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It starts off as a simple solution to a minor problem.
“You have trouble saying, ‘I love you,’” Al-Haitham says. “I personally don’t care whether you can say the words or not, but I am aware you do. So, I’ve come up with a solution.”
They’re lying in bed—Kaveh on top of Al-Haitham, both sharing each other’s heat. Kaveh is tracing shapes across Al-Haitham’s skin like it’s second nature, glancing up at the sound of his voice.
“What’s your solution then?” he asks, expression halfway towards a frown
Kaveh feels Al-Haitham shift. The hand splayed across his back disappears, leaving him cold against the sudden loss of warmth.
He shivers.
And then, three taps press against his skin—each in quick succession. They’re confident and steady like Al-Haitham himself.
“We create a gesture to mean love,” he says. “Let’s agree that three taps means ‘I love you.’”
“Three taps?”
“It’s innocuous enough that I’m sure you wouldn’t think twice about doing it.”
As if to emphasize the idea, Al-Haitham taps the small of Kaveh’s back three times again. Tap, tap, tap.
I love you.
Kaveh stops his idle tracing. He watches Al-Haitham stare pointedly at him and hesitantly taps three times back on Al-Haitham’s skin.
Tap, tap, tap.
I love you too.
When it comes to saying “I love you,” Al-Haitham, surprising or not, has him beat.
It’s not as if he doesn’t love Al-Haitham just as much—it’s more that those three words feel too weighted to say without fanfare. There is an unspoken promise in them—one he makes every day to Al-Haitham in order to have the honor to say them.
Speaking those three words brings that promise to light. It makes it final. And he’s not scared of making the promise itself final; he’s scared of tarnishing it somehow, overusing it, until it loses its meaning and Kaveh forgets why he is saying it in the first place.
Initially, he’s hesitant about the three taps too.
In a way, it’s like learning the phrase of a new language—the sounds stumbling over your tongue, awkward and unsure.
He gives sparingly at first. They brush shoulders in the kitchen and Kaveh pauses for a moment before tapping three times on Al-Haitham’s arm. Al-Haitham comes bearing sliced fruit while he’s working and Kaveh grabs his hand before tapping three times in the middle of his palm. Al-Haitham falls asleep on the divan and Kaveh taps three times on his shoulder before laying a blanket over him to keep him warm.
And each time he taps him, Al-Haitham makes sure to respond with his own three taps—on the jut of his hips, the small of his back, the curve of his neck, the form of a kiss.
It’s a process to build up the familiarity of the gesture.
One day, he’s tracing the veins of Al-Haitham’s hand—cooled sweat on both their skins, a settled happiness in him that only comes after a high, Al-Haitham watching him with a small quirk in his lips.
And suddenly, he can’t help but act upon his love, tapping three times against Al-Haitham’s hand, on his shoulder, above his heart—pressing a kiss to the curve of his palm, the inner side of his wrist, the apple of his cheek. The bow of his lips, biting gently on his bottom lip. Three taps on his thrumming pulse. He’s filled with love he can’t help but shower for the man in front of him.
“I love you,” Al-Haitham breathes, the words easy on his lips because they just are. Because Al-Haitham doesn’t care what anyone but himself thinks—and occasionally what Kaveh thinks as well. Because it’s just how he is and Kaveh loves him for it.
He buries his face in the crook of his neck, smelling laundered sheets and sweat and Al-Haitham’s body wash scent on his skin. He presses his lips between the dip of his shoulder and neck, taps three times on the space between his collarbones where his green gem lies.
I love you too.
It becomes something of a routine between the two of them.
Every morning, Kaveh taps against Al-Haitham’s skin—three times. Al-Haitham grunts and lazily taps back three more. Then, Kaveh will press a kiss to Al-Haitham’s lips before he prepares for the day, leaving Al-Haitham to drift in bed for a few more minutes before his own responsibilities also call for him.
When they’re both home, Kaveh will tap thrice against Al-Haitham’s arm and lean into his side—his anchor in this world. In response, Al-Haitham will tap thrice against his back before pressing a kiss to his nape, his cheek, his shoulder—anywhere he could possibly reach.
