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The box seats of the theater are obscured from the ground below by all but the most watchful eyes, a fact Kaveh has never been more grateful for than he is right now. If they had been at the level ground of Zubyar Theater, there'd have been no hiding where Al-Haithams' hands have wandered. Then again, Kaveh supposes Al-Haitham wouldn't have gotten quite so bold, if they were in the Grand Bazaar. Not out of any sort of shame, but out of respect for Nilou, who the enigmatic Scribe holds in high regard and respect.
Also because Dehya would have had both their nuts in a jar by evening if they'd even thought of disrupting one of her shows, but that's neither here nor there.
Respect (and the threat of bodily harm) aren't in this opera house to stop Al-Haitham, and Kaveh should have guessed they wouldn't be watching the show the second he realized the box had a door instead of just heavy curtains. His only consolation, thin as it is, is that the box attendant had seemed to anticipate this, emphasizing that they would only enter the box when called for.
Kaveh tried to behave himself. He really did. He did not get dressed up in fancy clothes, did not bully Al-Haitham into wearing a nice sherwani and combing his hair back from his altogether too-devastating face, in order to just canoodle like teenagers in a dark theater box. The opera tickets had been a gift, and in the spirit of it, Kaveh really had intended to watch attentively.
It just…wasn't a very good opera. The performers were doing their best, but the material…Kaveh had serious questions about the architectural structure of any building that allowed someone to build an entire underwater lagoon with no one the wiser. Maybe that sort of thing was commonplace in Fontaine, but imagine the mold! Imagine the mildew. Imagine the sheer amount of hydro fungi that would move in and have a party down in a lagoon big enough for a vishap!
Kaveh had kept his voice quite, but he couldn't help himself from commenting on this, as well as several glaring holes in the plot ("She thinks he might be her dead father but we're supposed to buy they seamlessly have sexual tension after the kidnapping?"), so he hadn't quite been paying attention to how close Al-Haitham was on the shared couch, or the hand creeping up his waist, until Al-Haitham had leaned over and kissed him mid-rant.
Kaveh had very shortly stopped having much of an opinion on the plot at all after that.
Somewhere in the proceedings, Kaveh has ended up in Al-Haitham's lap, his pants half-undone and his shirt pulled all the way open for Haitham's roving hands. Those hands drink openly of Kaveh's overheated skin, tracing out each scar, each freckle, each mole in an act of worship until Kaveh is almost drunk just on touch. He hides his shivering voice against Al-Haitham's throat, and Al-Haitham chuckles, impossibly warm.
"Trying to hide your voice now…? But it's a far sweeter song than the aria. Should you be depriving the audience of it?"
Kaveh bites down on Haitham's shoulder in response, but he only laughs louder, and his hands finish their journey down to the swell of Kaveh's ass, where one probing finger asks a silent question.
They don't have to go so far—it's messy, and inconvenient, and the opera surely isn't that long. Kaveh knows Al-Haitham could be satisfied with his hands, or his mouth, or the delirious rut of their skin against one another—they've done just that plenty of times in secluded dark corners between bookshelves or the shaded little sanctuaries alongside the market.
Kaveh also knows that his blood is aflame and he wants with irrational intensity, and to hell with what's convenient or easy to accomplish. The consequences are for some other, future Kaveh to deal with, and Kaveh in the now has never been much of one for taking consideration for his future self.
"Did you actually bring oil with you to the theater?" Al-Haitham hums, clearly pleased with himself, so Kaveh bites his throat a second time for good measure. "Ridiculous, insatiable pervert."
"So what does that make you, then?" Haitham's voice is low against Kaveh's ear, with the velvety tones of a threat, but he's far too amused for it to carry any weight. They've had this discussion countless times, and Haitham never seems to tire of pointing out Kaveh is every bit as insatiable as Al-Haitham is.
Kaveh can't help himself. He's only this way because it's Al-Haitham—his sex drive was perfectly average for a man his age before this impossible man made it clear how much he wants him. Who wouldn't go a little bit insane, to be the object of such ardent desire and adoration?
"I've told you before, I'm only like this because of you. Take responsibility for what you've made of me!"
"That should be my line."
Despite his teasing, one of Al-Haitham's hands removes itself from the back of Kaveh's pants to rummage in his discarded coat pockets, producing a familiar vial and a rounded packet. Because Al-Haitham has it, Kaveh doesn't have to reveal that Mehrak has a similar vial stored away, though he suspects Al-Haitham's already quite aware of that fact.
