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When Kaveh comes home, he finds the lights way down low, the smoke from the censers thin, the living room table covered with the kind of untidy mess that tells of a day well-lived: the brassware in disarray, disturbed by an empty cup of wine, a book with an envelope acting as bookmark, and a small plate lightly dusted with crumbs from some pastry or other.
Alhaitham is fast asleep on the middle couch—the only one able to contain his too-long legs. Half the cushions are on the floor. The stained glass windows diffuse the moonlight to soft greens and emeralds that kiss his skin and give his hair an almost bioluminescent glow where it hits the streaks of colour hidden amongst steel grey strands. The gem between his collarbones gleams like a cat's eye, startlingly reflective.
It's the most charming sight Kaveh's ever seen, even if there's a bit of drool escaping from the corner of Alhaitham's mouth.
Like a moth to flame, Kaveh is drawn to him, and he lets that ineffable pull tug him forward, step by step, dropping all the evidence of travel one by one as he goes—leaving a trail of shoes, bags, scarves, travel cloak. At the couch he leans down, one hand anchored against the wooden back, to press a kiss to Alhaitham's cheek with lips turned rough from desert wind and dryness. For a moment he lingers, a breath escaping him like a sigh. Then he straightens.
He'll take a shower, clean up a bit, and then he'll come back and carry Alhaitham to bed—
Except he doesn't even make it one step away from the couch, because just as he's turned away, a hand grabs one of the trailing panels of his shirt.
"Grab" is perhaps too strong a word. It's a sleep-weakened grip, but that slight tug is enough to arrest Kaveh's forward motion. He looks back just in time to see Alhaitham's alexandrite eyes flutter open, at first focusing on nothing before they at last find Kaveh.
Their eyes meet. Kaveh's heart beats, thumping against his sternum in a dull ache. It doesn't matter that he sees Alhaitham every day. Whenever he looks at him, his heart startles, a fawn leaping in his breast. When they first met, it was a sweet ache; when they were parted, it was painful; and now that they're together, it's a familiar ache, as wanted as sunlight, as dear as water in the desert.
Alhaitham, ignorant of all the poetry in Kaveh's chest, yawns hugely—huge enough his jaw cracks—and perhaps he even says something, if "Mmmperhf?" is fit enough to count as "something" (or even as human language). Kaveh, who doesn't speak nearly as many languages as Alhaitham, takes a wild guess at his meaning and says, "Yes, I'm back, Haithoomi," and when Alhaitham tugs at him again he obligingly kneels. Alhaitham's two arms flail about and at last manage to hook him, dragging him close—nearly braining them both in the process—before his head finds itself in the vicinity of Kaveh's neck, resting just so on the curve of his shoulder.
"Sleepy," Alhaitham says, moving his head left, right, left in a clumsy nuzzle. His five o' clock shadow is sandpaper against Kaveh's skin.
"Well… yes, it's late. Or early. Or both, really."
"Mmm," Alhaitham hums. He presses his nose against Kaveh's jaw. Inhales. "You stink." Whether or not that's a good thing, who knows—because after that proclamation, he opens his mouth to bite the side of Kaveh's neck, getting just enough flesh in between his teeth that it stings, before letting go and licking at the reddened skin, whereupon he informs Kaveh of the following judgment: "Tastes bad."
"I've been travelling! Anyway, I was going to take a shower," Kaveh defends.
"… 'Kay."
Kaveh tries to stand, but Alhaitham, for all his somnolence, has inexplicably become an octopus, and he doesn't let up.
"If you don't let go, I'm going to just carry you into the bathroom," Kaveh threatens.
"… 'Kay," Alhaitham agrees.
"…" Kaveh evidently needs to get better with his threats.
He is so, so tired. He's had a long day. He's had a long week. (To be honest, he's had a long few years, or perhaps many years, all starting with his father's death.) But while arguing with Alhaitham is easy when he's actually using words, arguing with Alhaitham when he's like this is impossible. And Kaveh isn't speaking out of love, nor out of a lover's tender-hearted paradigmatic perspective—he's speaking from experience. A sleepy Alhaitham is about as malleable as an oncoming sumpter beast.
So with a sigh, he somehow manages to rearrange Alhaitham and his limbs, and then with a grunt—unf!... he's really not getting any younger!—hefts himself and his lover up and, exactly as promised, gets them both to the bathroom. There, Alhaitham slides off him like some kind of hydro slime, lying like a puddle in their bathtub. Getting his clothes off is a battle, and after all that, getting Kaveh's own clothes off is another battle—travel for long enough and fabric seems to fuse to the skin, the sweat and dirt and grime as effective as high-quality cement.
He kicks all their laundry into the corner. That's for tomorrow's Kaveh-and-Alhaitham to deal with, just like the mess in the living room.
