Alhaitham fucks his hand to the sound of Kaveh doing the same in the next room over.

CW: Contains Smut

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Alhaitham wakes to a soft cry from the room next door.

His face turns to the wall that he shares with Kaveh. It's quiet, silence stretching through the room. His ears strain. Nothing.

Perhaps he dreamed it. When he's tired enough his mind can play tricks. Alhaitham spent the day reading through books, tucking away three of them before his eyelids began to droop. Sleep had come quickly. Then Kaveh cried out, and even in his sleep, Alhaitham was quick to worry.

It's all quiet now—until it is not. Another sound, this one lower, drawn out, breathy—

Oh. Oh, he's—

Alhaitham is not the sort to blush but he can feel the way that his face burns red. He knows that Kaveh does this, of course. Even he—even he. Not often, but often enough to take the edge off. Alhaitham drags a hand down his face, squeezing at his cheeks.

His cock twitches. He can't help but think of just what Kaveh might be doing behind his door. Does he touch himself softly? Or is he rough? Is he the type to take his time, working himself into a hazy glow of arousal? Or is he quick and efficient, jerking one out more out of habit?

No, no—the latter is Alhaitham. When he fucks his hand it's to let loose any pent-up nonsense. Which never used to bother him until his old senior moved back in. Kaveh's presence suffocates him, permeating every surface, every room in his home. Even the sanctuary of his room which should be a sacred place.

Another moan, muffled by thin plaster.

"Dammit," mutters Alhaitham as his hand sinks beneath his sheets, fingers skimming his erection through the thin material of his sleep trousers. It's clear as day. There will be no sleeping until his unfortunate problem is taken care of.

Usually, it's in his dreams. It's easier to deal with there where Alhaitham doesn't have to deal with the consequences of his fantasies. He just wakes up and lays in bed until his cock goes down before going about his day.

But then there's Kaveh, and his radiant beauty, the way that his mouth curves or how he chews at the ends of his pins. Those small gifts of service when he makes Alhaitham tea or coffee, or how peaceful he looks when he falls asleep on his desk, drooling.

Alhaitham grunts. A hand squeezing himself over his clothing isn't enough to ease the arousal that curls in his gut—not with Kaveh's breathy moans through the wall. It's too thin. Alhaitham can't hear the particulars but he hears enough for his cock to twitch, and for his brain to easily fill in the gaps.

He imagines it, Kaveh's hand around himself, pumping his length. Long, spindly artist's fingers. Calloused fingertips and palm. Alhaitham thinks he'd be slower and indulgent, slicking his hand with Silk Flower Oil before melting into the sheets.

Alhaitham pulls his trousers down enough to free his cock. He hisses, thumbing over his slit, spreading the precome that leaks from the tip.

Kaveh's hand would be better. He feels guilty thinking it but Celestia above, it would. Kaveh seems like the teasing type. He'd bicker but take care of him, Alhaitham just knows it. Stoke his length whilst kissing insults into the tip. Lap at the length with a haughty laugh, grinding against his own hand all the while.

Alhaitham leans back against the headboard, imagining it. Kaveh would look up at him as he swirls his tongue around the tip. The way his eyelashes would flutter, the sounds he would make. Alhaitham thinks that he's the type to swallow a man down, shoving their cock into his throat, so he curls his entire hand around his length to mimic it.

He is usually quick and efficient. Masturbation is one of those annoying things that prove to be a distraction, but if he's thinking of Kaveh, if he can hear him—well, suddenly it's worth it.

Kaveh isn't so loud—he must be trying to curtail his moans but does a shitty enough job that Alhaitham can still pick out every sound. There are words that he can't make out, but it doesn't matter. The heady tone and his brain imagining the rest are plenty for his cock to ache and beg for more.

Alhaitham's grip is tight as he fucks it. He spreads his legs, his other hand cupping his balls, squeezing at them as they draw up tight. "Gods," he murmurs to himself. "Fuck. Kaveh."

