little below that. Didn’t think you were this perceptive, Alhaitham; we really are a good match."
“Alright. I mentally practiced for a discussion about the influence of hilichurl architecture in the modern Teyvat, but I guess this works too. Anything does.”
“Oh?” Kaveh cocks an eyebrow at him. “You’re willing to discuss about anything?”
“I am. As long as it’s with you.”
Kaveh’s vermilion eyes glaze over like candied apples, curling up with a joy that makes his cheeks rosy and boyish. He draws closer to Alhaitham’s face, planting kisses to his cheeks, following a path towards his jaw, ending by his ear. “Then let’s discuss how much I love you,” Kaveh whispers.
Of course they end up quarreling about who loves the other the most instead but, this time, it’s a fight that has them end up in the comfort of each other’s arms, tucked warmly beneath the duvet.