He turns the tap, letting the bathtub fill up, but he doesn't join in just yet, sitting on a low stool at the side. If it weren't so late, they'd be exchanging easy conversation. But it is late, and so there's nothing but the sound of running water, of the quiet snap! of various bottles opening and closing. Alhaitham watches him, eyes half-closed, his head pillowed on his arm, which rests just so on the side of the tub. He looks grumpy, like he's annoyed to be awake, but he doesn't look away, even as Kaveh scrubs vigorously at his skin and scalp, getting rid of days and days of dirt. As if Kaveh is, well—
"You're looking at me like I'm goods at the bazaar."
Alhaitham's lips quirk. "Mm… a statue—?"
"No," Kaveh says, pointing the showerhead at him. "Don't compare me to any of those ugly statues! It makes me lose all confidence in myself!"
"But I like 'em," Alhaitham says, his words slurring yet distinct. "The statues, and you."
"Thank you," Kaveh says, "but no, that compliment is—is way too heavy for me." And he means it, especially when it's ass o' clock in the morning, especially when Alhaitham's still flat-out staring at him, barely blinking, barely moving.
When Kaveh's deemed himself clean enough, he gets himself into the bathtub, Alhaitham graciously moving his limbs just enough to give Kaveh, oh, about a quarter of the space. Maybe even three eighths by generous estimation. As this is about the general order of things—especially when it comes to them sharing a bed—Kaveh doesn't complain. Instead, he takes direct action, reaching forward to clasp Alhaitham's water-slick arms and haul him close. If they cuddle, then he doesn't have to fold himself up like origami and Alhaitham can sprawl as much as he wants. Win-win.
Fortunately, Alhaitham never objects to Kaveh moving him this way and that way like some kind of giant doll. Perhaps he even prefers it. He settles easily enough against Kaveh, treating him almost as furniture as they lie chest-to-back in the bathtub's heated waters. Kaveh noses at Alhaitham's ear, reddened by the heat, hands lazily exploring the generous planes of his chest, the valleys of his abs, the soft pouch of fat at his lower stomach where even Alhaitham, sculpted perfection as he is, can't quite escape the evidence of being a man in his thirties who regularly partakes of wine.
"Missed you," Kaveh says, and captures the shell of Alhaitham's ear, taking it prisoner and punishing it with a few lazy nips.
"Mm."
Alhaitham's limbs remain lax and sleepy, but as Kaveh's palms run up and down his sides, his thighs, his arms, a certain part of him starts to wake up. Kaveh chuckles. "Can I take that as evidence you missed me too?"
"If you want," Alhaitham says. "Do you need…" He interrupts himself with a huge yawn. "Do you need evidence? Can't you just accept it as a constant?"
Kaveh opens his mouth. Closes it. Finally he decides, again, that it is ass o' clock in the morning and, rather than letting his mind dwell, he'd rather take Alhaitham's evidence, as it were, in hand. It's a good handful, too, thick and long, the head flushed like roses, and Alhaitham makes an agreeable noise, his hips moving lazily, enough that Kaveh, too, lazily stirs, stiffening in indolent half-interest. Alhaitham turns his head, and they kiss open-mouthed—or rather their lips move in wet discoordination, their stubbled cheeks rubbing in greeting and goodbye until the skin on the sides of their faces is red.
It doesn't take much for Alhaitham to come. Not that it ever takes much. He's easy to please, and Kaveh is similarly eager to please. Kaveh feels the pulse of his dick in his hand, watches the cloudy expulsion of his seed traveling in the water, and his chest fills with quiet satisfaction, a feeling of, Ha! I did that! like Alhaitham coming is an achievement as notable as getting a stamp of approval on his blueprints.
Alhaitham gives another yawn immediately after his orgasm and asks in a tone of sleepy reciprocity, "Want to come in?"
But Kaveh shakes his head and replies, "Nah, tomorrow."
Not that he isn't tempted. His dick certainly is. But not even Alhaitham, and not even a nice, hot bath can quite get rid of the exhaustion that's settled into his bones from recent travel, and he has a feeling if they started anything more rigorous he'd fall asleep mid-thrust inside Alhaitham and wouldn't that be annoying to deal with.
"Then… sleep," Alhaitham suggests. He's certainly half-way there. Or half-way back there, rather, slipping right back into the unconsciousness with an ease Kaveh is eternally envious of.
"Yeah, let's go to bed," Kaveh says. But he doesn't move quite yet, wrapping his arms around Alhaitham, letting his chin rest on the meaty curve of his shoulder and closing his eyes. It's good to be home, he thinks, and he doesn't realize he said it out loud until Alhaitham, with a quiet laugh replies: "Welcome home, Kaveh," and entwines their hands together.