Work Text:
Alhaitham slips into the shower so quietly that Kaveh doesn’t hear him.
Kaveh stands in the stream of water, boiling hot, steam rising from his skin as it pinks under the flow. The tile is cool against his forehead as he rests it against the wall. Water slides down his back, tickling his spine.
When Alhaitham presses a hand against his hip, Kaveh jerks. “Sorry,” is the mumbled apology near Kaveh’s ear, Alhaitham’s hand easing up as his fingers ghost the rise of the bone there.
“No funny business.”
Kaveh doesn’t intend to be mean but his showers are meant to be a reprieve. Quiet time to let his mind wander instead of focusing on work. Kaveh is exhausted, tired of blueprints and math, of charcoal staining his fingers. He scrubs them clean in the shower, watching the water come away gray as he counts the seconds to still his mind.
Alhaitham says nothing. He steps closer, sliding his fingers against Kaveh’s side, which leaves Kaveh sighing as much as he tries not to.
“I said—”
“I heard what you said,” cuts in Alhaitham. He leans close to kiss the top knob of Kaveh’s spine. “I can’t touch you without it being funny business?”
Kaveh sighs, too tired for his rare jokes. “I’m not kicking you out,” he says softly.
“I do appreciate that, considering the trouble I’ve gone through to undress.” Alhaitham kisses his neck a second time before pulling back, saying nothing else.
Kaveh loves this part of him; for all the questions that Alhaitham has about the world, he never questions Kaveh. Alhaitham just hums softly and lets him be, fingers smoothing over her skin. To calm, not entice. Kaveh can tell the difference. Alhaitham isn’t tactile with anyone else. They’ve spent enough time together that Kaveh has figured out what each touch feels like and means.
This one is slow as it drags over his skin. Nothing targeted, just the brush of Alhaitham’s knuckles until he leans close and settles the flat of his palm underneath Kaveh’s navel. His thumb circles the skin there, easy and repetitive. Kaveh finds himself sighing as he counts each stroke, peace settling over him.
“You work too hard.”
“You charge me rent even though we share a bed.”
Alhaitham chuckles into his nape. “Your things still take up the second bedroom.”
“Because we are a couple.” Kaveh knows Alhaitham’s only teasing. “Haitham,” he murmurs next, “I’m not particularly in the mood for your nonsense. Hand me the soap.”
Alhaitham does and says nothing as Kaveh lathers himself up. He stares at that wall and imagines Alhaitham’s sour expression. When Kaveh looks over his shoulder, though, Alhaitham leans against the slick wall, arms crossed over his chest, watching him back with a strangely fond gaze.
Kaveh huffs, setting the soap aside, and slips back under the stream to rinse the suds off. “Shampoo,” he says next. Alhaitham is slow enough that Kaveh repeats the question, reaching out blindly only to have his hand shoved to the side.
“No, let me.” A rare, selfless request that drips from Alhaitham’s lips with intent.
It is not an unwelcome idea. Kaveh looses a breath when Alhaitham’s fingers sink into his hair, sliding through his locks. He takes his time, massaging Kaveh’s scalp, pressing against those tense points right at his temple. The tension bleeds away. Kaveh’s shoulders slack as his head tips back, sinking into Alhaitham’s gentle touch.
Kaveh did not realize that he was this sort of touch-starved, desperate for such simple intimacy. Alhaitham’s hands work wonders as he scrubs Kaveh’s worries away. “Haitham,” he says, a soft groan as his eyes slip closed.
Alhaitham is close again, chin resting on Kaveh’s shoulder. He still says nothing, just kisses Kaveh’s shoulder, his ear, and the side of his temple. All the while his fingers comb across his scalp, nails digging in with delicious friction.
It isn’t that Kaveh never feels loved; Alhaitham is an attentive partner, even if prone to standoffishness. But fucking and cuddling in bed isn’t the same as these softer moments, quieter sorts of connection where Alhaitham throws a blanket over his shoulders or picks him up and puts him to bed; how a mug of coffee is always ready for Kaveh in the morning, or his laundry is mysteriously folded and put away in the drawers.
Alhaitham washes his hair with the sort of care a curator would clean an ancient artifact with, gentle fingers that carefully part soiled strands, working soap into the gritty bits because Kaveh’s been too busy to properly take care of himself.
He doesn’t mean to sob, just a soft hiccup as his chest lurches. If Alhaitham notices he remains silent, kissing Kaveh’s spine over and over, soft little pecks over and in between those topmost notches.
Alhaitham’s fingers tug at the curling bits of hair at Kaveh’s nape. “Come on. Rinse off.”
Kaveh steps underneath the water. His worries are washed away with the soap, spiraling down the drain until they feel like distant memories. Alhaitham leans against him, chest to back, arms loose around Kaveh’s waist. He is grounded by the weight, though his head is light and airy.
He doesn’t tell Kaveh not to cry. Alhaitham stands there, holding Kaveh as he shudders and rubs his face. All that heaviness in his chest just melts away in the wake of Alhaitham’s unquestioning attentiveness.
Alhaitham knocks leftover suds away. He turns off the water and folds Kaveh into a fluffy towel. He settles Kaveh against the counter and for the first time since Alhaitham stepped into the shower, they’re face-to-face. Alhaitham dutifully combs conditioner through Kaveh’s hair until it’s smooth and fragrant.
“Hey.” Kaveh reaches out then, catching Alhaitham’s chin.
“Don’t thank me,” requests Alhaitham, and so Kaveh doesn’t. He just smooths his thumb across Alhaitham’s bottom lip, the chapped skin catching on his callouses.
They meet in the middle effortlessly, fueled by love—just genuine love that’s sweet, lilting touches, the presses of their lips, the closeness of their bodies. There is no intent of seduction, just Alhaitham’s earthy scent and his fingers smoothing circles into the small of Kaveh’s back; the whole of him, sweet like honey, or that damned tea Kaveh likes that Alhaitham complains about.
Kaveh kisses him back lazily, chastely even, just gentle pecks of their lips, Alhaitham’s breath warm against his.
Alhaitham pulls away and kisses Kaveh’s forehead. Then, without being asked, he rubs lotion into Kaveh’s cuticles, working out the kinks in his sore finger joints.
“Haitham—”
“Don’t thank me,” repeats Alhaitham. “This isn't a matter of evening a score, Kaveh. I am doing this because I want to, so just take it.”
Kaveh’s lip wobbles. Tears threaten again, the edges of his vision blurring. He loves this man, gods, he loves this man, and he tries to say that but the words tumble from his mouth as an unintelligible mess.
Alhaitham is an expert in Kaveh’s strange blubbering. He tugs Kaveh’s hands to his mouth for a kiss on Kaveh’s knuckles. “I know,” he says, sweet in his bluntness, and the way that he nuzzles the rough skin of Kaveh’s hand.
Of course, he does. Alhaitham is not a man who does things for others unless there is something to gain. But, with Kaveh, Alhaitham selflessly tends to his needs because there is no one else to. Kaveh is self-destructive, both with intent and by accident, often lost in his work, and the bitter self-loathing that artists so easily sink into. Kaveh sits against that counter counting all the ways in which he does not deserve this man.
And Alhaitham who reads him as easily as any of those books that line his office shelves, who sees Kaveh’s mind whirring, and hears the thud of his heart that beats too loudly, says simply as if it’s like breathing to him, “I love you too.”