[ kaveh's head shakes. the world from kaveh's viewpoint must blur. perspective, alhaitham thinks. it is what it all boils down to. it takes a certain kind of perspective to look at the culmination of a lifetime's terrible luck and choose to draw lots. it takes a certain kind of perspective to look at the vast fortune of a madman and choose principle over self-liberation. it takes a certain kind of perspective to choose, again and again, that which sacrifices only the self, and then wonder at the trail of blood. there had been a joint project, once. a group of like-minded scholars with pinpoint alacrity, moving as one towards the knowledge buried and still-dreaming beneath golden sands. there had been a falling out, once. a splintering of esteem and need as the gulf between hard work and talent outstripped endurance. but it had been kaveh who had given himself away, piece by piece, until there had been so little left. by the end of things, there had been so little left.
perhaps, that day, only one person had learned.
today, alhaitham takes the cotton swabs from kaveh. his fingers carve out space between theirs like low-skimming asymptotes. kaveh's body heat lingers within the swabs, like a memory. alhaitham's tweezers dip each one into the little makeshift container of antiseptic. the colourless liquid permeates. the memory of warmth exchanges itself with the memory of something that aches, long and slow. alhaitham draws each cotton swab over kaveh's wounds with precision. it will not help, not with the sting, not with the rawness of an open wound made bare and barer still. it is, however, what must be done. all things that are hard are like this.
into the hush, with quiet tones measured not for gentleness, but for words that balance truth, and authenticity, and manner: ]
If you were looking for words of comfort, you would not be speaking of this to me.
[ if kaveh had ever sought words of conform for the third man in the room, he would not speak of them to a man never known to comfort. kaveh would not choose alhaitham. that is, if kaveh were to speak of them at all. one does not seek comfort for what a man thinks he deserves. kaveh -
well.
the next words come slow - and as with all things kaveh, half-exasperated, half-frustrated, half-fond. ]
You never change. They call me the lunatic, but I am not the one searching the range of paths before me, and choosing to walk the most difficult one time and time again.
no subject
perhaps, that day, only one person had learned.
today, alhaitham takes the cotton swabs from kaveh. his fingers carve out space between theirs like low-skimming asymptotes. kaveh's body heat lingers within the swabs, like a memory. alhaitham's tweezers dip each one into the little makeshift container of antiseptic. the colourless liquid permeates. the memory of warmth exchanges itself with the memory of something that aches, long and slow. alhaitham draws each cotton swab over kaveh's wounds with precision. it will not help, not with the sting, not with the rawness of an open wound made bare and barer still. it is, however, what must be done. all things that are hard are like this.
into the hush, with quiet tones measured not for gentleness, but for words that balance truth, and authenticity, and manner: ]
If you were looking for words of comfort, you would not be speaking of this to me.
[ if kaveh had ever sought words of conform for the third man in the room, he would not speak of them to a man never known to comfort. kaveh would not choose alhaitham. that is, if kaveh were to speak of them at all. one does not seek comfort for what a man thinks he deserves. kaveh -
well.
the next words come slow - and as with all things kaveh, half-exasperated, half-frustrated, half-fond. ]
You never change. They call me the lunatic, but I am not the one searching the range of paths before me, and choosing to walk the most difficult one time and time again.