[ Patch by patch, Kaveh's wounds are covered over in the anticipation of their healing. Word by word, Alhaitham takes him apart. When has he ever lied, asks the scribe, and the architect cannot answer, because he the answer is that he has not, at least to Kaveh's knowledge. And yet the blonde feels somewhere deep down that there's more to the full truth than words allow— that the younger man has chosen exactly the right verbiage to reveal what he wants and no more. After all, there are still questions to be asked, questions that concern why exactly the scribe feels that the so-called coincidence warranted his attention.
Or perhaps it's just wishful thinking, the hopeful reach of a man who desperately wants such actions to be taken out of care.
(Care like the last of the plasters laid onto his skin, slow and sure. Care like the chin hooking over his uninjured shoulder, bringing them together that coppered eyes might see him in the dim. Care like the fingers that pull his from his own teeth, smooth over their lengths to file away the jagged edges of Kaveh's fears.)
Care, perhaps, is wrong. What Kaveh wants is— ]
I don't regret it, no. [ His words are soft; they tremble in time with his heart and with his fears. He's barely managed to stop his tears, yet the gentle motion of Alhaitham's fingers working the file makes him want to start all over again. ] To the contrary, it— I know for sure now that I did the right thing today. With the diadem. [ And Kaveh sighs, because now they're talking in circles, and they still haven't met one another in the middle.
Perhaps they never will. ]
What do you want from me, Alhaitham? [ Kaveh's voice breaks over the words. The hand not being cared for reaches up to rub at his eyes, to pinch at the bridge of his nose as if it will stop the Archons-damned urge to sniffle, to flutter helpless in the air for a moment or two before a finger slips between his pouting lips to wreak havoc on its nail even as the scribe repairs the damage done to another.
He doesn't understand. Where Kaveh has never been outside of Alhaitham's reach, the architect feels as if the scribe is leagues away from his own. Alhaitham is always three to five moves ahead of everyone else, a master of the game calmly watching as others try to make sense of what he has done. Kaveh understands him better than anyone else— and yet he doesn't understand him, is left so often questioning or wondering or hoping—
Skin gives under the nip of his teeth, a bloom of red metal on his tongue. Kaveh winces, but says nothing. ]
no subject
Or perhaps it's just wishful thinking, the hopeful reach of a man who desperately wants such actions to be taken out of care.
(Care like the last of the plasters laid onto his skin, slow and sure. Care like the chin hooking over his uninjured shoulder, bringing them together that coppered eyes might see him in the dim. Care like the fingers that pull his from his own teeth, smooth over their lengths to file away the jagged edges of Kaveh's fears.)
Care, perhaps, is wrong. What Kaveh wants is— ]
I don't regret it, no. [ His words are soft; they tremble in time with his heart and with his fears. He's barely managed to stop his tears, yet the gentle motion of Alhaitham's fingers working the file makes him want to start all over again. ] To the contrary, it— I know for sure now that I did the right thing today. With the diadem. [ And Kaveh sighs, because now they're talking in circles, and they still haven't met one another in the middle.
Perhaps they never will. ]
What do you want from me, Alhaitham? [ Kaveh's voice breaks over the words. The hand not being cared for reaches up to rub at his eyes, to pinch at the bridge of his nose as if it will stop the Archons-damned urge to sniffle, to flutter helpless in the air for a moment or two before a finger slips between his pouting lips to wreak havoc on its nail even as the scribe repairs the damage done to another.
He doesn't understand. Where Kaveh has never been outside of Alhaitham's reach, the architect feels as if the scribe is leagues away from his own. Alhaitham is always three to five moves ahead of everyone else, a master of the game calmly watching as others try to make sense of what he has done. Kaveh understands him better than anyone else— and yet he doesn't understand him, is left so often questioning or wondering or hoping—
Skin gives under the nip of his teeth, a bloom of red metal on his tongue. Kaveh winces, but says nothing. ]