Work Text:
Al-Haitham's days off follow a routine, though it doesn't look like much of one to outsiders. It doesn't matter if it's a regular weekend or his scheduled quarterly medical leave—Al-Haitham goes about these days in the same manner. Up until recently, there was so little difference between the two that he'd been investigated by the Matra for medical fraud.
Not that it mattered, of course. Al-Haitham's mild, muted heats were still heats, and he still could not be in attendance at the Akademiya while they were occuring, for the safety of both himself and others present. This was standard protocol for unmated omegas, and Haitham saw very little reason to protest these particular set of rules, particularly when they essentially got him a government-manded weeklong vacation.
Things are different nowadays, but the week off persists. If anything, it's a little more necessary now, given Al-Haitham's temperment during his cycle; Lord Kusanali had rather dryly commented she'd rather go a week without her Scribe than see him draw a sword in the middle of a meeting because Cyno stood a milimeter too close without a scent blocker. Again, as Al-Haitham benefits from this arrangment, he saw no reason to object to the reasoning behind it.
As with every heat since the morning he presented, Al-Haitham awakens at noon, sweaty and overheating under a pile of blankets more suitable to Dragonspine's climate than Sumeru's. It's the weight and scent of them he craved when he piled them up on the bed and burrowed into them, and Al-Haitham knows this current irritation is more temporary than his discomfort if he forgoes building his nest this way, so he doesn't do more than extricate himself from the pile with a quiet grunt.
(In the back of his mind, he can hear a nagging tone reminding him that if he ever took the time to prepare his nest properly, scented items that were more temperature-appropriate could have been arranged in advance. )
Once he's upright, Al-Haitham's physical needs are cared for in a set order—ablutions, hygeine, food, drink, all in as energy-efficient a manner as possible. Because the pantry and cryobox were stocked with fruits, nuts and hard cheeses beforehand, Haitham doesn't have to deal with the perilous task of trying to cook while in his heat, though in a day or two he'll have to resort to delivered takeout. The haze of his cycle is never severe, and Al-Haitham has no interest in wasting energy fruitlessly trying to relieve the buzzing at the back of his mind, so he retreats to the divans with a plate of scattered treats and a book to read.
Truly, the routine hasn't changed much since he first presented, and if Al-Haitham ignores the uncomfortable itch at the back of his neck, curved sharp as a sickle, he can almost convince himself that this will be a peaceful, quiet heat.
The rain outside is distracting, and Al-Haitham considers finding his earpieces where they are charging, but the divan is soaked in the scent of wine and ink so he can't find it in him to move. Those rains were earlier and heavier than is typical for the season, after a long dry summer, resulting in landslides along the riverbanks, particularly in Vimara Village. He knows from the reports that repair and rescue work should go well—Al-Haitham himself had approved a revised version of Sumeru's emergency protocols when he was Acting Grand Sage—but it still takes the expertise of some of Kshahrewar's finest to care for the people hardest hit.
There should be the scent of coffee wafting through the house, about now. Al-Haitham's tail thumps forcefully against the divan cushions, and he can't get his eyes to focus on the page in front of him. It might have been better if he retreated all the way back to his nest, but he prefers to read in the natural light of their living room, and Al-Haitham is nothing if not stubbornly adherent to his routines and preferences.
Besides, his nest is lacking the most important component, and that will drive him to madness much faster than the strange and unnatural quiet of the house when there's no one to fill it with noise.
Kaveh isn't expected to be back from Vimara Village for at least another two days.
Al-Haitham has never thought of himself the kind of man who'd go to pieces when his mate isn't here, and he isn't. But as the afternoon drizzles on at an agonizingly slow pace, the back of his neck itching and his focus thoroughly disturbed by the weight of something missing, Al-Haitham must admit that he is not taking the separation as well as he'd hoped. He can't even be irritated at Kaveh about it—it was Al-Haitham himself who assured Kaveh that he didn't need to fuss so much about missing the beginning of his heat, especially not when the circumstances were extraordinary. Kaveh leading the Kshahrewar's relief efforts is not a symptom of him overextending himself, but an acknowledgement that he is the foremost mind of his Darshan in a situation that calls for them to be at their best.
Al-Haitham finds himself chewing on his tail both to keep it from thumping harder against the divan in his agitation, and to stimulate thought. He must not let Kaveh know the separation was more difficult than anticipated, or the man's guilt will seep out of every pore and foul up his scent for months. Al-Haitham may be irritated by his own biological drives running counter to his sense of independence, and he normally has no compunction leaning into minor inconveniences to convince Kaveh to spoil him, but not if it will affect Kaveh to such an extent.
