[ The words having tripped their way out over his lips, Kaveh is preparing to push himself off Alhaitham for good when fingers interrupt his intent by brushing through his hair, by pressing lowly at his spine to pull him back in. And then his hand is caught in the other man's, lips pressed to the knuckle, and the blonde's eyes widen in a shock that would perhaps be comical if the moment weren't steeped in an odd kind of beauty. Alhaitham, who is perhaps the single most passive drunk he knows, is reciting poetry, verses he's never heard and some he has, words murmured into his skin in synchronicity with a litany of soft, sweet kisses.
What little breath Kaveh has left is caught in his throat, eyes wide as he watches, listens, and his teeth press into his own lip to try in desperation to stop its trembling. His own movement comes before he even realizes he's making it, hand freeing itself from that gentle hold to join his other against the slope of Alhaitham's jaw, fingers soft and eyes fond as he leans in, a sweet press of his lips to the other's own.
Perhaps later, sober, he'll remember to be terrified: poetry though they may be, Alhaitham's words speak of something deep and genuine and real—
Battered and wrecked— —waiting to be held— —without the other's: useless.
Who gave him the right to speak such? Kaveh's heart feels like it's going a thousand miles a minute in his chest. And perhaps it's just that he's drunk, but at least to him it feels like the only viable answer to the other's poetry is a truth long kept secret, held deliberately out of reach lest one of them accidentally fall into it. ]
Do you know, [ he murmurs against Alhaitham's lips, ] that I'm in love with you?
no subject
What little breath Kaveh has left is caught in his throat, eyes wide as he watches, listens, and his teeth press into his own lip to try in desperation to stop its trembling. His own movement comes before he even realizes he's making it, hand freeing itself from that gentle hold to join his other against the slope of Alhaitham's jaw, fingers soft and eyes fond as he leans in, a sweet press of his lips to the other's own.
Perhaps later, sober, he'll remember to be terrified: poetry though they may be, Alhaitham's words speak of something deep and genuine and real—
Battered and wrecked—
—waiting to be held—
—without the other's: useless.
Who gave him the right to speak such? Kaveh's heart feels like it's going a thousand miles a minute in his chest. And perhaps it's just that he's drunk, but at least to him it feels like the only viable answer to the other's poetry is a truth long kept secret, held deliberately out of reach lest one of them accidentally fall into it. ]
Do you know, [ he murmurs against Alhaitham's lips, ] that I'm in love with you?