Work Text:
Tears are commonplace in their bedroom. Tears of frustration, tears of pleasure, tears of overstimulation; tears born out of intense love through quiet whispers into soft hair when filthy sentences are replaced with reverent poetics. Tears, like this, however, are born of anguish. Of pain and sorrow flowing from dulled carnelians, down on to reddened cheeks, attempting to be bit back, plush lip caught between teeth in violent denial of these tears.
"Does it hurt? Do you want to stop?"
Both questions asked and punctuated with two kisses to Kaveh's forehead; a silent display of reassurance. Kaveh shakes his head.
"No," Kaveh whispers through tears, attempting to keep his voice level, afraid anything above a whisper will leave a crack. "No, it doesn't hurt. Keep going."
Alhaitham does not. "Then, what's wrong?"
"It's fine," Kaveh retorts. A little too clearly; a little too sharply for Alhaitham not to feel it pierce his heart.
How it clenches tight enough for him to clear blond strands away to reveal tear-streaked cheeks and pained, sorrowful eyes of a dimmed fire whose burn he has come to adore and admire. "You are lying."
Syntactical structure of a sentence provides important context. Alhaitham states Kaveh is lying, instead of asking; "are you lying?", because he can see it. Clearly. In those beautiful, tired eyes; a lie made for him, built for him, and he wants to use his hands to tear it down.
"I'm not -" Kaveh begins, but by the time he begins to protest, Alhaitham has already pulled out of him and wrapped the blanket around his shoulders in the way it is supposed to hide him from others' piercing perceptions.
Chin is held in between thumb and forefinger to gently inspect those rich red eyes once again, hand gliding across cheek to rest there as thumb gently wipes away tears. Kaveh, unable to bear the weight of teal-green sea, looks down at his hands.
"I thought you liked it when I cried," Kaveh jested, a sorry attempt at a mischievous smile. "Are you going soft on me?" "Not like this," Alhaitham responds; simple. "Tell me. What's wrong? Is it work?"
The question is simple enough. Domestic, to two people who are not acutely aware one is burdened by the weight of his genius. Still, Kaveh's eyes fill with tears once again, mumbling nothing he does is right, good enough, perfect enough; perfect.
Alhaitham's arms pull him in to rest against his chest.
Alhaitham is warm. His arms are a welcome haven from the exposure Kaveh is subjected to in the open. There was a time before Alhaitham was not this strong, not this muscular, but it is welcome safety, nonetheless. Safety to cry without fear of being judged or ridiculed. Instead, he will get long, lingering kisses pressed against his hair and mutterings about how he is enough.
The Kaveh now is enough and anyone to ask for anything less than what he has or anything more than what he can give is weak and a fool.
Alhaitham wonders if Kaveh knows. That, as the moon, Kaveh's moon... he will not let the sun, his sun, burn up before he has swallowed everything whole and is ready to begin anew.