And every night, Kaveh will tap three times against his arm, just before they’re both asleep—a smile pressed against Al-Haitham’s neck, knowing Al-Haitham knows how much he truly cares.
And then, there are the taps with no rhyme or reason. The ones that Kaveh gives just because he loves him. The ones in passing. The ones Kaveh hands out like candy every time he feels his heart swell from Al-Haitham breathing, Al-Haitham living, Al-Haitham next to him.
They’re sitting next to each other and Kaveh will reach over to tap three times on his arm. They’re having dinner and Kaveh will tap three times on his hand. They’re picking out groceries and Kaveh will tap three times on his back. Every day, he is silently showering his junior with love—so quiet, only Al-Haitham knows.
And Al-Haitham will turn to him each time, a softness in his gaze, an understated awe, and return Kaveh his love with just as much fervor.
They don’t fight as much as they used to these days.
They bicker still, they debate still; it’s an inherent part of them. They would not be Kaveh and Al-Haitham without such actions. But they don’t fight—not as often at least.
When they do, it is wholly silent. It is explosive and then, it is nothing. It’s like they’re both trying to suffocate each other with the quiet—a competition of who needs the other less.
Kaveh doesn’t even remember what they were fighting about today. Only that he is angry, Al-Haitham is upset, and Kaveh needs space or he will tear the other apart and Al-Haitham will return it either in tenfold or in complete dissociation and neither is conducive currently.
They’re fighting, but he doesn’t know why. So he sketches to blow some steam. He sketches Al-Haitham, because even when angry with him, Al-Haitham is still one of his muses.
It’s frustrating how he lingers in Kaveh, but he prefers it this way, even when angry.
Al-Haitham’s cheeks, despite the sharpness of his jawline, are round and soft—a lingering shape from his chubbier years. His eyes are narrow and long and his brows heavy set—a perfect face for an intimidating flat stare. The bow of his lip is gently curved—his upper lip thinner than his bottom. There’s slight scarring on his skin from when he had a bit of acne, a smattering of tiny moles on his cheeks, and slight wrinkles near his brows from how often he knits them together—and Kaveh has spent years staring at Al-Haitham, dragging his finger across every perfect imperfection. He has spent years loving him.
This stalemate would pass. It’s a matter of when, not if, and Kaveh can already feel the apology sticking to the back of his throat now—for screaming when he didn’t know what he was screaming for.
He feels three taps against his shoulder. He turns his head, finding Al-Haitham standing behind him—lips pressed together, a hard set to his shoulders, but still here. Kaveh rises from his seat and throws his arms around Al-Haitham, returning his gesture with three taps on his waist, because he loves him too.
“I’m sorry.”
Al-Haitham scoffs, his hand settling just beneath Kaveh’s shoulder blades—warm and grounding.
“Are you even aware what you’re apologizing for?”
“No. I don’t even remember why I was angry with you.”
He sighs.
“I don’t remember either.”
Kaveh snorts.
“Gods, we’re idiots.”
He feels Al-Haitham’s arms squeeze tight around him.
“I love you,” he whispers against Kaveh’s hair, pressing a kiss to the crown of his head.
Kaveh squeezes his eyes shut and exhales, tapping three times on the nape of Al-Haitham’s neck.
I love you too.
On the days when words are too loud and heavy for the circumstances, three taps is how they communicate their support instead.
In these situations, Kaveh is happy Al-Haitham suggested this way back when while riding from the high of a busy night together.
The anniversary of Al-Haitham’s grandmother’s death always leaves Al-Haitham a little quieter than most. He withdraws inwards—stuck in his mind while he checks his boxes of emotions like a warehouse worker would check their stock.
During these days, Kaveh finds his own words obnoxious, echoing in their space without Al-Haitham’s responding next to him. So he is quiet as well, sitting on the other side of the divan from Al-Haitham because he knows Al-Haitham prefers his space when he is thinking; he will seek out Kaveh’s touch when he is comfortable.
And when he does, Kaveh opens his arms, combs his fingers through his hair, and breathes in time to Al-Haitham’s breaths. He taps three times on the small of Al-Haitham’s back and feels Al-Haitham’s arms tighten around him—an unspoken promise of support.