He loves Kaveh's scent, after all—the smell of paint and mourning flowers, of vanilla and saffron, the sweetness and the fiery burn that comes with it have all been indelibly recorded in some primal part of Al-Haitham's mind, and he has been protective of what makes Kaveh so himself even before he presented. Kaveh's scent is the most outward signifier of his wellbeing, and one Kaveh cannot lie about, so it's natural Al-Haitham exults in the fact that the house always smells of blooming flowers these days, and would go to any lengths to prevent that scent from wilting.
It almost seems to be decaying now, desert sand and petrichor, a harsh and grainy sort of guilt that worms into everything and can't be ignored, lingering under the flowers even as they bloom more strongly—
Wait.
Kaveh's scent is getting stronger.
Al-Haitham sits bolt upright from where he'd sprawled across the divan (at some point in the afternoon he'd gone from reading to pressing his nose into the pillows), ears alert and searching for the sound of footsteps, keys, the mechanical whirr of Mehrak over the rain—and there. Just barely over the low rumble of thunder he hears a familiar grumbling, and a soft metallic jingle.
The door has only just opened and Kaveh barely gotten his soaked, bedraggled self inside before Al-Haitham is across the room, nose pressed into his neck, heedless of how Mehrak's pointy case digs against his torso between them.
"Wha—and hello to you too!" Kaveh exclaims, rocking back on his heels a little from the unexpected weight, but he's already turned his head to press his cheek against Al-Haitham's, pleasure obvious in the back of his throat. "Haitham—Haithoomi, at least let me put Mehrak down!"
Al-Haitham doesn't move an inch, still inhaling Kaveh's scent and feeling the tension that had settled in his shoulders dissipate as the universe realigns into the proper axis. His mate is home, where he should be, and Al-Haitham doesn't bother being irritated that his biology has such a hold on him. There's nothing strange about Kaveh bringing light and comfort along with him, as he always has.
His scent must have changed with his mood, because Kaveh huffs a laugh, even as he awkwardly shuffles them farther into the house and worms his body around so he can set Mehrak down on a nearby bench (distantly, Al-Haitham recalls that Kaveh tends to power her down in heavy rains out of a sense of precaution more than lack of faith in her waterproofing).
"Did you miss me that much?" Kaveh's tone is warm, full with the wonder and joy of it, and Al-Haitham hears how his purring is beginning to pull at the syllables of his speech, not yet slurred but well on its' way to unintelligible. "You could have sent for me, you know—"
"Don't be ridiculous," Haitham mumbles, directly against Kaveh's hair. He pauses only a moment to begin bodily dragging Kaveh towards the nearest soft surface—though he's not picky if he finds the coffee table before he finds a divan—and dragging him down onto it so he can soak in Kaveh's scent and presence properly.
Already, his headache has abated, and the burning at the back of his neck is gone, filled with wonderful relief. His appetites will return to him soon, too, Al-Haitham wagers—already he feels the stirring in his stomach and further down—but he has time to bask in the comfort of his mate's presence.
"Who's being ridiculous? Haitham, I'm soaked, at least let me get a towel—" Kaveh cuts off his sentence at Al-Haitham's mulish glare, and laughs again, settling with a resigned sigh. "Forget it. You are so clingy during your cycle, you know that, right?"
Al-Haitham doesn't dignify that with a response, and definitely doesn't lick a broad swath up Kaveh's neck because he can't refute the argument. That would be the height of childishness, and furthermore, Al-Haitham doesn't see what's so bad about wanting his mate here on his day off.
Kaveh yelps anyway, and nips at Al-Haitham's ear in retaliation, but he makes no attempt to escape from under Haitham, only wheezes slightly when the scribe settles himself down on Kaveh's chest, head tucked against his throat. The architect doesn't say anything, simply runs wet fingers through Al-Haitham's hair with a sigh, knowing as well as Haitham does that they'll both doze off like this.
Al-Haitham hears the quiet mechanical whirr of Mehrak reactivating, and smiles against Kaveh's throat, knowing it means Kaveh's making all the necessary preparations for when they awaken from their nap. This is how Al-Haitham's afternoons off should go, filled with Kaveh's scent and sound, warm and comfortable, and no matter how reasonable Kaveh's absence is, having him home where he is supposed to be is a greater relief than Al-Haitham will ever admit out loud.
He doesn't think there's any need to. After all, it's well known that Al-Haitham values his peace, even when that peace is a loud, soaking-wet lion, and obvious things don't need to be spoken to be true.