Saying his name makes it better and worse. Better because it makes his cock weep, dripping all over his stomach. Worse because that's what pulls him closer to the edge, resting on the precipice; the thought of Kaveh slobbering on his dick, of taking his fingers, and letting Alhaitham fuck him.

Alhaitham wants to—god, he craves it. He's craved it for days, weeks, months, years. Ever since their formative days when they pretended to do schoolwork and danced around each other with silly titles like Senior and Junior. Kaveh still calls him that to tease, knowing it annoys him.

"Oh, what's this, Junior? Are you happy to see me?"

Alhaitham hates how he moans. The way his cock twitches. Kaveh would smirk and then wrap his mouth around his cock, devilish with the tongue. He'd pull Alhaitham to the edge with nothing but a sultry, knowing look, and the sweep of his thumb over the slit.

He jerks himself slowly but with a tight grip, swirling his palm around the head of his dick. The room is hot. His heat is oppressive. All he can think about is how Kaveh might look if he stretched out before him instead of remaining locked in his room.

The desire is strange, caustic even. Heat burns from his chest to his dick, where it throbs and aches for release. His hand moves faster when he hears another muffled moan through the wall.

"Kaveh. Kaveh." Then he moans, a little too loud—enough so that he bites at his lip to cut it off.

He would've heard. Surely he did.

He'd like it. Alhaitham knows. Kaveh would be proud and boastful for cracking his hardened shell open like a walnut. He'd tease him, lapping at Alhaitham's cock, stroking it as he suckled the tip. Then he'd climb into Alhaitham's lap and whisper into his ear things like, 'You're only like this for me, hm?' because yes, yes.

Alhaitham's legs tense as he writhes in the sheets. He grunts, imagining that his hand isn't his, that it's long, dexterous, architect's fingers instead, calloused from use, stained dark with charcoal. Come on, he tells himself as the pleasure widens, burrowing deep.

He comes, biting out Kaveh's name, turning his face so it's hidden in his pillow. He is not quiet, he's loud, embarrassingly so, and later it'll hit him after the haze wears off. Now, he floats in bliss, his hand wet and white with his spend, easing his cock as it twitches its way through his orgasm.

"Fuck," he murmurs. "Fuck."

Alhaitham's never fucked his hand with a clearly laid fantasy and a cry falling from his mouth. Always dreams. The quick, steady motion of stroking as he just watches his hand and thinks of nothing else.

This time, though, his mind whimpers; Kaveh, Kaveh, Kaveh.

The comedown is slow. He is efficient with his cleanup, using the soiled shirt from earlier that day. He hides it in the bottom of his hamper as if looking at it in the aftermath might be a mortal sin.

It isn't. Of course, it isn't. He's just a man in—

"Infatuation," he says. "Gods, he's so aggravating. What a thorn in my side." He wipes the sweat from his brow and sinks back into his sheets.

The room is hot. Alhaitham is hot, sticky to the touch, the sheets kicked from his legs. He's dressed again and stares at the ceiling, counting the spots to distract his mind from wandering.

It does, slipping from the room into the one next door. Kaveh's moans have fallen silent. He's probably asleep, lazing about in his own satisfactory end. What is it that he fucks himself to?

Alhaitham pinches the bridge of his nose. He does feel better. His mind is clearer, at least. Sleeping might come easier now.

"Unbelievable," he complains. He's tugged one out to Kaveh, of all people. Incredulous, he insists, as if he's thought of anyone else (which he hasn't).

Time eases. His breathing slows and sleep tugs at his brain. There are worse things, he supposes. Worse men to think of. It is not a matter of stellar taste.

They are mirrors of each other, opposite in every way and yet complementary. Alhaitham looks at Kaveh and sees everything he personally lacks, and he's better for it. He sighs then, soft, languid. His eyes droop closed and sleep comes easily.

Alhaitham dreams of sweetness that night, of kind words, and soft hands massaging his neck. Of terribly brewed coffee and Kaveh's sharp, sarcastic wit.

And in the morning, Alhaitham wakes with a smile.