And the day will pass, but the two of them will still be here. Al-Haitham and Kaveh. Kaveh and Al-Haitham
Whenever letters from his mother come in, he always falls into a bit of a slump.
It has gotten better over the years, especially since the letters have increased in frequency the older he’s grown. The first letter he sent to her had him anxious all day, playing with his hair, the pencil, the gears he had lying around from an old engineering project. He felt like he was bursting from the seams of his skin—restless in a way he couldn’t handle.
He fought with Al-Haitham that day—using him as a lightning rod for his anxiety. It hadn’t been pretty, but they still fell asleep on the same bed together the very same night.
His mother’s reply had been just as bad. He had stared at the Fontainean address for days—scared to even tear the envelope open. And when he did—reading his mother’s words wishing him well, telling him she missed him, asking him how he’s been, inviting him to visit—he had grown quiet, an odd mix of tired, regretful, and pensive.
He had curled up in bed until Al-Haitham joined him and Kaveh curled around him instead, eyes closed and breathing to keep himself from sobbing or screaming.
These days, his mother’s letters no longer make him feel so morose. But they do leave him unsteady—a complicated mix of guilt and love and hurt that he’s been carrying for years and only recently has been able to sort through for himself.
He loves his mother. And he knows his mother loves him. But there’s a lifetime’s worth of what ifs and what could’ve beens between them—too tangled to sort through alone in two different countries. But they’re trying.
So he grows quiet for a few hours at most whenever these letters come in. And Al-Haitham sits right next to him because he knows Kaveh would rather not have to ask for Al-Haitham to press himself as close as humanly possible to him; he wants that touch to ground him.
Al-Haitham sits next to him, wraps his arms around Kaveh’s waist, and taps three times on the curve of Kaveh’s shoulder.
I’m here.
And even while lost in his thoughts, he’d never let Al-Haitham somehow one-up him. Not like this.
So he taps three times back—a reassurance, both to Al-Haitham and himself that he is fine. He truly is.
I love you.
He’s pressed against the mattress, hands slipped in Al-Haitham’s hair, and he really can’t understand how the man’s hair is so silky when the man doesn’t use anything more than shampoo.
He’s pressed against the mattress and he’s urging Al-Haitham on, pressing kisses into the other’s neck, swallowing the soft little gasps and broken moans they’re both making when he kisses Al-Haitham—languid and slow.
He’s pressed against the mattress feeling sparks scatter all over his skin each time Al-Haitham thrusts into him, drags against him, hits the spot that has him digging his nails into Al-Haitham’s skin and pulling on his hair.
“You’re doing so well, Haitham,” Kaveh murmurs, leaving open-mouthed kisses against Al-Haitham’s neck because pleasure always makes his mouth looser than usual. “So perfect for me. My cute little junior.”
And Al-Haitham is shuddering above him, breath catching on a whine. He’s always so eager to please—to keep Kaveh right where he is—and his next thrust has Kaveh moaning, hands curling in his hair, bringing Al-Haitham closer.
“You’re so pretty,” he breathes. “So pretty, Al-Haitham. How can someone be so pretty?”
“You’re one to talk,” Al-Haitham murmurs, head bowed over him—breathing unsteady. “Senior, have you seen yourself in the mirror?”
And Kaveh smiles and laughs and gods he’s filled with so much love he could cry. So he pulls Al-Haitham down and kisses him, bites on his bottom lip, meets him halfway, and hears every gasp and whimper they both make.
“I love you,” Kaveh murmurs, pressed between a hitch of his breath—spoken against Al-Haitham’s lips.
And somehow, that is enough to send Al-Haitham over, a soft moan falling from his lips. He slams into Kaveh hard enough for him to see stars and the tension is spilling out of him too until there’s nothing left but a weightless sort of feeling.
And when he finally comes to, the corners of his mind fuzzy with warmth and comfort, he feels Al-Haitham pressed against him, repeatedly tapping three times over Kaveh’s heart in a staccato-like beat. Over and over again. Repeating the same thing for him to translate.
I love you too.