Kaveh takes the condom from Al-Haitham with a slightly wrinkled nose—it's necessary for a situation like this, where they won't be able to clean up for some time afterwards—but he's gotten too used to the intimacy of unprotected sex, and furthermore Al-Haitham somehow manages to find the strangest condoms each and every time, so there's no telling what awaits Kaveh when he opens this. His train of thought is quickly derailed as Al-Haitham tugs his pants farther down and presses one slick finger into him, rubbing deliciously against his prostate with practiced ease.
Kaveh keens his impatience, trying to grind down into the sensation and biting at Al-Haitham's throat again when the man doesn't immediately capitulate. The scribe even has the audacity to laugh softly, nipping gently at Kaveh's ear to remind him he, too, has work to do to get what he wants, which is deeply unfair when he couples this by adding a second finger just as Kaveh tears open the condom package with his teeth.
It is difficult to work quickly here when all Kaveh wants to do is ride that sensation, to fuck himself on Haitham's fingers until he makes a mess of both of them, but there is a better prize waiting if he can just focus long enough to achieve it. So Kaveh grits his teeth against a moan, and scrambles to get Al-Haitham's pants open enough to pull his erection free, heavy and burning in Kaveh's palm. Haitham gasps and his hands still (Kaveh bites him again for good measure), which gives Kaveh enough time to roll the thin condom down over his feverish cock, smiling as it twitches against his palm from even that small simulation.
"Haitham," Kaveh demands, already breathless, his impatience outrunning his sense of propriety or shame. He doesn't need to speak the rest of his demand, because Haitham already knows it, and furthermore knows Kaveh doesn't really need to be stretched when he's still open and pliant from that morning, and that afternoon. Al-Haitham simply grunts, pulling his fingers free and pushing Kaveh down onto the small couch, the world outside this small opera box completely forgotten.
"Hurry," Kaveh whines at him, and Haitham shushes him with a kiss, taking his sweet time to press his cock deep into Kaveh. They do not have the time to take this so slowly, but Kaveh melts regardless, winding his arms around Al-Haitham's shoulders and one hand deep into soft silver hair. He'd happily spend hours like this, languidly pulled to pieces on Al-Haitham's cock, dissolved into his component parts and rearranged into a man worthy of every word of praise heaped onto his head—none of his accolades compare to the grand accomplishment of having Al-Haitham's love, after all this time.
But they do not have hours, so Kaveh simply lets himself drown in that love instead, gasping as Al-Haitham picks up the pace to something just shy of brutal. As much as Kaveh loves the lazy afternoons, he loves this just as much—loves the hard rhythmic slap of their skin and the rustle of their clothes, loves the soft whines Al-Haitham tries to bite back, loves the bright spark of pleasure in his gut as Al-Haitham's thrusts meet their mark, relentlessly dragging against his prostate.
To Kaveh, in his delirium, their love is a miracle of the divine, and his rising moans are the purest prayer of supplication on that altar. He's never dared speak the metaphor aloud, too embarrassed when not in the heat of sex and too incoherent during the act, but Al-Haitham must know it, must feel it too, chanting Kaveh's name on his lips as a hymn to the same god.
Even with the irritating barrier of the condom, Al-Haitham's breaths come in sharp pants against Kaveh's throat, and Kaveh digs nails into the back of the man's shirt, his other hand still tangled tight in his hair. At this pace, they can't last long—Kaveh no longer remembers why that's a necessary component of this activity, but he dimly recalls that's the idea, and doesn't bite Haitham for denying him longer forms of pleasure. It's not as though he's mad with this—Kaveh loves anything Al-Haitham gives him, from the ugliest piece of chintz earnestly bought for Kaveh's work desk to every singular orgasm wrung out and dyed in Haitham's adoration.
It had taken a lot of time and work, to reforge Kaveh into a man who can accept the love Al-Haitham gives him, but once remade, Kaveh cannot go back to who he was before that love poured into him freely. Al-Haitham has made a greedy man of him, and Kaveh cannot find it in himself to be angry about it.
"Haitham—fuck, Haitham, I—" Al-Haitham silences Kaveh's stuttering cries with another kiss, swallowing the sounds of Kaveh's orgasm with an equally deep greed, and Kaveh knows nothing else but a blinding rush of pleasure that obliterates even his delirious thoughts of prayer. He feels Al-Haitham groan against his mouth, not far behind them, and smiles to himself, pleased to be so soaked in their mutual pleasure.
Once he comes back to himself, Kaveh will have plenty to say about the stains on their clothes and the entire second act of the show they've missed. But right now, he listens to Al-Haitham quiet, panted murmur of I love you against his cheek and turns his head into it, temple to temple in a silent affirmation of truth.
I love you, too.